Eve (25 page)

“Just a little,” begged Cain.

“Half that,” said Naava.

Cain broke off a hunk of the solid white cheese and tucked the rest of it back into the sling. “Meet me here when the sun is directly overhead.”

“But,” Naava protested, “how am I to—”

Cain was already out of earshot, holding the cheese in front of him like a precious offering, and then he was climbing with the supplicants who sought the intercessory aid of a being they deemed more omniscient than themselves.

I was speaking of our exodus from the Garden.

This, of course, forces me to confront the most difficult thing of all— my decision to disregard Elohim’s injunction not to eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. This must be faced bravely and honestly, for I am not one to shift blame where it does not belong. At least I try not to make a habit of it. If blame needs to be attributed, though, it should be to Lucifer, that beguiling creature-man who was fully cognizant of what he was doing.

For every action there is a motive, and this is the part that perplexes me.

I knew not of Lucifer’s motive, why he had wanted me to stumble. I cannot deny I followed his suggestions quickly and hopefully. I think it was because my mind and body wanted what I could not have. You should know this: The forbidden is always sweeter beforehand. When I saw the flashing anger in Elohim’s eyes, the subsequent cowering of Lucifer, then a grotesque shadow of the beautiful man he once had been, I knew there was something bigger, something of greater significance than me. Lucifer and Elohim had what I would now call a
history,
something not explained to either Adam or me. It was as though Adam and I were held fast, dangling and thrashing in a web not of our design, and the action was expected, to have the web there to begin with.

Oh, I torture myself. Had I thought ahead, considered the consequences,
even deliberately weighed them carefully and precisely considering the obvious hurt to Elohim, the responsibility I had toward Adam and toward myself, I might have progressed in my mind to the unpleasant result, then stopped myself before I had done irreparable damage.

The result was supposed to be that we were to “die on that day.” Surely Elohim had reconsidered His punishment and had been merciful to instead send us from the Garden. I could still be with Adam, and he with me.

Now I come to the difficult part. Why such a monstrous punishment— to be expelled from our wondrous green-leafed retreat—for so little a crime? I ate. Adam ate. It was a simple action, ingesting food for nourishment—granted, from a forbidden source. Our eating must have symbolized much more. For that is how I understand it, that it was so great a disobedience that the whole universe had to cough us up, like a beast retching upon the brutal ground.

It seems to me, after many years of contemplation on this matter, that seemingly small things can cause great disturbances. Think about it a moment. When a young child throws a stone into a pool of water, the stone sinks to the bottom, but on the surface the disturbed water breaks into ripples—ripples that grow in size until finally they are slow, rolling breakers. They deposit shells and detritus upon the sand, but they also erode away at the banks—and all this from one stones throw.

Elohim’s excessive gesture of tossing us from His presence could only have meant one thing: We had caused ripples; we had done something with
large
consequences. Knowing this, I can only ponder all the things I consciously do, right or wrong, and wonder at what disastrous or beneficial things may then befall my children, or Adam, or the skies above, or the earth below. You might ask me, and rightly so, what all the worry is about, why I spend my days consumed with these questions. I would tell you that, like Cain, I dream for more. I am more like Cain than I wish to be, which is why we clash so often. My physicality—my excretions, my pains, my decay—they all strike me as nonsensical and ludicrous because I am not my body. My mind soars above these things, aloft on some great wind at my back, yearning to return to Elohim and the mysteries of the universe.

This is why Aya’s name means “bird.” Because in the hallucinatory
throes of labor, I wanted to be
above
and
separate
from it all, borne by the sun and moon and stars and galaxies, triumphant over my weary earth-bound body.

The first few days were the most difficult. In retrospect, we were angry and confused, at Elohim, at each other. No longer protected and guarded from predators, we longed to return to the womb of the Garden.

With the odd wavering lights and the ethereal beast guarding the Garden’s entrance behind us, we set our faces into the bitter shrieking wind—for it was winter outside the Garden—and plunged into the snowy forest clinging to the side of the craggy mountain. The hair on my body rose up, startled. This was the first time we had seen snow, the dazzling white cold of it, and we gasped in alarm and pain as the wind swept it up, driving swirls of icy dust into our skin. We tugged the lion’s skins around our bodies, tighter, snugger.

Sunlight shone through the upper branches of the trees in dim chinks, and as the muffled quiet descended upon us, the brilliant flash of a redwing lighting here and there led the way. We picked our path between the cracked fallen branches of oaks and the snow-furred greens of cedars. The forest was alive, that we knew, because the crusty snow betrayed its residents’ tracks—rabbits, martens, and wolves. I shuddered to think of what Elohim had said, that as long as we stayed
in
the Garden we would be safe.
What dangers were in store for us now?

Our faces grew red and numb and chapped—our fingers and toes too— and we found that we had to keep moving to maintain any semblance of warmth.

When I began weeping because of the cold, Adam barked at me to stop.

“If only
I
had met Lucifer first,” said Adam, glowering.

I sniffled. “You would have done the same thing.”

“I wouldn’t have believed him. Did you not see him in front of Elohim?” Adam’s voice mocked me. He did not bother to hold the tree branches for me. Instead, he pulled them out and away from his body, then released them to arc back wildly, so they would snap against my skin.

