Eve: In the Beginning (27 page)

“We don’t want it too large,” I say, my heart thrumming. As the flames leap, I am both awed and fearful. I wonder how large of a Fire Lucifer built in order to have it burn wild.

Adam grabs my leopard coat and spreads it out on the boulder near the Fire. I reach over and run my hand along the fur. It’s only about half-dry and will be useless to wear tonight.

With the quickly falling temperature, I know that Adam must be colder than he is willing to admit. “Do you want the bear skin back?” I ask.

His gaze meets mine over the glowing Fire. “We’ll share tonight.”

It’s a natural solution, but my heart races. Since our intimate kissing, sharing the bear skin — which isn’t nearly as large as the one that was destroyed — seems to carry new consideration. And the way Adam is looking at me, as if I am the only thing he is thinking about right now, sends rising bumps along my arms.

“Of course,” I manage to say. I break off from the heat of his gaze and look at the Fire, but I know he’s still watching me. My breathing is suddenly thin, and I inhale deeply.

Adam moves away from the Fire, away from me, and walks over to one of the trees. I try not to stare after him, but I watch him anyway as he picks leaves from the tree.

He comes back with fistfuls of leaves and sprinkles them on the ground not too far from the Fire. I realize he is making a place to sleep, so I stand as well and help him gather more leaves. The leaves are not as large or as soft as the ones in the garden, but they cover the ground and provide some padding.

I don’t know why the act of picking the leaves and spreading them on the ground, walking back and forth between the tree and the Fire, makes my heart pound. Maybe it’s the way that Adam keeps looking at me and how when I catch his look, he doesn’t turn away. When I say, “I think that will do for tonight,” Adam nods his agreement.

“Why are you staring at me?” I say at last.

His mouth moves into a smile. “Come over here.” He is standing in the middle of the leaves we’ve laid down.

“I’m not tired yet.”

“Eve,” he whispers, looking at me with those gold-green eyes of his. He holds out his hand, waiting for me.

I know I should move, should step forward into his waiting arms. But I don’t.

And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.

Genesis 3:12

I listen to Adam’s breathing long after he falls asleep, his back toward me.

The warmth that comes from his body heat is not enough, and I am shivering, but I refuse to move, to turn and wrap my arms around Adam beneath the shared bear coat.

I can’t forget the look of hurt on his face after he extended his hand to me, inviting me to lie with him on our new bed of leaves.

I can’t forget my hesitation after all that we have shared and after all the times he’s kissed and held me. When the moment arrived, when I knew what he hoped for, I turned away.

As the Fire’s glow dims and sputters, I listen to his every breath, how he exhales and inhales. I keep my eyes closed, but I can still remember his face: his lips curved into a smile, his dark hair falling across his forehead.

His gaze full of hope. And love.

I slip from beneath the bear skin and cross to the boulder where the leopard skin has been drying above the Fire. The fur is now dry and warm to the touch. Tugging it across my shoulders, I crouch next to the Fire, reveling in the bits of heat that reach my skin.

With the exception of Adam’s breathing and the sparking Fire, there is no other sound above the rush of the river. I remember the night that was so cold when the white flakes covered the ground — the night when Lucifer taught me to make Fire. I had acted in haste, but it was out of a strong instinct to protect my husband.

And I want to protect him now, protect him from ever feeling sorrow or hurt — but I know I have caused him pain tonight. I had returned his kisses earlier in the day with as much eagerness as he had bestowed them. I’d cherished his words from his heart when he’d told me that he didn’t want to cause
me
any pain.

And yet ... what does he think of me now? What is he dreaming about as he lies alone on the bed of leaves he created for me — for us?

Tomorrow the day will bring the same cold, the same challenges, and the same hunger. And it will most likely return the distance that was between us before the great Fire. I want to tell Adam that I am afraid — more than I care to admit even to myself. I hadn’t realized until the moment arrived that I wasn’t sure. It would be an action that I wouldn’t be able to change or return from.

Yes, I want to fulfill all of Elohim’s commandments, and I have made the choice to do so, but when I realized I needed to fulfill them
now
, in that moment, my breath and my heart failed me. And in doing so, I failed my husband — his trust betrayed.

The Fire sputters in a gust of wind then settles back to its usual glow. I look toward the river, which is barely visible in the moonlight. I realize that no matter what happens, the river continues to forge onward. It moves without complaint, bringing life to the trees, plants, and animals — bringing life to us. The river is fulfilling its purpose, and it will do so until it dries up and fades from this earth.

“Oh, Adam,” I whisper to myself. “Why am I so foolish?”

I stand, giving the river one last look, remembering the times that I have used it — for nourishment, for washing, for swimming— without gratitude.

