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It had all been so
beautiful, before, beauty such a strange concept. For what had she to compare
Eden to, Eden all she knew, all she had ever known, until now. Now, with Adam,
she was expelled, barred, cast out of Eden into … into this barren place, a
place so stark, so raw, she knew now what beauty really was; it was what she’d
had in Eden and would never know again.
There, in Eden, he
had loved her, this man, Adam, so distant from her now, cast out himself. She
had awoken to him as they lay in the lushness of Eden one morning, sensing not
a before, nor a beginning, just awakening as if from sleep, awakening with him
who had always been, so it seemed, this man, this Adam; they were the only two
of their kind in the garden, alive and free and beautiful.
Eve, taken from Adam’s
rib: this she knew, this her beginnings. Though she didn’t know how she knew it;
she just felt it there in the beauty of Eden and knew her role as Adam’s
helpmate, as woman, taken from man, from Adam’s rib. She was not like him, was different
from him, beautiful in her differences as he was beautiful in his, like him,
but not like him. Her hair, soft to her touch, was dark as the night sky,
cascading over her shoulders and breasts in unashamed nakedness. For there was
no “shame,” no word to describe this uneasiness she now felt with him, ashamed
of her own nakedness, ashamed of herself, of what she had done.
The wind blew through
the trees and through her hair, tossing it gently as they walked in the garden,
her body and his, upright, she and Adam, alone in Eden. All other animals were below
them on four limbs or crawling on the ground, flying through the air, dominated
by them; only she and Adam, alone in God’s image, walked upright, mobile and
ambulatory as they walked close together, joined hand in hand throughout the
garden, free to enjoy Eden and Eden’s beauty, naked and unashamed.
But now, her
beauty was gone, her nakedness ugly, disgusting, covered in shame, fig leaves,
crude coverings to hide herself and him. In Eden, there had been no place to
hide. They had tried, hiding in the caves beyond the river or deep in the
darkest woods, hiding from Him who created them, cared for them, that unseen
Him who spoke softly, firmly. His voice now rang out through Eden to where they
had hidden under the trees, fig leaves hiding their nakedness and shame. But
they could not hide from Him, the omniscient Him who knew their sin, their
disobedience: “What is this you have done?” rang out to all corners, a gentle
voice firmly calling, a voice raised, His voice, echoing in Eden.
And then the curse
– “Woman, your desire will be for Adam who will rule over you. You both will
eat your food by the sweat of your brow until you return to the ground,
toiling” – and the banishment, cast out, expelled from Eden to wander the
harshness of earth, a life outside of Eden’s garden. Her beauty was now gone,
her fair skin and night-dark hair, gone. And gone from her, too, was Adam,
ruled now by him, beneath him, dominated in this now uncertain future, this now
uncertain end. And she alone was to blame, she alone was responsible, she alone
cursed as woman, destroyer of God’s perfection in man.
Banished, they
wandered now in coarse animal skins, driven from Eden further and further into
the wilderness, barren and raw, until she fell further and further behind Adam.
He outdistanced her in his anger and his shame. He cursed her loudly in this new
harsh language they spoke aloud until she could walk no further, falling down
and crawling. The coarse sand cut her feet and her skin, for there was no
protection from the wind-blown coarseness and the hot wind slicing her skin with
sand.
Needing rest and
finding shelter at last in a rocky outcropping, she collapsed, safe from the
wind, the sand, and Adam’s curses, his anger, the hatred she felt from him. Adam
had once been as God, as the creator Himself, protected, tranquil, dominating
the land. But now this, his downfall, like her, cast out; “Woman, you deceived
me. You knew, Eve, you knew what the creator had commanded, not to eat the
fruit of that tree, that one tree. Look what you’ve done to me.” His curses, loud
and harshly spoken, were worse than the banishment, worse than the wind-blown
sand; only worse was her own shame, her guilt, for he was right, He was right. She
had known not to eat of that tree, that one tree the only tree forbidden; she
knew, but alone and afraid, tempted, she ate the fruit. And once eaten, fearing
him and fearing the Creator, she offered it to Adam.
But it had looked
so good, the fruit offered to her, fresher, larger, more succulent than any
other tree, any other fruit. And the serpent had told her that it was good,
that he had eaten the fruit. He was the only other creature who spoke as she
and Adam spoke, who knew their language; all the others each had their own
languages. Surely, as he had claimed, he was one of them, like them, in God’s
image despite his appearance so different from theirs. He knew her, spoke to
her, understood her feelings, her joys, her wanderings, her wonderings about
Adam whom she loved and shared the garden with. Though she knew Adam as his
helpmate, she did not know him beyond that, this creature called man, so like
her, yet so different. Often he was so strange, so distant, unapproachable at
times, and she could not draw close to him. Try as she might, he kept a part of
himself to himself, closing her off from him.
Many were the
times when Adam would turn silent, inward, and wander off by himself, leaving
her behind. She dared not follow him; he was so stern in commanding her to
stay, to attend to the garden as was her duty. And so she stayed away, separate
from Adam, separate from the Creator, separate from that time he shared with
the creator, wondering. Was she not able to approach Him, too?
But the snake. She
had seen the serpent often there in the garden, had been there when Adam named
him: “You shall be called Snake, a serpent, you and your darting tongue,
flickering, forked, you slinking around on four legs so low to the ground. That
is your name,” and it was done, one more animal named. And so she knew him as Snake,
a serpent, the only one of his kind; there were no others like him in Eden, no
mate, unlike all the other animals, male and female. But as time passed in the
garden, she saw him more and more often, following her, watching her, until he
finally appeared to her when she was alone, Adam out in the garden by himself,
his time talking with the Creator, time forbidden to her as woman, helpmate to
man, helpmate to Adam.
“Woman,” he said,
softly calling, “for that is who you are.”
“Yes, I am woman.”
"Woman, taken from
man, from Adam’s rib.”
“How is it you
talk as Adam and I talk? How is this possible?” For no one else spoke in the
language she and Adam shared, this silent language understand between them. “Are
you man, too, you we have named Snake?”
“I am Snake, a serpent,
as you have named me, you with dominion over me.” And with that said, he left
as darkly as he had appeared, silently, his coiled tail leaving strange marks
in the sand, for Adam now appeared, calling her name.
“Eve?”
Turning, she saw him,
smiling, basking in her beauty, his time with the Creator done. She did not
tell him of Snake, of his talking even as she and Adam talked. For nothing else
mattered but him.
Now, in the shelter
of this outcropping, safe from the wind, the sand, and Adam’s curses, wrapped
in the coarse fur given her by God to cover her nakedness, cover her shame, she
fell asleep, the wind around her subsiding as she slept. And in the morning,
the sun high in the sky when she awoke, warming her, she found herself not
alone, but wrapped with Adam, the two clothed in course fur, animal fur, for they
themselves were animals now, animals warmed by the morning light and by each
other.
As she lay there in
the sunlight of a clear, blue sky, she felt Adam stir beside her, and she knew
she was forgiven, knew, though cursed, they were still together as they had
been in Eden, helpmates, facing a raw and barren life together, man and woman,
Adam and Eve.
Awake now, next to
her, he spoke in their new language, harsh and loud, a guttural, unnatural
sound; “We must find food and shelter, provide for ourselves, as is our curse.”
Together, they rose to an Eden-less world, for as they stepped from the
outcropping, they saw a vast expanse of sand, rocks, and sparse vegetation,
vegetation scrambling like them for what little water and nourishment the land
afforded them.
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