By Patrick Johnston

In those days the streams and rivers teemed with fishes of all kinds. The children would swim and play games and tickle trout which they would bring home in their small wicker baskets. And the forests were wick with small game, that came easily to their snares and traps. Often a hunter might bring home a forest sow or a deer, and they would strip the meat and feast, and dry some in long thin strips in the smoke of their fires. The pelts and skins they would put to use, and the bones and the sinews and the teeth also. In the marshlands there were frogs, that were easy to catch, and their meat was good. In the autumn there were fruits and berries. Sour apples and sweet brambles. Near the end of the summer, they would cut down their grain, and there was plenty for the women to make heavy flat slabs of bread and dark cloudy beer throughout the lean cold months. And they would drink the bitter draught and become filled with the spirits and laugh and tell tales around the fire. And the spring would bring forth its plenitude, and the people would live well in the verdant places. And it was good.

In the old days, my people honoured the old gods, and the nymphs of the streams, and the dryads of the pools, and the spirits that lived in the cool springs, and in the rocks and boulders, and in the trees and glades, and the sprites that tarried in the marshes and bogs, each their own, and each honoured in the manner special to their own names and ways and needs. And spirits there were too who were given guardianship and sway over each and every creature that runs or crawls or flies or swims, from the smallest ant to the mightiest of stags. The hares that punch in the springtime. The woodpecker that taps in the trees. And each of these too was honoured after its own fashion, since their ways were not as our ways were. Each had its name, and each had its story, and they told their stories to their children so that they might know them and honour them too, as is the way of things. And the people gave thanks to the fish, as is the way of things, when they caught them in their nets. And they gave thanks for meat and beer in their bellies. They gave thanks to the yew for wood of their bows, and to the birds for the feathers of their arrows, and to the sky and the sun and the moon. And it was good.

In the days of the grandmothers, my people would sometimes meet with the old forest people in secret glades and hidden places and exchange gifts of words and food, and secret signs and totems that might please the gods and the spirits of the water, and the trees, and the rocks and stones, and the creatures of the forest. Small of frame and dark of skin they are said to be, although none that are living yet has met them. The mother of my grandmother was a wise woman and much loved of the people, since she stood guardian and servant to their arrivals and departures in this world. She is said to have met with old ones but three times in the course of her long years. This my mother told me. They were filled with wisdom, and magic, and were mightily skilled in the ways of the forest, for that had been their home since the beginning. Some of the folk say that they have caught glimpses of them deep in the forest. I do not know. By my mother’s telling they would only be seen by men if they willed it so. You could blunder through their secret places, and never would you know, nor if they walked in your shadow as you stalked a deer. I believe though to this day that one watched me once, when I was barely more than a boy, as I skinned and cooked a squirrel deep in the forest. The dappled light, the smell of damp earth and cooking meat, the dark shadows of the forest. Nothing more than a feeling. I do not know. Maybe they abide still, in their hidden places. Or, maybe, they are gone from this world and all their wisdom and magic with them. And maybe the old gods are gone too, as the nymphs of the streams and the spirits of the trees surely are.

In the days even before the grandmothers, men would come from the North, or from the East; sometimes as enemies to steal our crops and take our children and women to be their slaves or their wives; sometimes to trade metal for pelts and furs; sometimes to settle in the lands close to our lands, and to live in peace and friendship, and in the hard times our people might help their people and in a like way their people might help our people. And they shared with us their new knowledge of ways and things that were new to us, and we shared with them our old knowledge, and these things were new to them. And as is the way of things with men and with women, some of their men might take one of our women as their own, and in a like way some of our men might take one of their women, and it was good, as it strengthened the bonds of kin and friendship between the peoples until they were like as one people.

And, when men came from the North or from the East, with them they brought their own gods, and their gods were different to ours in name, but alike in the stories of their ways, and temperaments and in their dominions. And we knew them to be the same gods as ours, or least ways their closest kin. But they did not know the names of the spirits of the forests or the rivers or the rocks or the bogs, and neither did they know their stories. But they brought with them their own spirits of the things of the world, and the names and the stories of these spirits. And some of these spirits came to join with the spirits of old and become one, their stories blending and growing. And some spirits pushed out the old spirits and where the old spirits went away and were lost or died. And some of the spirits were simply forgotten since none remembered to honour them or tell their stories.

And as the generations came and went, and the young girls in turn became mothers and then crones and then ghosts, more men would come from the North or the East, to raid, or to settle or to trade, bringing their gods with them. Some were alike to gods of our own, but others were strange to us. Some could abide in friendship, but others were to each other as quarrelsome neighbours, and others still were as mortal foes. And the land became a scramble of tribes, and sometimes there was war among the tribes and sometimes peace. But even when there was peace, the people were not as one people because they all cleaved to their own stories.

