The Life of the Prophet
- A Dramatic Novelization of the Prophet’s (p) Life -
By Yahiya Emerick
Plan: To create a full novelization of the life of the last Prophet of Allah. The book will focus on the seerah from the perspective of those around the Prophet. (p) As many asbab-ul-nuzul events with corresponding Qur’anic text as possible will be incorporated in the story to give a complete view of the seerah in the form of a highly accessible story.
Status: The book is in progress. Completion hopefully within 8-12 months.
Audience: Especially for da’wah, new Muslims, lovers of literature, young Muslims from junior high to college and, well, everyone!
Financials: Estimated cost all in to get out there: $5000
Sample of Chapter 1
And Muhammad is His Messenger
An Exploration of the Life of the Prophet of Islam
By Yahiya Emerick
(c) Amirah Publishing
Chapter 1
Dune Strider
Somewhere in southeastern Arabia, c. 530 C.E.
“Wrap that bundle tightly Ziyad!” the overseer barked, punctuating his command with a swift crack of his whip, before casually adjusting his green robe as if nothing cruel had just occurred.
The snap of the all too familiar lash of Abu Rakrak tore through the dry morning air as it had countless times before, though no matter how many times he felt its sting, Ziyad could never get used to it. He still clung stubbornly to the dream of escape – and freedom.
A stinging thud on his back from the twisted leather whip only seemed to steel his resolve that he would one day get away from these people who had enslaved him. As he secured the bundle of eastern silk to the back of a kneeling camel, he marveled at how far it must have traveled to get here to this dusty Bedouin camp somewhere in the unforgiving deserts of Arabia.
Perhaps, like this silk destined for the markets of Syria, his own future would be one of freedom and distance. He was a slave now, but he had not always been so. He was taken from his family in a raid by these Banu Amir thugs. They came upon his small farming community in southern Syria in the early predawn hours some three years before. He knew his father was among those who had been killed. Those who weren’t cut down were tied in shackles and ropes and marched southward to the Arabian desert to be sold as slaves. Eventually, both he and his sisters were taken to the city of Ta’if, treated without care like any other item for sale.
Ziyad watched in horror as he saw his own sisters auctioned off to the highest bidder under a blazing noontime sun. As all slaves in those days had to endure, they were in for a life of violence, misery and pain. He knew he would never see them again. That realization of what his loved ones would be made to suffer – alone and frightened - seared itself into his mind, and he vowed to every god whose name he ever learned that he would have his vengeance.
Another smack of the whip on his greatly scarred back quickened his pace as he sprinted back to the sheikh’s storage tent for another bundle to pack on yet another camel. Weaving around the three dozen other slaves who were going about various tasks similar to his own, Ziyad mused at how easy it would be to slip away into the desert and escape without anyone even noticing.
Of course, few slaves ever actually did that, because it would be a death sentence – a ticket to a lingering and painful death under the unrelenting sun and stinging sands that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. As Ziyad peered slightly behind himself before entering the spacious, though dimly lit tent, his eyes were first drawn to the fearsome form of Abu Rakrak assaulting the back of another hapless slave; he understood once more that he would have to bide his time for the sake of his freedom – and hopefully vengeance.
Ziyad picked up another large bit of cargo, this time a small wooden chest, under the watchful gaze of a younger overseer who was standing near the tent’s entrance. Ziyad paused with it in his arms in silence, as he was expected to do. The smirking scribe seated to the young overseer’s left, a young man about his own age, looked at the combination of letters scrawled on the side of the wood and then scribbled the markings down on an unrolled sheet of animal skin.
Ziyad watched dispassionately as the scribe dipped his small twig in an inkpot near his knees and then proceeded to write the letters “A. L. R.” on the makeshift parchment – which stood for the type of trade good in the package. The Arabs were notoriously meticulous in record keeping. They didn’t want to lose track of any scrap of tradable goods, for life in this part of the world was harsh. Even though cheating others was an art that many spent their lifetimes mastering, getting cheated was an invitation to eventual ruin – not to mention a blow to one’s reputation.
Although Ziyad didn’t know how to read or write himself, as most Arabs of his time, he did recognize these letters as signifying spices from Yemen. This chest of tightly wrapped palm wood would be particularly valuable, and if he were to damage it, the punishment would be most severe. Ziyad mused for a moment at the sheer volume of spices, raw materials and other goods that seemed to pass through this land from all directions. He wondered what made this desert so special that every conceivable good from every corner of the world found its way here.
His musings were interrupted, however, when the young overseer growled for Ziyad to move, and the slave obeyed wordlessly, all the while screaming in his mind obscenities and curses on those whom he hated more than anyone else he could think of. He still often wondered what became of his family after the auctions in Ta’if. He, himself, wasn’t sold to a distant master there, but kept by the Banu Amir to be used as a pathetic laborer – to be beaten, abused and worked from dawn to dusk until he would either die of exhaustion or be tortured to death by the young men of the tribe, looking for some fun.
Ziyad carefully lowered his head as he passed through the opening of the dingy white cloth tent and then stepped back out into the heat of the day. The sun was so bright at this time that the dirt, the sand, the rocks – even the air itself – seemed to be bathed in a whitish glow. He stopped for a moment to rebalance the heavy bundle in his arms, noticing yet again the long line of kneeling camels, three rows deep, that he and dozens of other slaves were busy loading and attending to. The overseers walked among the rows, slapping, kicking, whipping as they went. Time was money, and the caravan of the Banu Amir had an appointment to keep.
The great summer caravan of the Quraysh of Mecca would be passing by in two days, about ten miles to the west, and the Banu Amir had an arrangement to travel northwards with them. There was safety in numbers, and many smaller caravans merged together to avoid the dangers of bandit raids that were a ubiquitous part of life, living in this lawless part of the world.
The Banu Amir had invested a lot of money securing these trade goods over the last five months, and they were taking no chances of any of it getting lost. The slaves would pay dearly through the wages of pain to make sure the caravan would make it to its appointed rendezvous on time. Ziyad already received more than his fair share of payment for his labors.