I tarried a good distance back. “You’re saying that you’re smarter than I am,” I said indignantly, rubbing a fresh welt on my arm.

Adam stopped and turned toward me. He spoke matter-of-factly His face was like the moon—open and arrogant. “Well, yes. After all, I was made first,” said Adam. “Elohim made you
from
me,
for
me.” He laughed and continued on his way. He was not usually this cruel. His jokes had turned to sarcasm, and his tenderness had turned to blame.

“He made us for each other,” I said. I shivered with the cold.

“We were fine until you came along,” said Adam. Now he had a stick, and he was taking pleasure in tapping sheets of snow off the lower branches of the cedars.

I bent down to pick up a handful of snow. I packed it into a ball. “That’s not what Elohim said.” I aimed high and true, and the cedar shed its coat upon my husband, who yelped prodigiously. I smiled, satisfied at my silent revenge.
What was happening to us?

Before long, the forest opened up onto a flat area scrubbed raw by the wind and sun, with a cave tucked into the mountainside and a panoramic view beyond its lip. We ventured out to the edge, dizzy with fear. Below, a crooked line of mist marked the frozen river, which twisted black and dark and quiet through bare-branched oaks and snow-covered evergreens. Beyond that, clumps of low squat brush disappeared into a flat sandy plain, intercut by rivers as thin and unruly as one of the hairs on my head. In the great far distance, these waters fed into a dark sea that melted into the rimless white dome of heaven.

We found a smooth stone for a flint. We gathered sticks and twigs and laid them upon a pile at the cave’s mouth. Because the wood was wet, it resisted burning. We scrabbled like dogs, grabbed the stone flint from each other, huffing in irritation. When the flame caught finally, we dropped to our hands and knees and blew on it furiously, coaxing it to burn—
please, we need you, we need you.
We fed its voraciousness until it coughed and sputtered to life.

We huddled across from each other, unwilling to share our body heat. We threw twigs and branches on the fire, not realizing we were likewise feeding our estrangement. Which was unforgivable, really, since the view was so breathtaking, so stunning, that in happier circumstances it would
have been something to bring the two of us together—
Isn’t it marvelous,
we’d say.
Isn’t it grand. I love you. No, I love you more.

The redwing warbled from his branch, proud that he had brought us to such a vista.

What came next still makes me shudder.

A low phlegmy snort rumbled up from the depths of the cave. We heard snuffling, more snorts, a great creaky yawn, then a sleepy shuffling of heavy padded feet upon the cold floor. Adam and I looked at each other, the wonder in our eyes turning to fear, then terror. We knew what it was. We were by then familiar with all the animals and their habits.

“Run,” Adam whispered. He scrounged around for a stocky piece of oak, thick and blunt, and smacked it in the palm of his other hand, as though he was testing its strength, its trueness. He set his legs firmly apart, knees crooked and ready.

“I’ll never make it,” I said.

Adam’s ire rose. “Go. Now.”

I stood my ground. I chose another piece of wood for myself, somewhat thinner and longer with more points on it. I had never defended myself before. I did not realize that the flimsy branches, although they looked sturdy enough, would most likely snap and splinter when tested against the formidable bulk of a bear.

“Go, I said—” said Adam, but then the heaving, snorting beast emerged in front of us, bleary-eyed and lurching.

The bear sniffed at the damp air and stopped. He grunted.

“What should we do?” I whispered.

“Don’t move,” said Adam.

Now, I must say, the cave was large enough that the bear could have stood up and plucked the roosting bats off the dripping walls like grapes. But he was not interested in bats. He lumbered forward again and stopped. He swung his head from side to side, first to Adam, then to me, then to Adam again. He slammed his paw—
thud—
on the ground and growled.

The redwing, who had up to this moment lent his cheery song to our ears, spun away, his chatter becoming thin and slight on the tenuous air.

My shocked and grieving heart cried out: Was this the fruition of Elohim’s awful promise that we would die upon eating of the forbidden
fruit?
Oh, cruel Elohim, where are You now? Will You come to our aid, sweet friend?

What madness! I had seen what a she-bear robbed of her cubs could do, the way she raged and tore a fox apart, limb from limb, the flesh hanging from his bones, his head lolling about.

My breath came in ragged bursts. “We’re blocking his way,” I said, backing up. “He smells the lion skin.”

The bear turned toward me. He snapped his jaws and huffed through his nose. He ambled closer and opened his wide pink mouth, set with rows of sharp yellow teeth.

“Adam,” I cried. I felt the sweat trickle down my face, down my chest.

“Stand still,” he said.

Oh, Elohim, show Yourself now; please, we need Your help.

I had backed into the clearing now, and the bulging rippling beast was close enough to touch. He blinked in the sunlight, stared at me. The fur on his neck bristled, and he slammed his paw down again.
Thud.

Elohim, be not distant, please protect us, keep us from harm.

The bear stood up on his hind legs—
oh, Elohim, no!—
the bulk of his body towering over me and blocking the sunlight.

I spoke to the bear. What else was there to do? “Oh, giant one, we have woken you from your sleep. Are you so malevolent that you would do us harm? Elohim made us, as He made you—”