felt myself a thing ruined. I snatched back the bough, tore free the leaf . . . and then another—and another and another. I tore at the tree until I held a clutch of leaves within my sweating palm.
“Take me to our bower,” I said.
The peace I had felt beneath the willow arches of our bower—where was it now? Only familiarity remained. I found my basket, cord, and tools and began to twine the fig leaves together in the way the adam had once used to make for me garlands and crowns. But if this were a crown, it was the most shameful sort. When I was finished, I held it over my head. There, in the privacy of this bonnet, my face crumpled and hot tears streaked my swollen cheeks.
The adam tried to hold me, but I pushed him away. He pulled me gently back—now I could feel the tremor in his hands—and lifted the leaves from my face. Perhaps with a vestige of that understanding that needed no words, he lowered it to my waist and tied it there, so that the leaves hung over those parts stained by our use of each other.
I wept to see our industry, so joyously applied in gifts and tokens, in experiments and invention, given to such purpose. When the adam had made a similar covering for himself, he pulled me to him, hard against his chest. He did it, I knew, not to comfort me but himself as he lowered his head to my breast.
I held him in silence. We did not know the language for sorrow or apology. We had no words for forgiveness, for it had never been needed.
8
Midday was filled with the cacophony of birds—birds of all kinds, predator and sparrow alike—churning in the sky. The lion, the wolf, the braying onager were silent, gone. I had seen none of the pride, the pack, or the herd. In fact, I had laid eyes on no animals at all except for Chalil, now gone. There was only the endless sea of birds.
By late afternoon they began to recede. I wondered, had they stripped the tree bare? I shuddered to think of that tree, that island now. How many times in the last hour had I wished to undo all that we had done, to take back that thing we had brought forth—to unknow the thing we now knew?
After a time the horde was gone. There came only the intermittent call of the griffon. The hawk. Then silence.
Finally, in the late hour before twilight, a breeze rushed up from the valley floor. It rose as a sweeping wind over the foothills. Now here came the chorus of animals—not as many as there should have been—excited in its wake, raising raucous choir to heaven. The sky clouded over so that the green of the valley appeared more rich in the strange shade, both more vibrant and darkly alive at once.
The feral address came in waves, dying down and rising again, like wind in a storm, whipping to a frenzy and falling back again.
The adam grabbed my hand. We did not have words for “safe” or “unsafe” then. But I, too, had noted the strangeness of the air and the capriciousness of it, the way the winds seemed to rise upward to buffet the mountaintops before gushing down upon the valley. Clasping his hand, I ran with him down the narrow trail of our hillside bower to the valley. On the far hill a lone goat stood, coat blowing in the wind.
My limbs, once so agile, felt leaden, alien, wooden. We veered toward the orchard, but then the adam pointed toward a grove of willow trees along the river. There they bowed over, branch tips disappeared into the earth where we had tucked them beneath the soil and brought them up again so that they formed a kind of cavern where we had lain on the hottest days.
Inside, the willow cavern was damp. We held to each other, fingers clawlike, as wind buffeted the valley, tossing leaves and other refuse into the air.
As I clung to the adam, I was deaf to his thoughts as I had been to the goat on the hill. Did the animals cry out to us, who could no longer hear? What if they needed us? I started for the opening of the willow chamber, but the adam held back, shouting, “Do not go out!”
I
“Take me to our bower,” I said.
The peace I had felt beneath the willow arches of our bower—where was it now? Only familiarity remained. I found my basket, cord, and tools and began to twine the fig leaves together in the way the adam had once used to make for me garlands and crowns. But if this were a crown, it was the most shameful sort. When I was finished, I held it over my head. There, in the privacy of this bonnet, my face crumpled and hot tears streaked my swollen cheeks.
The adam tried to hold me, but I pushed him away. He pulled me gently back—now I could feel the tremor in his hands—and lifted the leaves from my face. Perhaps with a vestige of that understanding that needed no words, he lowered it to my waist and tied it there, so that the leaves hung over those parts stained by our use of each other.
I wept to see our industry, so joyously applied in gifts and tokens, in experiments and invention, given to such purpose. When the adam had made a similar covering for himself, he pulled me to him, hard against his chest. He did it, I knew, not to comfort me but himself as he lowered his head to my breast.
I held him in silence. We did not know the language for sorrow or apology. We had no words for forgiveness, for it had never been needed.
8
Midday was filled with the cacophony of birds—birds of all kinds, predator and sparrow alike—churning in the sky. The lion, the wolf, the braying onager were silent, gone. I had seen none of the pride, the pack, or the herd. In fact, I had laid eyes on no animals at all except for Chalil, now gone. There was only the endless sea of birds.
By late afternoon they began to recede. I wondered, had they stripped the tree bare? I shuddered to think of that tree, that island now. How many times in the last hour had I wished to undo all that we had done, to take back that thing we had brought forth—to unknow the thing we now knew?
After a time the horde was gone. There came only the intermittent call of the griffon. The hawk. Then silence.
Finally, in the late hour before twilight, a breeze rushed up from the valley floor. It rose as a sweeping wind over the foothills. Now here came the chorus of animals—not as many as there should have been—excited in its wake, raising raucous choir to heaven. The sky clouded over so that the green of the valley appeared more rich in the strange shade, both more vibrant and darkly alive at once.
The feral address came in waves, dying down and rising again, like wind in a storm, whipping to a frenzy and falling back again.
The adam grabbed my hand. We did not have words for “safe” or “unsafe” then. But I, too, had noted the strangeness of the air and the capriciousness of it, the way the winds seemed to rise upward to buffet the mountaintops before gushing down upon the valley. Clasping his hand, I ran with him down the narrow trail of our hillside bower to the valley. On the far hill a lone goat stood, coat blowing in the wind.
My limbs, once so agile, felt leaden, alien, wooden. We veered toward the orchard, but then the adam pointed toward a grove of willow trees along the river. There they bowed over, branch tips disappeared into the earth where we had tucked them beneath the soil and brought them up again so that they formed a kind of cavern where we had lain on the hottest days.
Inside, the willow cavern was damp. We held to each other, fingers clawlike, as wind buffeted the valley, tossing leaves and other refuse into the air.
As I clung to the adam, I was deaf to his thoughts as I had been to the goat on the hill. Did the animals cry out to us, who could no longer hear? What if they needed us? I started for the opening of the willow chamber, but the adam held back, shouting, “Do not go out!”
I
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