Eve (46 page)

I remember this exchange as though it were yesterday, and yet remembering and understanding are two different things. Any harm he had done to me by selling the garden was overshadowed by my own disquieted heart, my own chagrin at being found out.

Since I am trying to uncover the truth of what went on that day, I will relate one more thing. In the midst of Adam’s betrayal, he had paused to think of me. He had acquired some beautiful trinkets that he believed would restore us back to the way we were. How do I begin to understand this conundrum? On the one hand, he had disregarded my feelings. On the other, he thought he knew what was better for me and took it upon himself to do a lovely thing for me. How do you rage against something so confusing? I know in my head what he was trying to do, but my heart says otherwise. My heart is angered when he assumes he knows me better than I know myself—and acts on it. Always he makes these judgments, and I cannot say anything. If I do, I am ungrateful for his efforts; if I don’t, I am bitter against him.

As I have laid it out for you, I
was
loved and cherished, and I refused to see it, or foster it, for that matter. That would come later.

My seeds. They were gone, vanished.

I knew of no one who would have wanted them. Certainly in passing, I had told my children about them, but they knew not to touch or take.

Oh, disaster! Adam had sold the one bit of peace I possessed—my life, my joy, my haven. I had thought to grow another garden, this time with the precious seeds from the Tree of Life. That tree, too, we had been warned from after our disobedience. But still. Could they,
would
they have reversed Elohim’s curse, offering us life where we had earned only death before? I knew not.

When we first took hold on these plains, I had not planted the rest of the Tree of Life seeds, because the weight of my error still pressed heavy upon me and I did not want to anger Elohim further. I had thought frequently of the seed Adam had planted on our first baby’s grave, on the snowy mountainside, and wondered if it had taken root and grown into a flowering tree like the one in the Garden.

But then the forbidden seeds disappeared.

I confided in Aya, for I valued her sharp eyes. She assured me she had seen nothing, and she asked if I was absolutely certain they had not rotted away.

“If that were the case, I would expect there to be some sort of matter at the bottom of the jar, wouldn’t you?” I said.

Aya pursed up her lips. “There was nothing?”

“Nothing.” And then I remembered a small something that had rolled out from underneath the jar as I lifted it. I held up one finger. “A nicker seed,” I told her.

Aya startled. “A nicker seed?” she repeated.

I nodded.

“That’s odd,” she said, as she began to fillet the fish, laying their white bodies flat on prodigious piles of salt.

So she thought it as strange as I did.

My fury at Adam had a past.

One incident stands out in my mind.

Adam, Cain, and I had not yet come to these plains that we now inhabit. We had traveled many moons, and still we had not found a place to settle. I was heavy with Abel, and the days were growing hotter and more arid.

On this particular day of which I am speaking, we began to hear, as we were walking, the great thundering of a waterfall up ahead. In truth, the river seemed in a vicious hurry. Twigs and limbs and petals tumbled about in the frenzied water.

Soon we were forced to descend a precipitous hillside dotted with shallow vegetation that scraped at our legs and loose rocks that threatened to send us careening down the mountainside. We made our way deliberately. Adam set Cain upon his shoulders and told him to hang on. They set off down the hill. I was left to fend for myself, which I did not mind, because I knew I would be slower, the huge snail that I was.

We arrived at the bottom unscathed and in one piece, aside from a tiny tree branch scratch on Cain’s cheek, but we were hot and tired and ill-disposed. The mosquitoes were merciless, and our shoulders chafed with everything we were carrying by now—reed baskets packed with animal skins and fishing hooks and flint daggers and slingshots and a small clay bowl we had fashioned for cooking.

We had come out of the bushes and trees to find the splendid sight of a tremendous rush of water cascading off the edge above and into the pool below. The mere force of it was enough to send up a misty spray all around.

“Ah,” said Adam. “Here is where we will rest.”

I eyed the waterfall. “I should like to stand under that and wash,” I said.

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Adam. “It’s too dangerous.”

“The pool, then,” I said, and began shrugging off my basket, my hat of braided reeds, then my animal skins, which I had stitched together with sinew and plant thorn.

Adam set Cain upon the ground, and faster than either of us could blink, Cain was in the water, splashing about, yelling simply for the sake of yelling.

“Are you watching him?” I said.

Adam nodded and began to disrobe.

There was no sandy shore. Huge boulders lined the pool, and as I stepped out onto them, I saw how deep the water really was. I jumped in and made my way to Cain, who managed to hold on to my neck. The water was gloriously cool. We played Mama Fish and Baby Fish, where he flung his hands over my head and rested upon my back. Then I paddled like a frog, and he squealed with delight. “Faster,” he shouted. “Faster.”

I was so involved with Cain that I did not see Adam making his way to the far side, so when I looked up and saw the liquid image of his body under the waterfalls downpouring, I was confused.
Had he not told me it was too dangerous?

