Eve: In the Beginning by Heather B. Moore, H. B. Moore Page A

touches my skin and, although the breeze is not cold, I shiver. I wonder about Adam. Where has he gone? I call out before I can think better of it. “Adam?”
    There is no answer, and I wonder what might have happened to him. He’s never left the dwelling during the night, even before we were wary of the two deaths in the garden. Of course I know that tonight is different: tonight we are wary, and we don’t know what to expect. Not even what to look for.
    I back up until I am against the edge of the alcove, halfway in and halfway out. The stone of the alcove feels cool against my skin and sends another shiver through my body. That’s when I notice it: the mat of animal skin is no longer covering the boulder. Did Adam take the mat with him?
    Did someone take Adam?
    My breath stutters, and I can’t think. Every sound seems louder, echoing in my mind — the rustling of leaves in a nearby tree, the distant chatter of some night creature, my own breathing, the pounding of my heart.
    I have just called out into the unknown, and if Adam can’t hear me, then maybe someone else can — someone I don’t want to face alone. I move back into the alcove, believing — hoping — that it will offer me some protection should I need it.
    I huddle on the sleeping mats, listening for any sound and waiting for Adam to return. Eyeing the hanging mats at the back of the alcove, I wonder if I should hide behind them, just in case. Then I realize that if Adam is caught, there is no place for me to truly hide. I will eventually be caught as well.
    Still, I rise to my feet and creep to the back wall. I slip behind the hanging mats of leaves and feel grateful that they offer some seclusion. I only hope it will be enough. Closing my eyes, I lean against the wall, scratched with my marks, and listen as carefully as I can. I don’t know if I’ll hear much coming from outside the alcove, but I keep my eyes shut and listen.
    I almost miss the shuffling sound because I am focusing on the stiffness in my legs and back. I hold my breath, trying to decide if the shuffling is Adam or some other creature. Maybe it’s an animal or the shadow?
    The sounds stops, and I slowly let out my breath. After a moment, I decide that I may not have heard anything or that whatever made the sound is now gone. I move soundlessly until I have parted the hanging mat and have a view of the alcove.
    Adam stands at the alcove opening, looking outside — certainly for me — and I am about to step between the hanging mats when I notice something. A mat of skin is wrapped around Adam’s waist and hangs to his knees. Why would he wear that vile, dead thing — that which represents the death of an innocent creature?
    I take a step forward then halt. Adam has turned his head toward the left, and in the moonlight that silhouettes his profile, I realize that the man standing at the front of the alcove is not Adam.
    I move behind the hanging mats, hoping to not make any noise to draw the strange man’s attention.
    My heart is pounding wildly, and my breathing stalls in my chest. I can’t inhale or exhale. Every part of my body is cold.
    We are not alone in the garden after all.
    The shadow I’ve dreamed about is real .
    I mouth a silent prayer. O Elohim, protect me from this living shadow. Bring Adam back to me safely.
    Does Elohim hear my prayer? I don’t know. Adam and I usually pray at the altar on the seventh day.
    The shuffling sound reaches me again, and I sense that the shadow is walking toward me. Every part of my body prickles in perspiration. It will be only seconds until I am discovered. I think about the man who is not Adam. The shadow is taller and leaner than my husband. The shadow’s hair is long, past his shoulders, and as dark as the night. I did not see his eyes, but I imagine them as black as his hair. The shuffling stops, and I imagine I hear breathing. Do shadows breathe?
    Will the shadow speak to me? Will he tell me what’s happened to Adam? I smell