Eve by Elissa Elliott Page A

“What is that to me?”
    Abel stared into the fire. “I’m sorry. I know how much you want—”
    “What?” I said. “You don’t know me. You know nothing.” The words rushed out of me, as water from a jar, and I could not retract them. I was embarrassed and irritated at being a girl, a girl who could not even be mounted because she was disgusting. Unlucky-lucky, I wanted a new foot. I wanted to be whole, like my sisters, like Naava, whose beauty was as powerful as the moon. I wanted to be seen, to be revered, to be caressed with curious eyes. Oh, silly Aya, so vain! Think no more on these things!
    Abel persisted. “Do you not pray to Him when you kiss our food and bless it? Do you not seek Him too?” His gaze was earnest, as though he wanted confirmation of my praying. “He listens. That’s all I wanted to say.”
    “It’s true,” said Jacan. “He spoke to us from a rock. He told us about those men … and you.”
    I pondered what they had said. Once I had conjured up Elohim in the garden with Naava and the twins, and I had heard Him whisper back that all was well. Naava refused to hear anything at all. Since then I wasn’t sure if it had been Elohim or simply the wind. It was true, I did bless the food, but that was coming from the thanksgiving of my heart that we had food at all.
    Then, with Abel and Jacan, what exactly would I have said to Elohim? I vaguely remembered invoking His name as I was choked, but sitting there by the fire, with my faculties intact, I wasn’t sure what to say to Him. Please, Elohim, take a respite from holding the world together and come mend my bones? Was it that simple? Would He have heard me?
    I shivered beneath Naava’s blanket and gazed at Abel’s face, so open and unlike that of Cain. He had thought me stronger than I was. He had trusted me to protect his grazing area, and I had let him down.
    Abel reached for his flute. He placed it to his lips and blew into it. His song was sorrowful, mournful even, and after a few long notes I recognized Mother and Father’s song from the Garden. Abel did not look at me as he played, but I saw his lips quiver and his eyes water. Did he grieve for me or for his oversight?
    No matter. I accepted his song as a sweet apology, for I knew he did not mean me harm. I was grateful to matter to someone, and gradually my breathing came easier.
    I formed then a sort of short prayer in my mind. I did not speak it aloud and did not know if Elohim could read my thoughts.
Elohim, if you can hear me, make me whole.
Make me strong like Abel and fast like Jacan.
Make me shine like the stars in the night sky.
And make those men drop dead by morning.

Why would someone want to poke holes in themselves? I don’t know. Those colorful ladies had so many holes with rings in them. I counted holes in all these places: number one, in their noses; number two, in their lips; number three, in their eyebrows; number four, in their ears. I wonder why Elohim lets them do that.
    The people from the city will be coming to take me away. Turtle, look! His head is out. He’ll go with me. Mama said he could. A lady called Ahassunu came back and brought Mama a wood box full of pretty amber cloth, the color of honey, to make me a robe. The lady pulled my curls straight and tilted her head and said something, but I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Mama just nodded her head over and over.
    Now Mama sews and sews. She bends over to stretch her back every so often, and I say, “It’s all right, Mama, I can wear my old ones.” All I want is for her to say that I can stay here, at home with her.
    Then Mama says, “I’ll have none of my children looking like mangy dogs,” and her eyes are all wet. I don’t know if she’s crying because of my going away or Aya’s accident up in the mountains.
    Naava should help, but instead she stares at me. Long dagger stares. So I say to Mama, “Naava can go,” and Mama says, “Naava is making things for the