feared: a will. Was the dying Prophet about to
definitively name his heir?
The only way to know was to call for the pen and
paper to be brought to him, but that is not what
happened. No sooner had he uttered the request than
everyone attending him was aware of what it might
mean. What if it really was to write his will? What if it
was not in their favor? What if it named Ali as his
successor, not Abu Bakr or Omar or another of his close
companions? And if it was indeed his will he wanted to
write, why not simply speak it? Why insist on pen and
paper? Did that mean that even on his deathbed, he did
not trust them to carry it out and so wanted it written
down, unambiguously, for all to see?
None of this did anyone there say out loud, however.
Instead, they voiced concern about overstraining
Muhammad in his illness. They worried about placing
too much pressure on him. They argued that the
sickroom should be kept quiet, and even as they stressed
the need for silence, their voices rose.
It is the strangest scene. There was every sign that the
man they were all so devoted to was ready to make his
dying wishes known, perhaps even designate his heir,
once and for all. It was the one thing everyone wanted to
know, and, at the same time, the one thing nobody
wanted to know. If Ali turned out to be the designated
heir, nobody in that room wanted it put into writing.