The Days of Cain: The Cain Saga, #1

By Heath Whiteside

In times past, man recorded the horrors known as the Dark Ages, a time when men preyed one upon another with brutality so cruel it is difficult to imagine. Long before the Dark Ages, however, before those darkest days of written history, were times when evil was much more than what mere men could do one to another, days of such pure, salivating evil that demons themselves did unto man as they pleased. Such were … The Days of Cain.

 

In the beginning, Eve gave birth to a son and she called him … Cain. Genesis chapter 4

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heath Whiteside
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798985066135

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

EVERY DAY, WE LIVE OUR CHOICES

THE CAIN SAGA

BOOK ONE: THE DAYS OF CAIN

CHAPTER 1

Though these were his own offspring, Cain did look upon them with a large measure of disdain. He had been born of Adam and Eve, the first in the image of Heaven’s hosts, formed of the clay by God’s hand and with the breath of life given to them by God Himself. From them, Cain had been born, a man of intellect and understanding, a man of symmetry and grace and of handsome appeal. He had been born a creation of God, unlike these reprobates playing in the dust at his feet.

Though they had been born of his seed, these were also, Cain knew, the devil’s spawn.

I shall be as God, Satan had said within his heart. Through pride, he justified his envy and even his spiteful need for revenge. I shall create my own race of man, the Father’s prize creation, he mocked. And Satan did breed with the primates that God had made, and many of his hordes of demons did likewise in his name, breeding with beasts of all manner. Thus was born corruption from what once had been pure.

That which God does the devil dost copy, twisting and perverting it into something it was never meant to be. And this patch of ground, dappled with sunlight and the shifting shadows of leaves, harbored a gaggle of children that were not truly human. They were of simple minds and beastly stature, creatures born of Cain’s seed and the bestial dabbling of demons, primitive peoples subsisting in small nomadic tribes known simply, both in small groups and collectively, as the clan.

The devil, and the worst like him, reveled in the perversion. They delighted in the pain this brought the Father they had once adored. But to Cain, it was a disappointment. He spit in the dirt at his feet and looked again at the dirty little children.

God created man in His image. In the divine image, He created him. Male and female, He created them, Cain muttered sourly, recalling the quote from his father. If Adam could see my sons, Cain thought, he would not consider these poor bastards to be divine.

Divine image, Cain scoffed and snapped his teeth toward the children to show his displeasure. All of them shied from him, those closest more so. The children knew to keep their distance from Cain when he was brooding, for though he was their father, he was also a man of great wrath.

Cain looked at Iya. Though close to him, she had shied away less than the others, and though she lowered her eyes respectfully and did not hold his gaze, she seemed not to fear him either. She was better looking than the other children, almost pretty, especially since she stood more erect than they, with less body hair and lighter skin too. Of all the children, she seemed the most attractive, having taken after him more than her mother. That is why he had never struck the girl. And soon, like several other girls in the clan, at only eight years of age, the bloodflower would blossom between her thighs. With that, Iya would become a woman.

The children of the clan rarely lived to be more than twenty-five. It was a harsh and short existence to which Cain’s children had to mature quickly.

Cain shifted his eyes, having caught sight of Ayalla staring spitefully at him, the hint of a sneer on her wrinkled face. The old hag, as Cain thought of her now, was the mother of Iya and many others in this brood. She stared at him and did not look away, even when he glared back at her.

Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, Adam had said of his wife. He had called his wife’s name Eve because she was the mother of all living, Cain remembered, and continued to fester ill within his thoughts, a salmagundi of anger, guilt, and remorse. But it was a large amount of frustration that smothered him most.

She was the mother of all living at the dawn of mankind, he thought, but now, hundreds of years later and having lost to Lucifer the keys of control through sin, he no longer considered that to be true. He looked about him at the brood of children and the ugly hag and thought with bitter certainty, No, these are not descendants of my mother!

The beginning began long before this day ever came. And now, this was the beginning of the end – or the end of the beginning. Cain didn’t know which exactly, but for certain, things were changing. And judging by the way things had been, change of most any sort would have to be good. At least, so it seemed to Cain on this day.

