Muhammad (4 page)

I remarked that I'd never seen a boy on caravan. They were dangerous affairs, weren't they?

He sighed. “Just so. My tribe has suffered from death in faraway countries. Our caravans have been cursed. Especially one time.” He was leading to a tale, but suddenly he stopped and looked away.

Half an hour later his man returned, apparently alone. But as he got closer, I saw the outline of a small boy walking behind him. The two approached, and with beating heart I looked at the boy's face. He barely glanced my way, bowing to his father.

“Abu Talib, I am here to serve you,” the boy said gravely. He looked to be about twelve, short and compact. In the dim glow cast by the cooking fire I couldn't see his eyes. Only when he was told to greet his host did he turn to me, and then his eyes were cast down to the ground.

“Your father says you are called Muhammad.”

It was a simple statement, but the boy hesitated before nodding his head.

“Who are your people?” I asked. Before he could answer, his father interfered. He jumped to his feet and pulled him close. “To you our people are nothing, so why question a boy?”

I looked surprised. “You act as if I might hurt your son. What is it?”

“He's precious to me. His mother died when he was just barely walking.”

That wasn't the whole story. These Arabs can take any number of wives, according to their custom. I had a burning need to know about this boy, and so I asked God what to say before he was snatched away. There was only a moment left; the head man wasn't anxious to stay. Suddenly I saw the truth.

“He isn't your son,” I said flatly “You've been lying. Why?” My voice was clear and strong. “I am asking you as a holy man. God has told me something important, but first I must know the truth.”

The head man grew nervous. A strange thing about the Arabs is that they respect the name of God, despite all their idols. It's not something they freely talk about, but I've been told that they know there is only one God. There was a time when their worship was pure. They even look to Abraham as their father. But over time they fell into idolatry.

“I need the truth,” I repeated. “Who are you, Abu Talib?”

“I am his uncle and head of the clan,” Abu Talib admitted with reluctance. “My lie wasn't a sin. I am the boy's protector.”

“So he's an orphan?”

Abu Talib nodded, and the boy drew closer to him, folding his small body into his uncle's robe. I knelt down. “Muhammad, a caravan is a dangerous venture, but you're safe here. Will you speak with me? I implore you. Your fate is important. Or do you know that already?”

I put my forehead to the ground, as if addressing a superior. That would frighten an ordinary boy or make him burst out laughing, but Muhammad straightened up.

“What I know is my concern, not yours,” he said.

“No, boy,” his uncle said sharply, then turned to me. “Forgive him. His father, Abdullah, was proud.”

“My concerns are God's, and he takes no offense. Yet I still need to speak to you.” I kept my words and my eyes fixed on the boy.

He pondered for a moment.

“Are you asking your gods to decide for you?” I asked.

I named Al-Uzza, one of their female idols—a bitch goddess they pray to for fertility—whose name I had once overheard.

The boy scowled.

“She isn't your favorite? She's beautiful and has large breasts,” I pointed out.

“Mocking me will only make me run away,” he replied. “I won't touch any idols or perform their rites. “

“Why not?”

“If you're a holy man, you already know. There is no God but God.”

My heart jumped in my chest, and I had to hold my arms tight around myself to keep from reaching out to this strange child. If only he stood closer to the fire, so I could see his eyes. They would tell me. Abu Talib was gazing proudly at his nephew.

“He is special,” I said, and he nodded. His uncle had no idea. None of them did. Their caravan would be moving on before dawn. Whatever I had to say, it had to be at that moment. Boldness was the only way.

“I know about you, far more than you imagine,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from his uncle. Abu Talib could have taken serious offense, but he didn't move. I led Muhammad to a bowl-shaped depression in the ground. It was as far around as a man could stretch out and three hands deep.

“Can you guess who dug that hole? A crazy man. He was living in this cave before I came here. If I hadn't dragged him away, he would have clawed at the earth until his hands bled. He died one night without recovering his wits.” I wasn't lying. Toward the end Celestius had forsaken the Bible and became obsessed with digging where his voices told him to. I tried to coax him out of his mad fixation, but he still managed to dig a sizable hole.

