Eve (56 page)

Now I come to the most difficult part of my telling. It is fraught with holes, I am afraid, for in the end, I know only what Cain confided in me and what Aya told me afterward. I fear Cain was not in his right mind—he seemed to have jumped off a cliff. He blundered through his words, clawed at the air. It was as though he heard voices in his head and he was trying to strike them away. And Aya … well, she was delirious for some time after.

So I tell you these things because it feels good to give life and credence to the truth of what happened.

I will begin with the offerings. Those fateful offerings. Mind you, I had thought nothing would come of them, as Elohim had not seen fit up to this point to either validate or disprove His existence after our expulsion from the Garden. True, He had spoken to Aya in the garden and to Abel and Jacan from the rocks, but He had not sought me out.

I was not expecting much.

Except maybe the reconciliation of my sons through this act of camaraderie, as forced as it was.

If you remember, it was Cain’s idea to offer the harvests first fruits to Elohim. He was the most adamant about following the city’s lead, and, truly, this sacrifice was everything we had observed at the city’s New Year’s festival—libations of beer and wine and offerings of figs and bread and olives, all for the gods and goddesses to enjoy. Certainly I had felt a twinge of guilt at the people’s overwhelming display of respect and gratitude. We had not thought to do this for Elohim, at least not in such an exuberant fashion.

As arranged beforehand, we had already finished the harvesting and Abel and Cain had selected their first fruits—Abel from his flocks and Cain from his harvest. During the weeks preceding the city’s celebration, Cain had begun calling the sacrifices he and Abel would make The Ceremony.

Abel made one modification.

On the morning of our departure for the city, Abel sat down at the morning repast and said, “There seems to be a question of whether or not Elohim exists, whether or not He cares for us. It’s an old question, one that needs to be answered once and for all.” With his finger, he spread ghee on a chunk of barley bread. He looked up at each of us and said, “I want you to know that Elohim is all around, that the absence of Elohim might be
your
perception, not Elohim’s.” He paused, took a bite, and chewed.

We were silent, waiting.

He continued, “I propose that Cain and I set up our offerings over a pile of brushwood. We will not light the fire. Instead, we will implore Elohim to light it for us, if He is well-pleased with our offerings. That way there can be no question of His existence. He either answers or He doesn’t.”

Cain was the first to speak. He held out his hand, and Abel shook it. “Done,” he said. We all were astonished, I think, that Abel and Cain could come to such an understanding so simply, so easily. None of us uttered a word.

In my heart, of course, I was protesting.
What if Elohim fails the test? If Elohim does not exercise His powers and prove His existence, what then?

Naava refused to be a part of The Ceremony. All that day after her return, while we finished our preparations, she lingered in the courtyard, elbows resting on the wall, shouting after us in that obstinate, arrogant voice of hers, “Inanna will be angry. Beware.”

Cain muttered to Adam, “Maybe she is right.”

Adam sighed. “Naava thinks only of herself.”

Cain was not convinced. “Inanna is a jealous god.”

“So is Elohim,” said Adam. His voice grew softer. “Let us try just this once to please Elohim, to do this thing that is right.”

Cain gave Adam a doubtful look, but nodded.

Just before sunset, when the sun was an orange lamp hung in the western sky, we stood as a family—Naava excluded—in front of two circles scratched into the ground with a stick. Each circle bore a neat pile of bramble and brushwood and the first fruits chosen by Abel, from his flock, and Cain, from his harvest. It was Cain, of course, who had insisted on the separate pyres. Each was bordered by lit torches, which smoked black in the cool evening air.

The sacrifices were a combination of the most precious and pleasing animals’ body parts and the choicest fruits and vegetables—and delicacies made from them.

Abel had killed two goats and three sheep, in perfect form and health, for the occasion. Aya and I had used one goat for the lentil stew and one sheep steeped in cumin and bay leaves from her herb plot. Abel had skinned the others and displayed the organs and fat in a flat open clay pot, to show Elohim there was no other purpose for these animals beyond pleasing Him.

Aya had caught seven fish that afternoon and split and cleaned and salted them. She had cooked them over a brushwood and date-palm-leaf fire, until the tender meat slid off the backbones. This, too, was offered to Elohim, alongside a spicy dipping sauce made from pickled raw fish.

Cain had gathered together baskets of chickpeas, squash, barley, wheat, apples, pears, grapes, and olives. Aya had helped Cain too, bless her heart. She had pressed figs and extracted their sweet syrups. These she
presented to Cain in narrow-necked clay jars. She baked barley bread, made a paste of honey and cream, filled jars with beer and milk, and braised onion and garlic bulbs and placed them on Cain’s wood pile in wide flat bowls.

“The smell,” she said, as she handed it to Cain. “It will please Elohim.”

Cain shrugged, but I could tell he was thankful.

The crickets whirred, and the torches flickered.

Abel and Jacan stood in front of their offerings. Cain stood in front of his.

Adam and I held hands—Adam holding Dara’s hand, me holding Aya’s.

The sun dipped lower and lower, expanding around its middle, then lessening, until finally it slipped like a fat egg yolk over the horizon. The sky overhead was a dusky blue, and our faces grew dim in the twilight. The world blackened slowly, as the full moon rose in the eastern sky, along with the familiar smattering of stars.

Abel lifted up his voice and sang the song of the Garden. The song rose on the waves of heat and circled up around the moon. It sent shivers over my skin. Truly, I felt blessed, and I know Adam did too, because he squeezed my hand and his eyes were shining.

