The Jewel Of Medina by Sherry Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

gray like shade, relieving the eyes from the emerald glare. Against the ring of rust-red hills surrounding the town on three sides, green leapt up as if alive. From my camel’s hump I could feel the leaf-kissed air moving like a cool moist cloth across my brow as Iinhaled the fresh clean scents of petal and blade and springs gilding the morning.
    This was Yathrib. Or, as Muhammad called it, al-Medina, “The City.” Some city! As we entered the humble arched gate of stone and mud, a different aroma greeted us along with the bleats and moans of sheep and cattle. I gasped and covered my nose against the tang of manure, sharp as a slap, rank enough to sting my eyes. Flies whirled like sandstorms in constant frenzy, clustering in the corners of our eyes, blocking my view of the homes in all their mud-bricked squalor and the rotted grins of farmers in grimy clothes. My
ummi’s
eyes brimmed with tears as we rode down the single, sorry street.
    In only a few days my mother was fretting: Why had we ever moved? Mecca had its problems these days, but compared to Medina it was Paradise. Where, in this town, was the bustling market offering everything we could ever want? Where were the shops and the colorful caravans? Where were the crowds of people from faraway lands in their strange costumes, speaking in tongues like music? We missed our majestic Mount Hira, stony and black as a thunderhead, and our families and friends.
    We didn’t, however, miss Abu Sufyan. He made sure of that.
    We’d ridden eleven days to get to Medina, but it wasn’t far enough. The Quraysh threatened us still. For them, idol worshipping and money were as tightly intertwined an orb weaver’s web. To disrupt one, they thought, would destroy the other. So they tried to destroy our
umma
instead. Every week we heard about another assassin sent by Abu Sufyan to kill Muhammad. Fear filled our mouths like the Meccan dust in our new oasis home. Muhammad urged us to enjoy the moist green grass and shade here, but his worry showed in the constant click of his prayer beads through his fingers. Alone in our new home, I played with my stick-sword in the courtyard, pretending I fought off murderers, protecting our Prophet. In all the excitement, I almost forgot about the engagement announcement that my parents were too busy to make. But I didn’t forget to watch for Safwan.
    His family would have to make the
hijra
to Medina soon. We heard more terrible stories every day. Abu Sufyan was enraged over Muhammad’s escape. His men had begun snatching Believers in the daylight and cuttingtheir throats in Mecca’s streets. Ali and Zayd helped hundreds flee. No Believer could remain in Mecca and hope to live.
    When Safwan arrived, would he be able to find me? The houses stood apart from one another here. The people of Medina made their living growing crops, mostly date-palm trees and barley, and raising animals. I could see more sheep and goats from my window than people. Not that I looked out my window all that often: The stink of manure blew into my room with the slightest breeze. So I played instead on the long swing my father hung for me under the sheltering date-palm tree in our courtyard. I learned to swing so high and so far, I could see over the edge of the house and into the valley below. Every time I glimpsed the rolling land and horizon, I looked for Safwan.
    Perhaps his parents had delayed their emigration because of the troubles we’d suffered here. Many of us caught a horrible fever, from the flies and mosquitoes, my mother said. My father almost died from it. I lay in bed for days, delirious. My hair snarled on my pillow in a web of tangles my
ummi
had to chop out with a knife. When she finished, I looked more like a son than a daughter.
    “It will grow back,” she said. I looked in the mirror and saw my boyish self, hair splayed like an open hand and eyes gleaming, and hoped she was wrong.
    When I’d fully recovered from my illness, my father invited me