Fallen Read online

  ‘This book’s power to rivet the reader approaches the miraculous . . . quirky, delectable, daring.’ Janet Maslin, New York Times

  ‘A very sophisticated kind of soap opera . . . As he works his way back from experience to innocence, [Maine’s] tone shifts from darkness to light, ending with Eve’s irresistible, knowing humour and lovely paradisiacal reveries . . . Again and again throughout this novel, Maine’s talent is revealed . . . In his hands, Cain becomes a tortured hero, the character who is remembered long after the bland and blameless Abel is forgotten.’ Elena Seymenliyska, Guardian

  ‘Maine’s prose is as simple and economical as the life it’s depicting, but it doesn’t skimp when elaborating the basic passions felt by its players, as they learn what it is to be human.’

  Dave Pollock, Independent

  ‘With a modern novelist’s art, acuity and insistence on psychological realism, Maine . . . had me believing in the truth of these most archetypal of characters and the situation they found themselves in . . . Having appropriated such an old story it’s a marvel that Maine can make it feel so fresh.’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘With charm and wry wit, [Maine] merely tickles the idea that God is perhaps, well . . . a bit of a bastard.****’

  Alex Barlow, Time Out

  ‘Maine has exchanged the compact narrative of the Old Testament for the modern novel, supplying the psychological motives, theological questioning and explanatory incidents absent from his bibliographical sources.’ Matthew Creasy, Financial Times

  Also by David Maine

  The Flood

  The Book of Samson

  fallen David Maine

  CANONGATE

  Edinburgh • New York • Melbourne

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by

  Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,

  Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  First published in America by St Martin’s Press, New York, 2005

  This edition first published by Canongate Books Ltd in 2007

  This digital edition first published in 2013 by Canongate Books.

  Copyright © David Maine, 2005

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on

  request from the British Library

  ISBN 9781782112273

  www.canongate.tv

  for my family

  Contents

  Book One

  The Murder

  40.

  The Old Man

  39.

  The Brother

  38.

  The Son

  37.

  Thirty Years Previous

  36.

  The Mistake

  35.

  The Proposal

  34.

  The Strangers

  33.

  The Years Previous

  32.

  The Conversation

  31.

  The Murder

  Book Two

  The Brother

  30.

  The Murder

  29.

  The Girl

  28.

  Some Weeks Previous

  27.

  The Old Man

  26.

  The Stranger

  25.

  The Conversations

  24.

  The Previous Two Years

  23.

  The Judgment

  22.

  The Offering

  21.

  The Proposal

  Book Three

  The Family

  20.

  The Proposal

  19.

  The Previous Winter

  18.

  The Mistake

  17.

  The Abomination

  16.

  The Conversation

  15.

  Two Summers Previous

  14.

  The Years

  13.

  The Second Son

  12.

  The Previous Murder

  11.

  The Arrival

  Book Four

  The Fall

  10.

  The Arrival

  9.

  The Son

  8.

  Two Years Previous

  7.

  The Gifts

  6.

  The Years

  5.

  The Previous Spring

  4.

  The Murder

  3.

  The Conversation

  2.

  That First Morning

  1.

  The Old Man

  book one the murder

  40 the old man

  The mark burns upon him all the time now. Its hurt is open and shameful like a scab picked until it bleeds. In years past he could find ways to forget it or at least misplace his awareness for a while; it was never easy but he managed. These days he cannot. There is nothing to fill Cain’s time so the mark does this for him.

  It stains his flesh like a parasite.

  Countless people have witnessed it over the years, but even those who have not don’t lack for an opinion. Some say it is a letter—the first letter of his name, reversed to show God’s displeasure. Others say it carries the shape of a stillborn child, or a wolf’s skull, or a coiled serpent. Still others, less fanciful perhaps or just duller, claim it is no picture at all. Merely a smear unreadable, the Devil’s thumbprint or God’s. What does the shape matter? The point is, it is there, plainly visible, crying out to be seen.

  But the miracle lies in the seeing. For all those who look upon the mark see it differently. Like the Tower of Babel reflected mirrorwise, everyone who lays eyes upon Cain’s face beholds something different from all the others, sees the message spelled in a different tongue, though the message is always the same.

  And what message is thus conveyed? A simple one: Don’t touch. Stay away. Leave this one alone.

  The others in this house, Cain’s in-laws and grandchildren, heed this advice and give him a wide berth. Only his son remains stubbornly loyal. And recently, his dead brother as well.

  But now Cain is convinced that Abel has left him forever: tonight’s visit was his last. So with nothing more to do, he waits to die. He is not being dramatic. Among his many faults, this is not one. He expects to be dead by morning.

  The old man shifts and wheezes. The wet climate he finds himself banished to torments his breathing. Deserts are tough but at least the air is clean. Not that he expects sympathy: impetuous he may be, hot-tempered and violent, resentful and self-pitying, any number of undesirable qualities. But he has never been stupid.

