Seeds and Sows: Seeds and Sows: A Tragedy in 13 Acts

Seeds and Sows: A Tragedy in Thirteen Acts

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Act One

Making his way down to the meadow, one hand holding a crude staff fashioned form a fallen branch and another wrapped around a bunch of long stalks of grass tied together with bendy twigs, was one young Cain, son of Adam.

Pebbles spilled every which way from his eager feet as he raced down the path. He dodged a larger rock and leapt over hardened roots that reached out of the ground as though to grab for his ankles. Further down, a gaggle of scruffy sheep was grazing amidst the dry shrubs. He made a sound of greeting - something akin to “nngh!” - and some of them looked up as he sped by. He did not have to go much further until his eyes, darting every which way, sought out a familiar shape down by the stream. It was leaning on the gnarled trunk of a gnarled old tree that stood but a few arm's lengths from the water. Happiness gushed up inside the boy, erupting in a gleeful shout.

“Abel!”

At the sound of his voice, the shape beside the tree uncoiled and detached itself from the trunk. It stood up, distinguishing itself as another boy. “Hoy, Cain,” the boy called in return as he hastened to his side. Upon closer examination, Cain noticed that the clothes on him looked darker and hung rather more heavily than usual, especially around his crossed arms. Abel's face glistened in the afternoon sun and a few locks plastered along the sides of his face. Before Cain could say anything, though, Abel went on.

“You look pale! Did Eve make you do the clay again?”

Cain glanced down at himself. His shirt was covered in fine, light dust; the tell-tale signs of a morning spent spreading clay over the cracks in their hut. It was a chore he loved, but one Abel didn't care much for. “Well, yes.” He brought a hand to his scalp and tousled his hair vigorously. Dust billowed out around him, and Abel laughed.

“You're as white as the good weather clouds!” he said. “Cain of cloud! I wonder if the ones up in the sky have dusty Cains inside them too?”

“And you are Abel of the stream, are you not?” Cain quipped mirthfully in return. “Abel Waterbringer, nurturer of the blooming fields! He swims like a fish and leaves a trail of light rain wherever he treads!”

Abel laughed again, a bubbly sound that seemed to make the light of the day brighter. “I'd be glad to master the running water,” he said, “but this time it was little Black-Tail who tried to be the fish.”

The look on Cain's face changed from amusement to alarm in an instant. In response, Abel lowered his arms and after a moment, a small, brown head poked up from between the soaked folds of his shirt. Dark, slightly protruding eyes fixed on Cain for a moment, before the lamb let out a high-pitched bleat. One of the ewes grazing up on the hillside stopped eating and bleated back. Apparently satisfied, the lamb returned its attention to the two boys and proceeded to chew Abel's sleeve.

“Is she all right?” Cain asked in hushed tones.

“She's fine, I think,” Abel replied. “Barely had time to cry out once before she went under, and a second time before I got her out.” Then he grinned at the lamb. “I think she discovered that she did not make a very good fish!”

Cain laughed at that. Then he dropped his burden and kneeled down to open the bindings around it. Together, the two boys spread out the stack and rubbed the lamb with the hay until the water had come off. A couple of times she ran off, and in the ensuing chase, Cain tripped and he and Abel fell down, and Cain ended up with most of his sleeves and shirt front wet as well, while Abel got powdered by the clay dust, which turned to light-coloured mud when it came in contact with his wet clothes. Black-Tail did not seem to be terribly bothered by the ordeal - as the boys lay there in a tangle, laughing until their sides hurt, she and several of the other lambs wandered over to see what the commotion was about and joined in on the running and chasing.

It was only when the shadows began to grow long that Cain and Abel gathered up the herd and shepherded them all back to the dwellings. The ewes marched in deliberate dignity, while the lambs dashed every which way, making circles around them all.

Act Two

It was evening again when young Cain came upon the figure of his brother, sitting in the shade of the same gnarled tree by the stream. The sun painted the ground and the water warm and golden. It tinted his brother's skin with a reddish hue. His, too, he knew, even though he could not see it.

Cain stood there for quite a long while, without saying a word. Abel did not speak, either. Up on the hillside, some of the ewes were bleating out questioningly, repeatedly. Only some of them were answered by falsetto voices.

The sun travelled lower and the redness of everything intensified. In silence, they watched as the flaming circle descended below the horizon and the meadow was overtaken by darkness.

