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.