Muhammad Read Free Page B

around that sacred place is a sanctuary. No tribal fighting can break out there; blood feuds were cancelled; even violent argument has been outlawed. And I am chief of his clan, after all, so my cousins give me respect by listening with serious faces, even though they laugh at me on the inside.
    My confession had done me no good. I couldn’t sleep any better. Try and understand. I wasn’t having philosopher’s insomnia. This mystery applied directly to me—it would determine if my whole family survived.
    It all began with water, a long time ago, in the age when memory began. After the raging waters of the Flood receded, and Father Noah descended from the ark, he bred a holy line of offspring. From his blood came Abraham, and from Abraham his firstborn son, Ishmael.
    Now Ishmael’s mother, Hagar, had only been a slave out of Egypt, belonging to Abraham’s wife, Sarah. Because she was barren, Sarah told Abraham to take Hagar as his second wife in order to have children. Fourteen years later, a miraclecame to pass, and Sarah became with child. She bore a son named Isaac. Afterward she demanded that Hagar be driven with Ishmael into the wilderness. Abraham bowed his head and obeyed.
    When Hagar was wandering with the young boy, she grew desperately thirsty. There was no shelter under the open sky and no water in sight. Searching for a few drops to moisten Ishmael’s parched mouth, Hagar went back and forth between the two hills known as Safa and Marvah. Ishmael began to cry. She was on the point of fainting, and they both might have perished, but God took pity on Hagar. He sent down the angel Gabriel, who touched the ground with his finger. At that spot the earth grew dark with moisture, and then the faintest trickle of water appeared. A miracle! Hagar bent down and drank, first cupping her palm to scoop water up for the boy.
    As it is related, either Hagar or the angel said, “More. Let the waters accumulate,” which in Arabic caused the well to be named Zamzam, “the water that accumulates.” Mecca grew up around it. As a sign of God’s favor, Ishmael and his heirs had sole possession of the well and the right to sell the water for all time.
    When I was a boy and first heard the story, I wouldn’t have questioned a miracle. Couldn’t I walk up to the Kaaba and touch its walls, where every stone is a miracle? Abraham had built it, the House of Allah, near where the well bubbled up. It was exactly like the first building that Adam had put up with his own hands, made of granite blocks and perfectly square on all sides. Arabs began to call it Kaaba. Through every tribal war and every invader’s attempt to vanquish us, it remained the House of God, long after the well of Zamzam, once the perpetual spring, had disappeared, foreven Zamzam had a curse upon it, although it was many generations before anyone found out.
    I looked over at Abdullah, who had taken to muttering under his breath. He was twenty and brawny enough for hauling water, but this was his first time. He had begged me to tell him why we were doing this menial drudgery, not even allowing ourselves a donkey cart. But I would say only one word, “Later.”
    â€œTake my shade,” I offered.
    â€œYour shade? Is that what you call it?” Abdullah was as proud as a rich man’s son ought to be.
    Ignoring the rebuke, I pushed him into the shade of a high wall that circled a courtyard. Our own courtyard was the nearest to the Kaaba, a great mark of rank. Water had made me rich, but the seasoning to the feast was the envy others felt for me. I could taste it when I strolled to the marketplace every morning.
    I said, “I’ve never told you about the miracle that brought me to Mecca. It’s time you learned.”
    Abdullah didn’t look surprised. I had made the same speech to each of my ten sons when they reached a certain age. “Your grandfather, Hashim, was the chief of our tribe.