Eden (10 page)

The companions' curious faces crowded at the door.

The watchful dog uncurled, bared its lips, snarling, “Get away …”

Then lay across the child's legs, guarding her.

The child's father came out of the shadow and went to the door where the companion called Judas offered him coins from the common purse for the broken clay pot. At first the potter stared at the open palm, but didn't seem to understand what the coins were for, or didn't care. Instead, the potter folded Judas' fingers closed, imploring:

“Please, please ask your master,” the potter whispered in a broken voice. “Ask him for me. I beg you. Ask him. There must be something he can do.”

Judas listened carefully as the father told how his child had hurt herself, and then tucked the purse in his belt and went to where their master stood in the street. Eden's sharp ears heard every word.

“The little girl and the dog were running with the other children, from house to house as they always do. One of the gangways slipped from a roof. She and the dog fell into a hay cart. She fell with the dog clutched in her arms, but the wind was knocked from her. Now she cannot wake and the dog will not leave her bed.” The other companions who had gathered close murmured among themselves considering what could be done, and the animals crowded at the doorway.

Samson poked his long nose into the potter's house, the lambs shuffling about bleating, “Let us see! Let us see!” The donkey looked down with serious ears. “If you can't grow up, the least you can do is be quiet.”

“Hush now,” Eden shushed the noisy things, “And go into the street before I growl.”

The lambs turned away in disappointment. “Aw … we want to see.”

“There's nothing to look at yet. Go be good,” Eden told them. Her eyes dwelt on the dog on the bed. She knew that look.
Approach and die. Be warned
.

The potter gazed over everyone in the crowded street and shook his head in dismay. He had not enough room inside to invite them in, but didn't want anyone to leave. Would their master try to help? Eden did not know.

At last, her master said to the potter:

“We shall wait with you.”

Then to Judas and the others:

“Let us remain here in the street. Let us rest by the open door where our thoughts and prayers can be heard by all who listen from above and those who listen from within.”

The companions began to complain. The street was too hard, the night too cold, with nothing but a house wall to rest their heads on. They'd even given away their cloaks in the last town, and if they paid for the broken pot there'd be no money even for a crust of bread in the morning.

The animals grumbled too, even though they knew discomfort more than people. Each of them looked for places to bed down as the dark came on. Samson was too big in the narrow street to find a comfortable spot, complaining to anyone who would listen, “No grass, no water … nowhere to lie down. I want a stable with a manger. There must be one nearby.” Craning his neck and trying to look around corners. “Do you see a stable down there? Let's find a manger.”

And the lambs were no better, crying as one, “What about us? What about us? Doesn't anyone care about us?”

“Shush, all of you!” Eden scolded. “You've been colder before, hungrier before, and no one says you have to stay!”

Ashamed, the young lambs looked down at their hooves. They huddled by the nearest wall, making do as best they could. Samson wedged down in a tight corner, beside them. The donkey dipped his ears, “And no doubt I'll be colder and hungrier again. Certainly by tomorrow morning if not sooner!” he grumbled.

The lambs, hopeful as always, bleated, “But look how cozy it is now!”

Eden lay on the potter's doorstep so she could watch both inside and out. The dog on the child's bed glared at her with dangerous eyes, pressing his body across the child's legs—but she ignored him. Instead she stared at her master and the one named Judas who seemed to have forgotten everything around them, the two men silently gazed into each other's eyes as the rest slept.

Murmured prayers hung in the air as the night closed in.

The potter sat at the open door as well, the girl's mother curled by the foot of the bed, and both nodded in restless sleep, their heads to their breasts. The night lengthened …

Eden suddenly opened her eyes. She must have fallen asleep.

Her master stood in the doorway looking in. The potter and the potter's wife lifted their heads in alarm and the dog on the child's bed bared its teeth.
Be warned
.

Eden partially rose an inch from her place on the doorstep and on all four paws crawled on her belly into the room. She barely moved her legs, head down, ears back—still the dog on the bed growled, low and long.

As Eden lay on the floor inside the room, she rolled on her side. She could feel the fear inside the other dog's mind. His memory of the sudden fall from the ramp: the terror in the child's arms as they fell through the air, the brutal thump when they landed in the hay cart. The dog on the bed began to tremble—

“It's over now,” Eden told him. “You're not going to fall again. No one is going to hurt you. Let my master touch your girl. Let me come close and kiss your ear.”

“Why?” the dog growled low in his throat, his paws pressing the child's legs. “Why do they never listen? I told her not to run on the ramps! I always tell them that!”

Eden crawled an inch closer. “They never listen. Not to us. Not even to each other.”

The dog on the bed stopped trembling. Something in Eden's voice touched him in a good way. And his ears perked to listen more. “They
should
listen.”

“Yes, they should,” Eden said. “Let us both show we can listen even when they don't. Listen to me now.” She crawled closer. Her nose just under the bed. “Can I sit up instead of crawl? Can I kiss your ear?” The angry dog said nothing.

Eden laid her head on the edge of the bed. The angry dog put his head beside her, but did not move his paws.