Two days later
“Welcome, Sons of Amir!” an elderly sheikh called out from the back of his decorated camel.
Ziyad squinted his eyes to look up at the distant face of the elderly man who was eloquently addressing and complimenting Abu Sham, the son of the leader of the Banu Amir.
The appointment was kept on time, and the overseers of the tribe were elated as their own column of seventy or so camels approached the Quraysh’s line of several thousand camels, five rows abreast, who were slowly plodding onward to the rhythm of somber drums, all beating the steps out in unison.
The dignitary of the Quraysh had seen the column of the Banu Amir approaching, and had ridden over, with four acolytes in tow, to make the formal greetings to a fellow business partner. Ziyad, who was walking alongside the camel of Abu Rakrak, an unlucky position if there was one, stopped dutifully as the overseers ordered the procession to come to a halt.
Camels snorted and bellowed their low whines, hoping no doubt to be given a rest. They were loaded down with heavy bundles of spices, silks, dates, metal goods from the coast, baskets and all manner of wares. Other camels had the misfortune of having their human masters perched on top of an already heavy load, in makeshift saddles. They were slaves too, Ziyad mused, as much as he and the other human slaves were, and like the human slaves, who had to walk alongside the camels for the entire journey, tending to them day and night, there would be no break from the work.
Ziyad watched as the elderly man from the Quraysh received a bag of metal coins from Abu Shams – payment no doubt for being allowed to join the great caravan to Syria. The coins, Ziyad knew, were a motley assortment of Roman, Persian and perhaps even Indian currencies.
The Arabs made no coins of their own. They weren’t even one nation. They were a diverse lot of independent tribes, isolated city-states, and sometimes even allied clients of the great superpowers – of Abyssinia, the Byzantine Roman Empire, the Persians – and beyond their fortunate position of controlling some major trade routes, they had no other incentives to ever work together.
Trade and the need to make money in this harsh land was the glue that held alliances and agreements together in the sands of Arabia, though these too were often as weak as the shifting sands. Betrayal was not unknown, as Ziyad knew well. His own tribe was allied with the Banu Shifa, who were in turn allied with the Banu Amir.
Theoretically, one tribe’s allies were de facto off-limits to the raids of its extended allies, but the Banu Shifa had fallen on hard times, and gave secret approval to the Banu Amir to attack and plunder in exchange for some share of goods or other benefit. Ziyad’s people, his goods and his very honor were parceled out between many dirty hands. His heart alternated between sorrow and rank hatred of his enemies, but he also pined after the memory of his people. Injustice was, he accepted, just a normal part of life, and he came to hate life on account of it. Only his thirst for vengeance kept him from taking his own last breath in a fit of self-inflicted violence.
The Banu Amir’s line of camels waited for the formalities of the leading men to finish. The sheikh of the Quraysh was laughing and smiling at Abu Shams as he handed the money bag to one of his associates for safekeeping. Ziyad did not know which sheikh this one was, for the Quraysh was a large umbrella tribe with many sub clans and leaders, but this man was old, so that meant he was important.
Ziyad looked on as Abu Shams suddenly loudly praised the name of ‘Abdel Muttalib, thus revealing to him the sheikh’s identity, and then Abu Shams proceeded to take a small stone idol out of his flowing brown and white robes. Ziyad was happy to hear the name of ‘Abdel Muttalib, because once when he was a boy, the Quraysh sent a delegation to his own tribe seeking passage for a caravan through his people’s territory. The gifts they brought were amazing and shared by all, and it was ‘Abdel Muttalib, albeit a much younger version, who headed that embassy.
‘Abdel Muttalib, Ziyad observed, was given a similar stone idol from one of his turbaned companions. He took it reverently and stroked it. Then both he and Abu Shams exchanged idols, kissed them and then exchanged them back. This was a sign of respect for each other’s gods. If they were to travel together, men needed to know that the gods of their fellows would also bring them luck and back them up in any tough situation.
With the rituals and formalities concluded, ‘Abdel Muttalib directed his camel and three of his men to return to the main column which had never ceased in its march. Abu Shams spoke briefly with the one man that ‘Abdel Muttalib had left, and then he signaled for his overseers to get to work.
The men with the whips began shouting for movement, and the Qurayshi man, with Abu Sham at his side, led the way towards the rear of the main caravan. The line of Banu Amir camels was led in an arc over the side of the dusty plain until it reached a point where the Qurayshi representative told it to halt.
He then trotted his dromedary over to the main procession where he proceeded to order one part of it to stop. He then waved his arm back to Abu Sham to signal that this was where he had to insert his camels into the great caravan.
Evidently, Ziyad smirked, Abu Shams had more clout than whoever it was being made to wait - and who was getting bumped backwards in the line.
It took over half an hour for the Banu Amir lines to get properly in place, and Ziyad and many other slaves paid the price for this reorganization in scars and insults, but when it was done, an outsider would have little way of knowing where the Banu Amir’s camels began and where they ended – such was the monotonous line of endless, overloaded camels.
It would be a long journey northward – at least a month of traveling, with stops at night to rest the camels and feed the hunger and passions of the sheikhs and their overseers. There were a few howdahs, or tent-covered saddles in which slave girls resided, doubtlessly sleeping in preparation for the endless labors they would endure in the night at each stop.
This was Ziyad’s first long-distance journey, and he wondered how it would be for him and the other slaves, but a sudden snap of Abu Rakrak’s whip in his ear left him with no doubts: the camels would be treated better than the slaves.
Two months later
“And for not cleaning the cistern properly,” Abu Rakrak bellowed, while laying another stinging blow of his whip on the hapless slave, “You will be sold to the first Bedouins we pass on the journey!”
“Noooo, master!” the frightened woman cried out, raising her hand, only to have it batted down by the cruel scoundrel. Ziyad knew the source of her fear. Slaves sold to the wild tribes of the deep desert suffered even greater indignities and abuses than those that belonged to the somewhat more civilized urban Arabs.
