The Fall - By Chana Keefer

CHAPTER Nineteen

Family



When Eve woke the next morning, she discovered Adam’s absence and the presence of a delicious aroma in the air. Beside their pallet a simple but tasty breakfast of fresh goat milk and some sort of ground, sweet paste was arranged with dried fruit and a spongy, bland but pleasant substance on a mat woven of green reeds. With a squeal of delight, she devoured the meal with gusto, discovering the spongy stuff was wonderful eaten with the sweet paste. For the first time in at least two moons, her hunger was satisfied. Even the babe in her womb stretched luxuriously, making her stomach appear lumpy and misshapen.

With a sigh she parted the folds of her garment to peer at her swelling physique. How much larger would she grow? For that matter, how much larger could she grow? She was not entirely ignorant of the process of birthing young—she had witnessed the event repeatedly among the animals—but she did not recall any who carried their babies inside ever getting this large. And the babe was so active! Just how many arms and legs could it possibly have?

A jolt of fear shot down her spine. Lucifer proudly claimed that what was inside her belonged to him. Perhaps what grew unseen resembled some of the frightening creatures in his service?

That thought almost cost her the breakfast.

She placed a trembling hand against the hard swell that strained and stretched her smooth skin. Immediately her belly jostled as if every part of the babe competed for the warmth of her touch. She giggled and pushed against what must be a foot pressing against her rib. “Stop that!” she commanded, and shoved the offending limb, but the pressure only increased as if the stranger within was excited by her undivided attention.

In that moment she knew. Sight unseen, this child already owned her heart. It was part of her. Even if it emerged with horns on its head, cloven hoofs and wings, she would devote her life to protecting and loving it.

Having resolved that question, she splashed her face with cool water provided in a stone bowl just inside the door. It was a strange sensation to hear voices since for so long she had heard no conversation whatsoever unless it was hers and Adam’s. For a moment she paused, enjoying the sound of soft laughter, the chatter of birds, and the homey scent of a campfire, such a far cry from the harrowing experiences of the night. Bracing herself for whatever traces of battle she might face and swallowing hard (there was no way she was going to waste that wonderful breakfast) she pulled back the covering and peeked out.

But the ground outside their dwelling was spotless; scrubbed, scraped and covered with fresh dirt. Not a broken branch, trace of blood, or any other sign of battle remained except for the thin column of smoke from the distant fire. For her breakfast’s sake, she was very grateful it was distant.

Adam and their new ally were so deep in conversation they did not even notice her, so she took the opportunity to study this interesting specimen.

Obviously, some of the markings she had spied on his body the night before had been added for battle because his skin, which had appeared reptilian, was simply pale, hairy and rough. He was small in stature, due partly to his stooped posture and the way he kept his head tucked. His clothing, now that the barbed armor was removed, was simple and functional, a tunic of animal skin that fell to knobby, scarred knees and coverings for his feet, tooled in a method unknown to her. His face, though free of grotesque markings, was still disconcerting with the bulbous eyes, a large nose that protruded at an odd angle and deep grooves around his eyes and mouth as if his face knew only how to scowl. His hands sported pointed nails. Eden didn’t seem to mind this fact as she lay beside him, belly exposed, enjoying a good scratch.

It was the dog, in fact, that gave Eve away, lifting its shaggy head and running to nuzzle her hands. Adam too leapt to his feet and greeted her with a joyous smile, looking just for a moment like the carefree boy she once knew in the garden.

Their guest, however, busied himself dusting off a wooden seat and laying a plush, black covering upon it. Then he stepped away with an outstretched hand. Eve was suddenly shy. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be treated like a queen. She sank into the chair, enjoying the relief to her tired back. “Thank you!” She fingered the covering. “Is this fur?”

“Yes, my… highness,” he stammered, unsure how to address her. “It is from a rare animal that thrives in frigid water. The fur is highly prized among my… former people.”

Pulling back the fur she studied the simple construction of a wide, split log carved to fit perfectly into two smaller logs that served to hold the seat and back in place while also providing armrests. “Did you make this?”

He nodded but kept his eyes downcast.

“And do I have you to thank for the food as well?”

Again he nodded then hastened to add, “But your mate brought it to you.” Light, almost colorless eyes flicked her way.

“Well, it was wonderful.”

He acknowledged her with another nod but remained standing, head bowed. Eve’s eyes implored Adam to intervene.

“Have a seat, friend,” Adam gestured toward the spot where their guest had reclined before but instead the man knelt, hands clutched upon his knees.

