The Book of Duels. Michael Garriga

      Abel, 17, Shepherd

      How easy it must be to sit beside a fig tree and let the wind turn your soil and the rain bury your seed and the sun pull your wheat and bean from the field, while here I hold a lonely vigil, watch over the hillside speckled by sheep, wary as ever of hound and hawk, because even though the lion may once have lain with the lamb, as Mother always says, it now devours them as prey—yesterday, I witnessed three lionesses bring down a gazelle and tear its flesh from the bone—it is little wonder to me why Holy Father loved my offering more than his, but not Mother, never Mother—she who loves Cain more than me, loves Cain more than Father, loves Cain indeed more than Holy Father—she strokes his hair and hums as she eats his lavash and lentils and ignores the cheese and yogurt I bring to our table—sometimes in the heat of early morn I smell her in the lambs’ wool as I milk them—last night I dreamt I took a wee one by his hind feet—him jerking and bleating ’gainst the sweat of my arms and chest and I held him up to the heavens and sank my teeth into his throat, the first man ever to taste blood, instead of the flesh of berry and herb and grain—I tore his muscle loose from bone and my jaw ached from the chewing, and when I woke, I ached still and so slaughtered a firstling and rendered his fat and brought it unto the Lord, Who smiled and said it was good, and if it was good enough for Him, then why not for me as well?

      I herd my sheep toward his field and my strange brother, tall and gangly and talking to himself, cries unto me, Your sheep are eating the crops and they are drinking the needed water, and I say, Shut up, shut up, shut up, you goddamn bleating baby, and I shove him hard and he falls to all fours and I jump on his back and oh it feels good to spit the khat from my mouth and drive my teeth into his neck.

      Cain, 19, Farmer

      With the wind in my teeth I howl the first poetry of the world and call each unnamed and new experience the thing it shall be called and I bring forth from the very earth the fruit of my labor conjured so by song—and so it is and so it is good—and I break the earth that God hath made and I plant the seed that God hath given unto me and I adore the sun and I adore the rain and I adore the wind and cry: You, you shall be called emmer and you shall be fava and you, barley, and this the scythe and that the harvest, and I will continue so, even as God shuns my offering and even as my brother turns on me and pushes me into the earth where I spin and smash his head, over and over, until he lies in the dirt and there he dies and I call it murder.

      As I stand in the sun, the flint blade still red in my hand, my own blood runs down my neck and soaks my tunic and my brother’s blood seeps into the mouth of mother earth and my dark skin begins to throb and brighten and glow an ungodly white and I hear His voice again, There is thy mark upon thee, Cain, for all to know thee by thy deed.

      God, Eternal Witness

Children of the Sun: Musashi v. Kojiro

       On the Island of Funajima, Japan,

       April 13, 1612

      Ah, summer grasses! All that remain of the warrior’s dream.

      Miyamoto Musashi, 28,

      Ronin & Future Author of The Book of Five Rings

      My katana cut through his kimono and armor and flesh and when he dropped his steel I turned to the boat and motioned for my team to leave—his seconds surely would have killed us all—and we’ve timed it just so, the tide pulling us out as we paddle steady with the waves, the salt in my beard and the wind in my dress, and we rise and fall with the water, we rise and fall, and the sea carries me back to my village where I am a child, the snow falling softly outside, and I sit with my legs beneath the kotatsu, the coals warming me, and I am crying in my mother’s arms—she squats next to me and strokes my back and says, Shhhh, Saru-chan, shhhh, as I try to describe the dream I’ve just had of sitting by a pond whose surface is covered with lotus leaves, in the middle of which is but one lone bloom, orange and pink and far removed, and I reach for it with tiny fingers and I am stretched long and thin and then topple and splash into the water, beneath whose surface all is darkness and dry, and though I know my father was killed in the Battle of Sekigahara, he now stands before me in a doorway, his hand reaches out to me, yet the closer I move, the tinier he becomes and so I stand still as a mountain and stare for a long long time calling to him, Tousan! Tousan! until he fades into an ultimate light and vanishes, yet I cannot find the words to tell her this, like a flower that blooms at night can never wish for a thing as miraculous and needed as the sun.

      I wake on the boat, the wind blowing us to our destination, and I remember another dream in which I was a warrior who’d been slain in a duel, though perhaps that was no dream—perhaps I am truly the dead man and this voyage but my final dream.

      Sasaki Kojiro, 27,

      Samurai & Founder of the Kenjutsu School

      The heavy rain has soaked my robes and it weighs down my body and my blood is leaving me and so I sit in the moist sand and watch my footprints fill with water, my life being erased one drop at a time, and when I am gone who will remember the things I’ve seen—as a child in my father’s orchard, an albino fox in the branches of a cherry tree, its pink blossoms hiding all but his eyes and we stared at each other motionless till the sun quit the sky; in a still body of water, two snakes gripping a carp in their mouths, one by its tail and one by its head, the three joined into a new self-devouring creature; in Master Toda Seigen’s dojo, him tossing, like a sumo, a handful of purifying salt and catching each grain on the flat blade of his nodachi—and I know I will die now on this island and I try to stay calm, relax my mind, and let my spirit leave this crude vessel, but we all in our folly think we will live more years—even an old man on

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