by Tosca Lee
But upon cresting the hill, I am stunned. Below us, on this side of the river, is a small settlement.
“Who are they, Mother?” Shet asks.
“I don’t know.”
We climb down. As soon as the people of the settlement see us, they come out. I see the wariness in their posture. Shet goes ahead, and by the time we get there, slowed by the litter, they have come to help carry it.
“Great Mother!” the man who comes to meet us calls out. He wears a strange headdress with feathers on either side of it, like wings. Upon his tunic are many small metal disks, nearly like scales, hammered flat. “We are the descendants of Hanokh who have left the city to live in the wilderness. But here now lies the Great Father of us all. Let us give you shelter and comfort in the hour of his death.”
“No!” I say, desperate. “No, we have come to return to the valley.” He squints at me. His skin is dark and his nose slightly hooked. In this way he looks almost birdlike. Indeed, I suppose he bears some resemblance to Irad as I remember him. “We have come to return to the valley. Surely you have heard the tale. Well, I tell you it is true, and I have promised the adam on the promise of the One, the Great Creator, that I would return him.”
I feel tears in my eyes. “Can you tell us the way to the valley, where comes this river, and there are mountains, as these, on either side? Is this the pass leading to that valley, where there are fruit trees in bloom, and grapes on the vine, and pistachios that grow wild—” I catch my breath, remembering the first time I ate pistachios and how the adam had chuckled, drawing out the shells from my mouth.
The man, their chieftain, turns to point upriver with his staff. Now as he turns his face away, I see there, fastened against the back of his head, a mask crafted without eyes, so that they look out like something empty and soulless. My skin chills, then prickles. I stare, not hearing at first what he says. Perhaps Shet does, too, but the effect cannot be the same for him as for me. He has not seen the being I have seen, even so recently, in my dreams, gazing down at me with one face and up at God with another.
“Beyond this gate is another mountain pass, and the mountains are as you say. And there is water that flows down on either side—”
“From an abyss?”
“I do not know, lady. Because there is thunder and lightning and sometimes fire there, so we do not—”
“Yes! Yes! Please, as your Great Mother and one hand-fashioned by the One, I ask you to take us there at once!”
He frowns, his face drawing down. “There is no good passage into that place, Mother.”
“There must be. Either way, I must see it. Perhaps I can find it. I must see it with my own eyes.”
“Pilgrims come, even the great father Kayin, to find this place that you speak of, and they have all gone away disappointed. Only visions of fire have they seen but even then, only in dreams.”
I gasp. Yes, it might look like fire, the beings lit up like hot metal on either side, as the lightning sparked the sky and the thunder crashed overhead.
“Take us.”
“Will you not rest first?”
“We cannot. We dare not. Adam dies.”
We trudge along the river, and my senses are like the wolf’s, smelling everything, sharp as the hawk, seeing everything. Do I know this bend? Did I pass it in the terror of our flight beneath a blackened sky? Do I know this shape of the mountain from here, as I looked back to see it outlined in obsidian and lit up by fire?
We travel through the afternoon, never slowing. I know they are amazed at me, at my strength and sure-footedness, but in fact, a heaviness is in my chest. I feel it in moments when I stop, but then my heart buoys me up and I forget. I feel no pain. Not even the blisters on my feet.
Adam opens his eyes for a while, and Shet walks beside him, shielding him from the sun with an outstretched part of his mantle.
“Ah!” Adam says. “The sky, how blue!”
“Yes!” I say, coming to walk next to him. “Yes! as your eyes, my darling, my love. The first time I saw them, I thought they were the sky. Did I ever tell you that?”
He smiles at me, saying nothing, and a short time later he naps.
We pass the first gate near the settlement. It is a small settlement, perhaps only a hundred people. As we go, I ask the leader, whose name is Abarja, “What is this headdress you wear—what does it mean?”
“It is the Kerub, the winged creature like a man that we worship.”
I stare at him. “You know the winged men? The golden men?” Now I can see as the sun reflects upon the scales of his tunic how he gleams in the most crude representation of that resplendent creature. That terrible creature.
“No, lady, but we came here after a lone traveler told a tale of two great kerubs with shining wings and faces within the flame at this very place you seek to go. He said they forbade all entry, and anyone who looked upon them was struck with fear, and some even died of it.”
“Nonsense, or I would not stand before you.”
He gasps, eyes wide. “You have seen this creature?”
“Do not forget who I am or who Adam is! We were there at the beginning of the world, when you and your father and his father were not even a thought! I have seen this creature, and he is terrible, and you do wrong to worship him. He is a great being, and surely he is divine, but he is crafted by the most high, for I have seen him kneeling before the One that Is.”
“Then surely he is a god that kneels before the One, for who can see the Great One in the flesh and survive?”
“I can. And I tell you, you do not do well.”
He says little after that, the feathers of his headdress ruffling in the wind. But I do not care what he does. I care only that we find the entrance.
At last. At last.
We walk for hours. The sun is sinking by the time we come to the place. I recognize it from a great ways away, and now, as we draw closer, there is a distant rumble from the sky.
