Eve (15 page)

Naava had finished the night and day and a large section of jeweled birds and bright flowers when she caught Dara pulling at the threads. She rushed into the room and grabbed at Dara’s hands. “No!” she yelled. “No, no!” Then softer, “No,” the shock of seeing so much of it gone. She dropped to the floor and covered her face in her hands. “No, no, no,” she repeated, rocking back and forth.

She would tell Eve—that’s what she would do. Dara would incur Eve’s wrath, and Eve would decide that Naava should be sent to the city, not Dara, who was clearly still a child, a baby. It was outrageous how Eve ignored what Naava wanted. She felt trapped, stifled. Really it was inexcusable, despicable.

When Naava lifted her face from her hands, her eyes triumphant, she saw a hint of fear in her little sister’s eyes, but Dara said nothing.

Naava stood, wiped her hands on her robes, and stalked into the courtyard. Dara played with her fingers, touching the tips, one after another, like
a praying mantis walking on a twig. She watched, uncertain, as Naava walked toward Eve, who was mixing clay and bitumen together and patching chinks in the courtyard wall.

“I’m
not
staying here!” she said, her hands on her hips.

Eve only looked bemused.

Naava thought briefly that she may have looked ridiculous, scolding her mother this way, and she was glad Abel was not there to see it. “I
won’t
.”

Eve shielded her eyes from the sun and sat back on her knees. “Naava, what’s wrong?”

Naava knew she puzzled her mother, that Eve would never understand her. She confused
herself
sometimes, for there were days she felt as heavy as the bitumen on her mother’s stick and other days she felt as light as a feather.
Why the difference, for no apparent reason?
She didn’t know, and she didn’t care—enough to change, that is. “
I
want to go to the city, to learn how to make that pretty cloth they wear, and you know that, but you act as if I’m not even here, and you’re sending Dara instead. Why, she’s just a baby. What can she do? I can do ten times the amount of work she can, and I would make friends, and see new sights, and be able to come back here and teach you everything. Your being with child is just an excuse. What can
I
do while you’re screaming in pain? Aya does it all.”

Eve stood and squeezed Naava’s arm above her elbow. “Naava,” she said, “when you’re ready to discuss this in a rational manner, I will talk to you. Right now you’re like tumbleweed—all over the place. Here, sit.”

But Naava jerked her arm away. “I am grown up already. I should be able to do what I want,
when
I want, like Cain and Abel. You always point your finger and order me about, and I’m tired of it.” She paused, then spit out,
“Father
would understand.”

Eve leaned forward, held Naava’s chin in her hand. “I have discussed this with your father. He agrees with me.”

Naava gritted her teeth and said, “That’s because you didn’t tell him everything, how badly I want to—”

Eve released Naava, pushing her away. “Naava! That’s enough. Finish your weaving.”

Naava stuck her bottom lip out. “That’s just it. Dara’s unraveled it.” Naava watched her mother’s face change from anger to surprise to irritation.

Eve said, “You must have done something to provoke her.”

Dara slipped from the doorway of the weaving room and went to stand behind Eve’s skirts, sucking her thumb.

Naava glared at her mother and little sister. She howled then, like a wolf, and raised her fists to the sky and stomped her feet. She whirled back to her weaving room and threw herself inside. Rage at her ruined robe and empty future curdled in her, then firmed up, like Aya’s hunks of cheese. There was nothing she could say. She had not asked for this, her barren, boring life.

She would
make
Eve do what she wanted. She would
silence
Eve—just for a short while. Then she would convince her father that she, not Dara, should go to the city.

Mind you, this would not be an easy task. Naava was no fool. She knew she would have to cover her tracks.

Naava bided her time, waiting in her weaving room. When Eve finally vacated the courtyard, she sidled over to Aya, who had missed the quarrel but was now back outside, splitting reeds with the edge of a sharp stone.

“Aya,” Naava said.

Goat pushed her nose into Naava’s crotch, and she pushed her away.

“Aya,” Naava said again. And then, “Get away from me, you boar.” She yanked Goat around by her horns and sent her off, bleating.

Aya stood up, the stone in her hand, her face flushed with exertion. “Don’t touch her head. She doesn’t like that.”

“All right, all right,” said Naava. After all, she needed Aya just now.

“What do you want?” said Aya. “I need to finish this. I can’t really talk.”

“Would you like me to get you some water?” said Naava sweetly.

Aya narrowed her eyes.

“So you’re not thirsty, then.” Naava was nervous, trying to best phrase her next question. “Listen, Aya, how would you go about getting rid of a pesky little lizard who torments me when I’m weaving? He runs all about and shits on my wool and hinders my work. In fact, I wanted to ask Abel to get rid of him for me, but—”

Aya’s face puckered in concentration.
“I
haven’t seen him,” Aya said. And then, when Naava didn’t reply, she said matter-of-factly, “Can’t you catch him?”

“No,” said Naava. “That’s the problem. He’s too quick. Might you have something that would put him to sleep?”

“You mean kill him?”

“Or that too.” Naava felt a bead of sweat roll down her chest. She didn’t want to
kill
her mother, just hinder her a bit while she pled her case to her father. She would be able to make it clear to him that she would be a much better go-between than Dara. Her hands grew clammy, and her stomach clenched up. “It’s a
big
lizard.” Naava held out her hands, about an arm’s length.

