Fury is Born (Book 1 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 7

        "Madinat al-Nabi," Bilal corrected me. "It is the proper name."

        It meant the city of the Prophet.

        "Yathrib," I insisted.

        "Yathrib it is no longer," he explained. "Yathrib was the city of polytheism and bloodshed. This is Madinat al-Nabi now. A city of light. A sanctuary in a godless land."

        "How are they godless if they have more gods than you?"

        That earned a giggle from Mundhir.

         Bilal returned to speaking of the nature of Allah as if I hadn't spoken. The city was rarely ever referred to as Yathrib in the marketplace or mosque anymore, replaced most often simply as Madinah. It was a symbol of the rapid change that had taken the city by storm. Yathrib, Madinah now, had undergone a drastic change in governance, and the name change was meant to mirror that.

         I suffered through Bilal's hours of preaching and performed the tasks Zaid required of me, feeling their effects in the soreness of my muscles and the exhaustion of my body. I drew a smile on my face and frolicked about with 'Amr and Mundhir.

        They were oblivious of my torment, the magnitude of the shock that washed over me, crippled me, and worse, deprived me of my right to grieve or feel pain. I languished in my agony, away from prying eyes. Whenever I shut my eyes, I could see the horrid scenes unraveling again, as though the gods had swept me away back to that dreadful moment.

        Every day before I slept, laying there in the stable on my straw bed, I saw the splatter of blood on a wall, a gasp and the shock on the face of a dying man. Ibn Maslamah's smiling face haunted me in my dreams. The nightmares were persistent and gruesome. Muhammad ibn Maslamah's sympathetic face. Qusayy gasping for breath as his life's blood adorned the walls of his home.

         I woke up, sweating and panting, the taste of another man's blood on my lips as I licked at them. But I was no longer in Qusayy's shed; I was in the relative of safety of the stable that served as our home. But that served as little consolation. Where was the justice in the world when murderers roamed free and gods were fickle and capricious?

        Every day I would sleep after evening prayers and rise at dawn, at the sound of Bilal's strong voice carrying the adhan through the city that had once been Yathrib, calling the believers to dawn prayers. But the melodious tune would be spoiled by haunting memory. I would remain half awake in my bed of straw, too frightened to move, unable to rise through the crippling horror.

         "Allahu Akbar," Bilal's voice would ring, repeating the sentence four times.

         Bright red splattering across the walls and on my clothes.

         "I testify that there is no god but Allah, I testify that there is no god but Allah!"

           A gasp, the smile of a murderer.

        "I testify that Muhammad is the Apostle of Allah, I testify that Muhammad is the Apostle of Allah!"

         The face of a dying man twisted in sheer shock. Blood on ibn Maslamah's sheepish face.

        "Hurry to prayer! Hurry to prayer!"

        The sympathetic smile of a murderer and the glint of a dagger in the gloom.

        "Hurry to salvation! Hurry to salvation!"

         The smell of lavender and spice. A dying man sinking to his knees, clutching a neck overflowing with blood.

        "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,"

        The satisfied smile of a murderer looking proudly at the limp corpse of his victim. The taste of blood raw on my lips.

       "There is no god but Allah,"

        And the adhan would cease, while I remained huddled beneath a cloth covering that served as a blanket. I did not feel pain. Why did I not feel pain? Why were the gods robbing me of grief?

        I did not shut my eyes. I could not lest the memory would rewind again.

       No more blood, I thought. No more nightmares.

        I was roused from my trance as firm hands gripped me and began shaking me vigorously. I started and my temper rose. Alarmed and frightened, I leapt up from beneath my cloth covering and hurled myself at the intruder.

        I grabbed his throat in both hands, heavy of breath and wide-eyed. My grip eased as I recognized the sheepish grin of Mundhir beneath me.

        "I was waking you for prayer, but if that's the sort of thing you would prefer..."

         He winked.

         But I could not share in his mirth. I slumped back, my rage retreating, with only emptiness and despair taking place. I could hear the shuffle of sandals outside and the murmuring of men seeking out the mosque.

        Where is the justice? Where is the pain?