Eve (37 page)

Elohim saw our confusion and smiled. “It is a simple thing, really. All I ask is that, after six days of work, you build a bower in your heart on the seventh, in which you delight in what I have given you, in which you reflect on what we, you and I, have in common. It will be a haven, a place where you begin again to live in the light of my love, no matter what your work is.”

Interesting how Elohim made even stillness important.

Somehow, surviving here on this wild and dusty plain has demanded constant vigilance. Adam and I had no interludes of rest or stillness; therefore, we had little time to contemplate Elohim’s love for us.

But now, in the quiet of the morning or in the lull of the gloaming, I hear the breeze whisper,
Be still,
and I wonder if it is Elohim speaking after all.

One morning, I spied Naava leading Cain out of her weaving room, out of the courtyard, in the direction of the cistern. They were unaware that I had seen them. Cain’s hunger was obvious. Indeed, he stumbled over the large fossil Abel had given Aya, which was sitting by the courtyard entrance. Naava was unabashed in her seduction—she loosened the tie in her hair as she walked. I thought of stopping them, but in a flash of recognition I remembered Adam’s fever for me, and mine for him, when we first saw each other, and I could not stop them from experiencing the same.
How else were they to start families of their own?

I knew I would have to speak to Adam about what we were to do with this new turn of events. Cain was old enough to take a wife, and he must do so honorably, by marrying her, dedicating his entire life to her. I had seen Abel’s sideways glances at Naava, and I knew this would only cause more friction between him and Cain.

Mercy upon us.

I wish to have a shell like Turtle, so I can hide. I make more and
more praying people, but still Zenobia says
hurry hurry hurry.

“Why don’t you buy them at Inanna’s mountain like everyone else?” I ask, but Zenobia makes a cricket noise, like this,
chikkk chikkk chikkk,
and says, “Yours are more beautiful.” She picks up one of my praying people and caresses its head. She sets it back down. “Do you see this house, child? See its magnificence? I am as dry as a bone.” Zenobia shakes her hands in front of me, like she’s shaking dust out of a robe. She leans over until her mouth is by my ear. “Shhh,” she whispers. “The prince wants a boy child, and I must give it to him. Otherwise, he’ll throw me out in the streets. And
that
we can’t have.” She points to the men crouched down low, rolling snakes of clay and putting them in a hot oven. “Here, look at this, see these cones, each one
rolled
individually,
colored
individually,
placed
individually? This
one
column will take more days than your whole house took to make back home. I want to be a part of this. I want to be a part of the prince’s house.”

My mouth has nothing to say, but I do not like how Zenobia talks about her house, like it’s better than Mama’s and Father s.

Thankfully, I am a hawk. I am wide awake, to watch near things and faraway things. I see how the men roll the cones and color them with paint. I know their secrets, but my mouth does not open. This morning, when no
one was looking, I made Mama another goddess. After it was baked in the fire, I washed the goddess in the ground-up powder mixed with milk, just like the men do, and it turned red like a pomegranate. Balili says he will get me more sky stones like the one in my nose. I would like to give the red goddess blue eyes, like Mama’s—little blue eggs in their nests. I think Mama will cry when she sees it, because Mama cries when she’s sad
and
happy.

I buried the new goddess in one of the planters on the rooftop, the one with the palm in it. I think if Mama talks to the goddess and asks for Inanna’s blessing, she will have a good baby, not a broken baby like Aya.

And now I have to say something that is bothering me, like bees buzzing in my head. Aya says that a person must always tell what bothers her, then Elohim will hear her and do something about it.

The easiest way to keep the babies quiet is to tell them stories. I know I’m not supposed to boast, but it’s the truth that I can tell a story, and I think telling the truth is a good thing, not a bad thing. Aya would approve.

Anyway, I was telling the babies how Mama was the first woman in the whole wide world, and how Elohim made Father out of the dust of the ground, just like I made the praying people, and how He made Mother from Father’s side. “He held them up, like this, and breathed on them, like this, and their arms and legs started dancing, just like that.”

“From dirt?” said Shala.

I nodded. “And Elohim made the heavens and the stars and the moon and the sun and the oceans and the mountains and the rivers.”

“What about the lion?” asked Shulgi, the bald-headed boy. “Did He make the lion?”

“Elohim made all the animals too, for Mama and Father to name—the cranes, the foxes, the lions, the ibexes, the jackals—all the birds and beasts and river fishes. Even the turtles.”

“Even the mongooses?” said Puabi.

