by Caryl McAdoo
Everything was ready. Goat cheese, hard bread, and her oldest jug of wild berry wine. Since she first thought of her plan, a nagging voice in her head exhorted against the seduction, but she chose to ignore it.
Dreams of daughters spurred her on. She longed for them with all her heart, even more than when she wanted to be a mother and birthed the twins. How wonderful it would be to have girls.
Just then, laughing wafted from far up the path.
She stepped into the cool waters then turned when he came near. “Did you mash them all?”
“Enough.”
“My, was I that purple?”
He laughed. “Yes, and parts of your hair and back still are.”
“I couldn’t reach.”
“Need some help then?”
He slipped into the pool and washed her back. She loved his touch. Then he turned, and she slowly scrubbed his grape stains with her soap root. His shoulders, so broad, and labor-hardened muscles rippled his back.
Covered with the root’s lather, her hands slid around to his chest, and from behind, she hugged him tight.
“I love you, Adam.”
Dry and dressed, she brought out the picnic and fed him bite by bite, making sure his gourd cup never completely emptied. Soon the wine affected his speech, and her plan surged toward success.
“Do not fink I dooonot know what you’re doing, wife. Annnn you should stop.”
“Stop what, my love?” She giggled at his slurred words and lay back on the rock.
He stared at her a few heartbeats. Though she suspected he would bolt, he kissed her instead. She returned his affection.
“We should not. Abba said wait.”
“I know, I know.” She had covered his mouth with kisses.
Eve shook off the remembrance.
If only she had waited, perhaps God would have given her two girls. Cain and Abel would not have grown so jealous of one another as Sheriah developed from girl to woman.
Perhaps a mother might yet enjoy her children’s laughter, their presence. If only.…
This time, trickery would not do. She rose and trudged back to the house from the deepening grave. For a while, she busied herself with everyday chores, ones usually shared with her daughter.
The absence of Sheriah’s laughter filled the house with a sadness of its own. She missed her so.
And Abel. No matter how hard she tried, she could not avoid his room. She hesitated at his door then peeked in. He remained where his father placed him, on his bed dressed in his finest robes.
Her eyes, unable to linger on the still, lifeless form, swept the room drinking in his possessions, all that was left of her kind and gentle boy.
His flute, his garments, his shepherd’s staff.
Her gaze rested on the necklace of acorns Sheriah fashioned for him last fall. The girl always seemed to favor Abel. Why hadn’t God given Eve a daughter for each of her sons?
She picked up a small square of lamb’s wool Abel had been working on and threw it across the room. It only traveled a few feet before floating soundlessly to the wooden floor.
How different things might have been if only....
Eve absentmindedly fingered the oak’s smooth seeds.
What was done, was done.
What good did it do to place blame? That’s what Adam said. The past could not be undone. If it could, she would have her children, no matter the cost. Abba could have shown her the future.
If only He had, things would be so different.
She sat on the bed beside the shell of her son. Lifting Abel’s head, she gently maneuvered the necklace over it then straightened it on his chest.
His handsome face…frozen so peaceful and serene. She stroked his cheek. It was cold. A single tear ran down her own.
“My son, my son. I thought all my tears had fallen, but perhaps they never will. Without you, without your brother and sister…my days shall all be full of weeping. If only it could have been me instead.”
Though she knew not from where they came, tears flowed again in earnest. “If only….”
Chapter Four
While his mother pondered the whys and ifs of her life, Abel woke in the haze that follows slumber. He snuggled against the length of Lion as the first man had done so long ago in Eden. Reality brought a smile to his lips.
Dead from his brother’s hand, yet he lived.
Without moving any other muscle, he opened his eyes and surveyed what he could see of Paradise and his newfound playmate. The cat’s chest rose and fell rhythmically.
He tried to stand without disturbing Lion, but the animal raised his head.
“Sleep on, my friend.” The first words spoken aloud since he arrived, heard with his ears. As if the beast understood, he lay his head back and closed his eyes. “I wish Padam could know you were here with me.”
He stared across the great divide a few heartbeats then walked away. Easy enough, he found the meadow then the rock house. With words of his mind, he called as he entered. “Namrel? You here?”
“Ah, you have returned.” The familiar voice led him through his new home though no sound brushed either ear.
He strolled through the main room then past his resting nook. A deep-throated hum that he could actually hear spurred him along. Upon reaching the last room on the east end, he stopped in his tracks. A giant angel looked over Namrel’s folded wings, while the cherub traced his finger over a page of his book.
Six breaths later, though Abel no longer needed to breathe, Namrel looked up, but the giant continued to stare intently at the cherub’s odd markings. “Hello, Abel. How was your nap?”
“Good.”
The giant lifted his head and spoke without words in Namrel’s manner. “Forgive this angel’s intrusion, young man, but your mother –”
“My mother? What about my mother? Is she here?”
The cherub held his hands up, palms facing Abel. “No. She remains on the edge. However, the pain…your demise has brought her low.”
