Eve (12 page)

I tasted blood.
Oh, Abel, where are you?

The drunk-slurred voices above me grew agitated and clipped, full of strange sounds I did not understand. I wanted only to kick and scratch at their eyes, show them how Aya was the Asp Killer! But I was as useless as they were wicked. They were strong, strengthened by a desire I could not name, but I could see it in their eyes that I was to be eaten alive. Their hands groped me, under my robe, in between my legs, and I thought that I must cry out again, even though they would kill me. I screamed, a rabbit scream from my belly, and their hands grew still with the terror of it.

Then a fat one with many rings on his fingers pressed his hand over my mouth and nose, and I couldn’t breathe, oh, I had to get up, to get air, and
I hadn’t told Abel how I loved him, and Mother too—who would look after her and the new baby? I felt my eyes, heavy, in the back of my head, and all I could think was,
How had Mother taught us to pray, so long ago?

Oh, Elohim, be merciful to me.
My eyelids squeezed out the sun, and a splotched blackness swirled in front of me.
Protect me and help me in my time of need.

Then all went black, and I knew no more.

Once more I became Aya the Bird. I swallowed sky. I floated up on a curtain of air, I drifted upon the breeze, I darted among the crags, I swam in the sea. I understood why things were the way they were, the order of things, how everything fit, just so, into Elohim’s grand scheme. Oh, it was beautiful! Elohim created, and it was good, and I did not understand the
whys
and the
hows
and the
when,
but it was still good, and I felt a wave of calm rush over me. Elohim was there, beyond the seas, and He beckoned.
Come,
He whispered.
We shall fly together, you and I.

It was a jolt when I awoke rudely next to firelight, with Abel supporting my head and Jacan pouring water over my lips. “Sister,” Abel was saying. “Aya, can you hear me?” To Jacan, “Do it again.”

Jacan splashed water over my mouth, and I licked my lips. I felt the chill of night air on one side, the fever of fire on the other. Abel leaned over and wiped my chin with his robe. “Ah,” he said. “You are with us. We were worried.” The light flickered on his face, and there was the smell of wood and sweat and charred meat.

No!
I closed my eyes; I wished to remain with Elohim, who
saw
me, who
wanted
me.
Do not be far from me,
I begged of Elohim.

“Stay awake,” Abel said, frantic.

My dreams were gone. I smelled Abel’s fear and Jacan’s restlessness. I knew they were sorry they had brought me here, and I turned my face away so they could not see my guilt, my sorrow. I did not want to be pitied.

Abel’s voice was tender and soft. “I’ve set your arm. It was disjointed, not broken. Can you sit up?” He braced my shoulders and my head and hoisted me up to a sitting position. I was faint with pain, and my head lolled back; my tongue was heavy in my mouth. “Breathe,” he said.

I sucked in air, and the night slowly grew steady around me.

“Here,” said Jacan, wrapping my shoulders with one of Naava’s heavy woolen blankets. He squatted in front of me, studying my face. “We came back and saw them. They were scared,” he said.

“Shush,” hissed Abel. “Not now.”

Jacan looked disappointed at this forbidding. He ached to tell me something; in fact, the words were dammed up behind his teeth.

Abel saw my frightened glances into the brushy landscape lit eerily by a bright moon. “They are gone,” he said.

Suddenly I burst out, “I would have run, you know, away from them—”

“Shhh,” said Abel. He reached among the coals and removed a blackened lizard. An orange flame flickered up at the dripping fat as he handed it to me. “A little overdone, not up to your skills, but it’ll have to do.” I reached for it with my good hand and sank my teeth into its tough, crunchy skin, searching out the bones with my tongue. I found that I was famished and ate faster than I should have.

Once my belly was full, Abel told me what had happened. The men got drunk and scrambled up the hillside to where I slept. They attempted to mount me, as all animals do when they’re in rut, but in the last moment they saw my brokenness and fled. “I did not think,” he said, “they would violate the law of the land.” He looked away from me, into the fire. “I am sorry, Aya. I have failed you.”

I was in the grotesque company of Unlucky Omens, along with Falling Stars and Disappearing Suns and Malformed Lambs, according to the city people. In short, my hooked foot saved me.

My tears spilled over with this realization, so brutally laid out for me.

Abel reached out and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Violently, I shook my head, and he withdrew his hand.

“If you cannot talk to me,” he said gently, “Elohim hears the brokenhearted.”

I said nothing.

“I talk to Him, you know,” Abel said. “I’m teaching Jacan too.”

Then, more abruptly than I wanted, I heard myself saying, “What is that to me?”

Abel stared into the fire. “I’m sorry. I know how much you want—”

“What?” I said. “You don’t know me. You know nothing.” The words rushed out of me, as water from a jar, and I could not retract them. I was embarrassed and irritated at being a girl, a girl who could not even be mounted because she was disgusting. Unlucky-lucky, I wanted a new foot. I wanted to be whole, like my sisters, like Naava, whose beauty was as powerful as the moon. I wanted to be seen, to be revered, to be caressed with curious eyes.
Oh, silly Aya, so vain! Think no more on these things!

Abel persisted. “Do you not pray to Him when you kiss our food and bless it? Do you not seek Him too?” His gaze was earnest, as though he wanted confirmation of my praying. “He listens. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“It’s true,” said Jacan. “He spoke to us from a rock. He told us about those men … and you.”

