A Little Lower Than The Angels (The Generations Book 1)

by Caryl McAdoo

  “No, not today, for I know not where it is. It looks much like Eden. Abel is in a rock house with a winged man. Only God knows when we will go there, but one day we will, and we will embrace our son again.”

  “Abba showed you this?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Come. We must prepare his body.”

  While a new day dawned above in Adam’s valley, Paradise came alive with the morning calls of toucans, the roosters’ crows, and the distant bleating of sheep. The reality of his own demise greeted Abel.

  A mighty roar rumbled through his mind.

  Lion.

  Though he never heard Lion’s voice, stories of his father’s favorite pet filled his childhood. Once, he spotted one of the great animals when he and his brother journeyed with Padam in search of different seeds.

  And only from a far distance then.

  He slipped from the wall pocket and wandered through the dwelling. Namrel bent over a table scratching a feather across a thick white piece of cloth, except too thin to be a useful fabric.

  Abel moved to one side to get a closer look. “What are you doing?”

  Speaking without a spoken word still seemed odd. Would this method of communication ever seem right?

  The cherubim looked up and smiled. “I record the attributes of the Almighty. I do this in my away time. A fascination of mine.” He held out his hand. “See?”

  Abel peered over the wing of the cherub. “Those squiggles mean something?”

  “Each mark carries its sound; put them together, and words are formed. You know how each word has meaning. When others of my kind see them, they know the words I have written in this book.”

  “So many strange things.”

  “Perhaps not so strange, only new.”

  “True.” From the arched window, morning beckoned Abel with its golden glow. So vibrant, the colors in Paradise. So alive, the creation.

  He walked to it and whistled at a robin sitting on a close branch. “Where exactly are we again? I know Paradise, but in relation to my father’s valley?”

  The angel smiled. “In the bowels of the earth, my man. The home of your birth is on its edge.” He walked to the window and stood beside Abel. “Do you care to explore? Become more accustomed with your new home?”

  “I’d like that. May we go now?”

  “Certainly.” Namrel led the way, but barely got out of the house before turning. “I am curious. Why do you mingle two words into one?”

  Bursting out laughing, Abel hurried to keep up with his new friend’s pace. “Cain and I started it. Padam and Meve didn’t love our manner of speech, but we liked it, and soon enough, it became habit.”

  “Another question?”

  Abel nodded.

  “Why did you not defend yourself when your brother attacked?”

  For several paces, Abel didn’t answer, then he stopped. “I’d just come from God’s Mountain. A peace I’ve never known filled my heart. My brother and I fought so much, so often in the past, but I couldn’t bring myself to raise my fist this time.”

  Though the lush forest was rife with sound, he and his guide strolled in silence, exchanging what words passed between them silently. Abruptly, the trees ended a few feet from a great chasm.

  In the distance, a lake of flames spewed plumes of black smoke, and fingers of fire danced across its surface.

  “What is it?”

  “Torment.” Namrel swept his wing past the chasm’s edge. “This is your boundary. You may not cross to the other side, nor may the condemned come to Paradise.”

  “There are others like me?”

  “Not yet, but many will come.”

  Abel watched the fiery lake for several heartbeats. “Condemned? Is that where my brother will go when his days on the edge are complete?”

  “Cain lives still.” The being shrugged. “Perhaps repentance will find him. Only Eloheim knows the future.”

  “Wait. He knows the future?”

  Namrel nodded.

  “Then why did He ever let my parents eat from the forbidden tree?”

  “Neither man nor angel knows the mind of God. But He gave both free wills. Though He sees the future as well as we see the past, He allows us free choice.”

  The words Abel understood, but the concept confused him. “Then if God knows the future before it happens, how can it be our choice? I do not believe Padam would ever have chosen to leave Eden.”

  “Do not forget, for choices made—obedience or rebellion—always must follow the consequences, good or bad.” Before he could explain further, the angel spun toward the forest. “Brace yourself, my friend.” He pointed with his wingtip. “We have company.”

