Eve: In the Beginning (4 page)

Shielding my eyes, I stare at the looming form and try to estimate how high it is; it is much higher than the hills in the garden. I turn to Adam. “Do you think the sea is out there?”

“It must be,” he says in a slow voice. He too is staring at the large hill.

“How are we supposed to have dominion over the fish of the sea if we have never been to the sea?” I ask.

Adam leans against the wall, his back to the wilderness. He doesn’t seem to have the fascination that I do. “We still have dominion over them, even if we aren’t there,” he says.

It makes sense, yet it doesn’t.

“Do the fish of the sea multiply?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Eve,” Adam says with a sigh. “We can ask Elohim on the seventh day during our worship. Perhaps he’ll visit us.”

My heart stutters at the thought of asking Elohim my questions; it’s much easier to ask Adam. One part of me is curious to know what Elohim might say; the other part is reluctant to voice any of my curiosity. But I don’t want to wait until the seventh day. “The animals in the garden don’t multiply,” I say in a stubborn voice. “And neither do we.”

Adam straightens, pushing away from the wall. “They also don’t die,” he says, staring at me. “You don’t want the animals to die, do you?”

Of course I don’t. I think of the cattle and the deer. Even the birds are innocent in their flying. I look away from Adam. I don’t like the sternness of his gaze.

“Sometimes I wonder. That’s all.” I run my hand along the rough stone wall. “I wonder if we’re meant to keep some commandments and not others.”

“What do you mean?” Adam says, but I hear the sharpness in his voice. He knows what I mean.

I fold my arms and look out at the wilderness. It’s not nearly as interesting as I thought it might be. The mists made it intriguing. With the mists gone and the sun revealing only long stretches of rocky dirt, I don’t want to leave the garden any more than Adam does. Yet I wonder if there is more ... beyond what our lives are now ... and whether it can be found outside the garden.

I walk away from the wall, back toward the cattle. Adam follows me, but neither of us speaks.

And God called the firmament Heaven.

Genesis 1:8

On the seventh day, we walk to the altar. Each seventh day, we rest from our labors, just as the gods did when they created the earth and the heavens. Adam has told me the story of the creation many times, a story he learned from Elohim. On the seventh day, we don’t tend to the garden or the animals. We spend the day in worship and thanksgiving to our maker. We never know if he’ll appear and give us more counsel; it seems that every few moons Elohim visits us.

I wonder what Elohim will see in me if he visits today. I slept little last night, thinking of the commandments that Elohim gave us — specifically the command to multiply and replenish the earth and how it will be through my body that children will come forth.

We are not keeping that commandment. Why does that not bother Adam? He knows the commandments and blessings so well. How could he not be troubled about this one?

The altar Adam has built stands in a lush field just east of our dwelling place and near the east gate. Adam once examined the garden, before I was created, and walked the length of it several times to determine where he wanted the altar. There are few trees near the east gate where Elohim enters the garden, and the grass grows low and thick.

Adam kneels at the altar of rough stones. I clasp my hands together, closing my eyes as he begins to pray. “Blessed is the seventh day. Sanctify this day that Elohim rested from his creation.”

His prayers are ones I’ve heard many times; they’re always the same prayers, ones he learned from Elohim. After Adam is finished, we both wait, but the heavens are silent today. Elohim won’t be visiting us. My questions will go another day, or many days, without being answered.

Adam meets my gaze as he rises from the altar. A day of rest stretches before us, and I’m not ready to return to our dwelling. We are already halfway to the tree ...

When Adam reaches my side, I say, “Do you think the birds know that it’s the seventh day?”

Adam shakes his head. “I don’t think they understand the passage of time.”

“Do you?” I ask.

His brows draw together, and he faces me, placing his hands on each side of my face. “So many questions, Eve.”

I nod slightly, but I don’t draw back. I hold his gaze steady. “How long have we been in the garden?”

Adam releases me and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know exactly.”

“Hundreds of days? Thousands?”

“Most likely thousands.”

I agree, but I don’t tell him so. I have hundreds of marks on my stone wall, marks made only since I’ve been tracking the days.

“How many more days will we break Elohim’s commandments?” I ask. I have deliberately irritated Adam; this I know. But I have not slept, and I find it hard to contain my thoughts.

His hands fall away from my face, and I feel the coolness between us like a sudden breeze. “Why do you persist?” he says, his underlying tone thick with impatience.

“Why can’t you answer my question?”

Adam’s face stills, and I step back. Perhaps I have gone too far now.

“Elohim gave us the garden for us to live in,” he says. “He didn’t send us here to die. If so, what would be the point of creating us?”

“So that we can multiply and replenish the earth.”

“Yes, and that time will come.”

“When, Adam?” I ask, my words spitting out of my mouth. “In another thousand days? Look around us. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever dies, or grows, or multiplies.”

Adam’s expression is one of disbelief — disbelief at the way I am speaking to him.

There is a horrible twisting in my stomach, but I continue, “And how are we to multiply and replenish this earth? Can you tell me that?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Finally, he says, “We would have to become mortal.”

I want the twisting in my stomach to stop, but I must clarify to fully understand. “We would have to bleed?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Without blood, we remain immortal. We can live forever and never die.”

I stay quiet for a moment as his words settle over me. “And until I bleed, children won’t come forth, and if children don’t come forth, we are not following all of Elohim’s commandments.”

Adam knows I am speaking true. But he turns away, his fists clenched.

My head pounds, but he must hear this — all of this. “You have been given as much knowledge as I have been given,” I say in a quiet voice. “Just think on it. If you can answer my questions, then I’ll stop asking them.”

“You want to bleed?” His voice is low and quiet. “To do so, your body will have to change. Introducing blood into your body means that you’ll also face death. This is what Elohim has taught.” When Adam looks at me, his eyes are vivid green against his dark red complexion. “And the only way to do that is to eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Is the price worth it just to know all the answers to your questions?”

My heart thunders in my ears. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to leave the garden.”

Adam’s face returns to an almost-normal color. “Then why won’t you ask your questions to Elohim?”

I swallow against my tight throat. “What if he thinks I’m not grateful for the blessings we’ve already been given?”

Adam exhales, and he steps forward. The calm is back in his expression. “I will ask him for you.”

I nod. It’s the only solution I can think of. Adam’s hand grasps mine, and I let him slide his fingers between mine.

“Let’s go see the tree,” I whisper. “Let’s make sure nothing has been changed or altered — to know that we are truly alone in the garden.”

“Eve, I don’t want us to visit the tree anymore.” Adam’s gaze finds mine. “And I don’t want you going alone to visit the tree.” His breathing slows. “Not ever again.”

I stay very still. “Why?”

“It has been forbidden.”

“To eat of the fruit,” I say. “It has not been forbidden to visit the tree or to see it from afar.” I release his hand. “There might be something changed or something that lets us know if our worries are justified.” The brown specks in Adam’s green eyes darken. His lips are drawn tight.

His hand falls to his side, and he clenches it. “The risk is not worth it. I forbid you to visit the tree, Eve.”

“You are forbidding me?” I stare at him until he looks away. His tight jaw tells me he does not like what he is saying, but it also tells me he’s more determined than ever.

Before I can think better of it, I say, “You are not Elohim.”

His eyes narrow, and I regret my words. But he knows that I must say what I think.

“I am your husband,” he says in a slow voice.

My eyes burn, and I’m hot inside; I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I say the first thing I think of. “And I am your wife.”

His eyes widen for an instant. He reaches for my hand, but I don’t want him to touch me. I want to visit the tree, even if just from afar, to see if there has been any change. I want to know how long we’ll be in the garden. I want to know if Adam and I will be the only people here forever. I want to know how we are supposed to keep two commandments that are completely opposite.

I step back, away from Adam’s reach.

“Eve ...” Adam says, his tone imploring.

I shake my head because I don’t trust my voice. And then I turn and run.

And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas.

Genesis 1:10

Adam calls after me, but his cries grow distant as I run along the stream, the sound of trickling water masking his voice.

As I run, the heat in my body fades, and air rushes through my chest, making me focus on how fast I’m running and where I’m going.

When I slow, it’s not because my legs are tired, but because I realize where I’ve run to.

In the morning light, the tree of knowledge is more beautiful than I’ve seen it before. The green leaves, dappled in shimmering sun rays, are moving gently in the barest touch of wind. I walk past the area where Adam and I sat two days before. I don’t stop when I am only a few paces from the tree.

I don’t pause when I walk beneath the canopy of branches. I don’t even need to stoop when I walk under the tree since the branches arch high and wide. I stop only when I place my hand on the trunk. The trunk is cool and gritty like a stone, yet smoother.

I look at the ground and inspect the grass and dirt, searching for any sign of disturbance.

As I move my hand down the trunk, the leaves above me rattle in a whisper as if they are speaking to me. I gaze up at the fruit. Its pale orange color stretches tight, perfect in its ripeness. Wondering if this is the last time I’ll be this close to the tree because of Adam’s request, I reach toward the fruit. Touching it won’t bring me harm; it’s only eating it that will. At least I think so. My hand hesitates just before I make contact.

Pulling my hand away, I again stare at the fruit. Then I reach out again, more slowly, and let my hand hover near the fruit. A slight fuzz covers the outside, and I can almost imagine what it feels like. But I don’t touch it. Part of Elohim’s admonition was to not even touch it.

I wait for something to change, something to happen, but nothing does. There is no warning voice from Elohim, no echo from the heavens.

With my hand close to the fruit, I imagine the weight of it solid in my hand. I think of what would happen if I plucked the fruit from the branch. I wonder if the fruit feels warm or cold or if it’s the same temperature as my palm.

I lower my hand and wait, listening for any sounds, but I hear nothing unusual. I look at the branches and leaves; they are not broken or torn. Then I look along the ground, examining the tufted grass. I can’t find anything that has been disturbed. Perhaps no one was here after all.

I leave the canopy of branches and sit at the edge of the shade to watch the tree. It doesn’t seem any different than any other tree, although its fruit is lighter, and it seems isolated from the other trees.