Eve (63 page)

The second time Naava saw Aya was several years later, at a distance, when Aya visited the city of Enoch. Aya had four children about her, all ages. Naava would have guessed they were twelve, maybe, ten, eight, and four. Aya was haggling over the cost of barley flour and sweet cakes. Her children gazed wide-eyed at the goings-on around them. Naava was sure all the sights were new to them. Going from a nomadic lifestyle to a city lifestyle was definitely eye-opening—the din and laughter of the workers, the wares and chatter of the merchants, the hollering and bantering of the
children, the pleasant and maliferous odors—Naava remembered well how overwhelming they could be. Since moving to a city palace, she’d reflected on how hard she and Cain had worked on the plains and how much of their life had centered on survival only.

Aya’s hair was graying a little around her hairline. She smiled even while bartering, and all the merchants seemed to defer to her, like oil to a container, their faces aglow in her radiance, soaking up little pieces of her falling on them, gracing them. At least that’s how it seemed to Naava.

Naava thought of going to Aya, embracing her, calling her “Sister,” but the thought of Aya’s obvious happiness paralyzed her. Would Aya see Naava’s unhappiness as easily as Naava could see Aya’s happiness? Would Aya mock Naava, as she once did, for Naava’s hard-heartedness, her selfishness?

Better that Aya thought Naava was a rich wife of a city-builder. Better that Aya thought Naava was satisfied with her life.

Appearance was everything.

Adam and I ended up staying, though we paid dearly for the
prince’s murder.

After Adam released many of the animals, and before we could flee as Cain and Naava had done, the men from the city descended upon us, demanding to know where Cain was and when he would fulfill his debt. We fell on our faces, of course—what else could we do?—and confessed everything with Dara’s help. We took the men to where we had laid the prince and covered him with frankincense and galbanum and stacte, to cover the stink.

We drew up a pact with them that we would work seven years to pay off Cain’s debt and the prince’s death. They threatened many things but never followed through with them, probably in the end coming to regard us as pesky parasites that could do them no real harm.

They would continue to search for Cain. I never knew whether or not they had succeeded until I heard, from a stone trader who landed his vessel at our docks, looking to sell his wares, that a great city was being built to the northeast, and that a man named Cain was building it. The city was called Enoch.

I had the Tree of Life seeds in my possession again. After Naava and Cain had gone, Dara came to me with a small leather pouch. “I’m sorry,” Dara said. “Ahassunu made me take them.” I’m sure my face showed mixed emotions—astonishment that she took them, anger that she hadn’t told me, then gladness that she had given them back. Their importance to me had diminished, for I realized it wasn’t the seeds that had mattered, it was my response that had been the key.

We planted them in our new garden, along with the seeds Aya had collected under the cover of night. It could never be
the
Garden, but by then, we weren’t attempting to make it so.

Still, it was resplendent when it was finished.

My children: What can I say about them?

I forgave Cain and Naava, quickly and rashly, although I am grateful I did, for even if I felt nothing at the time—in fact, I was quite numb—I knew it was significant for
them.
I never saw Cain again, although I heard great things. But I wanted badly to see Naava, my beautiful girl. When I knew I was dying, I sent word by the traders that I should like to see her to ask her forgiveness for my oversights, for my harshness toward her. I was somewhat surprised when she appeared in the courtyard, timid and worn and, I believe, frightened to see her mother again.

Aya married a shepherd of many flocks, who bartered profitably with the people from the mountainous north. She visited frequently, whenever their caravan would pass through. She brought me trinkets and stones and told me grand stories of the people they’d met, the sights they’d seen. She had had seven children when she returned the last time, before these, my last days. She had left them behind, cared for by other women in her clan, as she called it, but the way she described each one, in such detail, was a gift in and of itself.
To be so loved,
I thought.
I wish I would have had her grace.
She remained true to Elohim and told me on several occasions that she had dreams of flying with Him. “I can’t explain it, Mother,” she said. “I lift up. With wings. I soar and circle over the plains. He is above me, beside me, under me.” The lines in her face
relaxed, and her eyes became soft. “It is the most wonderful—and peaceful—feeling.”

I know what she meant.

