Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

"You seem weary, child," he told 'Abdullah ibn Hanthalah.

'Abdullah shook his head vigorously, suppressing another cry of pain from his frail body. He wanted to listen to the words of God more. He wanted to memorize the Qur'an. He wanted to master his lessons in letters.

He did not know why his sister's victories enticed her so much. Of course, it was a brother's duty to support his sister, but it was odd to 'Abdullah that a man – or a woman – might take pleasure in earthly desires. To choose the sword over the quill.

The phenomenon had existed since their childhood. Umaymah had kept to the sword skill practice. 'Abdullah made sure to stay a safe distance away from the fighting.

Such was his life in this miserable hell his father sentenced him to. 'Abdullah was more of a liability to the tribesmen and he knew it. They would have returned him to his father long ago had it not been for his sister's standing among them. He was too weak and frail to perform the menial tasks required of the young in the camp, let alone practice skill at arms. Now he was short a finger.

The thought of his predicament made him shiver uncontrollably and had he not steeled himself, he would have succumbed to another one of his episodes.

He remembered that horrid morning long ago. When he had gone to sleep with an intact fist. But he woke up the very next morning short a finger. The stump was bereft of any blood, the wound masterfully shut.

Umm Amina, the woman entrusted with his care and more of a parent to him than his actual father, doted upon him ever since, never relinquishing him during nighttime, sharing a bed. Yet, her presence was not necessary for his security. He would lay awake at night, eyes peeled and wide. He was far too terrified to shut them. Had it been demons who stole his finger? Was this magic, the practice outlawed by Allah and his messenger? Surely if they did it once, they could do it again.

Each morning, he would journey to Master 'Awf's tent in order to read the words of Allah, for Master 'Awf was the only tribesman to own a copy of the holy book. The copy had existed since the days of the late Khalifa Abu Bakr, a compilation of Allah's commandments revealed to the Prophet, in a number of different forms and interpretations that varied according to each tribe or clan; sometimes the versions strayed according to some individuals that swore they heard it as such from the Prophet.

'Uthman, however, had quelled any such disputes of the veracity of the text by declaring the copy of his clan, the Banu Umayya, to be the sole legitimate text after demolishing all other copies. The act was one of controversy; many opposed it, claiming that 'Uthman was acting beyond his capacity. He was but a temporal successor, elected to govern the ummah of Muhammad, to spread the influence of the believers and settle matters of state.

It did irk 'Abdullah as well. It was not the Khalifa's place to meddle in affairs of the divine? The copy of the Banu Asad had served them well in the past. Who was 'Uthman to say otherwise?

In any case, their text had been disposed of, and replaced with the now uniform copy. 'Abdullah supposed he would study it, read it all the same.

And read it he did. 'Abdullah began memorizing every word and every letter long ago. He knew the tales of every messenger and every prophet by heart, from Adam to 'Isa. His faith was unrivaled. It was all he had.

After all, he needed to take solace in something. He chose the embrace of Allah. Even Umaymah's protection paled in comparison. Who better to watch over him, a weak mortal among weak mortals, destined to die and wither, than he who never dies or withers?

Every man, woman or child among the Asad would pay on the day of judgement for their torment of 'Abdullah over the years and beseech him to forgive them for their sins. But, on the Day of Judgement, he would only shake his head and pleasure himself from his palace in heaven as he watched their skin flake off their bodies in Hell, then regenerate and burn off again.

He would bask in their tormented screams of agony as hot pincers dug into their flesh and burned them to their very core, as they had taken great pleasure in his misery as a helpless little boy who yearned only for the warmth of a father's arms that were never there. Only for the love of a man who abandoned him as a squalling child, red of flesh and in desperate need of attention, both affectionate and medical.

Yet, 'Abdullah disillusioned himself of any images of this man Hanthalah ibn Ka'b that his sister possessed. Umaymah lived for the day she would gaze upon her hero; dreamt of the moment they would slaughter enemies side by side.

'Abdullah, however, knew that he would only end up betraying them again. If the man they called father wanted them by his side, he would have showed his face years earlier.

It was why he immersed himself in his faith and in his tales of prophets and angels. Books and stories would remain faithful and loyal while humans only served to disappoint.