Cain: The Story of the First Murder and the Birth of an Unstoppable Evil

by McPherson, Brennan

  “Gillian.” His eyes burned. “My children.”

  He heard a low moan, almost imperceptible beneath the hissing and shuffling of the Jinn. He wondered if it had been real, but there it was again. He sprinted forward and the Jinn parted. There, only a few yards ahead, lay a pile of mangled bodies. His head shook before he realized the need to deny what he saw. The hammer fell from his hands. “No.”

  The Jinn were hissing and staring, but they did not reach for him. He let his gaze fall on the largest of the bodies. It was piled over the others as if even in death attempting to protect those beneath it.

  “Gillian,” he whispered, and his knees slid in the blood as he worked his shaking hands under his son’s back. The face had been torn from the skull and hung in tatters, and Lukian let his face fall on his son’s red-soaked breast.

  “My beloved son.” And the hissing grew as he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of Gillian’s life fade in the chill of the air.

  33

  The Jinn’s head jerked. Gorban examined the trunk-like fingers wrapped around the Jinn’s skull and watched as it rose and flew out of sight. A figure towered over him, reached down, and pulled him to his feet. “Mason?” Gorban wondered if what he saw was real because the man seemed wraith-like in the mist. But Mason nodded and motioned toward Gorban’s leg, which was badly wounded.

  Gorban blinked. “I can manage.”

  Mason turned him from the sounds of battle, and though the Fog clouded Gorban’s vision, he understood well enough.

  “I’m not leaving,” Gorban said.

  Mason shoved him, and he fell. The jolt shocked the breath from his chest. He struggled to stand and scrambled for insults, but Mason was already sprinting away, disappearing into the mist.

  The screams and moans of the wounded bubbled from the Fog like water from a spring, and the fear he should have felt came like a late moon peeking through cloud cover. Death was everywhere. Gorban wondered how many of his brethren lay dead or holding to life’s final strands. Who would retrieve them? Who would patch their wounds?

  Who will bandage my wounds?

  He swallowed and looked where he knew the Temple should be, though the Fog concealed it. Then he braced himself and started toward it.

  Lukian wiped his face, but blood and bone replaced the sweat and dust. His eyes burned and his throat ached. His lips shuddered, but he could not weep. His knuckles ached against the handle of his weapon, but as he stood, his senses numbed. He saw, as if the scene were happening before him, Calebna, Terah, and Jacob resting against the wall of the Temple, rolling out the last of the bread. They reached for it with porcelain fingers, pinching fibrous lumps, and dunking them in a bowl of wine before letting the red juice stain their lips.

  Lukian stood over his dead children in a field of blood and shadow. No wine to wet his tongue. No food to fill his stomach. No children, no legacy.

  The monstrous half-breeds backed away until their eyes were floating flames in the cauldron of Fog. He felt a prick at his neck, and after slapping at it, brought his hand away with two pinpricks of red. He lifted the hammer to look at its gory edge. A putrid scent pinched his nostrils and stabbed his throat. He almost coughed, but instead brought the hammer level with his mouth. He leaned forward and waited, lips parted inches from the edge of the weapon. Rage bubbled up his throat from his stomach, and he shuddered as he fought against a desire he had never before felt.

  No wine for the eldest son of Cain. Only blood to quench his thirst.

  He pressed the metal against his face and sucked, letting the cold gel fill his teeth and stick to his face. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as he dropped his hammer, feeling blood drip from his chin as he swallowed the rot and stifled his repulsion.

  Repulsion. The soul’s attitude toward the world it is ushered into, screaming and kicking and covered in …

  Blood. It was everything and everywhere as the Fog whirled in violent eddies. He spread his arms, wondering if this was how his father felt as he killed Abel. He knew somewhere in a deep corner of his mind that this was insanity, but for the first time, he felt freed of worry. He held no concern for the future, no fear of death or pain. He simply felt the desire—the need—to consume life.

  He should feel sorrow. But could sorrow bring breath back to his children’s lungs? Could sorrow bring retribution to those responsible for their deaths?

