Eve (21 page)

I saw Lucifer again.

Adam was gone once more; I remember not where. What is important is that I was alone, walking in the Garden, pulling out a patch of hideous purple-flowered thistle that had erupted seemingly overnight. That morning, during our walk, I had cried out when passing one; its sharp thorns had sliced my leg and drawn blood.

“Eve?” came a voice behind me, soft and sultry.

I whirled around, knowing Adam was long gone.

It was Lucifer, beautiful Lucifer.

My face flushed; I could feel the warmth of it. I put my hands to my cheeks.

“So,” he said, sidling up to me. “Where is Adam now?”

“Gone,” I said. Truth be told, I felt uncomfortable with this line of questioning but didn’t know why.

“You are like the lilies of the valley,” he said, brushing up against my shoulder.

I reached up to tuck my hair behind my ears, and, infuriatingly, I felt warm all over again—my face, my neck. My groin seized up pleasurably, and it was all I could do to stifle my gasp.
Oh, Eve, compose yourself!

“It seems this Adam of yours is always gone,” said Lucifer. His gaze was like the wind, over all of me at once, causing the hairs on my arm to prickle up.

“No,” I said, stuttering, “he’s m-mostly with me, but now he’s off—I think he’s collecting berries.”

Lucifer’s hooded eyes blinked languorously. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Maybe he meets Elohim without you,” said Lucifer. He laughed. “Of course, I’m probably horribly mistaken, because what do I know of your relationship?”

I was puzzled. “What do you mean?” I repeated. “Are you saying that Adam and Elohim meet privately? But why? Why would they do that? They both like me.” I bit my lip. “I
think
they both like me.” I was beginning to look a fool, repeating myself over and over again.

Lucifer smiled. “Of course, of course, it was a silly question.” He swayed about me.
Almost like dancing,
I thought. His radiant colors—oh, the blues and crimsons and emeralds and yellows!—were exceedingly breathtaking. “Have you thought of what we talked about before?” He was so close, I could feel the heat of his breath.

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe, but
what a glorious feeling!
I glanced about me, frantic to see if Adam was around.

“Eve,” said Lucifer, bending down so his face was level with my own. “Calm yourself. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

I coughed and backed up, to get my bearings. “I feel so … odd,” I said finally.

Lucifer’s voice was a calm ripple of melodious music. “I would too, if I were you,” he said kindly. “You want more than you already have. You want wisdom and knowledge. You want what Elohim says you cannot have. Am I right?”

I nodded. Then, before I could stop them, tears rushed to my eyes, and I was crying and blubbering all at once. “Oh, I do!” I exclaimed. “Yes, I want to know more, see more, feel more, learn more. I
do
want these things, and I know not why Elohim wants to keep them from us. Does He not love us? Does He not want us to be like Him?” And here I broke down into heaving sobs that prevented me from speaking further.

Lucifer slid forward. He whispered, “You are already wise, Eve. You know what you want. What is wrong with that? Didn’t Elohim create the desires of your heart too?” He hugged me, letting me cry on his shoulder.

My tears subsided, and I felt rejuvenated—liberated even.

Then, before I knew what was happening, I was kissing him, clinging to him. Yes, I regret this—oh, how I regret it—but in the absence of Adam and Elohim, I wanted it. I needed it. I felt confident, happy, and strong, and Lucifer had
known
what I wanted, without me having to tell him. I was
heard, understood,
and how wonderful it felt. Adam had not been so attentive—to
know
what I was thinking before I thought it!

It was divine … and thrilling … and … all wrong.

I wrenched myself away from him reluctantly. I touched my lips, which were tingling, with my fingers.

“You little vixen,” he said, coming close again. “You are a tease.”

I pretended not to hear him. Guilt was already starting to seep in. “If I eat of the fruit, will you promise me that I will be more wise? That I will know more of this glorious earth?”

“Eve, Eve,” he said. “Would I lie to you?” He wrapped me in his arms again, and I succumbed to his embrace.

Suddenly he pulled away and cocked his head, listening for something. There was a crackling of brush in the woods. “I do think Adam is returning,” he said sadly. “I will leave you for now.” He started to slink back into the bushes. “I have told you the truth. The question you have to ask yourself is: Has Elohim?” He whispered, “Remember, I have told you these things, and Elohim has not.”

He was right. Elohim, on this one topic, was a mystery—to both Adam and me.

Quickly, after straightening my hair and wiping my lips—would Adam know what I had done?—I returned to pulling thistles out of the ground.

Then Adam was upon me. He pulled me up and twirled me about. “Look,” he said. “Blueberries and currants. Bunches of them.”

I grinned and hugged him.

He looked at me quizzically. “What has happened to you?” he said.

I ran my hands through my hair and came up close to his ear. “Nothing, my darling.”

He smiled, then laid me tenderly upon the ground. He lay on top of me and said, “I missed you.”

I lifted my head so it would rest on his shoulder. I did not want him to see my face just then. “I did too,” I lied.