Ziyad watched in disgust, which he had to hide, as the hapless woman sat down as if to try and prevent her from being taken away, only to be dragged out of the tent by another overseer.
“You! Boy!” Abu Rakrak demanded, looking in Ziyad’s direction. “Bring me more wine!” His command was accentuated by the throwing of an empty copper wine decanter in Ziyad’s direction.
Ziyad, who was still only a teenager, and thus endowed with youthful grace, quickly scooped up the vessel off the carpeted floor and hastily ducked out on his new mission, all the while concealing his intense desire to rend the little tyrant limb from limb. It still amazed him that Abu Rakrak’s fortunes should turn so sour.
While most of the other members of the great trade caravan to Syria made a profit, or at least broke even, due to some combination of bad luck, or his ill-temper which made bargaining less favorable for him, Abu Rakrak managed to lose money as he bought and sold over the month they had spent in the bazaars and trade fairs they passed through.
Now, as the various sheikhs and clans were rendezvousing at this lonely wadi, or oasis just at the northern tip of the Arabian Peninsula, to prepare for the great caravan home, Abu Rakrak was alternating between furious rage and drunken despair. He would be severely shamed when he returned to Ta’if, and many investors would seek vengeance on him for losing their fortunes.
Ziyad noted over the few days they were there, that more and more slaves, both male and female, were sent to the master’s tent to be his personal servant, yet then they quickly disappeared. Was Abu Rakrak killing them in his rage?
Ziyad, when he was tapped by an overseer’s whip that morning and told to leave the camels to wait upon the master, felt a tinge of fear, but resolved that if he were to be murdered too, he would go down fighting.
It was only when he returned with a fresh decanter of wine that he knew what his fate would really be. As he entered the tent, he saw one of the men of the Quraysh handing a small bag of gold to Abu Rakrak, who seemed lost in mental accounting, as he greedily snatched it and gave some hurried pleasantries.
Without even saying another word to him, Abu Rakrak turned his back on Ziyad and took the coins to the back of the tent, presumably to see them physically added to his small half-empty chest of gold - one that he was trying so desperately to fill before returning home, even if it meant selling off the slaves he had brought on the journey in the first place.
Ziyad, still holding the wine, looked at the one whom he presumed was his new master, patiently and in silence, as all slaves were expected to do. “You,” the stranger said sternly. “What do they call you?”
“Ziyad, master.”
“You’re lucky your name is not the same as anyone in the clan,” the man, who was about thirty with dark hair poking out from his turban, and who sported a short pointy beard on his chin said, “or I would have changed it, maybe to worm.” He laughed to himself as he said it.
“You belong to the Banu Hashim now.”
Ziyad bowed his head, wondering how his life might change – for better or worse – which wasn’t saying much. There were so many different Arab tribes and sub clans, he had no idea what the reputation of this Banu Hashim group was, but he did know they were from a city called Mecca, and so he presumed he would end up there eventually.
“Follow me,” the mysterious man ordered, “and since you know so much about wine and serving guests, or at least that’s what that old fool Abu Rakrak said, you’re going to serve in our tents, rather than be a camel tender. You had better hope,” he added ominously, “Abu Rakrak was telling the truth about your obedience and talents.”
For the remaining weeks it took to reach the city of Mecca, with a small stopover in the lush oasis town of Yathrib, Ziyad did his best to present himself as the model tent slave. He dutifully kept the wine cups of the sheikhs and dignitaries full during their nightly parties, which sometimes saw fifty or more men crammed in large, conjoined tents.
—
During the day he walked patiently beside the camels of whatever sheikh or overseer he was to serve that day. By the time he found himself facing the mudbrick and stone houses of Mecca, he had been noticed by even ‘Abdel Muttalib himself, and now walked besides the grand sheikh’s camel, as the proud son of Mecca led yet another prosperous caravan home.
The men, women and children of the small city poured out of their houses to greet the returnees. It was quite a festive atmosphere with people playing hand drums, joyous women singing, excited men greeting their fellows as they dismounted from her camels, asking about the journey, the profits, the adventures.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he held the reins of ‘Abdel Muttalib’s now seated camel, Ziyad noticed further back, and off into the distance, the many overseers, whipping the hundreds of exhausted slaves who tended the camels, demanding that they unload bundles, move packages and do any number of other sundry tasks. It would be a long day for those poor souls, Ziyad thought in contemplation.
The sound of an excited woman screaming for joy as she rushed over to greet ‘Abdel Muttalib brought Ziyad out of his musings. She looked to be about thirty, and wore a green-colored gown that Ziyad surmised was silk.
“My husband!” she cried in glee. “You have returned to me! What new wonders of the world do you bring me?” she added playfully.
‘Abdel Mutallib grabbed her in his arms and said, ‘Fatimah, lioness of the desert! I have spices and trinkets and all that a woman of your stature could desire!”
Ziyad began to tune out the general reverie that was going on around him, and even though he was sorely jealous of the reunion of two people who loved each other that he was forced to witness with a stone face, he knew that if he ever wanted to avoid being thrown back into the life of a camel slave, he had better continue to show his worth as a slave of more refined service. In addition, as he had slowly risen in status among is masters, his punishments were less and less frequent, and certainly less severe than the time he had spent with Abu Rakrak.
He wanted to keep it that way, so he quickly returned to his duties. He deftly took the sun shade and pole off ‘Abdel Muttalib’s camel, assembled it, and raised it high over his master and his very happy wife. While she did not notice the gesture, ‘Abdel Muttalib did, and even though the smile was only fleeting, Ziyad recognized that his master was pleased with him.
It took several days for the excitement and pandemonium of the caravan’s return to die down. During that time Ziyad found his duties to be in flux. There was so much work to be done: distributing newly delivered trade goods, separating the thousands of camels and returning them to each clan’s pasture, unloading late arrivals of the caravan, and more that from day-to-day Ziyad did know what to expect.
The diverse activities did give him time to explore and get an understanding of the new city that would become his home, at least for now. He found that Mecca was set in an otherwise dry valley. It didn’t have even a fraction of the beautiful palm trees that he had seen while passing through Yathrib, nor a tenth of the homes he remembered made up the city of Ta’if. It didn’t even have walls.