And as time passed, where once the rivers and forests and bogs teemed with life, the fish and the game and the creatures of the marshland became more scarce. Some say that this was because there were too many hunters and fishers. I do not know. But I do know that it became our way to rely more and more upon the grain that we could grow, working the land with the toil of our hand and the sweat of our brow. And as time passed, the time for toil grew, until from dawn to the setting sun, the fields eat the strength of the people so that like the world serpent that eats its own tail, in turn they might eat.

I am the head man of my people, their king, chosen by them to guide and protect, and it is my honour and my duty. Their fate lies in my hands, as mine lies in theirs, and the pleasure of the gods. But last year there was too much rain. Endless days of rain and the harvest failed. The hunting was poor since much of the game has vanished. We scavenged for roots and acorns in the forest. But there was no beer or bread in the winter. And many died that might otherwise have lived. The oldest ones and the youngest ones alike, but also strong people who succumbed to illness and from hunger had lost the strength to fight. The oldest grandmother died, and then also the next oldest, and the next, taking their knowing and their wisdom with them. And my people were ragged and pitiful. And life was terrible.

We tried to save enough grain to plant in the springtime, but some was spoiled in the floods, and some was stolen by raiders who were as desperate as ourselves. The grain we were able to plant will scarcely bring sufficient yield even if there is sun and rain in perfect measure, and each on the days when it is most needed. If the gods will it so…

I fear greatly for my people.

I fear greatly for my people, but I do not fear for myself, although my fate is clear if the harvest should fail again this year. On a moonless night the drums will start to beat. The elders will come for me – my woman and sons will be with them – bringing a handful of strong young men in case I should resist. Then I will be proud and scornful and tell them to send the young men away, which they will do. And they will feel ashamed that they brought the warriors. And that will be my last victory in life… Then they will bind me with ropes, and bring me out before all of the people, and tie me naked to a post. There will be a great fire, and they will dance, without prejudice, and carrying hefty sticks. As the spirit takes them the dancers will approach me and beat my body, but not my head or face, with their sticks and their curses. And this I will deserve since I will have failed them as their King. I will have been abandoned by the gods, failing to find their favour.

And when dawn nears, and the drumming stops, they will bring blades and incantations and slice off my nipples. This will ensure that I can never be king in the afterlife, since how can the life-flow come from one with no nipples? And they will cut off my prick and balls to show that I was unable to bring fertility. They will throw my prick and balls onto the fire before my eyes as I bleed, and they will cut open my belly and pull out my entrails and I will smell the shit and the meat and the gush of fluids. And finally, they will strangle me with a cord of rope until I am truly dead and throw my body into a bog, weighted with rocks to ensure that the bog will take me. And all this will be right, and as it should be. And a new King will take my place, and perhaps the gods will return their favour.

I fear greatly for my people if the harvest should fail again. If the harvest fails, my people will suffer and die. I would ask the gods for guidance. I would pray and make sacrifice. But I no longer know which of them are real.

By Jonathan Fletcher

It’s that season of our lives again—a time to weep, which He never fails to remind me of, which He asks me to honor by accompanying you. To be honest, though, I haven’t prayed as of late. To be honest, I’m doing this more for you than Him. As you clutch my arm, fingers wrinkly and bony, I barely feel you lean into me—the result of 929 years’ worth of eroding forces: the wear and tear of centuries on joints, the weight of packs and sacks on the back, the death of a son, the banishment of another, the loss of Mother the previous year. Though we’re only halfway through a rainforest the color and size of the Garden, which I’ve only imagined and seen in my dreams, though I’d be willing to risk His wrath to ease your load, you insist on walking forward, toward someone I never met but am expected to mourn: “My son would want this.”

My son? Although I continue to guide you, I can’t help but wince at this. Even though I know you don’t intend to hurt me, the way you talk about Abel still stings a little. Couldn’t it be my other son? My second son? Instead of asking you, though, I nod and manage a weak reply: “Yes, I’m sure he would.” Then a troubling thought comes to mind, one I’d rather not have entertained, but there it is: If I were the one whom my other brother had slain, would you still insist on walking all this distance to pay your respects? Gulping, I don’t dare verbalize what I’m thinking. I answer it silently. I answer it fearfully. And I think of yet another way you could’ve said it, but am thankful you didn’t: my beloved son.

“Look, son!” You point toward a large bird on a tall, leafy branch. Bill massive, plumage bright and colorful, wings outstretched.

