Cain: The Story of the First Murder and the Birth of an Unstoppable Evil

by McPherson, Brennan

  But what was love? He thought he loved Sarah, but this was unlike anything he had experienced, and he wanted it. He wanted it all.

  “What do you want me to do?” Cain said.

  The Light Bringer smiled. “Build me a Garden.”

  “A Garden?”

  “A New Garden, a place of safety, a home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your family needs you. The Man is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  The Light Bringer laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. You killed him yourself. And soon they will die without him. They need you. Your family needs you. I need you.”

  “Dead,” Cain whispered. The true test of divinity is to kill the one who claims to be God—does that mean I am he? But the silver boy … He frowned.

  “The imposter is gone, but your family is tangled in his web nonetheless. You must liberate them. Some are already struggling, but the others—” He did not finish.

  “Even an imposter’s curse may hold power,” Cain said.

  “Indeed, his curses hold power beyond even the end of all things. You could not accomplish this alone, but together …” The Light Bringer smiled. “Do you think I do not know your plight? I will stay here to attend to my duties, but at the present you will keep my child, who has shared your existence and begun in you the process of refinement.”

  Cain wiped the sweat from his face with a shaking hand, and wondered if he truly did understand. He felt like an animal in heat, his veins pumping with passion. The words were distant and weightless as they leapt from his lips, “What am I to call it?”

  “My child shall be called Abomination, but never speak a word about its existence, and do not speak of our meeting here, or that this City exists. More depends on this than you know.” The Light Bringer’s eyes seemed to suck him in like endless black holes rimmed with blood. “Surely you understand the magnitude.” He drew out the final word in a way that highlighted its importance like a tongue across skin. “After you do these things, you and your people will be truly free for the first time since the foundations of the world were formed. You will become gods. You will become like me.”

  Cain was fully compliant to the Light Bringer, possessed by its very Abomination of a child, and though reason warned him of the danger, he knew he must welcome this momentary slavery. Yes, in the end, bowing to this new lord would give him the chance to free all humanity from bondage, whether the Light Bringer was a liar or not. Cain would play the game, he would walk the line, and at the opportune moment he would turn and exert mastery over all. Or, as he had planned from the beginning, he would die a martyr.

  Alone, but never forgotten.

  PART FIVE:

  THE CHILDREN

  Woe to them! For they walked in the way of Cain and abandoned themselves for the sake of gain. … These are hidden reefs at your love feasts, as they feast with you without fear, shepherds feeding themselves; waterless clouds, swept along by winds; fruitless trees in late autumn, twice dead, uprooted; wild waves of the sea, casting up the foam of their own shame; wandering stars, for whom the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved forever.

  —JUDE 1:11–14 ESV

  24

  The sky’s great yellow eye hid itself from the bodies in the coffins, and Lukian had little difficulty understanding why. Many wanted to turn away. Many still didn’t believe the bodies were real. How could they be?

  Adam and Eve were at the front of the procession but hardly seemed capable of balance. They leaned on each other silently, though Adam seemed more damaged than she.

  Perhaps, Lukian thought, it is the elegance with which she holds herself. Or maybe it’s the austerity of her eyes or the emptiness of Adam’s. Regardless, Eve had always been the stronger of the two. No one spoke of it because they’d never needed to. It was simply understood.

  Behind their matriarch, and the man from whom she had been formed, walked their children, and their children’s children. Leading them all was Calebna, High Priest and eldest son of Abel. His mouth was drawn and his eyes dripped like melting candlesticks, but he was not alone in suffering.

  With shaking voice, Calebna led them in the song of lamentation. Voices faltered. Some broke while others became songbirds perched on tombs. It seemed the world was at war with itself, and the wind joined with howls and spurts of wounded coughing. But Lukian was absorbed with the question of whether his father was still alive.

  Where was Cain? Had he succeeded in finding greater power and freedom? Or had he merely destroyed himself?

  Lukian glanced at Mason. He could tell by the swing of his arms and the shuffle of his feet that he just wanted to finish the ritual, return to Sarah’s side, and wait for her eyes to open for the first time in days.