With a hardening glare, he stared at Ayalla, sitting alone in the sunshine, her bare butt settled in the dirt. A lone tree stood on the edge of a small ravine. Everyone but her played or rested in its shade while a sea of tall, dry grasses swayed in all directions, rustled by the dying breeze at the approach of mid-day. And with the coming death of that morning wind would come, too, the unbearable scorch of a white-hot sun.

The same sun, thought Cain as he looked to the rising orb, which each season tans the hide of that hag a darker shade of ugly. This witch might be one of the mothers of my sons, but none of this, he thought with another bitter look about him, reflects anything divine.

An image, a dark memory, raised the bumps of a cold chill on Cain’s flesh, raising his hairs and bringing to his body a hard shiver, despite the heat.

Cain remembered that day better than he wanted to. He had come to see Ayalla late, and though the shadows had already grown long, the evening light yet reflected softly, shimmering in the evening air and filling the small shelter of Ayalla’s burrow with a soft amber light that danced warmly off the den walls. Despite the bones and human skulls, the trappings of Ayalla’s budding witchcraft, it had seemed appealing, for he had been hard with the need of a woman’s touch at that hour.

He could still envision, clearly, the naked flesh of Ayalla as she lay on the floor of her den, squirming with sensual appeal. His loins had yearned for her, hard and insistent; though in truth, he had never found her very attractive but always willing. He had thought her to be dreaming at first, perhaps dreaming of him, until he saw her flesh move ... oddly. Cain had then stopped and backed into the shadows before being seen. He watched as her flesh rippled and gave way to the demon that lay upon her. He could see the undulations of her thighs, even the swell and give of each penetration. He watched the groping of her breasts by invisible fingers and even the bite marks that marred her shoulders as they appeared from the perverse pressure of that invisible lover. Slack-jawed and shaken, Cain had slipped away then, unnoticed, never to touch the witch again—at least, not with any desire or affection.

Increasingly often, thereafter, Cain noticed the telltale bite marks on Ayalla, and he noticed, too, her quick descent into the dark lore. He noted the changes in her habits, her ritualistic witchcraft, and the decay of her appearance. He found her strange, and he now found her repulsive.

Cain shook the unease from his shoulders and eyed Ayalla sternly, but still, she held his gaze. It was because he had no interest in her now that he rarely bothered to chastise her, but her insolence was about to change that. Quickly, he stooped and found a stone near his feet, and with a hard throw, bruised Ayalla’s shoulder deeply. Ayalla screeched while everyone else went instantly silent. She had seen the throw but had not been fast enough to escape its painful sting.

Return to your den of demons, old hag! Cain hissed and threw another rock. The stone struck hard against the left side of her face, removing Ayalla from her feet.

She landed hard and flat in the dirt.

The others, unlike Cain, were not accustomed to the use of tools or weapons. The concept was slow in coming to them and always seemed to catch them by surprise with both its speed and its reach.

Cain moved to tower over the aging mother of his children, the mother of some of his children. He pressed his foot to her neck, not allowing her to rise. Look! Look! he screamed. You want to stare? Look at me now! he ordered and pressed harder on her neck.

Ayalla peered up at him, her eyes large with pain, fear, and the sudden desire for mercy.

Learn your place! Cain hissed down at her. He lifted his foot then but kicked her as she scurried away, her crimson blood falling to the powder-gray dirt in heavy drops from the cut of the stone.

Thud! Thud! Thud! came from behind Cain. It was the slow, heavy beat of Toc, slapping big fists against his barrel chest. He followed that with a quick clicking of his teeth, to show his great displeasure.

Cain turned slowly to face Toc. He knew sooner or later, it would come to this, for Toc was protective of the old hag, his mother. Cain knew too, though, that Toc was not ready. Toc was not ready to challenge his father, angry or not.

Toc strong! Toc proclaimed and smacked his chest mightily again.

Naanam, one of the children, a boy who liked to clamber about, had spent this morning high in the tree keeping watch for approaching danger across the plains of high grasses. He was the only one of all the children to hold his position. The rest scattered, fearful of being caught in the violence that was sure to result from the tension Cain had ignited, the tension that Toc now magnified with rage of his own.