Dara, my funny little Dara, is grown and gone. She married a man from the city, a merchant who specializes in saffron and for whom she does the accounting. She told me once, laughing, that when she had been caring for the city’s little ones, she had seen an orange-dusted man selling saffron in one of the stalls, and not knowing what saffron was at the time, she thought he had purposefully sprinkled it over everything, finding it attractive. She has nine of her own little ones—they are not so little anymore!—and she taught each to read and write. She lives in one of the city’s mud houses, and although it doesn’t look like much from the outside, inside it is magni ficent—cedar furniture, woven rugs, and beaded hangings. Adam and I would visit her every month when we needed to stock up on supplies-after all, we
did
get the saffron at a discount price.

Jacan became embittered—the poor soul, my brave boy. He was like a fish out of water after Abel died, burying himself in the animals as Abel had done, but differently, in that he began to withdraw from us, even from Dara, his sweet twin. For days he would disappear with the flocks, and when he returned, he slept in the stables. He left us when he was fifteen, I believe. We knew not to where, but every once in a while we would get word that a man by the name of Jacan, with his small band of scoundrels, had robbed a house or burned down a ship or thieved a herd of cattle. My son had become a renowned villain with a sizable bounty upon his head. I do not know if he continued to speak to Elohim as Abel had taught him— probably not, since he had chosen such a reckless path. How would he have reconciled the two?

I miss Abel every day. Often, I visit the steppes where we buried him, especially in the spring, when they are profuse with bloom—poppies, tulips, yellow stars, dandelions, buttercups, and lavender. The heather— the color of wine—is sweet-smelling, and the mere sight of it reminds me of my darling son and how he would make wreaths of it for me when he was little. He’d say, “Bend down,” then lay the circle of flowers on top of my head. I was always reminded of the Garden and how Adam used to do the same thing. Is it not strange how things come full circle?

The question I have asked of myself is this: What was Abel here to teach me, that only in his death he could show me? I have only one answer. I believe he taught me to embrace life. In the here and now. Not in how I
want
things to be, but how things
are.

Every guest we entertained—traders and merchants from faraway cities coming through—I thought:
Is it he, come back to his mother?

As I speak of lineage, I am reminded to add one more item of note.

I gave birth to another son several years later, to fill the void left by Abel. I named him Seth,
the appointed one.
Seth was a meek-mannered child, beautiful of face and spirit, and I should have loved him as much as I loved Abel, but Abel’s memory never faded. Truth be told, I always loved Abel best out of all the children I bore, nineteen in all.

A final story.

Later, when Adam was glimpsing the face of death more and more each day, I asked him, “Husband, why did you blame me for eating the fruit?”

Adam smiled. He was a man beyond his prime, and the strength of his body was ebbing away. I believe his eyes twinkled. He said, “I ate too, of course, but I was afraid. You were so brave, so brash. You were so … so curious, and I saw that Elohim loved that about you.” He paused and drew in another breath. “I
wanted
to experience new things with you … but did not want the blame. Yes, I think that was it.” He put his hand upon mine. “I am sorry for that. It has been hard for me to say I was wrong. I didn’t
want
to be wrong, if it meant that I had hurt Elohim so.”

I was quiet a moment. “Lucifer spoke the truth,” I said slowly. “We
did
gain wisdom, but I’m not sure it was the wisdom we longed for. It has brought as much pain as it has delight, and I am afraid we’ve hurt our children by it, because of our not-knowing what to tell them about Elohim.”

Adam squeezed my hand gently. “We should leave that to Elohim. Who are we to control our children’s minds and thoughts like a dam controls the river? Elohim was not even able to control us.” His eyes were full of sadness, but mixed in there somewhere was hope—undeniable hope. “He gave us a gift—although we did not understand at the time—by allowing us
to choose Him
or
something else. Then, I suppose, He would know where our loyalties lay.”

I laid my cheek on our linked fingers. “I chose you,” I whispered. “After that summer.”

Adam lifted me up, held my chin. “Isn’t it beautiful to know that mistakes can be mended?” He traced the outline of my lips. “My dear Eve, you are the light of my life. I carry you in my bones and sinews. You are me, and I am you. I will always love you, and you alone.”

My eyes brimmed with tears, and I leaned down to kiss his nose. “I love you more than you’ll ever know,” I whispered.

We were a tragic pair, Adam and I, but let me tell you this: We loved each other with a deep ferocity. More than either of us could ever express. We knew labor and pain and sorrow and dissonance, and this had only served to enrich and strengthen our marriage.

Adam’s words bolstered me the rest of my living days.