Revealing Eden

by Victoria Foyt

  “I talk to you.”

  Eden shook her head. “But we didn’t speak.”

  Maria swept her hand through the air with a whooshing sound. “El viento.”

  “The wind?”

  “Sí.”

  Love’s gentle wind?

  “You remind me of my mother, Lily,” Eden said, wistfully.

  “Lily,” Maria repeated, and her face broke into an infectious grin.

  They began to giggle, though Eden wondered if they laughed at the same thing. But then again, maybe Maria understood far more than Eden thought. Maybe her mother had, too. And just maybe she could gain some of that same intuitive knowledge.

  Maria gently began to wrap a long bandage around Eden’s ribs. Eden held up her long tresses, but a lock slipped and caught in the bindings. She couldn’t stand the sweaty mess, not for another minute. Once, it had been a small source of pride, but she had hidden behind it. For long enough.

  “Cut it, please—por favor,” Eden said. She touched the ends of Maria’s hair then marked the same length on her jaw. “Like yours. Okay?”

  The excited gleam in Maria’s eye suggested she knew Eden sought more than convenience. She knotted the bandages, then reached for the bamboo cutter. As she held it to Eden’s jawline, Carmen and Etelvina burst into the room. At the sight of their mother pointing the sharp instrument at Eden, they stopped short. Etelvina hid behind her sister. Even the delicate Cymbidium orchid in Carmen’s hair seemed to tremble with fear.

  Eden took a deep breath and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Maria made the first cut and Eden grabbed her hand as the strands fell to the floor. Long-repressed, painful images of her mother’s hair falling out in chunks loomed in her mind. By then, the dark coating only had covered the tips of the red strands, as if her mother’s true essence had flooded in before she left.

  Breathe, Eden. Stay in the moment. That’s what her mother would have said.

  Maria made the gentle, calming sound of a breeze, letting her breath rise and fall, over and over. Outside, the ever-changing melodies of the forest reminded Eden that, for the Huaorani, only the present existed. And right now, nothing threatened her but old fears.

  If she could stay in this moment and then the next, and the next after that, would she become fearless and free? Perhaps just like in her dream. She had to try. Yes, she admitted, she hoped to be somebody’s she-cat. But mostly, she wanted to shed her fear-logged skin.

  Calmer now, Eden released Maria’s hand. “Go ahead,” she repeated. “Por favor.”

  The little girls settled on the floor to watch, their arms wrapped around each other. Snip by snip, the hair cuttings pooled at her feet. She wondered if the children thought it held some potent magic or evil.

  Soon, Eden’s head grew light; her spirits, frisky. Looking at the growing pile of golden hair, she imagined a bowl of honey, a reverie Aunt Emily might have enjoyed.

  The pedigree of honey

  Does not concern the bee;

  A clover, any time, to him

  Is aristocracy.

  Maria stepped back to appraise her work when she was done. Eden waited, wondering at the quizzical look on her hairdresser’s face. Then Maria offered Carmen the bamboo cutter in exchange for the lavender orchid. The girl seemed happy with the trade. Her mother smiled, as she tucked the Cymbidium behind Eden’s ear. Its bewitching fragrance drew Eden’s lips into a soft smile.

  “Tu eres muy bonita,” Maria said.

  Me, very pretty?

  Eden swung her head, delighted by the tickle at her jaw. She felt as naked as when her dark coating first had washed away, but without the fear. More than that, she felt liberated. Maybe there, in that wild place, anything was possible.

  Even beauty, Eden.

  She studied herself in the hand mirror. Definitely less timid, she decided. If nothing else, she might pass as a tribeswoman.

  But not quite.

  She held out her long, flowing skirt to Carmen and gestured for her to cut it. The sisters muttered between themselves, deciding. When the older girl stepped forward, Eden had a clear view of Etelvina and caught her breath. The red straps of the backpack were slung over the little girl’s shoulders.

  That’s when Eden remembered the Huaorani principle of exchange. She scooped up the pile of hair and pointed to the bag. Once more, the sisters conferred. Then they nodded, and the exchange was done.

