Dragon’s deception

The serpentine dragon, having condescended from another dimension, cradled its head on a bough of the Knowledge Tree one afternoon and reasoned with the queen. “You look hungry,” he garbled. “I heard you aren’t allowed to eat any of Eden’s delicious varieties. Is this a joke?”

Eve bristled at the unusual sound of a talking lizard. “We can eat anything except Knowledge.” She pointed to the tree from which both the forbidden fruit and the scaly dragon’s tail dangled. “We can’t even touch it, or we’ll die.”

The dragon choked on a half-chewed morsel. “Dear child, do I look dead to you?” he asked, mucous-caked eyes glinting in the sun. He dropped from his perch and crept closer. “Don’t you want to know good from evil, child? That’s what happens when you eat from Knowledge. You become distinguished and discretionary. Like a god.”

Eve regarded the fruit sagging from a lower limb, and the dragon detected in her gaze and in her blush that she was vexed with desire.

“Why should your God be the only one who knows good from evil?”

Adam appeared unexpectedly out of the brush, his brutish footfalls startling the beast. He took little notice of the reptile recoiling at his feet. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the sun-kissed fruit. “Like a god, you say?”

“Like your God. The Elohim lied to you, friends.” The dragon’s voice trailed off as he skulked away.

The woman plucked the fibrous orb, and its limb snapped back. No sooner had she and Adam bit into it that all sense of time ceased. A swelling melody penetrated their ears so thoroughly, they became intoxicated in bliss. Adam held himself stock still, enchanted by the hypnotic sound of blood pumping through his veins. Feeling her legs give way, Eve lowered herself and listened to the harmonies playing beneath the soil.

Then, all at once their rapture ended. Both shuttered, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed. A harsh wind swept through the clearing, and the sky rumbled ominously.

In haste, they sewed the leaves of a fig tree together and wrapped themselves with them, then scurried in opposite directions in search of protection.

God appeared for Vespers that evening, but Adam and Eve weren’t answering the temple door.

“Where are you?” He asked, peering over the fence into the orchard. “Adam?”

Adam responded from behind a mulberry bush, his voice shrill and weak. “I was naked and afraid, so I hid,” he explained, self-consciously.

“How’d you know you were naked unless you took fruit from the Knowledge Tree?”

Adam admitted his disobedience but quickly blamed his wife. “I was content with figs and pomegranates,” he said, breathlessly, “but this woman… your gift to me, I should say, she wanted to taste Knowledge.”

Eve appeared from behind the foliage of a willow, her face downcast. She too was visibly shaken. Speechless, she pointed an accusatory finger at the creature who happened to be slinking along the path.

God seized the dragon by its throat and cursed, “Eat dirt and die! From now on, you’ll slither on your belly, with misery your only company. Despised and isolated, you’ll strike at the heel, but in the end, your head will be crushed. That’s a promise!”

God turned to Eve and said, “Now that you’ve tasted the difference between good and evil, childbirth will be painful and dangerous. As far as your relationship with the man, you’ll want to please him, but he’ll dominate you. His desire will be for wealth and power.”

To Adam, He said, “You’ve cursed the soil, whose provisions weren’t enough. You’ll bleed, sweat, and cry for your bread, grasping for food, sex, and an endless string of things until you return to dust.”

God’s countenance then softened. He presented clothes made from animal hide. “You’ll need an upgrade from those fig leaves where you’re going,” He said, handing them the weatherproof leathers.

The first family had just experienced a most unfathomable blow. For their safety, God separated them from the Life Tree and dispatched a host of invisible armed guards around it. Had they consumed Life straight from the branch, they’d have lived in eternal misery. He escorted them to the east gate, onto a twisted path leading into darkness.

“Follow closely to the way,” God instructed. “The sun will rise again, and I will bring Life back to your offspring.”

The estranged pair left the comforts of the lush garden and traveled east along the rocky road they named Suffering, and the dragon slithered at their heel by the pale light of a fallen moon.

Inspiration: Genesis 3

Mythos rising

This story begins at the end of a brooding and desolate night.

The God Elohim hovered over the vast and shapeless abyss. After a long breath, He uttered the first word:

“Light.”

A brilliant shaft aroused the sleeping void, and like a searchlight, it illuminated an ancient battle scene. Here God crushed the head of the watery dragon Chaos and pierced the spirit of the raging flood.

From out of the storm, He lifted a bright, blue canvass that shrouded the earth-in-flux like a dome, its four corners meeting to create the axes of a cross. This airy sphere separated the waters of the chaotic underworld from the secret courts of the heavens.

Lands formed as God cut boundaries into the waterways, and a lush garden sprung with vibrant colors from the banks of a crystalline river.

Thick vegetation blanketed the dry land in every direction, and two large trees flanked the tributary. They tangled into an arch at their crown, forming a bridge over the flowing water.

These were the Life Tree and the Knowledge Tree, and they dwarfed all other plants.

“Good,” God said as He hurled the sun, moon, and an array of luminaries across the sky. “This is all good.”

He created sea creatures, land creatures, sky creatures, engineering each to multiply by instinct across the land and sea. Insects hummed, mammals groaned, and an assembly of new life vibrated a symphony of praise into the far and outer reaches of space.

Then God made a strange creature like Himself and placed him in the middle of the garden beneath the crosshatched shadows of the high trees. Like the animals before him, Adam rose mightily from the mist-moistened clay. But unlike other creatures he was given a spirit, animated by the very breath of God.

“This is very good.”

God gave His supreme achievement dominion over the hierarchical realms of the new world. Adam named every species, cataloged the stars, tilled the land, and established order. He had full run of the place, but something was amiss.

Considering Adam’s milieu, God caused him to fall into a deep sleep, seized a portion of clay from his body, and fashioned with it another creature like Himself.

Upon waking, the son of God looked upon his equal with immense pleasure.

“Now that’s what I call a woman.” As their bodies intersected, his loneliness was satiated. The first king and queen ruled their kingdoms together without self-awareness, without shame.

God took inventory of everything He had made, and seeing it was all right, He rested.

Inspiration: Genesis 1-2, Psalm 74:12-17, Isaiah 51:9-10