Eve (35 page)

Father continued, “You do not know what it is like to be loved, to be cherished.” He leaned forward, as though hoping to gain strength from his
words. “As much as we love you, neither your mother nor I can love you the way Elohim loved us.” It was rare that Father talked of Elohim or the Garden—except when he prayed before our repasts. Mother did enough of that for both of them. I wondered sometimes if Father felt that his experiences were too sacred to repeat, too private to divulge.

Cain stepped forward, closer to Father, seeming to measure the truth of his words. “Why did you not stay with Him, then? Why did you leave, if it was so good?” His words were as sour as lemons, for he knew
exactly
why Mother and Father were expelled.

Father’s brow crumpled. “We chose other.” He paused a bit, then continued. “As you have done with the building of your temple and your many clay gods. Woe to you, Cain, if you turn from what you know to be true.”

Cain was angered now, the vein on his temple throbbing. “You speak of knowing what is true. What
is
true? Where is this Elohim of yours? I have never heard Him. I have never seen Him. I know Abel and Aya speak of Him, as does Mother, but you—” Cain ran his fingers through his hair, as if to tear clumps of it out. “You do not speak of Him. You do not talk to Him.” Cain spit on the floor. “Do you?”

I was astonished that Cain had heard me talk of Elohim. I had thought him uninterested in anything that I did, except for my cooking and healing.

Father said only, “He is not ruled by what I do or do not do.”

Cain whistled low, then stalked out, throwing shards of words over his shoulder. “I thought not.”

I pondered what Father had said.
Surely Father and Mother did not dream the Garden, did they? Surely they were certain of Elohim’s existence? Surely they believed in the power and strength of Elohim to do anything He wanted?
After all, He made them. He placed us, their children, inside Mother. Indeed, He had promised this very thing to Mother, that she would be prolific and that she and Father’s seed would populate the earth.
So where did the other people come from? Had Elohim made the same promises to them?

Elohim
had
been with me the day those men attacked. I was sure of it. I had flown with Him; He had flown with me. I had tasted sky and freedom and … I think … peace, an overwhelming peace.

And Abel and Jacan.
Had they not said that Elohim shouted from the rocks to warn them about me? How could that be if it were not true? Why would Jacan lie about something like that?

What I had
not
figured out yet was
why
He made us suffer so if He truly cared for us. He had promised Mother many children, but He took some babies back. He gave me a crooked foot. He let the floods ravage our crops, the lions and jackals and hyenas prey upon our flocks, and the dust whirlwinds tear everything away.

Why?

Even more important:
Did Cain hear the gods he bowed down to every day?

With renewed fervor, I prayed again to Elohim.

Please, Elohim, fill me with patience.

Open my eyes. Let me see You. Really see You.

Have You noticed? That I have been good?

I would run for You, if I could.

I would lift my perfect legs for You.

If I could.

Two days after Naava got her spots, I got them as well. So did Jacan.

“Now, little sister, what do you have to say to me?” said Naava. “You have the face of a goat and the skin of a lizard.”

“I got them from you,” I retorted. I was tired of her sly comments, and I would have liked to hit her, just once.

Naava snorted. She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “At least I am whole,” she snarled.

Naava’s sores scabbed over, and the pus dried up. She did not pick at them, as I did. I applied the same poultices to my face, with the hope that my face would heal like Naava’s.

Naava has disappeared into a fog. Mother asked her the other day what she was working on, and Naava looked at her blankly, biting her lip, then
she vanished into her weaving room. Mother looked at me and shook her head. “That girl,” she said. “I’ll never understand her.” The only time I see Naava is when she eats and when she meanders down to the river by herself.

I have seen her robe, and it is remarkable. She does not know it, but there are days when she has gone to the river that I sit in her weaving room and stare at her Garden: perfectly woven blossoms, billowing clouds, lapping waters, white froth of bird wing, and salted night skies. I wish to be there. I wish to walk into the depths of the cloth and have it surround me. I do not touch. It is not mine, and although I detest Naava for her meanness, I would not ruin such a lovely thing, for I have benefited from it; I can
see
and
taste
the Garden in all its fancy finery.

I must say, it pains me considerably to know she will look beautiful in it, when the time comes.

I understand most of their words novo, and I’m afraid I’ll forget
my other words, my home words.

