'Sula' and 'Beloved': images of Cain in the novels of Toni Morrison.

In The Mark of Cain, Ruth Mellinkoff rejects the single modern image of Cain she examines, Hesse's Demien, as an "intentionally distorted" treatment of the myth. In Hesse's novel, she claims,

the interpreter has designed his interpretation to serve his own purpose--a

self-conscious twisting to achieve personal ends. Clarification

or elaboration of biblical texts is not the primary goal; rather, biblical

elements are used to enhance the interpreter's particular point of view

about something he is critical of in his contemporary society. (81)

Displacements of myth in contemporary fiction, however, are not distortions but are intertextual examinations of the place and function of myth in contemporary life. Myth as a point of reference is archetypal memory, fixed in time and space; but as writers utilize myth, they signify on it, displace its original meanings. This displacement, as Charles Long explains, "gains its power of meaning from the structure of the discourse itself without the signification being subjected to the rules of the discourse" (1). This allows "the community [to] undercut this legitimized signification with a signification upon this legitimated signifying" (2). Thus, the minority writer or community may emphasize a meaning or an implication of a myth that the "master narrative,"(1) the ideological script that the Western world imposes on "others," refuses to consider, and may signify the original meaning into the background, giving primary authority to the signification over the master's trope. Thinking and writing about myth in the modern world is, to use Henry Louis Gates's term, double-voiced, representing a process of both repetition and revision (22, 50, 60).

Thinking on Cain has been subject to this process of signification. Writers, working with the Biblical myth, have focused on the meaning and form of Cain's mark. Various answers for what the mark was have been offered--either a mark on Cain's forehead(2) or a blackening of Cain's face, connecting him with Ham as a father of the black race (Mellinkoff 77).(3) Cain himself has been called the mark, a pariah identifiable by his marked body--either his trembling, groaning, or incessant wandering.(4) Yet, what strikes me about the Cain myth, reading it in a hermeneutical and intertextual relationship to Morrison's Sula and Beloved, is Cain's complete refusal to remember and to mourn. Cain denies responsibility both for his brother and for his act: "Am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4.9). And he seeks to protect himself: "Lord, my punishment is greater than I can bear" (Genesis 4.13). Cain, concerned with self, lets sin in the door, but more importantly, he refuses to acknowledge his effect on the "other"; he refuses to remember and to mourn his brother Abel.

This refusal marks him, and tattoo becomes taboo: He is set apart as both dangerous and holy.

Sethe and Sula, both victims and victimizers, reenact the myth of Cain. Sethe is the beloved slave who is "remarked" as an animal when Schoolteacher's odious nephews drink her breast milk while Schoolteacher "remarks," writes down her reactions, using the ink that Sethe herself made. They then mark the experience on her body, whipping her and creating a chokeberry tree on her back. Sethe's mark limits her. It is the sign of her slavery, and with the return of Beloved, it traps her in 124 Bluestone. Sula, with her rose birthmark, is denied identity by her mother, and she murders a childhood friend, throwing him accidentally into the Ohio River. Yet Sula, in contrast to Sethe, claims absolute freedom, which is symbolized by her mark. Both Sethe and Sula commit Cain's act, although they do not act out of jealousy as Cain does. Sethe acts out of pure desperation, and Sula, who feels Cain's sense of rejection, kills accidentally. They also bear Cain's mark, a mark that sets each woman apart both from person identity and from community, and each must undergo mourning and memory to find and define the self.

Understanding and transcending the mark has to do with coming to terms with the past. Memory is a special and essential category for Toni Morrison. To "rememory" is to make an act of the moral imagination and to shape the events of one's life into story. Even events that must be put behind one must be subjected to the formative power of memory then "disremembered," put into their proper place in the individual's life. The process of mourning is a special and essential kind of memory, because it creates a hermeneutic between the self and the "other." As Deborah E. McDowell says, "the process of mourning and remembering ... leads to intimacy with the self, which is all that makes intimacy with the others possible" (85). Yet both Sethe and Sula forsake this intimacy. Sethe, alone at the grave of the child she murdered, trades ten minutes of sex for seven letters: Beloved. Later, at the funeral of Baby Suggs, Sethe refuses to accept the support of the community, and members of the community, in turn, abandon her. Sethe feels that she has no self, except in the role of mother.(5) Sula, a rejected child who becomes a woman who refuses to be defined by anyone except herself, sits apart as Chicken is mourned and, later, dies alone. Both women deny themselves and are denied a sense of self and a place in community. Sula finds her uncentered and unbounded existence is one of exile, and she seeks boundaries in herself, in the community of Medallion, and in her friend Nel; Sethe finds that motherhood is not an affirmation of her identity but another manifestation of her mark.