I turn my gaze in your direction. “Yeah. I haven’t seen one of them in a while.”

Turning to you, I see your eyes narrow and sadden. “I can’t remember what they were called.”

“The name escapes me, too.” I lie, though. I do remember; I just don’t want to upset you.

“Well.” You sigh and manage a weak smile. “I just hope I chose a good one.”

As we pass underneath the avian creature, once known as Cain’s miracle, I wonder whether it was a blessing or a burden—the responsibility to point at every animal and speak the first thing that came to mind. What if He hadn’t liked a name you chose? Would the skies have winced? Would the ground have tremored? All the things I wish I could ask you, that I should’ve asked you. Like pieces of Creation, though, such old memories now gone, irrevocably lost. The patterned flier for whom my brother is the namesake speaks. I hear it but ignore it. When it talks again, though, I look back before it disappears from view. I swear it said “Seth” the second time. You, however, turn not even once. Maybe you’re not listening. Maybe you couldn’t even hear the bird’s call.

Things are starting to look familiar. I recognize some of the older trees. Most of the ones that have fallen over the years are still present, though have begun to lose mass and started to green. Victim to that long journey which is the process of decomposition, they have become the perfect environment for the insects and fungi that call the bark home. How much longer, though, until those homes turn black, then to nothing? The path we’re on opens up, and we come upon a waterfall. Though small, it’s clear and bright. All we’d need is a rainbow, but I’ve never seen one, have only been told by you that it appeared the day you and Mother buried Abel. The way the water pools at the plunge, the way it mists the mossy stream and sliming rocks, I’m filled with a sense of ineffable wonder, one that wants to believe, almost believes, that something divine must be at work. Outside those admittedly sacred moments, however, I often question whether He really does care, sometimes doubt that He even exists.

As you begin to slip, I feel you tighten your grip on me. “Careful, Father! Watch your step. It’s uneven here.”

Quickly, you regain your balance. “I guess I’m less steady than I thought.” Then you lift your head and sniff the air. A smile forms across your face. “I’ve always loved the scent of falling water.” Suddenly, the shine on your face dims, and the edges of your mouth turn. As you frown, your eyes lose a little of their shine. “Reminds me of the Garden.”

I’ve never seen it, of course, have only heard about it from you. And, then, only in glimpses: scaly skin, a chunk of fruit in hand, a full mouth, juice at the chin, sloppily made clothes of fig leaves, a legless serpent, large wings of white and flaming swords, a one-way trip of shame past them. Most times, such talk would end in tears. I knew better than to prod for details.

As we approach the plunge, I feel you slow your stride. You then motion for me to help you down. To a giant log with lichen at each end, I guide you. As we sit in the middle of the stream, our sandaled feel in the shallow water, you turn your face toward mine, and mutter something I can’t quite make out. Over the rumble of the waterfall, it’s hard to hear, so I ask you to repeat yourself.

“Do something for me, son,” you say, exaggerating your words.

Having heard, I nod. “Anything, Father.”

“I fear that I have not much longer with you.” Your face stiffens. “Well, I don’t fear it; I welcome it. But I don’t welcome the suffering I know will characterize it.”

Instinctively, rapidly, I shake my head. “You don’t know when your life will end, how it will end.” Feigning verbal conviction that matches the gesture, I point toward the clouds above. “Only He does.”

“He can’t help me, at least not in this regard.” Gently, you bend down and pick up one of the stones from the shallow water. “Only you can.” You then take my hand in yours and place the large rock in it with the other. “Promise me that after we visit your brother, you’ll put an end to all of this. You put an end to me.”

Dropping the stone, which unceremoniously plops into the stream and beds there, I shudder. I can’t believe what you’re saying, what you’re asking of me. I know that you’re in pain, that your eyes are failing you, that your body is aching, that you miss my mother, that you miss the Garden, but I can’t agree to this. I could never agree to this. Forget that such an act would mean automatic death, an eternal death. It’s the fact that you’re placing this burden upon me, all so that you can have a more peaceful exit. Don’t you remember Cain? Of course, you do. If you think his banishment was punishment enough, imagine mine. Imagine my own family’s. Imagine my descendants’. This whole time, I’ve been looking down into the water, studying the small fish within, wishing I could hide the look on my face from you, which I’m sure says everything that I’m thinking. “No,” I murmur. “No.”

You lift my chin with your finger, then take my face in your hands. “You would be doing me a kindness, a mercy.” You point toward the skies. “He wouldn’t judge you for that.”

I shake my head. “He hears everything, knows everything. He’s probably listening to what we’re saying right now.” Amidst the waterfall’s hum, though, I wonder if we’ve perhaps found the one place where He can’t hear us. I press your hand against my face. “Why me?”