No, what Mecca did have, to Ziyad’s puzzlement, was a large stone square building in its center, taller than the surrounding houses and covered in a kind of black cloak. He learned it was called the Ka’bah, and that it was the house where the Quraysh kept their idols.
In between his countless errands and ferrying of goods to different homes, he also noted that caravan traffic, on a much smaller scale, did not cease. It seemed to Ziyad that Mecca was some type of layover town on an even larger caravan circuit than the one he had experienced from Ta’if to Syria.
Almost every day he saw new camel trains coming in from the desert from the south, north and west. Each time there was noise, crowds coming out to greet people and a general air of festivity as makeshift bazaars were set up and people came by the hundreds to buy, sell or just gawk. Ziyad quickly surmised this constant flow of goods and merchandise in and out of the city allowed this settlement to exist in the first place.
Ziyad wondered to himself many times, those first few nights when he was given some time to rest, whether his dreams of escape and freedom were still possible. He would have to wait and see what fate would hold for him.
It was about three weeks later when he was awakened by an overseer with a new command. “Get up, Ziyad!” At least they used his name now.
The overseer, who was a young man of about twenty, who didn’t even have a beard yet, motioned for the groggy Ziyad to follow him. Ziyad lifted himself off his straw mat in the general slave hut, and fixed some folds in his wrapped waist band, before silently falling in line behind his handler. Ziyad had no shirt, of course, as slaves generally wore none, a way to remind them they were less than human – more like an animal, but Ziyad had made his peace with it, and he often hoped the sign of many old whip scars on his back might make one of his angry masters more hesitant to add to his collection.
The morning sun was just arising, as the pair wended its way through the warren of mudbrick homes and dusty side streets. The overseer led Ziyad past the outer edges of the Ka’bah’s courtyard, and already Ziyad could see a small group of pilgrims walking around it in a circle, as they often did, chanting the names of their idols. He had learned that many Bedouin tribes also kept their idols in the Ka’bah, and that their frequent visits and patronage added to the already prosperous city.
Abruptly, the overseer stopped at a particular two-story mudbrick building, with a large yellow silken curtain over its double-wide entryway. He motioned for Ziyad to wait, and then went inside.
The young slave, now almost sixteen years old, with tan skin, made even moreso by the harsh Arabian sun, waited for his next assignment in pensive silence. He knew from his time in the city that this was a street inhabited by the wealthier residents, and he wondered if he had been sold again.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, when the overseer came out and said, “My name is ‘Amr. I am overseer of slaves to my second uncle, ‘Abdel Muttalib. You will be working in his audience hall, tending to his guests and whatever else he commands.”
Ziyad listened intently, as the overseer paused and then continued: “I am not a cruel overseer, but if you disobey any command you are given, or do something clumsy, you will feel my whip, and it will not be light.” He then patted the whip hanging by his belt for emphasis.
Ziyad involuntarily flinched at the motion, as if all his old scars gathered in a crowd to shout their anger to the universe at ever having been born. Then he nodded obediently, and continued his humble demeanor while the overseer took him inside the empty room. The space was rather large by Meccan standards – capable of holding fifty or more guests. ‘Amr then showed him where he would stand, where the cups were kept and many other things he would have to know, if he were to avoid a severe beating.
‘Abdel Muttalib entertained many guests, and a poorly trained slave would make him lose face. Ziyad never wanted to be the source of any anger in his new master.
Ziyad wound up serving faithfully and expertly over the course of the next year. He served the guests at ‘Abdel Muttalib’s frequent gatherings, cleaned up after them, endured patiently their many drunken insults and slaps, and even helped put out a small fire on a rug when an inebriated guest toppled over a small burner.
Though Ziyad still hated being a slave, he knew his life could have been much worse, and he appreciated the few niceties his station afforded, such as better food, a softer straw mattress and fewer painful reprimands. ‘Abdel Muttalib’s position as the city’s chief of welcoming caravans and pilgrims, and giving them water, gave him some clout, and some of it filtered down to his many dependents, including slaves like Ziyad, though not to the unlucky slaves who were tasked with carrying the endless jars of water to the city from the distant wells in the countryside. That was a task Ziyad feared he would be given, if he ever had a misstep or seemed to be less than stellar in his performance.
He also noticed that having to maintain so many slaves in this activity was a serious drain on his master’s finances, as well as being a constant thorn in his mind. There were times when even the master had to personally participate in drawing the water when particularly large caravans were in town.
During this time, Ziyad also got to know ‘Abdel Muttalib’s family, as far as any domestic slave could. He learned that among his six wives, two in particular were most beloved to him: Fatimah and Halah, and that he would do anything for them. At the same time, he learned that only one of his many wives had born him a son, a young man named al-Harith, even after many years of trying.
In Arabian culture, Ziyad knew, a man’s power not only rested in his gold and influence, but also in the number of sons he had, for it was they who would be expected to be his supporters as he aged - and a muscled deterrent to anyone wanting to rob or remove him. Thus, Ziyad was able to know the two main worries on his master’s mind: supplying constant water to the city’s visitors from distant wells, and not having the sons he wished he had had. Little did Ziyad know that both of ‘Abdel Muttalib’s fears would soon be addressed.
One early morning, while he was cleaning up the hall, Ziyad was startled to find a frantic ‘Abdel Muttalib entering the chamber from a side room. He was dressed in his long, white night gown, and his greying shoulder length black hair was tousled and he was without his signature turban. “Can it be?” he repeated several times, before slumping down on his large cushion at the front of the hall.
Ziyad, knowing his station, continued his work in silence, though trying to be an unobtrusive as possible so as not to evoke any ire in his obviously unsettled master.
To no one in particular, ‘Abdel Muttalib said, “If I can find the well. If ZamZam can be recovered. I would no longer have this burden.” He then stood up and began to pace.
After a few moments, he looked at Ziyad and said, “Do you know why I’m ranting?”
