Eden (8 page)

What they
did
know was
expectation
in dawn's first breath, free of fear, free of doubt—as though this trek past nameless hills and hovels, this march along the river, heralded some great event.

Perhaps this was when the mice of the field began to mark their passing, peeking through the tufts of grass at the travelers' padding feet, then murmuring mouse to mouse—
behold! Behold
!

A stranger who walks from place to place
, needing nothing to sustain him but a few fish from the river, a little water and the arc of heaven over his head as shelter for the night.
Clearly, this is no ordinary man
, the mice whispered among themselves,
nor those who follow him
.
Why do they follow? What can they hope to gain? And what purpose served?
No mouse could say.

After many leagues the stranger's journey brought him to the shore of a wide lake, where on a hill nearby a great celebration was being held.

As the companions trudged up the dusty road, they learned the celebration was a wedding. The revelers welcomed them into the circle of tents.

At first the travelers rested on the edges of the party asking neither for food nor drink. But after a few moments Eden sensed a familiar smell, the family-smell. There on the ground, a footprint! The scent of sawdust and wooden-handled tools, the scent of sharp chisels and the sweat of working—yes, she knew it now! A member of her master's family—her master's mother! And Eden put a familiar face with that familiar smell.

The woman from the carpenter's shop emerged from the crowd to welcome them and Eden rushed to greet her. And once more that familiar hand stroked Eden's ears as it had all those years she had lain in front of the shop watching the world pass by.

Soon the platters and jars were passed around and the travelers ate and drank their fill, wrapped in the embrace of the wedding party as if they had always belonged. The gray-faced donkey found a mound of hay behind a tent, and Eden a great lamb shank discarded by the fire pit with thick shreds of meat clinging to it.

But as the day drew on and more and more people came to join the party of tents, the servants were called again and again to fill every jar and every cup and every plate. And as greater numbers joined the celebration, the platters of food began to thin and the jars began to drain, and Eden saw the worried looks on the faces of the elders. Their dismay grew as the servants returned with less and less food, and the wine jars lay empty on their sides.

The donkey took his nose out of the mound of hay.

“Perhaps we should leave now and not burden this family further,” he said to Eden.

Then she saw the carpenter's woman speak into her master's ear, urging her son to do something, take some action, relieve the elders' distress at the lack of food and drink. But her master merely shook his head, refusing to intervene, even as the next platter passed to him was nearly bare. Yet his mother persisted, convinced her son could do something.

Then one of the new companions suddenly rose, caught up in this pressing moment. He stood looking at the carpenter's woman, and also their master, and waved his arms at the crowd now combing the platters and jars for more. His voice rose in urgency, as if it would make what he said more true:

“The burden is in the fear of want, Master. Banish want and we banish fear. We banish violence and anger and strife.”

The carpenter's woman left her son's side. Gently she brought the passionate companion back to his seat with the calm hands Eden knew so well. And with one glance their master bid his new friend be silent, as if this were no place or time for anxious words or speeches.

The donkey dipped his long gray nose, whispering to Eden:

“No one can banish fear. And no man can banish want. We are born in want and die in fear. That is the way of it.”

Eden thought about the donkey's words and saw her master sigh, then make up his mind. He rose from their group and went to a servant, where he picked through the remains on that last platter. Then her master went to another servant and peered deeply into an empty jar. A few words were exchanged between her master and the servants, but none that seemed to satisfy the moment.

The servants muttered and took both jar and platter away, hopelessly discouraged on an errand for more.

“Perhaps the best we can do,” Eden told the donkey, “is not let want or fear fill the life we've been given.”

She had been watching an old dog for some time now. The ancient fellow lay in the shadow of a tent flap, so worn and tired he could barely raise his head. But his eyes were bright, and Eden knew if he had been just a little younger he would have come over to play. Before she knew what she did, she took her meaty bone and instead of snarling over it alone, she brought it to the old one and set it by his paws.

And the guests stared in wonder, for no dog acted thus. And they forgot their fear of emptiness and want. And as the jars were passed around, no man or woman could tell where the sweet drink began and the water of the lake ended, or where the full platter of lamb began and devoured bones gave out. They drank from the jars and it went into their hearts like wine, their spirits lifted and voices sang. Even as they reached onto each platter of food, whether they found discarded shreds, gristle or just a grain of rice, no one went hungry.

The travelers left that evening, not wishing to overstay their welcome, but word of this amazing feast, how dog fed dog and none went hungry or thirsty, preceded the companions on the tails of mice scampering over rocks and blades of grass. Eden could hear them whisper as they ran—
Behold! We have witnessed! We have seen!

As the sun set, fishermen beached their boats on the shore, furled their sails and hung their nets to dry. The dark fell over the lake and Eden saw brick furnaces along the strand smelting metal. Bellows blew the charcoal white, while little glowing rivers of iron dripped into catch basins like angry, writhing snakes. The clank and spark of hammered iron echoed across the water as the companions walked into the night. Men were making swords.

