by Kamran Pasha
And finally, when she had named every god she knew and had heard no response, she had cried out to Allah, the High God who created the heavens and the earth before retiring to his Throne beyond the stars. Surely the One who had made the gods themselves, who had created life and death, surely He could save her mother.
But when the sun rose, Hind felt the gentle hand of her father, lifting her from her prostration. Her mother had passed away in her sleep, he said.
Hind had not wept. She had gone home and played with her dolls, apparently accepting the tragic news with the stoic dignity that was required of a great house of Quraysh.
But the tears that she did not release remained locked inside her, eating away at her heart like a worm at a corpse. The pain inside her breast became like a poison that ate away at her soul, building over the years until there was nothing left inside her but anger.
The gods had abandoned her. And so she abandoned them. A fair trade, all in all.
Over the years, Hind had never paid much attention to the stupid cult of her people, who continued to delude themselves that there was some higher order behind life. Hind had learned that night her mother died that there was no meaning, no purpose to existence. Love was an illusion, a painful trick of an uncaring cosmos. Joy a fleeting moment, lost in the wind. The only thing that was real was the body, for it alone felt pleasure and pain. So she concluded that the purpose of life, if there was any, was to heighten pleasure and deaden pain.
And thus her life had become an endless quest for ecstasy, for stretching the body’s ability to experience pleasure to its limit. She surrounded herself with amusements to enhance her senses. The most harmonious music to delight her ears. The softest clothes to caress her skin. She had tasted every wine and every rare meat. And she had spent a lifetime exploring the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, with both men and women and with many partners, often at the same time. She had sworn an oath that if there were any pleasure to be plucked out of life, she would experience it all before the darkness took her and she remembered no more.
The gods of Mecca played no role in her life except as a source of income to support her sensual lifestyle. If there were any part of her that still believed in them after her mother died, it vanished two years later when her father invited a wandering kahin, a soothsayer who claimed to commune with the gods, to stay in their home and bless their family with his powers. The man had slipped into her bedroom one night, naked except for an armlet of gold shaped like intertwining snakes, the symbol of his sacred familiar. In his hand, the kahin held an ivory idol of some Yemeni fertility god whose name she never learned. He had told her to say nothing about what had happened, for it had been a sacred rite and a curse would fall upon her if she told anyone the mysteries of the god.
Spent from his “sacred rites,” the man had slept beside her. The eight-year-old Hind had risen from her bed and crawled into the kitchen, ignoring the stream of blood that ran down her leg. She wordlessly pulled out the sharpest meat cleaver she could find and went back and slit the kahin’s throat without any hesitation. She then placed the Yemeni idol under her bare feet and crushed it, ignoring the shards of ivory that tore into her flesh. And then Hind had taken the kahin’s armlet, the symbol of his power, placed it on her own wrist, and climbed back into bed, falling into dreamless sleep beside the corpse.
Her father had found the “holy man’s” naked body in her room the next day and had quietly buried him in their backyard. Utbah had never spoken about it with Hind, but no more kahins were invited to stay with them.
After that incident, she had never paid the gods or their self-appointed mouthpieces any attention.
Until Muhammad, the low-class merchant who had climbed into wealth by marrying a rich old woman, decided to enter the prophecy business. He spoke pretty words of poetry and the fools of Mecca were suddenly willing to give not only their wealth to him but also their very lives. Instead of embracing the only truth of life, the pursuit of pleasure, they adopted his austere teachings, denying themselves the good things and wandering around with empty stomachs and praises to an imaginary God on their lips.
This new religion was more sophisticated in its teaching than the nonsense her people believed, and that was exactly why it offended Hind even more. It was such a well-crafted tale that even intelligent men like Umar, men she had admired and exchanged pleasures with, had given up life in order to embrace its walking death. Islam was exactly the kind of delusion that men craved, with its promises of eternal life and cosmic justice, when neither state of affairs was true.
Hind hated Muhammad for giving false hope to people—a hope that made the strong weak and ensured that men would trade the pleasures of the moment for an illusory promise of reward beyond the grave. Hind had made it her mission in life to shatter this illusion, to take away the lie so that men and women could be free to embrace the world as it was, not as they wished it to be.
Since her father’s death at Badr, Hind had been consumed with vengeance. She often accompanied her husband to military training exercises in the desert outside Mecca. Her eyes swept across the field in search of a champion, someone who could strike a blow for truth and reveal Muhammad for the sham he was.
She watched her husband calling out to the men, encouraging them as they practiced sparring with swords and thrusting with their spears.
“Train hard, O sons of Mecca! The day of retribution is coming.”
The men responded to Abu Sufyan’s cries by accelerating their moves, hoping to please the man who was for all intents and purposes their king. Hind had considered discarding her husband after the disaster of Badr, make his death appear to be an accident. But she realized now that she had been wise to restrain herself. She could see that Abu Sufyan held the soldiers’ respect and was still useful to her. Still, she knew that he was old and she would need a more youthful body to advance her cause and please her body.
And then, quite unexpectedly, she saw him.