“There, Mother. You see the river that comes from that place? But you see how it takes up the entire gorge. There is nothing else.”
I cry out and rush forward and break into a run. No. No. There must be the garden. The One promised. All these years I have waited. All these years I have lived with the promise, clung to it.
But as I stagger forward, I see he is right. The river comes out of the pass, wide and moving quickly. As I run to its edge, I can see nothing beyond it but more water, joined by trickles and falls in some places down the mountain—yes, yes! They are the same! But where there had been a garden, there is only water now. The gorge is deep here. There are no beings on either side, as in my dream, though the mountains are the same.
The island is gone and the trees upon it—surely, they are in the river, buried, dead, and washed away. I recognize the slopes above the water—and there, where they opened up, the outcrop that had collapsed when we had fled, burying, crushing the wolf.
Thunder sounds from far away.
“Mother, we must stop,” Shet says. “Father—we are losing him.”
HE IS SLIPPING AWAY. And we have come, we have found the place—but it is no more. I run from the camp and scream as loudly as I can, “Adonai! Adonai!” Again and again, until I am hoarse with it. When I fall down, Shet is there, holding me up as I sob my grief—not for the death, for this we knew would come, but for my failure to give to Adam the thing I had promised.
We are banished. There is no hope. We die.
We die.
I wail and beat my breasts.
“Come now, Mother,” Shet says, “And recover yourself. He is slipping away. You must come. It is close.”
He supports me as we walk back, and I try to wipe my face with my hands.
“My husband,” I whisper. “I have failed you. It is no more.”
He squeezes my hand, faintly, weakly. “It is my wrong,” he says, his breath a rasp.
“How can you say that?”
“Had I not eaten, perhaps the One would have forgiven you t
o keep us together. Had I kept . . . Had I watched . . . better. Had I stopped you as I could have—”
“If not for the transgression, we would not know redemption.” But the words are hollow in my ears.
“Then I am glad . . .” His voice trails off, and his breath is slow to regain its strength. “But, Isha—” and now tears squeeze from his eyes—“I am sad to leave you here.”
I show him the pendant, close his thin fingers around it. His eyes widen, and a small sound escapes his lips as he clasps it.
“For your sake the world was created,” I whisper. “And together we filled it.” Imperfectly, with imperfect results, but the best we could.
I stay with him as Shet comes to receive his blessing. He kneels with his father’s hand upon his head. The others are kneeling, too, though Adam does not, I think, know or even see them.
And then we sit in silence, listening to the rise and fall of his chest. In the last moment, upon his last breath, his eyes widen and he gasps. His face is transformed by wonder.
And with that hope he dies.
33
He dies at the time of day that was once his favorite: the cool of the waning afternoon. I hold him in my arms, and the wind sighs through the trees. I think I hear the breath of the One, which never stops and never stills but continues forever.
I understand. And I know now the last look upon Adam’s face—it is the same beatific bliss that I once saw on Hevel’s and upon Shet’s. The same that I wore once, so long ago.
And so the One had not needed me. Having made his promise, he has carried it out in his own way. Somehow beyond the dark water, Adam has found his garden again.
Now here I am, an old woman—the oldest person on earth. And I wonder if anything matters as much as I thought. I used to think that every action, every lifting of the hand, every notion, sent ripples into the universe, unseen by us, to rise to invisible waves a world, a league away. If an act such as eating might reverse the entire fortune of the world, what might be scratching a nose? Or laying a kiss upon a forehead? Or spewing a curse, or turning a back?
Now mark this, my sons and my daughters: God does not work by the laws of this realm. He has created it and can create it anew. To the question of a lifetime I now know the answer, but it has taken a lifetime to learn it. Now, at last, I can say to the One, “I know. I understand.”
“But what of the seed and the promised strike to the serpent? You said you saw the serpent in a dream and that he lives,” Shet says. His eyes are red from weeping.
“I saw him in a dream, and I saw the adam restored, though it was not the same Adam. I do not know how it will be.” But I know that my dreams have always been true.
I know, too, that for every child I birthed and raised up and watched go his way, aching for his hurts and longing for his heart, so, too, has the One. As I never left them, neither has the One left me.
“Stay here awhile,” I say to my son. “I am going into the mountains for a time.”
“Let me come with you.”
“I would be alone with my husband.” He nods, thinking he understands. But I do not mean Adam.
I roam these precious hours and rest when I am weary. I think of the pendant, clasped in Adam’s hand. I have no more need for it or for any token. This is my last great gift, this time with the One. It is mine, as the days before my making belonged to the adam.
Adam once said to me, “You were always concerned more with things greater than the world, with the future and things not of this realm. Perhaps it is because I am taken from the earth that I am base.” But he was never base. He was crafted for the company of the divine.
They are looking for me, I know. Even from here I feel Shet’s grief and concern for me—and his mystery, too. He will be a great spiritual man someday, I think. Perhaps he is the seed. It no longer matters to me to know who—only to know that it is true.
It is enough.
