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

by Caryl McAdoo

  She came last to the room she shared with Adam and threw herself across their bed. Her heart ripped anew. It was no dream. All was lost. She sank into her tears. If only things had been different. If only she had never eaten from the forbidden tree.

  In her mind’s eye, the days melted away as they often did, and she found herself stomping the paths of Eden that fateful morning. Full-grown at fifteen summers, she had resented being treated like a child by both Adam and the Lord.

  She found her way to the pantry of the small sleeping abode and started mixing ingredients for bread.

  When her brother-husband came in, she nagged anew.

  “Tell me why. Why must we wait?”

  Adam smiled and shook his head. “My precious Eve, how often are we to have this discussion? Abba said wait for His blessing.”

  Why wouldn’t he ever answer her questions? She knew what Abba said. She wanted to know why. “Maybe so, but He also said be fruitful and multiply. Besides, we have the choice, did He not say it?”

  “To everything, there is a time and a season. Yes, the choice He gave to us, but with the admonition to wait. Children should not have children.”

  “I am not a child.”

  His right eyebrow raised half-a-thumbnail. “But I am.”

  “Very funny. Thirty summers have passed since your creation. How long must we wait?”

  “I am content.” He shrugged. “If the Lord tarries another thirty years to give His blessing, I will still be content, for it shall pass in the wink of an eye as the past thirty have.”

  She waved him away. “Go and do what you have planned. I no longer desire to speak with you.” Oh, how that smug know-everything expression of his boiled her. How could he be so patient? Couldn’t he see full well she was full-grown?

  Adam smiled then bent and kissed her cheek. “Why don’t you meet me at the falls before long shadows?”

  “Why don’t you leave me alone as I asked?” She gave him a sour look then turned her attention to the bread dough. He did not move, only waited her response. “Off with you then. I will come.”

  Just as she shoved the loaf into her oven, a stray note pricked her ear. Soft as the cooing of a dove, more strains followed. Of different origins, yet the same. A high-pitched lilting soothed the boiling inside to a simmer. Eve never heard anything like it. By the completion of the daily loaf, the song wormed its way into her soul.

  She hummed along, embraced the tune that drew her to discover its source. With each step, the melody grew bolder and stronger. More notes joined of different implements.

  “If only you knew what He knowssss.” The incomplete declaration came with the music, riding the notes inside her head. “They would no longer treat you assss a child.” Each word hissed in perfect rhythm with the throbbing symphony. Stringed instruments joined in.

  The beat drew her closer.

  To the center.

  Of the garden.

  Where grew the two trees.

  She often ate from the Tree of Life, its fruit more sweet and refreshing than all the many others Abba gave for food. But she never before even considered touching the other, the only forbidden by the Creator. Moving with the tempo, her body swayed and she twirled. Each note reinforced what she suspected.

  If only she possessed more knowledge, things would be different.

  “Did God not ssssay you could eat from any tree in the garden?”

  She turned one way then another. Who spoke? Had it come from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil? But trees never spoke, not with words. Her eyes searched until she found the snake coiled on a branch. “Yes, any and all save this one. For then I would surely die.”

  The reptile’s skin shimmered as he slithered to the ground and stretched his full length upright until his split tongue darted down at her. “Not sssso. Knowledge only openssss your eyessss. Tasssste, I ssssay. Sssssee that it issss good for food.”

  “Truly, it delights my eye.” She reached out her hand. “And its meat is desirable to make one wise then? Give me knowledge like Abba?”

  Before she had touched it, she shook off the remembrance of that awful day of great sorrow and re-entered the present one, almost as bad. What good ensued from dwelling on the past?

  It could not be changed. What was done…well…it was done.

  One hundred paces east, near the entrance to his orchard, Adam patted the mound of dirt over Abel’s grave. “Rest well, my son. Soon my days shall also end, then we shall be together again.” He placed the stone chosen as a marker at the head of the grave then trudged toward his home.