When Paul D, the man whose compassion is his blessedness (Beloved 272), stands behind Sethe, holding her breasts and kissing the chokeberry tree on her back, he is affirming Sethe's whole self, though the course of the novel is run before Sethe herself can make this affirmation. Sethe's sense of her identity comes from denying the chokeberry tree, which is completely dead to feeling, and from affirming her breasts, her role as mother, having "milk enough for all" (100, 198). The victim becomes victimizer as she, having enjoyed twenty-eight days of freedom, sees Schoolteacher coming to take her and her children back to Sweet Home plantation. A terrified Sethe takes her children to the coal shed at the back of 124 Bluestone Road and cuts the throat of her "almost crawling!" baby girl. The "lessons" of Sweet Home and the murder are what Sethe avoids. She, thus, traps herself in time and in space, in a house haunted by her baby's ghost, keeping the past at bay and losing the future, "not having any dreams of her own" (20). Paul D begins to break apart this stagnation and to chase away the spirit, but he cannot do Sethe's rememory for her. Beloved, though she has many dimensions, is memory: The child that Sethe murdered comes to demand explanation, the child, that, as Mae Henderson says, Sethe must rebirth in her remarking on her own story.

Sethe thinks she is "junkheaped ... because she loved her children" (174), but though her individual "sin" is murder, her community sin is her pride. Baby Suggs, Sethe's mother-in-law, begins the cycle of pride. Baby's motto is "|Good is knowing when to stop'" (87), but she violates that maxim when Sethe and Denver arrive safely at her house. Brought buckets of blueberries by Stamp Paid, she and Sethe make a feast for the entire community, and the satiated community becomes suspicious of the Suggs family. The animosity created by this excess is a second origin of Beloved. Baby Suggs smells the anger of the community, but behind it she smells Beloved, a ghost in black shoes (138). The community does not warn Baby that the slavecatchers are coming to her house and, thus, participates in the murder of the child.

Sethe compounds this sin of pride and alienation when Baby Suggs dies. The community will not enter the house, so Sethe refuses to go to the funeral. At the graveside, the community does not sing for Baby and to support Sethe, so Sethe does not eat their food, and they do not eat hers. A funeral is a ritual of mourning which binds the individual and the community in an act of remembrance and which, potentially, is a point of reconciliation. Here, both Sethe and her community deny themselves this opportunity. Each refuses to engage in the rememory that will articulate Baby Suggs's place in the public sphere and that will honor her spirit as an ancestor. Thus, the individuals are denied access to her power in their private lives. There is loss on both sides. By ostracizing Sethe, the community commits a sin of pride against Baby Suggs, and Sethe, in her pride, freezes memory and makes her life stagnant. In essence, both are marked, both become images of Cain. For Sethe, this mark is deep, for it completely isolates her. Ella, for example, understands Sethe's rage but not Sethe's decision to refuse the help of the black community. Neither does she understand Sethe's act. Ella believes Sethe's rage to have been prideful and misdirected.

In Sethe's act, blood and breast milk, rage, pride, and love become one. When Sethe tells the story of her escape, she stresses that she did it alone, out of love for the children: Nobody could take care of them like she could. Nobody could nurse them like she could. Nobody else would mother them like Sethe. Like Odysseus, who cries "Nobody" and must become "Nobody," Sethe loses herself in her mother role. Morrison says that Sethe is a

woman [who] loved something other

than herself so much [that] she had

placed all of the value of her life in

something outside herself.... [This

is] interesting because the best thing

that is in us is also the thing that makes

us sabotage ourselves, sabotage in the

sense that our life is not as worthy, or

our perception of the best part of ourselves.... what

is it that really compels

a good woman to displace the self, her

self? (Naylor and Morrison 584-85) For Sethe, the tree on her back is nothing compared to the fact that Schoolteacher's boys took her milk, but we realize that the two emblems are the same. The primary, destructive connection of mark and milk is illustrated as Denver, the miracle child born while Sethe is running north, from Sethe's breast right after the murder of Beloved, taking in her sister's blood with her mother's milk. Enacting her extreme and exclusive self-definition as mother, Sethe becomes what Schoolteacher defined her as: an animal without memory. Baby Suggs tells us that "|Good is knowing when to stop.'" Sethe's love, like Cain's for God, becomes one with Sethe's pride and rage. Sethe argues that, by killing her baby, she kept her safe from the dehumanization of slavery. The children are her only self, her "best things"--she claims she "wouldn't draw breath without [her] children" (203)--and she will destroy rather than surrender them. Paul D, listening to the story, thinks that more important than Sethe's act is her claim (164), that maybe there is some worse than slavery. And there is.