They are looking for me. They have not seen the direction I have gone and will worry because it is dark. I must remember to tell them to bury Adam here, in Eden, nearest the place from which he came. How strange to walk away from him. Shet is bent over his body. I see it as though I stand there. But Adam is not there. He came before me to life. He goes before me to that other place. Hevel waits for him—and Kayin and Ashira and the others. All my children before and to come.
Even now I feel him near me as I make my way toward the mountain. Perhaps I will look down on the watery valley with the dawn. It is cold tonight; I should go back. But then I do not feel the chill so much.
At last I sit down and rest. I am suddenly weary—my legs, my feet, my heart, so very weary. And there is pain, pain in my chest, and I do not know—is it grief? I am struck with it and fall to the ground. But this is Adam’s earth. It is the body of my lover.
I once feared death but now consider it a grace not to be trapped in this life or this body forever, with its wrinkles and ravages and this searing pain, with its aging and heartbreak. That is what this is: heartbreak. It is the last sadness, the last failure—no, the last joy—that bursts the vessel in the end. I lie upon the ground, thinking, Yes, it is right that I should be buried here, where the crickets will make their same song, as they did after Hevel’s death, and Kayin’s, and as they do now. And the wind, which knows no other song, will rustle the trees with my name.
Havah.
The name is a breath before speaking and a fiery exhale.
I am the daughter of God and of man. God has not forgotten me. The One that Is has never been wrong. I have been naive, grabbing up with human hands what I could not trust the One to do. How I see it all now!
Sleep—I can see the earth as it was, the green without the fire, the lightning, the river flooding it. See? The waters have receded and meander along the valley floor, east to the plain. And my spirit runs along the river, knowing that place—and there is the island, and it is lovely, and there are gazelle, running along the bank. I feel the speed of them with me, the herd around me. Warmth on my face—faster, faster—did I ever run so fast before?
My legs are strong and tireless. I wear the stars, I am clothed in light. Watch me run. Watch me run!
There is laughter, and it is mine. My song rises to heaven. For I know tonight I will lie in Adam’s arms.
The voice comes, as it always has.
Wake!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you ever want to feel humbled and grateful at once, I tell you: write a book.
You will find yourself the recipient of the kindness of strangers willing to help you for no other reason than they like what you write. Or they like you. Or maybe they feel a little bit sorry for you even. But mostly you will be overwhelmed by the generosity of faceless new friends, industry veterans, new fans, and helpful others willing to invest in your mission and in you.
You will also find yourself the object of much criticism and occasional attack. That’s why these people are so important.
Thank you to my incredible agent, Steve Laube, and hero editor, Karen Ball. Julie Gwinn, thank you for your amazing ideation. B&H, it is a privilege to know and work with you. Thank you also, Joyce Hart, Jeff Gerke, and Reagen Reed for making this book possible.
During the course of my research, I have managed to stymie pastors, frustrate academics, and incite head-scratching in general with my questions of literal and elaborate speculation. I owe thanks and apologies to: Amy-Jill Levine of Vanderbilt University Divinity School, Joel Kaminsky of Smith College, Vern Steiner of the MIQRA Institute, Tim Johnson of New Covenant Church in Lincoln, and Warren Wiersbe. Thank you also to Luann Finke for sharing your love of horticulture with me.
Meredith Efken, you are a gift to me. I am so grateful for you, Brandilyn Collins, Eric Wilson, Anne Rice, Randy Ingermanson, John Olson, Stephen Parolini, Angie Breidenbach, Kacy Barnett-Gramckow, and Steph Whitson for your support through this project. A multitude of other names belong here—writer friends and others who encourage me.
Thank you to my sister, Dr. Amy Lee, my parents (all of them), long-suffering friends, Tim Hodges, the “Demon Dames,” the Beckenbachs, Chad Bring, Katie Weaver, and Kristin Nelson.
Reviewers and bloggers, and readers who take the time to write to me, I am grateful for you (yes, even if you hate my book, though I like the ones who like it just a little bit better).
Rick, I love our three-ring circus. Thank you for showing me the stars.
Most of all, first and last of all, great thanks to the One that Is, who says to me every day, “Wake!” and shows me what it is to truly live.
I’m sure I have forgotten many I should have mentioned. And so thank you to you, too—for your understanding on top of everything else.
NAME/MEANING LIST
Abarja: Most strenuous (Persian)
Adah: Adorned, beautiful
Adam: Man, human being
Adina: Noble, delicate, gentle
Adonai: Lord
Ari: Lion
Asa: To heal, or healer
Ashira: I will sing
Atalya: God is exalted
Besek: Lightning
Chalil: Flute
Dedan: Low ground
Dvash: Honey
Elied: My God is witness
Enosh: Man, human being, mankind
Gada: Bank of a river, shore
Goral: Fate, destiny
Hanokh: Initiated, dedicated, disciplined
Havah: Life
Hevel: Breath, vapor
Irad: Descent, descending
Ish: Man, male
Isha: Woman, female
Kanit: Songbird, reed warbler
Kayin: Begotten or acquired; some say Spear
Lahat: To burn, glow, blaze up, flame
Levia: Lioness, lioness of God
