The snake watched and waited. As soon as the woman had scraped soil from her fingernails and leaned back against the tree, it slithered over her bare toes and settled in position.
“That took you long enough,” it grumbled, nosing its head into the gap between her feet.
The woman scratched her nails along the zigzags that patterned its body. “I’ve neglected you today, haven’t I?” she said, in the singsong voice she used to calm it. The snake became grumpy when she spoke or moved too fast.
She had spent the afternoon weeding. Her precious seedlings were barely visible, green stubble against red dust. In a few weeks, once the vanguard of stubble had forced a way sunwards to form clumps of foliage, she would thin them, discarding the less vigorous specimens to give the others room to grow. It was a technique she had learned by trial and error.
Uprooted plants lay in a ragged heap at the edge of the clearing, wilting in the sun, soil still clinging to their long, feathery roots. The woman eyed them with dislike. “Why do rogue plants thrive on nothing when mine need such care?” she asked the snake, not expecting an answer.
However, when she warned it to lie still while she rolled her shoulders to ease her aching back, it raised its head and pronounced, “No pain, no gain.”
She enjoyed her conversations with the serpent. It had tamed her, she recognised, rather than the other way round, making itself useful by devouring the spiders that skittered across the ground and made her jump. It had become part of her life, and she had fallen into the habit of talking to it about anything and everything.
It did not occur to her that its responses, limited as they were, served to confirm her own opinions. All she knew was that it was there for her in a way that the man was not. It listened; although sometimes she scratched its head and accused it of taking no notice of her silly chatter. The complaint held an undercurrent of gaiety, for the snake’s loyal presence was enough to cheer her.
It was the serpent that made her realise she was happier when occupied. It nudged her into plaiting leaves into thick mats to make suntraps for the two of them, and rewarded her by dozing across her feet. She sang as she worked, surveyed her handwork with pride, and plaited larger mats to protect herself and the man from the rain that refreshed the garden.
Her restless spirit took her exploring deep into the forest. The serpent vanished on forays of its own, but always returned to slither at her heels. She found new herbs and sweeter fruit, and the idea came to her to plant them all in one place.
The man scoffed. “Why go to such trouble when we have all we need? See!” He bit the head off a tiny pear and spat out the stalk and pips, before feeding the pips to the macaw that perched on his shoulder.
“Because this way we’ll get more of the really juicy fruit next year,” the woman said. “Not tiny ones that give one mouthful of moisture and that’s it.”
“How do you know?”
She countered his intransigence. “I don’t. I just know it’s worth trying.”
“That told him what’s what,” said the serpent.
The man mocked, but she coaxed and cajoled, and got her way. She planted her seeds: the bushes that grew the sweetest berries ever, the plumpest roots, and the herbs that hid themselves deep under the forest canopy.
The first year disappointed. Marauding birds lurked in the trees. When they ate half the crop, she threw stones at them and missed. Yet she refused to be beaten. In the winter dark she lay close to the man for warmth, listening to his talk with half an ear while worrying away at the problem of the birds.
The serpent’s words echoed in her mind. Try, try again.
The following year she invented a bird scarer, looping long, feathery leaves around an overhanging branch, observing with satisfaction how they flapped in the wind.
Weeding was tedious work. “We have all we need,” the man told her. “Why create work for yourself?” He reached up his arm and plucked a handful of berries for his bird. “Clever boy,” he crooned. Clever boy, the bird echoed.
The bird scarer sort of worked. The tame macaw was too wily to be scared, but the small birds darted away in alarm when the wind rustled the leaves, and she salvaged more of the crop. The man gorged himself on the sweetest berries ever and the unfamiliar herbs. “Good,” he burped, and stretched out his hand for more.
The spindly shoots that grew from the seeds of the sweetest berries ever sprouted a defence of thorns against munching animals. She observed this, and cajoled the man into dragging thorn branches from the forest to form a dense barricade.
She was pondering further ways to protect the crop when there was a commotion behind them.
The snake raised its head: “What now?”
“Why do you keep things in the dark?” the man roared. “I’ve stubbed my toe.”
She lifted the mat of leaves aside and squashed in beside him. “What are you looking for? I’ll find it.”
“I could find it, if you didn’t keep things hidden away. I scratched my hand. I want those leaves you put on to make it heal.”
She felt her way behind him, and untied the herbs he wanted. “I’ll have to soak them first. I’ve told you before, the healing effect is stronger when I store the leaves in the dark.” It was not a deep scratch and behind his back she rolled her eyes at the snake.
Later, she soothed the man’s hurt away.
*
The seedlings had become sturdy plants the day she decided to go exploring again. “Come on,” she told the serpent, “Let’s go find those blue berries that give the water a good taste.”
