Eve: In the Beginning (26 page)

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

“You won’t hurt me,” she said, moving her hand behind his head and drawing him in. She pressed her mouth against his, and he became lost in her kissing. He pulled her closer, and she responded by wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You taste like smoke,” she said, and he laughed.

“You taste like Fire,” he whispered. He kissed her then without the reservations he’d felt before, but he was still cautious. His body was responding to her in ways he hadn’t previously imagined. He drew away, breathless, and stared at her.

“Are you all right?” she asked, equally breathless.

“I think I’m starting to understand.”

Eve nodded, a faint smile on her face. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her hand lingering on his neck. Then she pushed against his chest. “I must smell horrible. I need to soak in the river.”

“Are you hinting at something?” he asked, capturing her in his arms again.

She grinned. “We both need to soak.”

Her eyes were growing bluer with the rising sun, and Adam brushed her tangled hair from her shoulders. There were dark smudges under her eyes, but her gaze was bright ... so
Eve
. “I love you,” he said.

“You still need to wash.”

He laughed. “Let’s go then.”

“Not reluctant any longer?” she said.

He pulled her to her feet. “I think you’re right. We can’t avoid the pain and sorrow of this new life, so we might as well embrace the joy of it.”

She rose up on her toes and kissed him again. This time it was the lightest touch, which left him wanting more. “You should listen to your wife more often.”

Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not
eat?

Genesis 3:11

By the time we reach the river, we can see the devastation at our former dwelling. The ground is dark with ash, and the shelter that Adam had hauled the branches for is nothing more than a black shell. Thoughts of our shared intimacy just moments before flee as we wade through the cold river hand in hand.

All that we have labored to build is now gone. It wasn’t much and definitely was not as luxurious as our abode in the garden, but it was ours and ours alone.

Lucifer has destroyed another measure of our comfort.

I stand and watch as Adam picks through the damage, seeking for anything that might be salvaged. The altar that was so recently completed is the only thing that remains. Its stones are scorched black, but not one stone has tumbled out of place. The large bear skin, which we shared during cold nights, is now a hideous lump of black. The baskets that I had so carefully woven, in which we stored various food stuffs, are now ash.

Even the dried meat that Adam spent so much time hunting and procuring is inedible.

Looking toward the garden and its untouched green billowing above the serene stone walls, I feel as if I’ve been mocked, but when Adam comes to my side and wraps me in his arms, I immediately chastise myself.

This was not Elohim’s doing. It was not our doing. It was Lucifer’s doing — and Lucifer’s alone.

I must accept this as a warning and a consequence. Although Lucifer might give us something that is lifesaving and useful, it can destroy if not used with proper care. I hold onto Adam. Not only is our dwelling gone, but we also won’t be able to rebuild with the ground black and dead.

The smell of smoke is overpowering, and I can’t wait to leave this place behind. Yet I release Adam and help him scour the ground. It’s not long before I realize we were blessed to get away with our lives intact.

When Adam turns toward the garden and gazes at it for several long moments, I want to ask him what he is thinking, but I let him have his silence. When he finally looks at me, there is redness in his eyes. I walk toward him and take his hand. “Where should we go now, my husband?”

My voice seems to bring his thoughts back to our current plight. “We’ll inquire of Elohim,” he says.

My heart is heavy as I walk with him to the altar, the place of worship that was so serene the day before and the site of Lucifer’s noxious appearance. This time I don’t let go of Adam’s hand as we kneel together and bow our heads.

His voice lifts to the heavens. His cries rend the air, but still there is no answer. When both of our knees are aching and Adam’s voice is hoarse, he rises to his feet.

“We’ll go south until we reach the far river,” he says. I don’t question his decision. “We’ll stay close to the garden until we receive further instruction from Elohim,” he finishes.

Stubbornness may be seen as a weakness, but today it’s a strength in my dear husband.

Our footsteps scuff the scorched earth as we walk. The Fire stayed clear of the garden, as if there was a power pushing it away in another direction. The burned terrain stretches for quite a distance, but the Fire seems to have died out before reaching the first bend in the north river.

We walk south, staying in sight of the garden. The memories of visiting the southern borders of the garden — and how we found the dead snake there — return. So much has happened since then that I marvel at my innocence on that day. The first appearance of death should have been a greater warning to me. It had been a warning all along to Adam, but I, of course, had refused to listen.

The cool wind cuts through my hair and blows it in front of my shoulders, but the walking keeps me warm — that and my leopard coat and Adam’s hand in mine. I can now allow myself to think of our shared kisses that morning. My face heats at the thought, and soon I am too warm. My skin becomes moist with the effort of walking, and a few moments pass before I realize Adam is watching me.

He is smiling.

It seems his frustration over our burned dwelling has passed more quickly than I thought possible. “Why are you smiling?” I ask, my heart expanding because I guess the answer.

He stops and slowly takes me into his arms. “No reason.”

I close my eyes as his lips touch mine. It’s the middle of a bleak, cold day, and we are standing on rough, scorched earth, but I feel as if I am surrounded by the warmest breeze and standing on the softest grass. My aches and exhaustion fade in his kiss. Even the images of the dead snake and all the rotting fruit in the southern fields seem to belong to another life.

All that matters, all that I can feel, is here, now, in Adam’s arms.

It’s too soon when Adam lets go, and we start to walk again. When the sun is still high in the sky, we reach the southern river. It’s narrower and riddled with more rocks than the northern river. Adam releases my hand and scoops up a handful of water. Rubbing his hands together, he declares, “Still cold.”