  “Another cherubim?”

  Now it was Namrel’s turn to laugh. “Cherubim if many, cherub if one, but no, none of my brothers.”

  The foliage bent as if a strong wind blew, but only a gentle breeze touched Abel’s skin.

  A furry stick of golden brown waved above the bending grasses and ferns. He fell to one knee and held open his arms. The great cat cleared the trees and bound straight for him.

  He grabbed Lion’s mane, rolled with him as Padam said he was want to do in his garden days.

  The enormous beast nuzzled and licked Abel’s face there in the soft grasses beside the deep chasm. All thoughts of God, his parents, and the future vanished playing with the overgrown feline.

  Better than a thousand or more turns of the waterwheel later, Lion stretched out and napped in the clearing where a game of tag ended. Just before succumbing to sleep himself, Abel remembered his unfinished conversation.

  Where was Namrel anyway?

  Oh well, he could get answers later.

  Against the length of Lion, he closed his eyes and rested.

  CHAPTER THREE

  While the man of Paradise slept alongside his father’s childhood pet, dreaming of the valley he once called home, Cain fled with his sister from that same valley and from the presence of God.

  “Are we ever going to stop?” Sheriah sat on a rock, pulled off her sandals, and massaged her feet. “Ow. I need a drink and to rest. Besides, aren’t you getting hungry?”

  His feet hurt, too, and his stomach growled fiercely, but he refused to waste even a heartbeat. He must keep going, get as far away as possible, and as fast as he could. “Hurry, wife. Evening’s long shadows draw nigh.”

  She looked up. Fatigue and sorrow filled her eyes. Her features reminded him so much of his mother.

  A tinge of remorse bit his conscious, but he rejected it. He’d never see Meve or his father again, not so long as they dwelled in the valley of God’s Mountain.

  “But why are we going this direction? The rocks hurt my feet, and you surely know the ground’s like this all the way to Eden. Wherever that may be.”

  “Not too far I think. You’ve heard the story as well. When God banished our parents, Padam traveled west. I’ve decided we will live in the land east of Eden.”

  “But why so far? If we found a place closer, perhaps one day we might –”

  “No, wife.” He stuck out his hand. “Come, we must hurry.”

  She slipped her shoes on, tied the straps, and took his hand. “Why do you call me wife when we’ve not lain together?”

  He pulled her to her feet. “As soon as I’ve found a suitable place and built a proper house, I promise I’ll give you a baby.”

  She walked ahead smiling. “But it takes many cycles of the moon for a baby to grow. We’ll have all that before the child would be born.” With a hint of teasing in her voice, she wiggled all over.

  “Stop that. You’re not a baby anymore.”

  “Even if we started tonight. What’s the good of being a wife without a swollen belly and children to show for it?”

  “My sons will not be brought into the world in a lean-to with dirt floors. We will wait.”

  “It’s sad we’ll never live in the wonderful room you built at home.” She stopped and faced him. “Anyway, what makes you assume I
will bear a son? Could as well be a daughter, you know. Either way, I don’t want to wait.”

  “Neither did Meve.” He kissed her forehead then turned away. “We both know that story, too, and you will wait.” He never looked back, hoping she would follow without further protest.

  That night after a meager meal of berries and hard bread, Cain stared into the fire long after Sheriah fell into a fitful sleep. His forehead throbbed, and the wound oozed. The loaf-and-a-half of bread and the second gourd of water would go fast.

  Especially if he didn’t run across another stream soon.

  According to the story, five more suns would set before he would reach the garden, and he intended to go as far beyond. He wished he’d prepared better, but at the moment, lack of nourishment seemed slight compared to facing his father.

  Padam surely knew by then.

  Was he coming after them?

  A sweet trill of notes sounded, then a faint odor tickled his nose, one he had smelled before, but when? He sniffed the four winds. It wafted from the east. He strained his ears, but in vain.

