Free Eve by Elissa Elliott Page A

vengefully before. Certainly I had killed birds and fish for food, but those acts were sacred and precious, unlike what I had just done.
    My wonder did not last long.
    I gathered up the snake’s body and tossed him into the basket. An elixir made from snakeskin and dried orange peels did wonders for coughing fits. I clicked to Goat, and she came running.
    Now, I am Aya the Asp Killer, the Lucifer Killer. Wait until I tell Mother.

Naava stands and goes to the window to look out upon the sun, which rises redly in a tangerine sky. Tufts of clouds peel away from the sun, as if to say A brand-new day. She lifts a flask, pours cool water into a chipped clay cup, and raises it to Eve’s lips, dried and cracked now from talking.
    “Rest,” says Naava, but Eve shakes her head, determined to go on, to inscribe her story on the hard clay of Naava’s heart. Naava sighs. Eve was always stubborn and oblivious to those around her. Yes, she nursed the little ones, corralled the young ones, but after that, her children all had to grow up fast, for most likely another one was on the way, vying for Eve’s motherly attentions. Naava helped when she could, but mostly she did her weaving and stayed mute, except, of course, for all the times she felt she needed to speak up because she had been wronged—which was frequently.

    Naava knew she was beautiful. Neither Adam nor Eve would ever come out and state it that way, You are beautiful, but her name meant beautiful, and she could only go by the meanings of her other siblings’ names to know they were not, essentially, beautiful. Aya’s name, for example, meant bird. Naava chuckled to herself every time she thought of the humorin that; Eve had a funny bone, at least. Cain meant acquire, and he certainly knew how to do that, hoarding sections of land like there was no tomorrow. Naava saw the greed in Cain’s eyes, but she also saw the adventure, so she admired him. Her thought was to align herself with him, so that maybe he would take her with him on his increasingly frequent visits to the new settlement—for the visitors had become dwellers and were building walls for what they called a “city.” Abel meant breath— quite literally, the steam from one’s mouth. This was how Naava saw him, as a vapor she couldn’t capture, as a smoke tendril she could not hold. She watched him come and go—he was never in one place very long—and she pined for a moment alone with him, to tell him that she loved him, that while she wove her threads in and out, all she could think about was him.
    Dara: compassionate. Jacan: trouble. Those were the twins. Jacan came first, feetfirst. Then, when Eve thought all was finished, Dara slipped out easily, a messy mass of arms and legs, and Eve cried out that at least one of them had been kind to her. Naava had been there, helping, but Aya had done most of the work. Naava had grown faint at the sight of so much blood, and Aya—even at five years!—had had to push Naava aside and pack Eve’s womb with wool and herbs to stanch the bleeding. There were others, who had come and gone, buried in Eve’s garden. They all had names, anointed by Eve and her sense of their identity, for once named, Naava knew, there was no changing others’ perception of who you were. Daniel— Elohim is my judge— born too soon. Micayla— who is like Elohim— born with the swollen head. Miriam— sea of sorrow— born with a tangled and knotted cord.
    So, Naava was beautiful.
    There was that fact.
    She had never clearly seen her face, other than in the darkened surface of the river on a calm day, but even then all she could see were shadows and contours. She knew her brothers were curious about her—how Cain caught her glance and held it, how Abel looked away, ashamed and embarrassed. She wielded great power, she knew. Just as Aya healed with her potions, Naava could paralyze with her simple presence. And Naava had grown haughty. She lived as though floating on water,