I laugh. I didn’t expect the south river to be any warmer than the north river. Joining him at the water’s edge, I scoop a few handfuls of water and take a long drink. Then I rub the water on my arms, washing off the lingering ash and dirt. But it’s not enough to crouch at the river’s edge. I glance at the sky, assessing how much sunlight we have left. I walk into the river, and the cold immediately takes hold of me.

“What are you doing?” Adam asks, but he follows my lead. First he sheds the bear skin. Then he steps into the water, wearing only the covering Elohim gave us in the garden.

I wade to the middle of the river. It’s not as deep as the northern river and reaches only to my thighs, but I sink into the depths, gasping as the cold surrounds me and seems to pierce straight through my skin. Fish swim by, treating me like another rock they pass on their journey.

When Adam reaches me, he immerses himself in the water and comes up almost instantly, his hair soaked and dripping. “It’s much too cold!” he says.

I laugh and move away from him so that he’s not tempted to pull me under with him. I dip my head back cautiously, letting the long strands of my hair sink into the water. The cold on my scalp sends tremors through me.

“Do you need help?” Adam asks.

“Not from you,” I say. “I’ve been in long enough.”

“Use the bear skin until your covering is dry.”

Now I know why he left his bear skin on shore instead of washing it as well. I soak in the river for as long as I can stand the cold. My body is numb by the time I reach the bank. A glance behind me tells me that Adam is facing away. Whether he is doing it on purpose I don’t know, but I’m grateful. Since we left the garden, I have not been fully unclothed in front of him. The changes in my body have made me more conscious of my nakedness.

I shed the leopard coat for the bear coat, and by the time I’ve draped the wet leopard coat over a bush, Adam has finished his bathing and is walking toward shore. He finds a nearby boulder to stretch out on, letting his skin dry beneath the feeble sun. I look away from his stretched out form. The heat is building inside of me again, and I can think only of the way he held me and kissed me on our walk here.

Turning my attention to our surroundings, I examine the terrain. There are a couple of lone trees on this side of the riverbank, their branches looking weak and ineffectual for building a shelter. They are mere saplings compared to the trees in the garden. My gaze strays toward the garden. It seems that the trees that had once suffered at the southern border are now fully revived. I can’t see the fruit from this distance, but I imagine its sweet lusciousness among the green boughs.

“Are you hungry?” Adam’s voice reaches me, as if he’s heard my thoughts.

“Not for fish.”

He laughs, squinting over at me. “Do you have any other ideas?”

I try not to look toward the garden, but when Adam catches me glancing in that direction, he rises up on his elbows and casts me a stern look. “We’re not pilfering from the garden. Don’t you remember we were cast out?” His words are serious, but there is a smile trying to emerge on his face.

“I was thinking no such thing.”

He sits up all the way and climbs off the boulder. Without another word he walks to one of the scrub trees and rips off a lower branch. Within moments he’s whittled away one end on a rock, creating a sharpened end. Then he crosses to the river and steps into the cold water again. I watch in amazement as he spears a fish, then another one.

He carries the fish to the riverbank, where I meet him, and while he prepares one fish, I pick up the other. Adam’s eyebrows arc as I take the second fish in hand. I hide a smile and set to work, mimicking his method of preparing the fish for eating.

My stomach clenches, but I force all thoughts of revulsion out of my mind. After all, I have skinned a bear — this can’t be any worse. The fish carcass slips beneath my fingers, and I lose my grip several times, but I grit my teeth together and finish removing the flesh from the bones, getting poked by the sharp-edged bones only twice.

Adam finishes with his fish first. “Do you want me to help you?” he asks.

“I can do this,” I say, intent on my work and also intent to not let on how hard it is to manage such a slippery fish. Adam washes up, then leaves me to my task.

When I have finished preparing my fish, I wash my hands in the river, trying not to shudder at both the cold and handling the fish on my own. Adam waits for me, a half smile on his face. I meet his gaze with a smile. “You are certainly looking forward to eating cold fish.”

Then he steps to the side, and behind him is a small Fire. At first my heart lurches. Then I see how he’s surrounded the Fire with a makeshift wall of rocks. This is the first time he’s made Fire without my instruction.

He motions with his hand. “Come, sit by the Fire. I want to try something.”

I walk toward the Fire, and he guides me to sit on a nearby boulder.

“This boulder blocks the wind nicely and doesn’t disturb the flames,” he says.

I perch on the boulder. “What are you doing with the fish?” He has several thin twigs lined up on the rocks that border the Fire, pieces of fish speared through each twig.

“We’re going to heat the fish.”

I narrow my eyes as he lifts the first twig and holds it over the orange flames.

“I decided that if our food were warm, maybe we’d become warm as well from eating it,” he says.

Sliding off the boulder, I pick up one of the twigs and hold the fish over the Fire. After a couple of moments, Adam withdraws his twig. The flesh has darkened in the process. He touches it with his finger. “It’s quite hot.” Then he pokes at it with his tongue. Finally, he bites into it.

“How does it taste?” I ask.

Without a word, he hands the warm fish to me, and I take a small bite. The fish, which was formerly cold and slippery, now has a warm and pleasing substance to it. “Excellent,” I say, awed at the change in taste. It’s still the same fish we’ve eaten many times, but the taste is much better. I hand the piece back to Adam, but he waves it away.

“You finish it. We’ll make plenty more.”

As the sun sets, the Fire becomes brighter, illuminating our faces and hands as we continue to heat the fish.

Adams stands after a while and heads back to one of the small trees. He tears branches from the tree and, after snapping the branches into smaller lengths, he feeds them to the Fire.