"There are some who say that Islam is a new faith," Bilal spoke with vehemence. "Words cannot express how they are mistaken in their convictions. Islam has existed from the dawn of time, since the Prophet Adam was sent to this world. Allah is the god of thousands of prophets that have sought to convert their tribes and nations over the course of centuries. Allah is the god of Moses, peace be upon him, and the Israelites. Allah is the god of 'Isa and the Lady Mariam, peace be upon them."

        "And who are 'Isa and the Lady Mariam, peace be upon them?" 'Amr inquired genuinely, his face stern, his eyes steady on Bilal.

        I rolled my eyes and caught Mundhir's eye who was red-faced with suppressed laughter. I leaned in and spoke softly.

        "What's funny?"

        "I..." he could barely contain his laughter. There were tears in his eyes. "I spat in his water."

        "Bilal's?"

        Mundhir nodded, finally bursting into tears and throwing his head back, barking with laughter. I stifled my own laughter with a hand over my mouth.

        Bilal stilled him with a glare bereft of any mirth until Mundhir's outbreak quietened. Bilal turned to 'Amr.

        "The Prophet 'Isa, peace be upon him, is testimony to the might of Allah. The Lady Mariam was blessed with him while an unwed virgin. The prophet emerged from her womb with the ability to speak and spread his message!"

        'Amr, knees pressed against his chest, drew a breath in awe as he looked up reverently to Bilal.

        "Praise be to Allah," he exclaimed.

        "So, she passed wedlock off as a miracle," I snorted. "Clever."

        'Amr shot me a fiery glare; the offense was evident on his face.

        "One should not jest about these things," Bilal chided me. "What you have accused the purest of all women of is vile. This is a heinous crime. Do you know that there is strict punishment for those who question a woman's chastity without proof or witnesses?"

       I scoffed. Hubal and the gods would not concern themselves with these petty squabbles.

        "You must seek forgiveness from Allah," Bilal demanded. "Say the words. Allah is more merciful to his worshippers than a mother to her child. Utter the words I taught you."

        I scoffed again. Bilal's glare was unrelenting.

        "I seek forgiveness from Allah," 'Amr whispered.

        I shook my head.

        "There is nothing to forgive," I bit back stubbornly.

        "Then begone," Bilal commanded.

        Gladly, I thought.

        "You're not even going to reprimand me?" I mocked him.

       "Allah's wrath is enough."

      "He will forgive me. He is more merciful than a mother to her child, after all. I'll take my chances."

        I rose and stalked out of the shed. The air was still and humid.

        I need the presence of the gods, I thought.

        I resolved to seek out Qusayy. I longed for his husky recollection of tales and poems and legends. He was a man of the gods. His tribe, the Khazraj, was experiencing mass conversions, but I knew he would never succumb to this nonsense.

        I darted away from the shed, weaving my way through the districts that housed the chieftains and prosperous merchants. These neighborhoods were alien to me, yet once I found the path down the hill, I was confident I could find my way to the old man's shed.

         For months, I had only concerned myself with this new life I had forged for myself. A new family, new ambitions, a new daily routine. I never thought twice about leaving behind a life of beatings and constant terror. I did not enjoy feigning conversion, but my newfound brethren were no small consolation to that.

        But there was more to it. Not a day went by when I did not yearn for Mother's warm embrace, shielding me from all the evils of the world, or Qusayy's endearing cackling. How did they react to my sudden disappearance? Did they think me dead? Did they grieve for me? How would they react to my return?

        All these thoughts rushed through my head as I descended the hill and emerged into the more familiar din of the marketplace, teeming with sweating passersby, heavy with murmurs of conversation and the howling of merchants in their stalls seeking to attract customers.

        I shoved through the packed bodies, using the swiftness of my comparatively smaller body to pickpocket any valuables off the men and women roaming the marketplace. I snatched a handful of dates from the counter of a stall and bolted away in half a heartbeat; the alarmed merchant's cries of protest were lost to the air and massive crowds only seconds later.

        The crowds gave way to trickles of gathered people, some whispering conspiratorially in the shadows, others jesting and hooting with friends in broad daylight, the sounds of their laughter and the sight of their amused faces a brief flash as I continued to sprint away into the cramped and muddy streets, the narrow alleyways and shoddy homes I knew so well.

        In a rush, the familiar scents of dung and muck and beer greeted me as lost friends, cementing their place in my nostrils once more as though I'd never abandoned these streets.

        Panting and hunched over with my hands on my knees, I halted before the distinct shed that belonged to Qusayy. The towering palm tree that punched through his roof helped to distinguish it from all the others. He had built his shed around the trunk of the tree, carving a hole through his roof so that the tree soared upward, casting his shed in its shadow.

        Qusayy's shed had no door; it was a symbol of acceptance and a message for any passerby that that the old man welcomed all and feared no one. The lovely aroma of wax and burning candles washed over me as I hovered in the doorway.

        I stepped inside and saw Qusayy sitting cross-legged on the floor, a dozen candles around him. His back was to the trunk of the palm tree and he was sitting hunched over what seemed to be the hide of an ox. He held it in one hand and used the other to stroke his chin in contemplation. I sniffed the air, basking in the delightful aroma of spice and lavender that Qusayy used as perfume.

        He looked up from his work and his eyes widened. I laughed out loud, tears blurring my vision.

        Qusayy scrambled to his feet as I ran over. I sprang at him, diving into his embrace. I sobbed, clinging fiercely to his gown as he held me in his arms.

        "Did they hurt you?" he whispered softly.

        "I am unharmed," I managed to stammer between sobs. "Father."

