Eve (59 page)

Could it be that I had been so blinded and so hard of hearing that
I had not seen Elohim’s hand until then? Until that fiery bolt of light descended upon us from the starry heavens to light Abel’s sacrifice?

That is what it took for me to be awakened, and instead of pleasing me, it caused me dread. For I had lived many years under the pretense that Elohim had forgotten us, forgotten
me,
and if it were not so, I had wasted many moons in self-imposed misery.

Of course, I could have convinced myself that Elohim’s sign was simply a bolt of lightning, one of those odd occurrences in the summer months and nothing else. Or I could have said that Abel had knocked a spark from one of the torches surrounding his offerings, causing his sacrifices to go up in flames. Oh, there were so many ways of inventing plausible explanations for what I saw, or felt, or heard. I had done it for so long; to doubt was ingrained within me. If I had done it to Elohim, how many times had I done it to Adam and my children?

I love Elohim. There, I have said it.

Every day I pine to see Elohim once again. Every day I
have
seen Him. Only not in the way I thought I should have. He is in the sweet grasses, the pink sunrises. He is in the shining clouds and the rain showers and the pale sunlight. He is in the crevices: between dark and first light; between the
petals of an iris; between a man and a woman. All things sing of Him, only we must listen.

I had wasted so much time. Elohim’s first question to us in the Garden after we had eaten was, “Where are you, my children? Why do you hide from me?”

It was never a little thing. I hid because I could not believe He could forgive me.

The baby in my womb was like a rock wedged between two boulders, and he would not come easily. My visions of death and release came in waves, in full color and vividly. I was convinced that my son and I would join the others in their earth graves.

Adam heard my screams and came to me. The only other births he had been present at were Cain’s and Abel s. The other children, whole and not, came when he was out in the fields. Aya had learned to help me, to do what I needed.

Adam was sweetly tender. He brought me a little wine mixed with milk and held the cup as I drank. He held out his fingers so that I might squeeze them when the pain grew too great. He stroked my hair and looked upon me as a mother would her newborn child. He kissed my forehead.

And I wept. For all the times we had misunderstood each other. For all the times I was selfish and extracted from him only what I needed. For all the times I gave more love to my children, thinking he no longer needed it.

That night Elazar was born. In my heart, I named him
Elohim helps.

Aya, my dear daughter, begged for me to take him. “He needs you,” she said, holding him out. “He needs your milk.”

I was too tired, too weary to look upon another face that needed me. The sky pressed down upon me, and I grieved. One of my children had been ignored—rejected—by Elohim. Cain, of all my children, who sought praise and acceptance from anything he latched on to.

I turned toward the wall and slept.

It was morning. Cain knelt at my pallet. He was crying. His fists were whitened along the knuckles, and he blubbered like a newborn child. I could not see his eyes; they were squeezed shut.

I studied his reddened face and searched for my little boy the one who had played Mama Fish and Baby Fish with me, the one who had named all the plants and discovered how best to use them. How had he arrived at this desperate, inconsolable state? What could I do to ease his pain?

I reached out to lay my hand on his brow, to soothe the ridges in his face, and as I did so, I was startled to see a star emblazoned on his forehead, half hidden under a shock of hair. It was like a birthmark but darker, its border reddened—fresher somehow. I pulled my hand away and marveled at this man about whom I knew so little.

“Cain,” I said. “How did you get this mark upon your forehead?”

Cain’s eyelids flew open, and his hands went instinctively to his face. He found the star and traced its edges, his eyes downcast and searching for an answer,
any
answer. He looked up at me incredulously and said, “He said He would, and He has.”

He seemed to think I knew what he was talking about, but his utterances only convinced me further that he had truly gone mad, that he had found a reason to score this symbol upon himself as a mark of defiance or devotion or both.

“What have you done?” I asked, still thinking that he would be able to explain.

“I am sorry, Mother,” he sobbed, reaching for my hands and putting one on each of his cheeks. “I have sinned. I need your forgiveness.”