“I am sorry for her, but for some reason I know not, my sorrow doesn’t hurt my heart as it would in my father’s valley.”
“How could you be sad in the presence of God’s joy? And besides, the Creator sent Centurion with his one hundred to sing a ring of protection around her. An angel of the host we spoke of before.”
Abel stepped into the room. “Sing a what? From what does my mother need protection?”
Centurion looked toward Namrel, who spoke without sound. “Lucifer and his minions. They have deceived her twice before. Hopefully, her redemption draws nigh.”
“And who’s Lucifer?”
“The snake.”
Realization dawned in Abel. He looked to the giant. “If Meve’s in danger, I’ll go with you. Why are you still here anyway?”
The giant nodded toward the book he studied. “My quiver was empty, but now it is full.”
Abel backed a step from the doorway. “Then let’s be gone.”
Namrel stood. “Not possible.”
“Why not?”
Centurion stepped toward Abel. “Come and see.”
Outside, the giant angel lifted his head, spread his wings, and sang three crisp and clear notes. After a pause, he whistled two more. Little bolts of blue light cut a circle in the expanse a furlough overhead.
One pull of Centurion’s wings shot him into the air. He glanced once under his wing before disappearing through the blue hole.
Before the portal closed, Centurion heard the man ask the Cherub what the giant had filled his quiver with.
“New songs of praise, melodies of war,” he sang before the old one could answer. The portal closed, and he turned his attention to the coming battle.
Speeding through the corridor, Centurion reflected on Abel. He knew of the son of Adam as well as all of Heaven, but had never seen him or the others. The man’s stature surprised him, and his resemblance to God.
But who could know the reasons why the Almighty created as He did?
The sentries whistled a challenge, and he responded his at-ease shrill.
“Is the old cherub in fine feather?” The tallest guard smiled. “I have not seen him since the last Change of the Watch.”
“Indeed he is, as fine as the day the Almighty spewed me into the Crystal Sea and I first beheld the first of the cherubim.” Centurion nodded then glanced over his shoulder. “Any sight?”
“Nary note nor quill.”
The five that protected the gateway stiffened then spread their wings in unison. Centurion nodded then sang the portal open. “Be ever ware.”
The first of the quintet responded. “Sing well.”
Centurion smiled again then flew through the opening.
He reunited with his main force where he had left them, flying lazy circles two leagues above Adam’s Valley. He flew alongside his second, an angel half a head shorter, but with a bass that boomed like Eloheim’s own thunder.
“Any sightings, Pimkala?”
“Nary a note.”
“Michael thinks they will mass over Eden and attack from the East or North.”
“Is the archangel singing?”
“He and the third legion shadow Lucifer and his first. He will not fly this way unless his brother moves.”
Pimkala smiled. “So it is we alone?”
“Who knows for certain?”
Two hymns and a ballad later, they came from the east. Pimkala and his ten flew out and engaged the vanguard. Attacks and counter attacks flew every direction as melodies filled the Second Heaven.
But Centurion had not yet participated. He delayed in the tight circle he flew within the center of his hundred. Neither had he breathed a note. His quiver remained full.
Even came and went, and Lucifer’s minions continued to press. A trio broke through the northern perimeter and flew straight at Centurion, who flapped full on through the hundred then belted out a melody.
The enemy sang back, extolling the greatness of the usurper. He parried with an old hymn. They split and attacked from three directions, blasting him with an ancient and odious melody of Lucifer’s beauty and power.
The horrid notes slammed into his chest like a glare from God.
He let them sing their way closer then retrieved from his quiver one of his new praise songs extolling the lovingkindness of Eloheim. They matched him note for note for two turns of the hundred.
Then Tungular, the opposition’s leader, faltered and lost the harmony to their battle song. In a star’s twinkle, the enemy vanished.
Centurion found Pimkala. “Are we whole?”
“A few feathers ruffled, but we can sing on if need be.”
“I know Tungular. His pride will not rest on a retreat. He will return with his.”
“Let them come.”
The music overhead stopped abruptly.
“Is it over?” Abel stared at the expanse.
“It is, but twas only the first battle.”
Abel looked where the cherub stared and saw nothing but blue. “Is Meve safe then?”
“For now, but they will most certainly attack again.”
“With songs? Seems a strange way to battle. How does it make sense?”
A bright yellow canary landed on a low branch and sang a sweet tune. Namrel smiled and nodded toward the house. “Come, and I will explain.”
Once settled in the main room, the cherub unfolded his right wing and plucked a feather. He first examined it then held it out for Abel’s inspection.
“The spoken word carries power, but the same word sung, more powerful than the strength of a hundred oxen harnessed together on the edge. Angels do not die, neither can we be harmed, but our protection may be lost.”
He stuck the quill in his hair. Abel wanted to laugh, but kept his peace.
“When two of our kind sing against each other, feathers are lost. If too many fall…” He shrugged. “Then it is back to the temple until more are grown.”