  In the case of the latter, deadly desire could. And would.

  He opened his palms and let rage pour into him like a mixture of stimulant and opiate. He wondered at it. How had he known the proper response was to accept this moment?

  And yet he knew, and dared not question it again for fear it would break the evolution. He rubbed the stinging spot on his neck and brought the hand away, smeared with thin red lines. He thought he saw a pair of silver eyes glint in the Fog, then the pain disappeared and his body shook with rage. He wrestled a rising panic to fight the shift inside him.

  Run. Don’t let this desire take bed in your soul.

  He bit his tongue and lost himself in red waters.

  Calebna kneeled and bowed, his eyes closed more to avoid looking at the empty throne than to charge the words spilling from his tongue with passion. For he felt no passion, no emotion, no life. All was cold ritual, and he allowed it to pass through him.

  “Our Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom live, your kingdom grow, on earth as it has in heaven. Give us today our daily bread, and forgive us our sins as we …” He faltered. “As we forgive those who sin against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  He thought to stand, but remained kneeling. His eyes opened and focused on the throne’s square form. The candles burning on either side melted to the floor, their stump figures slouching with long trails like swollen scars. He smelled the familiar incense, felt the weight of priestly robes, lifted his hands, and closed his eyes. He breathed the words, “I have been faithful to you, as has my family. We have followed you even in the midst of great tribulation and confusion, even as we placed your elements in a tomb. So I ask you to send me a sign. Give me hope where I have none.”

  For a long moment, his arms floated weightless. Then they descended toward the floor and the sleeves swallowed his hands.

  Did it please the Almighty to see his children fall and wallow in the consequences of others’ decisions?

  Calebna straightened his shoulders and pursed his lips. “I am good. I am a good man.” He wiped his hands and stood, then licked his finger and thumb to extinguish the candles one by one, watching the curling trails of smoke float to the ceiling. He swiveled, hesitated, and bowed before turning to leave.

  The door was heavy and shut hard behind him, but the cool air in the hallway lightened his lungs. As he passed open doorways, gazes trailed him and a few people called out, asking if the Almighty would save them, but the voices wrestling in the vestibule ahead drew his attention.

  As he entered the vestibule, Terah, Keshra, Peth, and two other women stood around a figure lying beside one of the golden lampstands. Terah caught sight of Calebna and said, “Come quickly. It’s Sarah.”

  “What is it?”

  “She is awake.”

  Calebna approached and peered over his wife’s shoulder. Lying on the ground, half propped up by cushions, was Cain’s wife, Sarah. Her bright eyes were salient and she was saying something, but only when the others hushed could he hear her.

  “What has happened?” Sarah said. “Please, someone tell me.”

  Calebna looked at his wife. “You haven’t told her?”

  “She stumbled out of the room and fell here,” Terah said. “We propped her up with cushions and were just discussing what to do.”

  Someone said, “She looks half starved.”

  Another, “Her bones, her skin!”

  Still another, “She smells. Those bandages should have been replaced hours ago.”

  Sarah’s gaze bounced from woman to woman. “Where is Mason
?”

  Lukian’s wife, Keshra, said, “I saw him leave a while ago.”

  Another woman hushed her. “She doesn’t know what that means.”

  Sarah said, “Please, where is he?”

  “He has joined his brothers.” Calebna contemplated Sarah’s malnourished figure. She had been found in the quarry a full day after Abel’s death. Could it be she hadn’t known Cain murdered Abel? He narrowed his eyes and said, “What do you remember?”

  She swallowed and seemed to search her memory. “I don’t know.” She blinked. “I remember waking to Mason and a fire. He gave me water each time and once some food. But I was tired. I seem to have memories of other things, but they are so dim I can hardly grasp their detail.”

  The women were touching her, testing her arms and legs.

  “Give her space.” Calebna pushed them back and crouched. “How do you feel?”

  She pulled spider-web hair behind her ear and said, “I’m thirsty, and I hurt.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I feel strange.”

  “You’ve been sleeping on and off for fifteen days.”