I was astonished by this admission.
Had my son Cain come home?
No more arguments. No more rantings and ravings. No more hateful looks. The possibility stunned me.

I looked at him tenderly and raised my head the best I could. I was still so exhausted, so weak. “Cain, my son, my first, you have the smell of the field, which Elohim has blessed,” I murmured. “May Elohim give you the dew of heaven, the fat of the earth, a plethora of grain and new wine. He
searches for your heart, and you have given it. Be fruitful and multiply. Blessed be those who bless you. Cursed be those who curse you.” I let my head fall back. “Your mother blesses you. Go, do well now. I must rest.”

Again Cain cried out. He pulled my hands from his cheeks. “No, Mother, I have done a grievous deed. You do not understand. You bless me, but I should be cast from your sight. I should be ground under your heel. I am not worthy of your love. I am not worthy of your blessing.”

Alarmed at his words, I struggled to sit up. “Do not talk this way,” I said. “Look at me.”

He stared at me, and his words poured forth. “Elohim has cursed me! My brother’s blood cries out to Him from the ground, and the earth has opened its mouth to drink it from my hand. The earth will no longer yield its fruit to me, and I am doomed to wander the earth as a vagrant. I… I cannot bear it.” He was sobbing. “Help me. Please help me.”

It was then that I knew the truth.

A mother knows.

He had done irredeemable harm. I could see it in the way his eyes sparked open, then constricted shut, squeezing the life out of Abel, who was choking and suffering at that very moment, as Cain held my hands in his. I could not breathe; I could not move. I wanted to get away from him, from Cain, but my body was too weak. I
willed
it to move—there, one foot at a time—away from such evil. I gripped the sides of the doorway; my chest struggled to fill with air. My rage boiled within me, and I thought I should like to strangle my firstborn for the pain he had caused me and the grief I would have to bear because of him. I turned to him, and yet I could not find my voice. I doubled over and retched. With the bitter taste still in my mouth, I said these words, chilling even to me, a mother who was losing a son: “You have done a vile thing. I cannot imagine what you have done. You shall be cursed by Elohim—”

“Already He has done so!” he cried.

“Go away from here, my wicked son. You cannot stay.”

“Mother, please,” he said, whimpering. “I will change. You will see.”

I shuddered. I knew I had to find Abel before it was too late. “Go,” I said again. “The prince is coming for you.” I studied my sons bowed head and felt nothing but loathing for him. “And the marking?”

Cain mumbled, but I caught his words anyway. “Elohim appointed a sign for me, that whoever should kill me, vengeance will be taken on him sevenfold.”

I knew not what to make of this. Elohim saw fit to speak to this killer
and
protect him? Outrageous, no? I struggled for some last scrap of tenderness and spoke in a softer voice. I knew what I was about to say was new to him. “Take Naava with you, for she is with child.”

Cain’s face rose up, anguish writ upon it, and he was up on his feet in moments. “Pregnant?” he said. “Pregnant?”

I lingered not. I had another son to tend to. My Abel. My dear, dear Abel. I stumbled out into the green-gray day, calling for Adam, calling for anyone who would listen.

I think a body can fill up with only a fixed measure of madness,
like a cup holds only a finite amount of milk. If poured to overflowing, the insanity manifests itself as a cruel joke, something so horrendous and terrible that one can only laugh at it instead of cry.

How fragile we all were. How easily we toppled, like grasses weighted with rain. I could not help but smile, thinking that if
one
of us had stood up,
one
of us had said “Stop!” it might have turned out differently. Abel was already dead. I knew that. My friend Goat was dead too. But the horrors did not cease.

I will tell you what happened in that courtyard, after I made my way back.

Mother emerged from her room, bleary-eyed and asking for Abel. “Where is he?” she demanded of no one.

Mother held her head in her hands. Her eyes were unfocused, her gait uneven. She saw me sitting by my fire, numb and unmoving. “Tell me,” she said. Then, “Aya, take me to him.”

How she knew that something was wrong with Abel, I’ll never know. She was not herself that day.