staying for a share of cake and tea). She placed a small sandalwood box on the table between us. When I opened it, I saw all the jewelry she possessed in the world. One was a single pearl as large as my thumb, which I knew she had brought with her in her dowry when she arrived in the house of Abdullah.
Aminah saw that I was about to protest. She drew Muhammad close and wrapped her skirt around him. âYou take it. Now I have a richer pearl,â she said. She was a woman, but she had the Arab way with words.
I spent the night in a featherbed covered with a silk spread, once beautiful, now worn almost threadbare. I couldnât sleep, because my mind kept thrashing a memory over. Aminah was eager to know everything about her son, and we had spent the evening in one-sided talk, as I recounted everything he had learned among the Banu Saâd. But fear forced me to lie. I withheld the one thing she had to be told.
The thing happened when he was three. One day I was scrubbing out a copper pot with sand when my own child, a boy little older than Muhammad, ran into the tent.
âTwo men are killing my brother!â he cried.
He was too breathless and frightened to say more. I raised a cry and ran out into the desert, following the tracks my boy had left. A few men heard my distress and joined me. That morning Muhammad had wandered off. We covered a long distance before I spotted him lying in the sand near a thornbush. My heart pounded. I rushed to his side. He was alive, but very weak.
âRun after them! They tried to kill him!â I cried, but the men didnât move. They were bewildered. There was no blood on the boyâs body and no wounds. Looking around, you couldnât see tracks leading anywhere. Nobody called my son a liar. We have a good position, and they wouldnât dare. I swept Muhammad up in my arms, grateful that he hadnât gotten lost. Somehow the string that tied him to one of the girls must have broken.
I scolded my boy, and his father threatened to beat him for lying, but he never changed his story. He had followed Muhammad out into the desert when he saw the broken string. The footprints were easy to track. When he came over a rise, he saw two strangers bent over Muhammad, who was lying on his back just as we found him. The two had long knives, and while one kept the boy pinned with his knee, the other plunged his blade into Muhammadâs chest. If they noticed that they were being observed, they didnât turn their heads. The one reached into Muhammadâs chest and did something. My boy couldnât tell what; he was barely six himself. The sight so frightened him that he watched for only a minute before running back to camp.
The tale was not incredible to everyone. Jinns roam the desert thirsting for human souls. That was the strongest possibility. I had my doubts, though. Jinns attack at night, and they donât need knives to pluck out your soul. They have dark enchantment. Not that anyone has survived to say what that enchantment is. I feared Muhammad would be shunned for drawing two demons so close to camp in broad daylight. In fact, the opposite happened. The fact that he had survived their attack was considered to be a sign of stronger magic than that of the jinns . It was decided that Muhammadâs name would be added to the songs about our ancestors who had driven off jinns. After that, his reputation was made. Besides, it was obvious he hadnât had his soul sucked out.
I couldnât tell Aminah this, and since Muhammad was so young, there was no fear that he would let it slip. I took the sandalwood box and departed the next morning after first tucking the pearl under Aminahâs pillow. Everything in the box would have vanished anyway, once she fell sick and doctors had to be paid. In the few years she had left, I would have been welcome in her house, but I never went back. Muhammad had spent enough time with a mother who wasnât real. Now he
Aminah saw that I was about to protest. She drew Muhammad close and wrapped her skirt around him. âYou take it. Now I have a richer pearl,â she said. She was a woman, but she had the Arab way with words.
I spent the night in a featherbed covered with a silk spread, once beautiful, now worn almost threadbare. I couldnât sleep, because my mind kept thrashing a memory over. Aminah was eager to know everything about her son, and we had spent the evening in one-sided talk, as I recounted everything he had learned among the Banu Saâd. But fear forced me to lie. I withheld the one thing she had to be told.
The thing happened when he was three. One day I was scrubbing out a copper pot with sand when my own child, a boy little older than Muhammad, ran into the tent.
âTwo men are killing my brother!â he cried.
He was too breathless and frightened to say more. I raised a cry and ran out into the desert, following the tracks my boy had left. A few men heard my distress and joined me. That morning Muhammad had wandered off. We covered a long distance before I spotted him lying in the sand near a thornbush. My heart pounded. I rushed to his side. He was alive, but very weak.
âRun after them! They tried to kill him!â I cried, but the men didnât move. They were bewildered. There was no blood on the boyâs body and no wounds. Looking around, you couldnât see tracks leading anywhere. Nobody called my son a liar. We have a good position, and they wouldnât dare. I swept Muhammad up in my arms, grateful that he hadnât gotten lost. Somehow the string that tied him to one of the girls must have broken.
I scolded my boy, and his father threatened to beat him for lying, but he never changed his story. He had followed Muhammad out into the desert when he saw the broken string. The footprints were easy to track. When he came over a rise, he saw two strangers bent over Muhammad, who was lying on his back just as we found him. The two had long knives, and while one kept the boy pinned with his knee, the other plunged his blade into Muhammadâs chest. If they noticed that they were being observed, they didnât turn their heads. The one reached into Muhammadâs chest and did something. My boy couldnât tell what; he was barely six himself. The sight so frightened him that he watched for only a minute before running back to camp.
The tale was not incredible to everyone. Jinns roam the desert thirsting for human souls. That was the strongest possibility. I had my doubts, though. Jinns attack at night, and they donât need knives to pluck out your soul. They have dark enchantment. Not that anyone has survived to say what that enchantment is. I feared Muhammad would be shunned for drawing two demons so close to camp in broad daylight. In fact, the opposite happened. The fact that he had survived their attack was considered to be a sign of stronger magic than that of the jinns . It was decided that Muhammadâs name would be added to the songs about our ancestors who had driven off jinns. After that, his reputation was made. Besides, it was obvious he hadnât had his soul sucked out.
I couldnât tell Aminah this, and since Muhammad was so young, there was no fear that he would let it slip. I took the sandalwood box and departed the next morning after first tucking the pearl under Aminahâs pillow. Everything in the box would have vanished anyway, once she fell sick and doctors had to be paid. In the few years she had left, I would have been welcome in her house, but I never went back. Muhammad had spent enough time with a mother who wasnât real. Now he
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