The Golem of Hollywood

The Tower

Lying in a windowless chamber whose torchlight sustains an eternal dusk, Asham passes in and out of consciousness, fleetingly aware of a man’s presence at the foot of the bed, blinking to find him replaced by a boy, the child’s studious gaze identical to his father’s.

Veiled, unspeaking maidservants regularly appear to feed her, clean her, tend to her wounds. They stoke the fire and massage her feet. When she musters the strength to ask questions, they ignore her, leaving her alone and bedridden, too weak to stand, too weak to do anything but fix on a point in the air and will her broken body to mend faster.

To occupy her mind, she maps cracks in the clay walls, counts freckles on the backs of her hands. She raises her limbs off the bed, one at a time, each day a few more, a bit higher.

The maidservants bring heaping food, strange cooked grains and soured milks that make her gag. Knowing she must eat to heal, Asham forces them down without appetite. It takes considerable willpower to refuse the first dish that appeals to her: a roasted haunch, cut in thumb-thick slices, oozing juice, pink to the center.

“Take it away,” she says to the maidservant.

The girl stares blankly.

The aroma is making Asham’s mouth water.

She seizes a pillow and hurls it at the maidservant. “Leave.”

The girl hurries out, grease sloshing from the tray and splattering on the dirt.

If Asham had the strength, she would crawl over and lick it up. Instead she falls back, exhausted by her outburst, and drops into sleep.

A short while later, she feels the bed sag.

“I understand you’re doing better. Well enough to be difficult.”

Asham does not need to open her eyes to see the mocking smile on his face.

“Was something wrong with the mutton?” Cain asks.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“There’s no shame in eating meat,” he says. “Everyone here does. It’s considered a great luxury, excellent for health.”

Asham doesn’t answer.

“I’ll bring you something else.”

“You mean you’ll have them bring it.”

“Tell me what you’d like.”

“Who are they?”

“My servants.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Everywhere. They’re wanderers, like me.”

“Killers,” she said. “Like you.”

He shrugs. “There’s more than one way to fall out of favor. You’d be amazed by how many, actually. Together, we’ve made a home for ourselves.”

“They refuse to talk to me.”

“I’ve instructed them not to bother you.”

“Does that include not answering my questions?”

“You need to rest,” he says. “It’s not good to overextend yourself.”

At last she opens her eyes. “The people in the city,” she says. “They serve you, as well?”

Cain bursts out laughing, the way he did when she was a child and said something stupid.

“What,” she says.

“No, the entire city doesn’t cater to me. Only those who choose to.”

“No one would willingly serve another.”

“Again — you’d be amazed. And I seem to recall our father being a big proponent of service.”

“To the Lord.”

“That’s different?”

“It absolutely is,” she says. “There is no law except that of Heaven.”

“You’ve become quite the zealot.”

“It’s not zealotry to do what’s right.”

“Is that why you’re here? To do what’s right?”

She does not reply.

“Well, whatever the reason,” he says, taking her cold hand, “I’m glad you’ve come.”

The next morning she wakes to find the boy, Enoch, crouched in a corner, his head tilted, his tongue extended in concentration.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was quiet.” He leaps up and begins to skip around the room, stopping to inspect minute variations in the walls. “You don’t eat mutton. Why not?”

Because your father wants me to.

“I don’t like it,” she says.

“What do you like to eat?”

“Fruit. Nuts. Whatever grows from the ground.”

“I like those, too.”

“We have something in common,” she says.

“You should see the market,” he says. “It’s full of growing things.”

“When I’m well enough, you can show it to me.”

“When will you be well enough?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know.”

He plops down on the floor, elbows on knees, chin on fists. “I’ll wait here.”

She smiles. “It might take a while.”

“Then I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be ready tomorrow, either.”

“Then I’ll come back the day after that.”

“You’re very persistent,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“Ask your father.”

“I will,” he says. “He’ll know. He’s the wisest man in the valley. That’s why everyone loves him. When I grow up, I’m going to be a builder like him. I’m going to have a son and name a city for him. Would you like to see my toys?”

“Not right now,” she says, somehow fatigued by the thought of construction. “I think I need a nap. Hand me that blanket, please...? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

True to his word, Enoch comes the next day, and every day thereafter. Affairs of state occupy Cain’s time, and weeks go by in which the boy is the only person Asham talks to. It’s less a conversation than an interrogation. What does she think about turtles? Has she ever seen a full moon? Does she know any good riddles? His chatter momentarily dispels the gloom; it distracts her from the pain of sitting up, or swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, or standing with quaking legs, supporting herself on the bedpost.