Stamp Paid tells us that whites so feared the black people that they enslaved that they had to deny completely the humanity of blacks. So whites, whom Baby Suggs says have no limits, are savages, and project onto the blacks that savagery:

... it wasn't the jungle that blacks

brought with them to this place

from the other (livable) place. It was

the jungle whitefolks planted in

them. And it grew. It spread. In,

through and after life, it spread,

until it invaded the whites who had

made it. Touched them every one.

Changed and altered them. Made

them bloody, silly, worse than even

they wanted to be, so scared were

they of the jungle they had made.

The screaming baboon lived under

their own white skin; the red gums 

were their own.

Meantime, the secret spread of

this new kind of whitefolks' jungle

was hidden, silent, except once in a

while when you could hear its

mumbling in places like 124. (198-99) The "worse sin" is to let that jungle loose. What is worse than slavery is to let the soul become so contorted that the only self you are is the self that the master defines for you. Sethe stops Schoolteacher, but she destroys her child and nearly herself. Paul D tells Sethe that she has two legs, not four; she is human, not animal. Accepting Schoolteacher's definition of herself creates Sethe's "thick love," the love that is "safety with a handsaw" and that keeps Sethe from knowing where the world stops and where she begins. This love denies that the children are true "others." Like Schoolteacher's "thick mind," the excess of reason which allows him to deny the humanity of the human beings on whom he conducts his experiments, Sethe's "thick love" is an excessive love that allows her to destroy what she has created, to deny the humanness of her own child.

Beloved is the child that Sethe has to rebear in order to rememory the mother role and to grieve. In essence, what marks Sethe as Cain is that she refuses to acknowledge the implications of her act and to mourn properly her child. Her pride becomes a shield against her grief. Beloved shatters that defense; she taker, Sethe deep into the truth that, until she mourns, she is still a slave. The three hand-holding shadows of Paul D, Sethe, and Denver which make a tentative family are replaced by Beloved, Sethe, and Denver--a mother and her children. The silent jungle speaks in 124, and Sethe is isolated in her role as mother and with her pain, denying there is a world outside her door. Eventually, even Denver is excluded, as Beloved and Sethe create anew the Cain image, the victim-victimizer/master-slave relationship. Beloved seeks 'the join' (213) to become what Sethe says she is, her best self; she draws off Sethe all that is vital until she is "pregnant" with Sethe, becoming the mother. Sethe, finally facing her memories, rejoices in the return of human feelings, yet she is as trapped in them as she was in her denial. She loses the remnants of her self and enjoys the pain.

Denver tells us that Sethe does not want to be forgiven (252). The relationship between the two becomes hostile, as Sethe is denied Beloved's forgiveness and as Beloved drives Sethe to self-destruction. Denver, frightened, ventures into the community. Wearing Beloved's shoes (243), she too makes a return from the grave that 124 has become. Denver, who was a child and innocent in Sethe's and the community's sin against Baby Suggs, can be touched by Baby's spirit. She is forced by Baby Sugg, to give up her defense and face the future:

But you said there was no

defense.

"There ain't."

Then what do I do?

"Know it, and go on out the yard.

Go on." (244) Denver, who realizes that she has a self of her own to preserve (252), becomes the agent of reconciliation. She, the child who ingested blood and breast milk, is as much a symbol of Sethe's pride as is Beloved. Denver, too, has been exiled, trapped in Sethe's memories. But Baby's spirit tells Denver that life is risk, and only through risk, relationship, and rememory is the self formed. Armed with this knowledge, Denver acts. She practices what her mother could not at the funeral--humility--and does what her mother could not--she asks for help. Her humility causes the community, especially the women, to rally around the family in 124.

Ella, taking Baby Suggs's maxim to heart, recognizes that Beloved is excess, that, though the mother killed the child, "|... the children can't just up and kill the mama'" (256). What follows this recognition is a repetition of the past--a recreation of the moment of the murder and the flooding of memory into the present so that reconciliation can take place. The women go to 124 Bluestone. They remember the feast that Baby Suggs prepared for them; they remember themselves young. They make the primal sound that they did not make for Baby at her funeral: They mourn. Meanwhile, Mr. Bodwin, the abolitionist who has helped the Suggs family, drives toward the house. Sethe believes that he is Schoolteacher, come for Beloved, and runs towards him with an ice pick. This time, she attacks the master and not the child, and this time, the child saves the mother. Denver, the flesh-and-blood child nursed on blood and milk, throws her mother to the ground, and the women of the community collapse on them like a mountain, a symbol of solidity and endurance. This action honors Baby Suggs even as it saves Sethe and affirms Denver's independence. Thus, on the level of community, rememory is accomplished.