Ziyad turned with bowed head and replied, “It’s not my place to know, my master.”
“Ah, Ziyad,” ‘Abdel Muttalib smiled, “You’re such a good slave. So obedient. May you have a long life.”
Ziyad inwardly winced, realizing in that instant that he did want a long life as a slave, but ‘Abdel Muttalib meant no insult, he knew.
“I’m talking like this because this is the third night I’ve had a dream about the lost well of ZamZam. Do you know what that is?”
Ziyad nodded negatively.
“Long ago,” his master began, “there was a sheikh here named Mudad. He was the master of the well of ZamZam. It was a deep well that was right here in this city – not far away like the wells in the hills. In those days Mecca was much smaller and had fewer people, so Mudad was able to keep control of the well, and he kept the people away from it, so they didn’t know exactly where it was. There was a dispute, and Mudad vowed to leave the city, but before he went, he filled in the well in such a way that no one could find it, no matter how hard they looked.”
Ziyad stood silently, but inwardly wondered if he would now be tasked to dig all over the city himself.
“For three nights in a row I’ve had dreams about finding this well, and for three days I’ve poked around with a spade here and there, enduring some rude taunts from some of my peers who think I’m being fooled by a jinn.”
Ziyad shifted his weight slightly at the mention of the jinn, those mysterious spirit creatures that inhabited the wild deserts and invaded men’s dreams. They were creatures so fearsome that caravans would pause before entering new valleys to offer platitudes and words of humility towards the jinns of each valley, hoping for safe passage.
“Well, tonight I had a new dream, and it told me exactly where to find the well. Go fetch my son and some digging tools. We go to find it at once!”
Ziyad bowed his head and immediately raced out of the hall in the direction of al-Harith’s home, all the while thinking of how many muscles he may pull and sunburns he may endure that day, all on account of a dream! After rousing the teenage son of his master, and returning with the ordered digging tools, the trio set off for the courtyard of the Ka’bah.
Since it was still early, few people were up and about, and as they approached the imposing Ka’bah, which Ziyad learned was first raised by the ancient Prophet Ibrahim himself, and then expanded over the centuries. ‘Abdel Muttalib excitedly began running towards a pair of large stone idols near the edge of the large courtyard grounds.
“Here! Here!” he shouted. “Dig here!”
Ziyad looked at al-Harith, and then followed him. ‘Abdel Muttalib took one of the spades from Ziyad’s hands, while al-Harith took another. Together, the tri began busting up the rocky earth, raising the dust and moving rubble aside, inch-by-inch, the amusement of the curious onlookers who began to gather at the scene.
“What are you doing, you old fool?” one of the sheikhs asked.
“Quiet,” ‘Abdel Muttalib answered, “My dream is real. ZamZam is here. You’ll see!”
Ziyad kept at it, even as he sort of felt sad, as the crowd - and the taunting - got bigger over the course of the morning. By the time the afternoon sun was high, the trio had dug a hole that was eight feet in diameter and about five feet deep. The piled-up rubble off to all sides got higher and higher.
Ziyad wondered how much longer he could hold out. The water brought by some other servants of ‘Abdel Muttalib sustained them, but his master was not letting them stop to eat anything, or even take rest. Not having a shirt was particularly hard on Ziyad, whose skin was turning red and burning.
Then, when the trio almost lost hope, when ‘Abdel Muttalib was on the edge of frenzied despair and ready to give up, his spade hit something large and hard. He paused for a moment, causing al-Harith and Ziyad to pause and look also. ‘Abdel Muttalib dropped to his knees. He began to move the dirt away from the object he found. As he moved his hands frantically, he saw it was a smooth stone, shaped by the hands of men.
“The capstone!” he cried aloud, in a hoarse voice. The crowd, whose size and participants had changed throughout the day, began to step forward and peer over the edge of the pit, which was now over seven feet deep. Everyone watched intently, with very little chatter, ‘Abdel Muttalib, joined by his two helpers, carefully dug around the square stone and then, while everyone held their breath, lifted it with great effort, exposing a wondrous site below.
As ‘Abdel Muttalib used his spade to move the capstone aside with a levering motion, a tiny pool of water was revealed. Next to the tiny sliver of liquid, there were several mysterious objects, wrapped in animal skins and sealed with clay, enigmatic and inviting.
“Praise be to Allah!” ‘Abdel Muttalib cried, evoking the name of the One, unseen Deity that the Arabs knew to be the supreme Lord of the universe, whose power was so great, they thought they needed idols to intercede for them in their worldly affairs.
As exposure to the open air caused more of the water to swell and pool, the crowd, which knew the value of water in this harsh and unforgiving climate, erupted in cheers! Some praised Allah, others their idols and yet others just celebrated wildly.
With whatever renewed strength they could muster, ‘Abdel Muttalib ordered al-Harith and Ziyad to bring the unknown objects out of the pit. Meanwhile, the leading men of the Quraysh were rushing to the scene. They were startled to find pooling water, bubbling up in the pit in ever greater quantities, and even moreso they were amazed at the strange objects laid on the ground before them, wrapped up and unknown.
With his own hands, ‘Abdel Muttalib chipped the clay off the encrusted leather and unwrapped the items. When he was finished with the first bundle, he found he had two small statues of gazelles, made of pure gold! When the other items were unwrapped, several ancient swords were found: the very weapons of Mudad! All agreed this was an amazing discovery – the water well and the treasures.
Being greedy as they were, many of the city’s leaders began to demand a share in the treasures. Ziyad saw the angry faces of the clan chiefs, surrounded by their strong sons, and thought for sure one of these factions would kill for those items. ‘Abdel Muttalib, who only had one son, stood helplessly as the men before him began arguing who should get what item.
“Let Allah decide,” someone said, which was a sign that they would draw random arrows from a bag to see who should have each item. A bag was brought along with a collection of arrowheads. Each clan chief, along with ‘Abdel Muttalib, agreed upon which marked arrow would reward the winner. Ziyad watched as the arrows were put in the bag, and the men gathered around in a big circle to draw them out.