“You’re the only son I have left.”

Though I know what you mean, I can’t help but mentally argue that you do have more than three. Every man in Creation, every male creature that flies, swims, or crawls. Are you not the father of such sons? Are you not father of us all? Gulping, I gaze upward. Why must it be me? Why not another?

As if knowing what I’m thinking, you let out a sigh. Offering a faint smile, you tell me, “You don’t have to decide right now.” As I feel you grasp my hand, I gently squeeze yours back.

It still makes no difference. I won’t change my mind. My only hope is that you’ll eventually change yours. I like to think so. I pray as much.

The waterfall is far behind us now. I miss its hum. I miss its coolness. And I can’t stop thinking about the unspeakable thing you asked of me in its presence. At last, we’re in the heart of the forest. Before the end of the day, we’ll see Abel’s cave. As the path we’re on begins to wind, a small, dark snake slithers past us. For a moment, I expect it to raise its head, spread its scaly hood, and speak. It doesn’t, though. Maybe there was never a talking serpent. Maybe Mother didn’t trick you. Maybe you embellished those parts of the story. Maybe you just wanted to test Him. What better way to learn whether He’s truly almighty? What better way to discover your own sacred capacity for creativity?

“Careful!” You nudge me, then motion to my feet.

I look down and lift my sandal. There’s a red stain underneath. What once were berries now look like blood. Though I never met the man we’re about to visit, I can’t help but think how if he’d never been slain, I wouldn’t be here. You’d still have him. You’d still have Cain. What am I but Abel’s replacement? I shake the sobering thought away.

“Son,” you begin to falter. “I need to stop and rest.”

I help you to an overturned tree. “Sit as long as you need.” I pull forward the sack that’s been resting behind me. “Hungry?”

You wave your hand at me. “No, thank you. I’m just tired.”

I sit beside you, then grab an apple from the sack and unsheathe a small knife from my belt. “Me, too. It’s been a long journey.” I cut a piece of the fruit, and, using the knife to balance the slice, plop it into my mouth.

You shake your head. “Not that. I’m tired of life.” Sighing, you turn your gaze toward the ground. “I used to think every day was a blessing. That’s the first thing He ever told me. That was your mother’s daily mantra. Truth is, though, if you live long enough, you see every kind of creature that lived in the Garden die or be killed. And, oftentimes, suffer in either case.” You close your sunken eyes. “Sometimes you even suffer yourself.”

For the first time, I’m starting to understand what you mean, starting to see things how you see them. It’s not a death wish that you’re secretly harboring; it’s a reality you’re admirably confronting. Still, I’m skeptical. Ignoring the red trail of berries leading up to the log on which we’re sitting, I excise another chunk of apple. Then I reach for your veiny hand. I study the bright, ripe fruit in my other, thinking about what it must have felt like to hold the first plucked apple and bite into its soft, juicy flesh. Was it worth it? Would I have done it? Without occasional disobedience, how are we to learn? How are we to grow? Spitting out a seed that nearly makes its way down my throat, I rest my head on your shoulder. “Life can’t be as bad as all that.”

Though not unkindly, you straighten yourself, moving me to sit up. “Not always.” You exhale, as if with exaggerated effort. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

Shortly after the sun dips beneath the leafy boundary above, we reach Abel. Though nearly dusk, light from that sunken yellow face penetrates the mouth of the cave. Arm in arm, I help you up the rocky path. Though I worry you might stumble, though your breathing noticeably hardens, your body tells me that you don’t want to rest. Fortunately, the cave’s not that high. A little incline, a few craggy places, and we’re at the lip. Then we’re inside.

“I think we should take a break now,” I say.

You shake your head, tug at my arm. “No. We’re finally here. Let’s find him.”

As you lead me, you nearly pull me over, and I lose a little of my footing. “Not so fast, Father,” I yelp. “Slower, please!”

The shadows lengthen in size, and the cave seems to grow smaller. I hear the drip of water, and you must, as well, because the next thing I know, you’re tugging me in another direction. “The stalactites!” you cry and tell me to hurry. “That’s where your mother and I buried him.” Against all probability, we make it to what must be a lower chamber of the cave without falling, without dying. If I believed in miracles, I would attribute it to one. But I don’t. I never have. Where rock must have split at some point, a shard of light creeps through. Stalagmites tall and many. Some reminiscent of pillars of salt, some resembling ghoulish mushrooms or crooked rows of teeth. Though I’m not frightened, I don’t like the confinement of limestone, of anything. I feel my breath begin to quicken.