The reenactment of Sethe's memory and that of the community exorcises Beloved, restoring the Suggs family to its place in the order of things. Still, Sethe is not yet saved. She can hate the master, but she cannot love herself. She remains in exile. Like Baby Suggs before her, she takes to her bed, feeling that, without her child, there is no future, no possibility for living and for change:

... "Paul D?"

"What, baby?"

"She left me."

"Aw, girl. Don't cry."

"She was my best thing." (272) Paul D, who has decided that he wants to put his story next to Sethe's, affirms verbally the action he made in the beginning of the novel when he held Sethe's breasts in his hands and kissed the scar on her back:

"Sethe," he says, "me and you,

we got more yesterday than

anybody. We need some kind of

tomorrow."

He leans over and takes her hand.

With the other he touches her face.

"You your best thing, Sethe. You

are." Sethe cries, "|Me? Me?'" (273), a timid identification of her own self, but a bold step out of her exile. Paul D, who has made his own odyssey in the course of the novel acknowledges the link between Sethe's breasts and her back, and helps Sethe to see that they are not in opposition to one another but can be balanced if integrated into Sethe's identity. Paul D offers an alternative to the "thick love" of the victim-victimizer cycle. Thick love would rather destroy than mourn, rather face exile than put its story beside that of another. Sethe has to yield her fierce pride to become her true self. The end of the novel dramatizes Sethe's coming to wholeness, the first step in Cain's return.

Baby Suggs's spirit said to Denver, as the girl hesitated on the edge of the porch, that the life of a black person is not a battle; it is a rout. The whites have already won, and the only defense is to accept the defeat whites made on the terms of power and to claim another kind of victory. That victory comes when one takes the risk to suffer and to understand. The curse of Cain, of guilt and alienation, is broken when Sethe can mourn and when she can tell the tale with moral imagination and, thereby, find a truth different than the master's truth. The thick love, erupting from the jungle, has to be first remembered, then "disremembered," let be. The silent story, exemplified by Beloved, is "not a story to pass on" (274)--a story neither to ignore nor to forget.(6)

If Sethe is a woman trying to find herself, Sula Peace, at first, seems to be a complete self. Her birthmark seems to confirm this wholeness and difference, distinguishing her from other "heavy brown" (Sula 52) girls:

[It] spread from the middle of the lid

toward the eyebrow, shaped something

like a stemmed rose. It gave her

otherwise plain face a broken excitement

and blue-blade threat....The

birthmark was to grow darker as the

years passed, but now it was the same

shade as her gold-flecked eyes, which,

to the end, were as steady and clean

as rain (53) As Sula develops, the birthmark on her eye changes. When she is the rose develops a stem, and as Sula grows older, the mark grows darker.

Her mark is interpreted in various, mostly negative, ways throughout the novel: Nel's children think of the mark as a "scary black thing" (97-98), and Jude, Nel's husband, who gets angry when Sula will not participate in the "milkwarm commiseration" he needs to feel like a man, thinks that Sula has a copperhead over her eye (103). The community, indicting the evil Sula for every accident that befalls it, recognizes the mark as the sign of a murderer: They "cleared up for everybody the meaning of the birthmark over her eye; it was not a stemmed rose, or a snake, it was Hannah's [Sula's mother's] ashes marking her from the very beginning" (114). Nel thinks that the mark gives Sula's glance "a suggestion of startled pleasure" (96). Only Shadrack recognizes the mark as a sign of Sula's developing self: "She," he thinks, "had a tadpole over her eye" (156).

Like Sethe, Sula is both a victim and a victimizer, becoming both at the age of twelve, when her identity is forming. Sula experiences two things that create her radical self. First, Sula overhears her mother say that she loves Sula but does not like her (57). After this incident, Sula and her friend Nel go to the river and there encounter a friend, Chicken Little. While swinging him around, Sula accidentally throws him into the river:

The water darkened and closed

quickly over the place where Chicken

Little sank. The pressure of his hard

and tight little fingers was still in

Sula's palms as she stood looking at

the closed place in the water. They expected

him to come back up, laughing.

Both girls stared at the water. (61) At Chicken's funeral, we realize that something is wrong in this community. As Reverend Deal preaches, the members of the community mourn not for the dead child, but for themselves:

They did not hear all of what he said;

they heard the one word, or phrase,

or inflection that was for them the

connection between the event and

themselves. For some it was the term

"Sweet Jesus." And they saw the

Lamb's eye and the truly innocent

victim: themselves. This image of individuals mourning only for themselves is intensified in Nel. She stands even more removed from the mourning process because she, afraid of being caught, separates herself from Sula and casts herself as the innocent victim: ". . . she knew that she had |done nothing'" (65). Though Nel will reconcile with Sula after the funeral, during the ritual, she leaves Sula completely alone for the first time: "Nel and Sula did not touch hands or look at each other during the funeral. There was a space, a separateness, between them" (64).