  At last, freedom, Eden hoped, shrugging on the pack.

  Again, she held out the skirt and Carmen began to cut it. Eden turned around and around until the dress was almost as short as Maria’s little flap. Carmen pointed the cutter at the top of her dress, but Eden politely declined her offer. Not that free.

  The demanding shrieks of the macaw rang out in the air. Its mistresses fled, clutching their golden bounty. Maria quietly left before Eden could thank her.

  She laid the backpack beside her on the bed with a heavy sigh. Yes, the Life-Band was there, she confirmed. And yet, it failed to bring her the joyous relief she had expected. From the moment she had been ripped away from home, her only aim had been to return. Why hesitate now, Eden?

  Thoughts of Bramford produced a dull ache in her chest. If she left the jungle, she might never see him again. Was that what she really wanted?

  Eden gazed out the window at the vibrant forest, imagining him on the hunt. Hungry and dangerous, he would slip through the shadows, his body rippling with energy. Even in deep darkness, he could see and smell his prey. When ready, he would pounce with a bloodthirsty roar. The law of the jungle required that he violently take what he wanted.

  She fanned away the heat, wondering if he ever would take her. A lovely blue-vented hummingbird, Amazilia sophiae, buzzed up to the paintbrush with a sharp tsiping sound. The rapid beat of its sapphire-colored wings seemed to echo the flutter of her heart.

  When Bramford returned—he simply had to—he would find a very different girl. Maybe even a wild she-cat.

  But what about the Life-Band, Eden?

  “DAUGHT?” EDEN’S father’s frail voice floated in from the main room. “Where are you?”

  “Coming,” Eden answered.

  She stashed the backpack under her bed, then thought better of it. What if an animal slipped through the window and took it? She slung it over her shoulders and rushed out.

  The sway of her hair against the back of her neck pleased her. The shortened dress moved with ease. How little the world had changed while, there in her room, Eden had shed an old skin. She approached her father with a proud smile that faded at the sight of him.

  Had he shrunk in the hammock overnight? A fresh poultice covered the wound on his leg. Useless, Eden thought. She had no choice but to signal Shen as quickly as possible.

  “Something is different,” her father said, cocking his head to one side.

  Her hand fluttered to her hair. “Do I look all right?”

  “Aha. Going native. Short hair will cool the body temperature.”

  Eden sank down on a stool. Why couldn’t he see the deeper changes in her? The truth came to her even as she said it.

  “I don’t want to be a Pearl anymore.”

  “What?” Always, the nervous blinking. “We can’t change what we are.”

  “Why not? Bramford did.”

  “An undeniable fact. However, an entirely different scenario.”

  “Is it?” Again, the words popped into Eden’s head. “Suppose I wanted to change like him?”

  “I don’t understand,” her father said, though the flash of fear in his face suggested he did.

  Eden didn’t quite understand, herself. She stared out the back window at the insects buzzing around the water hole. Live out there? That can’t be right, she thought, and tried to explain.

  “I’m just saying that maybe we don’t have to be what other people expect us to be. Maybe I can be who I really am. Although, I’m not sure who that is.” She paused, relieved by the admission. “I can tell you one thing, Father. I’ll n
ever again be the Old Eden. I’d rather die.”

  He studied her with the same focus she often had seen him apply to a puzzling phenomenon.

  “I see,” he said. “Of course if the right variables are in place and conditions permit, then, naturally, change is possible. After all, such is the history of man. Even you and I can change, if only in incremental ways.”

  A tentative smile creased his face, which Eden took as a sign of pride, however meager. She smiled back, delighted as the invisible wall between them began crumbling. And yet, she soon grew uncomfortable with their unfamiliar closeness.

  “How are the sequences progressing?” Eden said, returning to safe ground.

  Her father also seemed eager to change the subject. “Quite elegant,” he quickly responded. “A very, lucky break that we came here. Too many regulations back home.”

