The Days of Mohammed

by Anna May Wilson

Of Mohammed's wonderful progress, you have, of course, heard. You should see him now, my dear Yusuf,—Mohammed, the peaceful trader, the devout hermit, now little less than monarch, with all the sway assumed by the most powerful despot; and yet those over whom he wields his despotism are but too willing servants, ready to say as he says, and to give their dearest heart's blood in his cause.

Indeed I know not what the outcome of it all will be. What astonishes me most is that Mohammed has suddenly assumed an aggressive attitude. Fire and the sword seem to be the watchword of him whom we knew as the gentle husband of Cadijah, the mild preacher who bowed his head and reviled not even when assailed with mud and filth in the Caaba.

Needless to say, Yusuf, I am disappointed in him. You will be only too glad to hear that. I hear that you have been exhorting the people in Mecca to pay no heed to him; that you have been seeking to promulgate your Hebrew faith, or rather the faith of your Hebrew friend, of whose innocence and release I was glad to hear.

My brother, I pride in your courage, and in the strength of your principles; yet, Yusuf, I beseech of you, be careful what you do or say, lest you draw down upon your head a storm of fury which you little expect. You have no idea of the revolution of feeling here in Mohammed's favor, and of the fanatic zeal of many of his followers. Be not too bold. You cannot cope single-handed with such an overwhelming tide.

The past month, as you know, was the holy month Radjab, in which, as in the month of Ramadhan, throughout all El Hejaz, life should be held sacred, and no act of violence committed. Can you believe it when I tell you that the prophet's men have attacked more than one caravan of quiet traders and pilgrims upon their way to or from Mecca? Such a sacrilege seems unpardonable in Arab eyes, but, forsooth, the prophet has been favored with another revelation justifying him in what he has done.

This, more than aught else, makes me wonder. You, Yusuf, know what a lover of peace I have been; how it has ever grieved me to see even a butterfly fluttering along the ground with a crushed wing. Judge, then, of my horror, when I went out to the scene of the pillage and saw men lying, some dead, with ghastly faces glaring up at the hot sun, others with gaping wounds, and others moaning pitifully on the road-way, with sand on their faces and in their hair. Yusuf, it made me sick to see it. Had they been slain in fair battle I could have borne it better. Yet I was enabled to give the poor wounded creatures some water, all warm as it was from being carried so long a distance; and some of them I had conveyed to my house, so that every bed-chamber has been turned into a sick-room, and your friend Amzi has been suddenly metamorphosed into a sick-nurse. Does that astonish you?

Yet, Yusuf, though I get little sleep any night, and have to be on my feet much during the day, I can assure you that I was never so happy in my life before. The constant occupation, and the sense of being able to render the poor creatures a little ease, is just what I need at present to keep me from growing moody.

The other day I saw some one who knows of you—Uzza, the Oman Arab. How or why he has come here I know not; but he is one of Mohammed's most devoted followers. For your sake, I hope you may not meet him in Medina.

I knew him, years ago, at Oman, and had letters from him for a time after he went to Persia. Perhaps that will read you the riddle as to how I knew so much of your past history, my priest. Recognizing your name, and noting your priestly bearing, it was an easy matter to connect you with the Guebre Yusuf, of whom I had heard.

I am convinced that you are looking after my Meccan affairs as closely as possible, yet remember that Amzi has a house in Medina, too, which has ever a door open for you.