by Tosca Lee
I sighed. “You must make your appeal to the One. Go make a sacrifice on the altar and surrender everything—even your son—to the One’s keeping.”
“And what if,” he whispered, his eyes red, “the One should take him?”
“The mind of man cannot know the fairness of God. I cannot tell you anything to soothe you—only that the One knows what the One will do. And if you try to force his hand, it will bring you only to disaster.”
He did as I said, lying prostrate for two days before the altar. On the third day, Enosh woke and called for his father and for food. Shet arose, his face shining.
My heart leapt upon seeing it—could it be? But I did not ask. If it was to be, if this was the seed promised by the One, it would come about in the fullness of time. Still, I hoped it was soon. The adam already moved more slowly than before. And we had lost so many.
The next fall, fever went round the settlement again. I was relieved for Shet that Enosh remained strong. But Ashira caught it and lay in bed for weeks, her daughter going out to tend the mothers in delivery. Ashira recovered and began her practice again but never was as healthy or as strong after that. The next winter Ashira caught another fever, this time in her lungs, and died.
Lahat closed his one eye in grief, then disappeared after she was buried. We all worried for him. He was always a slight man, a thinker more than ever a hunter or farmer. But he returned three days later, his beard grizzled, his feet caked and split, his hands scraped, and his hair torn. And when he had washed himself and put on a clean tunic, he did not speak of it again. He never took another woman but dedicated himself to the engineering of canals and the making of ovens. He never made another pot, either, which was just as well with me.
That season, as the first storms of spring threatened rain, Lila stood up abruptly from her loom. She pulled the pegs from the frame with a violent tearing and threw them, one by one, out the door. Elied, playing underfoot, started to cry, but Lila did not bother to shush him.
Nor did she ever weave again.
At dawn I might find her standing near the river. Sometimes someone would sight her upon a hill. But no one asked her what she looked for. And my heart mourned because I knew for whom she waited.
How strange is the One, who hears the cry of our hearts always but hearkens to it sometimes not at all and other times in ways we cannot fathom.
A YEAR LATER A small band of travelers came from the north. They carried with them the strange hawk insignia of their god, offensive to me. But most important, they bore the message I had hoped, it seemed, all my life to hear: Kayin was coming.
I did not know my heart could take such flight. And even the adam’s step—stiffer of late—fell more lightly than I had seen it in decades. We gave orders for an area to be cleared for his people and animals. They were not coming in their great numbers, but we made room for them all and prepared for a feast. Choice lambs were marked for sacrifice, and others for food. Gone were the days of eating no flesh. The flesh that had sustained us in drought and famine had never left our diets but only fattened us now in times of plenty.
I wondered if Kayin would find it strange that the men were in the field and with the hunt and flocks, the women weaving and cooking. The trophies belonged these days to the men, who struck their deals without a woman’s opinion, even trading among themselves for wives.
One day, shortly before Kayin and his clan arrived, I overheard a woman telling a story near the well.
“The first brother was haughty and proud. And the second brother lovely and humble. And the first brother did not want to give to the One his due—that is, the flesh of a lamb, as the One must have flesh to live. Instead, he was proud and came boasting to the altar of his own work, but the younger one brought the lamb. So the One favored the younger one and let him hear his voice. And he was a great saint, and his brother was jealous—”
I intentionally passed between her and the well.
“Mother!” She bowed her head.
“Kayin wanted only approval. And Hevel was no saint,” I said. “Only a man.”
For days I lived in a heightened state, waiting for one of the young men Adam had sent to say they had been sighted—that my son was coming.
On the day the young man came shouting, I thought my heart would burst. As families gathered on the edge of the settlement, I was filled with anticipation and anxiety—and forgiveness and love and hope.
At my side stood the adam, plainly aware of nothing but the approaching figures on the horizon. An old man walked at their head, a walking stick in his hand.
At sight of him, Adam cried out and started walking quickly toward them. But before he had gotten twenty paces, he broke into a run. His breath was ragged in his chest, his voice coming out in panting gasps. I know, because I found my legs churning beneath me as I broke into a run at his side. As we got closer, the figure at the front—wind-tanned with wild hair and beard—hesitated, almost stopped, and then hurried forward several steps before being engulfed by his father’s arms.
I had not heard such sobs, such sounds from Adam, in centuries. He clasped his firstborn, arms wound around his neck, and I thought he might lift him up off the ground. I did not know if he laughed or cried as I gained them, hands pressed to my mouth as I watched them together.
Surely the dwelling-house of God is like this.
At last Adam released him, and Kayin lifted his head. It was grizzled, his face worn into crags like a rock cliff by the wind, every hardship, every heartache, every long day and lonely year of his solitude etched into his skin. His hands were no longer the slender and beautiful hands of the man I knew but gnarled and bent. His clothes were rich, but it was as finery hung on the leathery bark of a tree.
Anyone seeing them together would have thought Kayin the father and Adam the son. I cried not only in my joy at seeing him but in my sorrow for the obvious burden of his life upon him.
