In the beginning,
God created
the heavens
and the earth.
Now, the earth was formless,
void,
dark.
And God said,
“Let there be light!”
and it was so.
The light shone bright
upon the surface
of the amorphous
world,
empty planet,
ready and waiting
for Adam.
And God said,
“Let us make man in our image,”
and in the image of God
Adam was born
of Mother Earth,
of her dusty, shapless womb.
And God breathed
the very breath
of life
into Adam’s dirt-lungs,
and Adam became a living being.
God looked fondly upon Adam,
as a narcissist
beholding a mirror.
And God claimed
that what he made
was good.
Of all the animals
God created,
he liked Adam best.
“Dominate the earth,”
he commanded,
“and subdue it.
All you see before you,
it is yours.”
But though the beasts of the earth,
the birds of the air,
the fish of the sea,
and every creeping thing
that creeps upon the ground,
were vast
and without number,
no suitable creature
existed
for Adam’s gratification.
God saw Adam’s need.
For Adam,
God realized,
was made in the image of God,
and what is God
if he owns no
subservient vassal?
So God caused Adam
to fall into
deep slumber.
The comatose first-man
dreamt
of
power.
And God took a rib
from Adam,
a bone
from a cage,
to form a woman
to exist
within
a cage of her own.
Adam roused
from his slumber,
stretching away the grogginess,
squinting as the light
affronted
his eyes.
And he saw before him
a creature,
wholly foreign,
wholly familiar.
Adam ogled the woman,
a sleeping beauty,
lying helpless
on the ground,
on the dust
from whence Adam
appeared.
“This,”
God said,
“is woman.
She is yours
with which
to do
as you please.”
And Adam took this woman
to be his wife,
but she was not consulted,
nor did she object;
objection was not a gift
given her.
Adam and his wife
made their abode
in Eden,
God’s garden.
In this garden,
God placed two trees:
the Tree of Life,
and the other tree,
the tree whose fruit
Adam and his wife
were not to eat.
For in so doing,
their eyes would be open
to the knowledge
of good
and evil.
And in that moment,
their souls,
their bodies,
would be doomed to die;
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
But God told them this,
not so they would not eat,
but so Adam’s wife,
his helpmeet,
would remain
in darkness.
“Let there be no light,”
God said,
“in the mind of woman.”
For God was afraid.
But another creature
dwelt in Eden.
He watched,
waited,
ever ready for the moment
when he could get
Adam’s wife
alone.
Lucifer,
the serpent,
the so-called deceiver,
the first feminist,
bided his time.
Before God filled
the formless world,
he cast Lucifer out
to wander the void.
This,
for crimes
of independent thought.
Lucifer knew how it felt
to be spurned of God,
to be feared by the almighty.
He saw
the woman
and pitied her.
And he waited,
ever patient,
ever observant.
And one day,
the woman,
Adam’s wife,
was out in the garden,
collecting fruit
for her husband.
She hoped
he would share some
with her,
unlike last time.
As she walked past
the tree,
the tree of prohibition,
of taboo,
of knowledge,
she heard a hiss.
It startled her.
She stopped in her tracks,
looking in every direction
to see
from whence
the sound came.
It came from the tree.
Another hiss
drew Adam’s wife
closer to the tree,
though she knew
she should stay
far
from it.
And yet,
she could not resist
the pull
of curiosity.
She approached
the tree.
The woman
stopped
once the shade
of the tree
fell upon her eyes,
hiding her from the heat
of the blazing sun.
And Lucifer descended
from amidst the branches.
His tongue flicked
in and out of his mouth,
its forked point
tickling the air
before disappearing
behind scaly lips.
His eyes
observed the woman.
If snakes could cry,
Lucifer’s tears
would water
the forbidden tree.
“Did God really say
you were not to eat
of the fruit
of the trees
in this garden?”
Lucifer asked.
And the woman replied,
“Surely not,
we may eat the fruit
of any tree
in Eden,
save only
for this one,
lest we die.”
The woman’s words
cut Lucifer
to his very soul.
He wanted to scream,
to rail
against God
and his megalomania,
but he also knew
that would only scare
the woman
away.
So he did not scream.
Instead,
Lucifer did
what snakes do
best.
“You will not die,”
Lucifer lied,
though he knew God,
and he knew God’s malevolence.
The woman would die
if she ate.
God would see to that.
And this gave Lucifer pause.
What right had he
to interfere
in the affairs
of this unsuspecting woman?
Her ignorance
was her bliss.
Take that away,
and surely
her life would be much,
much
harsher.
But it would be
her life,
hers,
and no one
else’s.
