The Orphan

The people of Mecca passed their days joyful and exultant, filled with pride and flushed with victory, telling the tale of the Elephant when morning came and recalling the rout of the Abyssinians when evening fell, until it all but distracted them from their trade and drew them away from their affairs. The Arabs heard tell of this great sign by which God had made manifest the honor of this House and raised the standing of those of Quraysh who dwelt about it; and the Arabs grew in love and reverence for Quraysh, and the position of the people of Mecca grew ever more assured over those near to them and those far from them in Tihama and Najd and the Hijaz. But there was one old man of Quraysh whom no pride could occupy and no victory elate, whom the talk of the people around him could not draw away from the unbroken converse of his own soul and its abiding sorrow — and that was Abd al-Muttalib ibn Hashim.

And there was one woman of Quraysh whom no wonder seized and no vanity possessed, who took no part with the women of Quraysh in the adornments they put on and the pleasures of life to which they gave themselves. She preferred seclusion, and desired to be alone with her own soul, speaking to it and listening to it, finding in that converse no open sorrow and no open joy, but something in between: in it was rest from the sting of despair, and in it a turning away from the intoxication of hope — and that was Amina bint Wahb.

The old man would remember his son, and a gnawing, deep sorrow would draw him away from the gladness and delight, the rejoicing and jubilation, in which Quraysh were living. The old man would ponder the story of the Elephant and the raiders' turning back from Mecca, and then see the boasting of Quraysh, their self-praise and their loftiness over the Arabs, and he would smile within himself, mocking them yet tender toward them. For Quraysh had done nothing but take refuge in the mountain peaks, flee to where the wild beasts roamed, and leave the way clear between the tyrant of Abyssinia and the House. It was not they, then, who turned him back, but God who turned him back; it was not they who crushed him, but God who crushed him. Yet for all that they boast and vaunt themselves; for all that they wax proud and haughty. And so is man: vanity beguiles him about himself, and he ascribes to himself what he did not do, and credits himself with what he never brought about.

The old man mocked Quraysh in his heart and pitied Quraysh in his heart, seeking excuses for them in that weakness which befalls men and deceives them about themselves, magnifies them in their own eyes, and makes them fancy they are something — when they are nothing before that overwhelming Power which conquers and is not conquered, which subdues and is not subdued, which wills nothing but it attains what it wills. That Power which brought forth from the sea birds such as men had never seen before, and loosed them upon an army whose like men had never seen before; and they had hovered over it but an hour of a day when it was routed and shattered and became like straw eaten down, and the House was safe from the assault of the aggressor, and the House was secure from the tyranny of the tyrant. That Power from which he had thought he rescued his son and delivered him from death, securing for him a life

like the life of men: with all that the life of men holds of happiness and misery, of rest and toil, of striving and endeavor, of journeying to and fro between Yemen and Syria, and of settled dwelling in the outskirts and the hollow of Mecca. Had he not wrestled with death for his son, wrestled indeed? Had he not bought his son back from fate, bought him outright? What a struggle that was, with the divining arrows, between him and the sovereign decree! He offers camels to ransom his son, and fate presses harder upon him and is not satisfied until the number reaches a hundred. And what did his triumph amount to? What was the rejoicing of Banu Hashim? What was the rejoicing of Quraysh at the victory of life over death, and the youth's escape from the sacrificer's blade...

And the old man would laugh within himself a sorrowful laugh that came near to being a deadly despair and a sweeping revolt, had he not had a heart schooled to accept events, to bow to calamities, and to bear misfortunes with patience. The old man would laugh within himself a sorrowful, aching laugh when he thought of the vanity of Quraysh, and their reckoning that God had turned back the tyrant of Abyssinia and sent against him and his army those flights of birds He sent, in their honor and out of preference for them; and when he thought of his own vanity, when he had reckoned that God had saved his son from his knife and ransomed him with a hundred camels out of preference for him with well-being, singling him out for honor. No! No! The Elephant and the men of the Elephant were not defeated in honor of Quraysh; it was a sign God wrought for a purpose that He knows, of which men know nothing. Nor did God save Abdullah from death and ransom him with a hundred camels in honor of him or in honor of his father; He saved him from death and ransomed him with the camels for a purpose of His own, of which men know nothing. Else why did this young man escape death only to die a little while after? Is it not strange that he should escape death, then take a wife with whom he abides only a short time; then part from her as men part from their wives, to return to her as men return to their wives — but his companions return and he does not return; he stays behind in Yathrib to die among his mother's kin of Banu al-Najjar. And his wife learned, after he had journeyed away from her, that he had charged her with a trust which she went on carrying within her breast, until, when God's command came, she delivered that trust. And who knows! Perhaps Abdullah existed only to deposit this trust with his wife! And who knows! Perhaps Amina existed only to deliver this trust to mankind!

And when the old man thought of all this, he could not keep himself from seeing his son — full of vigor, great in strength, splendid in youth, surpassing in beauty, setting out on his journey with boundless hope — and then seeing him thin, gaunt, pale, worn out, sorrowful, lying sick on his bed among Banu al-Najjar; and then seeing him as death drew near him, haughty and overbearing, and drew him out of life, or drew life out of him, as though avenging itself for that defeat which had befallen it on the day of the ransom. And the old man would surrender to a deep sorrow, from which nothing drew him out but the stir of the people around him and their importuning him — his sons and daughters among them — over the affairs that occupied them.

