Eden

by Korman, Keith;

  And then the two men chuckled, the sound echoing in their shelter, so even the rocks themselves seemed to smile. Their laughter died and quiet returned.

  Eden laid down her head and slept her master’s hand upon her soft ears. Deep in the night she opened her eyes once more; master’s hand was gone. The two men sat by the embers of the fire and spoke in whispers. To Eden they seemed to be speaking only to the stone walls of the shelter, and to the emptiness beyond, but if either the rocks or emptiness heard them Eden did not know. The words themselves she did not fully understand, but she listened carefully just as when she had listened to the man of the desert outside the temple with her master and the women who were not allowed inside.

  “A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh.”

  The man of the desert held a handful of sand in his palm and throughout the rest of the night the two men stared into the cup of his hand as if to count each grain, as they would the souls of men. Eden touched her nose to the man of the desert’s palm and snuffed, blowing the grains away.

  But neither man seemed upset, her master saying, “So it will be with us.”

  Eden lay down and closed her eyes, nothing to do but wait out the night. The last thing she heard before falling asleep once more was her master’s voice asking:

  “Is he still at the river?”

  Who might he be? Eden wondered. Who knew?

  “More gather every day,” the man of the desert replied. Then fell silent.

  Ah, Eden understood, someone important.

  When the sun rose that morning, the dog peeked from the warmth of her master’s cloak to find the man of the desert nowhere at hand. The man of no scent had returned to the wilderness leaving behind only the grains of sand once held in his palm, now scattered about the fire pit, back on the ground from whence they came, each grain indistinguishable from the next.

  That day’s march began in hunger; the stony hills on either side giving neither shelter nor food. The twisted stumps of trees reached for the sky with bare branches, too early in the season for any fruit. As the day lengthened a few pilgrims appeared out of nowhere and many ways seemed to join as one. Their march became a ragged troop, faithful travelers treading a path into the valley of a river. The newcomers gave master and Eden what little food they had brought: a crust of dry bread, a slip of meat, a swallow of water. Another hour passed and the number of pilgrims increased by scores, sending up waves of dust from their tramping feet.

  When they reached the river a chill wind blew in from the north under a gray sky. Handfuls of men and women lined the steep, rocky slope along the bank, while those closest to the water’s edge gathered together in shivering knots, tugging at their cloaks. Some squatted on boulders while others clung to twisted bushes and the trunks of thin trees whose roots snaked into the water’s edge—anything to keep from slipping into the cold current.

  The thread of pilgrims, once noisy and talkative on the road, became hushed as they approached the dark, curling water. Even the children among the crowd, always happy to see a dog, were strangely quiet and subdued and refrained from petting Eden. Indeed the whole crowd retreated to frowning silence as newcomers shuffled through breaks in the thickets and closer to the unwelcoming water beyond.

  Eden noticed many beggars, the sick, and the hungry. Some wore thin homespun, while the wealthier pilgrims wore thick cloaks. But no matter whether clad in rags or fine wool, heavy care weighed down each pilgrim, unspoken burdens sapping their strength and draining their hope as they shivered in the cold.

  Eden sensed deep regret and pain on every leg she passed. Some of those along the riverbank smelled of remorse, others of desperation—a scent that overpowered all others. As the pilgrims milled about, the dog could smell their troubles with each leg she saw. And with each breath, another sin. This one beat his wife. That one gave herself to strangers. One failed to mourn a dead father. Another cursed his mother. The sins went on and on …

  Yet none of them dared go into the water. Instead they clung warily to the bushes, and roots along the bank to keep from falling in. Every so often one slipped, soaking his feet, only to scramble away, clinging ever more stubbornly to the rocky shore.

  Too fearful, too obstinate, too angry to wash their sins away.

  Suddenly Eden looked around. Where was her master?

  She had lost her master among the many feet.

