frightening thing of all, the sight of him, my lover, my father and teacher, like this.
Oh, God, what have we done?
I am the leaf shuddering on the stem before the storm. I am the mountain that tremors before the quake. I am the leaping fish that lands upon the bank.
I surveyed the valley around us. It seemed both alien and strange, a thing not itself, as the adam was not himself. There were the usual sounds, fainter, as though from a distance—thinner, as though through a sieve. If I strained, could I smell the scent of Ari, the cud of Adah, the faint scat of the vole, and the grapes upon the terrace?
I could not!
I must think. I must find sense—the One was the author of order! But there was no order in the stillness of the air or the fruit teeming with flies.
The adam let out a sound, feral and raw, and fell down upon the ground, covering his head. I wrapped my arms around him, my limbs clumsy and disassociated, and realized I could not distinguish my sounds from his.
Make me the grass, oblivious to all but the dew! Make me the rock that is moved by nothing! If nothing else, let me be the soil, fallow and unconscious, knowing none of what I know.
I cannot bear it.
Where was the serpent? He had weathered this act. Surely he would know what was to be done. But even as I thought it, I knew he had bidden me eat knowing what would happen. I was sick. I had adored him, and he had bid me eat . . .
Eat and die.
The golden scales had housed poison.
The clots of flies massing upon the refuse must have tripled in this short time; the island teamed with swarming hordes, darkly iridescent in the sun. I barely turned away in time to heave out the contents of my stomach. What came out tasted acrid and foul and gave off a bitter stench. The adam recoiled, confusion and then disgust plain upon his face.
“What is that? Why are you doing that?” The adam stared, pointing. Flies came to feed on my vomit.
“I don’t know.” I wiped my mouth then scurried to the river to wash. I rinsed my mouth and then my face . . . and then my thighs, and then, giving up on ablutions in this way, plunged myself into the water. I sank beneath the surface, letting it cover me, meaning for it to wash me clean—even my ears and my eyes—so that when I emerged again the world might be as it was before. But as water filled my ears, it only entombed them in stifling silence.
Beneath the water I saw the carp, staring at me with one round eye. He whirled away in a cloud of mud.
I came up, spewing water, letting it run from my ears. Overhead, birds swarmed beneath a dingy sun. Gone was their crystalline sound, replaced by cries dull and feral and stupid.
I could not wash the dullness from my ears. I could not wash the dimness from my eyes. Perhaps the adam, if I could rouse him from his stupor, would know what was to be done. He had lived longer than I. Surely he would know what to do.
But when I returned to the bank of the island, he had vanished.
I stared at the place where he had been, at the mass of flies where I had vomited in the grass.
“Adam!” I cried against the growing avian storm. The dark bodies of a thousand birds threatened to blot out the sun. I scrambled out of the water, my hair sticking to my back and shoulders and breasts, rivulets running down my spine and dripping from my nose. “Adam!”
But he was gone. I could no better sense the whereabouts of the man than I could hear the padding of Ari’s pride or Yedod’s pack.
A moist thud sounded somewhere beyond me. It came again and then again, like the patter of heavy rainfall—or the bashing of soft skulls. I spun, looking for its source, but I was alone on this patch of earth in the middle of the river. Then I saw, from the corner of my eye, one of the heavy fruits of that tree fall to the ground. And then another—and another—in a faded golden rain. Overhead, one of the ravens plunged from the horde and tore into the fallen flesh.
Oh, God, what have we done?
I am the leaf shuddering on the stem before the storm. I am the mountain that tremors before the quake. I am the leaping fish that lands upon the bank.
I surveyed the valley around us. It seemed both alien and strange, a thing not itself, as the adam was not himself. There were the usual sounds, fainter, as though from a distance—thinner, as though through a sieve. If I strained, could I smell the scent of Ari, the cud of Adah, the faint scat of the vole, and the grapes upon the terrace?
I could not!
I must think. I must find sense—the One was the author of order! But there was no order in the stillness of the air or the fruit teeming with flies.
The adam let out a sound, feral and raw, and fell down upon the ground, covering his head. I wrapped my arms around him, my limbs clumsy and disassociated, and realized I could not distinguish my sounds from his.
Make me the grass, oblivious to all but the dew! Make me the rock that is moved by nothing! If nothing else, let me be the soil, fallow and unconscious, knowing none of what I know.
I cannot bear it.
Where was the serpent? He had weathered this act. Surely he would know what was to be done. But even as I thought it, I knew he had bidden me eat knowing what would happen. I was sick. I had adored him, and he had bid me eat . . .
Eat and die.
The golden scales had housed poison.
The clots of flies massing upon the refuse must have tripled in this short time; the island teamed with swarming hordes, darkly iridescent in the sun. I barely turned away in time to heave out the contents of my stomach. What came out tasted acrid and foul and gave off a bitter stench. The adam recoiled, confusion and then disgust plain upon his face.
“What is that? Why are you doing that?” The adam stared, pointing. Flies came to feed on my vomit.
“I don’t know.” I wiped my mouth then scurried to the river to wash. I rinsed my mouth and then my face . . . and then my thighs, and then, giving up on ablutions in this way, plunged myself into the water. I sank beneath the surface, letting it cover me, meaning for it to wash me clean—even my ears and my eyes—so that when I emerged again the world might be as it was before. But as water filled my ears, it only entombed them in stifling silence.
Beneath the water I saw the carp, staring at me with one round eye. He whirled away in a cloud of mud.
I came up, spewing water, letting it run from my ears. Overhead, birds swarmed beneath a dingy sun. Gone was their crystalline sound, replaced by cries dull and feral and stupid.
I could not wash the dullness from my ears. I could not wash the dimness from my eyes. Perhaps the adam, if I could rouse him from his stupor, would know what was to be done. He had lived longer than I. Surely he would know what to do.
But when I returned to the bank of the island, he had vanished.
I stared at the place where he had been, at the mass of flies where I had vomited in the grass.
“Adam!” I cried against the growing avian storm. The dark bodies of a thousand birds threatened to blot out the sun. I scrambled out of the water, my hair sticking to my back and shoulders and breasts, rivulets running down my spine and dripping from my nose. “Adam!”
But he was gone. I could no better sense the whereabouts of the man than I could hear the padding of Ari’s pride or Yedod’s pack.
A moist thud sounded somewhere beyond me. It came again and then again, like the patter of heavy rainfall—or the bashing of soft skulls. I spun, looking for its source, but I was alone on this patch of earth in the middle of the river. Then I saw, from the corner of my eye, one of the heavy fruits of that tree fall to the ground. And then another—and another—in a faded golden rain. Overhead, one of the ravens plunged from the horde and tore into the fallen flesh.
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