  So then. He shifts his weight in the crepuscular gloom of the hut and allows his gaze to drift past the low open entryway, outside to where the fading crimson sky has clotted into dusk. From outside float children’s laughter and the calmer voice of his son. Cain knows he is not welcome out there. Nor unwelcome exactly; but if he ventured from his hut the voices would quickly fade, glances would be cast down, the children would drift off, and the women’s mouths would tighten.

  No. He will stay inside this night. At least it will be his last such.

  Cain settles onto the earth, arms folded behind his head. A sigh ripples through his nose and musses the yellowing whiskers of his beard. So the matter of his mortality has been decided. In a strange way a burden has been lifted. If he were carefree he might start whistling, but he is not. He is a man who dwells upon serious thoughts. As a boy he dwelt upon serious thoughts. As a fetus in his mother’s womb he was prone, quite likely, to serious ruminations, while his lighthearted brother simply enjoyed spinning and kicking in the watery gloom. People change in some ways as they grow; in other ways they don’t.

  Maybe that’s the nub of it, he thinks. Maybe that’s where all the problems started between himself and his brother—himself and his mother—himself and his father. With two unborn souls, spinning or brooding in the watery wet, waiting for the unforgiving light of their first morning.

  There is something in that, some truth waiting to be grasped like a teat in an infant’s hand. But like that teat, the truth is too large and unwieldy for the old man’s grip, and when he clutches at it, it bounces to one side, slipping heavily from his fingers. And whatever lies beyond Cain’s vague sense of disquiet slips away as well.

  He is old and gets distracted easily. When the idea is gone he doesn’t bother to follow it, and soon forgets it altogether.

  •

  This evening Cain appears calm but he his not. His terror is that of a tiny boy dropped from a great height during a thunderstorm while vultures pluck his flesh. His stomach feels slightly out of kilter, down where his intestines should be. This makes his midriff hurt. It makes his back and his loins and his molars hurt. Was this how his brother felt as the life hurtled from his body, or did he feel something else entirely? Rage for example or bewilderment, or perhaps an overwhelming grief that blotted out all else with enormous reptilian wings?

  Cain tucks his chin against his clavicle, shuts his eyes tight, and tries to keep the world at bay. Outside, his grandson Irad cackles as the children play some game involving rocks and noise. He is, he thinks, almost ready to leave this place behind forever. Almost eager, in fact.

  Almost.

  So behold him there: Cain lying alone in the hut, thinking back on his life, tallying it up. Waiting to die.

  39 the brother

  Lately something strange has been happening to Cain: he has been having
conversations with his dead brother. In the early morning, during the rift between sleep and consciousness, Abel appears in the hut, squatting at the foot of Cain’s sleeping mat, cracking his knuckles or picking his teeth.—And how is it with you lately? he likes to ask. His voice is colorless, like the air.

  Abel has been gone fifty years now, and Cain is a jumpy, scared old man.

  These visitations terrify him, but the terror precludes any violent outcry. He does not command Spirit begone! or Out with you, shade! or any of a dozen other entreaties that cram into his mouth. Fear commands that he lie half-groggy on his mat and converse civilly with his long-murdered brother. So he replies, I am well enough.

  —That’s good to hear, nods Abel. He says this every time, with the same bland sincerity that used to so curdle Cain’s nerves when they were both younger. Just boys really. And alive.

  Abel says this every time too:—Soon we’ll be reunited. I’m looking forward to it.

  Cain says nothing but wonders if this is true. Hopes it is. Fears it is.

  Abel’s fingers brush against the floor of the hut, leaving no furrows in the sand. He looks no older than the day when Cain pummeled him with a stone and pitched him off a cliff. For that matter there is no sign of the violence of his death. Green eyes flicker from a broad, open face, and a tangle of brown curls caresses his shoulders. He had always been a pretty youth, olive-skinned and dimpled: five decades of extinction has not changed this. Cain grimaces. He is crippled and riven with pain, and sometimes his eyes water with unfairness of it: that Abel should remain eternally young, while Cain must suffer rancid teeth and creaking joints and incontinence and all the rest.

  He is fully aware of the absurdity of this.

  •

  Tonight Abel appears for one final visit.—Father appears well, he says, as if Cain has asked. But he hasn’t: Cain never asks. He left that family behind long ago, and if he is startled by the longevity of his parents, he doesn’t let it show.

  —Mother too, Abel continues.—Everyone settled now, with grandchildren, except for the twins who died some time ago.

  —I didn’t know that.

  —Oh yes. Epon and Epna. By the plague, within days of each other. Also Kerod, in childbirth, and the infant as well. A boy.