Sula, alone, "simply cried" (65). Yet, Sula's tears neither heal the great pain that she has experienced nor do they signify mourning for Chicken Little. Her inability to mourn marks her as one set apart, like Cain. The rejection by her mother and the death of Chicken, the events that Sula cannot rememory, make Sula what she is:

As willing to feel pain as to give pain,

to feel pleasure as to give pleasure,

hers was an experimental life--ever

since her mother's remarks sent her

flying up those stairs, ever since her

one major feeling of responsibility had

been exorcised on the bank of a river

with a closed place in the middle. The

first experience taught her there was

no other that you could count on; the

second that there was no self to count

on either. She had no center, no speck

around which to grow. (118-19) With nothing to depend on, not even herself, Sula patterns her life on being unsupported and unconventional, on the free fall that requires "invention" and "a full surrender to the downward flight" (120). Sula is, at once, all self and no self: an artist with no medium, energy without form (121). Refusing participation in community, Sula finds no "other," against whom she can define herself. Her energy and curiosity seek limits throughout the novel, finding the only real limit in death.

There are four temporary boundaries for Sula: the madman Shadrack and his promise, her best friend Nel, her beloved Ajax, and the community of Medallion. Shadrack's promise to Sula, along with her mother's rejection and the death of Chicken Little, becomes the basis of all her actions. Afraid that Shadrack saw Chicken Little drown, Sula runs to his house. There Shadrack makes Sula a promise: "|Always'" (62), answering "a question she had not asked [the promise of which] licked at her feet" (63). Shadrack promises Sula, who comes to him in his isolation and becomes "his visitor, his company, his guest, his social life, his woman, his daughter and his friend," that he, who controls death through National Suicide Day, will keep her safe from death:

... he tried to think of something to

say to comfort her, something to stop

the hurt from spilling out of her eyes.

So he had said "always," so she would

not have to be afraid of the change--the

falling away of skin, the drip and slide

of blood, and the exposure of bone

underneath He had said "always" to

convince her, assure her, of permanency.

(157)

Shadrack insures that Sula never has to mourn or to remember. Hers is a life of forward movement, for Sula, there is only the moment. This sense of her permanence, of her immortality, is Sula's true mark--her blessing and her curse. It frees her to experiment, to work through the range of experience, while it insures that she will find only repetition because she cannot critically evaluate what she does. For Sula, "... doing anything forever and ever [i]s hell" (108). Yet in her incessant wanderings, Sula finds the same thing everywhere. The sense of her own permanence also takes away from her two essential things: fear and compassion. Lack of fear makes her hurt herself to save herself, for example, she cuts off the end of her finger to save herself and Nel--who misinterprets the act--from a group of white bullies 54,55, 101). Lack of compassion lets her interestingly watch her mother Hannah burn and enjoy her jerking and dancing. Sula says, "|I never meant anything'" (147), and she is honest and right. No experience, from the most trivial--someone's chewing with his mouth open--to the most important--her mother's death--has any ultimate meaning to Sula. The darkening and spreading of the birthmark is the symbol of the tyranny of Sula's eye/I. Because Sula cannot take the perspective of the "other," she can see neither herself nor anyone else clearly.

That tyranny of the eye/I includes even Nel, Sula's best friend, who is "the closest thing to both an other and a self" that Sula finds. Sula cannot understand that, though they see together, are one eye, they are also two throats: They have different needs and are not "one and the same thing" (119). Sula forces Nel to define herself; Sula knows Nel's name as she will not know Ajax's (120). Sula, however, refuses to be defined, for she feels that she knows herself intimately (121). She demands that Nel want nothing from her and accept all aspects of her (119)--even her adultery with Nel's husband Jude. Sula's sleeping with Jude is not personal; it is merely another of Sula's "experiences." Sexuality, for Sula, is not the attempt to meet with an "other," but with herself. It is an attempt to find that center that she has lost:

There, in the center of that silence was

not eternity but the death of time and

a loneliness so profound the word

itself had no meaning. For loneliness

assumed the absence of other people,

and the solitude the found in that

desperate terrain had never admitted

the possibility of other people. She

wept then...[in] the post coital privateness

in which she met herself, welcomed

herself, and joined herself in

matchless harmony (123) Sexuality becomes a site of memory, but not one of meeting. Sexuality is, for Sula, a place where she recovers the self that her mother took away, the self on which she can depend. It is the way to experience and to mourn the death of her dislocated self that Shadrack promised she would never experience. It is a limit, and limitation is what Sula unconsciously seeks.