All ways in the garden led past The Tree. The woman flopped down when she reached it, grateful for its shade, for the day was hot. She patted the ground beside her and the snake coiled itself into her flank. They dozed until the sun lost its heat, and the woman woke with a start.
“No berries for us today,” she said. “We’ve left it too late.”
“The fruit above you looks good,” suggested the serpent.
“Don’t be silly,” she told it. “The Tree is poisonous. Eat its fruit, and we die. Touch it, and we die.”
“How do you know?” the serpent countered. “You’ve never tasted it.”
She did not notice that, for the first time, it expressed an opinion of its own.
“We were told. In all our seasons in the garden, we have never touched The Tree.”
“You sound like Adam,” it jeered. “Do you believe what you’re told? Or do you believe what you see and feel for yourself?”
The woman considered. How true, she thought with surprise. I believe what I hear and see. What I touch and feel. What works and what doesn’t work. She felt a rush of gratitude towards the serpent for echoing her innermost thoughts.
Stretching up her hand, she cupped it round the fruit.
Nothing happened.
“They’re ripe,” she informed the snake. “This would come away in my fingers.”
“Hold it in your hand. Take a closer look,” the serpent pressed her. “Looking is not eating.”
She gave a gentle tug, and compact roundness filled her palm. She sensed plump flesh under firm skin. She sniffed, and put the fruit to the edge of her tongue. There was no sharp, warning taste. She licked the skin, and held it for the snake to inspect. “What do you think?”
“What do you think,” it countered. “You have made yourself wise in the ways of the garden. Why should your wisdom stop at this tree?”
She bit into the crunchy flesh, relished the crisp taste.
*
The knowledge of good and evil toyed with her like a whirlwind before slamming her to the ground. Awe held her there.
All life is one, now and forever.
Giddy with wisdom and sorrow, she sensed the quickening of new life within her. Forgetting the serpent, she clutched her belly, protective already of the child that would leach substance from her.
Only the determination to safeguard her child allowed her to crawl, to stand, to clear her head, to focus on what must be done.
A gust of wind carried the smell of burning vegetation from the wilderness beyond. Beneath the acrid taste of smoke she detected a new, tantalising smell. Even as she sorrowed for the creatures too slow to outrun the flames, she salivated at the prospect of charred flesh.
Fire could be tamed! They would eat meat, they would gorge themselves on hot, greasy morsels until gluttony became staled by custom. More importantly, they would never be cold again. The chill wind would lose its power. The rhythm of the seasons would be vanquished. When the leaves fell and the earth slumbered she and Adam would stay warm and dry, and on dank mornings they could throw wood on the embers of the fire until it crackled and glowed, to banish winter’s aches from their limbs.
*
On the way back, she slowed her steps, knowing how the man resisted new ideas. She plucked crimson berries and smeared their juice on her lips and cheeks then washed her hands clean.
Knowing now that hidden charms had greater power, she took her time selecting leaves suitable for twisting into a garment that would both cover and tease. “I was unadorned,” she informed the serpent, startled to discover her own thoughts for the second time that day.
For a final touch she plaited yellow flowers into her hair, and pirouetted in delight. “How do I look?” she asked, but the snake was digesting a spider and did not answer.
Her triumph was short-lived. Bedazzled and befuddled, Adam needed little persuasion to eat the fruit she gave him. When the deed was discovered, he sulked and blamed her.
*
They stood on the edge of the wilderness. There would be no return to the sheltered garden, ever, for the gate stood guarded against them. The macaw rode on Adam’s shoulder, but the serpent had refused to accompany them. “You ate the fruit,” it hissed. “And I’m the one who’s punished. Where’s the justice in that?” With a flounce of its tail, it slithered from view.
Eve stared long at the spot where it had vanished. The serpent had used her, but it too was a creature used and abused. The companion of her sunlit hours would never again know peace.
To her alone, The Voice spoke. With infinite sadness.
“Eve, you were my second, my preferred creation. Male and female, I formed you from the dust of the ground. I breathed into your nostrils the breath of life. Eve, my second creation, now you must all leave the garden. You, your man, and the child you carry. You will not find life impossible, for I endowed you with curiosity, resilience and determination.” The Voice added, “And you have Adam. You will need a man’s strength to survive in the wilderness.”
“You had the choice: you chose knowledge. Armed with knowledge, your sons, and all their sons after them, shall have dominion over all the Earth.”
“You had the choice: you chose disobedience. Your daughters, and all their daughters after them, shall be punished. Hear me, Eve, and tell your daughters.”
“No man shall ever take you seriously.”