The plan was that they would have a separate drawing for each of the treasures. If you drew out the special arrow, then you won that item. If you drew out any other arrow, you lost. At the first draw, ‘Abdel Muttalib won. For the next item, likewise. In fact, to the great astonishment of all, ‘Abdel Muttalib won every single draw!
The superstitious Arabs, no matter how much they desired an item, would not question the power of the random draw, for they believed that Allah, the supreme Lord, guided the results. Anyone who lost would simply return to their idols and pray to them, asking for them to put in a good word with Allah for them for next time.
To show his gratitude to Allah, and possibly to mollify the combustible crowd, ‘Abdel Muttalib announced that the two gold gazelles would join the hundreds of tribal idols already housed in the Ka’bah, making it an even 360 idols. The swords, he said, would be melted down, and the metal would be donated to help fix the door to the Shrine, which needed some repairs.
That night, ‘Abdel Muttalib held a sumptuous feast, and the celebration of the rediscovery of the well of ZamZam was heralded as a sign of Allah’s blessings to Mecca. Shamans and priests evoked the names of many idols all throughout the night, believing they had a hand in convincing Allah to improve the fortunes of the people.
Poets recited odes and verses famous in the town. One poet began to recite one of the sacred lengthy Odes, whose popularity was such that it was included among the Seven Odes which hung on written parchments inside the Ka’bah. Ziyad only caught a few lines of the verse, a snippet of the Ode of Imrul Qays. It went like this:
"Oh, long night, dawn will come,
but will be no brighter without my love.
You are a wonder, with stars held up as by ropes
of hemp to a solid rock."
At times, I have filled a leather water-bag
of my people and entered the desert,
And trod its empty wastes while the wolf
howled like a gambler whose family starves.
I said to the wolf, "You gather as little wealth, as little prosperity as I.
What either of us gains he gives away. So do we remain thin."
Early in the morning, while the birds were still nesting,
I mounted my steed.
Well-bred was he, long-bodied,
outstripping the wild beasts in speed,
Swift to attack, to flee, to turn,
yet firm as a rock swept down by the torrent,
Bay-colored, and so smooth the saddle slips from him,
as the rain from a smooth stone,
Thin but full of life, fire boils within him
like the snorting of a boiling kettle;
He continues at full gallop when other
horses are dragging their feet in the dust for weariness.
A boy would be blown from his back,
and even the strong rider loses his garments.
My steed is as fast as a spinning-top when a child has spun it well!
For Ziyad, the colorful imagery of the desert poets and all this festivity around him meant nothing more than simply more work. He had hoped that ‘Abdel Muttalib, out of some sense of gratitude for his efforts, would have allowed him to share in the celebration, or at least given him the night off to nurse his sunburns and aching muscles, but it was not to be.
The somber slave was right there among the crowds of revelers: pouring wine, cleaning messes, serving food, changing stained pillows for new ones, avoiding the blows of drunken celebrants, eager to hit something in their excitement, and on top of this he had all his other general duties.
At the very least, Ziyad thought to himself, there would be no more trips to the hills for water, and that was a boon for himself, his master, and the friends he had made among the other slaves.
A few weeks later…
Sometime later, with the new Well of ZamZam properly constructed - and in operation - thanks to the efforts of a dozen of ‘Abdel Muttalib’s slaves, a sense of relief swept the city – one that Ziyad could feel.
There was a recent increase in religious pilgrims coming in from the countryside, arriving to walk around the Ka’bah; the new throngs even vied with each other to taste the sweet water from the new well, and there was an uptick in business. The closeness of this well made all the tasks of the masters of Mecca that much easier!
Ziyad’s usual routine remained. For slaves it was little difference if the clouds rained down diamonds or the deserts buried the world in sand: there was always more work to do. The days rolled by after that, then months, then years passed. Tragically, al-Harith passed away, leaving ‘Abdel Muttalib devastated, and his household mourned for many months. For Ziyad, this meant endless trips to the market, now entrusted with this duty, and coins to make purchases. Such was life in a household without sons.
It was during one of his errands to the market to get supplies for his master’s household that he heard a great commotion off in the distance. It was coming from the courtyard of the Ka’bah. Still being blessed with curiosity, on account of his youth, he made a detour and headed for the holy Shrine.
When he emerged from between two houses, he saw a large crowd gathered at one corner of the Ka’bah. He also heard some loud calling. Instinctively, he moved closer, but just as he was getting close enough to hear what was going on, he felt a sharp sting on his back that burned like fire.
When he turned around, he saw the angry face of ‘Amr the overseer, glaring at him with his whip raised for another strike. “You are supposed to be getting supplies for the hall from the market, remember?”
Ziyad bowed his head and meekly said, ‘Yes, master. Please forgive me.”
“Now go, and don’t disobey me again!” He commanded. As Ziyad bowed, he suddenly noticed his handler’s chin now sporting a little more beard than years before when they first met.
Ziyad then ran off back into the alley towards the market, holding on to the small bag of coins he was entrusted with to buy what was needed. For Ziyad, truly nothing would change, and thoughts of escape began to creep in his mind once again.
As the months passed by, he thought about how he could regain his long-lost freedom. Could he steal a camel and trek northwards, or make it to the sea and take a boat to Abyssinia? He didn’t really know the way anywhere, and would probably end up captured by Bedouins! Could he stow away on a caravan – pretend to be a free person? He would probably be caught and tortured to death, as was the fate of all slaves who attempted escape.
He began to fantasize about how his life might have been, had he remained free. Would he be married? would he have children? Sadness took a permanent place at the edges of his mind, as he realized he might never breath the air as a free man again. Was he fated to die as an old, worn-out slave?
But even as he was close to resigning himself to an evil fate, good fortune seemed to shine on ‘Abdel Muttalib once again. That year one of his wives gave birth to a son. The following year, three more were born, then the following year more, until after five years he had ten sons!