  Lucky? He was dying. And the only man who ever had touched her heart was about to become a super jaguar—not exactly good mating material.

  “It won’t be lucky if Bramford is killed.” Eden heard the tightness in her voice. “I mean, who will protect us?”

  “He’ll survive,” her father said, matter-of-factly.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He chuckled. “Parental knowingness.”

  “You’re not his parent, Father,” she said, unable to hide her resentment.

  “Only in a metaphoric sense, of course. Creator to creature.”

  He was the problem, Eden realized. If she couldn’t stop Bramford, she had to stop her father and his crazy ideas.

  “You can’t do it,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “Do what?”

  “Change Bramford again. You’ve already done enough damage. Why can’t you just leave him alone? Think of his son.” Think of me.

  “The son, Logan?” Her father scratched his head. “An unknown variable. Bramford will have to decide his future. It’s not up to me.”

  “But it is. You have real power here.” Eden hesitated, struck by how much she sounded like Bramford. “If you change the way you look at yourself, you’ll see what I mean,” she added.

  “But this is an incredible opportunity, Daught.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Why don’t you ever call me Eden?”

  “Daught is your nickname. I always call you that.”

  “It sounds like a classification.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But I’m not one of your experiments,” she said in a firm, quiet voice. “I’m your daughter, Eden.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. Wait, please,” he called out as she turned to leave.

  Over her shoulder, she saw his sad, desperate expression.

  “Rest well, Eden.”

  “You, too, Father.”

  It was time, she told herself, as she entered her room—not Rebecca’s any longer. It belonged to Eden now. And she would take matters into her own hands.

  She dug out the Life-Band and activated it. A slight tingle in her head indicated her sensors had connected to the World-Band. The internal buzz that she had heard all her life flooded into her mind with a bang. She stumbled over to the window, shocked by the crippling noise. Even there in the wilderness, old familiar fears clawed at her once more. They were back.

  Eden numbly watched a riodinid butterfly land atop the paintbrush, still lodged in the window. Its emerald metallic scales shimmered in the sunlight. The shining Caria mantinea rested just long enough for her to sigh before it flew off.

  For Earth’s sake, do it, Eden.

  All she had to do was link to Shen Bramford. She almost hoped there would be no response, but the Life-Band flashed.

  Eden sent her plea. Please, come get us.

  Noting her location along the equator in the last preserve of rainforest, she imagined the message lifting from the damp, loamy forest floor. It would fly through the dense foliage as it inhaled the exotic scents, or tasted a juicy papaya, and especially took a last gulp of clean air before flying north to the polluted, barren land of Home Sweet Home.

  Sadly, she registered Shen’s response: Message received. Will come soon. Hold tight.

  It was done.

  Eden quit the connection and buried the Life-Band back inside the pack. She couldn’t think about it anymore.

  She lay on the bed, drained by her dilemma. She had done the right thing, hadn’t she? Why then this nagging feeling?

  Outside, birdsong ramped to a fever pitch, announcing the end of another day. And still, Bramford had not returned. Eden closed her eyes, wondering where he was. And did he think of her at all? If only they could glide through the jungle together like the girl and the jaguar in the painting.

  Poor Aunt Emily once felt this intense ache.

  I envy seas whereon he rides,

  I envy spokes of wheels

  Of chariots that him convey,

  I envy speechless hills

  Eden tossed and turned all through the restless night. The relentless hum of the crickets and the cast-iron heat wore on her. In vain she swept her legs across the bed, searching for a cool pocket of air, though it wasn’t the thing that would satisfy her.

  Too soon, a dusting of pale pink light lay against the window. She awoke, amazed by the recurrence of her dream. Bramford and I are on the beautiful, grassy knoll. He’s looking at me in that naked way that stirs my blood.

  Eden struggled to catch more of it. I’m in his arms. Our lips meet.

  Slowly, she became aware of a silent, watchful presence in the room. Father or the little girls could never be so quiet. Maria would have announced herself. And if it were Bramford, Eden would have caught his scent.