Upon seeing me, his expression softened, some of the lines lessening around his eyes as he clasped my hands and dropped to his knees before me.
“Mother.”
I am the waterfall that gushes without reserve, pouring out in one torrent her love and life and sorrow without cease.
We walked back, the three of us, my arm around my son, Adam removing his fine cloak—the last woven by Lila—to lay it over his shoulders. I did not think I could be happier. I did not think it possible—except had Hevel been with us.
Kayin’s head was wrapped in such a way that the mark was covered on his forehead, but even so when I looked at him, I felt a twinge of shame. Seeing me flinch, he looked away.
I resolved never to let him see my reaction again. Of course by then it was too late.
We came back into the settlement surrounded by a multitude. As we arrived at the house, we were met by a shadow, silent and slender, a white streak in her hair. She stood in the doorway. I remembered anew the day that Kayin had come to our settlement and Ashira had spat at him and Lila had not looked up from her pegs. But now her pegs were gone, her art left to the hands of others. As we drew nearer, she came out of the house, walking slowly.
How lovely she is, still, I thought.
Her hair was down past her knees and unbound, free from the plaits in which she normally kept it. She wore a simple garment of her own design, and there was none on the earth to rival it. Her feet were bare. How slowly she came out to stand before her brother, to take in the lines upon his face, the dark tanning of his skin, the weariness in his eyes.
“Brother.” Her voice was still silken—I had nearly forgotten, we had heard it so seldom of late. Behind her Naarit held Elied by the hand.
“Lila,” Kayin said, his voice as dry as the desert.
“Come in and refresh yourself after your long journey.”
I knew she did not mean his travels here. She took his arm and led him inside, as young Elied watched with wide eyes.
I considered those who had followed us to our house. I saw how their eyes followe
d him, but they stared as much for the fact that Kayin himself was our eldest son as for the legend about him. Here was the dark firstborn, the son of strife. And now he was a grizzled old man.
I forgot my responsibilities, leaving them on the shoulders of others, jealously hoarding time with my son. When we sat alone by the river to eat the cakes and cheese Naarit had prepared for us, there were no accusations from Adam. There was only contentment—made richer because it was fleeting—such as we had not known in years.
I took him back by way of the burial ground, which was filling slowly with the bodies of my children taken by famine or accident or strife. There lay the body of Ashira. I did not look as he fell down over it. I could not bear the sound of his cries, which he made no effort to mute. “Forgive me, my sister! Forgive me!”
He came back late that night, haggard, ate nothing, and lay down to sleep.
The next day he told us that Renana stayed in her home, preferring never to leave it. I sensed relief and resignation on Kayin’s part.
It is not easy, being a woman. He knows it from my life but not from hers.
Kayin’s children were wealthy, all of them, not only in animals but in crops and tools and ornament, so much so that artisans in the city might stay at their wheel or loom or forge and trade their work for bread.
“But there is strife where there are so many,” Kayin said. “And there are outlaws who are punished and sometimes killed. Many of them run off before they can come to justice—south, to live and hide in the marshes.”
How surreal. How strange to hear of discord, of brokenness, from this one.
Asa came in just then and came to sit with us. Kayin turned to him. “How are your flocks, Brother?”
I saw the younger man’s chest lift a little, though his eyes were wide upon Kayin before him.
After that, Lila came to the door of the house, and Kayin got up and excused himself to go out with her.
31
Kayin had brought only a small band with him, some twelve of the more than forty that usually traveled with him. In their manner, in the way they moved, I saw the staunch limbs of those who stand against the wind and then move with it. Who live and grab at happiness with abandon and desperation, seeking pleasure in whatever form it may come. They were watched, curiously, sometimes with slatted eyes and sometimes with envy, by everyone. Some in our city held back their children or ordered them to go inside, thinking we couldn’t hear them whenever we walked by. Others bowed to him and called him “Brother” or “Father.” As strange as it was to hear this of him, I supposed it was true.
At night Kayin’s clan shared their music and wine. For the first time in years, I drank, no longer so austere. I was an old woman, and I would make my excuses only to God. That night I moved, borne on the flames of the fire. I was young again, invigorated by drink and feasting and music but borne aloft by the presence of my son, first of my womb, the embodiment of Adam and I as one. I danced the dance of the girl who ran in the orchard. I danced the dance of the mother who cradles the lifeless body of her son in her arms.
“Mother?” Strong arms—stronger than I had thought them—enveloped me, and a grizzled head bent to whisper. “Mother? Are you all right? You are weeping.”
“I am well. I am well. I am borne down by the sorrows—but also the joys—of too many years. I am happy to see you, my son, before I die.”
“Don’t talk so! You will live forever.”
“No, my son, I will not,” I said gently, touching his cheek. “Nor would I wish to.”
Not like this.
WE GAVE A SACRIFICE on the altar, and Kayin, though he stood reverently by, would take no part in the ritual at all. His companions did likewise, until the fire came and digested the lamb. When they went away, I saw in their eyes the wonder of what they had seen.
Had they no idea of this worship of the God of their fathers?
