on to new feats of valor as she would do years later in
the thick of battle, even as men were dying all around
her. She knew her invective was unnerving, all the more
powerful—eerie, almost—for coming in the high, shrill,
piercing voice she was known for, unmistakably hers.
But both her tongue and her wit would almost fail her
now.
It had still been dark when they began to break camp
to start the ɹnal leg of the journey home, using the cool
early hours of the day to advantage. In the chilly
predawn half-light, Aisha made her way a hundred
yards or so beyond the encampment to relieve herself
behind a spindly bush of broom, as women still do when
they’re out in the wild, looking for a modicum of
privacy. She got back to her camel just as the caravan
was preparing to move oʃ, and had already settled into
the howdah when she put her ɹngers to her throat and
her heart skipped a beat—that sudden sense of
something missing, of absence where there should have
been presence. Her necklace, her gift from Muhammad,
was gone.
She realized instantly what must have happened. The
string had snagged on a branch and snapped without
her noticing, scattering the beads onto the ground. But if
she was quick about it, there was still time to retrieve
them. Without a word to anyone, she slipped down from
the howdah and retraced her steps.