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.”