“Very good!” Enoch yells when she reaches some new milestone. “Very, very good!”

He dances around, the clanging bell summoning servants. They see who’s calling them and grit their teeth and leave.

It is in part due to his unquenchable enthusiasm that she is soon hobbling back and forth across the chamber, leaning her weight on a wooden stick.

“Go faster,” Enoch says.

“I’m trying.”

“You can do it. Follow me.”

“Enoch. Slow down.”

“You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!”

“I can, and—”

“You can’t!”

“I can, and I will, and when I do I’m going to clobber you.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

He fetches her sweets from the market, hot stones to ease her backache. Her hair has begun to grow; he combs it for her. The maidservants still won’t speak directly to Asham, but they will answer Enoch, who acts as her intermediary.

“No more yogurt,” Asham says. “Tell her that.”

“No more yogurt,” Enoch says.

“Master has said yogurt will give her strength.”

“Tell her if she brings any more I’ll dump it on master’s head.”

“But I like yogurt,” Enoch says.

“Fine. Give it to him.”

“Give it to him,” Enoch says.

“No; you.”

“You.”

“Not her. You. You as in Enoch.”

“Enoch.” Wide-eyed: “You mean I can have your yogurt?”

“That’s absolutely what I mean.”

“Hooray! Give it to me!”

“Yes, master.”

She reminds herself that she cannot permit herself to love him. Love is rich earth; regrets take root; and while she pulls them up as fast as she can, new ones break through every day.

She can see, for instance, how the boy shares Nava’s features as well as Cain’s. Although, considering the already strong resemblance between

Nava and Cain, any part of the boy could be any part of his parents — or any of Asham’s own features, for that matter. She, too, leans toward the dark side of the family.

Which raises another question.

Where is Nava?

Come spring, Cain moves her to a roomier bedchamber on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking the city. Day begins at dawn with the birth of new cook fires and ends with the drums that signal the closing of the gates. The hours between pulse with activity, distant shouts and tantalizing colors mingling in the shimmery heat. The spectacle ignites Asham’s curiosity and motivates her to work harder to recuperate. Enoch runs before her, taunting her, forcing her to extend her range day by day. First they go to the waste cistern down the corridor. Then to the courtyard. Then up to the ramparts, where he laughingly ducks between the archers’ legs. Then back to the same places, swifter, without as many rest breaks. Then again, twice, three times, four. Finally, unaided by the stick.

“You can’t catch me!”

“Here I come...”

When she does catch him, she gets to gather him up in her arms, to feel his tiny hot body quivering with terror and delight.

“Put me down!”

Unaided is not the same as unaccompanied. A pair of maidservants linger a few steps behind, ready to grab her if she falters. Asham has only to gesture and they rush forward to do her bidding.

The one command they won’t obey is to leave her alone.

She complains to Cain.

“Am I a prisoner?”

“Of course not.”

“Then don’t treat me like one.”

“Your door is unbarred. You’re free to go wherever and whenever you want. Everyone here is free. That’s the difference between us and them. We set our own boundaries.”

“I’m not free with people following me every waking moment.”

“They’re there to help,” he says.

“I don’t want help.”

“You might need it.”

“I don’t suppose I’m free to decide that for myself.”

“Nobody’s forcing you to do anything,” he says. “And nobody’s forcing them to follow you, either. I asked them to watch you and they agreed. Everybody’s within his or her rights.”

She’d forgotten how frustrating it is to argue with him. “Am I free to strangle you?”

He smiles. “We have laws against that.”

“Laws you came up with.”

“I had a hand in their creation, yes. It’s for the public welfare. You can’t have order if everyone’s killing everyone else.”

“You’d know.”

He shrugs. “Never say I’m not a quick study.”

“Tell me: what does your law say about murderers?”

“Justice shall be done.”

She raises her eyebrows, and he shrugs again.

“The law didn’t take effect until later,” he says. “It would be unfair to punish people retroactively.”

“Convenient for you.”

“Reasonable for everyone.”

“I’m having trouble differentiating the two,” she says.

Cain laughs, long and hard.

