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38 the son

The morning before Cain’s last night on earth—the morning before Abel’s final appearance—Cain is visited by his son, Henoch. This is expected. This happens every day.

For many years Henoch has been famous as a builder. He is known as the architect of the city in which his family now lives. Stories tell of how he would dream palaces by night and then construct them by day, hard against the wide straight boulevards from his dreams, interspersed with public plazas and watercourses and covered bazaars and temples and a harbor and plenty of plain ordinary homes for the plain ordinary people of his city. Fishermen and traders and husbandmen and so forth. This grand project had taken many years, starting in virtual obscurity but, as he labored and word of his glorious city spread, attracting all manner of men like gnats to a campfire. Some of these men brought their families and settled in the city and added their skills and industry to its glory. Some of them, predictably, were rabble who added nothing but had much to say.

Henoch was not a boastful man or a proud one but apparently he saw little point in hiding his light under a bushel. So when he completed building his city, he retired from the sight of men for many days to think on its proper name, before finally deciding on: Henoch.

This caused no small amount of glee among the rabble.

—Henoch? they cried.—He’s named the city after himself? What, are all his children named Henoch too?

—And his wife! giggled one.

—And his goats! snickered another.

—And his mother! brayed a third.—And his father too!

At this they fell silent. Everyone knew who Henoch’s father was. No city, regardless of its charm and wonder, could outshine the shadows of that notoriety. No boulevards, no matter how flawless, could make straight a lineage that crooked. No city need ever be named Cain to ensure that name’s preservation for posterity.

—Well anyway, snorted the rabble after it took a moment to collect itself.—Naming it Henoch, there’s presumption for you.

The mystery was: Where was Henoch’s father, anyway? Henoch himself was visible everywhere during those years, sweating through the long humid days, planing boards and firing bricks and carving stone and laying cobbles. A big man with arms as wide as most men are tall. Muscles rippling under his shoulders like angry snakes. He would have intimidated people but for his laugh, which set other men at ease and caused women to wonder why their husbands were not so. Henoch laughed often and liked to remark that this lifted more burdens than his shoulders ever could.

His mother Zoru had died years before, taken off by the plague. People well remembered his grief at that: it had been epic, and all construction had halted for the better part of a year. During that time Henoch’s booming laugh went unheard.

But the old man? No one knew where he’d gone, though rumors abounded that he’d long ago been banished east, east. But east was here, where Henoch had built his city. And so the mystery remained.

What neither the rabble nor the upright citizens knew was that Henoch the man had not designed Henoch the city. Cain had done so, from his hidden lair. Henoch had merely carried out his instructions. The boulevards and bazaars and palaces and plazas were all Cain’s doing. His motivation for this he kept to himself, though Henoch enjoyed the work well enough and could not deny that it had brought him prosperity as well as an unexpected closeness to his moody, difficult father.

The project lasted many years, until one morning Henoch was informed by Cain:—Enough. I am done. Let them finish the rest without me.

—All right, said the son.

Cain went on, There remains only the matter of a name for this place. I have thought long on the subject and have decided it will be named for you.

Henoch’s braying laughter was reminiscent of a kid goat.—Eh?

—The city, his father explained gravely, shall be named Henoch.

Henoch laughed even harder.—What rubbish.

Cain’s expression was that of a man in middling discomfort.—Nonetheless.

—Father, you can’t expect me to go out there and announce to the whole city that they’re to be named after me. What will people think?

Cain met Henoch’s grinning face with a severe look of his own.—I have long since stopped caring what others think, he said.—Of me, or of anything else.

•

This morning Henoch visits his father in his hut in the family compound. Henoch tried for years to convince his father to quit his self-imposed exile and move into the family rooms, but the old man is stubborn as a tortoise and half as expressive. Finally the boy gave up.

Cain refuses the breakfast Henoch brings this morning, saying, I may die tonight.

—So may we all, laughs his son. His expression suggests that the idea does not trouble him greatly—that he would, in fact, take it as something of a lark.

Cain furrows his brows. This glibness of his son has always puzzled him, but a voice in his ear whispers, Let it go.

Henoch is a busy man and Cain knows this. Even with construction ended, there are many demands on his time as first citizen. Crops must be sowed and woodland cleared; merchants approaching from the west must be met and assessed. Disputes over property and marriage and inheritance need settling. There is much assuaging of tempers and coddling of egos. Some days there is time for his father’s indulgent grimness, but this is not one of those days.

Cain does not judge Henoch harshly. Hundreds of times over the years, father has greeted son by mumbling: I may die tonight. There is no way for the boy to know that, this morning of all mornings, the words are true.

Now Henoch says, A caravan approaches from the west.

Cain shrugs as if this gossip is of no concern. The whiskers of his beard nearest his mouth and chin have yellowed with age. As a younger man his hair and beard were yellow as sunlight: it looks almost as if Cain’s younger self has returned after a long absence.

—Perhaps they bring that strange fiber with them, says Henoch.—What do they call it? Cotton.

Cain grunts something noncommittal.

—It’s good for clothes, Henoch continues breezily. When Cain has no answer, he tries again.—This dry spell continues undiminished. The farmers grow concerned about the sowing.

Cain responds as a piece of stone might. Or not so much: even quartz glitters and opal changes as light falls upon them. But his eyes remain pale blue and static as he gazes past the entryway into the morning sky, also pale blue and static. There is no moisture in the air, no promise of rain later. For this time of year, such weather is unusual.

Henoch’s good cheer falters. He stops talking and instead pokes at his teeth with a piece of straw.

Cain’s calm demeanor masks turbulent memories. He is reminded of a similar springtime morning thirty years earlier, equally sunny, equally pale and dry. He wonders if his son would remember as well. Henoch had been little more than a skinny youth when Cain beckoned him to the family’s hut. Already in those days Cain rarely ventured out. The family scratched crops from the ground, netted fish in the bay and drew water from the spring, with thrushes and larks and a few miserable wild pigs for company. There was no city at all, no boulevards or bazaars or grand houses, and few enough people happened by: it was the edge of the world. But Cain carried the mark on him and disliked even chance encounters with strangers.

On that morning Cain talked to his son and noted that Henoch was distracted by a pair of cooing doves and a small tumult of finches playing in the field nearby. It was only when his father paused that Henoch looked at him, sheepish, and Cain realized he’d not been listening at all.

—I’m sorry, Father?

Cain sighed.—Attend. I have visions of a city rising up in this desolate place. We shall build it together, but you must be my public face.

—A city? frowned Henoch.—But there is nothing here.

—All the more reason, his father answered with a logic that appeared to quite stymie the son.—If there were a city here already, we could not build another.

The son frowned but made no argument.

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.