In the middle of the chamber, the stalagmites recede to a stone base on which what looks like a body wrapped in white lies. Though yellowed by age, the linen is undisturbed, looks untouched. For a moment, we just stand, looking at Abel’s corpse. I’m waiting for your cue, but you stand there motionless. I’m wondering what you’re thinking, if you’re waiting for me to move. As if aware of the solemnity of the occasion, the water running off the stalactites has slowed to a stop. As if aware of the significance of the identity of the body, the direction of the light has shifted toward my brother. I’m not sure what to do. Then I squeeze a little tighter as I feel your whole body tremble. A guttural yowl, the likes of which I’ve never before heard, escapes it: “MY SON! MY BOY!” You run toward Abel, nearly tripping in the process. I chase after you, worried you’ll fall face down and hurt or kill yourself. But you don’t. Instead, you throw yourself atop my brother, begging him to come back to you, cursing the earth and the heavens and everything in between, asking Him why He chose to take him from you and what you did to deserve to suffer so, promising to take his place if only He’d bring him back here and now.

As your nose begins to run, as snot begins to form, I place my hand on your shoulder. “Father, let’s not make a scene.” Though I know it’s only the two of us in this darkness, I’m thinking of Him, the one who sees and hears all.

As you press your face into Abel, you wail harder, uglier. “Why, God, why? Why Abel? Why not me?”

I try to pry you off my brother, but you persist, growing even louder. I’m not sure what to do to make you stop. I fear you never will. All of a sudden, I hear a loud grumble, and the ceiling of the chamber begins to shake. The stalactites begin to crack and break. A large chunk of rock directly above you and Abel begins to dislodge itself.

“Father!” I yell and grab you before it falls and smashes into my brother.

As smaller pieces of rock begin to also crash down, I cover you with my body. Soon, the rumble fades, and the earthquake that shook the cave settles. The crack from which the light came through is now closed, probably filled by another stone.

“Sorry, son.” You’re looking toward the limestone floor. “I failed you.”

I sit you up and shake my head. “You didn’t fail me. It was Him. He failed you. He failed all of us.”

Through what I’m sure are reddened, swollen eyes, you look at me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I pull your body into mine. “Me, too.”

You bury your face in me. “At least one of my sons could be.”

With my thumb, I finger the tip of the knife sheathed in my belt. As I stroke the long gray locks at your nape with my other hand, I think about His unspoken rule: harm no part of creation. But what is harm? Surely, not all killing would count as harm. Surely, I would be performing an act of mercy. Surely, He would understand. I know you do. I finally do, as well.

“I’m ready,” you say through sniffles, tugging at the sleeve of my shirt.

As I tighten my grip around the handle, I have a vision of a descendent of mine—Father of the Faith—knife in hand, his son on an altar. A firm hand around the son’s neck, the other raised, sharp end pointed downward, about to carry out His unambiguous wishes. Though the vision abruptly ends, I’m now certain of this: If a father can sacrifice his child, who’s to say the reverse isn’t permissible? If asked for compassion the shape of a blade, who are a father’s children to deny him that? Are not all of us your children? Better a quick, merciful death at the hands of a loved one than an undignified end to an apathetic stranger. I feel the whole of creation around my fist, one with my fingers around the handle. As I’m about to press the blade to your sagging neck, though, I feel you reach out for my forehead. “I can’t feel the mark anymore, son. Maybe it’s gone for good.”

I stay my hand, let the knife drop to rock and clank on the limestone. The mark?

“He let you return. He let you come back to me.” You say, laying your hand atop my head. “Abel forgives you. I forgive you.”

I turn your face toward mine. Through what feels like shock, disbelief, and anger—each rolled into one—I sputter out, “Father, I’m not Cai—”

“All is forgiven.” As what must be joy the shape of a tear rolls down your already-streaked face, I glimpse the glimmer of a smile. “All of it, son.”

Though I look you straight in the eyes, press your palms to my cheeks, hoping you can distinguish my features through touch, it’s no use. You’ve mistaken me. You’ve forgotten me.

At this point, you’re the only thing keeping me from collapsing. At this point, I, too, am weeping. As tightly as you’re holding me, I’m hugging you. And, in my mind, I’m cursing the endless darkness of this limestone void, the stalactites crying as hard as we are now, the tooth-shaped shadows over the one cast by us, the garish green overcrowding the outside, the creatures within and the firmament above. I’m thinking about how so many years can turn blessings into tragedies, how the real enemy might be time, not Lucifer or his winged rebels. I’m thinking of how hell can sometimes be wet and cool, the shape of a womb. That it’s not always underground. And how you don’t need a mark to be cursed.