The Sword Of Medina by Jones Sherry

Author:Jones, Sherry [Jones, Sherry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780825305207
Google: lsxbPgAACAAJ
Amazon: 0825305209
Goodreads: 6549158
Publisher: Beaufort Books
Published: 2009-04-14T14:00:00+00:00

THE THIRD RIGHTLY GUIDED CALIPH

UTHMAN

654–656 A.D.

A’isha

It was the day I had dreaded, yet I had to appear as happy as if the wedding were my own. I knew I could do it, al-Lah willing. I’d become good at pretending after that day in my hut, ten years ago, when I’d been swept into Talha’s arms. I was delirious from the rain, and thrilled that Ali wasn’t named khalifa, I’d explained to him later. I felt I had to kiss someone, or burst.

He gave me his usual grin, so I didn’t know whether he believed me. In any case, he became an expert at pretending, also, for Talha never touched me again—although his eyes spoke blatantly of desire whenever he looked at me, while my longing for him tugged at my heart, my fingertips, my eyelashes.

Today, for instance, as he greeted his wedding guests in the mosque courtyard, my gaze returned to him again and again as if his face were the changing moon and my blood the tide-driven sea. Sorrow weighted my body to see him laughing into my sister’s eyes. He looked as handsome as a peacock in his magnificent garments of green and gold silk, while I stood in the shadows, my future as bleak as the grave.

I had known for a decade that this day would come, that Talha would marry Umm Kulthum when she turned fourteen. I’d seen him grow more and more fond of her as she matured into a young woman with as quick a tongue as mine, yet with a grace and composure I could only marvel at. Recently, when curves had molded her young body, Talha had begun standing closer to her, his hands hovering near as if to touch her. I’d seen it all, had cried into my pillow at night, mourning the loss of Talha’s love, asking Muhammad Why did you do this to me? Why would you deprive me of loving again?

I’d tried teasing Talha about his burgeoning desire for Umm Kulthum. But the words stuck in my throat like barley mush. Now, watching him feed my sister a bite of bread and hummus with glances that suggested greater pleasures to come, I had to turn away. My dignity was a threadbare garment, threatening to fall about my feet and expose my naked desires. Al-Lah, help me to hold myself together.

My brother Mohammad, Asma’s son, a strong and handsome youth of sixteen, approached with a cup of galangal water. Seeing him reminded me of another struggle I faced today. With talk of rebellion against Uthman swarming like bees through the umma—talk instigated by my brother, who’d grown up in Ali’s home and loved him as a father—I had to keep politics out of this event. As much as I envied Umm Kulthum, I loved her more, and I’d do anything to make sure her wedding day was peaceful.

“Yaa sister, who died?” Mohammad was grinning as he handed me the cup. “Take this, by al-Lah, before you faint!”

“Yes, this heat is really affecting me.

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