“Come along, come along,” Zenobia says always. Zenobia drags Puabi and me back to the giant mountain every day. Once in the morning and once in the nighttime.

Now Zenobia knows I can make the praying statues, so she says, “Dara, faster, you must make more!” One time I took some of Puabi’s cowrie shells and pushed them into the eye sockets, so the people would have eyes to see with. When Zenobia saw the decorated statues, her eyes sparkled and she said, “You understand now.”

But I don’t.

I don’t understand why all the people go to this big mountain and climb up to the top, so their feet and legs scream
stop stop stop,
all so they can give more food to the Bosom Lady and to Balili, who wears the gold hat. I ask Balili this, when he is teaching me: “Balili, why can’t the gods get their own food?” And all he says is, “The food is for Inanna.”

Zenobia says, “We are giving gifts to Inanna, the Queen of Heaven. She will bless us, make our crops grow, make me fertile, and protect us from evil.”

I ask, “How will she eat all that food?”

Zenobia says, “She comes from a long line of supreme beings who were
there as the first mountains were born out of the primordial sea. We pay her respect, Dara, and you must too.”

“Mama and Aya and Abel pray to Elohim,” I tell her. “Father does too before we eat.”

“Elohim? Who is this?” asks Zenobia. “I don’t know any Elohim. Maybe you mean Anu or Enki or Enlil. That’s who you mean, child, don’t you?”

“Maybe they’re the same person,” I say.

“Maybe,” says Zenobia, but she frowns at me like Aya does when I forget to bring dung for her fire.

One time—promise not to tell—I saw the Bosom Lady eating some of the food. She was in the little house at the top of the mountain, stuffing her mouth with all the gifts from the people. She burped, and then she said, “Inanna blesses you.” She laughed to herself like she was having a funny little joke.

I did not see Inanna anywhere. Maybe she wasn’t hungry and so she gave Bosom Lady her food.

I saw Cain too.

Puabi and I were sitting in the shade on a wooden bench under the tea lady’s tarp. Zenobia argued with a man nearby. He had orange hands and an orange beard, from the orange plant he was selling. He kept wiping his hands on his robe, so even his robe was orange. Zenobia sneezed, and I tried not to laugh. That would be rude.

Puabi and I sipped good-smelling tea from clay cups with circles and squares and lines painted on them. I told Puabi all about home and Jacan my twin and Turtle, how he stuck his little head out when he thought no one was looking but tucked it back in when someone picked him up.

Puabi stared at me. “Want see,” Puabi said.

“Jacan or Turtle?” I asked.

“Both,” said Puabi.

“I only see them when I go home,” I said, feeling sad again.

“This
your house,” Puabi said.

“I have another house,” I said.

She set her teacup in her lap and frowned. “Leave Mongoose. No.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” I said.

Cain shouted then. I did not know he could speak like the city people, but there he was, in the middle of the marketplace. He was standing nearby, next to our donkey, tightening up the straps. His face was red, and he was talking to two big men with their hair pulled back into buns. They were carrying a long thick stick on their shoulders, and from the stick hung a large pot that swayed back and forth.

“I will show you,” shouted Cain. “I will bring them upon my donkey’s back at harvesttime, and they will be the likes of which you’ve never seen before, here or anywhere else. You will eat, and their sweetness will be in your toes and in your fingers and all the way down to your ankles.” He made circles with his fingers. “This big, they are. And moist.” He tested the tightness of the strap by wobbling the baskets. It didn’t budge.

The men laughed. One said, “How is it the gods bless you so? You do not worship them.”

Cain spit on the ground in a fury. “I don’t need any gods.” This surprised me, because at home Cain had built a temple to them, and I had made all those folding-hands people for him.

“Oh, oh, oh,” said the man with the fat belly. “Listen to him; he angers them already.” He turned to Cain. “Watch your tongue. You do not know when the gods are listening.”

Cain spit again and rolled up the sleeves of his robe. “A wager?” he said.

The two men looked at each other. The one with a painted picture on his arm said, “A wager for what outcome?”

Cain grinned. “The largest dates.”

The fat man said, “The largest aren’t always the tastiest.”

“We will make it fair. The largest
and
the tastiest. The womenfolk will judge,” said Cain.

The painted man growled, “Not good. Our womenfolk will like ours. Your womenfolk will like yours. That will solve nothing.”