Eden (13 page)

The travelers stopped among a cluster of damp boulders.

So, they would sleep outside tonight. Or, not so much sleep as dozing in fits and starts. No dry wood for a fire; a long, cold camp, nodding in the clammy dark.

More worrisome still, as nightfall's last gray curtain fell Eden saw Judas sneak off alone. The unhappy man stood for some moments in the black shadow of a stunted tree. At first it appeared Judas was speaking into the air as he'd often done before. But then Eden smelled the fox again lying low in a scrap of brush. The fox's ears stood up, quivering as he listened. Yes, listened patiently … creeping closer and closer until he crouched only a step away from the man's feet. Much too close for comfort. But stranger still, Judas knew the fox was close, close enough to overhear him. For suddenly Judas spoke to the fox just as he had learned to do with all the other animals, seeing into their minds and listening to their thoughts.

“I'm afraid,” the man told him. And the fox cocked his ears. “I have doubts,” Judas said.

The fox sniffed his paw, then licked some sand from between his pads.

“This can't be right, can it? Am I really this alone? Does no one else doubt?”

But the fox made no reply. And then the man knew the fox would not answer him. Sadly, Judas crept back to the group before anyone was aware of his absence.

He sought out Eden in the cluster of rocks.

And when he snuggled against her fur she felt that his hands were cold.

Eden awoke to the sound of heavy breathing in the cluster of rocks.

Another visitor had joined them in the night.

Her eyes hadn't snapped open to footsteps in the dark, but to the sound of the newcomer muttering indistinct words. Eden recognized the voice: the madwoman huddled in the stone arcade. She was close, only a few paces off, mumbling under her breath. Yet near enough for Eden to hear her muffled words. Many voices argued in her head.

You know him
.

I know him too
.

No, you don't
.

Yes, yes, I do
.

The crazy woman must have kept out of sight along the way, approaching ever closer in the dark. Eden sensed nothing evil in this creature, only like Judas, the woman was wracked by confusion and sadness and fear. And Judas seemed to recognize her as well, muttering, “Ah, the woman who talks to flies.”

None of their master's companions rose to greet her in the dark.

But no one chased her away either.

Those things were best left till morning, when the rule of night receded and you could see by daylight. These days strangers often approached from orchard, path or field. In recent months the travelers had often woken to visitors in their midst, a newcomer appearing to talk or listen, so one more body was of no account.

But the animals felt differently about this woman, and all night they were aware of her presence. The man named Judas might argue with himself, but he always returned from that dark, solitary talking room. The woman who talked to flies disturbed them more, arguing on and on, for she dwelt in a place of no return.

So the animals held a meeting of their own as dawn approached. They gathered head to head to share their thoughts. As usual the lambs talked over each other, crowding around Samson's long gray nose.

Softly bleating, “Why is she talking? Why won't she stop? Will she herd us? Will she shear us? Will she
bite
us?”

Until the donkey sternly brayed for quiet.

“One voice with so many tongues makes no sense whatsoever!” he scolded.

This confused the poor lambs even more and they hung their heads, glancing at Eden to see what she thought.

“I think the lambs are right,” Eden said, and Samson snorted in surprise. “This woman is both scary and not scary at the same time,” the dog told them.

Samson wrinkled his forehead and twitched his ears thinking hard.

“Let the lambs who are not afraid go to comfort her,” Eden said, “and let the lambs who are afraid stay with us.”

“And what shall you and I do?” Samson finally asked.

“We shall do what we always do,” the dog told him. “You and I shall guard the lambs—whether they are afraid or not.”

Samson considered this for many long moments. He had never considered himself a guard of anyone. Always a beast of burden—to fetch and carry, to be driven, whipped and never complain. But now he realized he was more than merely a freed slave. He was his own donkey, for better or worse.

“You are a very wise dog,” he said at last to Eden.

“Then let the lambs do as they do, and we shall do as we do.”

The lambs heard her clearly and they approached the madwoman with caution, the boldest at the front, the shyest behind. One lamb, two lambs, three lambs, four … soon they surrounded her. The woman of the invisible flies swatted the air about her head, ruffling her hair for invisible gnats, and kept swatting until the rising sun finally struck her face. The morning light slanted across the boulders and the stunted trees. Dawn had come, the light and warmth driving the night chill away.

Their master made his way through the cluster of lambs and looked down. Sunlight sat on his shoulder. The woman shielded her face, and swatted more flies that did not exist.

Eden nosed her way through the clinging lambs till she reached her master's legs, getting close enough to see.

The woman held out a clenched fist, then turned palm up and opened her fingers.

Two stones rested inside her hand; the black stone with the white inside and the white stone with the black. In returning the two worn stones, she offered the only gift she had. Of course, she had overheard their master's words in the muddy street back in the ugly town.
Who was she to cast away these two precious stones?

If the two stones their master had taken from his purse had saved a condemned woman from a vengeful crowd … might they not save her as well? By returning the black stone and the white, might she not exchange them for a touch of sanity? Sanity for two smooth rocks? Anything to quiet the many voices in her head.

