warrior declared, haunted by the memory of it, perhaps
because once the bellowing stopped, there was silence.
Ali’s men stood staring as the camel teetered for a long
moment, then slowly collapsed. When it ɹnally hit the
ground, they seemed to regain their senses, rushing to
cut the straps holding the howdah in place, then lifting
it oʃ with Aisha still inside. There was not a sound from
her now that she had been brought down to earth, and
the silence from the howdah was almost as unnerving as
the noise from it had been before.
They had captured the Mother of the Faithful, but now
they hung back, unsure how to proceed. None of them
dared approach until Ali gave the order to Muhammad
Abu Bakr, his stepson and Aisha’s half brother, who
shouldered his way through the crowd, strode up to the
howdah, and drew apart the armored curtains to ask, “Is
all well with you?”
“I have an arrow in me,” she whispered, and there it
was, embedded in the ɻesh of her upper arm, the only
barb out of the hundreds shot at the howdah that had
penetrated the armor. Her half brother reached in and
pulled it out, and if the pain of it was terrible, as it surely
was, Aisha allowed not so much as a whimper to escape
her lips. Even in defeat, her pride would not permit
weakness.
Her voice issued calm and clear from inside the
howdah as she finally conceded the battle, if not the war.