Eve (47 page)

She sat upon the floor and waited, biting the skin around her nails. She wondered what the prince would be like this time.
Would he still desire her?

Outside, the street was quieter than usual. A few donkey hoofbeats, the shout of a faraway merchant, the sound of children playing. Then suddenly the room grew dark, and there in the doorway stood the prince, casting a shadow as thin as a heron.

Naava stood and bowed. He kissed her hand.

“You are well, no?” he said.

Naava nodded. “And you?”

He motioned for Naava to sit, and she did.

Naava would have said at that moment she felt as though she was caught in a spiderweb, suspended, still and quiet, wrapped and waiting for something momentous to happen, a sort of devouring that she would find pleasurable.

The prince did not sit. He stood with one arm grasping the other, one hand fiddling absentmindedly with the gold hoop in his ear. “I see your brother,” he said.

“Yes,” Naava said. She never knew what to expect when a conversation veered toward her older brother.

“He … you tell him he cannot confront our men in the marketplace.”

Naava hugged her knees and rocked back and forth slowly.

The prince studied her face. “You understand?”

Naava nodded her agreement. She could have predicted Cain’s run-in with the workers, even before the prince told her what had happened, but what could she do? Cain was a rushing flood that would not stop for anyone.

The prince became agitated; his hands waved in the air. “He accused our date growers of cutting his dates,” said the prince. “He yelled in the marketplace at them, even held up his bad dates on broken branches. He said he will cut down our dates.” The prince glared at Naava, willing her to do something. “What kind of man cuts his dates and blames other men for cut-down dates?”

Naava sighed. “I do not know. Cain has a mind of his own.”

“A mind that ruins him,” said the prince. “You warn him. For me.” He rubbed his smooth and clean hands together, quickly, as if he were trying to make fire. “If he is—how do you say?—
afraid
…?” His voice indicated a question.

Naava nodded to say she was following him.

“… yes, of promise with date men, then he should decide what is to be done instead, and do it,” said the prince.

Naava hated when dirty matters seeped into an otherwise glorious moment, sullying it. She motioned for the prince to sit next to her. “Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

“You will talk to him?” repeated the prince. The lines between his eyebrows were deep furrows, and his eyes expressed urgency.

Naava nodded yes, she would talk to Cain for the prince.

The prince sat next to her and was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he’d just remembered, he grunted and pulled something from the depths of his robe. He reached for her left hand and pried her fingers open and laid the heavy object in her open palm.

Naava glanced down. “Oh,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” It was a silvery bangle, inlaid with star-shaped stones the color of Eve’s eyes.

The prince took it from her and drew the bangle over her left hand and onto her wrist. “I ask you to wear this,” the prince said, “at the New Year’s festival, the harvest festival. You will play important part in the festivities.” He studied her face, trying to read her reaction.

Naava giggled and leaned forward to kiss him upon the cheek.

He pulled back. “You will play Inanna at festival. You will dress as her … and be worshipped as her. You like this, no?”

Naava’s heart leapt like a hare. She nodded, feeling all the while that she was dreaming.

“I fear you do same to me as Inanna do to Enki.” He clasped his chest and grinned. “You make my heart jump like a rabbit.”

Still Naava smiled. She did not want to ruin the moment.
She would be Inanna!

“Sometimes you are a lamb,” the prince said. “Other times you are a wolf.”

Naava pouted.

“With you, what should I do?” said the prince, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Are all women this way?”

“I do not know,” Naava said, giggling.

He winked at her. “You possess great allure,” said the prince, “like Inanna. She stole her powers, you know. Took them from Enki, the Lord of the Earth.” He lay back on one of the reed mats and patted it with his hand, to indicate that she should lie next to him. She did, and he lay on his side, raised up on one elbow.

The prince sighed contentedly and said, “About Inanna, I will tell you.”

She detected the start of a story, and she rather enjoyed stories. Growing up, Naava had heard the tales of the Garden and of Elohim and of Cain and Abel. Recently she had heard Cain’s fascinating accounts of the gods and goddesses who lived in the sky and in the underworld, tellings in which Elohim was conspicuously absent and Inanna figured heavily.

The prince began, “A long time ago, Inanna, Queen of Heaven, decided to see Enki, father of her mother, in a sacred place called Abzu, to offer prayers to him. Enki sees her coming. He tells his servant, ‘Inanna is coming. Give to her butter cake and beer and set her down at the holy table.’ Enki’s servant does what Enki says. Soon Enki and Inanna drink beer together,
too
much beer. When Enki gets so drunk, he gives away all his
me
…” When Naava looked confused, he said, “His powers. Inanna— she is like a hyena—shouts, ‘I will take them, I will take them!’ to everything Enki gives away.” The prince waved a finger in Naava’s face. “She
knows
what she does, little fox.” He continued. “This is a disaster, you understand.”

Naava nodded.

“At the end of the night, Enki gives away
all
his powers—so many things: ascent and descent into the netherworld, the binding and loosening of hair, the art of lovemaking—” Here, the prince stroked her cheek gently with his forefinger, and whispered, “I can teach you …”

Naava licked her lips so they would glisten. She gathered her hair with
her fingers, so that it flowed out on the floor behind her, for she had taken down her bindings before his arrival. She saw the longing in his eyes.