The human frenzy she observed from her balcony is dizzying up close, a barrage of sights and sounds and smells that are individually offensive but oddly delicious when combined. Farmers who work the surrounding fields tug laden pack animals to the market square. Halved sheep carcasses sit out on stumps, lacquered thickly with flies that the butchers periodically shoo away. Dogs tussle with naked children. Cats chase rats twice their size. On one occasion Asham ventures inside a home, only to be greeted by perplexed stares and frostily asked to leave.

The idea that people can live so close together yet shut themselves behind doors seems nonsensical at first. It hinges on the confusing, enticing idea that space can be owned. Cain calls it property and says it is the cornerstone of a stable society.

To Asham it seems a vain division.

With enoch by her side and the two maidservants never far behind, she explores stalls overflowing with produce brought from afar by refugees and recultivated in the valley’s fertile soil. Vendors tout fresh limes and succulent oranges and dates and figs and pomegranates sweetly bleeding. Soon enough, people learn who Asham is, and they treat her with deference, kneeling to offer fistfuls of free samples.

“Do they have figs where you come from?” Enoch asks through a full mouth.

“Yes, lots.”

“That’s good. I like figs.”

“Me, too.”

“What else do you like?”

“I like you,” she says.

He smiles and pops another fig in his mouth.

Along with foodstuffs, the people have imported the skills and customs of their native lands. They display handicrafts whose ingenuity rivals that of Cain’s best inventions: stonework, metalwork, half a hundred types of weapon. Caged beasts snarl and snap at anyone foolish enough to stick his fingers through the bars. Caged birds sing elegies to freedom.

There are jugglers and healers, potters and barbers. Asham spends an afternoon spellbound by three men blowing into pipes to create twisting, haunting melodies.

So much to look at, so much to do.

She can all too easily see how one would come to make a life here.

Amid the hustle and bustle, they even make time for the Lord. At the center of the city stands a temple where, for a fee, a team of priests will slaughter a young lamb and sprinkle its blood on the altar while a choir sings incantations. She inquires about the origin of the ritual and learns that Cain has declared it binding on every man, to be performed three times a year.

She asks Cain why.

“It keeps them busy.”

By far, her favorite place is a vast public garden fed by channels dug from the river. Enoch takes her by the hand, naming plants and demonstrating their special features.

“This one moves if you touch it,” he says, grazing the tip of a leaf.

Asham stares in wonder as it folds in on itself. “Why does it do that?”

“Cause it doesn’t like to be touched, so it hides.”

“We shouldn’t bother it.”

“It’s a plant,” Enoch says. “Plants don’t feel.”

“How do you know that?”

“Father told me.”

“Do you believe everything he tells you?”

“Of course.”

The flowers grow in orderly rows, grouped by color. Asham feels compelled to point out to him that it is otherwise in the wild.

“You’re very interesting,” he says solemnly.

She laughs. “I am?”

“Oh, yes. You’re the most interesting person I ever met.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You are. Father said so. Are you going to stay?”

“Stay...?”

He nods. “You could be my mother.”

Her stomach drops.

“I’d like that,” he says.

“What about your real mother?” she asks. “Where is she?”

He does not reply.

“Enoch?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where she is?”

“Look,” he says, pointing to a blue dot weaving through the greenery. “A butterfly.”

He runs ahead.

New immigrants arrive daily. The constant influx of refugees demands constant growth, and Cain toils long hours. Most mornings he leaves the palace before Asham is awake, although occasionally she will rise early enough to hurry to the window and catch a glimpse of his departing retinue: ten men stamping the dirt with the butts of their spears, calling ahead to clear the road.

It may be true, as Enoch claims, that the people love his father. If so, though, she has to wonder why he needs so many bodyguards. When she challenges Cain about it, he responds that respect is composed of equal parts fear and love.

His precise title remains vague, as do the duties it entails. He has described himself, variously, as chief architect, principal council member, treasurer, adjudicator. Whether the people love him or fear him, they certainly depend on him: he administers the law, collects taxes, suppresses dissent.

Without him, the valley would implode in disorder.

This realization, among others, holds her in check. Each time she looks at Enoch, fresh doubts break through. Every cold morning he climbs into bed to burrow against her, rubbing his soft cheek against hers; every silly gift he brings her; every clay edifice he builds and names in her honor; every lazy evening by the hearth, cracking walnuts and telling fantastic stories; every fever he sprouts that keeps her up, pacing a rut into the floor; every time he asks her, yet again, if she is going to stay; every time she asks him where his mother is and he has no answer.