Later, while stuffing ourselves with the berries he had picked, I broached the subject of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

“I have been thinking,” I said. “I should like to be wise.” I looked at Adam, and when I saw he was receptive to what I had to say, I continued. “Why would Elohim have given me these desires, unless they are
good
desires?”

Adam paused briefly. “Do you dare do this thing?”

I leaned forward, eager to portray my decision as a good one. “Maybe Elohim
wants
us to do it. To take this step without Him—to show that we have grown.”

“That could be,” said Adam, chewing slowly. “Although why would He say we would die? What did He mean by that?”

I scooted closer to him. “Oh, Adam, don’t you want to be wise like Elohim? Don’t you want to be
like
Him?” I went further. “I have decided that I do. I am going to eat of the fruit.”

“So quickly? Just like that?” said Adam, surprised.

“Oh, you know as well as I do, we’ve been hungering for this tree ever since He forbade it! I cannot stand it one moment longer.” I stood up and approached the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. It’s fruit was spread now upon the ground—after Lucifer’s shaking the week before— but was still intact. The tree looked no different on the outside; its bark was still thorny, its leaves still fanned out from the top.

Adam stood. “You cannot do this thing without me,” he said.

I laughed. I picked up the fruit and held it suspended between us. “Why not?” I said. It was sweet-smelling, and my mouth watered. “I shall try it first. That way, if I die, you will be spared.”

“I will be alone,” he protested.

“Together, then,” I said. “If you dare.”

Adam joined me, his craving as strong as mine. I saw it in his eyes.

We sat upon the ground, and I set the fruit down between us. Adam and I dug our fingers into the center of it and scooped out its pulp. We gazed into each other’s eyes, holding up the forbidden meat in front of us, as gifts, as offerings to each other. No change was evident in either of us.

“To wisdom,” I said.

“To wisdom,” said Adam.

We devoured our portions. The fruit was fibrous and sweet. My eyes were opened—the trees danced before me, the sky swam above me, the river hummed to me—and I felt a tickling breeze upon my face. My nose felt itchy, as though I had had a good laugh or a cleansing cry. I began to laugh, and I heard Adam’s laugh meet mine, like two serpents twisting in the air. The world was good; it was ours.

The effects wore off quickly.

I noticed first the change in Adam. “There’s something different about you,” I said. In fact, he looked downright plain and drab, as he had never appeared before. “Your light. It’s gone.”

Adam looked down at himself, then at me. “Yours too.” Then.

A voice, booming across the field: “Where are you, my children? Adam? Eve? Where are you?” We hid.

Naava decided to use Cain. He did not know it yet, for she had
disguised her plans and whispered sweet words in his ear, words she knew he had wanted to hear—about how she waited for him to come home to tell her his ideas and how much she missed him. She was the wind; he was the grass—and he bent to her direction. Cain would be her conduit to the prince. Oh, she had not forgotten about Abel. Rather, he had forgotten her. Not forgotten, exactly. More like rejected, ever since Eve’s sickness.
I do not care,
she thought.
It is entirely your loss.

Cain was jealous of the prince and his attentions toward Naava, but she told him it was nothing. Had he not see her disastrous fumblings when she spilled the beer upon the prince’s lap? He could not possibly like her now. Cain had been somewhat appeased by her statements, and Naava had coaxed his anger, his jealousy—groomed it, really—until she had woven him into her tapestry of schemings.
Men are such animals, to be played so easily
she thought.

And then.

Cain’s anger spilled over and threatened to burn even Naava.

It was due to a small gesture of Eve’s toward Abel, but it was a pivotal one. Cain reeled back to Naava, ranting like a lunatic, and she used his cravings for her warm kisses to calm him—for a time. Cain was funny that way. He did not wait for explanations. He saw, he judged, he exploded.

Early one morning, not long after Dara had gone to the city, Eve had laid out two new waterskins on the bench in the courtyard, and Cain had seen them and taken one. After all, he was in need—his had grown tattered—and he was touched by Eve’s thoughtfulness.

“I can’t believe Mother saw that I was wanting,” he had said to Naava, delighted beyond all measure.

Naava mocked him in a singsongy voice. “What a silly child, Cain, needing the love of Mother still.”

“I don’t need Mother,” he had said forcefully, almost too forcefully. “I need new waterskins.” But secretly Naava knew Cain would do anything for a kind word or glance from Eve. He still purposefully walked past Eve every morning, to await a touch from her, a smile from her that said to him,
I love you. I’m proud of you.
But Eve was too busy, too consumed with her babies and her garden to think that one of her man sons still needed her.

Later that day, Abel had come in, sweaty and tired from the fields. He had seen only one waterskin upon the bench, and he had questioned Eve: “Did I not need two waterskins? One for Jacan? One for myself?” And Eve had replied, “They lie there, upon the bench. They have been out all day, so they will be stiff.”

Abel held up the one waterskin. “I see only one.”