“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.