The prince started counting Enki’s powers on his fingers. “Enki gives away all his
me
—the art of song, the art of treachery, the art of kindness, the kindle and the put-out of fire, the making of decisions.
Everything
he gives away in his drunkenness! Well, soon he says good-bye, and Inanna flees quickly on the Boat of Heaven, which is full of new powers—how do you say?” The prince wrenched one arm behind his back, pretending to pull up on it, like Cain and Abel used to play at.

Naava said, “Coerced? She
took
them from him?”

The prince nodded. “Yes, good. Coerced. What happened, do you think?”

“I suppose,” Naava said, “that Enki woke up the next morning and wondered where all his powers went.”

The prince slapped his thigh and said, “Yes! He sends his servant with the monsters
enkum
to get them back, but Inanna cries out to her servant Ninshubur for help: ‘Save me, save me!’ Ninshubur slices the air with his hand, and the monsters run back to Enki. Over and over Enki sends different creatures, giants and sea monsters and screaming
kugalgal,
to get back his
me,
but no, it does not work. Each time Ninshubur protects Inanna.”

The prince’s eyebrows arched up. “You tire of my story?”

“Oh, no,” Naava said, sitting up. She desired to give the illusion of being as attentive as possible. She curled a strand of her hair around her finger and twirled it. Naava wished to be this Inanna whom the prince respected and feared so much.

“Well, Inanna takes the Boat of Heaven, with all her
me,
and makes her way to this city. She unloads, one
me
by one
me,
and that is the reason we thank her for all she teaches and gives us.”

Naava clapped her hands to show her delight.

The prince grinned and slid closer to her.

She said then, in a voice as smooth as honey, “I like to hear your voice. You are a bull
and
a lion.” Naava had heard Cain talk about how the artisans of the city liked to draw bulls and lions fighting one another, and
she understood that to mean that the people admired the animals’ strength and wondered which one would emerge as victor. Of course, Naava was not stupid. She knew what she was doing. Listen: This kind of flattery worked every time—on Cain, even on Abel sometimes. It was surprising, really, how easy it was.

It was the time of the long shadows when I heard Jacan’s terrified cry
and the urgent patter of his feet. “Mama, Mama,” he cried. “The lion … we were tracking it… Father didn’t see … We yelled and yelled, but he didn’t see it… Come quick, come quick.” He was out of breath and not making any sense at all.

“Where?” I said, my limbs already going numb, my heart already pounding within me.

Jacan pointed to the fields.

I did a quick accounting in my head, a ticking-off of my children’s whereabouts. Aya had gone off to collect dung, and Cain and Naava had gone to see Dara in the city Abel was with his flocks. I implored Jacan to blow his horn, to call Aya back to the house, which he did.

I ran in the direction Jacan had pointed, holding my belly fast. My back ached; my breath was labored.

What was I thinking at a time like this?

It was not as I would have expected.

I thought of all the good in Adam—his soft words, his kind caresses, his sweet singing. I thought of how he took Cain under his wing and taught him everything there was to know about growing things. I thought of how he nurtured Abel’s interest in animal husbandry I thought of his gentle manner and his sense of humor with the girls and with me.

Not once during those fleeting moments did I think of his sometimes brusque or flippant manner. Not once did I remember the harm or hurt he had caused me over the many years we’d been together. None of that. I had been cruel to him as well. Dismissive, mostly.

Then I saw Abel in the distance, bent over something on the ground. As I grew nearer, I realized it was Adam, unmoving.

Jacan’s horn sounded again.

A cry escaped my lips when I reached him. His right foot was flung to the side like a broken branch. Around his torso, his robe had been torn asunder, and he was drenched in blood. He looked dazed. His eyes went to and fro in his head, and he called out, “Eve, Eve.”

“Adam,” I cried. Then, to Abel, “The lion?”

Abel stood and held me to prevent me from becoming hysterical. I knew he was purposely keeping his voice calm and even for my sake. “It escaped. Jacan and I will bring Father to the house,” he said. “Have Aya prepare a poultice and a splint for his leg.”

I attempted to free myself of Abel’s embrace, but he was stronger than I.

“No,” I shouted to the sky. The spittle flew from my mouth. I did not care. “No, You cannot have him. He belongs to me.” Elohim had raised His fist, and I would have none of it.

Abel held me firmly. “Gather yourself. You must be strong. If we hurry, we can save him.”

I looked from Abel to Adam, then back to Abel. “Make haste,” I said.

Abel turned to his father, and I ran back to the house.

Jacan was on his way with a donkey to transport his father.

I was sobbing, and all I could think about was what life would be like without Adam. What
my
life would be like without Adam.

And I was afraid.

Aya was already boiling a pot of willow bark tea when I arrived, breathless,

back at the house.

“I heard Jacan’s horn,” she said, looking up. “I heard him yelling.”

I gasped out what had happened. Fresh tears blurred my vision then, and I could not say more.

Aya came to me and hugged me, the best she could around my expansive middle. “I’m sorry,” she said. Two little words, yet I absorbed them like an elixir. Amazing how kind words turn away worry and fear and pain.

I think it was the first time I saw my crippled daughter, really saw her. She was as strong as an ox. Truly, she held each one of us on her back and rarely complained—except about her older sister—and I am certain that my memory does not fail me in this regard. Looking back upon my reminiscings, I have overlooked what a sweet strength emanated from her. How strong she was in the face of great adversity. It is she who should have complained of how she was treated, not I.