The wheezing furnaces and clanking anvils faded behind them. They passed fields on either side of the road, long abandoned. A wind blew across the pasture rattling dry stalks like idle chatter and the fallow earth gave off the scent of neglect.

Eden snuffed the air, but all she sensed was emptiness.

Back on the shore men made swords, swords aplenty, but here there was no one to plow. Furrows but no shoots, long rows of weeds but nothing sown. On the rise of a hill she saw a lonely plow leaning on its side, the metal plowshare taken for the smithies' furnaces below.

“Where is the plowman?” Eden asked. “A plow without a plowman, a plow without a blade and many swords below.… Where is the plowman?”

The old gray donkey shook his head. He did not know.

That night the companions sat about their campfire but did not speak. Eden could feel their loss of words. The clank of hammer on anvil had silenced them. The wind sighing over forsaken fields had silenced them. Mute stars in the cloak of night silenced them, leaving both man and animal alone in their thoughts till dawn. And the mice watched in silence from the surrounding fields.

Another two days' march passed without event.

Until at last they reached the gates of a large city.

Judas

Neither Eden nor the donkey knew so many people and animals could live together. The people of this place seemed to be falling off their flat rooftops along with their huffy roosters—fussy birds who crowed, “More people, send them away! More people, send them away!”

The companions kept close in the narrow, crowded streets, not wanting to be separated or lost. Clumsy oafs stepped on Eden's paws and she yelped, strangers shoved the donkey and whipped his behind even though they didn't know him. “Oh this place is awful,” the gray donkey brayed. “Take us away, let us leave.”

But their master knew his destination. The great temple. And he bid the animals stay outside, leaving them in the care of his companions.

“Wait here.”

He approached the temple gates, swept aside a corner of the bright curtains and passed into the courtyard. A handful of men milled about in the busy street in the muted shadow of the temple walls. Eden and the donkey peered through the colorful swaying linen, glimpsing stalls and merchants crowding the enclosure. Inside, the temple was as busy as the street, while outside one companion paced anxiously before the temple wall, another wrung his hands gaping at the noisy throngs and yet a third clutched the donkey's halter with one hand and clutched the dog with the other.

Suddenly a great commotion erupted from the enclosure. Eden could hear her master shouting. She had never heard him so angry. He was shouting at the people inside the temple courtyard. Her master wanted the merchants be gone from the holy place. He tore at them with a fury Eden had never known.

Tent poles fell, the merchants began to cry and then shriek in rage.

Chaos reigned.

The cracking of broken pots rang off the stone walls. A bright cascade of coins jingled in the air and tinkled like a thousand bells as they hit the paving stones. A covey of doves exploded overhead, circled the compound and flew in a hundred directions. By the temple gate twenty lambs ran willy-nilly through the curtains, past Eden and the donkey, bleating, “We're free! We're free!”

The two animals looked at each other and laughed. The lambs' owner stumbled past them with a switch, cursing anyone who stood in his way.

“Free until they're caught again,” the donkey said.

Last of all their master appeared, and strode from the temple compound without looking back. In full rage, merchants from the enclosure threw bruised fruit at him, striking his shoulders, staining his cloak. His companions leapt to shield him, standing at their master's back as the wrathful traders cursed and shouted. But the companions' stern faces kept them at a distance. The angry stall owners and money changers dared not come closer.

A single coin rolled out the temple gate following their master's footsteps, then fell on its side and lay still.

At once three beggars from the street pounced on it. They snarled and tore at each other's rags for possession of the single coin. Eden and the donkey were shoved against the temple wall, while their master looked at the desperate men in pity. The coin was snatched from hand to hand until one of the beggars dropped it and it rolled off once more. The three scrabbled in the gutter, but the precious coin rolled into a drain by the grated curb and vanished down a sewer.

The pitiful ragged souls stood about the hole in the street and began to weep.

Silently Eden's master removed his coat and handed it to one of them.

“Sell this or wear it,” he said.

The three beggars paused, uncertain what to do. The stall owners and money changers whispered among themselves, more confused than angry now.

Three beggars, but with only one coat between them …

Their master tightened his belt about his robe and gazed at his companions with a question in his eyes. Had they nothing to offer too?

A moment passed, and in those few seconds the companions understood, not needing to be told. They too offered what little they possessed. An old woolen cloak to one ragged man, an extra pair of sandals to another, a threadbare shirt to a third, worn but clean …

The stall owners and money changers, the traders and merchants, huddled together in the shadow of the temple curtains, their anger gone. Then one by one each turned from what they witnessed in the street and returned to the enclosure.

All except for one among them, a slight man with red hair and hard eyes, who found something of his own to give. He seemed both fascinated and yet ashamed. Cautiously, he fished a few dull coins from his leather purse, putting coppers into the palm of each beggar.

And before the day ended the travelers found yet another who wished to follow.