“If you’d lay a trap, you might catch him.” Aya’s voice rose, mocking.

“Just give me something, you—I mean, please will you give me something to set down for it? I will finish splitting the reeds for you.”

Aya’s expression didn’t change, and Naava couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Aya said, “No need. I’m almost finished.” Then, in a voice loud enough for Naava to hear, “Elohim”—
Fabulous, here she goes again,
thought Naava—“give me a kind heart, especially to those who are unreasonable and self-centered. Help me be good. Help me—”

“Will this take long?” said Naava. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Then, as though to prevent Naava from following her, Aya gave a big sigh and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Naava waited for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, but just at the moment when she thought she would faint from nervous exhaustion, Aya reappeared, carrying a limp cloth sack.

“Here,” said Aya. “Use only a pinchful at a time. A little bit goes a long way.”

Naava reached over to give her a hug, but Aya pushed her away. “Don’t act as if you’re my friend,” Aya said, “just because I’ve given you something.”

Naava straightened up, confused. “Thank you, Aya. You’re very smart.”

“And no needless compliments either,” said Aya as she turned back to her reed splitting.

Naava stood there a moment, then walked back to her weaving room.

“You owe me a favor,” called Aya.

But Naava paid no attention. She was already scattering the parsleylike leaves onto the dirt next to her loom. The leaves smelled musty and a little
rancid. Naava wondered how she would get Eve to ingest them.
Put them in water? Put them in beer? Bake them in bread?
The last one would require Aya’s help, and that was not going to happen.
Which is just the way it always is,
thought Naava.

In the end, it all worked out.

Naava waited until Aya went off to gather more dung for her fires, then she scuttled across the courtyard and into Aya’s larder. There, in the cool darkness, she gathered a handful of figs and hid them in the folds of her robe. Once she was safe, back in her weaving room, she laid them all out and tried to decide how she would accomplish her task without raising any eyebrows. With her tongue wedged between her lips in concentration, she slit the flesh of the figs and stuffed them with the strange-smelling leaves. Then she pressed the figs into small cakes, perfect for the evening meal.

“What are you doing?” asked Dara. Her shadow fell across Naava’s face, and Naava jumped.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” said Naava.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping Aya,” said Naava. She smiled at Dara. “Want to help too? Here, flatten these out.”

The trick was to poison
only
Eve. Again, this part was easy because Aya, in her tiresome fastidiousness, divided her kissed food
before
she set out the bowls and platters. It was Aya’s great care in her cooking and the delivery of it that would make this go much smoother. Naava waited until Aya was done, then, when her sister had turned away, she switched Eve’s fig cakes.

So, imagine. Eve sat down with her husband and her children, around Aya’s fire, unknowing and innocent. She ate of the fig cakes, chewed them, and swallowed. Naava sat there, agitated, because she knew she had done an evil deed—and because it might not work.
Surely, it would not harm Eve
too
much, would it?
Naava only wanted to teach her a lesson. Then Eve could rise to health again, after learning to pay attention to
all
her children, not just her favorites—and after Naava was away in the new city.

At first Naava struggled to behave normally, smiling and talking as though she had not a care in the world, but it helped that, once again, all the attention was on the feud between Cain and Abel.

Cain laughed at Abel, then sopped up some broth with his bread. “If we are to sacrifice to your Elohim,” he said, “then lets lay some ground rules.”

Eve said, “Not this again, please, not now.”

Naava noted that her mother was still able to talk. This was not a good sign.
How long would it take for the leaves to work?

“It’s all right, Mother,” said Abel. “We can discuss this reasonably.” To Cain he said, “What rules?”

“First fruits of our crops and flocks,” said Cain. “At the end of harvest.”

Abel nodded his agreement and, with a long look around the table, said, “You’ve all been witness to this agreement. Let it be so.”

Cain laughed again and said, “We’ll see what your Elohim can do for us. Do you think He can make us more wealthy than the dwellers of the new city?”

Aya, of all people, piped up and said, “Elohim doesn’t bargain, Cain. You should make your offerings out of gratitude, not greed.”

Cain’s face grew dark. “Those of unsound bodies have unsound minds,” he said.

Aya was quiet.

Eve finally put her hands to her head and said, “Aya, where did you get this meat?”

Aya pointed to Abel, who asked, “What is it?”

“I’m feeling a little dizzy. I think I’ll go lie down.” Eve braced herself and rose slowly, so as not to jar her head.

Abel glanced at Aya, a puzzled look on his face, but Aya was staring curiously at Naava, who was glaring back at her. All this occurred within the blink of an eyelid.

Adam watched Eve go, worry in his eyes. He got up and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. As he disappeared after Eve, he called back to Cain and Abel, “I think this is an excellent agreement. Elohim will be pleased.” And then he was gone, hurrying after his wife.

Now all they had to do was wait. Cain: for his crops to flourish. Abel: for his flocks to grow strong and healthy. Naava: for her mother to nap with the cockroaches.

As if I wouldn’t know what Naava had done. I tell you this. I gave
the hemlock to Naava against my better judgment, and look what happened. I could see it in Naava’s face too, and in the way she shook her foot, the way she watched my face to see if I was suspicious in any way.

When Mother got up from the table to go lie down, she was having difficulty breathing, and she walked, drunklike, in a zigzag. If Naava had indeed done such a thing, she was no longer my sister. No longer fit to eat my food, and I would tell her so.