Act Three

Cain's feet stomped angrily on the ground. He had been circling around the for a while, going up this hill and down that other one, roaming like a restless spirit, unable to settle either on stone or branch to rest.

Eventually, he came across Abel, who was sitting on a rock and working on the fastenings of a hand axe. Abel's eyes were trained on his work, and even though Cain approached and stopped right before him, it was only at length that he looked up at the angry, flustered face of his brother.

“How could you?” Cain said at length. His words were quiet, yet carried more vehemence than with which he had ever spoken to his brother.

Abel flinched. His eyes flashed briefly and his expression twisted, but it passed, and then he merely shrugged, turning his attention back to the fastenings of the blade. He replied, his voice low. “I didn't decide it.”

“Well, who did, then, if not you?” Cain demanded, tone rising.

Abel kept his eyes on his work. “Adam and Eve did. You know that, Cain.”

“I do know—but—” For a moment, Cain struggled for words. “We played with them when they were young. We warded them from the stream, we brought them hay and they slept beside our feet! How could you eat them? Were they not our friends?”

Now Abel did look up again, and this time his visage darkened clearly. “I never said I liked it, but that is the way things are, brother! Adam and Eve partook of that which they should not have, and so must we. Until God forgives us, it is not for us to change.” And he stood up and walked away, back towards the dwellings. Cain was left standing there, alone. For the longest time, he did not move.

Act Four

“Cain, you need to eat,” said Eve to her son. Cain, who was sitting apart from them, by the doorway, had his face buried in his knees, had not touched the piece of lightly charred meat that lay on a slab of flat wood beside his feet.

“Try it, Cain, it doesn't taste that bad,” Abel called out in encouragement.

But Cain did not move. Eve exchanged a worried look with Adam. She sighed, picked up a handful of dates and lay them on the ground beside his feet. The rest of them went back to their meals, speaking little and in hushed tones.

After a moment, one of Cain's hands sneaked out and picked up some dates.

Act Five

Fingernails were cracking, skin was growing sore and tender from the constant exposure to the tough roots and sharp little rocks in the soil. He pulled his hands out of the dirt and examined them. They looked like it was about time for him to stop; it would not be long until his fingertips cracked open, and having already gone through that experience a couple of times, he had no desire to repeat it.

A glance over the field told him that he had covered barely half of the ground he had set on. The remaining stretch loomed in front of him, impossibly long. Digging small trenches for the seeds had seemed like a good idea in the beginning - seeds he'd found had grown better when buried, not to mention they were safer from birds and mice - but now his arms, legs and back ached and he wanted nothing so much as to lie down on the ground with his arms spread wide. No such grace was granted him, though.

“Cain! Cain! Hey, brother!”

Cain looked up at the sound of his brother's voice and found Abel standing in the other end of the field, holding one of their baskets. He waved a weary greeting, then groaned and grabbed his elbow as a flash of pain sped down from his shoulder.

“Cain, you mole,” Abel called to him, laughter in his voice. “You're still clawing tunnels in the earth, even in this heat? Eve must have dropped you on your head when you were born, like that goatling did this spring.”

“The one with the bushy cheeks?”

“The one with the bushy cheeks.”

“Pheh,” said Cain, but his tone was one of resigned amusement. “I've told you,” he went on as his brother strolled over. “The seeds grow better under the ground, but they won't go there by themselves.”

“I still say you think you're a mole. Here,” Abel said, tossing him the basket. Cain found it to be full of delicious fruit. In one corner were tucked a water jug and what seemed like a rolled-up straw hat. “Eve asked me to bring this. She thinks you're going to get hit by the sun and fall over again.”

Cain picked up a date, hesitated, and handed it to Abel. Then he pulled out the straw hat and jammed it resolutely on his head. “I'll make an effort not to.”

Act Six

The smell made him nauseous. It hung in the air, thick and heavy, forcing him to breathe in through his mouth. The greasy smoke that wafted up from the small sacrificial pyre congealed into a thick film on his palate. It invaded his senses with such viciousness that he was sure his legs would give in any moment and he would fall down sideways, bumping into Eve. For such a blatant display of inability to maintain a properly reverent posture, she might award him with a sharp reproach.

The smoke was getting into his eyes, making them water. He coughed; it was a convulsive reaction that he could not rightly control. Adam looked at him sharply, brows drawing quickly together, before turning his attention back to the offering.

