Time: Late afternoon, the fourth day since entering the Kaaba.
Place: The Courtyard of the Ancient House, Mecca.
POV: Abdu Manaf, son of Abd al-Muttalib (The Father of Talib).
The sun that day was not merely a disc of fire; it was a whip lashing the backs of those standing in the courtyard of the Ancient House. Though I am an elder worn by the years, my body accustomed to the scorching heat of Mecca, the fire boiling in my veins today came not from the sun, but from the embers burning within my chest.
I am the Father of Talib, Lord of the Valley, and guardian of the pilgrims' water and food. I stood leaning on my leather-bound staff, my eyes fixed upon the Yemeni Corner of the House. That silent, deaf corner which had swallowed my wife, Fatima, three days and nights ago.
Around me, the tribe of Quraish surged like a turbulent sea. They had not left the square since the incident. They pitched their tents and sat in the shadows of the Council House, whispering, winking, and waiting.
I could hear their voices creeping towards me through the hot air.
One of them spoke with a malicious tone: "O Father of Talib, perhaps the gods of the House have grown angry with your wife, trapping her inside to die of hunger and thirst."
I turned slowly. The speaker was Amr, son of Hisham (a man later known as the Father of Ignorance). He was young, with arrogance filling his eyes and pride in his stride. He stood amidst his cronies, smiling a yellow, sickly smile, hoping to break my prestige before the tribes.
I did not answer him. Not out of weakness, but out of disdain. How could I explain to one who worships stone that the Lord of this House has a plan the human mind cannot grasp? How could I explain that I, a follower of the pure faith of Abraham, felt in my heart that Fatima was not being punished, but was a guest?
The hours passed heavily. The shadows began to lengthen.
I thought of the unborn child. Fatima had entered while in labor. Had she given birth? Is he alive? Is she?
I remembered the face of Muhammad, my nephew, as he circumambulated the House with me yesterday, rubbing my back and saying with a voice that poured tranquility: "Be patient, uncle, for God has a secret in this newborn."
Muhammad's words were always a balm to my soul. This young man, who had never bowed to an idol, known among us as "The Trustworthy", possessed an insight we did not.
Suddenly...
The wind died.
The birds circling above the House ceased their movement.
A suspicious, heavy silence fell, as if time itself had stopped.
The earth trembled beneath my feet. It was not a quake to bring down houses, but a shiver that ran through the veins of the earth to reach my heart.
A man from the clan of Makhzum shouted: "Look at the wall!"
All eyes turned toward the Yemeni Corner.
I saw the solid stone, impervious to pickaxes, begin to move.
A deep sound, like the sliding of a giant boulder over sand, echoed through the square. The old cleft, which had healed days ago, opened once more. The stones drifted apart with politeness and submission, as if they were curtains being drawn aside.
I stood frozen. Quraish stood frozen. Even Amr, son of Hisham swallowed his saliva and stepped back, for fear of the unknown is stronger than the arrogance of the ignorant.
From the depth of the darkness and shadow within the cleft, a human foot emerged.
Fatima walked out.
She did not look like a woman who had suffered the pains of birth and hunger for three days. Her clothes were clean, her face glowing with light and purity, as if she had returned from a sojourn in the Gardens of Eden.
And in her arms... a white bundle.
I rushed to her, forgetting my dignity and grey hair.
"Fatima!" I called out, my voice trembling.
She smiled at me, that smile which had always eased the hardships of time for me.
"Rejoice, Father of Talib... Rejoice in a son whom God has distinguished with a dignity He has given to no other."
She extended her arms to me with the bundle.
I took him.
The feeling was indescribable. He was not merely a child. He was an existential "weight." I felt as if I were holding a mountain of solemnity.
I uncovered the cloth from his face.
I gasped internally at the beauty of his features. Luminous wheat skin, a refined nose, and a broad forehead like the page of a book.
I asked her in a whisper, my eyes never leaving his face: "What have you named him?"
She said in a voice audible to those nearby: "A voice called to me inside the House: Name him Ali (The High)... for I am the Most High, and I have derived his name from My own."
"Ali."
A name strange to the Arabs. We had never named anyone this in the tribe before. It held height, elevation, and power.
I lifted him high in my hands, ignoring the looks of envy and astonishment around me. I wanted the sky to see him, and Quraish to acknowledge him.
But...
As I gazed at his face, I noticed something strange.
