Eve: In the Beginning (5 page)

One thing I notice is that there is no fallen fruit on the ground near the tree. I try to remember if there has been fallen fruit there before. Does no fruit on the ground mean anything?

I pull my legs up to my chest and sigh. I glance toward the hill that I came down. I imagine Adam running down the hill, looking for me, his face flushed with exertion. But there is no one on the hillside, and I haven’t heard Adam’s voice since I crossed the river.

I lie back in the grass and study the fruit hanging from the branches, wondering if it ever overripens and falls off. If I were able to come here more often, I could keep track of the different stages of growth. I would know if something is different today.

Closing my eyes, I decide I will rest for a short time. Then perhaps I’ll return to Adam.

I fall asleep and dream of the tree, but this time I see the tree up close and not from a distance. I can smell the fruit, and I notice that it smells different from any fruit or flower in the garden. Its richness is hard to describe, but it’s not difficult to imagine its taste.

Even in my dream, I realize my thoughts are growing dangerous. Adam is right. I shouldn’t even be close to the tree. But I have no intention of tasting the fruit and dying. I need to stay away from it. I need to stop thinking about it. I need to ask Elohim my questions — about how we are supposed to multiply and replenish the earth without the issue of blood.

A shadow falls over me, and I struggle to open my eyes, but I am still dreaming. My limbs feel heavy, and I can’t move. The shadow grows dark and cooler until I think it’s an actual being.

“Eve,” it whispers.

My mouth opens into a silent gasp.

“Eve.” It touches my shoulder and shakes my arm.

Finally my eyes open.

Adam is staring down at me.

“It’s you,” I say.

“Who else would it be?” he asks, but there is a question in his gaze. “What are you doing here? I thought ...” He doesn’t finish

“I was just resting,” I say. I don’t tell him about my dream.

The relief in his gaze is evident, but there is something more, something deeper in the way that he is looking at me. He kneels next to me. “Please don’t run from me again.”

It’s not like his command before. It’s a plea.

“I’m sorry.” I sit up and wrap my arms around his neck, and he holds me tight.

He is the opposite of the shadow that formed in my dream. Adam is warm and solid and bright. I bury my face against his neck and breathe in his scent of earth and sweat.

“Eve,” he whispers into my hair. “Don’t come here by yourself again. If anything happened to you, I would be devastated, not just a lone man.”

I draw away and slide my hands to his shoulders. “I’ll always be with you, Adam.”

He nods, then pulls me into another tight embrace. I am sorry for running from him, and I’m grateful he has come for me. We walk back up the hill together.

And I look back at the tree only once.

I have made ten more scratches in the stone wall when Adam tells me that we’ll do some tending near the south borders. We have not been there for half a moon cycle.

I smile, and Adam grasps my hand. “We must stay together, though,” he says.

“Of course.” I don’t want to sound too eager, but we have not walked that far from our dwelling for quite a while.

Since I ran from Adam, I have not let myself think of the tree of knowledge or the borders. Even though I have dreamed each night about the tree of knowledge and the shadow that seems to dwell there, I have become quite good at forgetting about the tree during the day.

I have kept my questions silent as well.

Adam and I head south, far from the tree of knowledge. The southern portion of the garden is where the land is relatively flat. The morning air is cooler today, and clouds hang heavy in the sky, but my heart is light. Adam’s hand is warm and strong, and through his grip I can feel his concern. Since the day I fled from him, he has been more attentive, watching over me continually but also letting me do things in my own way.

Once we reach the southern part, the sky has changed to brilliant blue, and the green of the trees shimmers in the sun. It’s hard to believe we were ever worried about a shadow. We stop for a few moments to watch a lion sunning himself.

“He loves the garden,” I say.

Adam squeezes my hand. “So do I.”

I look up at Adam. His green eyes are flecked in gold today. I brush back the dark hair that falls over his forehead. “Do you think the lion gets too hot with all that fur?”

Adam laughs and pulls me against him. He kisses my forehead, then says, “I was wondering when the questions would start again.”

I smile and lean into him. His bronze skin is warm, and I think again of the lion sunning himself. Adam reminds me of that lion. “Well?” I press.

He speaks above me, his deep voice rumbling. “I think when the lion gets too hot, he finds a patch of shade.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He pulls away. “For what?”

“For always answering my questions.”

A smile plays upon his lips. “Do I answer them all?”

“Or for at least trying to answer them.”

He laughs at the clarification. His hand is in mine again, and we continue past the lion.

When we emerge onto a wide field characteristic of the southern portion of the garden, I slow. Adam stops next to me.

The trees at the far end of the field have low-hanging branches, heavy with fruit. “Why haven’t the animals eaten of all this fruit?” I ask. I have never seen so much fruit going unused on a tree.

But that is not the only thing that looks out of the ordinary in this field. The grass is not as green as I remember. In fact, it’s nearly the color of the soil.

Adam stoops and tugs a few pieces of grass, which come up by the root.

“Has there not been enough mist?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Adam says and looks toward the sky. The brilliant blue has darkened, and clouds are moving in. He drops the clump of grass and surveys the field. Brown color has crept in among the green as far as the grass spreads.

“Maybe the mist has affected the trees as well,” I say.

“Let’s try the fruit,” Adam says in a quiet voice. He releases my hand as if he can focus on only one thing. I follow him across the field, my feet stepping on the new roughness of the grass.

We stop at the first tree we get to. The fruit looks healthy enough. Its deep red color contrasts with the green leaves and rich brown of the tree’s branches. Adam plucks a fruit that is pale red in color. He takes a bite and chews, then shakes his head. “The fruit’s sweet. I don’t know why the animals are not eating it.”