There was a woman among them, a storyteller, and I could tell by the way she spoke and moved that she was revered for this art and that it was the reason for her placement among Kayin’s immediate companions. Their stories were not the same as any I had heard before, but one night and one story in particular set my heart beating at a quick trip: a tale of mountain gates, with a river like a vein that flowed between them, the waters rising out of the volcanic abyss. Beside the river lived elemental gods—fire, storm, lightning, and earthquake—which protected the gate and kept all men at bay.
I knew these were not gods but the guardians of the valley, sent by the One.
“What is this place that your storyteller speaks of,” I asked Kayin, drawing him aside.
“It is only a legend, Mother.”
“As are you, and yet here you stand.”
“Yes, but men have laid eyes upon me.”
“And surely someone has laid eyes upon the gates she speaks of.”
“Do you believe in the gods of thunder and earthquake and lightning, Mother? You, who heard the voice of the One as surely as I once heard it?” Bitterness crept into his eyes, and I saw the same look that he had given once to his father. “And yes, they have laid eyes on me. I see the way they fear me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“They do. Even Father fears me a little bit. He was always jealous of your love for me and of my longing for you.”
“Stop this.”
“Even now, Mother?” he sighed. “And so we will make pleasant conversation, and I will tell you about the exploits of my great-great-sons instead, though many of them are lawless—lawless as only the sons of Kayin can be—and others are brilliant and genius artists. Shall we talk of that?”
“Do not mock me. Oh, Son, do not let us talk like this!” I lay my arm around him. “Only tell me, because I must know, of this mountain pass.”
He spoke gently then. “I have roamed every bit of the land north of here, to the mountains until they are impassable, and east to the sea. Did you know how blue the ocean is, Mother? But I suppose you have seen it in your dreams, as you told me long ago. I have roamed as far west as the desert, and there are many passes. And I remembered your stories, and I have looked long—so long!—for this land you speak of, until I came to think that it might only be a legend after all, something that does not exist, if it ever did, in this world.”
“It does exist!” But even as I said it, I wondered.
“Very well, then, if you say. But I have not found your valley. And the mountains to the north—there is always thunder and often earthquakes, and there is lightning like fire.”
Just then Lila appeared on silent feet. How gentle—and grateful—were his eyes upon her. I went away, leaving them alone, my heart unsettled.
Less than a month after Kayin’s arrival, he began to fidget when he was sitting and to sit for shorter periods of time. He paced and went away to the river often.
I found myself trying to distract him, bringing new relatives that he hadn’t met yet or showing him gifts from the city of Hanokh, the likes of which he had surely seen before.
Out of the same desperation to keep him, if only for a few more days, his father took him to the wall to talk about the restructuring of it, for it needed to be expanded. The next day Kayin took Elied with him to the pasture, and I thought it might stay his wanderlust, but that night he fell silent before my hearth. The embers glowed orange upon his face, casting shadows under his eyes.
“In the morning, Mother, I must go.”
I held still. “If you must, Son.”
Very softly: “I must.”
I fell down to my knees beside him. “But why? What is it that compels you to go rather than stay? Only three more days. At least that, if you cannot more.”
He shook his grizzled head and said roughly, “I am chased by ghosts. By specters of the past and by shame. My only relief is to move. I wonder if I might be mad—I saw a madman once at the gate of Hanokh, talking to himself and batting at the air, muttering about serpents, of all things—”
I blinked.
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“And I wonder that I am not the same as that man. Besides, I see the way that everyone looks at me, and though I have long ceased caring, it wearies me. The mark—it burns, Mother. It burns, and only the air can relieve me of it, but I dare not uncover it before strangers. I cannot bear to see their faces, the way they cringe back in horror, as I have seen so many times. Even when a man has raised his arm against me to strike me, and another his spear to kill me for a murderer and to keep me from his settlement when I would have had only water from the well, I saw the way they fell back when I pulled off my covering, and covered their own heads as though burned.”
My heart ached for him. I would have taken the burden of the mark from him and taken it gladly. I would have taken the guilt of his murder, even, had I been able, if only to give him a day’s relief. Barring that, I thought for the first time that it might have been a mercy after all had the One not given it to him. At least then he need not suffer.
The next day Kayin came for our blessing. How readily we gave it. Lila was at his side, in her sturdiest sandals. Her pegs lay in the house, abandoned.
“Blessed be your feet, though they carry you from me,” I said, through tears. Though I was glad for her, I mourned for myself.
We walked them to the edge of the settlement. Though we stood together, advancing no farther as they walked toward the horizon, my heart ran after them. I knew that the spirit of the adam had already gone on with them, though he stood rooted to my side.
I thought I should be grateful for the children surrounding me, of Asa and Shet and Elied. They are the children of this life. Of my older age. But Kayin and Lila were the children of my first life.
I heard, when the traders came a year later, that Renana welcomed her sister. But less than a month later she threw herself from the city wall. She had been unwell, they said, and I thought only, in the wild grief of my heart, that something, an evil spirit, had surely taken her. No normal person would do such a thing. I wailed and beat my breasts and cried for my children.