  PRAISE ME MY SON

  His Lord’s voice called softly. For two steps, he resisted then fell to his knees. “How can I, Abba? My children are all lost. My wife in grievous despair.”

  PRAISE ME IN ALL THINGS

  Adam considered the request. “Yes, Lord. I will give you thanks in all things and continually praise You while I have breath.” He bowed his face to the ground. “Praises be, Holy Father! Blessed be Your Holy Name. Your Name is high. I will praise the Name of my Most High God. Your majesty is above the heavens. Your mercy endures forever.”

  Praise abated his sorrow and raised his spirit. Perhaps Eve might join him in praise and be helped also.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Close ranks.” Centurion flew toward the breach belting out a hymn. Pimkala joined him, found the harmony, then took the point. Slowly, the gap closed, the latest assault repelled. The evil ones retreated a half-league then matched Centurion’s angels flap for flap.

  Pimkala escorted the last three casualties to the portal then returned to Centurion’s side. “We need either reinforcements or a miracle.”

  “I know, but the only legion within a thousand leagues is with Michael, and if he flies, then Lucifer flies, too.”

  “Have you considered a truce?”

  “No. The Captain of the Host said protect the woman with our last feather.”

  “Then it will be so.” Pimkala rolled to his back and faced Centurion. “With the last three returning to God’s temple, we are half a hundred.”

  “I know. Rebellion lost angels, too.”

  “Twenty, twenty-five at most.”

  Centurion rubbed his nose. “I only counted eighteen forced to withdraw.”

  “Praise be to Him Who sits on the throne. We need that miracle.”

  He nodded then waved his second back to his position in the ranks. Just as the next surge of Lucifer’s minions drew nigh, the man’s words reached Centurion’s ears. He paused mid-flap and listened.

  “I will praise the Name of my Most High God. Your majesty is above the heavens. Your mercy endures forever.”

  A melody for the man’s words sprang into Centurion’s heart, and he sang. His fifty caught the tune and joined him. Like a blast from God’s nostril, the praise song rolled Rebellion over. Feathers rained. Pimkala whooped his war cry in harmony to the new song leading a counterattack.

  The minions scattered.

  Just before they vanished, Tungular fell, one wing bare and the other near so. The enemy cohort lost their captain. He could do nothing but return until more feathers grew. Out of the battle until he could fly again.

  Praise be to the King Who was and is and evermore shall be!

  Though the living remained unaware of the conflict, those in Paradise heard the end of the battle songs.

  Abel grabbed the cherub’s arm. “Is it over? Is Meve safe?”

  “It is, and yes.” The angel eyed Abel’s hand still grasping his arm. “For now.”

  He released his grip. “Sorry. Tell me, how did Centurion win at the last? Only a triple fistful of heartbeats before the songs ended, your expression exposed concern that Rebellion might triumph.”

  The cherub smiled. “You did not hear?”

  “I heard much, but I know not what you speak of. Or the meaning of all my ears took in.”

  “Twas your father’s prayer turned the tide.”

  Abel stopped and faced
him. “How? What prayer?”

  Namrel wrapped a wing around his shoulder and herded him toward the stone house. “In the midst of his sorrow, he praised the Almighty.”

  “Oh.” Abel let the angel guide him in the manner he once shepherded his own sheep. “How did Padam’s prayer help Centurion?”

  “The prayers of a righteous man availeth much. Our friend caught Adam’s praise to which the Lord gave him a new melody that turned the words into a powerful war song.”

  Abel sank into a chair and pondered it all. The angels and their ways fascinated him. So many questions swirled, he didn’t know which to ask first. Then he remembered. “You called your feathers protection. Protection from what? And where is that temple you have to go to if you lose too many plumes?”

  Namrel laughed. “You are so like Centurion. One question is never enough. Which first?”

  “Protection from what?”

  “God’s glory. Except for the triplets, angels cannot stand in Eloheim’s manifest presence. At the changing of the watch, our wing feathers shield from the brightness of His glory.”

  Abel nodded. “And the temple, where is it?”