Turning, I look at Adam sleeping, and then I replace the leopard skin on the boulder. I remove from my body the skin coat that came from Elohim. It’s strange to be in this state again, a state that I have not been in since the garden. Being in a state that used to never cause me a second thought has now become a deliberate act.

With the glow of the Fire behind my back, I slide beneath the bear skin and turn toward Adam, not touching him yet. I watch as his shoulder rises with each breath. Closing my hands into fists, I resist touching him. He is my husband, but I am still hesitant. Everything has been different since we walked out of the garden. His tenderness has burrowed deeply into my heart, and even tonight, there was no remonstration. Just patience. And hurt.

I swallow, and my breath scrapes against my dry throat. I am perspiring with nervousness, or maybe fear — it’s hard to tell the difference.

But there is no expectant hand held out to me now. There is just me and my own decision — my own choice. Adam has given me this gift of choice, and I know that I choose my husband. I’ll always choose him — just as the river will always flow and give life.

“Adam,” I whisper. I have spoken too quietly — to give myself another excuse if he doesn’t wake. But the thudding in my chest grows only stronger, and almost against my will — yet obeying that same will — I reach out and place my hand on his back.

Sliding my fingers upward, I move my hands along his muscles, across his shoulder, and to his neck, until my fingers reach his hair. Then I rise up on one elbow, moving my hand around to his chest, and I kiss his neck.

His eyes flutter open, and just as he turns his head, I press my mouth against his. Even though he is still mostly asleep, his mouth welcomes mine. Then he turns fully toward me, his gaze finding mine, and he draws me against him.

His kissing grows deeper, possessive, until I don’t know exactly where he ends and I begin. I feel as if the Fire that fades behind me has rekindled and now burns between us. And I know everything will change.

We sleep through most of the morning, our bodies entangled, our breathing as one. There is much to do today, much to decide, but we are both reluctant to get up. We have partaken of the sweetest of fruits, and it has left us only desiring more.

Adam’s fingers trail along my jawline, then down my neck. His eyes are closed, but I know that he is more than awake.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“It will be high sun soon,” I whisper back.

He laughs, his voice vibrating through me. I nestle my head beneath his chin and exhale.

“Why did we wait so long?” he asks.

“Because we wouldn’t have gotten anything else done if we hadn’t waited.” I push away his hand that is moving lower, but he captures me and kisses me until I can barely breathe.

“Adam,” I say when he breaks off. “We can’t stay like this all day.”

He raises his head to gaze at me. “Actually, we can.” Then he tugs the bear skin over both of our heads, blocking out all light.

The sun rises and the sun sets, but I’m not paying attention to whether I am waking up or falling asleep. All I know is that Adam is next to me and that I am in his arms. We wouldn’t even eat or drink if I didn’t force Adam out from under the bear skin.

But the time finally comes when we must build a new altar.

Together we gather rocks for the altar, with Adam carrying the larger ones. Whenever we cross paths, Adam pulls me into a kiss.

“We’ll never get the altar built if you don’t leave me alone,” I say.

He just grins and kisses me again. “I can’t believe how much time we wasted.”

“If you stop kissing me, then we can build much faster.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Adam says, his hands at my waist. “We’ve been married for a long time, and only now do we enjoy the fullness of our union.”

I shake my head. “You forget so easily.”

“What am I forgetting?” he says, speaking into my ear.

“That you didn’t look at me in that way until after we ate the fruit,” I say. “Now are you grateful you ate of the forbidden fruit?”

Adam buries his face against my neck. “I just want to be with you — wherever you are, whatever you’re doing.”

“No matter the pain and sorrow?” I say as the heat between us grows.

“There’s nothing more I want than to share your pain and sorrow.”

“As long as you aren’t inflicting it,” I say.

He draws back and gazes at me, his expression serious. “Do you think you are with child?”

I place my hand on his cheek. “I hope so.” Then I rise up on my toes and kiss him. He tightens his hold around me and lifts me from the ground.

Something cold tickles my heels, and I draw away from Adam and turn around.

On the ground at our feet, a large snake coils back and opens its mouth with a hiss.

I scream before I remember that I should probably stay quiet. Adam tugs me behind him, and we slowly back away.

I have never seen a snake act so aggressively. Of course I have learned that in the wilderness the animals and reptiles are focused on their own survival and that other animals, as well as Adam and I, are threats.

My heart is pounding, not just because there is an aggressive reptile threatening us, but also because the reptile is a snake. Long and black, it reminds me of the snake we found dead in the garden. Although this snake is smaller, it’s still large, and I assume it would reach to my waist if it slithered up my leg.

I can’t look away from the snake; its black eyes seem to be staring right into mine. “Lucifer?” I whisper. I don’t know why I just called the snake Lucifer, but its eyes remind me of my brother.