  Cain digests this. The names echo in his memory like rusted bells. He can barely recall their faces, but hadn’t Kerod been special to him, once?

  —Everyone else is all right, Abel continues.—The other children and that, that—His hand flutters.—Seth. The one who—took my place.

  —Yes, I remember your speaking of him, says Cain. The puzzlement in his brother’s voice when he mentions Seth is one of Cain’s few pleasures these days.—Our parents didn’t waste much time in mourning, did they?

  Petulant, Abel frowns.

  Cain impassively ponders his parents’ advanced years. If age weighs so heavily on him, how must they feel? Spent indeed by all accounts. Ready to find a comfortable grave and stretch out. Well, good luck to them. Or perhaps not—perhaps their days are lightened by grandchildren who do not fear to kiss them, by in-laws who do not spurn them, by neighbors who speak their names aloud and not in whispered invocations used to frighten wayward children.

  Cain can only imagine such an existence.

  Then Abel says, You should go see them.

  Anger wells up at that, oozes through Cain like pus. The intensity of it catches him off guard. Those two little words—you should—are like the memory of a slap.—I’m not long for this world, as you well know. And why would I go anyway? Besides to kill him, perhaps. Finish the job I started.

  Abel is already starting to vanish.—Don’t talk like that.

  —Piss off. I’ll say what I like.

  —For now, brother. For now . . .

  —Piss off I said!

  He is cursing an empty room.

  The encounter leaves him trembling, but whether with rage or fear he can’t say. Not for the first time he wonders bitterly: Why does it have to be his brother who so visits? Why can’t it be his wife? He would give much for a few moments with Zoru again.

  Though perhaps—just perhaps—it is better this way.

  •

  No great revelation ever comes from these appearances, no warnings of damnation or promises of redemption. Just a few words, an implicit reminder. A notification as it were.

  In a way Cain is grateful for this. There are many damning things his brother could tell him that would bring no joy whatsoever.

  •

  Another memory dogs him lately:

  A boy’s flickering face, a lupine stranger lit by firelight, leaning eagerly forward. A certain glitter to the eyes as he says, If it wasn’t for you, he’d still be alive right now.

  Decades ago, this was. The boy had not been speaking of Abel.

  —Sitting here talking to you, the wolflike boy had said.—Instead of me.

  Recently Cain has grown preoccupied with that conversation and all it implies. This might be why he calls out in his sleep from time to time, Do you forgive me?

  There is never any answer, of course—there is no one around to hear him, and even if there were, who would take the responsibility of answering? Maybe this is why Cain always wakes, morning after morning, with a heavy feeling of unutterable sadness in his gut. Heavy and painful, as if he long ago swallowed something unhealthy, and is only now starting to properly digest it.

  38 the son

  The morning before Cain’s last night on earth—the morning before Abel’s final appearance—Cain is visited by his son, Henoch. This is expected. This happens every day.

  For many years Henoch has been famous as a builder. He is known as the architect of the city in which his family now lives. Stories tell of how he would dream palaces by night and then construct them by day, hard against the wide straight boulevards from his dreams, interspersed with public plazas and watercourses and covered bazaars and temples and a harbor and plenty of plain ordinary homes for the plain ordinary people of his city. Fishermen and traders and husbandmen and so forth. This grand project had taken many years, starting in virtual obscurity but, as he labored and word of his glorious city spread, attracting all manner of men like gnats to a campfire. Some of these men brought their families and settled in the city and added their skills and industry to its glory. Some of them, predictably, were rabble who added nothing but had much to say.

  Henoch was not a boastful man or a proud one but apparently he saw little point in hiding his light under a bushel. So when he completed building his city, he retired from the sight of men for many days to think on its proper name, before finally deciding on: Henoch.

  This caused no small amount of glee among the rabble.

  —Henoch? they cried.—He’s named the city after himself? What, are all his children named Henoch too?

  —And his wife! giggled one.

  —And his goats! snickered another.

  —And his mother! brayed a third.—And his father too!

  At this they fell silent. Everyone knew who Henoch’s father was. No city, regardless of its charm and wonder, could outshine the shadows of that notoriety. No boulevards, no matter how flawless, could make straight a lineage that crooked. No city need ever be named Cain to ensure that name’s preservation for posterity.

  —Well anyway, snorted the rabble after it took a moment to collect itself.—Naming it Henoch, there’s presumption for you.

  The mystery was: Where was Henoch’s father, anyway? Henoch himself was visible everywhere during those years, sweating through the long humid days, planing boards and firing bricks and carving stone and laying cobbles. A big man with arms as wide as most men are tall. Muscles rippling under his shoulders like angry snakes. He would have intimidated people but for his laugh, which set other men at ease and caused women to wonder why their husbands were not so. Henoch laughed often and liked to remark that this lifted more burdens than his shoulders ever could.