Fatal Convictions

21

It was dusk when Hassan arrived at the Sandbridge beach house. The sun painted pastels over the small bay that bordered the two-mile-wide strip of land covered with vacation homes. He parked in the carport, checked in all directions, and duct-taped Ja’dah’s mouth before he moved her into the ground floor of the house. He dragged her into a corner of the rec room and shoved her to the floor, then pulled out another thick plastic tie and cinched it around her ankles. He left the duct tape over her mouth for the time being and avoided looking into her eyes.

Hassan had already moved all of the furniture to one side of the room, stacking the barstools next to the pool table and wicker furniture, and had covered the floor and the bottom half of the wall with heavy plastic. He had pulled the blinds and turned on an overhead light. The room was now quiet except for Ja’dah’s ragged breathing.

He squatted in front of her. “I am about to perform the evening salat,” he said softly. “Will you join me?”

Ja’dah’s eyes were rimmed with tears and wide with fright. She shook her head quickly. Decisively.

Hassan rose without speaking and headed to the wet bar at the far end of the room. He washed quickly. First his hands-right, then left. Then his face three times. His mouth. His nose. A dash of water to his hair and beard. Next his arms, wrists to elbows. Last, he washed his feet.

He pulled a prayer mat from a nearby bedroom and unrolled it on the plastic in the middle of the floor, facing east, toward the ocean. His melodic chants echoed off the walls, and soon he lost himself in the rhythmic worship of Allah. The prayers calmed his nerves. Strengthened his resolve. Deepened his convictions. At first, he was cognizant of Ja’dah watching his every move, trembling in fear. But soon enough, he became oblivious to her and lost himself in reverence.

He concluded his prayers, prostrate before Allah, and rose to his feet. Without speaking, he returned the prayer mat to the bedroom and knelt to face Ja’dah again. She had stopped sobbing and trembling. She regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and terror, her eyes locked on his.

“You have dishonored Allah,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You have dishonored your family.”

She shook her head again, and rage welled up in him. He grabbed her chin and squeezed, holding her head still. Her eyes popped open with a new wave of fear.

“You have become a prostitute,” he sneered. “A whore of the West.”

She didn’t move, frozen by fear.

He let go of her chin, took a breath, and relaxed. “You must renounce the Christian faith and return to your family.” His voice was again soft, a plea of reason. “Perhaps Allah will have mercy on your soul.” Slowly, he reached out and stripped the duct tape from Ja’dah’s mouth.

To her credit, she didn’t try to scream or curse or otherwise lash out. Her lips shook, and when she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “I cannot,” she stammered. “I am no longer a Muslim.”

As she said these words, Ja’dah looked past Hassan, but then she gathered the strength to again look him in the eye. “Nor are you. The Holy Qur’an teaches submission, not the sword.”

Enraged, Hassan slapped her. “‘I will cast dread into the hearts of the unbelievers,’” he said, his voice staccato. “‘Strike off their heads, and strike off all of their fingertips.’” He was quoting Sura 8:12, the words of the Prophet.

“That is not what that Sura means,” Ja’dah responded, her voice soft but certain. “I can quote Suras on mercy and forgiveness. Islam is submission to Allah. I have submitted to the God I hear.”

Hassan did not react emotionally to the blasphemy. He would not avenge the name of Allah in a fit of rage. His convictions were grounded in the certainty of the Prophet’s words and the faithfulness of a warrior’s heart. He was an instrument for Allah, nothing more.

“Renounce,” he said simply.

“I cannot.”

He shook his head in pity. She was a beautiful woman, full of courage and conviction. He could understand why Fatih Mahdi had chosen her. He had to protect his own heart from desiring her even now.

“Then you must pay.”

Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi did not respond.

Hassan rose and went into the adjacent bedroom to retrieve his sword. Returning to the rec room, in plain sight of Ja’dah, he removed the weapon from its sheath and placed it on the floor. Light reflected from the polished metal. Hassan studied his captive. Staring at the sword, her eyes glistened with tears.

He dragged her to the middle of the room and raised her into a kneeling position. He picked up the sword.

He had expected her to collapse in fear. She had been shaking almost uncontrollably as he pulled her to the middle of the room. But now, she seemed to find a new resolve. She looked straight ahead and closed her eyes. The trembling stopped. She held her head high, her hands still tied behind her back, her neck an easy target.

Somehow, in these last few moments, she had found the courage to accept her fate with dignity. She was still wrong. Still an infidel. Still destined for Allah’s wrath. But in that moment, Hassan couldn’t help but admire her.

He took a breath, whispered a quick prayer, then swung the sword in a giant arc, its swoosh filling the room as it sliced through the air. Ja’dah kept her eyes closed, her head held high, and let out a muffled shriek of terror.

He stopped the sword-inches from her neck.

She froze for a second in a state of shock, then collapsed to the floor. She curled into the fetal position, her knees tight to her chest.

Hassan knelt next to her.

“Renounce,” he whispered into her ear.

Ja’dah lay trembling for a moment, as if enduring a seizure that his words could not penetrate. After a few seconds, she grew still.

“Renounce,” he insisted.

She opened her eyes and tilted her head slightly to face him. Her eyes hardened, and she gave him a small shake of the head.

Hassan shook his own head in sadness and disappeared once more into the ground-floor bedroom. This time, he returned with a black hood and placed it over Ja’dah’s head. He pulled her back to her knees, held her there with one hand, and said a final prayer. Was this truly what Allah required?

Hearing nothing, he stepped back to swing the sword again. Just as he did in his dreams, this time he would swing with all his might. There could be no mercy. The sword would complete its deadly arc, and Mahdi’s honor would be restored.

“Allahu akbar,” he said as the sword sliced through the air.