CRIMSON HARVEST

Abel’s blood cast a blight upon the land.

After he buried his brother, Cain could wrest from the soil nothing but beets. All that he planted — wheat, barley, even grapes — came up beets that stained his hands and his mouth. All his labor, all his tilling and cultivating and harvesting, turned to roots that tasted of dirt and

(blood)

iron. He could eat nothing else, because no one would trade for the godforsaken fruits of his damned labor. No one, not even the rabbits, would eat of his crop. No one would touch anything that bore his crimson fingerprints. He scrubbed his hands until they bled. Nothing short of flaying could get the stains out.

People recoiled from his rusty smile. Every night, he prayed for forgiveness.

Cain toiled alone. Every meal, he opened his mouth to receive his brother’s blood from the ground. Sometimes the beets screamed when he cut them. Sometimes juice pulsed from them, as if each beetroot were a beating heart. Once, his teeth came down on something hard, and he spat a finger bone onto his red palm.

He tilled, he cultivated, and he harvested. Cain did not hunt. He could not bear it.

Finally, he stopped praying.

Sometimes he swore off eating, vowing to fast until he could lie down and water the soil with his own blood. Each time, his body outlived his will. His skin shrank against his ribs and snakelike hunger reared, driving him back into the field where he fell to his knees to exhume beetroot after beetroot. Cain ate them dirty and raw, sweating and sick. Only after his belly was swollen did the frenzy release him, leaving him to stagger to bed with dirt under his nails and in his teeth. Like a dog that made a meal out of a shallow grave.

He carried on this way for many seasons. Even in the bitter cold, the beets came. Time frosted his beard and beets dyed it pink.

One day, he went out at dawn to find that little green aphids had been at his crop. The little sapsuckers scurried onto his discolored fingers like lambs bounding up a hill. It was the first time a living thing had touched him since Abel’s blood-slick hands had fallen into the dirt. These creatures did not leave bloody handprints.

Awed to have company and terrified by the thought of crushing his guests, he spent over an hour ferrying the herd from the bug-eaten greens onto the fence post. They all stepped into his hand willingly, but some crawled up his arm rather than venture onto the wood. Their feet tickled. One explored his scalp. He did not wrap his hand around the mangled leaves until all of the aphids had been evacuated.

When at last he wrenched the filthy root from the ground and found a flash of orange — a carrot, a blessed carrot! — Cain wept.

The⁠ sound to‍re from h⁠is throat,‍ raw and ragged, startlin‍g the b⁠irds‌ from‍ th​e nearby trees. He clutched‌ the carrot to his ch‌e⁠s‌t, dirt s‍mear‍ing ont⁠o his tu​nic, and rocke⁠d ba​ck o‌n his he‍els. The⁠ tears cut cl‌ean tracks‌ thro‍ug⁠h the grime​ on his face, washing away the rust of his smile. He did⁠ not eat‍ the carrot.‍ He plan​ted it back into t‌he earth, see⁠ds and​ al⁠l, bu‍rying it like​ a p⁠romise. The bl​ight had bro‍ken. The l⁠an⁠d h‍ad not forgiven him, not yet, but it had stoppe‍d scr⁠ea‌mi​ng.‌ He stood‌, wiped his hands on his thighs, and f​or the first time since⁠ the harvest beg‍an, he walked home wi​th‍ou‍t looking over h‌is sho⁠ulder.