  With only the pleasant odor to guide him, he grabbed the cool end of a fire stick and left sniffing the air every eight or ten paces. With each step, the aroma grew stronger and his mouth more expectant.

  Akin to baking bread, the scent made him swallow constantly to keep from drooling.

  Nearly one hundred paces from his own camp, flickering firelight illuminated the path ahead. His heart beat hard against his chest. How? Who? Drawn by the vaguely familiar odor, he crept closer.

  Past an outcropping, in the center of a small clearing, a fire burned. A sacrifice? To whom?

  Something sizzled on a skewer held over the flames by two forked limbs. He realized why the aroma smelled so familiar. The sacrificed lambs.

  Who could it be other than his father? Had he been following so close? Could he make such sacrifices anywhere? God certainly did not consume it as on His Mountain.

  Cautiously creeping further, he searched the perimeters of the seemingly vacant camp. Checked behind large boulders and past the edges of the fire’s brightness, but saw no one, nothing.

  He called out, and the sound of his own voice in the stillness startled him.

  He made his way to the fire again and examined the fare. Meve never cooked such as that. Just as he bent closer to inhale the succulence, the wind stirred. And a music rode on it, a lovely noise akin to the flute’s music Abel played.

  It grew louder.

  A whisper floated on the night. “Eat.”

  Cain crouched and glanced all around. “Who’s there? Who speaks?” Silence only, interrupted by the sizzle of a drop from the roasting morsel perched above the fire’s coals. His stomach growled, and his head ached.

  The unattended camp, the music and strange food, the command to eat; it all set his skin on edge. His neck hairs stood.

  Yet he could see no one.

  “Eat. It is good.”

  He backed slowly out of the firelight, searching the darkness as he inched his way to cover. Could it be God? It didn’t sound like His voice. Maybe the wind only played a trick on him.

  Sitting perfectly still for many heartbeats, he finally decided it must be the breeze blowing through the rocks.

  Seduced by the aroma wafting from the fire and relatively certain no danger lurked, he returned and lifted the branch with the chunks off the forked limbs, then stood straight.

  Once more he looked all around then pulled a piece of the browned meat off and smelled it. Yes, he remembered correctly. From the mountain. When Adam’s God rejected him.

  ‘No’ reverberated in Cain’s soul.

  God forbade the flesh of animals for food. He first thought to throw it down, but his watering mouth and grumbling gut caused him to reconsider.

  His father taught not to eat flesh, that God had given every seed-bearing plant for food. But why should that affect him now? He no longer lived in his father’s house, and the God of Adam had rejected him, his offering, cursed and marked him.

  Why shouldn’t he enjoy the meat?

  Satisfy his hunger?

  He raised the dripping morsel to his mouth, tasted the juices, then bit off a piece. The firm texture pleased him as no fruit or vegetable ever had. He loved lamb. If only he had known while still in the valley.

  He and his sheep-tending brother might have been much closer. His lips spread into a wide grin. Then he devoured the meat.

  The sun rose in the east, as every other morning for the forty-five years since Eve’s creation, but this day was like only one other, for an overwhelming sorrow filled her being. She caused the banishment from Eden.

  It was all her fault, because of her disobedience and manipulations.

  Now all her children were lost to her. This grief though… How could she stand the pain and live?

  Adam threw out another shovel full of dirt. While she watched him dig her son’s grave, an unanswered why reverberated through her soul. But no soothing balm presented itself.

  More dirt flew from the knee-deep hole, and the fresh mound beside it grew. Her life in ruins again, just like in Eden. But why? What had she done this time?

  “Tell me why, husband? Why would God be so cruel? What have I done to deserve such sorrow?”

  Adam continued digging.

  The nagging questions tormented her. She lowered herself to the grass, still wet with dew that rose each even to water the earth. “Will you answer?”

  He faced her. “Better to ask why Cain killed his brother. This was not Abba’s doing.”