  In panic Eden ran back and forth among the crowd, frantically snuffing the ground here and there. Trotting from leg to leg. Are you my master? Are you? She snuffed the air as deeply as she could, but for once the man’s familiar scent was nowhere on the wind. This time all traces of him gone.

  “Why run when all you need to do is sit?” a solemn voice asked. Eden stopped in her tracks. By a mound of hay, a calm, gray-faced donkey sat on its haunches, staring moodily over her head.

  “I’ve lost my master!” Eden told him. “Have you seen him?”

  The old donkey tucked his nose into his feed, took a mouthful of hay and thoughtfully gazed across the slow river. The long gray face chewed and swallowed, and then at length the donkey cleared his throat.

  “Of course—look out into the water. Why fret? Do you think he’d really leave you?” he asked. “Your master stands with my master, who stands in the river. Now they both bear the water on cold blue feet.”

  Eden looked where the long gray nose pointed. The donkey’s man stood in the stream. Goatskin pelts barely covered his nakedness as he leaned on a goatherd’s crook for support. Eden’s master stood there too while the current tugged at his robe, but he bore the cold bravely, standing firmly as the current flowed around his calves—the only pilgrim who dared the river.

  Even as Eden watched, the wind sighed and held its breath.

  A sound came across the water: the faint bleating of a goat.

  Farther out in the stream a tiny goat was swept along by the current. The poor thing struggled to stay afloat, its little gray nose dipping under the water then coming up for air. The creature’s feeble cries fell on every ear.

  The pilgrims on the bank gasped in dismay, but no one stirred to help the poor thing—more afraid of the river than to see a creature drown. And for a moment Eden caught her master staring at her. So too the goatskin man and now both men stared, as though wanting her to do something. The tiny goat bleated once more and its nose dipped below the surface.

  Eden didn’t know what came over her.

  The dog leapt off the bank, rushing into the stream.

  Before the tiny goat floated ten more feet Eden paddled out to the poor struggling thing. One paw cut through the water and then the next, the water rose about her chest, her paws kept paddling and before she knew it she had swum past her master and his friend.

  The current was strong, but not so strong she couldn’t keep her head above water. The goat looked at her with frightened eyes and its gray nose sank for the last time.

  Eden found a good grip on the back of its neck and turned for shore.

  This was the hard part, for she was not a youthful dog any longer and her age got the better of her. Eden’s legs and shoulders began to fade. The goat in her jaws kicked and fought, gasping every time its nose came up for air, then suddenly went limp, exhausted.

  Dead weight, worse than before.

  And just when Eden had no more strength left, her burden lessened, the water dripped from her neck, her muzzle and cleared her eyes. Eden still held on to the tiny goat, but her master now held her body above the current. He passed Eden on to another pair of hands, and that pair of hands to yet another, gray goat and white dog passing from willing hands to willing hands, closer and closer to shore.

  The pilgrims had braved the river.

  In moments, both dog and goat stood on the bank.

  Once on firm ground the tiny creature bleated, “Maaa!” shook the water from its flanks; then gamboled fro
m one large boulder to the next. A shepherd and his flock appeared on the crest of a hill, and the nannie bleated back, “Here!” The goat beamed in delight and ran to Mama.

  Eden watched the lamb run off without even a word of thanks; then shrugged.

  Kids …

  When the dog finally shook the water from her fur she doused the old donkey sitting by his mound of hay. The old fellow grumbled, “Must you—?”

  But the long gray face didn’t seem too put out, almost pleased with himself. “See, I told you your master would never leave.”

  Eden stared back across the water. Out in the river the ragged, goatskin man spoke into her master’s ear, but what he said she couldn’t hear. From the rocky shore it seemed the two were long-lost friends. And as the line of people stood in the water waiting to be touched by the strange man, the sun broke through the flat iron of gray clouds and warmed the water’s edge.

  Before she knew it her master had returned. Eden leapt into his wet arms, and they were both together.

