Free Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam by Kamran Pasha Page A

and dedicated themselves only to Allah. It was a message that Sumaya and her family had embraced eagerly. And it was their embrace of the message that had now brought them here, tortured and left to die in the wilderness.
     
    S UMAYA’S SON , A MMAR, GAZED at me, his eyes alert and full of pain.
    “Aisha…daughter of Abu Bakr…help us…”
    For an instant, I forgot all about Talha. I ran toward them and desperately tried to tear apart their bindings with my small hands. His father Yasir was unconscious. Still breathing but weakly.
    “Who did this to you?” I asked, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.
    “Abu Jahl…”
    And then I understood. The Meccan lord who was the most vehement foe of Islam. The monster whose name was told to Muslim children when they were naughty. “Behave, or Abu Jahl will come for you.”
    Abu Jahl had come for them.
    I tore the flesh from my hand trying to break the cruel knots, but to no avail.
    “I can’t do it!” I felt hot tears coming to my eyes. Today was a day of death and destruction. Everyone I loved was in trouble, and I was powerless to help them.
    And then I heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Ammar heard it, too. He looked down the hill and saw a figure approaching.
    “It’s him! Hide!”
    I turned and saw a man dressed in rich purple robes, a lavender turban wrapped across his head, climbing toward us.
    Abu Jahl, the monster of my childhood nightmares, was here.
    My heart in my throat, I looked around desperately. And then I saw a fallen tree trunk lying to the side. I jumped inside the trunk, ignoring an enraged spider whose web I tore apart as I hid from this demon.
    Abu Jahl clambered over the ridge and stood only five feet away from me. He did not look like a monster. In fact, he was quite elegant in his rich robes, laced in gold filigree. His face was handsome and evenly proportioned, his cheekbones high, and his skin unusually fair for a native of the desert heat. He had a small and well-trimmed mustache that gave him a dapper look. His real name was Abu al-Hakam, which meant “Father of Wisdom” but the Muslims always called him Abu Jahl, “Father of Ignorance.”
    I saw that his hands were full. In his right hand, he held a spear, the jagged head polished to sparkle in the sun. In his left, I saw an idol. A small, curvaceous stone made of shining obsidian. Even from the distance, I could tell that it was an icon of Manat, Abu Jahl’s patron goddess, to whom he attributed his remarkable wealth.
    He looked at the three prisoners whom he had been left to die here. Abu Jahl smiled almost apologetically.
    When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost soothing.
    “I hope the sun god has taught you reason, Ammar,” he said, without any hint of the rage or madness that possessed Umar.
    Ammar looked him in the eye, ignoring the persistent flies that were buzzing around his sweat-drenched face.
    “There is no sun god. There is only Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.”
    Abu Jahl shook his head, looking deeply disappointed. He sighed, as if filled with regret.
    “Even to the end, you remain dedicated to your heresy,” he said. “Think, boy. If Allah cared about your singular devotion so much, why would He leave you to die in the desert?”
    Ammar’s lips curled in fury.
    “You did that, not Allah.”
    Abu Jahl shrugged and turned to Sumaya, who looked up at him serenely despite her pain.
    “You are Ammar’s mother,” he said, his voice eminently reasonable. “Tell me, Sumaya. Do you remember his birth? The agony of labor. The pain almost killed you. Yet your midwife prayed to Manat and you lived. Without the mercy of the goddess, how could you have endured those pangs?”
    He held up the idol and dangled it right in front of Sumaya’s face.
    “Manat ended your pain and gave you and your son life that night. And she can give it you again. Right now.” He leaned forward, holding the idol close to Sumaya’s lips. “All you have to do is kiss her holy image.