Eve (61 page)

You see where Cain got his madness.

Abel’s head is bloody. Mama kneels beside him, and I whisper,
“Abel, get up. What’s wrong, Abel?” Mama puts her hand over my mouth and says, “Shhh, he cannot hear you, child.”

“Why not?” I bend down over Abel’s face and peer into his eyes.

Mama reaches over to close his eyelids.

“He’s sleeping, is all,” I say, trying to help, but I know whatever Abel’s doing, he’s not sleeping. All the lights in Abel’s body have been snuffed out, leaving behind just his shell.

“Shhh,” says Mama, placing her fingers lightly on my lips. She leans over his body and grabs him up like a baby, rocking him. She doesn’t cry. Instead, she sings him the Garden song. She caresses his sticky matted hair, and she brushes his feathery eyelashes with her finger. I think she is trying to remember his face, what he looked like when he was here.

I’m as quiet as a mouse, because somehow I know that Mama is changed, and I am too. We’ve lost something so big and beautiful, and we’ll never get it back.

Later, Father tells me, “You cannot go back to the city to watch the children, because Cain has done a wicked thing.” He sighs and goes back to packing our baskets. “We have to flee because of him.”

Aya says, “Cain did not care about his heart, and that’s the most important thing in all the world, Dara. Remember that.” Then she’s crying into the stew, and when I say, “Aya, I can help you,” in a soft voice, she says, “Poor Goat. She never saw it coming. Neither did Abel, and what did I do? … I ran away.” Her chin is raining teardrops.

I say, “Maybe Goat and Turtle and Abel live together in the sky now,” and Aya laughs even though she’s crying.

Mama will not speak to Cain. She won’t even sit around the fire at repast; she asks Aya to bring it to her room.

Jacan does not act like himself anymore. He is tougher, meaner. I heard him say to Father, “We were stupid. All along we were worried about the lion, when really it was Cain. But still, I don’t understand, because Abel can kill with one shot. How did Cain get the better of him?”

And Aya, who was throwing her dough onto the sides of the
tinûru,
snorted and said, “He was ambushed, that’s how.”

And Jacan spit on the ground and said, “I
hate
Cain,” and Father said, “Hate only hurts you, not the person that it’s intended for,” and Jacan said, “But he’s a bad man, and he’s taken”—he began to choke on his sobs—“my brother … away … and now I am alone up in the hills… and I keep hearing his voice in the wind.”

I took the agate that I was going to give to the baby and went to Jacan and slipped it in between his fingers. He startled and stared down at my stone, but he had no smiles for me. He handed it back and said, “Dara, how can you think about stones when the most awful thing has happened?” and I thought he was probably right. Still, I did not want to spend my days crying, making my eyes and cheeks and stomach hurt. There was no point in doing that. I had to make everyone happy again.

All the butterflies are gone. I cannot find one single one.

I know because I’ve looked, to replace the dead one for Elazar. He is a funny-looking baby with red spots on his cheeks and hair that is red. He sleeps constantly, and he will not open his eyes to let me see what color they are.

Abel had red-brown eyes, like the clay I used for my pottery. I remember.

I am sad because I don’t know where we are going and what we will do for a house and stables and cistern like ours. Where will I get my clay and will Turtle, my buried Turtle, be lonely, be washed away by the rains?

If Abel is dead only for a short time, and his eyes open and he starts breathing again, how will he find us?

Maybe we will go to Elohim’s Garden, where Mama and Father are from.
Then
Abel will know right where to find us.

I have solved Abel’s dream, but I am too late. It is Cain’s dark
face over the cistern. Cain’s evil intentions. And yet. Is my face there too? Because I stirred the waters of Cain’s wrath?

Cain and Naava fled in the night, taking only meager bits of food and water with them. Intentionally they did not tell us where they were going, so that when the men from the city appeared, we would not know how to direct them.

We stood in the courtyard as they prepared to leave. Mother refused to say good-bye to Cain. Father tried to draw her outside, pleading with her, saying that it was the last time she might see her son. She hissed at him, “He is no son of mine.”

Cain heard it all, and his countenance fell. “Let us go,” he said to Naava gruffly.

“Wait,” said Naava. She went inside to Mother then, and soon Mother emerged in the lamplight, her face swollen and red.

“Well, then,” she said, smacking her hands together, as if to wash her hands clean of them. But she didn’t have a chance to finish her thought, because Cain fell before her, groveling. He kissed her feet.

“Mother,” he said. “I… I’m sorry. Please”—he raised his pleading face
to hers—“if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be grateful. Please, Mother.” The stillness thudded around us. “I have been damned by Elohim,” he croaked. “Not you too. I could not bear it.”

After a long drawn-out silence, Mother finally said, “Forgive? How can I forgive such a thing?” Her words hung like little clouds in the air. It was as though she were saying them just to see them, savor them, contemplate them.

Naava knelt too, beside Cain. To see these two—Cain and Naava—in this fashion gave us all pause, and the image would stick in our memories forever.

Naava blurted out, “Elohim forgave you and Father, did He not? He would want you to forgive us… to give us your blessing.”

Naava’s words stung Mother—we could all see it. Mother put her hand up to her throat, as though she were choking. “Elohim,” she finally said, as though she had misplaced Him. She reached down slowly and put her hands on Cain’s and Naava’s heads. “My children … my sweet children, I will do what you’ve asked. I can only forgive you as Elohim has forgiven your father and me. I bless you.” She paused and seemed to search for words. “May you find life that sustains, companionship that keeps giving, and children who love you.” She lifted her hands quickly and darted back inside.

Cain stood and went to Father, to kiss him on both cheeks. “I am sorry,” he said, “to have caused you so much pain.” Father nodded but said nothing. Instead, he hung his head and wept silently. Every once in a while he would glance up, squint into the distance, then look back to the parting couple.

Despite her humble gestures, Naava seemed almost herself, but slightly blunted. Her eyes and nose were red with weeping. When I hugged her good-bye, she whispered in my ear, “I will still become great. Just you watch.”

I couldn’t help myself. “You’ve made a good start,” I said, pulling away from her.

Aside from his brief apologies to our parents, Cain’s demeanor had hardened like Dara’s clay pots. As they left, he yelled back, “You can have your God who plays favorites. I shall find my own.” And as the yellow
moon rose in the sky, Cain and Naava vanished like dark shadows into the night. The air grew as heavy as bread dough, and the silence pounded in my ears.

I never saw Cain again.

I did on one occasion see Cain and Naava’s son, Enoch, from a distance, when I visited the city Cain had named after him. I knew who Enoch was only because he was pointed out to me as Cain’s son. He had the wild hair and nervous habits of his father. I thought of engaging him in conversation and introducing myself, but he was berating another man for not carving quickly enough, and I did not want to interfere or discover with certainty that he was as ill-tempered as Cain.

It is strange how traits like this are seen for many generations, even though one does not intentionally pass them on to sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters.