Eve: In the Beginning (33 page)

They were nearly out of food, and Adam would have to hunt again soon. So far he hadn’t seen any promising herds of deer in this part of the wilderness. He could only hope that the more east they traveled, the more options they’d come across.

He started to say a silent prayer, one of many. Watching Eve endure the pain of birth, and trying to help her after, tore at his heart every time he thought of it. Even worse had been seeing the small, lifeless body of their child. He wasn’t even sure how much Eve comprehended when they buried the babe beneath the soil. Eve hadn’t been herself since the death. He hoped that leaving the dwelling and starting anew would make a difference.

His prayers increased as he prayed for a safe journey, that his wife might be healed in her heart, that they might be blessed with more children.

He must have fallen asleep while praying because when he opened his eyes, the sun had moved significantly in the sky and Eve was watching him.

“I am afraid,” she whispered. Her blue-green eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and he couldn’t quite read her expression.

He reached over and touched her cheek. “So am I.”

“What if our daughter died because of something I did?”

Adam lifted up on one elbow. He didn’t like Eve’s question, but at least she was talking. She had grown thin since the death, and her cheekbones seemed to jut prominently from her face. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Eve.”

“How can you know? Did Elohim tell you?” her voice trembled, and Adam wanted to avoid her breaking down in sorrow.

“Elohim knows of our pain and grieves with us.”

She looked away, blinking rapidly. Moisture slipped from her eyes and traveled down her cheeks. “He could have stopped it, but he didn’t.”

Adam sat up fully and reached for her hands, but she moved them away.

“Maybe there are some things Elohim can’t stop in this world,” he said.

Her voice rose. “He has more power than Lucifer. He can stop anything he wants.”

Adam knew she was right, and he also wondered why Elohim hadn’t prevented their daughter’s death. Maybe they wouldn’t find out the answer now, or even later, but they would in time. “We must have faith.”

“Stop telling me that.” Instead of anger in her voice, her voice was dull and lifeless — which was almost worse.

He waited a heartbeat, then two. “How much farther do you want to travel, Eve?”

She wiped at her cheeks and heaved a sigh. “I don’t know.” She looked at him, and the pain on her face tore into Adam’s heart. “I just know that I couldn’t be there anymore. Not with her lifeless body beneath the soil ... when she should have been in my arms, living and breathing.”

Adam touched Eve’s shoulder, and when she didn’t pull back, he wrapped an arm around her. “She will always be ours,” he said. “When our bodies return to dust, we’ll see her again.”

Eve’s thin arms went around him as she leaned against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head, then drew away.

“What if ... what if it was something that I ate? Or what if I didn’t eat enough? I wasn’t eating very much when I felt so ill.”

“Shh,” Adam said, taking her hands. “Only Elohim knows what happened.”

Her eyes closed as she whispered, “What if it was our intimacy? What if it hurt the baby?”

Adam stared at her until she opened her eyes. “Were you in pain when we were intimate?”

“No,” she said, still whispering. “But I worried about it.”

“You must tell me when you worry about such things,” he said. “You know that I’d never want to cause you any pain.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m still afraid. What if the same thing happens to our next child?”

Adam looked down at his hands, muscled and browned by the sun. There were many things he could do with them — build, hunt, cultivate — but he couldn’t protect a child born too soon.

Eve hung her head. “I didn’t know the sorrow would be like this.”

I didn’t either
, he thought.
I didn’t either.

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

Genesis 3:19

The dreams are back. Dark and still. Whispered words that I can’t quite grasp. But I know it’s him. I know he’s close.

And I don’t care.

Let him take my soul — if I have one left.

Each day I walk with Adam, following him through trees, across grass, over rivers. When he takes my hand, I feel nothing. When he looks into my eyes, I see nobody. When he speaks to me, I hear only the dry wind pushing through the leaves above.

The child that I left behind has created a numbness, a dark hole that grows from my stomach and spreads throughout my body until I am nothing but the hole itself. Something presses against that hole, and I sense what it is. Or
who
it is.

Lucifer is watching me. It’s as if I can see him in every shadow, in every crevasse of rock, but he is gone the moment I turn my gaze to look. I wonder if Adam feels Lucifer’s presence or if he is walking aimlessly for his own reasons.

I’m not sure how many days we’ve been traveling. It’s still hot, and the leaves are still green. Maybe one moon, or maybe two moons.

When Adam tells me that he needs to go hunting, I barely reply. I haven’t paid attention to our food supply, and I eat very little of whatever Adam hands me. He tells me to rest and leads me beneath the shade of a tree.

I watch Adam walk away, his strong back hunched, his steps hurried. I know that he doesn’t want to leave me alone, but there is no choice since I can’t help him in the hunting. Together we’d scare any beasts away.

Adam may worry that I won’t be safe alone, a worry that is justified, but I’m not afraid to be alone. In fact, I feel alone whether or not I’m with Adam — whether or not I’m praying or listening to Adam pray. The hole that has become me leaves no room for anyone else.

It’s because of this that I know that as soon as Adam retreats, I will have a visitor. I have felt his presence for too long and seen him in too many of my dreams to doubt that he will take this perfect opportunity.