I reach for the fruit in Adam’s hand and take my own bite. Juice runs down my chin, and I wipe the fluid away. After another bite, I realize how quiet it has been since we came to the field.

Slowly, I turn around, scanning the trees, the flat meadow that stretches to the north, and the ankle-high grass. When we walked through the field, I hadn’t noticed it, but now I realize that no grasshoppers had jumped out of our way. No butterflies had flown to and fro.

And there are no bees. That’s when I realize that the flowers have changed from lavender to light brown. Many of them are drooping while the rest have given up and turned themselves over to the soil.

The sky overhead darkens slightly, and I look up at the gathering clouds, then over to Adam, who has started plucking the excess fruit.

Then I realize the most disturbing thing of all. “Where are the birds?”

His hand stops midmotion. He looks up into the tree he is picking from, then out toward the field, as if seeing the field for what it really looks like for the first time. “The flowers are wilted,” he says in a quiet voice.

I nod and move toward him, suddenly not wanting any space between us. My stomach feels strange, as if I’ve eaten too much of the same kind of herb. Adam puts an arm around my shoulders. We both listen for several moments, but there is nothing to hear. And that’s exactly what’s wrong.

Adam’s face is pulled into a tight frown as he looks down at me. I know he is feeling as I am. Something has happened in this part of the garden that not even he can explain.

He guides me through the trees as he examines each one, looking for evidence of fruit pecked by birds or other animals. Soon, I’m doing the same. I allow only a short distance to fall between us, reluctant to be apart.

Maybe the impending mist has driven away the birds and the insects. But when Adam stops and turns to face me, I know that the answer is not so simple.

“Someone’s been here,” he says, his voice low.

“What?” I ask, not sure I understand him, not wanting to think about what he’s suggesting. “How could someone be
here
?”

He motions toward the fields. “Someone has scared the animals away, down to the crickets in the grass.”

“How can someone besides Elohim cause the grass to turn brown?”

“I don’t know,” Adams says, his mouth going into a tight line. He stares past me to the evidence of rot.

“Perhaps all this is because of the coming mist.” I know as soon as I speak that I’m wrong. “Would Elohim send another person to the garden without telling us?”

His gaze meets mine, but he is not looking at me; it’s more as if he’s looking through me, feeling as confused as I am.

“Adam?” I say.

He walks from beneath the trees into the open space. “Hello?” he shouts.

I scurry to join him. Suddenly, I don’t want to be in the shade of the trees anymore. I want to be out in the open air, beneath the sun. Except the sun is concealed by heavy clouds now, and the field seems to match the dull-colored sky. My arms prickle as Adam calls out again, “Hello? Who’s here?”

“Adam, there’s no one here,” I say, but my heart is pounding with curiosity. “Wouldn’t Elohim have told us? Wouldn’t we know? He, or she, must have been created by Elohim ...”

But Adam isn’t listening. He starts running along the tree line that parallels the borders, calling out from time to time.

I run after him. He seems to have forgotten me, he is so determined to discover someone else in our garden.

Finally, he stops, breathing heavily. He crouches low to the ground as if he’s examining something in the grass.

In a moment I’ve caught up to him, wondering what’s captured his attention. My step slows when I see the long, dark shape. A snake. The snake is larger than any I’ve ever seen. It’s nearly as long as Adam, and its shiny scales are a deep black, unlike the scales of the dark green snakes that populate the garden.

I crouch next to Adam, fascinated. Where has this creature come from? Strangely, it’s not moving, but it’s also not coiled as snakes usually are when sleeping. In fact, its body is twisted at sharp angles, something foreign to a snake, which naturally curves.

“Is it sleeping?” I whisper.

Adam shakes his head and reaches a hand out. He releases a breath of air as he touches the scales.

The snake still doesn’t move. Adam’s fingers come away with a dark red stain on them. That’s when I notice there is also red coloring the grass. How does a black snake make the grass red?

“It’s not sleeping,” Adam whispers, his hands hovering over it, as if he doesn’t know whether to touch it again.

“Then why isn’t it moving?” I ask. I reach my own hand forward and lightly touch the scales. I haven’t touched too many snakes, since I like to spend time with other animals, but this snake doesn’t feel right.

Suddenly, I feel as if someone else is with us. I withdraw my hand sharply and look around. Adam notices my movement.

“What is it?” he asks.

The sky darkens as if to answer. “I ... I feel as though someone is watching us.”

Adam stands and walks a few paces away, scanning. When he returns to my side, his eyes are more brown than green, darkening with the sky.

“Do you think Elohim is watching us?” I ask.

Adam starts to shake his head, then stops. I can see that he too is unsure. He crouches next to me again, his gaze drawn toward the unmoving snake. He still has the red stain on his fingers.

“Something crushed it,” Adam says, the disbelief in his voice echoing the disbelief in my mind.

“In the garden?”
Had a few deer raced through the meadow? Or had a lion became too playful?
I don’t make any of these suggestions as we stare down at the snake. This has never happened in the garden. The grasses have never turned brown either, and the animals have never abandoned a field.

I breathe out, trying to lessen the tightening of my chest. I don’t know what to think. The garden is changing around us.

“Are you sure it’s not just asleep?” I ask, although I don’t see how it could be sleeping.

“Its blood of life has spilled,” Adam says, turning over his hands, showing the red stain on his fingers.

Blood?
“Are you sure?”

“It must be,” he says just above a whisper.

Although neither of us has seen blood before, we know that our bodies don’t have it. The animals in the garden don’t possess it either. With blood, we can die. And now, this creature, this snake, has blood.

This means that something has just died in our garden, a place where nothing has ever died. Or perhaps it died before coming to the garden, but that would mean someone brought it here.