The boy's eyes widened with curiosity. “Why?”

“He thought the water of life was down there, and he had to find it.”

Muhammad pointed to the jugs of water lined up at the mouth of the cave. “You mean them?”

I shook my head. “No, the villagers haul that up to me. The water of life doesn't flow out of the ground. It flows from here.” I lightly touched his chest over the breastbone. “You were born in the desert, but it's a fearful place for me and every holy man. We come here for only one reason, to find the water of life.”

“And did you find it?” he asked solemnly.

“Not for many, many years. The old monk who scratched at the earth had lost his mind. He despaired of ever finding it. But tonight my quest may be over.”

Muhammad listened calmly, as if this all made perfect sense to him. His uncle was now visibly agitated. Unable to keep quiet, he burst in. “My family found it. The well was buried for centuries. But a dream came to my father, Abdul. He saw the very spot where Zamzam lay under the ground. He was our savior, blessed be his name.”

In an excited voice he unfolded the tale, and even with a mongrel blend of Greek and Arabic, the tongues of traders, I understood. This well they call Zamzam was promised to them by God at the time of their ancestors, and it was to flow as long as time. But God became angry when the people turned to idol worship, and he made the well disappear. Mecca could have been a great city glorifying his name. Instead, God granted it only enough water to survive, and that had to be obtained by hard labor.

Abu Talib's father, “the Slave” as he was known, became obsessed with finding Zamzam. Some say he secretly swore
an oath to sacrifice one of his sons if the gods showed him where to dig. Others say that he converted back to the one God of their ancestors. Whichever it was, Abdul was given a dream. He saw a spot between two of the largest idols, near to their house of pagan worship, the Kaaba. Everyone in his tribe laughed at him, but the Slave insisted on digging everywhere around that spot. Lo and behold, one day a man thrust his spade into the ground and hit something hard. It was a well cover, and when they removed it, water came forth. Zamzam had been found again, along with the golden hoard and idols that had been stolen from the Kaaba. Abdul returned them, keeping only a portion of the booty for himself.

Abu Talib stuck out his chest as he finished his tale. “So you see, my people have found the water of life. God showed it to us.”

“God's works are mysterious,” I said mildly.

His eyes narrowed. “You don't believe me?”

I had a polite answer on my tongue, but the boy Muhammad spoke up. “The well was a sign, sir. There is water no one can see, that never wets anyone's lips. That's what the holy man means.”

The uncle looked confused, torn between anger at being called a liar and pride in his precocious nephew.

“Not just a sign,” I said hurriedly. “A great sign. God has showered blessings on your tribe.”

You'd think the uncle would have been pleased to hear this; after all, he had just said the same thing. Instead, his face darkened. “My father, Abdul, used to swear that God's love is hard to tell from his hate. His favorite son, my brother Abdullah, died from a sudden sickness while coming
home with a caravan. When we heard about it, messengers and physicians were rushed to him, but he had already been buried, no more than two days journey from his wife. They had been married only two months. She perished from grief, and now, but two years ago, my father followed them. If you really are a holy man, find the blessing in that.”

The blessing is that you brought this boy to me.

Hiding my thoughts, I mumbled again that God's works are mysterious, and Abu Talib nodded sadly. This talk had unfolded many things close to his heart. Between that and the wine, he seemed to trust me, so I held tight to Muhammad's rough wool cloak and pulled him near the fire. He didn't object, and for the first time I could look into his eyes.

Ah.

“What do you see? Is he cursed too?” asked the uncle gloomily. “I took in my brother's son after he was orphaned. I've always tried to keep him safe.” “You haven't protected him well enough,” I warned.

“No, don't say that! Only one good thing came from Abdul's dying. It broke his heart to lose Abdullah. He couldn't bear it if Muhammad will be snatched away too.”

Abu Talib had misunderstood my meaning, but the boy didn't. He allowed me to keep gazing into his eyes. He was willing to let me see. Suddenly I couldn't keep back the tears. I began to weep silently, turning away so that the two of them might not notice.