In times past, Cain’s reaction would have been swift and brutal, leaving any child who challenged him instantly battered and bloody. Now, however, Cain knew Toc was right. Toc was strong.

But he was not strong enough.

Tall, broad of shoulders, and still in his youth, Cain was powerful too. In fact, in terms of their life expectancy, ironically, Cain was now younger than his son, for at fourteen, Toc was now of middle age, his life half over. Very few of Cain’s offspring could survive to be more than thirty. Even if the dangers of life were miraculously avoided, old age came quickly for them, whereas Cain, having been born of God’s children from the Garden of Eden and having received of God a mark of protection, a mark that would give hesitation to most men, could expect his years to exceed nine hundred, for this was the time before God shortened the days of His children.

These were the days of man.

Cain flexed and eyed Toc, measuring the man anew. He had every intention of teaching him a lasting lesson. The better of it would be to suffer little loss himself.

With a howl, Toc threw handfuls of dirt into the air, flailing his arms and clacking his teeth. He snorted, blowing through his wide nostrils, and then breathed deeply of the warm air. Again, too, he angrily smacked his mighty chest – Thud! Thud! Thud!

Cain eyed the ground almost casually, espying a choice rock. As he moved to stand over it, he allowed his facial tension to drain slack. Toc, on the other hand, grew even more anxious, his large muscles bunching in knots, his face hard. Toc’s whole life had been governed by his father’s quick abuse and he had waited years to garner his courage and his strength enough to challenge Cain, to be ready for Cain’s reaction once he was strong enough to counter it. But now, instead, his father was calm, slack ... confusing.

Again, Toc spun and flailed wildly about. The dirt he threw in the morning air scattered in large clouds of dust and sounded a raspy hiss as it struck the leaves of the shade tree and sifted down through them, his great effort making a big display.

Toc challenge Cain! he roared and grunted for great huffs of air as the dust settled on his hairy shoulders. He gnashed his teeth while pointing at his father with a strong, heavily scarred finger. Cain, however, simply squatted on his heels. Signs of a smile pulled lightly at the corners of his mouth.

Confusion, like the dust, settled over Toc. He tilted his head, first left, then right. The expression reminded Cain of the look on his brother’s face the day he had killed Abel with a rock in a field, not unlike this.

As his hand took hold of the rock by his side, Cain smiled and thought, You dumb bastard. He could see the tension drain from his son. My son, he thought with a snort. He reminded himself to grin disarmingly despite his conflicted emotions. No matter, son or not, no one is allowed to challenge me! That is the way it has to be.

Throughout almost three hundred years, Cain had fathered several generations of sons, their lives being measured differently than his, for the shortness of their years brought death quickly to them. But it brought maturity quickly to them as well, and a great many of his sons had eclipsed both his strength and his mean disposition. They were a primitive clan of brutes, living hard and brutal lives. The nature of the world evolving harshly around them demanded the strength of tough men, hardened men who could take the cruelty and indifference that ruled their existence. They did not, however, come close to Cain’s cunning.

In that, Cain was king.

CHAPTER 2

TREACHERY WAS NEW TO Toc. It was a hard-learned lesson he would never forget, however. And days later, as he drifted through the high grasses, Toc rubbed his head, remembering the pain of that lesson. The knots were gone from his head and his arms, but the memory of what his father had done to him scarred far more than just his flesh.

Cain’s attack on Toc had been swift and vicious, once Toc had become vulnerable. It had left him sorely wounded, and he had kept to himself in the days since. Toc’s wounds had surprised Cain too, however, in that they were not worse, or even fatal. Cain had, after all, killed his brother Abel in a similar attack, one that was no more brutal. In fact, Cain had struck Toc even more savagely, since Toc did at least fight back. Abel had been a gentle soul, much favored by God, which had been the source of Cain’s contention, his jealousy. Abel had been a good man. He had not seemed to have very strong bones, however, at least not when compared to those of Cain’s son. If nothing else, the sons of Cain did have strong bones, Cain had surmised after beating Toc so harshly.

Toc was brave. He was strong. He was tough. He just was not very smart.