The child did not move.
And stranger still... his eyes were closed.
The eyelids were shut tight, as if glued together.
I passed my hand before his face, blocking the sun, then removing it. No reaction.
I shook him gently: "Ali... my son... open your eyes."
Silence.
Anxiety began to creep into my heart like a cold snake.
I looked at Fatima: "O cousin, what is wrong with his eyes?"
Fatima's expression changed, the glint of joy vanishing for a moment. She approached and whispered to me with a trembling voice: "By God, Father of Talib, since he descended from me, he prostrated, and when I lifted him, he was like this. He has never opened his eyes. I nursed him while his eyes were closed, I sang to him while they were closed. I thought he was sleeping, but he has not opened them for three days."
A chill ran through my limbs.
Is he blind?
Did God honor us with his birth in the House, only to test him with blindness?
Murmurs began to rise around me. The piercing eyes of Quraish noticed our distress.
The Father of Ignorance (Amr) shouted with a gloating laugh: "Look! The child of the Kaaba does not see! He is an omen of ill luck, Father of Talib. The gods have taken his sight as a price for his mother's audacity in entering their House."
His words struck me like lightning. I wished to smash his face with my staff, but fear for my son paralyzed me.
I tried again. I opened his eyelid gently with my thumb, but found it resisting, as if he refused to see by his own will.
"O Lord of the House..." I prayed silently, "Do not let the enemies rejoice over our misfortune."
And in the midst of this despair, as the laughter of schadenfreude rose, something happened that changed the very air in the square.
The crowd parted.
They did not part out of fear, but out of awe and love.
Muhammad arrived.
He was coming from the direction of the upper district. His steps were steady, his face glowing with a calm, confident smile, as if he heard neither the noise of the mob nor saw their gloating.
He was "The Trustworthy." The young man whom hearts loved against their will. Even the Father of Ignorance fell silent when he saw him, for the dignity he commanded.
Muhammad approached me. He did not look at the people; his eyes were fixed on the bundle in my hands.
He said in his melodious voice: "Blessed are you, uncle. And blessed are you, mother."
I looked at him with a broken heart: "O nephew... he is beautiful and perfect, but... alas."
He asked with concern: "And what is the sorrow, uncle?"
I said with a lump in my throat: "He does not open his eyes. We fear he is blind, and the tribe will mock us."
Muhammad looked at the child. I saw no anxiety in his eyes, but rather I saw "longing."
He said calmly: "There is no harm upon him... Give him to me, uncle."
I hesitated for a moment, then handed him over.
And the moment the bundle settled in Muhammad's hands... everything changed.
I saw the infant, who moments ago was a motionless form, startle like a bird about to take flight.
His small hands moved, escaping the cloth, as if wanting to touch the one holding him.
Absolute silence fell upon the square. Everyone watched.
Muhammad brought his face close to the infant's face. The little one breathed in Muhammad's breath.
And suddenly...
Without warning...
The heavy eyelids lifted.
He opened them!
He opened them wide!
They were not blind eyes. They were black, vast eyes, deep as the well of Zamzam, and sharp as a sword.
A cry of astonishment escaped Fatima, and the faces of the Sons of Hashim lit up with joy.
Most wondrous of all, Ali did not let his gaze wander to the sky or earth, nor did he look at me, his father, nor his mother.
His gaze was fixed, entirely focused, on Muhammad's eyes.
Muhammad smiled until his teeth showed, and said while caressing Ali's cheek:
"He refused to look at the world, until he saw the one he loves."
Then he kissed him between his eyes, and looked up at us saying: "He is of me, and I am of him."
We did not fully understand the depth of those words then, for Muhammad was still a young merchant in our eyes, but we understood that between these two, a bond existed that was created before bodies were created.
I turned to the crowd. I saw their faces darken with disappointment, and Amr dragging the tails of failure.
My voice returned to me, and my strength returned. I raised my staff, and improvised verses that shook the corners of Mecca, declaring the victory of the Sons of Hashim:
"I named him Ali so that his highness may endure...
The glory of height, and the pride of glory is most lasting."
Muhammad carried Ali and walked toward our home, and we followed him.
The scene was strange to any observer.
A man of thirty carrying an infant minutes old.
But in truth...
The Future was carrying The Hope.
And that was the first time Ali's eyes met Muhammad's eyes, beginning a story that would not end until the Pool of Abundance.