“And praise be to God, to whom we make this meagre offering that he may forgive us our sin,” Adam said, raising his hands towards the sky. “For we partook of what did not belong to us, and must now live off of that which we were to rule.”

Next to him, Abel, who was watching Adam with shining, frightened eyes, copied the gesture. “Amen,” he said, and Adam smiled and ruffled his hair.

Cain bowed his head and tried to feel the rapture, which he knew was supposed to come because of all the times Adam had repeated that it would. If they were good enough, did well enough, God would turn his face back upon them. God was great, God was merciful, God was just, Eve and Adam said. If His children worked hard enough to prove their worth, he would bring back the wonderful, peaceful, beautiful Eden he only knew of from tales Eve and Adam told him and Abel in the evenings, the ones they always listened to in wide-eyed wonder and amazement.

“Amen,” Cain choked, voice turning hoarse halfway through the word, and his heart was heavy.

Act Seven

Outside the dwelling of his brother, Cain shifted from one foot to another, waiting. He was no longer a boy but a young man now. He had changed, yes - his shoulders were wide like Adam's and while his beard was not as thick, his feet were swift and the grip of his hands gentle but firm. His face was longer, angular - he looked less and less like Eve as time wore by. But the most striking change in him was, perhaps, in his eyes, which had once shone as though they contained a fragment of the sun.

Three times Cain had already rapped on the side of the entrance, lightly yet fingers still loosening tiny pieces of parched mud each time they connected with the wall. Three times he'd been answered with “just a moment.” Loose feathers, quivering lazily on the wind, dotted the ground beside his feet. Many of them were bent and broken, some even with small beige strips clinging to their blunt ends. He had already moved once, to the other side of the entrance, to avoid touching them.

Finally, Abel appeared, pushing aside the carpet of grass covering the entry to his hut to step out.

He had changed, much like his Cain. He was taller and wider, his limbs more rounded than they had been when he had pulled the lamb from the stream. His eyes were friendly as ever, but Cain still thought of a once-sunny meadow now overcast with the gloom of distant rain.

Abel smiled, and Cain smiled back. It was a sincere attempt, yet his face more twitched than changed expression. Unwittingly, his eyes drifted to Abel's hands, which bore darker stains from the wrists down. He quickly looked away, but the shadow marring Abel's features deepened. After a moment, Cain feebly started up a conversation, and at length, Abel replied. They spoke to each other of drought and sunshine, and the state of the vegetation and the tricks the heat was playing on their building materials. After a while, Abel retrieved his axe and they set off in search of a dry tree or few.

Cain did not look at Abel's hands again, not even when Abel clipped his thumb with the axe by accident and Cain tore off a piece of his shirt to stall the flow.

Act Eight

Cain had spent many turns of the seasons pulling at the earth, picking up tiny seeds with his fingertips, scattering seeds into the ground and burying them into the soil like it was a womb that nurtured them like ewes nurtured lambs until they were ready to born, and up sprouted in fine, fine, pale green stalks. He had found, through trial and error, that the plants needed water or they would turn yellow, and when they turned yellow they stopped growing and would never yield seeds no matter what he did. He had carried water in pallets and when there were too many plants to water by hand, he had planted the seeds on a field next to the river and dug out small beds amidst them for the water to flow into. He had persevered and his determination had yielded a reward.

The plants had given him many seeds, some of which he had planted and some ground and mixed with water like clay, then left to dry in the sun. They had hardened into tough leaves that were almost as hard to bite on as nuts but tasted much better. He called them bread. Full of happiness and pride, Cain had set the fruit of his labours - a full basket of his bread leaves - upon the sacrificial pyre. Eve and Adam had been pleased with him and even Abel had slapped him on the shoulder and said that maybe being a mole was better than he had thought. But more than anything else, Cain was happy with the smell of burning seeds. It smelled of noon sun and full bellies and, most of all, life.

Three nights after that, the winds and the water came.

The first night, they woke up in the middle of the night because the roof of the Eve and Adam's hut was torn open at one end. The rain fell in a drizzle, and they scrambled about, trying to gather up hay and wood and to try and weigh them down with stones before everything inside would get wet. It took a while and a shirt Eve had been working on was ruined because rain fell through the roof on it and the ground became muddy.