  His other brother, Gorban, bumped into him and glanced up in curt apology, then focused on the path before him. Gorban walked beside his wife, Peth, but she offered no comfort to him. Not now.

  Soon, little brother, Lukian thought. The time for action is growing near.

  When they reached the grave site behind the Temple, Calebna led them around the three tombs in a semicircle, broke away and faced them. His cheeks shone in the light of the torch, and the shadowy flames enlarged his bruised figure.

  “Today”—Calebna’s voice broke—“we entomb only a portion of those taken from us. My father remains where God let him lie, and my mother remains missing, may God protect her soul. You must forgive me for not offering words of comfort.” He gazed at the sky as if searching for the words. His expression said he failed to find them, and instead he let the leftovers fall from his tongue. “My world collapsed two days ago when I heard of my father’s murder. Moments after, I learned of the death of Seth and Ayla, and the death of our God. I dare to say none of you but Adam felt more lost than me. In the days since, I have wondered how we can serve a being and so completely believe he is our only hope, our salvation, our very Creator, and yet place his bloodied crown in a tomb? I do not know the answer. Maybe there isn’t one. Yet now more than ever, I feel the longing, the need in my soul for the rituals of the Almighty to calm me, to repeat to me in the darkest hours that everything will be made right one day. And these are the darkest hours.”

  Calebna wiped his eyes. “Maybe I am a desperate man holding onto a fool’s hope, but I will not relinquish my duties as High Priest. My spirit tells me my eyes betray me as I look upon the Almighty’s torn and bloodied robe, and the bodies of Seth and Ayla, and so I find in myself a contradiction. I believe and yet I do not believe. I need to accept, but am compelled to deny.”

  The silence absorbed Calebna’s words, for those gathered knew his pain well. The children of Abel glanced warily at the children of Cain, and Lukian thought, Meaning in every motion. Distrust is a deadly poison in our well, but the world is charred and thirsty, so thirsty.

  Calebna’s voice strained. “I refuse to believe they are dead. The Almighty once promised he would make all things new, and challenged us to follow him through pain and shadow. Though we bury God, I believe he is greater than the grave. Though we perform his funeral, I cannot believe he is gone.” He shook his head and whispered as if to convince himself, “Not forever.”

  It struck Lukian as odd that even his brothers had no idea what Calebna’s words ordained for them. He almost smiled. No one understands that you, dear cousin, are now the only thing standing between me and freedom.

  Calebna stepped toward his family and offered the torch to Adam, though Eve grasped it. She led Adam haltingly, step by painful step, to look upon the faces of their dead children.

  The bodies in the tombs were clay figurines. Adam did not look down, for his motionless eyes were empty. Eve glanced first at her expressionless husband, then at Seth’s cold face. She smiled as if expecting him to do the same, but he didn’t, and so she reached out to stroke his cold eyelids with the tenderness one would offer an infant. If she would not have had to support Adam, she may have dipped to kiss their son. Instead, she spoke words for
their ears alone.

  When she saw the body of Ayla, her youngest daughter, the sorrow flowed more readily. She mouthed her youngest daughter’s name, but the word was strangled as she clutched Adam’s arm for the support he was unable to offer.

  Upon seeing the Almighty’s crown and torn robe, she straightened and nodded, and her grip on Adam loosened. She raised her chin and swept her eyes across her family, stopping finally on Adam.

  Lukian frowned and thought, Fatalism. A dangerous emotion I shall have to expunge. There awaits now no calm path or return to innocent bliss. Only violence.

  After an extended silence, Eve helped Adam to the Temple, where the family had taken refuge together.

  The Temple. The house of the imposter who had imprisoned them. What more ironic refuge could they take? Let the slaves run to their cage. Let them box themselves in.

  One by one, the remaining mourners passed over the coffins and gazed on the terrible beauty of death, and when all had grieved, Mason, Lukian, Calebna, and his son Jacob pushed the stone covers over the coffins and sealed them to keep the worms from feeding on their remains.

