Eve: In the Beginning (8 page)

And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl
that
may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.

Genesis 1:20

When I awake, it’s still dark. I have not dreamed at all. Adam is no longer at his position, and I turn my head to the other side, expecting him to be asleep beside me. The space is empty.

Despite the sudden thudding in my heart, I get up to look outside. Perhaps he is sitting on the boulder, watching the landscape. It would give him a better view of our dwelling and the outer edge of the pond.

But there is no Adam silhouetted in the moonlight on the boulder.

A breeze touches my skin and, although the breeze is not cold, I shiver. I wonder about Adam. Where has he gone? I call out before I can think better of it. “Adam?”

There is no answer, and I wonder what might have happened to him. He’s never left the dwelling during the night, even before we were wary of the two deaths in the garden. Of course I know that tonight is different: tonight we are wary, and we don’t know what to expect. Not even what to look for.

I back up until I am against the edge of the alcove, halfway in and halfway out. The stone of the alcove feels cool against my skin and sends another shiver through my body. That’s when I notice it: the mat of animal skin is no longer covering the boulder. Did Adam take the mat with him?

Did someone take Adam?

My breath stutters, and I can’t think. Every sound seems louder, echoing in my mind — the rustling of leaves in a nearby tree, the distant chatter of some night creature, my own breathing, the pounding of my heart.

I have just called out into the unknown, and if Adam can’t hear me, then maybe someone else can — someone I don’t want to face alone. I move back into the alcove, believing — hoping — that it will offer me some protection should I need it.

I huddle on the sleeping mats, listening for any sound and waiting for Adam to return. Eyeing the hanging mats at the back of the alcove, I wonder if I should hide behind them, just in case. Then I realize that if Adam is caught, there is no place for me to truly hide. I will eventually be caught as well.

Still, I rise to my feet and creep to the back wall. I slip behind the hanging mats of leaves and feel grateful that they offer some seclusion. I only hope it will be enough. Closing my eyes, I lean against the wall, scratched with my marks, and listen as carefully as I can. I don’t know if I’ll hear much coming from outside the alcove, but I keep my eyes shut and listen.

I almost miss the shuffling sound because I am focusing on the stiffness in my legs and back. I hold my breath, trying to decide if the shuffling is Adam or some other creature. Maybe it’s an animal or the shadow?

The sounds stops, and I slowly let out my breath. After a moment, I decide that I may not have heard anything or that whatever made the sound is now gone. I move soundlessly until I have parted the hanging mat and have a view of the alcove.

Adam stands at the alcove opening, looking outside — certainly for me — and I am about to step between the hanging mats when I notice something. A mat of skin is wrapped around Adam’s waist and hangs to his knees. Why would he wear that vile, dead thing — that which represents the death of an innocent creature?

I take a step forward then halt. Adam has turned his head toward the left, and in the moonlight that silhouettes his profile, I realize that the man standing at the front of the alcove is not Adam.

I move behind the hanging mats, hoping to not make any noise to draw the strange man’s attention.

My heart is pounding wildly, and my breathing stalls in my chest. I can’t inhale or exhale. Every part of my body is cold.

We are not alone in the garden after all.

The shadow I’ve dreamed about is
real
.

I mouth a silent prayer.
O Elohim, protect me from this living shadow. Bring Adam back to me safely.

Does Elohim hear my prayer? I don’t know. Adam and I usually pray at the altar on the seventh day.

The shuffling sound reaches me again, and I sense that the shadow is walking toward me. Every part of my body prickles in perspiration. It will be only seconds until I am discovered. I think about the man who is not Adam. The shadow is taller and leaner than my husband. The shadow’s hair is long, past his shoulders, and as dark as the night. I did not see his eyes, but I imagine them as black as his hair. The shuffling stops, and I imagine I hear breathing. Do shadows breathe?

Will the shadow speak to me? Will he tell me what’s happened to Adam? I smell a collection of herbs, as if the shadow has been sleeping among the vines. Perhaps he has been sleeping, or at least hiding, where the trampled circle is.

Shuffling again — this time moving away. Can the shadow not detect my presence? Have I been all that quiet?

I let out my breath when all is silent, and I wait as long as I can bear it. Finally, I peer around the mat. There is no one in the alcove. I wait a little longer before leaving the hanging mats. My hands tremble as I wonder what happened to Adam.

I want to call for him, scream out for him, but I can’t. I walk along the edge of the alcove until I near the opening. I dread looking outside, seeing the barren boulder, seeing no Adam. What if the shadow is waiting for me?

But I can’t stay here, not with Adam gone, not with the shadow looking for me — for us. What does the shadow want? Why did he come?

I move to the front of the alcove, listening, moving slowly. When I see the boulder, I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed that it’s empty. The animal skin is again on it, seemingly untouched. I take a step, then another. I am now fully outside the alcove, but there is no sign of Adam.

Exhaling, I close my eyes, wondering in which direction he might have gone — or where the shadow might have taken him. I decide to start by the pond, reluctant as I am. Just as I open my eyes, decision made, the hairs on my arms stand up.