  Her eyes widened, then she glared as if he were lying.

  “You were asleep so long many declared you already dead, but none of us had known of your waking. It’s a pity Mason can’t speak. We almost gave up on you, though I suppose now we know why Mason never did.”

  She swallowed and looked at the hanging tapestries, the marble triangles in the floor, the gold walls and vaulted ceiling. She didn’t appear to recognize her surroundings. “What has happened?”

  Calebna and his wife exchanged a wary glance, and at that moment the door of the Temple burst open. They turned as Gorban hobbled in with heaving chest, and after a few hurried steps, he toppled with a moan and clapped his wrists on the stone. Gorban’s wife, Peth, screamed and placed her hand over her mouth. Others whispered, their eyes wide.

  Calebna looked at Terah. “Who unsealed the door?”

  “I did,” Keshra said.

  Calebna’s neck grew hot. “Why would you do such a thing? You fool!”

  “No door can keep the Jinn away,” Terah said.

  “It will if the Almighty tells us it will.”

  Peth ran to Gorban and knelt beside him, whispering words of comfort, though he hushed her, already overwhelmed with pain.

  Sarah’s face paled. “Gorban? My son. What is happening?”

  Calebna grimaced and walked to Gorban. Peth helped him lie on his back, but his leg was mangled and beneath it grew a puddle of blood. “Have your weapons failed you?” Calebna said.

  “We need your help,” Gorban said.

  The women began to murmur. Calebna knew they waited for him to speak, but thoughts came to him of the cruel pride of Lukian’s speech and of Gorban’s arrogant replies at the forge. Calebna’s chest rose and his shoulders angled back. “You knew the cost you might pay for choosing violence over peace.”

  “I’m not asking you to fight.”

  “Then what?” The sight of Gorban’s blood in such a place dried Calebna’s mouth and thickened his tongue. He defiles the Temple with his very presence.

  “The wounded. They need help.” His chest crackled as he coughed, and Peth rubbed his back.

  “You ask us to place ourselves in danger for your sakes, but why should we bear the repercussions for your sins?”

  “They will die on their own, but we might be able to save some if we move quickly.” He gazed at Calebna as if gauging his resolve, wiped his hands on his tunic, and slipped in the blood as he tried to stand.

  “Help him!” Sarah said.

  Gorban’s eyes widened as he noticed his mother for the first time.

  Terah hurried to Gorban and braced his right side as Peth braced his left in preparation to help him stand, but Calebna held out his hand. “Stop.”

  “But he’s wounded,” Terah said.

  Peth tried lifting him, but Terah did not follow, and so Peth had to set him down slowly.

  Calebna thought of the danger of aiding the children of Cain, of the ability of sin to spread its defilement. He thought of the many prayers and sacrifices he had offered for the safety of his family, and the thought of letting them die in an attempt to reverse one man’s deserved punishment filled him with disgust. “Let him lie in the bed he’s made.”

  “What?” Sarah said. “Why won’t you help my son?”

  Terah’s hands remained under Gorban’s arm as she eyed her husband.

  Calebna turned from them. He knew what giving in to anger would do. He needed to keep their trust, but they did not understand the depth of this decision. The depth of their danger.

  Gorban shook his head. “You sent us out like sacrifices.”

  “We chose life, you chose death. We all are in the hands of the Almighty. Pray for forgiveness and he may yet deliver you.”

  Gorban laughed. “You blind fool. Have you not noticed anyone missing?”

  The women’s whispers grew.

  Calebna twisted back, his calves tensing. “Don’t test my patience.”

  “Philo and Tuor offered their help. We could not refuse it.”

  Terah stepped back. “My brothers?”

  Gorban clenched the cloth around his leg and winced as Peth repositioned him. “They, at least, were man enough to fight.”

  “Is it true?” Terah asked.

  “He is lying,” Calebna said.

  Peth said, “My husband is no liar.” Keshra agreed.

  “Would you help them and not me?” Gorban coughed and his face reddened.

  “Silence!” Calebna said, and the women hushed.