I wait for Lucifer to arrive, knowing that he is waiting too. Sitting beneath the tree, I lean against the trunk. I close my eyes as if sleeping, even though I don’t expect sleep to come.

At first I think I feel a touch on my arm, but it’s only the high grass. I wait some more, concentrating on breathing evenly, in and out, and then something blocks the sun.

I open my eyes, and my heart jolts, although I shouldn’t be startled. Lucifer is smiling down at me. He looks different, or maybe I just think he looks different because I haven’t seen him in so many moons.

His hand is held out toward me, and I reach for it before remembering that he can’t help me to my feet. His smile widens as if he just realized the same thing, but I know that with him, all things are intentional.

“Eve.” The single word drops from his lips like a slow raindrop. Wind seems to swirl around me, making me hot and cold at the same time.

I stare up at him, wondering what he’s been doing in his absence yet not daring to ask him anything.

“Lucifer,” I say. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken his name aloud, although it seems all too easy to speak.

“You are traveling the earth in search of happiness?”

How does he know my most intimate desires?

I blink, and the world seems to come back into focus — the grass that reaches toward the sky and the fallen angel standing before me, dressed in an almost-black fur from his waist down. His torso is bare but not perspiring as Adam’s would be from walking around in the heat. Lucifer looks as if the season has no power to affect him. His lean, muscled arms hang to his sides as if he’s relaxed, but I can feel the tension from him.

“Why have you sought me out?” I say, speaking more words together than I have in many days.

“I have never lost sight of you, my dear Eve. You should know that.” He tilts his head slightly, amused.

I look away from him and stare at anything that
isn’t
him, but it seems that he fills up every place around me. “Why did you set that Fire?” I finally ask.

Irony is plain in his voice as he speaks. “I did not intend for it to grow so large.”

I snap my gaze up at him. “I can’t believe that. You had every intention.”

His lips curl. “Perhaps ... perhaps it’s good to learn that your brother has all the power he will ever need.”

“The power of destruction,” I say. This statement doesn’t appear to bother him.

“The power of
knowledge
,”
he says. “And I am here to restate my offer. I haven’t forgotten you, and you won’t be able to forget me.”

“Is that why I’ve been dreaming —” I cut off my own words. I don’t want him to know, but it’s too late.

“Yes,” his voice soothes. He steps closer to me. I could reach out and touch his coat if I wanted to. His eyes are so dark, darker than any night sky I can remember.

It’s hard to breathe, but I’m not afraid. Adam is gone, yet I know that I wanted this ... this meeting with my brother. After so much time spent in the wilderness, I have many questions. I can almost hear Adam warning me to stay away, but I push his voice out of my head.

Rising to my feet, I reach behind me, steadying my hands against the tree trunk. We are standing beneath a tree, a different tree but together again.

Lucifer’s fingers touch my cheek. There is no warmth, no soft flesh, only a shiver, but still I feel it. “I dream of you too.”

I close my eyes and exhale.

Will he go away if I don’t open my eyes? Do I want him to go away?

“You still have a choice, Eve,” he says, his whispering close to my ear. “This world is full of pain and sorrow. I can take that away from you.”

I bite my lip, my throat raw, to keep the sobs from surfacing. “How?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

My eyes stay shut. Looking at Lucifer might convince me to follow without question. Not looking at him allows me to consider only myself.

The breeze stirs around us, bringing the scent of wood and grass and water — the scent of Adam — reminding me. “What about Adam?” I say.

Lucifer’s hand slides to my neck, and I imagine his breath on my cheek. “We’ll come back for him later.”

I think of Adam holding me when my child was born, of his grief combining with my own, of his quiet words during my restless sleep, of his hands stained with dirt from digging in the earth. I think of my daughter and her too-small body buried so far away — in the ground. Dust. She is dust now.

Is this what I have to look forward to — sorrow that doesn’t seem to end until Adam and I return to dust with all of our children?

A sob builds in my throat.

Children.

Will there be more children? Adam says Elohim will surely bless us with more. I think of my lost daughter and how every part of me cries out to raise her, to care for her.

Leaving with Lucifer might take away that pain, but it would also take away any future joy.

“No,” I say. My voice is only a whisper on the wind. I open my eyes. Lucifer is so close, looking as if he could devour me like a hungry beast — a desperate beast.

“No.” My voice is stronger now. Elohim may have given Lucifer the power to bruise my heel, but Elohim gave me the power to crush Lucifer’s head — the power to reject him, the power to say no. “My choice is Adam, as it has always been. My choice is our children, no matter the pain or sorrow.”

Lucifer lets out a groan that sounds like a growl, and I lift my hands as if to ward it off.

He doesn’t touch me but steps back, and I feel the distance between us like a much-needed drink of water. The strength leaves my body, and I collapse to the ground with a cry as my arm scrapes against the trunk. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for Lucifer’s revenge, but there is only the sound of the wind.

After a moment, I open my eyes.

He is gone.

Clouds, low and dark, have gathered in the clear sky, and my body starts to shake.

Adam ran as the light streaked across the sky. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the fast-moving storm. He didn’t slow when the mist pelted him, a mixture of water and winter cold. He carried two rabbits in his hands, but until he knew what was wrong, he’d wait to hunt for more.