And Amina saw the women of Quraysh and the women of Banu Hashim around her, smiling upon the days and delighting in life, and it pleased her in them, and no envy of them entered her, nor any inclination to join them. She felt, strongly but obscurely, that the days had already paid her in full her portion of gladness and her share of bliss in that short time she had spent with her husband, from her meeting with him after the ransom until his departure. She would have liked to find happiness in thinking of this unborn child she felt stirring within her; but no sooner did she remember her husband, and that he had been denied the happiness of this blessing, than she was loath to keep this good for herself apart from him, and she told herself that the enjoyment of sons and daughters is a pleasure no single person may claim alone; it is shared between two, and when one of the two is gone it weighs heavily upon the other and is hard to bear, and becomes a source of pain and grief. And yet, for all that, she did not feel that gnawing pain which she had reckoned on and awaited — as though her soul had been created submissive, as though her heart had been fashioned for acceptance, as though she had grown certain that the life of the living is a burden that must be borne, whether men are content or wroth, and that to bear it with contentment and peace of mind is better than a wrath that avails nothing and a revolt that profits nothing.

Yet the days did not carry Amina forward toward that appointed day without there stealing over her something like self-forgetfulness, a withdrawal from any clear sense of life and any plain thought upon it. She passed her days dazed, or as one dazed, and passed her nights in a calm sleep, sweet with dreams. How many a dream visited her! How many a phantom came to her! How many a word was cast to her! Until, one night, as she was making ready to pass out of the daze of day into the quiet of night, she felt something of what women feel when their travail draws near.

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There she called to her those of the women of Banu Hashim who were present, and they hastened to her and passed with her a night unlike all nights, in which they wondered at everything and marveled at everything. They did not even know themselves, for they saw what no one had seen, heard what no one had heard, and felt what no one had felt. Nor was Amina the least of them in wonder, awe, and marveling; for she saw, waking and not sleeping, a light going forth from her that filled the earth around her and drew the veils from her eyes. She would look, and see the palaces of Bosra on the borders of Syria. She would look, and see the necks of camels loping in the farthest desert. And she did not tell those around her what she saw, for fear they would disbelieve what she said and think ill thoughts of her. And one of her companions could not turn her gaze upon anything but she saw it all light, with no darkness in it — radiant and luminous, or rather pure radiance itself. And another of her companions would look, and behold, the stars of the sky drawing near the earth, sending toward her rays strong, pure, dazzling, enchanting — drawing nearer and nearer, until it seemed to the one who beheld them that they were about to touch her and fall upon her.

And another of her companions saw a gloomy, pitch-dark blackness, and a strong, wracking trembling seized her, and something came over her like sleep, during which she heard an awesome, dread voice asking: Where have you taken him? And an awesome, dread voice answering it: To the East. Then it cleared from her, and she came to herself. Then what she had been in returned upon her: again the pitch-dark blackness, again the strong, wracking trembling, again a swoon covering her like sleep; and again she heard the awesome, dread voice asking: Where have you taken him? And an awesome, dread voice answering it: To the West. Then what she was in cleared from her, and she came to herself.

So it was that heaven never drew as near to earth as it drew on that night. So it was that men never saw such wonders as those women saw on that night. And through all this Amina felt no pain, little or much; every veil was lifted from her, every covering was raised from her, and she was left alone with a world of beauty that is seen and of beauty that is heard, the like of which mankind had never known. Then she saw — and her companions saw — as though a shooting star went forth from her and filled the earth around her with a light that dazzled the eyes; then she looked, and behold, her son had touched the earth, bracing himself upon his hands, lifting his head toward heaven, fixing his gaze upon it as though he sought something there. Then her companions hastened to him and to her, to render to her what a mother needs when she gives life, and to him what a son needs when he receives life — and behold, she needed nothing, and behold, he needed nothing; and behold, they took up the most beautiful of boys, the most splendid of boys, the most perfect of boys; and their hearts were filled with the knowledge that the earth had received a newborn unlike all children.

Then the dawn breaks, and the sun spreads its pure mantle over the hollow of Mecca and the mountains that surround it. The forenoon rises, and people busy themselves with their affairs, having passed a night ignorant and heedless, in which they felt nothing, as though nothing had happened in it. Had the covering been lifted from them, had the veils been removed from their hearts, they would have seen and heard. But God has appointed for everything a measure: He shows His signs to whom He wills, and hides His signs from whom He wills. And Abd al-Muttalib is sitting in the Hijr, his sons around him and a company of Quraysh, taken up with their accustomed talk. He listens to them with his ears while his soul turns away from them, thinking of his lost one whom he cannot forget. And while he is thus, behold, the bearer of glad tidings comes hurrying toward him, and when he reaches him he greets him and says: A boy has been born to you — rise, then, and look upon him! No sooner does he hear this good news than he feels that God has given him recompense for his lost one, has dealt gently with him in his affliction, and has laid up for him a consolation for his trial. He asks: Is it the son of Abdullah? The bearer of tidings answers him: Yes. He rises in haste, and his sons rise with him, and they go, turning aside for nothing, until they reach Amina's house. And when the old man enters and sees the boy, he feels as though God has sent down tranquility upon his heart, has cleared the sorrow from his heart, and has restored him to a gladness and joy from which he had long been estranged.

Then he hears the women's tale and finds nothing in it to disbelieve, as though he had been expecting it, as though he had a tryst appointed with it. Then the boy is lifted up to him, and he kisses him and says: I shall surely name him Muhammad. Amina said: One came to me in my sleep and bade me name him Ahmad. Said Abd al-Muttalib: Then he is Muhammad, and he is Ahmad — and I can only think that these are but some of his names.