The Reins of Allah

By Kristen Kareem

“Can you put the horses in for the night?” my mother asks from under a pile of blankets. The cold air persistently finds its way into our home. The frigid air seeps under the doors and through windows. The temperature will dip down to -10 degrees Fahrenheit tonight so I start a fire in the fireplace. I savor the sounds of the quickly burning tinder, it’s snapping, cracking, and splitting. The flames lick my hand as I throw in another twig. The smoke billows out before I shut the squeaky fireplace door. I plop down and sink into an oversized armchair with a houndstooth beige design and let the fire settle.

“Yah, I’ll get to it,” I belatedly respond. I had pulled a double shift and now my bones ache and my feet throb. I look over at my mother’s frail body. If she loses any more weight, she will disappear forever under those blankets.

“Did you eat anything?” I ask. Her sunken eyes and chapped lips tell me no.

“I ate a little,” she lies.

I stand up from the armchair and walk away to the kitchen as she continues to watch Wheel of Fortune on the television. I find the ingredients to make something that she always eats for me, a grilled cheese sandwich. I heat up a cast iron griddle until it’s smokey hot.

“Your horse is missing you, Mom. You should get out to ride your horse or at least go to the barn and say ‘hi’ to her.”  Horses always meant safety to her. She rode as a girl to escape her father and rode as an adult to flee her insecurities. Now she is too weak and brittle to heave a saddle or haul a hay bale. If I could get her to ride again, then she could find herself captivated in the small joys of riding: the horses’ pounding heartbeat, their thundering hooves, and deep breaths. In those moments, in feeling small, she could understand there is something bigger than her.

“I will ride her when the weather gets better,” she lies again. The sandwich is nice and golden brown, gooey and warm.

“It’s going to be cold tonight.”

“I heard, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Remember you used to like getting snowed in?”

“That’s when dad was around,” she reminds me. I find a paper plate and bring over the sandwich to her. She looks at me with wide eyes. She nibbles at first, and then a few morsels dissolve in her mouth, and it enlivens her body again and awakens her slumbering cells. Her body knows it’s starving and she takes a few bigger bites now. I stand there, hovering until she finishes it all. She shoves the rest into her mouth and gives a fake smile. She hands me a greasy plate and I throw it into the fire and watch it curl and burn quickly until it vanishes into ash. I stare at the flames dancing and put on a couple of logs.

“Cora, what’s going on with you?” she says, catching me off guard, “You used to steer clear of me and the farm, and now you are overseeing it all. Why?”

I turn to look at her, “Mom, people change. You’ve got to try and get better.” I look out the window at the weather conditions, but the sun is long gone and I can’t see anything except the barn’s exterior lights.  It’s just 7:00 pm and the Minnesota night has already slithered in.

Cora thinks to herself, “Winter makes me miss Dad. My father loved winter nights. He would gleefully gather up ice-fishing gear right at sundown and head over to the frozen-over Lake Waconia. He would catch a whole slew of fish.”

“I’ve tried to change and it’s too late for me. Good for you I guess. You can leave me behind here to wither away,” she says.

“Mom, there-right there, in our backyard, those horses have comforted you before. What is stopping you now?”

“I’m busy,” she snaps.  A burst of wind comes and rattles the chimney cap.

“I need to bring in the horses before it gets worse,” I say and I head upstairs into my room to change out of my nurse’s uniform and into my barn clothes.

My room is first to the right. It’s minimal, except for a few items: a computer, my painting supplies, a Quran, and a box of wine. I’m like my Dad, who liked a little drink to settle his mind before bed, but I am much worse. I’m a hypocrite, a Muslim who drinks. The alcohol’s fuzziness is superficial comfort to help me forget about the pain of losing my Dad and the illnesses and depression of my Mom. Her illnesses stemmed from her inability to handle the dark grief of his death. He was the foundation of the family. I found a new foundation in a new faith, Islam. My mom is sinking fast without any foundation or stronghold to cling to. She was never a deeply devout Christian, but I wish she was right now to keep her afloat in her pain and grief.

I look at my prayer rug in the corner of the room and then I pray. I don’t know if anything will get through, but at the end I add, “If I can just make it through this one night without alcohol. I promise I’ll be done forever.” I linger sweetly in prayer. Chills run through my body and my heart rate steadily lowers and lowers. A calm descends on me and I feel Allah wash me over peace and strength.

My phone buzzes and it’s the nurse’s supervisor. I let it go to voicemail. I give it a few minutes while I change and then listen to her message.

“Hey, it’s Maria, thanks for covering us today, I took you off the schedule for tomorrow.”

The hospital has been swamped in the winter months I’m surprised, but I will take the much-needed break. I head back downstairs and my mom has taken her pills and is dozing off. I turn off the T.V., which just started playing Jeopardy.

At the door, I pull on my mucker boots and throw on the family’s one-size-fits-all barn jacket that smells of alfalfa and horse fuzz. I switch on the outside lights and step outside. As I open the door I notice the drifting has just started. Our 1920s farmhouse is old and closed off, but the land it is on is wide and expansive. Being near the prairie has its drawbacks, expanses of open land means no snow breaks and thigh-high snowdrifts. We live on the edge of civilization, where the prairie rolls into infinity.