I detached Cain’s arms from my neck and and heaved myself out of the water, using a boulder for leverage. I stood and wrung my hair out, all the while watching my husband as he delighted in the waterfall. He yelled at one point as though he had killed a wild animal after a long hunt.

Cain cried out, begging me to play.

“My arms are tired,” I said.

“Swim,” he said.

“Baby fishes swim longer than mama fishes,” I said. I wished for him to tire, so that when he closed his eyes at night he would sleep soundly.

I was irritated then—by Adam’s forbidding me to stand under the waterfall, then of his flagrant disregard for that very commandment.
Why did we live under different rules?
No matter how many times I brought this sort of thing up with Adam, he would rationalize his actions, insisting on the logic of it all. For instance, in the waterfall situation, I could have predicted he would tell me, “Well, of course you can’t stand there. We have to keep you safe. After all,
you
are having our baby.”

But moments such as these were not harmless. They appeared small and insignificant as they were occurring, but over time they piled up like dead carcasses and began to rot and stink. Many times I had to ask myself,
When did all this begin? Why do I notice it only now?

By then, though, Adam’s superior behavior was ingrained. I had been commanded; I obeyed. I’m not quite sure how this happened. I think I wanted peace, and in order to get peace, I acquiesced. I gave over my
power, my voice. And once that was done, there was no returning to how it had been in the Garden—equal companions who respected each other and allowed the other a say in all matters.

I said nothing that afternoon. I was not as injured as I am now, thinking upon it.

As to the issue of my garden being sold, perhaps Adam thought the garden was his domain, his responsibility. Perhaps he thought that I had no say in land dealings, as he had little say in child rearing.

That was how it had worked out.

As a cover-up—lest Eve detect her motives and forbid her to go—
Naava had devised numerous reasons why she should accompany Cain to the city on his weekly trips.

“Linens and flowers and herbs are what I need,” she had insisted to Eve, although this made her mother roll her eyes.

Naava had stared right back at her, defiantly. Eve
knew
Naava no longer had access to her fabulous flowers in the sold garden. And Aya guarded her herb plot too closely. How else was Naava to get her colors?

Eve had sighed finally and said, “As long as you go with Cain. He will protect you.”

When Naava had told Cain she was going with him again to the city, he searched her face and narrowed his eyes. “You think me stupid? You go for other reasons than the ones you ve stated.”

She smiled pleasantly enough and said, “Oh, Cain, your mind is forever running away with you.” She came closer to him and reached down to grab him, rub him. He stiffened and inhaled sharply. “I want to be with you,” she said softly. “Will you deny me that?” She tiptoed to kiss him on the soft part of his neck, right underneath the lobe of his ear.

Roughly, he pulled her to him and grunted, “You may go, if you do that to me again.”

Naava laughed, a short melodious laugh that said,
Your wish is my command,
but she stopped short because Cain grabbed her suddenly by the shoulders and lowered his face to hers. He hissed, “If you do
anything— anything
at all—to attempt to see that boar of a prince, I shall crush you. Your pretty little head will not live to see tomorrow.”

Naava tried to laugh again, to exhibit a levity she did not feel. “And why would I want to see him? He is
nothing
compared to you.” She batted her eyelashes slowly, purposefully.

Cain released her and stood up straight. He smiled triumphantly and held out his palms to her. “See here,” he said. “The calluses speak of hard labor. His lily-white hands show nothing. How can he be strong when he does not know how to work the land? How will the gods bless him?”

Naava shrugged and said, “He knows nothing. You know everything.” This seemed to appease him for a bit, because he turned to go.
So simple a creature,
she thought.

But she would have to exercise caution—
that
she knew.

Her words had placated him sufficiently, for upon their arrival in the city, Cain had kissed her lightly upon her cheek and wandered off to do other business.

Naava watched him disappear into the crowd, then made her way to the spot Dara had indicated she was to stand—next to the copper artisans— and waited for Balili, the white-robed scribe, to look up from his tutoring. When Balili saw her, he smiled, rose up from his stool, and handed his instruction tablet to Dara. Naava knew the prince would not be long. She laughed to see Dara take the tablet from him and tap it here and there with her forefinger, saying something to the younger children at her feet. Her little mouth was set with the firmness of authority. She obviously relished her new status as Balili’s helper.

Balili and Naava had never spoken, but Naava surmised the prince had described her as beautiful and ravishing, and that is how Balili was able to identify her, because Dara did not look up from her teaching.

Naava wended her way then through the dark narrow streets, to the place of the prince’s and her first meeting. She entered the doorway, now cleared of cobwebs, and entered the sparsely decorated room. She swept the floor clean the best she could with the tightly bound bundle of palm fronds she found resting against the chair. Someone had laid reed matting
on the floor and hung red and brown blankets upon one wall. She smiled, for she thought it must have been the prince, prettying up the room for her.