  “Your first disciple,” the ragged man laughed from where he stood in the river. “Don’t lose that one!”

  “Yet I have nothing to teach her,” her master called back. “She is already perfect.” Then to Eden he said, “Come now, let’s dry your paws on these sunny rocks. Who knew this riverbank was such an inviting place? There are plenty of warm stones to spare.”

  The line of people stretched into the water and down the bank. Fear and regret seemed to have vanished from the river’s edge. The air grew warmer and Eden heard the sounds of children playing. One or two dogs came out to play as well. Perhaps they’d only been hiding behind the nearest rock, for what dog would abandon its own children?

  Eden saw two large golden butterflies fluttering over the water. Tired from her big swim, she laid her head down to sleep, letting the younger dogs play with their kids—unable even to lift her head to watch. Her master sat beside her while the throngs waded into the water to be blessed and the day lengthened into dusk.

  That evening the wild man of the water climbed from the stream and stood by the pilgrims’ fire warming his limbs until the goatskins dried on his body. Eden and her master sat with him and shared some food from those who remained behind: a handful of dried dates, a loaf of stale bread and river water from a large clay jar.

  So tired from saving the drowning lamb, Eden barely ate. As the sun set she slept on the pillow of her master’s folded cloak. Faintly she heard the man of the river speaking to her master, words that sounded like a warning.

  “You’ll find no help out there now. Not where you are going. The final test before you walk among men once more. And if you fail to return no one will know where to find you in the wasteland. No one will remember you existed.”

  “There is no wasteland,” her master replied. “Only lands we’ve let go to waste.” But what those words meant, Eden could not say. Though she heard the hint of a smile in the goatskin man’s voice: “A wilderness then.”

  And felt her master smile in return.

  “A garden of stone.”

  The Wilderness

  When dawn broke the pilgrims had vanished from the riverside along with all sign of the wild man and his donkey. The two must have departed sometime in the night. As Eden’s master prepared to leave, he took with him only what he could carry: a gourd of water, a handful of nuts, a few slices of dried fish.

  Eden took a long drink from the river that morning as her master washed his face, a drink of water that seemed to restore her from nose to tail, the strength of puppyhood returning with every swallow. She ran in circles round her master’s legs, happy to be alive. The sun rose across the flowing water, its sparkles dazzling their eyes. Dog and man bid farewell to that bright, empty shore, and Eden followed her master into the wilderness.

  Though much of her vigor returned, over the course of days the paths they trod weighed down her wagging tail. How many days and nights? Eden could not tell. The dog saw daylight rise and dark night fall about their heads, while the bare earth turned beneath their feet. Grimly they staggered and stumbled through empty canyons of rock.

  The handful of nuts and the gourd of water vanished before the first sunset, yet Eden and her master struggled onward. Though by what power their hunger was held at bay neither the man nor animal could say. And though the desert air closed their throats and their salty tongues swelled to fill their mouths, their thirst did not finish them off. They plodded on.

  Each day the sun rose through naked towers of stone, and each day they grew thinner in face and muzzle, weary in flesh and breath, yet neither lay down to die. And stranger still, Eden seemed to hear the rocks under their feet speak, whispering in low tones as if to mock them.

  “Why are you here?” asked one stone.

  “Where are you going?” whispered another.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” one rock asked.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?” taunted another.

  Eden tried to growl, can a dog not walk here? Can a man not follow? But her dry throat made no sound. And as if to tempt her, cold flowing streams filled her mind, visions of rushing water across river stones, dripping combs of wild honey in the trunks of trees, the drowsy hum of many bees, while young lambs bedded down in fields of clover …

  Suddenly Eden realized she’d been standing still for some time, her master no longer walking. She could feel the weariness pour from him. Without a staff for support he sat heavily on a large flat outcropping.

  Another creature had joined them in this stark channel of rock.