Hind’s eyes fell upon a tall Abyssinian slave. He was as black as night and moved like a panther. In his hand, the slave held a powerful javelin, carved in accordance with the traditions of his people, who were masters of the art of spear throwing. He darted through a crowd of defenders, slipping between men like a snake winding through the rushes.
His eyes fell upon a target, a wooden pole that had been erected in the midst of the rocky field. The slave held the javelin to his shoulder and gracefully threw the weapon a hundred feet across the field. It landed straight in the heart of the pole and tore through to the other side.
Hind felt a swelling in her heart as well as in her loins. She walked over to the slave, and felt her desire growing as his skin shone with sweat and his musky odor flooded her senses.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Wahsi,” he said, panting for breath. “I belong to Jubayr ibn Mutim.”
Hind smiled. Jubayr was her cousin and she knew him well. There had been a time when Hind had worried that he would defect to the Muslims after she learned that Abu Bakr, Muhammad’s chief sycophant, had proposed engaging his daughter Aisha to Jubayr. But the lustful Muhammad had decided to take the child for his own bed, and Jubayr had remained loyal to Mecca.
She stepped closer to Wahsi, put a hand on his powerful arm that was almost as thick as a tree.
“Do you know Hamza ibn Abd al-Muttalib?”
She spoke the name of her father’s murderer with difficulty.
Wahsi looked uncomfortable, but he nodded.
“I know him,” he said, then hesitated. “He was always kind to Bilal and myself.”
Hind frowned. Bilal, the slave who had become Muhammad’s chief singer, had killed his former owner, Umayya, at Badr. The bond between slaves in the city was as tight as brothers, and it was certainly possible that Wahsi’s loyalty had been corrupted by the connection. She would have to gauge where his affinities truly lay.
“Would you consider Hamza a friend?”
Wahsi pau
sed, measuring his words.
“To the extent that a slave and a free man can be friends, yes, I would.”
That was disappointing, but not an insurmountable obstacle.
“Tell me, Wahsi, what is your freedom worth to you?”
Wahsi stepped back, his eyes looking over Hind carefully.
“I don’t understand.”
Hind moved again to his side. This time she let her hand touch his bare chest. She closed her eyes and felt the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against her fingers.
“Is earning your freedom something you would risk your life for?”
“Yes,” he said, without any hesitation.
She opened her eyes and looked deeply into his black pupils.
“Is it something you would kill for?”
His eyes narrowed but he did not look away.
“Yes.”
Hind smiled and caressed his flesh. The muscles of his abdomen were hard and well defined. She could feel her thighs growing wet, and the salty aroma of her arousal filled the air between them.
“No doubt. But is your freedom so precious that you would kill a friend to secure it?”
Wahsi hesitated for a moment. And then he lifted his shoulders proudly.
“If that is the price for the key to my chains, then yes.”
Hind squeezed his forearm, let the tip of her fingernail nick his skin, drawing blood. Wahsi stood impassive as she brought her finger to her lips and sucked the tiny drop of his life fluid into her mouth.
“I will speak to my cousin Jubayr,” she said in a husky voice. “He will give you a furlough for the evening. Come to my house tonight. There is much to discuss.”
AND SO HIND FOUND at last a champion for her revenge. A vengeance that would prove far uglier than any of us could ever have imagined.
You may wonder, dear Abdallah, why I take the time to detail her role in these events. She was a monster, you say, unworthy of being recorded in the annals of our faith. And perhaps you are right. Her crimes have justly earned her the condemnation of history. Hind was indeed cruel, vindictive, and manipulative. And yet she was also more than that. Strong. Proud. Passionate. A woman who refused to let the world conquer her. A woman who could have done so much good had the wound in her heart been healed with the balm of love. And despite my hatred for her memory, I sorrow for the child that still lived within her. A little girl on her knees, crying out to the heavens for her mother. A cry that was met with silence.
16
I rested my thighs on our lambskin mattress as the Messenger placed his head in my lap, as he often did when he was having difficulty relaxing after a long day. I ran my fingers through his mass of black curls that had begun to gray in a few patches. He looked up at me with a familiar twinkle in his eye and I sensed that he wanted me. The Messenger had been so exhausted in recent weeks that we rarely made love. The crushing burden of his daily life as prophet and statesman had made him too tired to meet even his personal needs as a man. Every minute of his waking hours was spent either teaching, judging disputes, enforcing new laws that God revealed in the Qur’an, or leading raids against Meccan caravans. The Messenger would come home tired and fall asleep in my arms almost instantly.
I missed our nights of intimacy, the powerful warmth of his body entwined with mine. And I longed to give him a son. We had been married now for almost three years and my courses had continued unabated. I prayed every night for the Lord to quicken my womb, but my supplications had remained unanswered.
I moved to blow out the single candle that adorned the room, as my husband was exceedingly modest and shared intimacies only under the cover of darkness. And then I heard a furious hammering at the door and Umar’s booming voice calling out for the Messenger. My husband sighed, and I could sense his desire cooling. At that moment, I wanted to grab Umar by the beard and slap him, but instead I went to a corner, sullenly covering my hair as the Prophet opened the door and let the raving giant in.
“O Messenger of God, the honor of my house has been sullied!” he said dramatically.