We have a red horse barn and pole barn that serves as a small arena. The horse barn is sumptuous and charming with hanging cobwebs, swooping barn swallows, and dust lingering in the air. Those horses inside are like silent counselors giving advice in small secret movements like a swish of a tail, a soft nudge with a nose.

The footpath that cuts through the yard to the barn is pure ice.  I opt to step more on the edge of the path for a bit more traction so as not to fall. The old snow is not wonderfully soft and fluffy but hard and crusty and like slicing razors if you fall.

The horses hear my crunching boots and two of the horses poke their heads out of the barn door. They had congregated in one stall, huddled together. The barn windows are completely frosty with swirls that look like crystalline lace. The horses’ eyes glisten and their breaths are steamy and inviting.  Their exhalations have iced up their wiry whiskers and touched on their long eyelashes, leaving frozen droplets. My father bought us these horses as a surprise gift for Valentine’s Day. Dad is gone but these horses remain. The horses and the barn feel like the only thing left on this farm that is organic, real, natural, and lush. The house feels sealed off and frozen and hostile.

I go to slide the barn door open but it doesn’t budge. I slide again with full force just enough and it moves slightly just enough to squeeze my body in.

I flip the switch and the barn lights buzz on. The barn smells of warm horses. We have three horses: Betsy, my mom’s horse, who is a pushy Palomino; Jimmy, who was my Dad’s horse, a grey gelding, who is graceful but temperamental; and Cami, my horse, a plain chestnut mare with a slight swayback.

Betsy and Jimmy come to the stall door to greet me with eager snorts, but Cami is in the corner with her head unnervingly low. I set up the grain and hay in the other stalls and I get Jimmy to his stall and latch his doors. Besty will take herself to her stall without me leading her. They start munching away. I set up Cami’s hay and grain but she just stands there and won’t eat. I check her water but that is still running, and so I wonder if  her hooves have compacted snow. I try to pull up each leg, but she doesn’t let me. She stands solemnly and has a worried look in her eyes.

“Hey old gal, it’s me, what’s going on?” I talk to her to try to comfort her and run my hands over her neck and shoulders, covered with a thick winter coat. I put my hand into the grain manger and swirl around the grain so she can hear the grain in there. “I have some yummy grain in there. Everyone loves grain,” I say. Nothing, no movement or curiosity. It must be colic, a digestive disorder that can strike at any time from eating too much or moving too little. It is prevalent in the winter months and is deadly if not treated.

I  have to call the vet, which I dread. We were so late on the last bill, but Dr. Morgan gracefully waived it. I tromp back inside my house, take off my wet boots inside the door, and go to grab my phone. I called her. It rings five times, I’m about to hang up,  but she answers.

“Dr. Morgan here.”

“I need someone to come to look at Cami, I think it’s colic.”

“There is a lot of colic tonight, with this weather.”

“So you’ll see her?”

“I’ve got a few patients tonight, all over the county. It might be a good four to eight hours.”

“Four-Eight?!”

“You need to walk her until I get there, to get her gut moving, but don’t exert her.”

“I appreciate …”, I say as she hangs up before I finish. I’ll need to get the coffee maker and hook it up in the pole barn and grab some leftover Brownies both as a means to keep me awake. I head back outside and the chill permeates through my clothes. After I get everything set up, plus an ice-fishing house heater for extra warmth,  I can finally bring Cami into the arena.  I rub her soft silky nose and coarse main. I pat her shoulder, and thick coat dust flies off. “Hey Cami girl, you hang in there.” The smell of bitter and warm dripping coffee fills up the pole barn.

I have her by the lead rope and inside the pole barn, we start walking in circles and circles and more circles. The sandy arena, hardened by winter, becomes loose and softens. Our steps sink into the sand, silently. As we are walking, our steps sync up in a nice cadence. The earthy sand kicks up by Cami is musky and damp. The pole barn is garage-like and stores lots of leftover yard tools and fishing gear like a chainsaw and a twisted ice auger. It can feel scary with dim lights and sheet metal siding rattling from the wind, but it is comfortable to me.

There is harmony, peace, stillness in these actions, walking in solemn circles, one step at a time.  I think about my life, about Islam, and how I’ve changed a lot in a few months as my mom said. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah. All thanks to God. My life was a mess and directionless, full of aimless relationships, purposeless actions. Astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, forgive me, God, dhikers leave my lips, and as it does, it releases stress and tensions. As we pause for a moment from our walking, for me to check the time. I notice Cami’s breath worsening. The vet said not to exert her and clearly, I am. I turn her to face the exit and take her back to the horse barn and she musters a few steps before going to her knees. I tug on the lead rope to get her up, but she refuses. I feel defeated, concerned and panicked that she will die and all I can do is wait for the vet and hope she comes in time. My legs feel rubbery and useless. I grab two horse blankets, that are quilted blue polyester, thick almost like a sleeping bag, and lay next to Cami. I tell myself I will just rest. The heaviness of fatigue pushes me to close my eyes for just a moment. It feels like just minutes later the pole barn rusty squeaks open and then the door clangs shut. I look up from a nap and I see a figure through the door. It is my mom wearing a down purple Columbia jacket, tall leather riding boots, and a big knitted hat with a round pom-pom ball on the top. She looks lost under the puffy jacket.