For Ziyad, their joy was his inconvenience, as his duties became even more arduous, however, his continued faithful service did give him more privileges than most slaves could even imagine, and at times, after almost twenty more years passed, he imagined he was a member of the extended family – that is until the fateful day came that would shake his faith in the stability of the world he started to take for granted.
A morning came that should have been like any other, but this morning was different. Ibn ‘Amr, the new overseer, and also the teenaged son of the old one named ‘Amr, came earlier than usual to roust Ziyad from his straw mat. He wondered what had happened, as he unwillingly wiped the sleep from his eyes. He also noticed that Ibn ‘Amr wasn’t alone. There were at least a dozen other slaves with him. Fixing his waistcloth, while trying to fake a lack of awareness, Ziyad found himself following a silent procession towards the outskirts of town.
When they emerged from the city onto open ground, while still in the dim light of the dawn, Ibn ‘Amr then ordered the slaves to wait, sitting on the hard earth at the edge of the wilderness. Each of the slaves, men of different ages and races, waited in apprehension. One of them, an Abyssinian named Shantu, whispered fearfully to Ziyad, “What’s happening? Are they selling us? Are we to be killed?”
Ziyad motioned for him to be quiet and replied, “I do not know, but if you want to avoid the whip, we must be silent.” As he finished his last word, Ziyad looked over to where Ibn ‘Amr was standing, now joined by several other free men, and the two locked eyes for a moment.
Ziyad, expecting a stroke of the whip, looked down hurriedly, but the expected strike never came. It was like Ibn ‘Amr, who was usually even harsher than his father had been, didn’t care. This lack of discipline led to Ziyad’s own growing sense of apprehension, and he didn’t like it. He vaguely remembered Abu Rakrak, and his threat to that poor slave woman long ago, to sell her to the Bedouins. He shuddered involuntarily.
About half an hour later, as the morning sun was first beginning to poke above the horizon, Ziyad’s uncertainty was also slowly beginning to be heightened. A long line of about a dozen camels, laden with supplies, was being brought to the area where he and his companions still sat. He recognized them as Abdel Muttalib’s camels, by the markings and style of gear, and he began to feel some relief.
He tapped Shantu’s shoulder and motioned for him to look in the direction of the camel train. “So, we’re going on a journey, then?” the Abyssinian whispered. Ziyad, not wanting to tempt fate twice, nodded silently in agreement.
After the camel train was brought, the pasture slaves returned the way they had come, and Ibn ‘Amr explained to Ziyad’s group that they were taking ‘Abdel Muttalib on a journey of several days, and that they would be serving the needs of the travelers and attending to the camels.
It had been a long time since Ziyad had tended camels on a caravan – a life he did not want to return to, but when he saw who the other slaves were with him – all trusted ones, he understood this was a very important trek they were taking.
About an hour later, ‘Abdel Muttalib arrived, already mounted on a magnificent red camel. He had some bundles that looked like gift items, and his robe and turban were made of fine materials of different hues from brown to yellow to red. He was a magnificent sight!
Ibn ‘Amr ordered the slaves to their places, and ‘Abdel Muttalib, joined by seven of his sons, also on camels, not including Ibn ‘Amr and one other overseer, led the caravan off to the north east, into the wild wilderness of Najd.
At the first night of camping, Ziyad was able to learn the purpose of their journey from one of the other slaves, an older Arab man named Qanit, who was sold into slavery as a child to pay debts for his family. While bedded side by side near the camels for the night, Ziyad learned that apparently, ‘Abdel Muttalib was the source of the commotion that day many years before when Ziyad had gotten his first taste of the whip in a long time.
It seems that ‘Abdel Muttalib was making a vow at the Ka’bah – a vow to address the other worry that had been plaguing him for some time, and that was highlighted when he was powerless on the day the lost well was discovered, when his one son was no match for the bullying of the other clan chiefs, who had many sons to back them up. With tears in his eyes, remembering his lost son al-Harith, he vowed, for all to hear, that if Allah gave him ten sons, and let them all live to maturity, that he would sacrifice one of them in thanksgiving.
“Well,” Qinat explained, “that vow was now due as he had ten sons born to him, and ‘Abdel Muttalib, putting it off as long as he could, was losing face in the community, which remembered his dramatic vow made twenty years before.”
Ziyad was perplexed, why he had never heard of this vow, or if he had heard about it, why he had forgotten it. Thinking about the ten sons of ‘Abdel Muttalib, how each was noble in his own way, he realized that even if he had ever come across news of that vow, he would have pushed it aside or disbelieved it was true, given the fact that the ten young men were once boys he had helped raise, in the curious way a household servant can be considered to also be a part of the family life of their master.
“Abdullah, his youngest son, actually lost a random drawing of arrows,” Qinat added, “Master was going to sacrifice him in front of the Ka’bah, but a bunch of people convinced him not to.”
Ziyad recalled a few weeks before that there had been some ruckus about ‘Abdel Muttalib and his son ‘Abdullah, but he assumed that it was just an enraged father teaching his son a lesson. He had seen so much brutality from the Arabs of this region that he hadn’t given it a thought, and his endless duties left him no time for catching up on the news – or rumors – of the day. He did know that he was relieved that ‘Abdullah had not been harmed.
“So what’s this journey for?” he asked Qinat curiously. “Is master running away - going into exile or something so he can avoid killing one of his favorite sons?”
“Oh no,” Qinat answered, “Master is looking for a way out. Some people told him of a desert priest, actually a female sorceress, I heard. Her name is Shiya or something, and she speaks with the spirits. He’s going to her to find a solution.”
Ziyad rolled over on his side. The thin animal skin he had for a mat barely soothed his aching body and gave little relief to the hard ground under him. The smell and sound of sleeping camels, only a few feet from him, would be his constant companion through the night, while his master and his friends slept on soft cushions inside warm tents. Although he hated the thought of a father having to sacrifice his own son, he was conflicted because he knew he was the son of a man who had been killed to make him a slave.
As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if there would ever be justice in this world. He also remembered the outlines of an old story he had once heard as a boy, about a Prophet named Ibrahim, who also had to sacrifice his son, but Allah saved him from having to do that because love is greater than everything.
