Havah Read Free Page B

in his own.
    “No!”
    I blinked at his vehemence. “Hungry.”
    “This one you cannot have.”
    It was the first time I heard no uttered from lips—human or otherwise.
    “Why?” I considered the fiery-gemmed giant with new appreciation. It seemed ancient, older than any other tree in the valley—already I understood something of time—its branches twined like the horns of the gazelle, pointing toward heaven.
    “It is the knowing of good and evil to eat it.” His eyes flickered to the tree and back. His mouth was taut as the skin of that fruit.
    He does not want to be here, I thought with amazement. And then: No, he both wants and does not want to be here.
    I did not understand this opposition in him. Nor did I know the meaning of good or evil or the conflict behind them—only that it seemed to pulse from the roots of that tree.
    Overhead, the sun emerged from a cloud. It gilded the grass and the leaves of the tree and then set the fruit ablaze as though it were not fruit at all, but a wealth of stars snared in verdant constellation. Within seconds the mist was gone.
    There is more. If you eat it, you will die the death.
    The death? What is the death?
    When the adam turned the full brunt of those eyes upon me, they were gentle.
    Pleading.
    Why do you ask these things, Isha?
    Because I do.
    The death is an end. An end against the wish of the One.
    Almost as one we turned back to the tree.
    When I would have stroked those twisting branches, he stopped me again.
    “Do not even touch it!”
    I did not understand this death. I understood, however, obedience to the One. Had I not woken when the One said, “Wake”? Had I not walked in assurance of those words, I Am? Had I not seen the might of that hand? To think of it struck me with elation and yearning for the man in whom I saw his likeness, as a shadow cast upon the earth by the soaring eagle.
    My stomach by now had gone silent. But standing before that singular tree, I suddenly wanted nothing better than to eat until I was filled. Then I noticed the other tree on this small island—a shrub, really, innocuous beside her more glamorous sister. It bore little purple berries.
    The adam drew me away as his gaze fled back to the magnificent tree. This time when he touched me, I felt myself ravenous—for the tart apricot and crisp water of the spring, for the voice of the One and raw heat of the sun and the shade of the willow . . . to sink my fingers into the mane of the lion and run my palms against the adam’s side.
    I drew his arms around me like a mantle. I tasted the salt of his neck. He groaned and I thought he might fall to his knees. I give pleasure!
    And then: Such pleasure will I give him. I did not know all the intricacies, but the One was a whisper in my heart—what secrets should be kept from me?
    To learn is joy, Isha. I heard it again, as the man had said it.
    Indeed. It would be.
    “Not here.” The roughness of his voice was adrenaline and seduction. He pulled me toward the river, his mouth hot on my ear, his fingers bold. Just as we gave ourselves to the water, a rustle sounded from the brush. There—a flash of gold through the branches, daylight refracted by scales so brilliant that they rivaled the fruit of the majestic tree.
    “What is that?”
    “What?” He murmured into my hair.
    I pointed. The creature on the island stared out through the boughs of the smaller shrub at me.
    The adam hardly looked up. “Only the serpent.”
    We crossed the river, fell dripping upon the bank. He bent to my neck, my shoulder, my navel. I languished in pleasure.
    I will satisfy you.
    Yes. Agreement. Yes. A plea.
    Feel the sun.
    I feel it.
    Feel my fingers.
    I feel them.
    How I love you.
    I gave myself up to him.
     
     
I am the horn of the antelope, twining toward heaven. I am the leaf, twisting upon the stem. I am the sweet water that rushes from the rock, thrilling the hands that dip into it, slipping down the thirsty throat.
     
     
    THAT NIGHT, AS THE