Sula's desire for boundaries is best illustrated in her love for Ajax. Only Ajax, a man as strong and as free as herself, makes her desire to join the self that she finds in the sexual act with an "other," to return from her Cain-like exile in taking responsibility for another person. With Ajax, Sula feels the desires of possession and of attempting to know a person other than herself. Their lovemaking is symbolized as a tree in loam--fertile, rich, and moist (130-31)--and Sula wants to look through all the layers of Ajax to find his center, to reach the source of that richness. Ajax, however, desires the Sula that is separate, complete in her solitude. He, like Sula, is a gold-eyed person, a true individual (Tate 125), and he leaves Sula when she wants to limit him by making him hers alone. When she says, "|Lean on me'" (133), Sula is asking Ajax to give up his freedom--to become bound to her, and to bind herself to him and to the community. Ajax rejects this relationship for the radical freedom that he has learned from his mother, another outsider: "He dragged [Sula] under him and made love to her with the steadiness and the intensity of a man about to leave for Dayton" (134).

Marriage, like mourning is a ritual that binds the self to the beloved, to the community, and to God. The loss of Ajax, and with him Sula's one attempt at joining with another in marriage and with the community of Medallion, destroys Sula. When she finds his driver's license, she realizes that, in contrast to Nel, Ajax is someone whose name she did not know. She sees that, when she "said his name involuntarily or said it &Y meaning him, the name she was screaming and saying was not his at all." A name indicates the essence of a human being and Ajax has not given Sula that deep understanding of himself. Sula realizes that she would have had to destroy him to get it: "|It's just as well he left. Soon I would have torn the flesh from his face just to see if I was right about the gold and nobody would have understood that kind of curiosity'" (136). Faced with this loss, Sula becomes like the headless solider that Shadrack sees his first day in the war (8). Sula's body goes on, but she has lost her head, just like her paper dolls'. Sula's headless paper dolls indicate Sula's having lost herself, having given up her name, to Ajax and her being unable to "hold her head up," to maintain herself in the face of this loss: "|I did not hold my head stiff enough when I met him and so I lost it just like the dolls" (136). The image of paper dolls also suggests emptiness of body, mind, and soul, and that emptiness leads to Sula's death.

Medallion and her grandmother's room provide a final limit for the boundless energy that is Sula. Sula returns to Medallion because she has exhausted the experience of Nashville, Detroit, New Orleans, New York, Philadelphia, Macon, and San Diego (120). Toni Morrison has said that Sula returns because she simply cannot live anywhere else. Though Sula is recognized as evil the community more than tolerates her, and, again, we see that something is wrong in Medallion. Medallion is only a community when it has Sula for a center, when her "evil" draws its members together in fear. Bad mothers take care of their children; wives love their husbands to keep them out of Sula's bed; and every disaster, large and small, has a reason--Sula. The community is bound in hate and refuses to mourn Sula after her death. The people accept the news of her death as good and attend the funeral only "to verify [the witch's] being put away" (150). They leave Sula to the white people, making her only "a body, a name, and an address" (173)--denying her essence and dishonoring her. Thus, the question of the hymn "Shall We Gather at the River?" is answered affirmatively, but in a deadly way, by Sula's spirit. The destruction of the community at the end of the novel is accomplished through Sula's element--water. That ruin comes because the community's refusal to mourn marks it. The power of her spirit indicates Sula's centrality, negative or not, in Medallion. Both are Cain, and each destroys the other. Sula takes the community with her in her return to the womb, her "sleep of water" (149).

Medallion and her grandmother's house and room are, for Sula, the end; they represent the closure of the circle of her experience. Left by Ajax, Sula thinks, "|There aren't any more new songs and I have sung all the ones there are'" (137). Sula refuses to look back, and there is no future for her. In contrast to Sethe at the end of Beloved, Sula will not yield. Unlike Baby Suggs, who goes to bed broken, Sula is defiant to the end, as her final conversation with Nel illustrates:

[Nel] opened the door and heard

Sula's low whisper. "Hey, girl." Nel

paused and turned her head but not

enough to see her.

"How you know?" Sula asked.

"Know what?" Nel still wouldn't look at her.

"About who was good. How you

know it was you?"

"What you mean?"

"I mean maybe it wasn't you.

Maybe it was me." (146) Sula--and we have to admire her--affirms own mode of being in the world. All that is left for her to experience is death. Dying, she faces a sealed window--the window from which her grandmother threw herself while trying to save Hannah, Sula's mother. The boarded window soothes Sula "with its sturdy termination, its unassailable finality" (148). The closed room represents the end of the tyranny of the eye/ I, the closing off of Sula's single perspective, and the womb, the place where Sula can be completely alone, completely herself, free of distraction and curled up in water. The promise of "Always," the promise of permanence, can be fulfilled only in death, in "a sleep of water always" (149).

