the three of them watching each other. Cain feels rinsed out and empty, like the skin of an animal that has had all its entrails removed.
He wonders how the hell he has gotten to such a pass.
From far off echoes the inquisitive bleating of a goat.
•
They spend the morning fruitlessly tracking the animals. It’s no use: they have gotten too much of a head start. At midday the family finishes the last of the flatbread and Cain says, No point wasting more time.
—You intend on journeying further? asks Zoru.
—I do.
—Where?
—East.
She sighs thinly.
The boy wanders off to the woods to relieve himself. Cain takes the opportunity to say quietly but urgently, Listen. I know I lost my temper this morning. Maybe I was wrong, but you need to understand—those goats may prove vital.
—Or they may not, she says.
He nods at the possibility.—The point is, I was upset and I may have scared the boy. Perhaps I even scared you. But there was never any danger of anything happening.
She listens without comment.
—Do you understand what I’m saying?
A long silence then as she mulls his words. There are often such pauses between them. Always Cain is reminded of the first such: a silence filled with the creaking of cicadas and frogs from the nighttime darkness.
At length she looks at him and shrugs.
He says thickly, I want to be sure you understand.
Instead of answering him she says, You say we’re moving on. Why? We’ve seen neither habitations nor caravans for months. Haven’t we traveled far enough?
—No, he answers.
He says nothing more, wondering if she’ll pursue this, or if she’ll address his earlier point. Sometimes she does; sometimes not. The boy returns from the woods and regards them both with the expression of a cat that has woken up suddenly.
Zoru asks, What exactly are we looking for?
It is a habit of hers, this saying we instead of you. Cain considers for a time before admitting, I don’t understand your question.
—How will we know when we’ve gone far enough? That we can stop?
Now it is Cain’s turn to gaze around him.—I will know when I get there.
—That’s not much of an answer.
There is a challenge in her voice. Perhaps she thinks it is safe to provoke him while he is still shamed from this morning’s violence. And perhaps she is right. Zoru is an observant woman, Cain knows. She rarely pushes him to display his anger: this morning, when he struck her, was a rare exception. At such moments he is his father’s son all over again—his brother’s brother—and none too proud of it.
—It’s all the answer I’ve got, he mutters, and stands to load up the donkey once again.
35 the proposal
The woman is neither young nor old, neither tall nor short, pretty nor plain. She is, however, slim. And brown, from both the sun and God’s design. Her unruly black curls, threaded with silver, fight to escape the kerchief that struggles to restrain them. Her hands are as shiny as wood and probably just as hard.
Cain sees her fetching water from a well some distance outside a small village. He does not know the name of the village or whether it has a name. Years of wandering have curbed his curiosity about human habitations; he cares only whether they can provide him with basic commodities like food and whether they will treat him with open hostility or with sullen, subdued fear.
There are no other responses. Except one, which he struggles to forget: a narrow boy’s wolflike features, hunkered eagerly over the fire, eyes glittering into Cain’s.—If it wasn’t for you, he’d still be alive right now.
Cain pushes the memory away, hard. Forces himself to focus on the woman.
She is bent over the low stone wall ringing the well, showing her hindquarters off to good effect. Her hips are ample and circular and Cain likes this. Cain has never had much experience with women but when he sets eyes on her generous backside he is filled with un-apologetic lust.
He approaches her and asks for water. She looks at him, sees the mark upon him and looks again. Then she gives him the urn.
He drinks while she watches him. He wipes his mouth and says, You know who I am.
—I know your reputation.
—Then you know I am a dangerous man.
—I know you were said to be such once.
The reply gives him pause, and to conceal this he drinks again although he is no longer thirsty. By the time he finishes he has decided what to say next.
—So you know I am shunned by man and God alike.
With a wry smile she takes the urn from his hands.—Be thankful then that I am neither.
He is quite speechless. As she makes her way along the footpath back to the village, he stands and stares after her. It is possible that his mouth actually hangs open. It has been many years since any woman has chosen to have a civil conversation with him. Perhaps it is this, more than the curling black hair (with a few silver threads) or the generous haunches (round like cushions) that smites him. Or perhaps it is all of these things together, like a circle of palms rising out of the desert heat, wavering on the horizon: a promise of what could be.
•
He follows the woman into the village. People see him and conversations limp away like cripples. Men stand in the fields, sticks and scythes in their hands, and follow him with their eyes. Children cease their games. Women clutch sucklings a little closer. Crows and vultures seem unconcerned, but then, crows and vultures always do.
The woman ducks into a hut at the far edge of the village. Even by local standards it is modest. Walls sag like old ideas, holes gape in the roofing. The bricks are no more than cast-offs, broken pieces that would be discarded by anyone with a choice.
Cain waylays a scared-looking youngster and demands, Who lives there?
Snot dribbles from the urchin’s nose. He wipes it reflexively, recasting the dribble as a shiny smear.—Zoru and her father. He’s blind.
—And the mother?
—Dead.
Cain considers. The boy looks ready to bolt but is perhaps too afraid. Cain asks, This Zoru is unmarried?
—She’s a charity case, the boy answers promptly.—People give her food out of sympathy. No man would have her.
Cain
