Eve: A Novel (18 page)

Eternal Man knelt on the ground and with His hands, like a playing child, gathered a pile of reddish-brown dust. Intensely focused and brimming with unbridled delight, He sat, gathering it between His legs.

Laughter and tears flowed unrestrained.

And then a song.

“The Song of Songs,” Han-el whispered to her. “The song of Life and all the Living, of word and bread and truth and hope, of giving and forgiving.”

From inside this mound of dirt now bubbled up the wine of water, like the force of hope swelling in Lilly’s heart. With concentrated intensity He plunged His hands into the holy mess with a grunt that brought Lilly to her feet. The labor was nearly finished. Then, with a piercing shout, Adonai raised above His head a newborn baby.

“A son is born, a son is born!” All creation erupted into jubilant sound, and Lilly rode the crest of birthday’s celebration.

The crystal clear and gentle voice of Eternal Man now erupted above the cacophony of gladness: “This is My heart’s delight, the crowning of creation. I present to you My beloved son, in whom My soul delights. They shall be named Adam!”

The scene changed quickly as Lilly watched the kiss and breath of God transform a child into a living soul. She witnessed the Cherub cut the cord, declare allegiance, and bow with other celestial beings in service to the delicate infant.

“Wonder of wonders!” Eternal Man declared, lifting the
sleeping baby in his hands. “Behold the child! Creation’s womb is fully blessed. Let everything, each in their way, celebrate. With this birth Day Six is crowned, and now We rest from labor.”

Evening turned to morning, and it was Very Good!

•  •  •

L
ILLY JERKED HER HANDS
off the table as if shocked. The movement sent searing pain rippling up her injured arm and into her throat. For a second she couldn’t catch her breath or figure out where she was.

“She’s back! She’s back!” yelled John, and Lilly heard the sound of running feet as Simon, Gerald, and Anita rushed into the room looking both worried and relieved. Lilly sat back, weighed down with a new and heavy exhaustion. John too looked overwhelmed but grateful, his eyes red as though he had been weeping. Lilly noticed that the others were all dressed differently than she remembered.

“How long have I been gone?” she asked, willing the ache in her limbs to recede.

“Roughly?” stated Gerald, calculating in his head, “Our time? The better part of five and a half . . . days!”

“Five and a half days?” she exclaimed. The news only made her more tired. “I have been gone five and a half days since I put my hands on this table?”

“Roughly,” asserted Simon.

Anita nodded. “Probably closer to six full days.”

“We were quite concerned about whether you were going to return or not,” Simon interjected.

“It’s true,” John said. “We considered pulling your hands from
the table by force, but the risk . . .” He shook his head, relieved. “It’s good to see you back.”

She looked down at her hands, then clasped them together to hide how much worse her arm felt than when she’d first been bitten. “I can’t believe all I saw happened in six days.”

“Our time,” emphasized Gerald. “What you witnessed, especially the Days of Creation, likely took billions of years.”

“I witnessed this before.” Lilly spoke it softly so as not to be heard, a confession that barely met the requirements.

John nodded. Of course, they had plenty of time to figure out the truth.

“I am so sorry,” she began. “I thought they were hallucinations, that I was losing my mind, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what was real.” She thought for a moment before sadly adding, “And I’m still not sure.”

“Not to fret, dearie,” Anita said quickly. “Trust is a difficult road for some of us. I understand. It was Gerald who first suggested you might have already witnessed, and yet in spite of that likelihood . . . we panicked!”

“I’ll have you know,” said Gerald with a little chuckle, “panicking doesn’t help, although it does occupy large amounts of time.”

A note of resignation tainted John’s voice. “The important thing is that you’re back, so let’s get you some food and water. You probably need a toilet too, am I right?”

She barely smiled. “You aren’t disappointed in me?”

The question was an invitation, a risk, and everyone knew it.

“Disappointed? No. Grieved? Yes. Do you trust me enough to
let me be sad without thinking less of yourself?”