For the living Sula, the mark becomes a sign of the completeness that is her incompleteness--the mark of the independent self who, like Cain, refuses to acknowledge the need for and the importance of the "other." Even in dying she will not apologize to and reach out for Nel, her Abel. For the dead Sula, the mark is a sign of her permanence, her power, and her beauty. Shadrack's promise, then, is broken in one sense, but in another it is fulfilled. After her death, Sula recognizes that she needs community--specifically, that she needs Nel:

She was dead.

Sula felt her face smiling. "Well,

I'll be damned," she thought, "it

didn't even hurt. Wait'll I tell Nel."

(149) This need for the "other" is confirmed after death. Sula becomes her sister's keeper; thus, Sula lives on as Nel feels the presence of her dead friend. Nel that she never missed her husband Jude at all but that she did miss Sula: "|We was girls together.... O Lord, Sula, ... girl, girl, girlgirlgirl'" (174). That "girl" is Nel. Shocked into seeing herself by Eva's assertion that Nel, too, is guilty and that Nel and Sula are alike, Nel realizes that Sula was right. There was no difference between them (169). This recognition leads Nel to mourn her other self. Doing her rememory and mourning her friend, Nel finds her own eye twitching as she takes on the mark and is reborn.(7) After her childhood trip to New Orleans, Nel cried "me" five times, praying to be wonderful (28-29). Taking on Sula's mark, she begins to become that "me." Like Sethe at the end of Beloved, Nel finds that her story is bound with the story of another, and that connection, which transcends death, becomes the path to finding her identity.

Morrison has said that Sula and Nel make up one whole person: Sula is ship, the "New World Black Woman," and Nel safe harbor, the "Traditional Black Woman" (Moyers interview).(8) Neither is complete alone. That sense of our finitude and the necessity for contact with the "other" that is central to the Cain myth is what Toni Morrison retains in the stories of her marked women. She illustrates the sense of the risk of human life and human relationships that the Biblical myth contains, even as she signifies on the myth to affirm the healing power of memory and of ritual. She presents to us the human being, marked by oppression and/or by an act done in desperation and fear and set outside of the boundaries of community. That fallen human, however, cannot be sent "east of Eden" but must be reconciled to the self and to the community for the sake of both. In a community that has suffered through slavery and reconstruction, not a member can be lost. Cain cannot be banished forever but, somehow, must come home, lest both Cain and community be forever marked. The black community is a people in mourning, reconstructing itself through memory: This is not a story to pass on.

For Morrison, the mark must not passed on, for it always carries possibility; it is not just a sign of alienation but one of latent beauty and wholeness. Sethe's chokeberry tree is potentially beautiful--the blood from her back makes roses on her bed (Beloved 93)--and organic--it might have cherries (17). When Sethe accepts her mark, she finds the true meaning of her name. She is no longer Cain, the exile, but is both Set, crucified by the tree on her back,(9) and Seth, the son who carries on the line of Adam and Eve and who foreshadows Christ.(10) The tree marks her as one of out of Eden, yet the tree also connects her to her mother, marked with a cross, and the group of African slaves who were all marked in that way. Thus, the mark becomes a sign of community, identity, and wholeness, and Sethe, the chosen child, has to remember the stories and witness her people's history--and her own. The tree also becomes a symbol of Sethe's own power. Sethe's act, however brutal, signals individual defiance to the oppression of slavery and the beginnings of claiming and defining the self, of breaking the physical and psychological boundaries of oppression. Like the trees at Sweet Home and like Paul D's sapling, however, Sethe finally bends and, thus, survives--even prevails.

In contrast, Sula's mark is that of a self who is absolutely unbounded and free. The mark as rose and snake signifies the beauty and danger of Sula's kind of freedom. Ultimately, it symbolizes her absolute refusal to see life, to paraphrase Fitzgerald, from more than one window, from any perspective other than her own. This immense, unchecked power is destructive both for the self, as we see when Sula dies alone, and for the community, as we see when the people of Medallion refuse to recognize Sula's importance and are destroyed by the angry spirit of the dead Sula. Alone, Sula, as Morrison says, is a warning. Balanced after death, however, with the loving and stable power of Nel, who takes on the task of mourning and memory, the mark becomes tadpole and not snake. That is, it signals the development of the self and creates the compassion--the ability to be a self but also to see with the "other"--that is the basis of true community.