“Cora, what are you doing? Why are you sleeping in a barn?”

“Cami’s sick, the vet is on her way,” I say as I push myself up from the blanket and check the time. Three hours? How did I just sleep for three hours?

“You better wake up before you freeze to death.”

“I have the heater on and I’m practically sweating.” I stretch a little and get up and walk over for another coffee.

“I went to your room to find that wine you took, but I found something else.” Ugh, I know she found the Quran. I’m panicking inside. I don’t know how to explain myself so I don’t.

“So yeah, I’m Muslim now,” I say as I try to casually drink my coffee. My stomach churns and my body temperature rises. I wait for a response.

“Well, that’s different . . . Anyways, I finished your wine. I hope that’s fine.” I was expecting a catastrophic fight but there was nothing.

I look back at Cami. She is stirred by our commotion and now Cami’s whole body seems tight and tense. “Can you help me with Cami?” I ask, quickly changing the subject. A wave of nausea comes over me. I don’t know if it is this huge weight that has been lifted that I no longer have to hide my Islam from her or fear about Cami or this pot of coffee sloshing around in my stomach.

“Shouldn’t you just leave her there?” my mom says.

“I was supposed to keep her walking and now she has stopped.”

“You’re kidding. Why would you walk her?”

“Mom, she has colic.”

“Colic? Are you blind? She’s about to have a baby!”

I finally look at Cami and see that her swollen stomach is not colic, but pregnancy.

“Must have happened when you let her out for the fair. Congratulations Cora, you’re going to be a grandmother!” She laughs to herself, and deep lines on her face move into a joyous expression, which I haven’t seen in many months. Her eyes shine and sparkle. “And to think we never gave her a baby shower. She’ll never forgive us.” She keeps laughing at me and I can only shake my head. “You walked her all night for nothing, how’d you manage that on decaf coffee.”

“Decaf? No wonder I fell asleep.” This makes her laugh even more.

“Well, this isn’t your night, is it?” she keeps smiling as she continues making digs at me as she used to. I think to myself, I got something out of it. I made it, I made it through the night without alcohol.

Dr. Morgan’s truck finally pulls in, it is 4:22 am. I walk wearily to greet her. She is wearing thick brown Carhartt overalls, with a forest green winter jacket over top.

“Miss Cora,” her eyes meet mine, “looks like we both are exhausted.” She grabs the medication box from the truck and the vials inside jingle around.

“Wait, Dr. Morgan, I was wrong, it’s not colic, she’s foaling.”

“Well ain’t that something nice for a change.” She puts the box back into the cab compartment of her truck.

“I guess I’ll check in on her while I’m here.”  She goes to the barn with the light on inside, and that has the door slightly open. The vet sees my mother for the first time since the funeral.  “Mandy, it’s so good to see you.  How have you been?” My mother’s hollowed face tells the answer. Dr. Morgan and my mom became quick friends after we bought the farm. Dr. Morgan and my mom worked together as 4-H volunteers.

“I’m okay, tired, but okay,” my mother responds.

“How is Cami getting on Mandy?”

“She’s having a baby,” my mom responds. Dr. Morgan approaches Cami and does a quick exam and look-over.

“I give her a couple of hours. Cami’s not the one in distress here,” she pauses. “Mandy, are you still riding?”

“Nah,” My mom responds as she starts to sway back and forth, shifting weight from one leg to the next.

“I’ll head out. I’ll come back tomorrow,” Dr. Morgan stands up. “Need anything else?” Dr. Morgan asks. I look at my mom. For some reason, my mom always found veterinarians as more of a doctor for humans than for animals.

“Maybe,” my mother looks down at her riding boots, “I might need help. Without Mark, it has been hard.” She keeps looking down, unable to muster eye contact. “ I feel directionless. And I can’t ride if I don’t know where I’m going. I think I need treatment, it’s pretty bad. Do you know a place?”

“Yah, I know a place. Why don’t I  take you when I come back tomorrow.”

“Mom are you sure? This is so sudden, shouldn’t we plan ….” I start to say.

“I’m ready to change and leave this dark place I’ve been in. If you can change, so can I.”

Dr. Morgan leaves the barn to heads back to her truck and drives away. Her truck tires skid a little as she makes a right onto Highway 5. As she drives off the lack of ‘real’ coffee hits me and I want nothing more than to slip away and call it a night. It must have shown on my face because my mother says,  “I can take over now. Thanks, Cora.”

“Thanks for what?”

“You got me outside, to see the horses, to get help.”

“That wasn’t me who got you outside. That was God.”

Kristen M Kareem is a Muslim convert residing in Minnesota. She graduated from Indiana University with a degree in Anthropology and Biology.