Feb 23, 2016

Departure

Prologue

Makkah 614 CE

The date palm planked door opened. The light from the candles’ flames arced and ebbed.

A morning breeze rushed through Waraka’s bed chamber as Muhammad joined Kadija’s vigil and kissed the palm of her hand in silent greeting.

Four doves, silhouetted against the fading full moon on the horizon in the sill of a round opening in the chamber’s mud hardened wall, jostled and cooed at the disturbance of air and light.

Waraka’s breath was ragged, labored; but, the old man’s sapphires livened at the entry of his cousin’s husband. Four prominent yellowed teeth came into view as a smile took his cheeks.

“We must prepare, husband, our Hanif is nearing the edge of this dunya,” Kadija murmured to Muhammad, withdrawing her hand to a red ceramic bathing bowl. Her arthritic digits rang water from the cloth and she wiped the cool material over Waraka’s fevered brow.

Kneeling to pray, Muhammad took hold of the dying man’s thin claw of a hand and wrapped it between his own. “I can’t ever thank you enough, Waraka, for performing our marriage ceremony against the wishes of the Kaaba Syndicate, for teaching me the books of Moses and Jesus. You have been my life’s blessing, my Bishop, my guide...”

Waraka’s grip on Muhammad’s fingers tightened with the last.

A grainy, rustling vapor escaped Waraka’s throat as he shook his head, saying “No, Prophet of God. It is I who am thankful for you. My Rasul, my Messenger of Allah. Peace be upon you.”

A harsh cough rattled deep in Waraka’s lungs.

Kadija’s hands instinctively moved to her cousin’s shoulders to steady Waraka as he attempted to rise and speak with Muhammad. “Calm yourself, cousin, you have earned your peace and your place,” she cajoled, wiping mucus from the corner of his mouth and placing the cloth over the graying gills of his throat.

Waraka’s breath came in quick and shallow bursts, “Kadija, I know not whether I will see the new born sun this morning. I have oft in this life held my tongue. But, I must speak. Please. Please, cousin, I must speak with Muhammad.”

Retaining his hold on Waraka’s hand, Muhammad placed his hand on the small of his wife’s back. “Kadija, I will tend to our Hanif. I have been praying on Mount Hira for forty days and forty nights for a sign, for one solitary ayat from Allah that might comfort the believers in these trying times. I am sorry I have neglected you for so long. Rest now, I am here.”

Kadija’s hazel eyes welled. “O, husband. My daughters were never far and our adopted son Zed has kept us well supplied.”

“Muhammad,” Waraka’s voice trembled. “Peter visited me with news last night. He came with Sa’ad, the son of Malik abu Waqqas. Such news.”

Kadija sat upon a cushion against a wall in the tiny room and she laid her head on a stack of dusty manuscripts. Her tired gaze met Muhammad’s, “The monk, Father Peter came to pay his respects two nights ago at the height of his fever. Waraka has been asking for you ever since.”

Muhammad wore his confusion. “Tell me, Waraka. Who is Peter?”

“Your face, Messenger, so round...a light.”

“What news did Peter bring?”

“His father was the most ambitious of us, Messenger, the most ambitious of the Hanifas. But, he lost his way.” Waraka’s eyes closed and his breathing fell shallow.

“Yes, Waraka. Yes. Tell me about Peter’s father.” Muhammad plead, placing his hand upon the chest of the dying man as if his will alone could draw out the pain.

“Osman, the son of Harith, was your age when I first met him. Father Peter brought news of Osman’s recent death in Rome. Our fellowship, broken by time it seems.”

“It is hard to lose friends, I know.” Tears rolled down Muhammad’s cheeks.

“We all agreed, Messenger, that idols of stone and clay could not help or hurt anyone. Five of us pledged to restore the true religion of Abraham to the Kaaba and save the people of Makkah from the abomination that is the cult of Hubal. But, Osman lost his way amid the pomp, wealth and royalty of Rome. All of us were wayward it would seem, now. Like Osman’s son, we should have been looking for the light, not shouting in the dark. Peter came to Makkah to find the praised one foretold by Jesus the Nazarene. I told him to pay homage to your door, Rasul, for you are the very same. The houses of my order, of Peter’s order, refer to your sign in the Greek...as Paraclete. Arabs call that sign Ahmad. Your coming was foretold, Muhammad. You are the Ahmad of Jesus.”

A high whistle escaped Waraka’s mouth as he sought to draw in air. His eyes, straining in their sockets as his life force gripped Muhammad’s hand with the strength of three men.

Muhammad cooled the Hanif’s head with the rag given him by Kadija as he murmured for Allah to ease his friend’s pain, “O Allah, ease his crossing from this dunya, this world is the better when good men such as this do not agonize so.”

Waraka’s eyes closed as his voice returned, “Muhammad. Darkness and light. I see both now. O, how I wish I could live long enough to see it, to see the day when the Koreish reject your message and banish you from Makkah. For never did a true prophet arise with a message like yours who was not cast out by his own people. O, Muhammad, my Paraclete, if only I was young enough to witness the day you return to smash the idol of Hubal and melt down his golden hand to feed the poor. For you are Ahmad, the praised one foretold by Jesus, and it is your destiny to reclaim the Kaaba in the name of Abraham.”

Muhammad shook his head as Waraka’s grip lessened to that of an infant, “So, they will drive me out? Out from my home, from my clan, from my birthright and my property? My Hanif, this sounds like a curse, not a blessing.”

Kadija’s arms encircled her husband’s shoulders as his tears began to flow without check.

Waraka smiled. “My eyes no longer see, but I remember a lost child I came upon in the desert once. So focused on shaming the dark and shunning temptation, I could not see that the very light I was fighting for was in my arms when I returned him to his grandfather. O, Messenger. Moses himself was forced to learn that the light of God’s truth has never been accepted without a wandering in the desert of doubt and loss. Warn them of the calamity to come, plainly. That is the lot of a prophet. Warn the Koreish and the very kin that will drive your people south and north and every which way. Warn the world of Allah’s Rights in the final hour. Nothing more will be required of you, Ahmad. There is comfort in the knowing. May Allah bless you and yours for all time.”

Kadija’s tears fell upon Muhammad’s neck as her cousin’s last breath escaped. 

A flaming log fell from the hearth. 

Neither noticed as five doves took flight at the mundane disturbance, the last hovering in the windlet to study the scene before departing southward. The dawning rays of the sun bathed the young dove’s whitening wings with a flash.