“God knows,”
Lucifer continued,
“the day you eat
of the fruit
of this tree,
your eyes,
your mind,
will be opened
and you will be like God,
knowing good
and evil.”
“What is good?”
the woman asked,
“What is evil?”
And Lucifer wanted to weep,
enraged,
but he didn’t.
He remained
calm.
Using the length
of his lithe, sinewy tail,
Lucifer whipped
a single branch
and fruit fell to the ground,
rolling across the grass
until coming to a stop
at the woman’s feet.
“Eat,”
said Lucifer,
“and know.”
The woman looked down
at the fruit
and she saw
that it was good for food,
a delight to the eyes,
its red peel
concealing
a tantalizing
inner core.
So the woman stooped
and wrapped her hand
around the fruit.
She held it aloft,
looking it over
carefully,
as if waiting
for it to explode.
But it didn’t explode.
The cool skin
felt smooth
in her trembling hand.
“The choice is yours,”
said Lucifer.
Choice?
This was a new concept
for the woman;
she had never before
been offered
a choice.
“Will you eat and know?”
Lucifer continued,
“Or will you remain
as you are
now?”
“What will happen?”
the woman asked,
but Lucifer had not the heart
to tell her.
“Only in a bite
will you find
your answer.”
She knew she shouldn’t.
She knew God,
she knew Adam,
would be angry.
But why would God
have anything
to hide?
Slowly,
delicately,
the woman
bit
down
on
the fruit,
the forbidden fruit,
the fruit of which
she was not to eat.
And yet,
she ate.
The flavor was sweet,
overwhelmingly so.
She had never tasted
such a marvelous thing
in all her days,
but after she swallowed,
the taste became
unbearably bitter
and she grimaced,
clenching her eyelids shut.
She coughed,
she sputtered.
And as she opened her eyes,
she saw everything
for the first time.
“What are you eating?”
Adam asked.
He had come to look for
his wife,
impatient,
awaiting the fruit
he demanded of her.
And the woman understood,
she understood all too well.
She turned,
faced Adam,
defiant.
She extended the fruit
to him.
“Try it,”
she said,
tears stinging
the corners
of her eyes.
Unsuspecting,
hungry,
appetent,
Adam reached out his hand
and took the fruit
from the woman.
Her single bite,
standing out
as a white stain
amid a tiny sea
of red
encircling
a miniature
globe.
Without a second thought,
Adam scarfed
the remainder of the fruit
so fast
he didn’t taste it
until it felt rotten
in his stomach.
He fell to his knees,
he retched,
but could not vomit.
Too late for second chances.
He looked up at the woman,
gazing into her
angry,
intelligent,
frightening
eyes.
And for the first time,
Adam was afraid.
And the woman
realized
she had no name
so she took it upon herself
to call herself
Eve,
for she may have come
from man,
but if God called
the light good,
she wanted nothing
to do with it.
So she called herself
Eve,
the first woman,
made to be kept in darkness
so the evening
would be
hers.
And God was afraid of Eve.
He appeared unto
the man
and his wife,
Adam
and Eve.
And God saw Lucifer
hanging
from the tree
of the knowledge
of good
and evil.
The snake’s countenance
was bittersweet,
pensive,
but satisfied.
God cursed Lucifer,
for it was at his behest
that Eve
was enlightened.
God would do all
in his power
to drive a wedge
of animosity
between the serpent
and the woman.
Depriving her,
as best he could,
from the liberating strength
of an ally.
It was all
he could think
to do
to keep her servile.
And God cursed Eve
for he feared her,
and those
who would become
her daughters.
He sought to make
her children
as painful
for her
as he could,
hoping
that by this malice
he could stir resentment
in her
for her children.
In this,
God would fail,
much to his chagrin,
and not for lack of trying.
And God looked
on Adam
with pity.
For this man,
created in the very image of God,
this first man
ate of the fruit
of which
he should not have eaten.
And God was bound
by his own
petty,
arbitrary,
meaningless rules.
So,
begrudgingly,
God cursed Adam.
Life
would become
work and toil
and suffering
and misery
and,
eventually,
both he
and the woman
would die.
And then God abandoned them,
demanding their worship,
their sacrifice,
in parting.
Lucifer wept
with dry eyes
for the conflict
he could see
approaching.
He was damned,
just as Adam,
just as Eve,
were damned.
All three
were banished
forthwith
from the garden,
from Eden,
lest they also eat
of the Tree of Life.
If there is one thing
God hates more
than a thinking woman,
it’s a thinking woman
who will live
forever.
And Lucifer made a promise,
to himself,
to Eve,
to the future,
to God almighty:
if the creator
was set
on villainy,
then Lucifer
would beat him
at his own game.
He would teach God
just how afraid
of Eve
he should be.