  The newcomer looked very much like a man, but lacked a human smell. No scent of sweat or dirt or even the parched desert came from him, just the stink of ashes and tar, charred bones and crushed hope. He crouched on a narrow ledge in a cleft of rocks and looked down, almost blocking their way. In order to go on they would have to pass under him.

  “Are you clean?” the man asked. “Now that you’ve bathed in the river?” Eden heard a note of scorn in his voice. As if neither man nor beast could ever be clean. She watched her master look up wearily from the stone.

  “Clean enough,” her master replied, but did not rise, too weak to go around or push on past. Eden felt the two men strive for a moment, their eyes a battle of wills: her master, a man of flesh and blood, against this adversary on the ledge, wearing the skin of a man, a cloak of abysmal deeeps, hiding nothing but emptiness beneath.

  “That’s a narrow perch on which you sit,” her master said at length.

  “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “I cannot balance as well as you.”

  “Well, let us find you some place where you can.”

  And with that their adversary stood, brushed himself off and turned, leading them to a steep path—unnoticed till now. The hidden path rose upwards into the cliffs. He beckoned and Eden’s master began to climb. Not too steep for a man to crawl on hand and knee, nor too steep for Eden. She followed, panting as the barren valley fell away below.

  Slower and slower they went, yet ever higher and higher. Finally they stopped to rest on a wide ledge before the mouth of a cave. Eden panted heavily; the air seemed very thin, the stink of tar and ashes filled her nostrils. At some point during their climb night had fallen; the stars shone down, not with majesty and wonder, but with a kind of bitter light, making Eden want to look away.

  Once again the two opponents sat in silence. Eden’s master held a pebble in his hand and rubbed it with his thumb as though to wear it down, but Eden could not see whether the pebble was white or dark inside.

  Their adversary squatted by the cave. Beside him an oil lamp burned.

  Yet the flame shed little light, the cave mouth an ugly gash in the side of the mountain. This ledge was not a pleasant place and Eden had no urge to explore further. Even the valley of stones was purer. A scorpion scuttled to the edge of the cave and stared out on the ledge, its pointed tail a crooked finger, searching for something to sting. Another scorpion challenged the first and the two f
aced off. Their claws clicked, their stingers flicked like poisoned knives, each seeking advantage over the other.

  Eden caught her master staring at the two insects. The next moment she saw a glint of laughter in their adversary’s eye.

  “Can you tell what’s inside without breaking them?” he scoffed. Eden’s master did not reply. At the cave mouth the scorpions writhed, locked in a death grip, each with a claw about the other’s stinger.

  Eden saw a flicker of movement in a lump of rock.

  A serpent curled on the ledge quietly opened its eye. For several moments it considered the thrashing enemies, each holding a dagger at the other’s throat.

  The serpent struck. Fangs flashed, jaws snapped and the two scorpions vanished. The serpent curled head to tail once more, nearly invisible again. A lump moved in the serpent’s throat as the coiled creature quietly savored victory.

  So that was the reason for the glint of laughter. The Hollow Man had known all along what lurked in the dark, ready to devour any creature that crossed its path.

  A serpent—far worse than mere insects …

  The oil lamp sputtered and went out. Eden saw her master pull his cloak about him, for the air had grown cold. But then thinking better, he took it off, folding his cloak to make a pad for her. The stars overhead wheeled silently across the sky and the three silent figures sat before the cave mouth under a moving dome of endless night.

  How much time passed Eden did not know.

  When she gazed across the ledge again their adversary held the serpent in his lap. The snake was dead and the Hollow Man had skinned it, laying bare its flesh.

  “One of the scorpions must have struck on the way down,” he said softly. “Or maybe both did. He ate too fast. Anyway, this gives us meat.”

  A strip of snake dangled in his fingers and he tossed the dainty before Eden’s nose. The aroma filled her nostrils, not evil but delicious, the finest meat she’d ever smelled. And a hunger rose in her, a hunger unlike any she had ever known.