Both Sula and Sethe must embrace and even, finally, celebrate the mark of Cain which sets each apart but which also makes each unique--and so must their communities. Toni Morrison shows us in Beloved and Sula that we are bound together through story and through action. Memory, for the oppressed person, is a private story that must be understood, but it must also be shared. Thus, memory is also a public story made permanent as myth and reenacted through ritual--in these novels, the funeral. Myth and ritual bind the person to the group and to the sacred. Steinbeck, in East of Eden, says that the Cain story is "the symbol story of the [rejected, guilty] human soul" (240). The way out of that guilt and rejection, for Toni Morrison, is to claim the mark as a symbol of the self and willingly to undergo what one has been forced to undergo in the past. The act of rememory is a private and a public act of homecoming; it is like water, forever moving, forever trying to get back to where it was ("Site" 119).

Notes

(1.) Morrison used this term in an interview with Bill Moyers. (2.) "To protect [Cain] from the on-slaught of the beasts, God inscribed one letter of his Holy Name upon his forehead," writes Louis Ginzberg (112). Mellinkoff offers other examples: In Symmachus's Life of Abel, Cain returns home with a "terrible sign on his forehead" (30). See also Arnoul Greban' "Mystere de la Passion" and Byron's "Cain." Others place the mark on the cheek or on the arm (Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer). (3.) The Genesis Rabbah says that God "beat Cain's face with hail, which blackened like coal, and thus he remained with a black face." Medieval art picks up this concept of blacks as evil. An altern reading is found in Ginzberg, where Cain is given leprosy (112). (4.) ". . . the decree had condemned him to be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth," observes Ginzborg (111). This is the origin of de idea d the Wandering Jew. (5.) For an interesting discussion of the mother-daughter issue in Beloved, see Horvitz. (6.) For a discussion of the last lines of the novel, see Holloway 517. (7.) Munro (150-54) dearly connects Sula's mark with Nel as well as with Sula. (8.) See also Naylor and Morrison 577-78, and Stepto 218-17. (9.) "The furka or |fork' was the cross on which the Egyptian god Set was crucified," notes Walker. "As the original of the Biblical Seth, the |supplanter' of [Abel', Set ruled the alternating halves year in Egypt's predynastic sacred king-cult ... Annual rebirth of the world was said to be achieved by the blood of Set, which was spread over the fields" (36). (10.) Seth, observes Ginzberg, "was one of the thirteen men born perfect in a way.... Thus, Seth became, in a genuine sense, the father of the human race, especially the father of the pious" (121).

Works Cited

Gates, Henry Louis, Jr. The Signifying Monkey. A Theory of African-American Literary Criticism. New York: Oxford UP, 1988. Ginzberg, Louis. The Legends of the Jews, Vol. 1. Trans. Henrietta Szold. Philadelphia: Jewish Publi Society of America, 1968. Holloway, Karla F. C. "Beloved: A Spiritual." Callaloo 13 (1990): 516-25. Horvitz, Deborah. "Nameless Ghosts: Possession and Dispossession in Beloved." Studies in American Fiction 17 (Autumn 1989):157-67. Long, Charles H. Significations: Signs, Symbols, and Images in the Interpretation of Religion. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986. McDowell, Deborah E. "|The Self and the Other': Reading Toni Morrison's Sula and the Black Female Text." Critical Essays on Toni Morrison. Ed. Nellie Y. McKay. Boston: Hall, 1988. 77-90. Mellinkoff , Ruth. The Mark of Cain. Berkeley: U of California P, 1981. Morrison, Toni. Beloved. New York: Knopf, 1987. --. Interview with Bill Moyers. "The World of Ideas." 14 Sept. 1990. --. "The Site of Memory." Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir. Ed. William Zinsser. Bos Houghton, 1987. 101-24. --. Sula. 1973. New York: Plume, 1987. Munro, C. Lynn. "The Tattooed Heart and the Serpentine Eye: Morrison's Choice of an Epigraph for Sula." Black American Literature Forum 18 (1984):150-54. Naylor, Gloria, and Toni Morrison. "A Conversation." Southern Review 21.3 (1985): 567-93. Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. New York: Bantam, 1952. Stepto, Robert B. "|Intimate Things in Place': A Conversation with Toni Morrison." Chant of Saints: Gathering of Afro-American Literature, Art, and Scholarship. Ed. Michael S. Harper and Stepto. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1979. 213-29. Tate, Claudia. "Toni Morrison." Black Women Writers at Work. New York: Continuum 1983.117-31. Walker, Barbara G. The Woman's Dictionary of Symbols and Sacred Objects. New York: Harper, 1988.

Carolyn M. Jones is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies and English at Louisiana State University, where she also teaches in the University's Honors Program.