I pondered what they had said. Once I had conjured up Elohim in the garden with Naava and the twins, and I had heard Him whisper back that
all was well.
Naava refused to hear anything at all. Since then I wasn’t sure if it had been Elohim or simply the wind. It was true, I
did
bless the food, but that was coming from the thanksgiving of my heart that we had food at all.

Then, with Abel and Jacan, what exactly would I have said to Elohim? I vaguely remembered invoking His name as I was choked, but sitting there by the fire, with my faculties intact, I wasn’t sure what to say to Him.
Please, Elohim, take a respite from holding the world together and come mend my bones?
Was it that simple? Would He have heard me?

I shivered beneath Naava’s blanket and gazed at Abel’s face, so open and unlike that of Cain. He had thought me stronger than I was. He had trusted me to protect his grazing area, and I had let him down.

Abel reached for his flute. He placed it to his lips and blew into it. His song was sorrowful, mournful even, and after a few long notes I recognized Mother and Father’s song from the Garden. Abel did not look at me as he played, but I saw his lips quiver and his eyes water.
Did he grieve for
me
or for his oversight?

No matter. I accepted his song as a sweet apology, for I knew he did not mean me harm. I was grateful to matter to someone, and gradually my breathing came easier.

I formed then a sort of short prayer in my mind. I did not speak it aloud and did not know if Elohim could read my thoughts.

Elohim, if you can hear me, make me whole.

Make me strong like Abel and fast like Jacan.

Make me shine like the stars in the night sky.

And make those men drop dead by morning.

Why would someone want to poke holes in themselves? I don’t
know. Those colorful ladies had so many holes with rings in them. I counted holes in all these places: number one, in their noses; number two, in their lips; number three, in their eyebrows; number four, in their ears. I wonder why Elohim lets them do that.

The people from the city will be coming to take me away. Turtle, look! His head is out. He’ll go with me. Mama said he could. A lady called Ahassunu came back and brought Mama a wood box full of pretty amber cloth, the color of honey, to make me a robe. The lady pulled my curls straight and tilted her head and said something, but I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Mama just nodded her head over and over.

Now Mama sews and sews. She bends over to stretch her back every so often, and I say, “It’s all right, Mama, I can wear my old ones.” All I want is for her to say that I can stay here, at home with her.

Then Mama says, “I’ll have none of my children looking like mangy dogs,” and her eyes are all wet. I don’t know if she’s crying because of my going away or Aya’s accident up in the mountains.

Naava should help, but instead she stares at me. Long dagger stares. So I say to Mama, “Naava can go,” and Mama says, “Naava is making things for the baby.”

“No,” I say. “She’s making a—” And right then Naava opens her mouth
like a fish and mouths
no,
and I stop in the middle of what I’m saying. I understand, so I change the subject. I say, “I can make jars for the baby. If something bad happens to them in the fire, well, I can make another one.” Mama knows this. I’m a hard worker. I can make all sorts of things—clay balls for Abel’s slingshot, weights for the fishnets, spindle whorls for Naava’s spinning, and bowls and jars for Aya’s cooking. I get clay down by the river and add a little water to it and work it until it’s smooth. I roll it into snakes and start with a circle for the bottom. Then I wind and wind, in and out, to make curvy shapes. I splash a pebble in water and rub it over the sides, round and round, until the jar is slickery smooth. Always I remember to ask Aya’s permission to use her fire, because otherwise she gets angry and slaps my hands. Aya was nice to me this morning, though. She gave me an extra fig cake with her good arm, and said, “You stay away from the men at that place, you hear? You listen to me. I’m looking out for you.” And I think,
Why does Cain like the men who hurt Aya?

Right then, when I’m bragging how good my jars are, one of them cracks open in the fire. Thank the stars and the moon, it’s only Naava’s, not Aya’s—I made Aya a special water jug, fat and round like Turtle, because Mama said Aya had learned her limits yesterday, like she was sorry Aya had to do that, and I felt bad for Aya. Aya won’t say anything about it to anyone, not even if someone asks her a question. She has a wrapping on her arm because it got twisted out of place. Abel fixed it for her. He’s a kind brother. He and Jacan brought back some sand grouse and their eggs so Aya could cook them up for everyone.

I heard Abel talking secrets to Mama this morning. Mama put her hands over her mouth real fast and sucked in her breath, like this,
whoosh.
She said, “Did they … ?” Abel shook his head no, like Goat does when it rains and she has to get all the water off, and Mama went to Aya and hugged her and told her that she’d fix the morning repast for her, her little bird.

Jacan came to where I was washing Turtle and told me all about Aya yelling at the bad men from the city. They beat her black and blue, but Elohim saved the day by shouting out to Abel and Jacan that she was getting hurt. Jacan says that Abel doesn’t want me to take care of babies in the city, but Mama won’t listen.

Abel says Mama is doubtful of Elohim too, after meeting the ladies. I ask Jacan what
doubtful
means. He shrugs his shoulders and says Abel gets purple-mad about it, up there in the hills with his sheep and goats. It doesn’t help that Cain goes away to visit the city almost every day. Jacan says Abel calls Cain’s stories
outrageous.