Someone is watching me.

“Eve,” a voice whispers. The sound filters into my mind and body, and it’s as though I feel its reverberations down to the bottom of my feet.

I don’t turn around. I don’t want to see the man that is not Adam. I want to cry out for my husband, but somehow I know he won’t hear me.

“The mother of all living,” the voice speaks in a low whisper that is perfectly audible.

“Who are you?” I’m surprised that I can speak at all.

Then he is in front of me. I stare at the man in the moonlight. He studies me, his mouth twisted into a half smile. His eyes are indeed black; even in the light of the moon, I can see their void. His face is more angular than Adam’s, his cheekbones prominent, and his eyebrows thick and dark.

“I am your brother,” he says.

My stomach jolts.
My brother?
That means Elohim is his father too. Where has this brother been? Does Adam know we have a brother? I ask none of these questions.

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

His face lifts into that crooked smile again. “I have kept my knowledge.”

I blink rapidly. He has
knowledge
. Has he eaten of the forbidden fruit? I want to ask him about it, but his gaze is penetrating. Something shudders through me as if he touched me, although he has not. He takes a step forward, and I move back toward the alcove. I can see the length of his body now, and it is covered with something like an animal skin — yet his body doesn’t seem to be solid.

He nods slightly, as if expecting my reaction to him.

“Where is Adam?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer but steps closer. I want to ask him why his body is covered, if he is the one who placed the covering on me the other night, and if he killed the snake.

But I fail to ask any of this as he walks around me, circling. My stomach knots. This is a man who’s killed animals. Even if he is my brother, I don’t like him here, in my garden.

He stops close to me, not touching me, but it feels as if he is. I have never touched another person besides Adam. It’s strange to be near this human. How many others are there like him? Do I have more brothers?

“Tell me where Adam is,” I say. It’s impossible to hide the tremble in my voice.

“He’s not far,” my brother says in a low voice, his breath brushing against the top of my head. I move away from him, and he chuckles.

I turn to face him. “How far?”

One of his eyebrows lifts, and his smile returns. “I see ...”

I wait for him to finish what he is saying, but he only watches me with that amused look on his face. “
What
do you see?” I finally press.

He is moving around me again. “That you are curious with many questions ... that you seek knowledge.”

It’s as if he’s pressed a rock against my stomach and the air has been forced out. How can this brother of mine know my deepest desires? I never thought that when I finally met another person I would feel this way — both fascinated and repelled at the same time. I want my brother to leave, yet I want to learn everything he knows. He seems to know even more than Adam.

Before I can move again, his hand is touching my face. At least it seems he is touching me, but I don’t feel his fingers as they move lightly along my cheek. It’s as if his touch is merely a breeze and nothing substantial that I can grasp, so that if I were closing my eyes, I might think his touch was a dream — the shadow in my dreams. “I can help you find the knowledge you are seeking,” he whispers.

I move my hand to his, to see what his skin feels like, but he pulls away quickly, and I touch nothing.

“Do you know what my name is?” he asks, standing at a distance again, breaking the haziness confounding my thoughts.

I shake my head and hold his black gaze, waiting for his answer.

“It’s Lucifer.”

I test the new name out. “Lucifer?” It twists, yet slides, off my tongue, like a whisper.

“Yes, Eve,” he says, his mouth lifting into a smile. “And I’ve come to help you obtain what you most desire.”

And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind.

Genesis 1:21

Adam opened his eyes, then winced as pain seized him. The memory of being smashed in the face returned, and he brought his hand to his face, gingerly feeling the effects. He had never felt this sensation before. It was unpleasant, he decided.

Then he remembered Eve. He didn’t know where the stranger had gone, but Adam needed to return to Eve. His heart pounded as he stood. He blinked a few times, looking around, checking for any lurking shadows. Then he pushed through the vines and plunged into the pond. He half swam, half ran through the water until he reached the other side.

He ran toward the alcove, realizing that he no longer held the rock in his hand, but he didn’t want to take the time to find another one. He had to get to Eve. Adam passed the last group of trees before the alcove and stopped.

Eve was standing in front of the alcove, looking at something he couldn’t see.

“Eve!” he called out over his pounding heart.

She didn’t turn as he ran to her but continued to look south.

Adam breathed out in relief: Eve appeared unharmed. But what was she looking at? And why didn’t she respond? He grasped her arm when he reached her, and finally she turned.

“Was he here?” Adam asked.

Eve’s eyes were wide. “Yes,” she said, appraising him. “What happened to you?”

“I fell on the pond bank, and he knocked me to the ground.” Adam took a breath. “Did he speak to you? Did he touch you?”

“He ... he said he’s our brother.”

Adam stared at her. “Is he newly created?”

“He didn’t say.” She lifted her hand and brushed back the dripping hair from Adam’s forehead. “Did he speak to
you
?”

“No,” Adam said. “I don’t think he wanted anything to do with me.” Eve was looking away from him again. “What did he talk to you about?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.