        He was the father that Ka'b failed to be. Every decent memory I had of my short life included Qusayy. He was the light of the gods, he was the winter rains, the warm earthy smell of the prosperous palm tree, the exquisite odor of spice and lavender.

        He was home.

       Qusayy pulled me away and studied me with sunken eyes.

      "You've grown."

        I grinned from ear to ear and took a seat next to him. I was pleased to see Hubal's idol resting among the candles. I grabbed it and clung to it, grateful of its presence.

        Qusayy filled me in on the year I had been gone. It was true, the bulk of the Aws and the Khazraj had converted. But the Jewish tribes were more reluctant to follow suit, though they did lend men and supplies for the raiding parties against the Meccan trading caravans. He explained these raids were to disrupt the economy of the Quraysh in their hometown.

        "We are to blame, Hanthalah," his voice full of anguish. "All of us. We were promised peace but all we've been rewarded with is heresy and more fighting. What quarrel do we have with the Quraysh of Makkah?"

       Qusayy handed me the ox hide he was studying. Qusayy was a man blessed by the gods with the skill of poetry. It was a craft highly valued all over Arabia; a good poet earned substantial social status.

        He explained it was not the first he had written, and he was not alone in his dissent. There were other poets voicing their concerns in Yathrib, especially among the Jews.

        He also spoke of my poor mother. He said that the chief of our clan had visited my family shack and told them where I had gone. Mother wailed at the news and clawed at her face, begging the man to return her son. But there was little any of them could do without violating the tribe's agreement with the muhajireen. Of course, my father and the rest could not care less for my absence.

       I felt a pang of guilt that I was responsible for more of misery to my mother. I resolved to go visit Mother once I bid Qusayy farewell.

       We spoke for a good long while, but I knew I needed to take my leave once I saw that he sky had turned a shade of red outside the doorway. The sun was setting, and I missed the day's training as well as several prayers. But I was too content in our conversation to return. I was lost in my concerns when a figure blocked the light entering from the doorway.

        Qusayy and I looked up to see the lanky Muhammad ibn Maslamah standing in the doorway, an early Yathribi convert, a man of the Aws.

        "What is it that you seek?" There was no warmth in Qusayy's voice.

       Ibn Maslamah stepped forward and he had an earnest expression to him. The man frightened me all the same. He was an eccentric individual, prone to unpredictable actions.

       "Peace, Qusayy," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "The Messenger of Allah sent me to reconcile with you. We wish not to be foes."

        Qusayy said nothing.

        Ibn Maslamah offered him an apologetic smile and extended a hand to help Qusayy up.

       "Please," He said after Qusayy hesitated. "Both of us seek the prosperity of Yathrib."

        Qusayy eventually relented after another moment's hesitation. The two men stood in the middle of the small shed, as I sat on my haunches, watching them chat idly.

        Ibn Maslamah favored him with a warm smile, then sniffed at him eagerly.

      "Qusayy!" he exclaimed. "This fragrance is lovely! Please allow me a better sniff."

      Qusayy acquiesced, innocently inclining his head so that ibn Maslamah could smell the fragrance he added to his hair.

     "Ahh," Ibn Maslamah leaned over and touched the old man's head fondly with his left hand.

      He kissed him gently on the forehead and in that moment, I knew something was amiss. Ibn Maslamah's face widened into a grin and I noticed his right hand was gripping something obscured to me by his gown.

      With a sharp cry, I called out for Qusayy to move, and started to make for them, but I was too slow.

      Ibn Maslamah drew his dagger and drove it into the side of the old man's neck. Qusayy made no sound as blood splashed on the walls, splattered on ibn Maslamah's face and my gown. Ibn Maslamah yanked his dagger free of Qusayy's flesh. Qusayy fell to his knees, gasping, his hands clutching his flowing wound.

       Blood glided down his fingers and poured out of the corners of his mouth.

       Finally, the old man thumped face first to the ground, motionless. Lifeless.

        I stared at the corpse of the man who had been a home and a family to me in crippling shock. I felt anger pricking at the back of my head. And from that moment, I've known rage.

        Boundless fury that knew no end, always lurking in my gut, only a spark away from being unleashed, blinding me in my frenzy, oblivious to the carnage I caused. It gnaws at me at every waking moment, demanding to release the beast within. I ignore it, masking its insistence by smiling or chatting idly.

        That day, it surged through my vein, and like a snake, I felt it spiral up my spine, flushing my cheeks a deep red, curling my hands into fists at my side. I licked Qusayy's blood off my lips, my furious eyes fixed on ibn Maslamah smiling at his victim.

        Tears burst from my eyes as my temper flared; I could see only red. I was breathing heavily, my nails digging into my palm in a clenched fist. I lurched forward, and with a shriek of pure agony, I punched the rabid dog in the groin.

       The smile on his face disappeared, and with a grunt, he toppled over, landing heavily on one knee. I raised a fist again, but ibn Maslamah only backhanded me across the face and the world went black.

        That was the first time I let the rage consume me. It would not be the last.

Footnote:

Though Qusayy is a fictional character, Muhammad ibn Maslamah actually did carry out several political assassinations against poets vocal in their dissent. The manner in which he kills Qusayy in this chapter is inspired by one account of ibn Maslamah's assassination of a Jewish poet.

I am sorry if Hanthalah's crass mockery has caused you offense or has attacked your beliefs. I would like to clarify that I share none of Hanthalah's beliefs, nor do I condone them. I am just trying to deliver the thoughts of someone experiencing the same circumstances as Hanthalah as accurately as possible.

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