  “It is a grand building built without hands. Not only do warriors wait there for feathers to grow, but also the twenty-four elders who leave His Throne Room at the change of the watch. My brothers linger at the temple after being in His presence until the glorious afterglow that clings to us returns to Him.”

  Abel held up two fingers. “You’ve answered two, but raised two more. Will I ever understand about you and your kind?”

  “A statement and one question. Some improvement.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yes.” Namrel smiled. “In the fullness of time, you will.”

  Time? He sank into his chair, suddenly tired again. “Why do I grow so weary and need rest?” His eyelids drooped. “You never seem to.” His lids closed completely. Just before sleep overtook him, strong hands lifted him from the chair.

  “Because you are a man, and I a cherub. In His wisdom, the Creator made man a little lower than the angels.”

  While his son rested in Paradise, Adam continued to praise the Most High. Each word he uttered brought more peace to his soul. He raised his head. The hollow in his heart remained, but no longer brought him to tears.

  “Bless You, Abba.” He stood and raised his arms skyward. “I will thank You in all things. I know how much You love me, that You’re always thinking of me. I will trust in You.” For several breaths, he continued his praise, then his feet turned toward home. “Lord, comfort Eve. Give her Your joy, the strength to endure our loss.”

  He found her sprawled across the bed crying softly. Without a word, he slipped in beside her. She buried her face into his chest. Soon, her breathing slowed and the sobs ceased. Short shadows grew long before she raised her head.

  “Tell me about the vision Abba gave you.”

  He looked within and saw it again. “Abel and a winged man trod the paths of Eden, except not our garden, but a place more like it than earth. Our son stood as if in the midst of a meadow similar to where I romped with Lion and the other animals. A house of stone sat just inside the tree line.”

  “Did you see Lamb? Was he there?”

  “Yes, cuddled to Lion as so often in Eden. The comfort the sight gives is great.”

  “Oh, Adam. Ask God to show me, too. My heart is broken, shattered into many pieces, the pain more than I can bear.”

  He kissed her cheeks dry then covered her with Lion’s skin. “Sleep, my love, and I will intercede.” He stroked her hair until her breathing slowed, and she found her sleep rhythm. “Abba, what should I tell her?”

  Without a word or warning, Adam was back in Eden, half his life melted away; whether a dream or vision, he knew not. He worked on the hole he dug that fateful day. His beautiful Eve had been her usual self that morning, asking for children. He didn’t have to see the moon; Eve’s baby-longing marked the lesser light’s phase.

  He laughed and turned his face skyward. “You could have warned me about the moon cycles.”

  The Lord made no response.

  Her behavior remained mostly his fault. Before she could walk, the Lord warned him many times about letting her have her way so often—too often, but he found it immensely difficult to deny her anything because of his great love for her. Because of Eve, he learned the measure of difficulty in rearing a child.

  Still, his pleasure soared when he made her happy. He loved his little wife so very much. How could Abba love him more? Though the Lord said He did, it proved hard to imagine. Getting her grown before she birthed children would be the best way, Abba’s way.

  This time he didn’t look up. “Or You could have created her full-grown and saved me much trouble.”

  Again no reply.

  “I know. I know. She needed to be a child before she could be a parent, just as I.”

  He returned to digging his hole. In his thirty years in the garden, Eden’s boundaries had doubled. One fine day, under his dedicated tending, the whole world would look like the planting of the Lord. Adam wanted sons and daughters every bit as much as his wife, but each in their season.

  Until just before short shadows, he worked on planting the sapling. After the filling, but before he could water, the song reached his ears. By the third pulsing note, he dropped the gourds where they lay, spilling their contents, and bolted for the center of the Garden.

  The tempter! He had returned.

  “Eve.” He threw himself in a headlong dash. “Lord, no. Not Eve.” Placing one foot in front of the other could not get him there fast enough. The branches whipped his face and arms. A vine tripped him, stealing precious moments. His heart beat against his chest and spurred him on, faster—as much speed as he could muster.