“It's all right,” Muhammad whispered. He laid his hand gently on my gray head, as if we had changed places and now I was the boy, he the man.

The uncle became even more alarmed at my behavior. “Tell me!” he cried.

There was no explaining my anguish. I felt my faith slip away from under me like sand under my feet. Where was my Lord? What would become of us poor seekers in the wilderness, waiting these long centuries?

I regained control and turned to Abu Talib.

“Pardon me. There is no curse. You must protect this boy as if he were your most precious possession. He is God's.”

The uncle looked astonished, not just by my words, but by the calmness in Muhammad. “You still haven't told me what you saw.”

“A light. Here.” I put my finger lightly on the space between the boy's eyebrows.

I waited for the uncle to protest. Instead, he froze, and his head trembled. He turned to the boy. “Go.” The word came out as a hoarse croak. He pointed toward the bottom of the hill, where the man who had brought Muhammad from camp was waiting in the dark to take him back.

Muhammad bowed without saying anything and left. When he was out of earshot, Abu Talib recovered the power of speech.

“There's a secret the boy doesn't know,” he said. “He was born nine months to the day after Abdullah got married. My brother never saw him. Before he set out on the journey from which he never returned, Abdullah took me aside. He had a premonition, and he begged me to take care of his son. I was astonished, for no one knew that Aminah, his bride, had already conceived.

“Why come to me?” I asked. “There was our father, a wealthy man, to take care of his grandsons. And besides, of my father's ten sons, we all knew who his favorite was.”

Abu Talib paused and waved his hand. “Never mind. It's
all in God's hands. But Abdullah had a guilty conscience. That was his real reason for seeking me out in private. On his wedding day, he told me, he was walking to Aminah's house for the ceremony. My brother, being blessed with a handsome face, was used to women and their come-hither looks. And why not? He gave in more than once. On this day a married woman spied him from her window above the street. She became instantly enamored of this handsome groom and cried out for him to lie with her. My brother was no prude, but he was shocked. Her lustful call could be heard up and down the street. Even more shocking, she ran downstairs in her bare feet and approached him in the street, snatching at his scented robes. ‘I must lie with you now, this very minute,' she pleaded. With difficulty Abdullah tore himself away, and an hour later he was married in Aminah's house, to great rejoicing.

“Men are only flesh. Even you, a holy man, must admit this, unless God has completely neutered you. That night Abdullah embraced his bride, but the next day at dawn he saw the face of the married woman. She was beautiful, and my brother felt a wave of lust overtake him. He fought it. He almost woke up his bride. Instead, he sneaked out of the house and ran back to the street where the married woman lived. The sun wasn't yet up. The cobblestones were cool under his feet. ‘I must be crazy,' he thought. But he threw pebbles at the window shutters, and luckily for him, the woman heard instead of her husband. She stuck her head out and said, ‘What do you want? Can't honest people sleep without the likes of you coming around, dog?' Abdullah was astonished at this change of behavior, and not a little offended. As I say, he was used to the attention of women.
He threw a rock at her and demanded to know what had changed her mind. ‘Yesterday when you came prancing down the street, you had a light between your eyes,' she said. ‘It was as bright as a flame at midnight. I wanted that light for my child, but now you have slept with another, and her child has the blessing. Go away and leave me alone.'”

The uncle's agitation had hardly subsided as he recounted this story. “Abdullah never told that story to anyone but me. Is it true? Has the light been passed to Muhammad?”

There was no need for me to say anything, only to give the slightest nod. For some reason the pain in my heart had lessened. If God was bringing the last prophet, His will be done. It was left for me to pray and count my final days, which I am sure will be few. At least I was safe. The Devil hadn't been toying with me.

The uncle was anxious to get back to camp. He bowed to me and started down the trail. The horizon was just lighting up with the palest blue, not often seen by towns people but every day by a hermit who rises to pray five times a night. I could make out the faint shape of Abu Talib's silhouette as he hurried down the stony path beyond the reach of the cooking fire, which had dwindled to embers.