The new temple will dominate the eastern edge of the valley — an enormous undertaking that will not be completed in Cain’s lifetime. Indeed, in all likelihood, he says, they’ll still be working on it when Enoch’s grandchildren have grandchildren of their own.

“Then what’s the point?” Asham asks.

“You build for the future,” he says.

They are seated at the long wooden table where Cain holds council meetings. At present the two of them dine alone. Enoch is asleep; Asham tucked him in.

She’s not sure what Cain means by building for the future. Is “the future” his heirs, for whom the temple will stand and function? Or does “the future” refer to the remembrance of Cain’s own name?

In his mind, are those goals distinct?

She asks how he came to learn the secrets of building.

He cuts his mutton and piles it with lentils. “Trial and error.”

She assumes he means his earliest clay huts.

He nods as he chews. “They weren’t perfect, so I moved on.”

“Nothing’s perfect.”

“This one will be.”

“You believe that.”

“You have to believe,” he says. “Creativity is an act of faith.”

“I thought you have no faith.”

“Not in anyone else,” he says.

His arrogance ought to fan the flames of her rage. Instead Asham feels a thrum of desire. She has drunk too much. She slides the goblet of wine away from her.

Cain notices. “You don’t like it? I can bring something else.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she lies.

Cain shrugs, cuts meat. “Say the word... I promised Enoch I’d take him out to the building site next week. You can come along, if you’d like.” He catches her eyeing his plate. “Take a taste?”

“No, thanks.”

He grins, resumes cutting. “You can’t hold out forever.”

Asham relishes a flood of private thoughts. “I don’t intend to.”

“Aha,” he says. “I knew it. I know you better than you know you. When’s the happy day? I’ll make sure to have them prepare something special.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Excellent, I don’t mind suspense.” He winks at her and slides a bloody triangle of flesh in his mouth, chews thoughtfully, swallows. “He’s very fond of you. It’s been hard on him, not having a woman around. A boy needs a mother.”

“You never talk about her,” Asham says.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I told you already. She died in childbirth. I buried her in the grasslands. You saw the monument yourself.”

She nods, remembering the smooth clay pillar.

“Please don’t ask me about it again.”

She nods, and he resumes eating. When he speaks next, his voice is bright.

“So? What do you say? Do you want to come with us and see the tower? Promise me, though, you’ll use your imagination. It’s not close to done.”

She says, “I promise.”

The journey takes the better part of a day.

They march to the drone of insects, following a narrow track through the forest. Cain and his retinue go on foot, while the dog displays vestiges of his former occupation, scouting ahead and returning with a barked report. Enoch and Asham ride on a wooden palanquin borne by eight bare-chested manservants. Ever since learning that men in official service must submit to castration — it restrains them from excessive lust — she cannot look at them without feeling queasy.

“It’s a good day,” Cain says. “Nice and clear. Wait till you see the view.”

Stone markers indicate the remaining distance; by mid-morning, they have reached the seventh of twenty, and Asham asks Cain if it wouldn’t have made more sense to build closer to the edge of the city.

He sighs, explains that, again, he’s thinking of the future: not where the city ends now, but where it might end in ten generations’ time. By then, the tower will be centrally located.

She asks if growth is to continue forever?

He replies that forever is a long time.

She has noted that he refers to the building by different terms depending on whom he is talking to. When discussing its ritual function with the priests, or drumming up support with the masses, it’s a temple, always a temple, a temple to replace the smaller, inadequate temple, the grandest of temples fit for showcasing the glory of the Lord.

But to her, when his excitement shows, it’s a tower.

The distinction may go unnoticed by everyone else, but not by Asham. Her brother does not waste words. He divides and classifies, gives everything its proper name. Without precision, he is fond of saying, we cannot communicate.

He often says this before he’s about to hedge or lie.

They pause to lunch on dried fish. The palanquin bearers wade into the river up to their knees to cool off, bending to quickly gulp great handfuls of water which just as quickly reappear beaded on their brows and arms and hairless, coppery chests. Enoch climbs a tree and pelts them with pinecones. Asham satisfies herself with a millet cake.

“Not long now,” Cain says.

Enoch claps his hands. “Not long!”

The sun is falling on their arrival, and as the tower comes into view, she mistakes it for a new city, so sprawling is its footprint.

Cain helps her down from the palanquin. He sees her astonished gape and laughs. “This is nothing yet.”