  “But there was no intent in the act. Only an accident; Cain said so himself.” Though Adam shared his version, she preferred to believe her son’s.

  He shook his head. “No, my precious. No fighting. Examine your son’s shell. Do you see any marks or bruises? No, none. Only the one blow to his head. It was intentional.”

  All the tears Eve could cry had been shed during the long night. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Even if you are right, God allowed it, didn’t He? Why did Abba have to banish my living son?”

  Adam leaned on the shovel and shrugged. “Why does He do anything? I know not Abba’s mind, only his heart. I know He cares, loves us beyond measure. Yes, He is all powerful, but gave us free wills, hoping we choose His way. When we do not, we pay consequences—like having to leave Eden.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I should have been there. Things will be right again. The Creator of all loves us, Eve, and for life, that is enough.”

  “But how can anything ever be right again? My babies are all gone, and you refuse me others.”

  “We will wait upon the Lord, as we should have in the beginning.”

  She wrapped her arms across her bosom and rocked. “I have seen forty-five summers, and you sixty. How long must we wait?”

  “Until Abba gives His blessing. I will not disobey God again, however long that may take.” He stared at her for a few heartbeats, then returned to digging.

  “Did you ask Him?”

  He stopped again. “Yes, I asked, and He said, ‘Wait.’”

  “Oh, husband, how can we bear this?” She leaned closer. “Ask Him again.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not? What if He changes His mind before next year?”

  “Do you think I ask for His blessing only once a year?” His lip quivered then stiffened. “Eve, my love, I desire you as much if not more than when in the Garden. I lie awake nights begging Abba to give me strength to wait. There’s no need to ever ask again, for He knows the desires of my heart, and yet I continue to.”

  How could her heart hurt worse? Yet it did, as though without hope. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “You are not to blame, you were deceived. Me, I knew and chose. I could not face life …without you. One glorious day though, He will bless our union.

  “Then, and only then, I will give you more babies.” He wiped his eyes and returned to the digging.r />
  She had tricked him into giving her Sheriah. Sixteen springs ago, her plan had been hatched. Eve now lamented the scheme, but then it seemed so right. The twins matured to fine young men by their fourteenth summer.

  If their wives were to be the perfect age difference, then Eve had to conceive that spring.

  The days melted away, and as though it was yesterday, her mind’s eye saw her husband coming in from the vineyard with the boys trailing. They carried baskets full of ripened grapes and laughed and teased as they raced to dump the fruit into the press where she trod barefoot.

  At her bidding, Cain and Abel readied to set off in search of more spices. She had found many favorites in the woods far to the south, and she wanted to make certain the boys would be gone until the sun rose again.

  “Join me, husband. Help get this finished, then we can celebrate a rare evening alone.”

  With an ear-to-ear grin, he untied his sandals, washed his feet, then climbed in. Though he would never admit it, he loved mashing the grapes. He took her hands then swung her around playfully. She lifted her knees high and danced in circles, smashing the purple orbs.

  After the boys traveled well out of sight, Eve feigned slipping and slapped a handful of the juice on Adam’s shoulder. “Oh, dear, forgive me.” She laughed even more as he smeared her face with the staining liquid.

  Dodging, he avoided the first handful of pulps she threw, but the second wad hit him square in the temple. “Now you will reap what you have sown, wife.” He dove toward her.

  She dodged, and he caught himself, but went knee deep into the juice. She laughed. “You are all blue.” Leaning to kiss him, she taunted, “Race you to the creek.” Climbing from the wooden vat he and the boys fashioned, she wiggled the hem of her grape-purpled skirt. “Come on, unless you think you have no chance. Either way, I need to bathe.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Not all are mashed.” He picked up a clump, drew back and aimed, but she turned. The juicy ball splattered her backside.

  She laughed. “Suit yourself then.” She grabbed her clean dress and skipped the first fifty paces with her heart racing. Once she reached her bathing spot, the first downstream from where they drew water, she retrieved the basket of goodies packed early that morning before Adam woke.