Abel turned to Cain when he was done, and Cain cleared his throat and raised his hands to the sky, palms turned upward, much like the city’s priestess had done over Naava and the prince.

“Elohim,” Cain began. “Father of all gods…” Cain glanced at Abel, and Abel nodded, as if to verify that Cain’s supplication was a proper one. “To You we give these first fruits of our bounty, to You who holds life in His hands, whose divinity fills the sky and sea and land, we offer these, our offerings. May they be pleasing to You. Give us Your blessing, we pray. Answer us, O Elohim. Answer us, so that we might know You are the one whom we should serve.”

Then it was quiet. Interminably quiet. There were no signs or sounds of wildlife, not even a breath of wind. I looked up to the growing swath of stars above me, and I saw that I was a speck upon this great earth, that I did not understand the universe as Elohim had explained it, and that my mind and heart would never fully understand.

I remembered Elohim’s tears upon our expulsion.
If He cared for us and missed us, why did He not meet us here, in this wild, unfortunate place?

Then a great sound shattered the night.

“Look,” Dara cried, pointing to the sky.

With a terrifying roar, a streak of fire shot from heaven, struck squarely upon Abel’s offerings, and consumed them. We sprang back from the blaze, or it would have devoured us too. In an instant our faces grew warm; we dripped with sweat.

Oh, the wonder of it! The exhilaration—to receive a sign from Elohim, who had been silent so long. Abel and Jacan were laughing. We all were laughing. We hugged one another, kissed one another. It was truly miraculous.
Oh, thank You, Elohim!

The air reeked of charred animal skins, roasted meat, and herbs. Everything in Abel’s circle was burned to a gray ash flecked with glowing coals that poured light into each of our beings, pointing the way to Elohim, conjuring Him up where He could not be seen before.

This was Abel’s answer,
our
answer.

Then. In the midst of our joy, we realized that Cain was still and silent. From his circle, there was nothing. No fire, no wind. Nothing.
Had Elohim forgotten there were two offerings?

Cain began to pace back and forth between his circle and Abel’s. “Sparks from your torch must have fallen into your offering,” he said to Abel.

Abel shook his head.

“They must have,” said Cain.

“There’s been a mistake,” I said.

Adam frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“My fire came from heaven,” said Abel. He did
not
voice the question in all of our minds:
Would Elohim play favorites?
Truth be told: I had learned early on that to favor one child over the other only led to disaster. Elohim would have known this.

When Cain began to rant, we gave him distance. He cupped his head in his hands. “No,” he said. “No.” He fell to his knees. “I gave You everything I had.”

Adam went to him. He set his hand upon his shoulder. “Son,” he said.

Cain twisted violently, shoved Adam to the ground, and backed away from us, crouching as though he were under attack by a wild beast. “Get back,” he said. His face was twisted in pain and confusion. It was as though he no longer recognized any of us; he saw us as threatening and dangerous.

Aya squeezed my hand with the same force she used to wring a birds neck for cooking. I think she did not recognize her own fear.

“Cain,” I said, releasing Aya’s hand. “We will try again. Surely Elohim will bless you too.” I approached him warily, speaking softly and tenderly, as I would to an injured animal.

“Don’t,” said Cain, tearing one of Abel’s burning torches out of the ground and shoving it toward me.

The flames leapt out at me, nearly singeing my hair and scorching my face. I retreated, knowing my son had gone completely mad.
Elohim,
I prayed,
Where are You? My son Cain needs You. Please accept his gifts.

Cain turned on Abel. “You,” he said. Spit rained from him, and drool dripped from his chin. “You,” he said again, jabbing the air with his torch. “You knew this would happen.”

Abel held up his hands, wanting peace. “Cain, I knew not what would happen, truthfully.”

“You
cut down my dates,” said Cain.

“No,” said Abel. “And I know not who did it. I am sorry for it, though.”

There was a heavy pause where all that could be heard was the crackling of burning wood.

Aya stepped forward, breaking the moment. She spoke firmly. “I did it.”

Cain shifted back and forth on his feet, his upper body bent over in a crouch. He said nothing, contemplating this turn of events.

“Aya,
what
did you do?” I said. Desperately, I wanted to bring peace where there was none.

Aya kept her eyes on Cain. “I cut them down,” she said.

Cain straightened. He stared at her. He laughed. His laughter was a waterfall crashing into a tumultuous pool of anguish, hate, and bitterness. “You?” he said. “You cannot even walk properly. How would you climb my date palms? Don’t think I don’t notice how you look at Abel. What? You think to save him now? You think that by standing there and shifting
the blame, you will save him? You will not. He will be punished for his misdeeds, just as you will be punished for your lies.” Cain lowered his torch and set the flame atop his circles brushwood. He held it there, turning it so that it would set the whole pile ablaze.

I held my breath.
Let there be flame,
I thought.

It did not light. It
would not
light.

Cain drew his torch out so roughly that his offerings tumbled down the pile in wrathful disarray. He threw himself down in their midst, head tilted back and mouth contorted as he howled. It was a purple torrent of rage, of misunderstanding and loneliness.

Naava came then into the light. “What has happened?” she said, looking with horror upon Cain’s prostrate form.

No one answered.

We left Cain there, surrounded by the ruin of his work. He continued to rage at Elohim until the early-morning hours. Needless to say, sleep never came. Our ears were full of Cain’s bottomless anger and discontent.

And then. My water broke.