The second night, a bolt of lightning hit a tree next to where the sheep were sleeping, and one ewe was crushed under a falling branch. Adam took it to the sacrificial mound and burned it, while Cain, Abel and Eve wandered among the remaining sheep in silence, seeking to calm them with touch and presence.

On the third night, the river overflowed, tore down Cain's plants and covered his field in a thick layer of mud. In the morning, Adam found Cain standing beside the destruction, speechless, motionless. He put his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed, but Cain turned away and ran. He did not return for the next sacrifice.

Act Nine

Seasons turned on. The huts stood as they had before and the sheep and goats grazed as they had before, even if they were not the same sheep and the same goats as before. Adam and Abel patched up the cracked walls and watched the sheep, and Eve weaved clothes and picked fruit. Cain still toiled the land, toiled so long and hard that some of his fingernails tore and fell off. And the sacrificial fires burned with a heavy, greasy smoke.

Adam and Abel grew closer, but the closer they grew, the further away drifted Cain. The lines on Eve's forehead deepened every time she looked at her sons, and she sometimes wondered if there was some way the knowledge that did not belong to her and Adam could have not been passed on to their two sons. She wondered how it seemed that God's punishment lay most heavily on the son who had seemed least touched by their sin. Abel was a good boy, but he was like Adam and Eve, she knew - he accepted his fate.

Cain did not, and somehow, that seemed to be the hardest punishment of all.

Act Ten

This had been the third fieldful that had yellowed of the heat and the drought.
In his fevered mind, the dry stalks lifted their heads and cried with piping, reedy voices, and red, red, red flowed down their leaves, smothering them.

“What is the matter, brother?” Abel asked lightly. “Come now, you have been of such dark mind for too long!”

Cain did not answer.

Act Eleven

“A fine God he is!” shouted Cain, eyes burning, though not from the sun that had once lived in them. Whether it was from dust, tears or something else, it was hard to tell. “The just! The merciful! I say to you, brother - Eden is a lie, and He relishes in the cries of the dying!”

“Cain--” Abel tried. “What are you saying?

“God demands that we give sacrifice! I have toiled and tilled and tilled and toiled and clawed at the earth until my fingers had no skin left, and yet He was not satisfied with me!” Cain's voice was hoarse, like an old crow's cawing, and high, like that of a frightened lamb. He was shouting wildly, advancing on Abel, who was standing there, frozen.

“He is not satisfied with my seeds! And you know why that is, Abel? You know why?”

“No, I don't,” Abel whispered.

Suddenly, all the rage seemed to flee Cain's body, and he sagged like an old rag. Like the dying stalks in his field. Abel eyed him warily, like he would a wounded animal.

“Me neither, brother.” Barely more than a breath of the wind. “Me neither.”

Act Twelve

Axes and knives were meant for firewood and fruit. Fire was meant to fend off those of God's creatures that had, once driven from the Garden, given in to an unholy hunger. They were tools of life, once blessed, now blackened and dark.

Red blood spattered the dry stalks and dribbled down into the dry, cracked ground.

And Eve screamed.

Act Thirteen

It had been days. Moons, perhaps. Maybe even seasons. It was hard to tell, really. The sun rose and set, rose and set, set and rose, until everything melded together. Sand was in his eyes, sand was in his nose, sand was in his mouth, sand was in his mind. It was everywhere. Everything else was gone, everything, everything...

Except for the lamb that was nuzzling his hair. It had a rather large nose.

Cain raised his head. Sand grains slithered down the side of his face and stuck to his cheek. A glob of something viscous fell past his nose, but what caught his attention were the two shadows looming over him, a big one and a smaller one. They were silhouetted against the light that softened their edges and filtered past them, less painful to his eyes than ever since leaving home. They looked like the Guardians of Gates from Adam's stories. Then the bigger shadow pushed its muzzle into his face again.

Cain scrambled backwards. Weary limbs betrayed him, and he fell gracelessly on his behind. “What... is that?” croaked his parched throat.

“That is a camel,” laughed the smaller of the shadows. “What bush did you grow up in, not having seen a one?” Now that Cain looked again, it was shaped like Adam and Eve... and Abel.

The shadow did not seem to mind this. It leaned forward, offering a hand. Up closer, he could see a friendly grin. “But come, young one - explanations later. You look like you need a drink.”

And Cain smiled.


~fin~