  A final dignity. A gift to the dead.

  Adam sat in the corner—where he could not fall and strike his head—listening to familiar voices argue, wondering who they were and thinking strange thoughts. But he had always thought strange thoughts, hadn’t he? Or at least they had become strange since …

  Since the pain. Waterfalls of pain falling, rushing, splitting me like a mountain. The rush of water, the thrum of voices, and the deafening thunder of thought—these sounds remain, though all else is gone. I cannot jump the river. I cannot reach the other side. I am stagnant. I am rotting bones. I am dust and decay. I am … Who am I?

  “He hasn’t moved in days.”

  “Days? You have watched him so long?”

  “What else would I do? He needs me.”

  “Yes, we all need you.”

  “I know it. I …”

  “It’s all right.”

  The voices droned on. One comforted another. No comfort came to him.

  “I have been praying for him.”

  “Praying? Have your eyes been sealed shut?”

  “I know what you would say. But it comforts me.”

  There was a pause, then softly, “Who do you pray to?”

  “I don’t know. The dead. The world. Whatever god is out there.”

  Another pause. Amidst tears. “My sons are gone. God has fled and taken them with him. What hope do I have left? I feel as though there is nothing. Nothing.”

  The tears became rivers and washed the voices away. Adam was alone again. There was relief in the emptiness, and he savored it. He imagined he could be washed away with them.

  Yes, washed away. Like blood in a field. Like blemishes in the cloth of Time. Gone. Just gone. He would enjoy that. He would like to disappear.

  So he closed his eyes and dreamed. And the world was good again.

  25

  Lukian paced the hall and assessed those gathered. His shoulders were rigid, and he walked as if his feet were spears and the ground their mark. It had been six days since they sealed Seth, Ayla, and the elements of the Almighty in their respective tombs, and even longer since Abel died and Cain and Lilleth disappeared.

  I must keep the appearance of strength, for this is a moment of proving.

  Lukian’s brothers remained separated from the sons of Abel. Gorban leaned against a wall with his arms crossed, and Mason sat cross-legged, nearly as tall while sitting as Gorban was while standing. Calebna stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes glaring sideways. Eve sat with Adam, stroked his hand, and silently begged him to speak, to do anything.

  Those gathered likely had a myriad of explanations for Cain’s actions, the dead bodies, the state of Sarah and Adam, and the death of their God. Their suspicions and the tension had metastasized into malignant glances.

  “I am no liar,” Lukian said. “No one has gained from this. I see it in your faces.” He looked at Calebna’s brothers, then at Calebna’s eldest, Jacob. He looked at Eve, whose eyes grasped him like vines under winter’s first chill, straining to keep their strength despite the ache of the frost.

  Calebna spread his hands. “We make important decisions today. We have no room for belligerence.”

  “I cannot go back to when I first heard whispers against me and my brothers. I held my tongue then out of respect for the dead, but I can stand it no longer.” Lukian paused, yet everyone remained silent, unwilling to break the tension for fear of its recoil. So strong behind closed doors, yet so weak when pressured. “Is a child a copy of his father? And were Abel’s children the only ones harmed?”

  Calebna sniffed and cleared his throat. “What choice do we have? How can we believe no one aided Cain in his sin?”

  “By having faith.” The people mumbled. None held Lukian’s stare. He continued, “Perhaps you should share from your excess store of it, High Priest.”

  Calebna’s expression rotted.

  Lukian continued, “You are right about one thing. Separation is dangerous. But we do not know what has befallen our mother. Why was she found half drowned in the flooded quarry?”

  “Many think their suspicions warranted.”

  “Change has come, and unless we adapt, none of us will survive.”

  “It seems you’ve been conceiving a plan in silence, and I’d rather you voice it and let us discuss its merits than for us to argue over opinion and conjecture.”

