Cain put his hand on Henoch’s shoulder, a gesture that elicited a violent start from the boy: they were not a family much given to displays of physical affection, and Cain suspected that—son or no son—Henoch was perfectly aware of what his sire’s hands were reputed to have done. To blood kin, no less.
And a man who could kill his own brother . . .
—Look, Cain said, a bit louder than necessary. As if drowning out the startled wail of his own unpleasant thoughts. He guided Henoch to the little clearing that fronted the hut, and with a sweep of his arm illustrated his tour of the surrounding country.—To the east, the ocean’s natural bay is ideal for the traders from across the water. We shall build some piers there. The grassland to the south is perfect to grow whatever crops we want.
Henoch protested, We already have all we need.
—Not for us. For the people who come to live in the city.
—I see, said Henoch, though it was obvious he didn’t.
—To the west run the caravan routes, continued Cain. A flicker of something cut across his eyes, and for a moment he looked—wistful? Nostalgic? Bitter?—There is much we’ll barter for, once we have workshops of our own.
—What will the workshops make?
Cain pointed to the forest in the north.—Furniture and carvings. Ceramics from the river clay. Copper, if we can find it, for kitchen items. We’ll need workshops in that area, and a wide avenue to the harbor, and a bazaar, and over there—he gestured vaguely—some sort of caravanserai.
Henoch nodded thoughtfully.—And people, he said at length.
—Indeed. People with the skill to make all this happen.
—Weavers, suggested Henoch.—Leatherworkers.
—Fine idea, Cain nodded.—Weavers it is. We’ll need to grow flax then, and raise goats if you’re serious about the leather.
—Sure I am.
—We have much labor to look forward to then. Cain risked another pat on the boy’s shoulder, and this time he didn’t jump.—But together we’ll make light work of it. When we’re through, a proper home is what we’ll have.
Henoch stood frowning, taking it all in, and Cain wondered if he could give it shape in his head. He hoped so. Henoch was a practical youth, good with his hands, precise in his eye, and if not strong for his age, then at least willing to work; but visualizing things he’d never actually witnessed was not a habit in him. Cain on the other hand imagined things all the time: his brother’s thoughts as he flew to his doom; his father’s expression upon receiving the news . . .
Suddenly Henoch turned to him, smiling broadly as if those famous, violent hands had been forgotten.
But never—Cain knew this—for long.
—You’ve given much thought to this project.
Cain nodded: it was true. But as if his day’s quota of truth had been exhausted, a lie then skated off his tongue.—For some time now, I’ve thought of little else.
•
Nearly thirty years later, Henoch slaps his knees, rises with a grunt.—I must go. If we truly are to die tonight, there’s much to finish beforehand.
His son’s odd humor again. Cain forces a thin smile and bestows his standard farewell.—Be productive.
Henoch stands in the doorway hesitantly. There’s an air of concern on his face and Cain wonders if he looks especially awful today. He certainly feels especially awful.
Henoch asks, Is there anything you need?
For a moment Cain considers the answers that spring to mind: There is much I need, but you can’t get it for me. Or more simply, I need your mother. But he is not prone to such maudlin and says only, You are busy, go and don’t mind me.
A moment longer Henoch lingers. Then he is out the door. Cain hears him exhale loudly, as if sighing in relief, but knows too that he is an old man and his ears may be playing tricks on him.
37 thirty years previous
Finally one afternoon, indiscernible from countless other afternoons since his exile began, Cain stops and looks about him. He breathes deep, eyeballs the cove and beach, surveys the grassland with a critical eye. Squints at the forest as if calculating something. The wife and child wait.
—This is far enough, he announces at length.—We’ll stop here.
Zoru glances about her but seems too dazed to take in much of her surroundings. In a voice as gray and washed out as her eyes she asks, For how long?
—For good.
Even this pronouncement fails to stir her. Zoru stops and turns to wait for Henoch, who shambles along two dozen paces behind them. The boy is overcoming a fever and rash, and has lost his customary energy and spirit. Zoru fusses over him, placing her hands on his cheeks while he grumpily protests being treated like a child.
Cain unloads the bags draped across the donkey’s back. They have with them a small tent, a few rough tools of stone and wood and a narrow copper blade for skinning game, some kitchen utensils and blankets. This plus a few lengths of net and twine make up their possessions in this life. The donkey was old when they got it and has traveled hundreds of leagues with them. It is good for perhaps another few months.
They had brought some chickens but they died. They had brought goats that ran off one night when Henoch failed to properly tether them. Cain shuts his eyes at the memory and calms his hands. It was years ago but the episode still rankles.
A voice in his ear whispers, It is long past. Don’t dwell on it.
The family has made camp countless times before, and each knows what is expected. Cain explores the beach, which as he had hoped slopes gently into water so clear as to be nearly colorless. An abundance of fish flutters through it like sedate butterflies, finger-length and brightly colored; a few are large enough to eat. Cain twirls in the sand, his footprints describing little arcs behind him as he casts the net. He hauls the catch ashore and lets the fry wriggle back into the waves, keeping only a pair of silvery-gray grouper longer than his feet. These he tosses onto the sand to spasm and die while he unfurls the net again. Before long he has more than enough for tonight’s supper and tomorrow’s breakfast as well.
He enjoys the work so much he goes on with it, releasing the net and hauling it in, setting the creatures free. His movements are practiced and smooth yet minutely different each time. It might be, Cain reflects, the thing that he has learned how to do best in his entire life.
Zoru has built a fire by the time he returns, while Henoch scavenges more firewood. Henoch had pleaded fatigue and sickness, but Zoru told him to get on with it anyway. Cain approves: fever or no, everybody does his part. But Henoch has passed from the childhood stage of unfettered adoration for his father, and has moved to a difficult point of feeling that every demand on his person is a deeply rooted injustice.
Cain grimaces at the remembered familiarity of that.
He
