didn’t know what was worse: the unnatural storm—unnatural in that there had never been a storm before—or knowing that though we hid together, the adam and I were as separated from one another as though we stood alone.
As the storm became a squall, we crouched in the willow chamber, covering our ears, faces, eyes.
Let me be nothing. If I must be something, let me be the air, which is unseen. Or let me be the earth that runs into the river with the rain, that empties out to sea until it is lost . . .
The wind abruptly died. The air fell utterly still.
The cries of the animals fell silent.
The faintest breeze. A rustle through the trees, as though to shake loose the debris of the blast a moment before. I smelled earth and leaf, the rot of fruit, and thought of flies.
My legs wavered as though pushed by a current. The sound of our breathing filled the air. The sound of our hearts seemed louder than all the world. Where once we had anticipated the appearance of the One and had gone running to find him, now we hid, bidding our hearts not beat, our breath not whisper a sound.
The adam started, violently, as though struck. He fell back, and again I saw the tremor in his shoulders, his head shaking as though at odds with his neck.
“What? What is it?”
He said nothing and started with jerking steps toward the opening of the cavern.
“What are you doing? Don’t leave me!”
When he looked back at me, fear was a creature wild on his face. His lips moved, though no sound came from them. He staggered a step backward and then walked woodenly out, as though his feet moved of their own accord, independent of his will.
I rushed to the mouth of the cavern. The valley floor exploded with light.
I fell back on the damp earth, my arm over my eyes.
When it came, the sound of it was so beloved—ah! Balm and terror at once! And yet so longed for by me.
Where are you?
Oh, God! I die.
Was it only yesterday that I lay in the vineyard—a day, a lifetime ago? Terrified, guilty, but knowing no other comfort in this world—not even the adam, who was undone—I burst from the cavern and threw myself to the ground. Within the intensity of that light, I could see nothing.
“I heard your sound. I was—was afraid.” The words came, choked out of the throat of the adam somewhere nearby. “I knew that I was naked. I—I hid.”
How ridiculous did it sound to say it, here in a light greater than the sun, which lays all bare?
Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree I commanded you not to eat from?
Now, in a cry so thin as not to be that of a man: “The woman you gave me—she gave me from the tree, and I ate.”
My very blood, the bile in my mouth, dried to dust. A strangled cry issued from him the moment he said it, but it was too late.
He had betrayed me.
Ah, pain! I am the knife twisting in the flesh, the flint blade that slips and severs. Let me die!
The words, when they came to my heart, were so gentle and familiar—and so very sad: What is this you have done?
I heaved a convulsive sob, doubled over, my forehead on the grass. My words were a stream of bile, like vomit from my lips. “The serpent beguiled me and I ate.”
The sound of it was a spoken horror.
It was the truth.
Now I sensed another presence beyond the adam, the One, and me. I lifted my head and in that fulgent light saw the outline of a winged form, as the moon is outlined by the resplendent sun in eclipse. But the scales, once so lustrous, seemed tarnished. The wings, so incandescent, looked now opaque as rust. Where was beauty? Where was brilliance? He, who had been once my advisor and then my betrayer—would he, too, lay blame at my feet?
The One spoke: Cursed be you of all cattle and all beasts of the field! On your belly you go. Eat dust all the days of your life!
The serpent began to unfurl his wings. They opened and opened, seeming to unfold forever as the serpent himself straightened
As the storm became a squall, we crouched in the willow chamber, covering our ears, faces, eyes.
Let me be nothing. If I must be something, let me be the air, which is unseen. Or let me be the earth that runs into the river with the rain, that empties out to sea until it is lost . . .
The wind abruptly died. The air fell utterly still.
The cries of the animals fell silent.
The faintest breeze. A rustle through the trees, as though to shake loose the debris of the blast a moment before. I smelled earth and leaf, the rot of fruit, and thought of flies.
My legs wavered as though pushed by a current. The sound of our breathing filled the air. The sound of our hearts seemed louder than all the world. Where once we had anticipated the appearance of the One and had gone running to find him, now we hid, bidding our hearts not beat, our breath not whisper a sound.
The adam started, violently, as though struck. He fell back, and again I saw the tremor in his shoulders, his head shaking as though at odds with his neck.
“What? What is it?”
He said nothing and started with jerking steps toward the opening of the cavern.
“What are you doing? Don’t leave me!”
When he looked back at me, fear was a creature wild on his face. His lips moved, though no sound came from them. He staggered a step backward and then walked woodenly out, as though his feet moved of their own accord, independent of his will.
I rushed to the mouth of the cavern. The valley floor exploded with light.
I fell back on the damp earth, my arm over my eyes.
When it came, the sound of it was so beloved—ah! Balm and terror at once! And yet so longed for by me.
Where are you?
Oh, God! I die.
Was it only yesterday that I lay in the vineyard—a day, a lifetime ago? Terrified, guilty, but knowing no other comfort in this world—not even the adam, who was undone—I burst from the cavern and threw myself to the ground. Within the intensity of that light, I could see nothing.
“I heard your sound. I was—was afraid.” The words came, choked out of the throat of the adam somewhere nearby. “I knew that I was naked. I—I hid.”
How ridiculous did it sound to say it, here in a light greater than the sun, which lays all bare?
Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree I commanded you not to eat from?
Now, in a cry so thin as not to be that of a man: “The woman you gave me—she gave me from the tree, and I ate.”
My very blood, the bile in my mouth, dried to dust. A strangled cry issued from him the moment he said it, but it was too late.
He had betrayed me.
Ah, pain! I am the knife twisting in the flesh, the flint blade that slips and severs. Let me die!
The words, when they came to my heart, were so gentle and familiar—and so very sad: What is this you have done?
I heaved a convulsive sob, doubled over, my forehead on the grass. My words were a stream of bile, like vomit from my lips. “The serpent beguiled me and I ate.”
The sound of it was a spoken horror.
It was the truth.
Now I sensed another presence beyond the adam, the One, and me. I lifted my head and in that fulgent light saw the outline of a winged form, as the moon is outlined by the resplendent sun in eclipse. But the scales, once so lustrous, seemed tarnished. The wings, so incandescent, looked now opaque as rust. Where was beauty? Where was brilliance? He, who had been once my advisor and then my betrayer—would he, too, lay blame at my feet?
The One spoke: Cursed be you of all cattle and all beasts of the field! On your belly you go. Eat dust all the days of your life!
The serpent began to unfurl his wings. They opened and opened, seeming to unfold forever as the serpent himself straightened
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