  “Finally you speak with sense,” Lukian said. “You remember destroying our weapons when we arrived. Tell me, with the Almighty’s death, what do you think has happened to his protection?” Some of their eyes catalogued the possible danger. Yes, realize how ignorant you’ve been. “We need weapons, but have only shovels, hoes, scythes, hammers, and pickaxes. We cannot defend ourselves with these. We must remake them into implements of violence.” He could see the fear in their eyes. They are ready, he thought. “Unless we flee from the City, every one of us, from our great mother Eve to the babe in Terah’s arms, will die.”

  The mumbling increased to a gentle roar, and Calebna raised his hands to quiet them. “The viper spits, but is there bite behind the prattle?”

  “Our plants are dying, our food is rotting, and our animals are sick or dead,” Lukian said.

  “Fear will gain us nothing. We must stand strong in faith. All else is cowardice.”

  “Is it cowardice to free ourselves from bondage? Is it cowardice to consider the lives of children more important than dead principle?”

  “You would have us abandon our lifestyle, remake our weapons, and run blindly into the wilderness, but for what? Do you also propose yourself as our leader?” Calebna laughed and shook his head, not finishing what was written in his expression.

  “You mock yet still cling to a lifeless God as if his skin could warm you. God is dead. His cloak and crown are lying in a stone coffin next to Seth and Ayla, and I will not lie down and die by the rules of an imposter, for that is what the Almighty was.”

  “What reason do we have left to live, if not for hope in God? By what transcendence could we gain direction?”

  “By the same principles that led us through the wilderness. In those many years we synthesized our own meaning. Or have you forgotten?”

  Calebna’s shoulders sagged. “I remember the pain of those days, and it sticks in my throat even still.”

  “And yet those days were ours. I cannot say that about our lives here, and I would fight and pay the price to say it again.”

  “We returned to the Almighty because we were dying. The demonic Jinn overwhelmed us. It seems you, not I, have forgotten the true price we paid. Indeed,”—Calebna’s eyes glinted in the torchlight—“the price you yourself paid.”

  Lukian’s neck warmed at the memory of his twin brother’s entrails wrapped around his mangled legs. That was a cowardly blow, but they are watching. Calm your anger.

  “The Almighty
is our only hope,” Calebna said.

  “How?”

  “Our own strength has ever failed.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe our chances are better here with no food and no protection. Or maybe our future is laid before us waiting to be claimed.”

  “Our purpose lies here.”

  “In becoming sacrifices? Do you intend to burn us all at your holy altar?”

  Calebna narrowed his eyes. His jaw moved from side to side, then clenched. “Hear this now. As High Priest of the Almighty, I declare that the Almighty’s laws, which we all swore to preserve upon returning two years ago, remain. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword, but those who live by the Spirit of the Almighty will stand on the firmest rock. Remember the flood that washed the City the night after Abel’s death, and heed my words that another flood is coming, and its red waters will drown all who quench themselves in its depths. I vow today to never again pick up a weapon and strike with fierceness, and if any desire to call me family, you will take this vow with me.”

  Calebna’s son Jacob stood. “I vow the same.” But none followed save Calebna’s wife, Terah, and she hesitantly.

  Those standing looked at those who sat, and doubtless shame weighed upon the shoulders of Calebna’s younger brothers, Philo and Tuor. But Eve spoke, and her voice chilled the air to silence. “For me, there is no hope.” Her white knuckles held Adam’s hand in her lap, and the light failed around her shadowed eyes. Some of the people were fearful. Others were exhausted. Certainly all felt the bite of her words.

  Danger lurked in every shifting shadow and darkened corner. Lukian knew that if he failed to stoke the flames, they might be forever snuffed, but if he pushed too far …

  “If you cannot do it for your own sake, do it for mine. Do it for Sarah’s,” Lukian said. He gazed at those still sitting. “Do it for Abel. Don’t let yourselves join the Almighty in the unforgiving stone.”

  His words stopped but his eyes went on. He saw in some of Abel’s children and grandchildren the desire to struggle on. He thought he saw in Gorban, Mason, Kiile, and Machael the willingness to follow him into death, but no one moved. No one said anything.