  Images of his beloved sprang to his mind’s eye. In rhythm to the pounding, his little curly-headed Eve patted the lamb Abba gave her in that second spring. Her short wobbly baby-steps had turned to perpetual running by then, always with Lamb bounding behind or a little ahead.

  As suddenly, his mind’s eye caught her at ten summers swinging on the vine then falling into the pool beneath the falls. How he loved and adored her. By far, the best of all God’s gifts. Almost perfect, she was. Oh, the breath in his chest had need of her face, her smile. He needed to see her now, know she was safe.

  “I’m coming, Eve.”

  The closer he got to the center, the louder the song. He could not let his wife face temptation alone. Not at fifteen, too tender an age, too vulnerable.

  Adam reached the edge of the clearing just as his precious woman bit into the forbidden fruit. OF ALL THE TREES IN THE GARDEN… He replayed Father’s instructions. Words of warning caught in his throat.

  No. Too late. SURELY DIE.…

  Not my beloved. Not the mother of all the living. Not his baby girl, his sister, his wife.

  Eve slumped to the earth. The Lord’s glow that covered her dimmed then vanished completely. She sat naked on the ground. Now, Adam’s everything would surely die.

  Abba said it.

  The confinement of the sorrow within stopped his heart from beating.

  No. How could he exist without her?

  He could not, not after knowing…her love, the joy of her, Abba’s promise of fulfillment, of being one with her. Aching, he moved forward.

  She looked up. Her eyes. Where was the sparkle? The sadness and shame in them clutched and squeezed his heart. Oh Eve, his precious one.

  As if to show him what she had done, she slowly lifted the fruit resting on her palm. Higher until it rose above her head, letting her gaze fall ever lower. Only one bite gone. Yet one proved enough. God’s glory departed from his beloved.

  Adam ran to her and grabbed it away. He could not live without his Eve. Her smile. He would not. Living life without her, being left behind alone in Eden. Impossible. Much better to die with her than be lonely again, the single creation without a mate. A part of himself, made from his rib. His
completion.

  He stretched his mouth wide and dug his teeth into the fruit’s meat. He took a big bite, three times the size of his wife’s. He chewed twice then crammed another chunk in. Then another, until it was no more. Juice dripped from his fingers and the corners of his mouth. He swallowed hard.

  The ground shook and rent a gash. A foul-smelling fog erupted. From behind him, Lion roared, and a blur of white wool stopped beside Eve. A pillar of black smoke swirled within the garden’s center. As it dissipated, a huge dark man-like being appeared.

  The creature loomed high above; twice, maybe three times his own height. Adam stepped in front of his wife and braced himself.

  The apparition cackled. “Have you not heard? The day you shall eat from this tree will be the day you die.”

  Yes, God had said it. The obscure spirit approached with his claw-like hand extended. Lion leapt between the Angel of Death and Adam then roared mightily. Repeatedly dipping his horns, Lamb bleated and joined the great cat standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Death stepped closer. “I have come to collect my dues.” He screeched a hideous laugh that echoed through Eden. “The wages of sin is death.” Lion and Lamb stood their ground before his horrible ranting. When he tried to step around, they blocked his way.

  IT IS WELL

  “So be it.” He reached a hand toward Lamb. The great ram fell to the earth. Eve wailed and covered her face, weeping. Before the sound of her anguish faded, Death claimed Lion. In a heartbeat, Death vanished back into the ground from whence it came leaving only its stench and two lifeless, beloved pets.

  Running toward her fallen Lamb, Eve sobbed and threw herself over the lifeless body of her great friend. “What have I done?”

  “Oh, Lord.” Adam kneeled beside his own childhood companion, his forehead to the big cat’s jaw. “Oh, Lord, what have we done?”

  Again, without word or warning, the days piled on top of themselves, and Adam found himself back in his bed next to his wife. He filled his lungs and put the dreadful memory away. The worst day of his life, until…. “Why, Abba? Why did You take me back to that terrible day?”