"And then mighty Hubal breathed in and gathered his might. And he let out a great bellow that shook the heavens and saw the sea's waves soar to the sky! And from that day forth, the Arabs have known sandstorms. They are the remnants of Hubal's great bellow, his very breath. The extraordinary quake that accompanied Hubal's triumph split the sands and thus sprung from it the Red Sea and thirty years of flood. Satisfied with his work, Hubal retired into the mountains, from whence he created humanity in nations and tribes."

        Qusayy leaned over and reverently caressed the ivory statue of Hubal that lay at his feet. Sitting on my haunches, I poked the idol, but he slapped my hand away. I peered into the idol and saw that it was an odd, crude carving barely resembling a human. The mighty Hubal was stout and seemed to have been missing a leg. I thought better than to speak my thoughts aloud.

        "He's got a nice beard", I said instead.

        The story was but one of the numerous tales of the Arab gods kindly old Qusayy had so vividly portrayed to me. The old man was a renowned storyteller, orator and esteemed poet, and so he knew how to expertly breathe life into the legends he so fervently believed in. I would listen intently, sat on my haunches, my eyes fixed on the extravagant gestures and passionate recital. Qusayy's storytelling ability was one of the many reasons the Arab religion resounded with me.

        His account of Hubal's great triumph that paved the way for him to ascend as chief among gods reverberated in my mind as Nawaf and I hurried away from the newcomers' path. We crouched in the shade of a shack of rotting wood on the side of the road leading into the city. I grasped a handful of sand in a fist and spoke to my friend in a conspiratorially low voice.

        "Let them feel the breath of the mighty Hubal,"

        We both giggled impishly.

        On many an occasion, we would hide in the shadows and toss either sand or hurl pebbles at the throngs of immigrants trickling into our city. One time I tripped a little boy and he fell on his face in the sand. We would always dart away almost immediately lest someone recognize us, the rush of adventure lending speed to our nimble feet. Another time, a group led a cart in tow. Nawaf had waited for the riders at the head of the column to pass our hiding spot so we could tail them, still clinging to the shadows. When the opportunity was ripe, we leapt onto the cart. Nawaf tucked some valuables into his undergarments while I pissed on their food; then we leapt off the rumbling cart as inconspicuously as we had hopped on.

        There were no motives behind our troublesome deeds, nor was our intent malicious. It was merely an excuse to slack on the menial tasks our families required of us, one that involved indulging in an event of which we had never seen the like in our short lifetimes.

        The riders seemed to own nothing but the mounts between their legs and the clothes on their back, for they led no carts nor were they accompanied by an entourage or a caravan. There were two of them conversing with Sa'ad and Mos'ab at the head of the column, while the others trailed behind. From a distance, I could make out Sa'ad ibn 'Ubadah at their head as well as two men trailing behind. To my surprise, Sa'ad seemed to be grinning; it was not an expression I was accustomed to see on his harsh face.

        The riders galloped into the city, led by ibn 'Ubadah. And that was the first time I caught a glimpse of this leader of the Muslims. All the immigrants around him looked parched, as though they were about to drop from their saddles at any moment from the heat and exhaustion. Their ponies and camels were not much better – you could see the ribs poking out from their chests. Yet, Muhammad and his closest companion showed no sign of any exhaustion themselves, instead riding dignified and straight-backed.

        They were both mounted on camels, and though I did not know it at the time, Muhammad was the one without a scarf on his face, and so I could see his features clearly. He had dark brown hair that he wore long that ended in curls as it tumbled past his earlobes. His skin was fair, his eyes two dark pits; they caught the light of the sun like those of a raven. In a similar manner as many of his followers, his facial hair was fashioned in an odd manner. They shaved their moustaches off entirely, the upper lip barren, preferring to grow the beards out instead. This was a clear defiance of the social norms that ran rampant in Arabia. Qusayy's upper lip was adorned with white moustaches that curled upward; my brother wore his moustaches long, drooping to his chin, the tips dyed crimson.

        As such, most of the Muslim men I had seen, had homely and disheveled beards that were overgrown with slime and grease. Muhammad's own beard, on the other hand, though thick and bushy, was neatly trimmed, revealing a fine jaw line and thin lips. He was of middling height and broad-shouldered. He did not have a warrior's build, but he was neither slim nor lean.