Toc eased through the grasses, the early morning light bathing the fields in golden splendor. He wanted to hurry, but he reminded himself to be cautious. His wounds had healed and once again power surged through his body. He was anxious to return to his clan, and the closer he got the more anxious he became, but Toc was learning to be more thoughtful, more cunning. Drawing ever nearer, though, he could hear the occasional screech that carried on the wind and whispered through the grasses, causing him to pause and prick his ears, and then to quicken his pace. The raucous screeching, the growing cacophony of women, sounded like a debacle that was hard to imagine. With concern, Toc rushed forward, his adrenaline building with each pounding step, with each cry that he heard. At the camp’s edge, however, what he found was not a display of terror or even of disapproval, and all who heard it grew excited with anticipation.

It was a celebration.

He felt a sudden tingle of nervousness and flared his nostrils with a large whiff of air, hoping for a telling scent to confirm what he sensed intuitively. The excitement set his mind aflame with anticipation. Suddenly, Toc was delighted that not only had he not missed this event, but too, that he was strong enough to participate in the battle that would be the center of this big moment. Every man in the savanna would be raging for a fight. Each would be raging for a new bride.

A bloodflower had bloomed.

Meanwhile, at Cain’s feet, a sinister mist rose from the earth, having slithered upon him to form a shadow that ascended over him and settled upon his broad shoulders. It sank its piercing talons deep into his flesh, a hint of yellow sulfur escaping what appeared to be hideous lips under two narrow and hateful eyes.

Cain saw nothing, but he felt it. He did not feel the piercing of his body. He felt, instead, the sagging weight on his frame. He felt, too, the inexplicable rise of his anger and the spark of an idea, unholy and impure, as he listened to the women, all raucous and foolish as they painted the new woman in colors of ocher, black, red, and white. And too, as he heard the occasional roar of gathering males, Cain decided what he would do. He knew what he needed, and though it would be a long trek to the end of the gorge to find it, he felt certain that he had enough time. There would be plenty of time.

Bloodflower ceremonies were long, arduous affairs and only the inexperienced showed up early.

His jaw clenched and his muscles taut, Cain set his feet toward the gorge and began his trek.

Also at this time, stiff and poorly tanned, a hide lay in a clearing of trampled grasses, its stench pungent beneath the new woman. Her menstrual blood, along with the blood of dozens who bloomed before her, stained the sacred hide, while on all sides, being certain to conceal their new blossom, the women of the clan fussed over the details of preparing the bride-to-be.

A circle of women outside the knot of those fretting the inner details ran wildly about, screeching, pulling and trampling the grass. They raised a mighty dust cloud as they prepared the field for the sporting battle and to attract the attention of all the males in the region. On all sides farther out, surrounding the mayhem, calmly swayed a sea of tall, golden grasses, the morning breeze serenely caressing all that it touched. Nonetheless, the scene was quite a spectacle as the dust and the scent of womanhood drifted downwind toward the gathering males.

Ayalla, the shaman, danced in wide circles throughout the bedlam, wings of a raven and a dirty pouch of bones in her hands. Her face was painted white and now and again she would hoist overhead the large, dried penis of a grassland beast, beseeching the spirits to bestow upon the bride fertility that she might bear many sons to the clan. She was careful also to keep a frightening eye upon the others, and any woman thought slack in performance received quick motivation from her cruel hand.

The sun glared down on their sweat-covered bodies from its lofty perch in the cloudless sky, as though God were watching through a magnifying glass. But God wasn’t the one watching, for He had cast Cain from His sight when Cain had killed his brother Abel and was unrepentant. God wasn’t watching, but those who were watching looked upon the wretched behavior of the clan not from above. They watched with gleeful malevolence as they lurked and slithered amongst the children of their spawn.

Ayalla stood erect, holding high to the light of the sun her sacred sliver of stone that made it possible for her to pierce the center of a woman’s nose. It was the stone that had pierced every woman of the clan, each at a bloodflower ceremony. And as Ayalla stood eying the beauty of her flint shard, all the other women grew silent and stood in reverent awe of the piercing stone. It was, the shaman knew, in no small amount responsible for the sway she held over the women of the clan, and she played the allure of the sharp stone, her stone, to its fullest.