“My nose. You can kiss my nose.”

Eden nuzzled the angry dog's nose. He took a deep breath and sighed.

Her master stood over the bed and knelt by the child, and the angry dog did not object. Softly her master began to speak into the little girl's ear, so softly Eden couldn't catch what words he spoke, just that he was telling the little girl how much her parents loved her, how much they wanted her to get better, how much they wanted to see her open her eyes again …

Her master's soft whispers went on for a long time. His voice rose and fell, reminding Eden of that time when he had counted the grains of sand in the Desert Man's hand. And the angry dog's eyes had closed to tight slits. He was beginning to sleep, the first sleep since their fall from the gangway, the first sleep in a long time.

“I'm going to kiss your girl,” Eden murmured.

And the angry dog murmured, “All right. All right. Just let me sleep a bit.”

Eden's nose nuzzled the little girl's ear, “Everyone loves you. Wake up. We're all here.”

The little girl struggled in her dark sleep and her eyes fluttered.

Eden returned to the angry dog. “Why don't you kiss her? She'd like it, if it was you instead of me.”

The sleeping dog opened his eyes, rose from the foot of the bed and stretched. Carefully he padded up to the child's face and nuzzled her, saying, “I'm here now. I'm here.”

Eden held her breath.

The girl's eyes fluttered again. In a corner of the room, the potter clutched his wife and she pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Then fell to their master's knees to kiss his hand. The lambs had joined Samson and the crowd of onlookers at the door. Many heads and faces looked in, worried faces, gaping mouths, eyes wide in awe and wonder.

At the doorway with the others, Judas didn't know what to make of what he saw.

Fear and doubt and longing fought a silent battle. Could he really believe his lying eyes? Shaken, he turned his face away … but then slowly stared again, as if he could not bear to lose this moment. Yes, no denying the child had woken from her dark sleep.

And the girl cried.

As though for the first time.

The name of this man spread like birds through a field of wheat, the word of his coming flying on sparrows' wings, swooping over the stalks.

They came to him in flocks.

Out from their homes and off their fields to greet the companions even miles from the nearest town, to offer them food or drink with little enough of their own to spare. Total strangers welcomed the companions with firewood or shelter for the night if only to sit and hear a few of their master's words. For their master stopped in many places to speak, sitting upon rock or fallen tree while those who gathered listened, not only to his words but to the sound of his voice, which sustained them in ways food had never done.

During these times Eden sat with the one called Judas, who held her in his lap as her master's words rose and fell and people listened and learned. Some learned to pray for the first time, others to love for the first time and yet others to forgive. Many lessons were given and many remembered, but what Eden remembered most clearly were the lambs quietly grazing among the gathered, and Samson the donkey silently swishing his tail. Judas clasped Eden in his warm arms and for a spell the troubled man ceased to argue with his unseen foe.

But seemed at peace for a time …

One lonely night found the travelers with no shelter but the land and sky, no dwellings nearby and no human flock to keep them company in a pasture of bare rocks. A night of stars but no moon and few clouds, so no rain fell to trouble them. The wind held its breath, and the warmth of their small campfire did not seem to fade until deep into the night.

The companions slept, heads curled on their arms, upon their folded robes. The lambs huddled together in a knot, and Eden dozed, pressed to her master's side. The last thing she remembered before sleep was the one called Judas looking at her across the campfire. He stared at her with bitter eyes. Dark eyes she couldn't meet. The troubled mind was upon Judas again, as though that terrible creature, the Hollow Man, sat upon his shoulder. The same as she knew before the cave, whispering poisoned words into Judas' ear. And as she laid her head down beside her master's thigh, she dreamt the strangest dream …

Eden lay on a pallet of dank straw in a dark, damp garrison cell. A bar of light fell from a slit in a heavy door. Next to her, a sleeping prisoner breathed heavily—not her master, but the wild man of the river. He wore an iron collar about his neck fastened to the stone wall. Beyond the heavy door footsteps approached, echoing off an empty hall. The footsteps stopped outside the door. A key turned in a lock, and the hinges groaned.

A Roman Legionary stood in the hall, a stern soldier who held a sword.

“Baptist!” he ordered. “Get up.”

In her dream Eden rose from her pallet, teeth bared, and leapt to the door. But her paws seemed stuck on the stone floor, she couldn't pull them up, she couldn't move. There was just her will to move and the prison turnkey standing in the doorframe.

If only she could get to him, if only—

Samson's sudden bray woke Eden from her dream.

“The man of the river is
dead
,” the donkey cried. “They've killed him.”

Now the others were awake, startled by the noise. They sat up in alarm.

But who “they” were, Eden didn't know and the lambs began to bleat, “Who killed him? Who killed who?”

The companions huddled about the master. Eden looked wildly around, but there was no one near them in this bit of field. The road lay empty, nothing amiss. Judas went among the animals, quieting the sheep, then to Samson, petting his long ears. “The man of the river is dead,” the donkey said sadly. “He who lifted my burdens, who set me free, who bid me walk with you … He is no more.”