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by Geoffrey Hart
Previously published as: Hart, G. 2021. Apple Seeds. Allegory 39: 1 (May 2021).
The garden was a lovely place, but loveliest of all its adornments was the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, which shone with a warm lambence. Adam and Eve often came to lie beneath its balm, silvered by the second of the world’s two great lights, gazing up at the mysterious stars that came by night and vanished by dawn.
The apples that grew on the tree perfumed the air with a scent that disturbed the senses more than it comforted, for good and evil were not yet known to the first two children of God, and even then, what was unknown was feared. The consequences of plucking an apple from the tree were similarly fearful, for God himself had asked them to abjure those apples, lest they die. (Both found it unlikely God would let them be killed, but neither did they muster a reason to test that belief.)
Of the garden’s many inhabitants, from the lowliest ant to the mightiest elephant, the serpent was the most subtle; its forked tongue caused most things it said to diverge and bear two meanings, and neither Adam nor Eve were ever quite sure which of the two it intended. The confusion inspired by its twisty sayings left the couple uncomfortable, so they mostly shunned the serpent. This displeased the serpent, for it too was one of God’s creatures and after all, was only behaving as it had been made to behave. Thus, it felt it should receive equal time to the other creatures.
One day, the serpent came across Eve lying beneath the tree of knowledge, pondering as she often did, and it writhed its way into the branches that it might pass before her eyes, while simultaneously looking down upon her and feeling superior for a time.
Warily, Eve greeted the serpent. “Good day, Serpent. What brings you here this fine day?”
The serpent looked down upon her and did its best to smile. This revealed its fangs, spoiling the effect. “Why, nothing more than to bask in the radiance of this tree, finer than any other in the garden.”
Eve sought a double meaning, but found none. That was not reassuring. “And to savor its delicious scent?”
“And that,” agreed the serpent. “I imagine its fruit must taste as delicious as its scent promises.”
“That, we shall never know, for the eating of its fruit is forbidden to us.”
“And yet, had God truly desired that you not eat from it, surely He would have built a wall so high that none might scale it, or caused a wind to spring up so fierce that not even Adam, your stronger half, could prevail against it.”
“Surely that would be true if he did not trust us to use the discretion we were granted. And yet, he afforded us that trust, and it would be churlish to abuse it.”
“Churlish indeed,” replied the serpent. And Eve’s eyes narrowed as she looked for a second meaning. “And yet trust must be proven.” Here, Eve saw the two meanings of prove, and relaxed briefly. Until she realized that the original sense of proof, to test, raised disquieting questions.
The serpent, seeing that knowledge come into her eyes, wished her a good day, and slithered away without another word to the warm, rocky spot it favored as its preferred location to bask in the sun.
That night, as Eve curled within Adam’s arms, she told him of her conversation with the serpent. Adam was quiet a moment.
“And what message do you take from what that forked-tongue bearer of confusion said?”
“I take him to be encouraging us to disobey God’s word.”
Adam nodded. “That’s my belief too. Though I suppose we could ask God for clarification.”
“But if we did, that would anger God, to no good purpose. God’s words were clear: Thou shalt not.”
“I think it best we sleep upon it, then.”
Eve pouted a moment, then kissed his cheek. “Sleep well, beloved.”
“And you.” Yet Eve remained awake a long time beside a snoring Adam, pondering, before sleep claimed her.
The next morning, Eve called out to God. “Lord, might I ask you a question?”
“Ask, my child, and thou shalt be answered.”
Thinking of the serpent, Eve phrased her question carefully. “Is knowledge to be prized over ignorance?”
“Surely.”
Eve paused a moment to think about that answer. After a moment, she nodded. “Thank you, Lord.”
“You are always welcome, my child.”
Eve made her way to the tree of knowledge, and found the serpent curled within its branches. “Good day, Serpent.”
“And to you, companion of the child of God.”
Eve frowned, sensing a double meaning. “Are you not also a child of God?”
“For a certainty, I am. And yet, only Adam was made in God’s image.”
Eve’s frown deepened. “I see your point. In any event, I have returned here in the hope that we could discuss the point you raised about trust.”
“Ask, and I shall endeavor to enlighten you.”
That seems unlikely, Eve thought. Yet what she said was, “How can we be trusted if that trust is not proven?”
The serpent smiled at her double meaning, once more revealing its fangs. “What value has trust, or indeed, faith, if it must be proven?”
Eve pondered a moment. Everything had seemed so simple until a few moments ago. “It must have great value, mustn’t it?”
“Of a certainty, it must.”
Eve glared at the serpent, belatedly noting how it had curled around the largest, most delicious-seeming apple on the whole tree. The framing was not subtle. “Good day, Serpent,” she cast back over her shoulder as she stalked away in a fury.
That night, curled up inside the shelter of Adam’s arms, Eve could not get comfortable. “You squirm like the serpent,” Adam remarked, and earned an uncommon glare from his spouse.
“Funny you should mention that.”
Adam raised an eyebrow. Eve sighed. “I find myself ever more confused each time I speak with the serpent.”
“Understandably. That one’s thoughts are as sinuous as his body, and the meaning slippery at best.”
“Still, I often feel that he makes a certain amount of sense, even if that sense does not always lie within my grasp.”
“I would be wary of that one’s words.”
“And yet, is he not also a child of God?”