She looked about the suddenly silent group of women as the last of the dust settled upon the rustling golden grasses. Ayalla was, because of her flint shard, the only one who could make a woman respectable and desirable by placing in her nose the hole through which a bone-of-womanhood could be placed. It was this bone that signified a woman’s submission and obedience to a man, and all men would frown upon a woman without one. A woman without a bone-of-womanhood would be a woman without a man, and therefore, would be a woman to be used by all men, abused however they pleased.

The irony was lost to all of them that such a practice, in her quest for power, had been begun by the shaman, a woman.

Ayalla cried out for the piercing and the fitting of the bone, and all the women rushed to be a part of the honor. Many hands, more than were needed, held the initiate’s head as she trembled, her eyes bulging wide from behind her beautiful, painted mask.

No cry! hissed Ayalla as her deft old hand clutched the stone shard firmly and drove it through the tough cartilage of her nose.

A woman who cried would cause her face paint to streak, showing her to be less desirable as a mate. The best of the men, the strongest of them, would not want a weak woman. So when the bone-of-womanhood was in place, aside from the blood dripping from her lip, the woman’s paint was not smudged in any way.

Slowly, reluctant to leave the occasion that made them feel nostalgic, all the women filed away across the clearing. They drifted into the tall grasses quietly, each looking back before leaving their newest member in her clearing, alone on the sacred hide.

CHAPTER 3

THE FIRST TO COME, as was typical, was just a boy, his curiosity luring him closer, despite his nervousness. Small steps moved him to her side, his face flushed with heat, and he peered over his shoulder several times to see who might be watching. Slowly, he lifted her leg and sniffed her crotch, deep breaths that flared his nose and curled his lips appreciatively. She offered no resistance to the boy, despite her embarrassment. Until a man claimed her, until a man was willing to protect and avenge her and took her to wife, she was required to do whatsoever any male demanded of her, even if that male were just a boy.

He curled his lips back from his teeth and leaned in close for another whiff, still holding her foot aloft, awkwardly.

Naanam, encouraged by the boy’s boldness, crept closer too. Other boys, even more timid than him, followed, their silly little grins and their nervous laughter seeming exceptionally immature and comical, though it wasn’t funny to the girl they sought to molest.

It was a struggle, but the young woman managed to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from the corners of her pale brown eyes. To cry simply was not allowed, and she stoically resisted the urge. She managed to keep her painted mask from becoming streaked by those tears even as curiosity caused a young finger to violate her crudely.

A single, low grunt from an approaching man scattered the boys like chaff in a gusting wind, their laughter sounding like praise as they vied to smell the finger of the boy who was most bold.

She dropped her head and looked down as the young man approached. Unable to stop herself, she hugged her knees together defensively, which would have earned her a sharp slap except that it was not permitted to mar the concealment of her face paint during the ceremony, for it was her beautiful mask that kept the spirits from recognizing the woman so that the spirits could not hold her to account for any improprieties before being taken to wife. Instead of a corrective slap, therefore, he simply shoved her down flat on the ceremonial hide and began to hump her, anxiously. His inexperience and nervous fear, however, kept him from being of much effect.

A bellowing roar, obviously of a superior male, sent the young man scurrying after the boys to safety. The newcomer, Toc, strong and brave, followed his roar with an intimidating pounding of fists on his powerful chest. He approached the newly blossomed woman from downwind, sucking quick, deep breaths alternately through his mouth and his nose. His lips curled out wide to appreciate the full scent of her womanhood. But after a cursory look, he simply sat at her feet and paid her little mind. He stared downwind instead, the direction from which all challengers would likely come.

When a girl became a woman in the tradition of the clan, she had no say in whom she would marry. She simply belonged to the most powerful male willing to challenge and defeat all rivals. The more powerful the male, the better protected the woman would be, and the more powerful the man, the more wives he might have.

The presence of Toc was comforting to the woman. A warm relief washed over her, for it was good to know that Toc would at least be one of the men competing to care for her. He was a powerful man, and he made her feel safe. It was her hope though, for she liked Toc, that his stamina would hold out on this long day, for even she knew that he had entered the challenge much earlier than an experienced man would have. It seemed strange, too, that he just sat calmly at her feet, no raging display of power to discourage his rivals.