        He was clad in a white gown; a curved sword was sheathed in a baldric strung over one shoulder. He trotted by, glanced in our direction and smiled warmly, revealing a gap in his front teeth, before shifting his eyes back toward the dirt path ahead.

        Tribal chieftains needed to a certain haughtiness, perhaps a swaggering confidence, a sense of authority. They needed to gush strength or wisdom for people to accept them as their leaders. That sort of harsh confidence was common in Yathrib; you could see it in a man like Sa'ad ibn 'Ubadah.

        Yet, Muhammad's demeanor was alien to me. He was no tribal chieftain – the stories said he was a fugitive fleeing persecution from his own tribe. He seemed to carry himself with a certain weight, conveying an impression that he knew exactly what he was doing. There was an aura of easy authority to him, mingled in with graceful, meticulous movements.

        You can tell a lot about a man from his eyes. Men can mask their emotions, alter their voices, their words and their actions, yet the eyes never lie, and they always betray a man's true nature. His eyes had an elegant smile to them, as though he knew a secret the rest of the world did not know; and there was a certain ambition them that shook me to my core. Yet, they were not arrogant, merely apologetic.

        His air of cool composure as well as the fact that he looked well-rested with not a single bead of sweat on his brow and entirely unconcerned with what must have been a hectic journey north was also disconcerting, intimidating even.

        Later on, though, I would learn that this was only a farce. He was good at conveying to other men what they wanted to see. He wanted them to see the divine's chosen; he wanted to ride splendid and distinguishable into the abode of these warring Arab tribes. In fact, he had arrived at Yathrib's outskirts only a few days prior.

        Loyalists to his cause had posted sentries on the hills outside of the city, and they had spotted Muhammad and his friend. Rather than enter the city at once, they set up camp where they encountered the sentries and started building a temple to their god there. They were offered sleep and nourishment, and so they had indeed entered this fresh page in their lives fresh and warm-bellied.

        Unnerved by his refined aura of opulence, I took an uneasy step backward. Nawaf, however, was not such an insightful child. He shot me a gap-toothed grin, stepped forward before I could talk him out of it, and raised an arm as if to hurl a handful of sand at the newcomers. I yelped and started toward him, yet ibn 'Ubadah moved quicker. He growled and leapt from his saddle. The sand unceremoniously splashed against the leather jerkin he wore over a cloth gown. He looked down at the specks littering the jerkin and up again at the wide-mouthed little boy. Ibn 'Ubadah snarled at us.

        Nawaf gulped and fled immediately. In the blink of an eye, he was lost to sight, the terror urging him away at lightning speed.

        I stared wistfully at the retreating figure that abandoned me in the jaws of the beast. Ibn 'Ubadah stared down at me with venom in his eyes, taking a deliberate step forward. He clenched his jaw in his vexation and raised a hand, the palm outstretched. I winced, bracing myself for the impending blow.

        But then, Muhammad whistled very softly and ibn 'Ubadah, momentarily stunned, shifted his gaze toward the man on the saddle. Muhammad's face was pacific as he eyed ibn 'Ubadah, the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

       "Peace, Sa'ad," He called out in a voice so low it was scarcely audible.

        Sa'ad, with visible chagrin, reluctantly let his arm fall to his side rather than thump me on the head. I sighed in relief, letting my shoulders drop.

        But then, the furious exasperation returned to his face just as quickly as it had disappeared, and he turned those fierce eyes on me. I was attempting to cower away, but his gaze fixed me in my place.

        "I know you not," he rasped. "Who are you, rodent?"

        I only gaped, too stunned to respond.

        With another intimidating step forward, he bellowed another question at my cringing face.

        "To what tribe do you belong, boy?" he demanded.

        "I...uhhh...Qurayza," I managed to stammer out.

        "You are of the Jews," exclaimed Muhammad's veiled companion. He removed the litham, a sort of scarf that obscured a man's features, revealing a leathery face and white whiskers, the upper lip characteristically deprived of any hint of a single strand of hair.

         I answered the Prophet's companion a trembling nod, refraining from meeting ibn 'Ubadah's eyes lest I risk rousing his wrath.

        But he growled at me nevertheless and picked me up from the ground as if I weighed nothing; he slung me over his saddle like a burlap sack and spurred his mount back into motion, as I clung to the saddle for dear life, the tremor never deserting my hands, more loyal to me than the dearest of friends.

        No one spoke a word for the remainder of the journey.