“Yes,” I told her. “But the Garden was like nothing you’ve ever seen. It was dark and shady and green. Mama and Father could hardly see the sky
because of the big big trees. And the water. There was always sweet cool water to drink—in the leaves and in the waterfalls and in the river. Mama said she rested her head on moss that was as soft as wool.”

Zenobia’s face appeared out of the shadows of the house. “I think you are talking about Dilmun, no? The shining land, where there is no pain, and the lion lays down with the lamb?”

I shook my head, confused. “No, Mama and Father were in Eden. Up in the mountains.”

Ahassunu, the mother of naughty Shala, appeared suddenly next to Zenobia. She blinked and crooked her hand into a tent for her eyes. She laughed. “What are you saying, you insolent girl? That your parents are gods? That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows how the heavens and earth sprang out of the sea, and how the gods breathed and spit on the clay to create man so he could work the earth for them.” She turned to Zenobia. “Are you hearing this?”

Zenobia smiled. “It is good that the child has an imagination.”

I knew they were laughing at me, but how could they mock Mama and Father, who were
in
the Garden and told me all those stories? They wouldn’t lie to me. My stories were true, every last one of them.

And then, before I could stop up my lips, I said, “Mama has seeds from there. From the Tree of Life. She keeps them in a jar under the ground.”

Ahassunu’s eyes flickered like fire. “What did you say, child?” She moved closer to me, saying, “Well, well, well.” She slinked like Mama said Lucifer did. “Your parents are from Dilmun?”

“No,” I said. “That’s not what I said.”

“But your mother has seeds from the Tree of Life. The tree that gives the eternal life of gods. The tree that supports the world.”

I nodded, scared that I had told Mama’s cold dark secret.

Ahassunu ran her clammy hands through my hair. “You don’t say?” she said again. She ran her tongue along her teeth. She looked at me, then at Zenobia, then back at me. “What do you make of her stories?” she said to Zenobia. “Dare we hope? That this is
the
Tree of Life?”

Zenobia shrugged. “The gods work in mysterious ways,” she said.

Ahassunu drummed her fingers along her jaw, then she said to Zenobia, “I want them. Have her get them for me.”

Zenobia smiled again and shrugged. “They’re not hers to give. They’re her mother’s.”

Ahassunu frowned. “I care not how you get them. I will have them. Or I will have the prince throw you and Puabi out on the plains.” She flounced back toward the shadows, calling out for Shala to follow her. “Shala, lamb, it’s your naptime.”

Zenobia laughed nervously. “You forget,” she said to Ahassunu’s back. “The prince is my husband too.”

Ahassunu stopped and came back and drew her face in close to Zenobia’s, so they were as close as two peas in a pod. “And
you
forget too, that I see how you look at my son, Balili.”

Zenobia looked down, embarrassed, and Ahassunu said, “There now. You will do as I ask.” Taking Shala’s hand, she disappeared into the house.

Zenobia’s hands flew to her face. She twirled round and round, like a fly trapped by a pitcher plant. She sighed. She walked over to me and asked me to stand. When I did, she slapped me hard across the face and said, “You heard her. You will go home and retrieve those seeds.” She grabbed Puabi’s hand and yanked the baby along after her, Puabi crying out that she had not heard all of my story.

It is too bright and harsh here. I wish only for Turtle’s shell, to hide in, to sleep in, while Elohim fixes this very bad mistake of mine.

“O great gods of the heavens, you who live out your days among the
stars and the moon, hearken to my call and bless me, your servant, as I pour this gift upon sacred ground to please you,” Cain said. The moon lit up the mountains and valleys of his face.

He and I were standing in front of his temple—his “shining house,” as he called it. He stood in the center of a circle of rocks, the dirt swept smooth below him, his body newly washed by the river. A dark stream of liquid poured from the jar in his hand and sullied the earth. It smelled of grapes and carcasses and bitter herbs. I knew not what went into its making; I only boiled it for him.

He thought he was speaking to the city’s gods. I knew better.

Cain turned to me. “Thank you, sister, for making this holy wine. You will be blessed because of your efforts.”

I snorted. I could not help it.

“I suppose you will be laughing too when my crops are plentiful,” he said quietly.

“I know not what the diviner in the city told you, but she does not hold the strings to Elohim’s heart, that much I know. Nor does she have the power to make crops grow,” I said.

“It is not Elohim I beseech,” said Cain.

“You ve never before been interested in the gods in the sky,” I said.

Cain turned to me. “I noticed the stars and the moon and their paths in the sky, if that’s what you mean. I did not know
why
they moved or what it all meant.”