They tour the perimeter so that he may review progress with his foremen. Half the city seems to be here. Temporary housing has been erected for the host of workers who labor under a hot sun in daytime and by torchlight at night. The racket never ceases. There are woodchoppers and mule drivers, carvers and smiths. Twenty dozen red-faced men take shifts, doing nothing but stomping mud, molding bricks, firing them.

Thus far, seven levels have been completed, each one slightly smaller than the one below. A ramp spirals around the exterior, wide enough for foot traffic to pass in both directions. Eventually it will wind up to the top, so that pilgrims who want to reach Heaven may do so, purchasing access for a nominal fee.

Asham looks at him. “Heaven?”

“Come on, I want you to see the inside.”

The bottom floor is a grand hall devoted to works of art. Enoch runs in sloppy circles, hollering at the top of his lungs and basking in his echo, while Cain shows off a series of delicate floral friezes. Coming to a prominent niche, she stops, struck dumb by a life-sized granite statue of a man.

“Do you like it?” Cain asks. “I hired the valley’s most gifted sculptor.”

She doesn’t know what to say.

“He was working from my design, though.”

“It’s an idol.”

“Oh, please. Nobody’s worshipping it. It’s for decoration.”

She stares at him. “It’s you.”

“And? People ought to know whose idea this was. It’ll encourage them to dream.”

Slowly, she walks around the statue. It is a good likeness: she can admit that. Still, her father’s oft-repeated warnings against forming the image of man ring in her ears with the force of a natural law. She feels as though she’s committing a grave sin simply by standing there.

The sculptor has placed a torch in one hand and a knife in the other.

“Light and power,” Cain says. “Tools of the trade. You want to know what I’ve learned, I can sum it up for you like this: one capable man working alone can build a house. One capable man commanding thousands can build a world.”

“The world is already built,” she says.

He laughs. “We’d better go if you want to catch the sunset.”

To Enoch’s immense displeasure, he is ordered to wait at the bottom.

“But I want to see.”

“It’s not safe,” Cain says. “Keep the dog company.”

“Why do you get to go?”

“We’re adults.”

“I’m an adult.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m not going to argue about this.” He motions to one of the guards, who lifts Enoch and carries him, squealing, back to the palanquin.

Watching them go, Cain sighs. “I hate it when he defies me.”

“What did you expect?” she says. “He’s your son.”

He smiles wistfully. “Let’s go.”

They haven’t climbed far before Asham decides that he was right not to let the boy come along. She herself has half a mind to turn back. The tower’s height funnels the wind into upward gusts that whip her robes, and she edges along the inside of the ramp, leery of the incomplete outer wall. Cain strides on, unconcerned. Not wanting to look weak in front of him, she screws up her courage and follows.

The seventh floor has no walls at all, making for a magnificent vantage. In every direction the sky drips honey. The distant city could be mistaken for a natural feature, its buildings running together, like a clay plain. Cain unfastens his cloak and offers it to her for warmth. She draws it tight around her, watching with a knotted throat as he saunters out to within an arm’s length of the edge.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Imagine what it’ll look like from the top. You’ll be able to see the entire valley and beyond.”

“And Heaven, apparently.”

“And Heaven.”

“You used to argue with Father about Heaven.”

“So I did.”

“You didn’t believe in it.”

“I still don’t.”

Asham approaches the edge, daring to lean out and peer down a seven-story clay cliff. Her head spins; she steps back. “You’re building a ramp to a place that doesn’t exist.”

“Anything to keep the people interested.”

“They’re going to demand a refund if they climb all that way and there’s nothing to see.”

“Well, I won’t rule out the possibility that Heaven exists. But I won’t know unless I see it for myself, and since I never will, I’ll trust my intuition.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong.”

“What I don’t understand is why you need to know.”

“One can’t choose freely without knowledge.”

“And that’s more important than angering the Lord?”

“Who said anything about angering him?”

“I have a feeling He’s not going to be happy with people showing up at His door, demanding entrance.”

“He’s the Lord,” Cain says. “I’m sure he can handle it.”

The sun squashes against the horizon. Down below, the workers scurry like beetles. The wind carries shouts, whipcracks, whinnies, groans.

“We’re not going to make it back before dark,” she says.

“I thought we could spend the night. There’s a room I use when I have to stay over.”

“Where will I stay?”

He turns to her. “With me.”

She feels the blood beat in her ears.

“Say something,” Cain says.

