Free The First Muslim: The Story of Muhammad by Lesley Hazleton

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    The solitary ascetic who would now play such a vital role in the legend of Muhammad’s childhood was known as Bahira, a strange name for a desert dweller since it comes from the Arabic bahr, sea. Perhaps he’d once been a seaman, or perhaps the name indicated that he had a sea of knowledge at his fingertips, specifically in the form of a book that was rumored to be old beyond knowing, handed down from one generation of monks to the next. At a time when few people could read or write, the very existence of this book was iconic. It was thought of as a kind of oracle, its power projected by osmosis into its guardian or possessor. In fact Bahira’s book was most likely a parchment copy of the Bible in one of the many variants still current at the time, and since parchment was perishable, he was one of those who had devoted his life to the painstaking task of copying it, letter by letter, verse by verse, in order to preserve it.
    As ibn-Ishaq tells it, with his usual sprinkling of caveats such as “it is alleged,” Bahira had never before paid any attention to passing camel trains. But as abu-Talib’s section of the Damascus-bound one approached, the hermit saw a single small cloud in the otherwise cloudless sky, hovering low over one particular point in the caravan. Recognizing it as an omen, he broke with his usual habit, went out, and invited everyone to be his guest and to come share what food he had. Abu-Talib and the others accepted, leaving the ten-year-old Muhammad behind to watch over the camels and the goods. But no sooner had they all entered the fortress walls than Bahira sensed that someone was missing. He questioned them closely, at which they acknowledged that, well, yes, there was always the camel boy. But surely the invitation didn’t include him?
    It did. Bahira insisted that the boy be brought in, then had him stand still while he examined his torso, searching for the “seal of prophethood” foretold in that mysterious tome of his—in varying accounts either a third nipple, as some say is found in each reincarnation of the Dalai Lama, or a birthmark between the shoulder blades “like the imprint of a cupping glass.” Whichever it was, he found it, then turned to abu-Talib and announced: “A great future lies before this nephew of yours.”
    In a way, this is a perfect story, pregnant with signs and wonders. The aura of the hovering cloud and the code of the hidden seal are exactly what one might expect for a child with a heroic future. Yet once again a miracle story contains within itself the ironic counterplay of legend and reality. Even as it magnifies the young Muhammad’s status, it also places him on the lowest rungs of the camel trade, so insignificant as to be thought automatically excluded from Bahira’s invitation. If such an event did indeed take place, it can only have seemed risible at the time to abu-Talib and the others. They’d have understood it as the ravings of an old man who had spent far too much time alone, touched by solitude and the desert sun. Majnun, they’d have called him—under the influence of a jinn, a spirit of madness— and gone on their way to Damascus.
    Still, the legend works as a classic illustration of predestination. Unknown and unrecognized among his own people, the hero is instantly recognized by the holy men of other peoples. And most significantly, in Byzantine Syria, by a Christian monk, thus establishing the future revelation of the Quran as the culmination of previous revelations foretold in the Bible itself. The point would be considered so important that a very similar version of the same story—the lone monk, the route to Damascus, the recognition of specialness—would eventually be placed fifteen years later, when Muhammad was twenty- five, by which time he had worked his way up through the ranks of the camel trains to become an independent agent representing the interests of others. But the transition from camel boy to a respected