not if he hated or loved his brother; Abel was younger, sweeter and everything innocent he had ever seen in this world and he would kill to protect the boy. But their sire spent far more time with Abel, proud that his second born had the power to consort and communicate with the animals in a manner that eluded Kanin. He praised Abel’s quiet strength, his humble nature and his kindness – Kanin, though, received only his retribution, his anger and his expectations as the first born. Strength, he was often told, was to carry the family forward. Abel could be weak, but Kanin could afford no vulnerability.
So it came to pass that by the time both lads were men, Kanin both loved and hated his brother; Abel was everything and nothing that he wanted to be. On the eve of his twenty-fifth summer, Kanin presented to his father fruit from his own garden that he had carefully tilled and tended to on his own. Abel also brought his own offering to their sire – the firstlings of the flock he had been cultivating for years together.
The father was pleased with Abel’s offering, for it was given out of the generosity and kindness of his heart. Abel had simply wanted his sire to smile at what he could give him; Kanin, however, had a deeper desire. He wished to possess the entire lands that belonged to his sire and in offering him the golden fruit, he hoped that he might win his father’s favor.
It did not. The sire knew well his first born’s mind and he rejected the fruit instantly. “How dare you expect me to buy into this farce!” he thundered at Kanin, who cowered in fright. “Leave now and I shall spare your sorry life.”
Kanin’s mother, wrought with agony, begged her Lord to forgive their son, but the man refused, furious beyond belief. Without another word to either his anguished mother or his terrified younger brother, Kanin walked out of his ancestral home, leaving to build his own manor nearby, never to return home again.
In his heart, the darkness grew – the seeds of it had been planted when he had been but a boy and his father had cooed over the sweet-smiling baby in his arms instead of praising the flower he was planting. Now watered by the hate and the anger over his father’s edict, the seeds grew into a tall tree of hatred, burning its way through his chest, leaving him breathless and trembling with fury and anguish.
Abel, he thought, Abel was the cause of his misery. Were Abel to vanish, then Father would turn to him, care for him as he should have all these years. Abel was the cause and ‘twas Abel he must defeat.
His heart ached at the thought of hurting his brother, but he had no choice – his honor, his pride was at stake and he could not abide by silence any longer. So, in the dark of the night, he hid a dagger beneath his tunic and crept into the stables where Abel often slept with the horses. As he had thought, his younger brother was fast asleep between the stalls that housed his beloved animals, cluttered into hay, the smells and the sounds of the barn always a balm to the child’s soul.
When he drew his dagger from within his tunic, his hands trembled – he raised it above his head, but hesitated, unable to strike the killing blow. For this was his brother, his younger brother whom he had carried on his shoulders and taught how to read and write and till the soil.
Tears flowed down his face and he wept quietly – what had the world come to that he must murder his own brother to earn his sire’s respect?
As though he had heard his brother’s agony, Abel’s eyes opened and widened at the sight of the dagger held above him. He scrambled to get away, crying out in shock and anguish and Kanin saw then, that he had no choice.
“Forgive me, brother,” he whispered and brought the dagger down, slashing right through his chest and plunging into his heart. Abel’s last cry echoed within the silence of the night – their eyes met one last time, Kanin shrinking away from the betrayal and