He wondered if he would ever feel that love. In his last moments of wakefulness, he looked up at the million stars in the sky above him, and he whispered, “Allah. I know You are above all other gods. I love you, please love me.”
—
Ten days later, the caravan reached a small outcropping of rocks, just outside of the city of Yathrib. There were large sticks set up in the ground, with bits of cloth hanging from them. “We’re here,” one of ‘Abdel Muttalib’s sons announced to his father, who had been mostly silent on the journey. He motioned for a slave to come and set the camel down at rest, and then he dismounted. The other men also were attended to likewise, and together, the free men approached the rocks.
Ziyad and the slaves, tended to by the two overseers, waited in silence. In the distance, Ziyad made out the entrance to what looked like a cave. He saw the seven men enter, each carrying some type of gift or offering. A moment later they came out frantically. When they returned to the caravan, one of the sons announced, “Shiya is not here.” Then he motioned to one of his brothers, “Go in the city and ask where she has gone to?”
As the brother mounted his camel and entered into Yathrib, ‘Abdel Muttalib sat near his own camel felling dejected and fearing the worst. About two hours later, the brother returned with news. He explained that Shiya had traveled north to Khaybar, another oasis settlement, and that she could be found there.
‘Abdel Muttalib ordered everyone up, and to resume the journey immediately. The panic and tension in his voice and demeanor were apparent to all. With renewed energy, the caravan quickly set off and after another five days of hard travel, the party entered the outskirts of Khaybar. After some asking around, it was learned that Shiya occupied a small hut on the edge of town. Wasting no time, ‘Abdel Muttalib directed his tired camel train to go there immediately.
Ziyad, whose body was no longer young and sturdy, was filled with exhaustion. Qinat was sunburned a painful red, and although slaves were permitted to wear shirts and even robes while traveling in the deep desert, the heat was incredible and the hard work the slaves had to endure taxing.
Shantu had passed out three times over the previous two days, and Ziyad feared he would be left for dead by a leader who had another life he wanted to save more than one of his lowly slaves. Thankfully, Shantu was revived each time, but Ziyad wondered if any of them would make it back to Mecca alive. He also wondered if he really wanted to.
‘Abdel Muttalib and his sons found Shiya’s hut. Ziyad watched as the men entered. They remained there for over an hour. They came out slowly, but not sadly. It turned out Shiya told them to come back the next day. She would need to pray on it overnight. To the decision was made that the men would make camp and wait.
—
The next day ‘Abdel Muttalib and his sons returned to her hut. When they finally emerged sometime later, ‘Abdel Muttalib was smiling and overjoyed. He had a bounce in his step, that was more energetic than you would expect an older man to have. His companions were equally elated.
Shantu and Qinat, who were standing near Ziyad, pointed to their master excitedly. “I think he got the answer he wanted,” Qinat intoned in a low voice.
“I hope this means we can avoid being worked to death, “ Shantu added ruefully.
It was true. ‘Abdel Muttalib got the answer he wanted. When the caravan finally returned to Mecca, the patriarch gathered the public together to witness the solution offered by Shiya, the desert shaman.
She had said, “By your customs, how much is a man’s life worth if he is killed?”
‘Abdel Muttalib had answered, “Ten camels,” for this was how much a family had to pay as a penalty if one of their members killed a member of another clan.
She had then looked gravely at the hopeful old man and instructed him thus: “Go back to your land and draw two arrows near your god, one with the boy’s name and the other with the phrase, ‘ten camels’ written on it. If the arrow that is drawn is the boy’s, then add ten camels to your tally and then draw again until your god is appeased.”
So back in Mecca, inside the Ka’bah, in front of the statue of Hubal, ‘Abdel Muttalib drew one of the two arrows from a bag. It was ‘Abdullah, so the people counted ten camels.
As it would progress, ‘Abdullah’s name came up ten times, but on the eleventh draw, the camels’ arrow came up. The tribal leaders who were assembled there congratulated ‘Abdel Muttalib on his favorable decision, but the deeply religiously minded man wasn’t satisfied.
He declared that he wouldn’t be truly convinced he could substitute camels for his son unless the arrow draw came up camels three times in a row.
The next three draws all came up the same and ‘Abdel Muttalib announced that he was satisfied with the results. When the crowd outside the Ka’bah heard the news, they were overjoyed, not least of which was ‘Abdullah!
Ziyad watched the proceedings from the edge of the crowd. He only found out the details of what had transpired inside the Ka’bah when it became public knowledge over an hour later. He thought about ‘Abdullah and how he seemed to be saved by destiny. He thought about the love a father has for his son, then he thought of his own father.
He wondered if all love was equal, and if justice would give him back his life. He was about to turn around and head back to ‘Abdel Muttalib’s hall, to prepare for the inevitable night of feasting he would have to staff, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked to his side and saw Ibn ‘Amr. Expecting a hard blow with the whip for some infraction he had yet to identify he had done, he stood with head bowed.
“Relax, Ziyad,” Ibn ‘Amr said. “Abdullah is not the only one who was saved.”
Ziyad looked up slightly, with a sense of confusion in his mind. Was he supposed to know what Ibn ‘Amr was referencing? Was this a joke of some kind to which he was not privy?
But Ibn ‘Amr just smiled and continued, “In honor of the saving of ‘Abdullah, our sheikh ‘Abdel Muttalib ordered all slaves who accompanied him on the journey to Shiya be freed and granted a camel with a full load of traveling gear. You can go now and find your own destiny.”
Ziyad stood speechless. He could not believe what he was hearing. He saw another overseer talking to Shantu about thirty feet away. The Abyssinian was crying, but smiling also. In that moment they noticed each other, and it was then that Ziyad realized he too was smiling – and crying in joy.
Tomorrow they would both wake up free men, with a life to live on their own terms. What that would bring, they could not say, but for Ziyad, a quick glance at the idols around the Ka’bah, and then an involuntary look above them at the sky – then he knew the truth.
“I love you Allah,” he whispered. “Thank You for loving me.”