“What should I say?”

“Yes. Or no.”

A silence.

She says, “Your son keeps asking me to be his mother.”

A silence.

Cain says, “It’s your decision, not his or mine. I learned that a long time ago, and I told him so.”

“He’s not listening.”

Cain pauses. “He wants to help.”

“I know.”

A silence.

He says, “I did love her. Nava.”

She nods.

“I may have failed to convey how hard it’s been on me.”

“I can imagine,” she says.

“You can’t. I had someone and I lost her. You can’t possibly know what that’s like.”

She says, “I know.”

For a moment, he sags. Regret, or fear. Either would be a first. Either would soften her heart.

She says, “Do you ever think about him?”

He disappoints her then: he straightens up and his green eyes shine and he speaks with confidence. “I only think about what I can control.”

“That’s impressive,” she says. “I remember whether I want to or not.”

“I used to see him, in my dreams.” The wind makes snakes of his hair. “But it’s been so long. Now, when I try to remember...”

He starts to laugh.

“What,” she says.

He shakes his head, laughing. “I see a sheep.”

Asham stares at him.

“I’m sorry. That was unkind. I’ve changed. Everything has changed. That things turned out the way they did is unfortunate. But it’s past, and I can only act in the present. I’ve tried to atone. You’ve seen how I give everything I have to my people.”

“They’re not your family.”

“But they are. All men are. That’s what Father was so afraid of, you see. That’s why he wouldn’t let us leave the valley. I didn’t give him enough credit. I admit that now. He knew. He knew others were out there, that we’d find them, that we’d understand: all men are equal. He knew that if we understood that, we would refuse to submit to him.”

“We submitted to the Lord, not to Father.”

“And who told us what the Lord wanted? Father. Who told us what to do, when to do it; how we’d be punished if we didn’t? Who changed the rules when he saw fit? He did.”

“Why would he lie?”

“To control us. That’s what men want. Power.”

“What makes you special?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m like any man. I am no different. But we are. An assemblage of men. What makes us special is that there are many voices speaking at once. Some speak for each other. Some against. It’s that loud mass of voices that produces a unity. Look at what we’ve been able to build. Not because of any one person. I’ve taken the greatest burden on my shoulders, yes, but I rely on people to help me. Do you see what I’m saying? Man survives together. It isn’t right to be alone. Not for anyone.”

He pauses. “Not me. Not my son. He needs a mother. He needs you. We both do. I brought you here to show you what we’re building. I’m building this for you. It’s a monument to togetherness. We’ve both wandered, we’ve both been alone, we are all that we have. Don’t you think I’ve had offers of marriage? Every man in the city wants to give his daughter to me. I refused them all. I waited for you. Every day I watched the horizon. I put sentries by the gates and I told them to watch for you. I sent the dog out to hunt for your scent. I still have your robe. I carried it with me, over mountains and through the plain. When I felt I could not go on, I raised it to my face and I remembered you. It still smells like you. I told the dog to find you and he did. Because I knew you would come, and I knew that by the time you arrived here you’d be coming in love, not anger. I have loved you forever and I will love you forever still.”

A silence.

Asham says, “Forever is a long time.”

Cain laughs: a high, frightened sound. “You see? That’s what I love you for. I love you for saying that. I live in a world of flatterers and liars. You speak the truth. I need truth to come home to. I need you to come home to. Enoch does. Do it for him. No. No. Do it for me. Because you love me, I know you love me. You can’t deny that. You wouldn’t.”

He kneels by the edge of the tower. “If you say you don’t love me, I will fling myself off.”

A silence.

Asham says, “I do love you.”

“So it’s yes,” he says. “You will be my wife, as you have always meant to be.”

The wind slices through Asham’s cloak, and she shivers.

Cain says, “Don’t stand there like a statue.”

She kneels to be level with him.

“My love,” he says, “my love.”

She presses her mouth to his. His tongue pushes back, and their bodies kiss from chest to groin.

His skin smells of dust and oil; with demanding hands he urges her toward the ground, as he has done once before, and she breaks away, and he says, “What? What is it?”

She brushes his hair from his eyes, kisses the crown of his head, embraces him again, staring over his shoulder at a dark sky speckled with dark crows.

She holds him tightly, so as to never let him go, and — fixing the balls of her feet against the rough surface of the clay — says, “Forever.”

With the strength and conviction of vengeance long deferred, she pushes them both over the edge.