  Gorban laid back and shut his eyes as Peth dabbed away the dirty blood. He took a deep breath and said, “Look for your brothers. You will not find them.”

  Calebna swiveled on his heel and shouldered past Jacob, who was just entering the vestibule, likely drawn by the sounds of their heated discussion. Calebna sped down the hallway, searched every room, and asked everyone he saw if they had seen Philo or Tuor. None had. The boys’ rooms were empty, and the last time anyone had seen them had been the day before.

  As much as Calebna could not admit it, he felt the terrible possibility grow in his mind. He wanted to scream and curse. He wanted to rage at the Almighty for allowing such stupidity.

  To be betrayed by his own brothers …

  He steadied himself against the wall of Philo’s room and searched it once more for signs. It was disheveled, as if hastily sorted through. As High Priest, Calebna had been tasked with the responsibility of bridging the space between man and God. With understanding the mysteries of the Almighty so that he could, in some way, aid the people to walk between the lines. But their lives were in chaos.

  He lifted his chin and breathed. If they had left, if they were really out there wounded and dying, then he would do nothing. He closed his eyes.

  Let them be condemned.

  He nodded slowly and let the truth settle in the cracks of his soul.

  Let Judgment reign.

  34

  Lukian’s fingernails ached. Bloody flesh stuck out from them like so many feathers, and he did not know where he was or how he had come to be there. He simply remembered the moments before plunging into the red waters of rage and violence, and letting them penetrate his soul.

  He raised his hammer to get a better look at it. How many had he killed?

  A body crawled through a pool of blood. Lukian turned and squinted through the Fog, but could not make it out. He approached, realizing the weakness in his limbs as the curtain of Fog rolled back from animal-like carcasses littering the soaked field. The corpses formed a wall around the crawling body who he recognized was Philo.

  Lukian’s first compulsion was to kill the boy, and had the inclination been stronger, he might have, but cold logic chilled the burning desire. He watched Philo struggle. The boy’s right arm had been replaced by a bloody stump, but Lukian knew the gore Philo lay in was more than just his own.
/>   What better tool to use against Calebna than his own brother?

  He shook his head and frowned. What had he done by allowing the rage to pour into him?

  Tears drew flesh-colored streaks across Philo’s blackened cheeks. “I failed,” he mumbled. “I failed, I …” He ran the fingers of his only hand through a human corpse’s hair. “I failed you. God forgive me.”

  Lukian hopped the wall of dead bodies and felt a stirring in his abdomen. The boy jumped upon seeing him and cried out, but Lukian knelt and clamped his hand over his mouth. “They’ll hear you and kill us. Is that what you want?”

  The boy’s eyes were animal-wide.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Philo nodded.

  “Will you be quiet if I release you?”

  Philo nodded again, but Lukian clamped his mouth harder and said, “If you scream, I will kill you.”

  The boy’s eyes jerked and filled with tears.

  Lukian took his hand away.

  The boy began mumbling at once. “My little brother, Tuor. What have I done, cousin? He wanted to stay, but I pushed him. He was afraid. He was …”

  “You did well. You must know that,” Lukian said.

  “I said terrible things to make him come.”

  “You were strong. Your brother was weak like your father. But you are different.” Lukian licked his lips and stayed his shaking hands from the boy’s blood. Why did he want to taste it?

  Philo blinked pale eyelids. Dark liquid oozed down his side from the stump of his arm. His eyes glazed. “No … I …”

  Sweat ran down Lukian’s neck. “Your life is leaving you, but you’ve been brave. Will you be brave for me now?”

  Philo’s forehead creased, and his eyes closed. He clamped his jaw and nodded.

  “You were a good brother.” Lukian resisted no longer. He reached up, grabbed Philo’s throat, and squeezed until the boy’s eyes bulged. “Be still,” he whispered. “Be still.” He slid his knee onto Philo’s chest and watched unblinking, feeling mild curiosity and a strange connection to Cain. The boy’s eyelids closed over bloodshot white, and he convulsed and went still.