An entire other world, that of the angels. Abel rubbed his beard. “I never dreamed others existed, thought only us. Meve told of an odd-looking fellow who helped when she delivered my brother and me, but we about decided she made the story up.”
“Twas I.”
Abel sat back and straightened. “You?”
The old angel smoothed his wing feathers. “Indeed, twas I, the first of the cherubim.”
“You did it again.”
“No, only the once.”
“I mean putting two words together like Cain and I. It was? Twas?”
He chuckled a funny-sounding laugh, nothing like laughter on the edge, but easy enough to recognize as merry. “No, no. Twas is a word of itself.”
“Truth?”
“I lie not, but am a guardian of the Truth. Twas has been a word since I first spoke.”
“No, I meant truly you who helped Meve when we were born.”
Namrel smiled. “I was there. That is why I am here.”
Abel laughed then looked deep into himself. “I wish I could warn Cain. Tell him about you and Paradise.” A pain stabbed his heart. “And the lake of fire. Can I speak with him?”
“No. Not possible.”
“Why?”
“Who knows the mind of God?” He moved to the table and opened his book. “But this I do know, neither angel nor man can do the undoable.”
How fascinating. Namrel knew so much that Abel wanted to learn. He scooted to the edge of his seat. “What about you or Centurion? Could one of you talk to him? Surely, some way exists to warn my brother.”
The glow through the far window haloed Namrel’s handsome face as he stroked his clean chin. “We could if the Lord sent us, but why do you think Cain would heed the warning from either of us?”
“Why wouldn’t he? If he knew –”
“He listened not to the very voice of God. Why would he heed an angel?” The old one made a good point.
But someone had to get through to his stubborn brother who always sought his own way. “Maybe Padam or Meve could persuade him to do well.”
“But of the two trees in the center of Eden, good came from the same as evil. Good, evil, little difference. Life is the best choice.”
“You may already know my thoughts then. Padam told my brother and sister and me stories about the trees. Perhaps Cain ending my life—his remorse—might have turned him.” How many chances would God give his twin? A new realization dawned. Abel stood and looked around. “Friend, why am I here and not with God?”
“Sin.” The old cherub turned toward him with a serious expression. “The Almighty cannot abide sin.”
“But I made the sin offering.”
“Yes, you did, and that is why you came to Paradise instead of Torment. But your redemption has not been completed. The blood of sacrificed animals can only cover your sin. It does not wash it away.”
“So?” Abel walked to the window and gazed out. “When one dies on the edge, Paradise is home ever after?”
“Oh, no.” Namrel rose then moved toward him at the window. “God has a plan.”
“What is it?”
“We know not. Tis a mystery.” His teacher peered out for a heartbeat, cocked his head at an odd angle, then crossed his lips with a finger. “Heed.” A booming baritone rode the breezes from afar. “Pimkala’s war cry. The battle is joined. Come.”
The glow of day kept surprising him, so soft and golden, very different from light on the edge. Abel followed the angel until directly beneath the gateway where Centurion earlier disappeared. He closed his eyes and tilted his head to the left in the same manner as Namrel then listened.
Like one of his mother’s puzzles, he picked out the different voices and pieced the battle together. “I wish we could see what’s going on.”
The cherub touched Abel’s arm. �
��Shush. Rebellion found a new war ballad.”
Abel strained, but couldn’t hear the song, only individual singers, belting out melody fragments. The battle resembled nothing he ever heard or imagined. All this for his mother? His many questions for Namrel could wait. His heart raced and breathing came quicker, though he needed neither.
She whom the angels warred over did need to breathe, but Eve’s lungs refused her breath. She gasped as Adam lowered Abel’s body into the ground. She hated the thought of her boy being covered with so much dirt. Tears sprang again to her tender, sore eyes. Her head ached.
Adam climbed out of the grave and retrieved his shovel.
Eve grabbed his arm. “Must we? Are you certain?”
Compassion filled his eyes. He covered her hand with his own. “Yes, my love.”
“Please.” She loosed him then ran all her fingers through her hair from her forehead to her crown, pressing against the throbbing as all of nature should press against the grievous day. How could life ever be right again? In the distance, the sheep bleated a constant chorus. Who would care for them now?
She made herself look down on her son’s ashen face, afraid she would never see it again. “Please, husband. I cannot bear to know Abel is in the ground. The pain is too great.”
He pressed the spade into the soft mound of earth beside the grave. “That is only his body. Remember the hen’s egg. Our son lives, and one day, we will go to him.”
Could she believe? “Oh God, God, why have you forsaken me?” But she knew full well and sank to the mound of dirt and wept beside his grave. Salty tears stung raw eyes. “Oh, my son. My dearest Abel.”
Like spent leaves in autumn’s breeze, bits of earth rained down on the shell of her child. If-only rang in her heart’s ear. She was to blame. If only….
A shovelful covered his face. She screamed then bolted for the house. In a blur, she raced through her once happy home. Abel dead and the other two gone, banished. She searched each room hoping it had all been a bad dream.