“How did you make the wood so straight and smooth?” Eve asked to break the awkward silence. “I thought those outside the garden were unskilled, more accustomed to warfare than artistry.”

“Is that what you were taught?” A grim smile played about his lips.

Eve stammered, “Actually, I guess that is what I assumed since your… people… do not serve Adonai.”

Again his eyes met her gaze only for an instant. “Our heritage and history are proud, and our cities were the greatest ever beheld and our artistry, unsurpassed. Though we dwelt in deep, hidden places many years, we remember.”

Eve was immediately alert, leaning forward with an eager light in her eyes.

“Make yourself comfortable, friend.” Adam said with a smile as he settled back with his hands behind his head. “Your jaws will have to work just as hard as your body did throughout the night.”

After a playful swat to Adam’s arm Eve’s questioning began in earnest, “You say your people dwelt in deep, hidden places. Why?”

“Our ancient writings and tales told around our campfires record that Adonai wished to destroy us. Thus he sent a barrage of stars from the sky. The few who survived did so by escaping to caverns far below the surface.”

At these words anger flashed across Eve’s features and she squirmed in her chair. But if the man noticed her discomfort, he gave no indication.

“The most magnificent of our cities,” he continued, “a great center of art and wisdom that shone like a jewel on the edge of an azure sea, collapsed and was swallowed into the depths.”

“Rapha told us that story,” Eve interjected, “but he said that men followed evil counsel, delving too deep beneath the city and building such gigantic structures that the foundations were unable to support them.”

The man was quiet a moment as a muscle twitched in his jaw. “That may be true but you will forgive me if I repeat our history in the only manner I have known.”

“Please continue,” Adam encouraged.

“As floodwaters rose and fire rained from the sky, tall, shining men came to lead the survivors to deep caverns. For untold generations, more than a thousand years, our people struggled to survive, always holding to the promise given by the shining messengers that a day would come when we would once more dwell beneath the warmth of the sun.

“So we have longed for the day we could wreak vengeance against the cruelty of He who reigns over the heavens.”

“But,” Eve’s brow furrowed with confusion, “the messengers who saved your people, didn’t they say they served Adonai?”

“All I know is what was told to my father and his fathers before him, that it was the gods we… my people… serve who saved us.”

“Well, Rapha will give you the true account since he was there when it happened.” Eve tossed out this bit of information with a shrug while their guest’s eyes widened with disbelief.

“Who is this Ra-fa?” he asked. “He must be aged indeed if he claims knowledge of ancient events.”

“What do you mean, ‘Who is he?’ You two hauled and cleaned together until the sun was high,” Adam informed him.

“You and Rapha did all this?” Eve gestured toward the night’s battlefield that now bore no trace of bloodshed. “You must be so tired.”

But the man’s eyes remained on Adam, “The… tall one who spoke with phantoms that transported the slain?”

“Phantoms?” Adam questioned, “Do you refer to the celestial hosts who aided us in battle?”

“I mean the unseen ones who struck terror to our forces and who keep watch even now,” he said. “I feel their eyes on me.”

“Where?” Eve peered around the glade.

“Can you not smell them?”

“Smell them?” Eve laughed. “Why would I need to smell what I can see?”

“You see them?” His eyes widened in horror.

“Of course. Didn’t you see them during the battle?”

“No. I heard words shouted in your dwelling, my eyes were robbed of sight and fear descended like thick smoke. My mind was gripped by madness. Then… it happened.” He gazed at his clenched hands, lost in thought.

“What?” Adam prompted.

“I recalled the kindness of your friend while Lak lay dying and I cried out, ‘Adonai, have mercy!’ Immediately, the darkness was gone. I looked around to discover my companions attacking each other. After that, I dodged their blades and wondered… how much I have been taught is a lie.”

Eve was still stuck on another mystery, “If you cannot see them, how can you see Rapha? He is one of the celestials.”

“That I cannot tell you but he is as clear to me as you are.” As Eve pondered this, Adam turned to practical matters, “What are your plans now? Will you return to your people?”

After a moment’s silence, the man responded, “They are dead to me and I to them. I can never return.”

“But don’t you have a mate or young of your own there?” Adam inquired.

Pain flashed in the man’s eyes, “No.”

“What hap—” Adam began, but Eve placed a cautioning hand on Adam’s arm.

“What shall we call you?” she asked.

“It matters not. Where I go there will be no need of a name.”