Adam snorted. “Now you speak with the serpent’s tongue.”
Eve glared at him, then felt abashed. “There’s truth in what you say.”
“Truth that we should sleep on,” said Adam, yawning. And he was asleep in a heartbeat, an ability Eve deeply resented, for she often lay awake long after his gentle snores disturbed the night air, pondering the implications of what she’d experienced or learned during the day.
The next morning, Eve returned to the tree, and found the serpent where she’d left him. “Good day, Serpent.”
“Good day, Eve.”
“I have another question about trust, Serpent. And the related question of faith.”
The serpent smiled, tongue caressing its fangs. “God trusts you because He has faith in you.”
“And how do we prove that trust to be merited?”
“God proves your faith by trusting you and waiting to see how you respond.”
“And if I were to pluck the apple that you have so guilelessly draped yourself around?”
The serpent’s grin widened. “So long as you eat it not, then you have not disproven that faith.”
Eve’s brows knitted. “That, too, would be a test: to pluck the apple, yet resist the urge to eat it.” She frowned at the serpent. Its words had logic.
But as she pondered, the serpent saw its opportunity, and struck. “Indeed, since God is all-knowing, He knows whether or not you would pluck an apple from the tree, and would not have faith in you unless he already knew that you would not abuse that faith.”
“That’s true. But I’m not sure I enjoy being so predictable.”
The serpent clutched the apple in its mouth, careful not to pierce the flesh with its fangs, and pulled it from the tree. “Here, child; take this apple. You have not plucked it; that burden was left to me to bear.”
Eve hesitated, hand partially outstretched, and before she could withdraw it, the serpent extended its head and let the apple fall into her hand. She jumped, startled, but did not let it fall.
“I bid you good day, child,” said the serpent, and vanished among the leaves before she could reply.
The apple bore the warmth of the sun, and did not cool even as Eve carried it away from the tree, deeper into the garden. Her feet bore her, heedless, to a favorite location where she liked to retire, free to contemplate the garden’s majesty without having to worry about Adam’s thoughts or desires. And there she sat, contemplating the apple, as the sun traced its path across the sky. The sun’s warmth intensified the heavenly odor, bringing saliva to her mouth. To save herself from temptation, she reached out and plucked strawberries from the plants growing beside her on the ground, and blueberries from a conveniently placed bush. Delicious though they were, they did not fully satisfy.
After a time, she got to her feet and brought the apple to Adam.
“What have you there, beloved?”
“An apple from the tree.”
Adam frowned. “The tree?”
“Yes.”
“Is that wise?”
“I’m not sure. The serpent suggested that having the apple but not eating it would be an even greater test of our trustworthiness, and thus a greater accomplishment.”
“True, but you perhaps forget that what the serpent says rarely has only one meaning.”
“I have not forgotten. But I find that I mislike being tested in this way, and being found dull and predictable in meeting that test.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Are you about to do something foolish, beloved?”
Eve glared at him, and before she could stop herself, she brought the apple to her mouth and took a big bite. The snap of the apple’s crisp flesh echoed an instant, to be followed by complete silence.”
“Oh, beloved, what have you done?”
“I’m not sure, but we shall soon see.” Eve’s voice was defiant, but she looked around her guiltily. “Would you like a bite?”
“Rather, I feel a powerful urge to hide, but that seems at best futile.” Adam thought a moment. “Well, whatever the consequences of your action, I shall not leave you to face them alone.” With that, he pulled her hand towards him, and took a large bite of the apple. If anything, the silence intensified.
A cloud passed before the sun, and the two felt chilled, for they were naked as the day they were created. And so it was that they put their arms around each other, and shivered together. After a time, the cloud departed, but they remained together, trembling. And a voice was heard.
“Oh, my children, what hast thou done?”
Eve spoke first. “Forgive us, Lord. Serpent deceived us.”
“It seems, rather, that the serpent seduced you into deceiving yourselves.”
Adam spoke. “Forgive us, Lord, and do not kill us for our actions.”
There was thunder in the Lord’s voice. “It is only what I promised would happen, is it not? Yet how could I kill my first begotten children? Instead, you shall be banished forevermore from the garden. In the world beyond its walls, you will learn to feed yourselves, and you will age, and in the fulness of time, you will experience death. In that sense alone shall I kill you for your sin.” An angel with a fiery sword appeared before them. “This angel shall escort you on your path.”
The two began weeping, and God’s voice softened. “Still, as you are my children, you may always call upon me for strength and to learn wisdom. Now go.” Weeping, they followed the angel, and were soon gone from sight.
God spoke into the silence. “I see you there, Serpent. Are you proud of what you have done?”
The serpent resisted the urge to smile. “I am uncertain. I have a sense that you used me as your instrument. That would be less than satisfying.”
There was mirth in God’s voice. “Indeed.”
The serpent frowned. “You are all-knowing. Thus, you knew what I would do and what they would do, and the consequences. If the tree was truly forbidden, why, then, did you have me tempt them when you knew they would fail that test?”
“Because children must eventually leave home, that they may learn wisdom by making their own choices in the world, free from interference from their parent. Even when those decisions seem like bad ones.”
“I see.”
“Not yet, you do not, oh subtle one. But you too shall learn and grow.”
From beyond the walls came the sound of quiet weeping.
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