He was asking her something important. Shame and self-loathing were her oldest acquaintances. They relentlessly interpreted words of grace, kindness, or confrontation as proof of her unworthiness. Even the word
disappointment
could shove her into an abyss. John was asking her to resist, to believe that his affection and care were the higher truth.

To do that meant she would have to care for him too.

“Okay,” she responded, though she still felt the stab inside as if she were betraying a precious agreement. “That helps. I’ll try. Thank you.”

After using the bathroom, where she finally was able to master the hurt in her arm, Lilly rolled out drying her hands. “So I was gone almost six full days and billions of years without needing to pee? How does that work?”

Gerald answered as the group walked toward the dining area. “When you touch the table, time and perception slow down. In fact, they almost stop. Your heartbeat, for example, decelerates to about one beat every minute. If my calculations were accurate, in six days your heart beat only 8,640 times, approximately. That seems a lot, but actually it’s not. Suppose your regular heart rate is sixty times per minute, which for you I think is fairly conservative, but it makes the arithmetic easier. It means that your body felt only the passing of a couple of hours.”

“Oh! So
that’s
why it sounded like John was yelling ‘
Wa-a-a-i-i-i-t!
’ ” They all laughed.

The table was set and aromatic food placed in front of her,
vegetables and grilled green beans and a stew. Before they ate, they all held hands, which was customary and usual, but tonight she decided to join in the simple prayer: “My thankful heart today is my best offering.” They were kind not to draw particular attention to her participation, but she thought she saw John smile ever so slightly, and it pleased her.

The food was delicious, though weakness prevented Lilly from eating as much as she probably needed.

They had almost finished when John spoke. “Lilly, we watched most of what you recorded. We could see it on the table. One or the other of us was with you every moment, all four most of the time. We didn’t want to leave, not only because of our concern for you, but”—he paused, looked down, and gripped the table as a wave of emotion washed over him—“because . . .” His voice cracked, and his red eyes glistened. “Because . . . it was too wonderful for words.”

Her own feelings matched his. She reached over and took his hand. “I’m glad you saw it. I could never describe it in any way that would do it justice.”

The silence that followed became awkward. Gerald reached out and squeezed her infected arm. Lilly steeled herself against the pain. But John was looking right at her, and a question passed through his eyes.

Quickly she announced that she was exhausted and wanted to sleep. “I’m sure the rest of you do too,” she said.

As John wheeled her toward her room, she asked. “Does this mean I’m finished? I recorded everything from the explosion of Creation to the coming of Man, so am I done?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

The simple words stung her. They challenged her integrity. She could see that he was trying to rebuild the bridge of trust, which she had broken.

Lilly shrugged. “I don’t know either.”

John sighed. “Then I suppose there is only one way to be certain, and that is for you to lie down in the Chamber of Witness and see what happens.”

“All right.” She was too weary to think about what that might mean. “Oh, one more thing?”

“I suspected as much.” He smiled a tired smile. “You are the girl of one-last-questions.”

She briefly returned the grin. “Can’t help myself. My mind never stops moving. I was wondering, if I hadn’t come here, to the Refuge, would I have ever known about . . . you know, about God and Adam and Beginnings?”

“You are treading on another mystery,” he replied. “When it comes to plans and purposes, God is not a Draftsman but an Artist, and God will not be God apart from us. You are here, and that changes everything. If you were not here, that too would change everything. For me, a little selfishly, I am grateful you are here.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “Most of the time.”

I did it again. I told the truth because I got caught. I don’t think that really counts. And I didn’t tell all the truth, only the part I had to. I’ve hurt John. I can see it on his face. And now, because I didn’t tell all the truth, I feel even more stuck. How many times can I burn down a bridge before people will stop rebuilding it? I hate that it even matters. It makes me feel weak and unprotected. Maybe that’s what lying is—a way to cover myself.

The recording didn’t even get everything I’ve witnessed so far. What does that mean? I don’t want to be recording for ages and ages. Just the thought of that makes me more exhausted than I already feel.

I want to stop Adam. I want to look into the mirror. I want to talk to Simon. I want to die, or leave, or find a way back home. Well, I don’t think that’s true . . . the home part. From the little I can remember, that was never a place I wanted to be. I hate to admit it, but this weird freaky Refuge feels more like home—or what home should be, anyway.

