But when she said the words “He knows what you keep secret,” the stillness of her home was shattered and her heart jumped into her throat.

“Fatima! Fatima! Come out here!”

Umar’s voice boomed from just beyond the door. Panic gripped her. Had her brother heard her recitation? She looked down at Said and saw that his rosy cheeks had drained of color as the same thought crossed his mind.

And then, without any further prompting, she realized that the end was at hand.

“He knows” was all she could say, her throat closing in on her in terror. Umar began to bang on the door and she knew she had no time to place the leather hide with the holy verses in its proper place, a silver jewelry box that she kept on the top shelf of their kitchen cupboard.

Even though she hated treating the Words of God without proper decorum, she had no choice but to slip the parchment inside her dark woolen tunic, close to her breast.

She squeezed Said’s hand and took a deep breath, and then opened the door.

Umar stormed inside without any greeting, his face livid. She saw that he was carrying his sword in his hand and her stomach sank. Umar slammed the door behind him and then pushed up uncomfortably close to his sister, his weapon held in a steel grip.

“What was that gibberish I heard you reciting?” There was a dangerous rumble to his voice that Fatima recognized. It was the tremor before the earthquake was unleashed.

“We were just talking,” she said with a small laugh that immediately sounded false to her.

Umar grabbed her by the arm with crushing strength.

“Don’t lie to me!”

Said stepped forward. Although he was as terrified of Umar as his wife, he knew that his brother-in-law was violating every rule of Arab etiquette and he hoped that a stern call to honor would calm the brute.

“Who are you to come into our home and proclaim us liars?” he said with as much bravado as he could muster.

Umar looked at him incredulously, as if noticing him for the first time in his life. And then he raised his sword threateningly, the razor-sharp edge glistening in the morning light that poured in from the windows.

“I am a Guardian of the Kaaba who has sworn to kill any who follow Muhammad!”

In later years, Said would say that he had no idea where he had found the courage to stand up to Umar. But seeing the look of fear in the eyes of the woman he loved, she whose strength he always admired, set his blood on fire, and he took his hand and pushed the sword out of his way.

“You have lost your mind! Get out of my house!”

Umar was shocked at Said’s sudden defiance, as men always are when those they assume are weak finally reveal a backbone.

“Tell me the truth!” he said, and Fatima could almost hear a desperate plea in his voice. And then when Said did not answer, Umar grabbed him by the neck and threw him across the room. Said fell against a table made of carved olive wood, which splintered with the force of his fall. Said dropped hard amid the jagged wreckage and lay there unmoving.

“No!” Fatima could hear herself scream, but it sounded strangely distant, as if echoing across a canyon in the barren wastes of the Najd to the east. Forgetting about her brother’s sword, which could at any moment sever her head in the madness of fanaticism, she threw herself on Umar and slapped him ferociously.

Umar pushed her off him and she felt as if she had been grabbed by a dust devil and flung across the sky. And then her flight was cut short by a cold, cruel stone wall. She struck her head on the whitewashed rock and fell to her knees as lightning seared through her skull.

Fatima’s eyes blurred and she felt as if warm water were flowing down her face. And then she realized it was blood. She touched her forehead and saw that her palm was stained in crimson.

Umar was looking at her, breathing hard, as if he had climbed high into the mountains. His eyes were fixed on the blood that flowed steadily from the cut just above her right eye.

Fatima saw that his sword was raised and she realized that the demon that had possessed him would soon kill her. She touched her breast and felt the comfort of the leather strip on which the verses of the holy Qur’an were written. If she was going to die, at least the she would meet her Maker with His Words embedded next to her heart.

“You want the truth? Then, yes! We are Muslims and we believe God and His Messenger! Go ahead! Kill me! Kill your sister like you did your own daughter!”

She did not know what madness possessed her to say the last, but Umar staggered as if he had just been struck by a spear in the gut. He dropped his sword, which fell to the ground with a clang that echoed relentlessly.

Umar sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands for a long moment. And then, when he finally looked up, there was confusion on his face, like a child awakening from a bad dream.

“What is this spell he has cast on you?” he asked, and she knew he referred to the Prophet.

She managed to get to her feet and stumbled over to check on Said. He was regaining consciousness and she helped him sit up slowly. After checking to make sure that no bones were broken, she finally turned to her brother.

“It is not a spell but a Revelation,” she said softly as she found a clean rag and wiped the blood from her face. The blood had stopped flowing and had begun to clot. “God himself speaks through Muhammad, and His words can change men’s hearts.”

Umar looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, there was weariness in his voice.

“Show me these words and let me judge for myself.”

She looked into his eyes and saw no sign of the demon. Fatima hesitated, then reached into her blouse and removed the leather strip.

Umar held out his hand for the parchment, but she shook her head.

“Only the clean may touch the Word of God.”

Umar saw that she was serious. He rose and took a jug of water from the kitchen. First he poured it over her wound and helped her wash away the rest of the blood that stained her cheek.

And he followed her instructions as she taught him wudu, the sacred ritual of ablution that Muslims performed before praying or reading the holy Qur’an. He washed his hands, face, and feet as she instructed.

Fatima finally handed him the strip of cowhide, the text standing out in bright green paint. Umar looked down at the page, his brow creasing as he read the mysterious letters that opened the text.

Ta Ha…

11

We waited inside the Messenger’s house in silence, a cloud of dread hanging over the small community of believers. I saw my father looking down at his hands, unable to meet the eyes of Nuaym, who sat across from him on the cold marble floor. It was Abu Bakr who had asked Nuaym to intervene with his clansman after I returned that night, breathless from my tale of intrigue inside the Hall of Assembly. I had expected my father to be angry with me for taking such a mad risk, but he had listened gravely and then gone to the Messenger with news of the plot. My mother, however, had been furious when she heard how I had risked my life and had spanked me until my throat was sore from crying.

My rump still sore from the beating, I sat on my haunches. I had never seen the Messenger so quiet. The Prophet had been deeply distressed to hear that his life had been saved by placing Umar’s sister, Fatima, at risk. He stared out a window at a palm tree that grew just outside the wall of his wife’s home, as if he could find some hope in its steady defiance of the desert winds that buffeted the city that morning. Perhaps I imagined it, but I did not see him blink at all for minutes. He seemed to be in a trance, but it was not like the terrifying seizures that overtook him when the Revelation came. He seemed like a man sleeping with his eyes awake, his powerful chest moving up and down steadily as he breathed.