  Could it be?

  She jerked up in bed. “Logan?”

  The intruder made a garbled sound. He was halfway through the window when he stopped to grab the paintbrush. In that instant Eden clearly saw the outline of a small boy, six or seven years old. It had to be Bramford’s son.

  She held still and spoke in a calm, reassuring voice. “I won’t hurt you, Logan.”

  Again, Eden heard a pitiful, choking sound. She rushed forward, as he jumped to the ground.

  “Wait!”

  Through the soft light, she saw him run towards the gated hut. He skirted around the back, disappearing from view.

  Eden didn’t want to scare him by giving chase. Besides, if Bramford caught her there, he would be furious. The last thing she wanted was for Logan to see them fight. No, she had to let the child come to her.

  She couldn’t explain her protective feelings towards the boy or the urgent need to know him. Deep down, she felt certain that if she could win his trust, she might gain something even more valuable. Something a she-cat needed.

  EDEN STARED out at Logan’s hut, amazed that she had discovered him, when a grass-green tanager landed below her window. She stepped closer and peered over the edge, delighted by the plump little bird’s glistening trill. The slash of red across its eyes reminded her of a mask, as if the Chlorornis riefferii were a playful bandit.

  What was that? Eden’s toes met something hard and gooey against the wall. She took a step back, surprised to see a rectangular piece of board. Why, it was a painting, freshly done!

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she reached for it. At first Eden thought it was another portrait of Rebecca. Then she noted the slightly fuller mouth, the more elfin-shaped face. Could it be? There was no mistake.

  Imagine, a portrait of Eden Newman.

  The single initial, signed in the corner, equally surprised her: L for Logan? Perhaps he had left it in exchange for the paintbrush. However, the time it must have taken to paint it as well as the personal nature of the painting pointed to a gift, made especially for her.

  Overwhelmed by the idea, Eden sank down on the edge of the bed. Gifts were rare. Unlike in the Old World, birthdays were a painful reminder of a short life span and marked with sadness. Only a girl’s first menstruation—a sign she wasn’t toxic and, therefore, might perpetuate
the species’ survival—caused a minor celebration.

  Eden wistfully recalled the gifts she’d received on her special day. From father, a detailed analysis of her genetic predispositions with special emphasis on her advanced intellect. Mother had given her an old, graying book of Aunt Emily’s poems. And though she appreciated these things, the obvious message layered into them never escaped her: you must improve yourself, Eden.

  How astonishing that this young boy who didn’t know her had presented a gift without judgment or comment. In fact, unlike the images of Rebecca, which had a serious, almost stern, quality, Eden thought her portrait was light and whimsical. As if Logan alone could see the New Eden emerging, something she barely understood.

  She recalled his surreptitious visits along with the soft, rustling sounds, which she decided must have been the stroke of his brush. How many mornings had he stood in the room, studying her? And how had seen her in the dim light? Perhaps, isolated in his hut, he had grown sensitive to subtle shades of light, as well as to the layers of life. Eden longed to hug the sweet boy.

  She jumped up, full of glee, and replaced Rebecca’s portrait with her own. Much better, she thought, stepping back to examine it. But how could she continue this unusual dialogue of objects with Logan?

  Eden never had owned much, but how useless it all seemed now. Finally, she needed so little. The backpack and the ruined party dress, which lay in a corner of the room covered by spider webs, were all she possessed here. She dusted off the dress and laid it out on the bed, considering it, when she heard the chirpy prattle of the two sisters in the main room. Her father’s wheezing cough filled the air, as he seemed to gasp for air.

  Hold tight, Shen’s message had said. Eden only hoped her father could.

  Carmen skipped into her room, offering the morning chicha and a fresh white orchid. Etelvina trailed behind, a petulant look on her face. They slung harsh words under their breath at each other. Amazed, Eden understood the tables had turned. She was no longer a monster but more like an older sister whose attention they sought.

  “Gracias, Carmen,” Eden said and, hoping to diffuse the sibling rivalry, also thanked her sister.