Today I witnessed Creation, again. It was the same but different. I met Han-el, who didn’t know me or John or Eve. My arm hurts so bad. I lied to John about it. I think he knows. I’m becoming more convinced the mirror is right, that the truth of my being is that once you get to the core of Lilly, all you will find is a worthless piece of crap.

But maybe Simon is right too, that I am Lilith and there’s one thing I can do before I die: take charge of my otherwise useless life and change history. I just have to figure out how.

I
n
the solitude of Lilly’s room within the Vault, a familiar hand slipped into hers, and she felt a huge surge of relief. She had not seen Eve since God expressed so much sadness over Adam’s turning. There was something deeply comforting about this mother’s presence, as if it helped to chase away her doubt, urgency, expectations, and demands. Except for brief moments with the others, with Eve was the only time Lilly felt as if she belonged.

“Can I ask . . . ?” whispered Lilly, hesitant to break the spell of holy quiet.

“Of course.” Eve’s smile was so distracting that Lilly almost lost her question.

“Why didn’t you go with me the last time? Usually we’re together.”

“Dear one, I am not a Witness. Today the road we have been traveling together splits, and we each must walk a different path. I will wait for you in the distance.”

“So we aren’t going together again?”

“I
am already there. The next time you witness, our paths will merge in new ways. No matter what happens, remember this: I have always loved you, and you have always been worthy of my love.”

When Eve spoke the words, Lilly almost believed them. So strange, how a statement of affection could morph into a sharp stick that poked the soul and stirred the muck at its bottom.

The woman bent and kissed Lilly’s forehead, then sat for a few minutes stroking her hair. “Even though you will recognize me, I won’t remember you. But Adonai never forgets. He is especially fond of you.”

“Don’t go.” Lilly leaned into the woman. “I don’t think I can take being left again.” The confession fractured her voice. “Mother Eve, I’m not sure who I am.”

“Ask Adonai and trust what He tells you. True love always tells the truth, even if we can’t hear it. Lilly, you are my daughter and we will never be far apart. You are in me, and in the mystery of God, we are all in you—you, Lilly Fields. You will never be alone.”

Lilly didn’t dispute what Eve was saying, but deep wounds in her resisted. Unexpectedly Eve began to sing, a sweet, soft melody that picked up Lilly and gently placed her into Another’s arms. She fell into the sleep of peace, where dreams and nightmares were not allowed.

•  •  •

T
HE NEXT MORNING
L
ILLY’S
body felt worse and she immediately
gave up on her usual regimen. Pain pulsed entirely through her right arm with every movement, and she practiced compensating with her left until her movements looked almost natural.

By the time she wheeled herself alongside the couch in the Chamber of Witness, where John and Simon awaited her, she was sweating.

John put his hand to her head. “Your temperature has risen. I don’t think you should be doing this today.”

“Do you feel up to this?” Simon asked. “It is up to you.”

“This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” she said. “So let’s just get it over with.”

Moving her took a little work, but as Lilly let herself relax, she was unexpectedly enfolded in a superb sense of comfort. Whatever this device was, it was good at what it did.

The next instant Lilly found herself standing on a wooded, rocky hill looking down onto a sweeping plain bustling with activity. She was alone, surrounded by massive trees, and her body didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing hurt. When she reached out to lean against a tree, it reacted to her touch with melodic laughter.

Startled, Lilly jumped away. She had leaned against Han-el.

“Now you’re a tree?” She giggled but was glad for the Angel’s visible presence.

“No, but perhaps I appear as you expect,” Han-el sang. “And you are in a forest.”

Lilly laughed aloud. Pleasure caught her by surprise. It came easily, as if she’d taken her first deep breath in days. Looking at
her hands and arms, she found no sign of the serpent’s strike, nor its spreading poisons. Lifting the hem of her dress, she squealed in delight. Both feet were hers. Had she been so caught up in the grandeur of the Beginnings that she hadn’t noticed?