“Why should you go?”

At last the man’s pale eyes met her gaze. “I may not understand Adonai’s ways but there is something here, something I have no right to be a part of. I smell it, I feel it in the air, I see it when you look at each other and I sense the heavenly ones watching, expecting the evil of my heritage to infect this… this,” he gestured around him, “purity.”

Eve laughed, “If you are seeing something pure, it is only by the forgiveness of Adonai.” She met his gaze with a smile. “We too have memories of evil but… what was that part about the sun rising,” she prompted Adam.

“Adonai’s mercy is new every morning, just like the sun rising on a new day.”


Rapha watched their discourse, hidden in the branches of a nearby tree. While many talents such as flight and the ability to shift through time and space were no longer at his disposal, he was still a master of stealth. Although he read no deception in the man’s countenance, he had to be sure. Thus he delved into the man’s thoughts.

The man searched their carefree faces. Had he ever looked like that? No. His earliest memories were of strife and secrets and manipulations. When he was yet a child, he had been taught to fight. That was his inbred station among his people—he caught himself—his former people—a society ruled by one law: “The strong survive.”

After a lifetime of winning at that game he had discovered there was nothing to live for. His family was gone and he had become as twisted and hopeless as those around him.

At the thought of family a door slammed in the man’s mind as if that was a subject he refused to discuss even with himself. Thus with a soldier’s discipline he turned from too-painful memories toward a former companion. Into the man’s mind came the image of a winged, fanged man-beast, the one called Lak.

He had found a friend of sorts in Lak. He didn’t trust the strange creature at first—the differing breeds had a deep hatred for each other—but once a tentative alliance was forged between them, he had found Lak to be a loyal and indispensable ally in battle.

Their strange bond was one of shared hate—for their leaders who ruled by fear, for their fellow warriors willing to betray for an extra ration of mind-numbing drink, for their putrid existence hiding in dark places like maggots.

He and Lak also shared a deep hatred for the others.

Once more an image jumped to the fore of the man’s mind; men and beasts, women and children, with a much different way of life, a gentle, peaceful existence where they worshipped the one called Adonai. These strange beings clung to old writings that told of the “high God’s” love and of His plan to restore their world to peace and plenty. Bloody memories of attacking and pillaging these people flooded the man’s mind along with just a tinge of longing to understand their peaceful existence, even if it was based on the lie of love.

But his and Lak’s deepest hatred was reserved for Adonai, the one who, according to their lore, had attempted to exterminate his people. It was He who was responsible for the loss of their privileged existence and devastation of their mighty cities.

Over and over they had heard the dogma that stoked their rage. “Adonai despises you. Adonai sees you as an abomination. We must ascend to the heavens and wrest power from His hands!”

Then, on the day of their great victory in Eden, he had witnessed a power that shook that hatred: undeserved kindness exhibited by a servant of Adonai. As he had wandered, grieving the loss of Lak, the closest thing he had ever had to a brother, he had breathed air laced with the essence of that kindness, had drunk from an untainted stream, and had tasted fruit so sweet it brought tears to his eyes.

And a question had taken root in the darkness of his poisoned mind.

“Is Adonai good?”

Since that day, he had been struggling in a world turned upside down. He began to sift through what he had accepted as fact and found he was increasingly repulsed by his people’s practices, their deceit and constant grasping for power, the darkness of their minds that feasted on cruelty, their worship that had stolen his reason for living.

The past night’s events had confirmed it.

He could never go back.


“We could use your help,” Adam was saying, “if you’re willing to stay.”

The man gaped in disbelief. “I come during the night to destroy you and in the morning, though you do not even know my name, you invite me to stay?”

“That can be changed. What shall we call you?” Eve responded. “You have to at least stay long enough to give me the secret of your breakfast. It was delicious.”

Thus the man without a home found himself chatting in the warmth of a bright new day about different ways to prepare dried fruits. As Rapha observed the scene, he had to smile. The night before, the battle-scarred man had overflowed with heartache even as he had worked to erase the stench of violence. Now, hope was dawning in his eyes.

Adonai never ceased to amaze Rapha. The Maker’s ability to reach into the deepest evil and draw out a faithful heart was breathtaking. In this emotionally charred individual, Rapha sensed loyalty and a resilience that was, honestly, lacking in the young man and woman who were used to a life of abundance. He would learn knowledge of Adonai and they would learn keys to survive in a hostile world.

It was an efficient arrangement—profound, yet so typical of his Master.