Prologue from The Jewel of Medina by Sherry Jones. All content copyright Sherry Jones.
A Single Pointing Finger
Medina, January 627
Fourteen years old
Scandal blew in on the errant wind when I rode into Medina clutching Safwan's waist. My neighbors rushed into the street like storm waters flooding a wadi. Children stood in clusters to point and gawk. Their mothers snatched them to their skirts and pretended to avert their eyes. Men spat in the dust and muttered, judging. My father's mouth trembled like a tear on the brink.
What they saw: my wrapper fallen to my shoulders, unheeded. Loose hair lashing my face. The wife of God's Prophet entwined around another man. What they couldn't see: my girlhood dreams shattered at my feet, trampled by a truth as hard and blunt as horses' hooves.
I let my eyelids fall shut, avoiding my reflection in the stares of my umma, my community. I licked my cracked lips, tasting salt and the tang of my wretchedness. Pain wrung my stomach like strong hands squeezing water from laundry, only I was already dry. My tongue lolled like a sun baked lizard. I rested my cheek against Safwan's shoulder, but the horse's trot struck bone against bone.
"Al-zaniya!" someone cried. "Adulteress!"
I made slits with my eyes. Members of our umma either pointed fingers and shouted at me or spread their arms in welcome. I saw others, Hypocrites, jeering and showing their dirty teeth. The ansari, our Helpers, stood silent and wary. Thousands lined the street, sucking in our dust with their sharp breaths. Staring as if I were a caravan glittering with treasure instead of a sunburned fourteen-year-old girl.
The horse stopped, but I continued -- over its flank, headfirst and into the arms of Muhammad. Into my husband's control once more and sighing with relief. Trying to forge my own destiny had nearly destroyed me, but his love held the power to heal. His thick beard cushioned my cheek, caressed me with sandalwood. Miswak unfurled from his breath, clean and sharp as a kiss.
"Thank al-Lah you have made it home safely, my A'isha," he murmured.
The gathering crowd rumbled, prickling my spine. I lifted my heavy head to see. Umar, rolled in, thunder and scowl. He was Muhammad's advisor and friend, but no friend to women.
"Where, by al-Lah, have you been? Why were you alone with a man who is not your husband?"
His accusations whipped like the wind through the crowd, fanning sparks into flames.
"Al-zaniya!" someone cried again. I ducked as if the word were a hurled stone.
"It is no wonder that A'isha rhymes with fahisha -- whore!" People laughed, and soon they began to chant: "A'isha -- fahisha! A'isha -- fahisha!" Muhammad steered me through the crush toward the mosque entrance. As if in a mosaic their faces swirled before me: the jowly Hamal and his pale wife Fazia-turned-Jamila, screaming and plumcolored; the town gossip, Umm Ayman, pursing her wrinkled lips; Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, flashing golden rings on his waving fists. I'd expected murmurs when I returned, and lifted eyebrows -- but this? People who had known me all my life now wanted to tear me apart. And Safwan -- I turned my head to look for him, but he had disappeared. As always.
Rude fingers yanked my hair. I cried out and slapped them away, and a stream of spittle landed on my arm. Muhammad set me on my feet and faced the mob, then raised his hands into the air. Silence fell like a shroud, muffling even the glares.
"A'isha needs to rest," Muhammad said. His voice sounded as weary as I felt. "Please return to your homes."
He curled his arm around me and we du
Now published in 20 languages, "The Jewel of Medina" is an international best-seller not because of the controversy, but because of the lyrical writing inspired by pre-Islamic poetry -- A'isha was a poet -- and because of the beautiful, at times heart-breaking, love story between her and her husband, the inimitable Prophet of God.