“What is wrong?” The Messenger’s tone was polite but tired.
Umar noticed me sitting in a corner, glaring at him. He suddenly appeared uncomfortable and looked down at his huge feet without speaking further.
My husband turned to me with a sympathetic grin.
“Aisha, please leave us.”
I nodded glumly and stepped outside into the courtyard. The Messenger closed the door behind me. Unable to suppress the curiosity that is both my gift and my curse, I pressed my ear to the door, made of thin palm wood, and listened in to his conversation with one of his most trusted advisers.
“As you know, my daughter Hafsa is a widow,” Umar said, speaking rapidly. “I approached Uthman ibn Affan with an honorable offer to marry her. And he refused!”
I smiled. Of course Uthman had refused. Hafsa was a beautiful girl, but her temper was as volatile as her father’s and no man who valued peace of mind would take her.
“Uthman is still grieving for Ruqayya,” the Messenger said diplomatically. “Do not take it to heart.”
He did not mention what he had said to me in private, of his intention of marrying one of his younger daughters, Umm Kulthum, to Uthman. That bit of news might not go over well with Umar.
“Be that as it may, and yet I suffered a second indignity,” Umar rambled on. “I went to Abu Bakr and offered him Hafsa’s hand and he, too, refused! I thought he was my best friend, but he has left me in shame.”
I tried hard not to giggle. The idea of my elderly father marrying this twenty-year-old firebrand was beyond comical. His heart would give out on the wedding night, not from Hafsa’s passion but from her ceaseless nagging.
“Abu Bakr loves Umm Ruman very deeply. He could not share his heart with another.” My husband, as always, knew exactly the right words to say.
“Be that as it may, and yet I am ruined!” Umar said, panic filling his voice. “Even now the gossips are spreading vile stories in Medina. The rumor that Hafsa has been refused by the greatest men of Islam because she is ill-tempered and mean! How could they say such a preposterous thing?”
I trembled with laughter and had to bite my hand to keep from revealing my eavesdropping presence.
“It is best to ignore the slanders of misguided folk,” the Messenger said mildly. “Allah will bring them to account. Gossips and backbiters will eat the flesh of their dead brothers on Judgment Day.”
It was a vivid image, but one that did not appease Umar.
“I cannot wait until Judgment Day, O Messenger of God! My daughter’s honor has been soiled today! No man will marry her once they learn that Uthman and Abu Bakr have rejected her!”
“Have faith, Umar.” I could hear the exhaustion entering the Messenger’s voice as his efforts to mollify Umar only made him more agitated.
“I have faith in God, but not in the fickle cruelty of men,” Umar said, his voice trembling. “In the days before Islam, I would have challenged Uthman and Abu Bakr to a duel. But now they are my brothers and I will not shed their blood. So I have no choice.”
“No choice?” Now I could hear alarm in Muhammad’s tone.
“I must leave Medina and take Hafsa with me,” Umar explained. “I must go where she can escape the shame and rebuild her life.”
Umar paused a moment and then I could hear new excitement entering his voice.
“O Messenger of God, deputize me so that I may serve as your envoy to the disbelievers! To Syria or Persia. Send me to share the Word of God in these foreign lands!”
I could hear my husband clap Umar on the shoulder in support.
“A day shall come when you will go to these lands, Umar, but not as an envoy. Insha-Allah, you will enter them as a conqueror.”
If the Messenger had meant these grand tidings to lift Umar’s soul, his efforts were unsuccessful.
“Then what am I to do? I cannot stay in Medina as long as my family’s honor is stained.”
There was a long silence and I finally felt the humor of the situation vanishing, replaced with a troubling problem for the community. Umar was a powerful leader who was feared and respected by both friend and enemy alike. If he left the oasis, it would create a power vacuum that would encourage our enemies to make aggressive moves against Medina. I knew that my husband was thinking of a solution to put Umar’s mind off his daughter’s marital difficulty and keep him focused on protecting the nascent city-state.
“Now I must reveal to you the truth,” the Messenger said at long last. “Do not judge Uthman or Abu Bakr harshly. They were acting on my orders.”
This was unexpected. I leaned closer to hear better and almost pushed the door open.
“I don’t understand.” Umar’s voice was both confused and hurt.
“When you approached Uthman with the proposal, he came to me and I told him to say no. As did Abu Bakr.”
Umar was clearly shocked at this revelation.
“O Messenger of God, why?”
I was eager to hear the answer myself. My husband’s natural statesmanship was at work here, and I was always fascinated by his ability to make wise decisions that benefited everyone.
“It is because Hafsa is special. She has been chosen for a higher purpose.”
Suddenly I didn’t like where this was going.
I heard Umar rise to his feet, his powerful legs creaking like the hinges of a giant fortress gate.
“Are you saying…?”
All at once my heart was racing and I wanted to run back inside and prevent my husband from finishing this conversation. But my legs were frozen to the spot.
“Yes. It is my desire to marry Hafsa and make her a Mother of the Believers. If her father will permit it.”
The blood drained from my face. I was suddenly dizzy and I could taste bile in my throat.
“Allah be praised!” Umar shouted wildly. “I would give you my daughter and anything else that you asked!