Several young men circled the trampled arena. Though strong, they were careful to keep to the edge, hiding in the high grasses as they voiced their disappointment that one as strong as Toc had entered the game before they had a chance to inspect the prize. They did not, however, risk getting close enough to suffer a strike from his mighty hands.

The blazing sun slipped across a cloudless azure sky. The late-morning breeze withered under that glaring sun, and under that hot sun, too, loosely in his meaty hand, Toc held a large rock. Calm, he seemed almost as though he were about to nod off to sleep.

When the challenge came it was a half-brother of Toc’s. He was a beast of a man, broad-shouldered, muscular, and with an ill temper. He was a man who already had one wife but was willing to risk injury for another. He was not a man of great confidence, but once decisive, he came raging with a huge display of stirring dust and flinging grass. He roared from deep within his lungs and made several mock charges toward Toc, trying to unsettle him. Repeatedly, he would pause and then start his display anew, confounded by Toc’s lack of response. In fact, Toc’s calm demeanor and his simple grin unnerved his challenger more than a reaction of rage would have.

Meanwhile, slinking through the grasses, a second challenger came, but he came not from downwind as Toc expected. Instead, he skulked to the side and watched through a veil of golden grasses, an opportunist with no honor.

The attack was sudden, when at last it came, when at last Toc’s half-brother had the courage to follow through with it. He hurled himself at Toc, his fists swinging wildly, striking Toc’s head once the distance was closed.

Toc took the blows, but he sprang to his feet and with a large, arcing swing, he struck his rival with his stone. The blow was staggering. But suddenly, hit hard from behind, Toc was down as his other rival, the one that had snuck in behind him, beat him with a hail of battering strikes.

Toc was not the only one who knew something about being cunning. And now, Toc rolled and thrashed in the dirt as his unforeseen opponent straddled him, pounding his face with heavy fists.

Toc flailed his arms about, trying to protect himself. He could think only of trying to block the stinging blows until he realized, with sudden clarity, that he still held his stone. With a quick twist and a mighty swing, the sharp crack of the stone against bone, Toc knocked the assailant off him and pounded him savagely before turning to the first rival as he saw him rising from the dirt in a cloud of dust. With his empty hand, Toc seized his half-brother by the throat and swung hard again with his stone but connected only a glancing blow as the man struck back with blows of his own.

Again, Toc was hit from behind by the other man. He fell to the dirt, but he carried his first attacker with him, maintaining a firm grip on the man’s throat. Toc rolled to his feet. He pinned the other to the ground by his throat and struck a blood-splattering blow to the top of his head.

Whirling around, Toc screamed with a deep roar, Toc kill you! and charged the other man.

His hands flailing high in defense, his challenger rushed to the safety of the high grasses beyond the arena’s edge.

Toc turned to face the other, his heart pounding and adrenaline flooding his system with rage, but he too, badly wounded and his face a bloody mess, rushed for the safety outside the arena’s edge as Toc gave voice to his rage and threw clouds of dust and grass into the air. He looked at the bloody rock in his hand and tried to calm his heaving lungs. There was a long moment of struggling to calm his emotions too, with Toc eventually settling once again at the feet of the terrified woman to await his next challenger.

Excited by the sounds of battle, all rivals came next as a group. They gathered at the arena’s edge, and all looked perplexed by Toc’s calm manner.

It was natural for the boys to satisfy their curiosity and for the young men of less stature to experience the feel of a woman so that they might know, too, the desire to be a strong man. Then, and only then, would the greater men enter the arena to pry and tussle about and to hammer one another with meaty fists until the man who wanted her most took home the new bride, having withstood the pain of the brawl to the end. Toc had upset the natural flow of the ceremony by entering the arena too soon for a man of his strength. It was as perplexing as his calmness, but what was done could not be undone now, and so the bulls of the clan prepared to enter the ring.

When Cain returned, he was shocked to find the bloodflower battle at its climax in the early afternoon. He pushed through the grasses and a cluster of boys to get to the arena and found another shock: The small prize of this fight trembled on the old ceremonial hide near Toc’s feet as four clan bulls circled Toc in the center of the dirt clearing. All were bloody.

Of the four, Toc chose the toughest and attacked with speed and fury. He grabbed the man’s right fist with