“Can I travel in your purse too?” the woman of invisible flies asked.

“All are welcome to come with me.”

Their master smiled at the two stones in her palm. “I was afraid I had lost those for good.” He then took her hand in his and folded her fingers closed, the stones inside.

“But why don't you hold them for a while? Perhaps if we travel together we'll come to know each other, and like those stones that traveled in my purse so long, you too can show your insides without breaking.”

Their master gently lifted the woman's chin.

Looking at her as if to say,
Know me …

For several moments the woman went through many changes, speaking words but not to flies this time. Saying the same words in different order and every time a different way—

First bitterly, “
You …
”

Then after a moment, with a question; as if to ask,
have we met before
?

“
Do
I know you …?”

Then softening, “Yes. I think I know you.”

Becoming surer in her thought, “Yes I
know
I know you.”

For a moment, her eyes darted about to a fly that really wasn't there, then down at her clenched fist. The stones lay in her hand, safe and sound. Looking at their master's face once more, accepting what she finally knew for certain.

“Yes. I know you.”

Come Forth

A great wind came out of the east with the rising sun.

The clouds overhead slashed across a blue sky.

And the wind dried the fallen rain off the skin of the land.

That day's march promised to be as cold as the night before. The travelers clutched their robes about them, and those in tatters clutched their rags, waiting for someone to take the first step. It seemed much simpler to stand shivering than make the effort to move.

As they milled about Eden noticed the most curious thing. How this woman who once saw invisible flies came upon them so quietly in the night. Why they never heard her footfalls until she fell upon them.

Her feet were bare.

No sandals, not even cloth bindings. Her toes blue from cold, her heels red with cuts. Eden crept close, unsure if she was welcome, but the woman made no sudden movement. Eden sniffed her pale feet very thoughtfully, learning everything there was to know about them. The woman had been walking on bare feet and thick calluses for a long time. And Eden could smell the soot of solitude, the dust of a thousand roads and a thousand empty streets. A thousand barred doors against a woman who wandered alone and who talked to invisible flies.

Yet of the wounds themselves, some were new, the cuts fresh; others old and draining. And Eden smelled the ominous taint, the beginning of infection. The woman's bruised feet could go either way, heal or rot …

Eden's smart nose drew ever closer, sniffing round and round. What was to be done?
What could be done?
Eden knew only one thing to do: lick the cut and make it better. Licking always helped.
See here now, Cut. I will fix you, Cut, lick and lick until you're better. Licking always helps you heal. Pay attention, Cut
.

Eden went at the woman's foot, sniffing and licking round and round, making sure no part was missed. And the woman giggled as the dog's breath tickled her toes and Eden's warm tongue soothed the cuts. But the woman who once talked to flies wouldn't let her keep licking forever. She petted Eden's head and whispered:

“No, no little one. You needn't do that. I'll be fine. I'll be fine.”

The companions stood about with twisted mouths and covetous eyes, that their dog should be so kind to a stranger, when they themselves felt so little for the woman. Judas stared hardest of all, and Eden read his mind,
you never loved me that way …

But instead of hurrying them off on the day's march, their master only chuckled to himself, gathered his robes under him, and sat on a nearby boulder. Then suddenly he laughed out loud, needing only to touch the thong of one sandal to break the spell that held the companions in thrall. They saw their master tugging at his ankles and rushed to offer the woman the sandals off their own feet:

“Here, Maryam, take mine. No, take mine! Here, Maryam, take mine!”

But it was Judas who owned the moment. He tugged on the drawstring of his shoulder sack and produced a pair of brand-new sandals. Eden could even smell the fresh oil on the leather.

“Take mine, Maryam,” Judas said quietly. “I have extra.”

The madwoman, who once talked to flies, looked up at the sound of her name from face to face. She held Eden's head in her hands, stroking her ears. She looked down at her naked feet, naked for how long? She couldn't remember. How many years had it been since she had worn anything on her feet? She didn't know.

“Can you help me tie them?” Maryam asked of Judas. “My fingers have forgotten.”

Eden watched Judas help the woman, putting on one sandal and then the next. “Maryam,” Judas said to her, part in pity and part disdain. “A common enough name.”

“And my mother's …” their master said quietly.

Eden knew what her master meant. For neither the woman who once talked to flies nor the carpenter's woman were in any way common. And Eden realized there were things about people she would never understand. So cruel and yet kind, so brave and yet scared. But perhaps most confusing of all, that people never sought beneath the surface, to know your deepest scent.

Yet the woman who spoke to flies had sought them out despite her fear, sought them out on bare feet with nothing between her and the cold, hard ground. Sought them out to return two stones, the black stone with the white inside and the white stone, black within …

Eden smelled the woman's feet inside her new sandals, then sniffed and licked a little more. The cuts were already draining, the woman's feet healing. Eden went back again for good measure, each gentle touch of her tongue making the wounds better and better: