In the Garden of Eden Adam and Eve were prancing about happily, when Adam tripped on a root, banging his head on a tree trunk. He was quite alright but had become noticeably deaf. Meanwhile, Eve listens to a chatty serpent who is regaling her about a delicious-looking peach hanging from a forbidden fruit tree.
In the bright morning of the Earth, the sun beamed down on the lush garden. It shone on the serpent, its scales sparkled dark green and matte gold. As it coiled around a thick branch of the peach tree, its head raised comfortably, it fixed its glittering black eyes upon Eve who returned its stare.
‘So you’re saying,’ she said, ‘if I take a bite out of that peach on the bough up there, I will know everything there is to know?’ She tossed her long braided hair, folded her arms and stood defiant. One did not become the first woman without a certain attitude and sang-froid. Adam stood beside her, looking at the serpent, then Eve, then the serpent again.
‘But madame, of courssse.” The serpent spoke in a high-pitched sibilant whine that was oddly persuasive. It eased itself up, scratched its head underneath another branch that hung low, and sighed with satisfaction.
‘What’d it say?’ asked Adam. He was often asking questions like that. It had been a few months now since he had tripped on a root and banged his head on a tree trunk. He’d been quite ok, but the accident had left him noticeably deaf. Eve had been kind about it at first, but lately she couldn’t help getting just a little impatient.
Eve turned to the serpent. ‘Listen mate, God said we weren’t allowed. And fair enough. We’ve got all the rest of this garden.’
‘Oh madame, that is, how you say, beaucoup de crap. He think He know everythink.’
‘Well… He probably does.’ She turned to Adam.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m trying to work something out. Just don’t do anything with that peach.’
Adam’s stomach rumbled. ‘Well, why not? I could make some Peach Melba for dinner.’
‘Madame,’ hissed the serpent. ‘Un dessert delectable pour you et monsieur. Un idea plus exseellent.’
‘Just shut up a moment!’ flared Eve. Above them, in the clear blue sky rumbled a strange thunder.
‘Madame, mine apologies, most ‘umble.’
Eve gazed up at the peach. ‘…it does look nice,’ she said.
‘Indeed madame. La peach. So sweet. So delectable. So like madame’s derriere, no?’
‘What’s it saying?’ Adam peered up at the snake.
‘Something about my bottom, I think.’
‘About your what?’ Adam’s voice shrilled high. ‘Your WHAT?’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’
Adam glared at her, and stomped off through the ferns.
‘Dear God…’ muttered Eve.
‘Now what?’ thundered the voice.
‘Can’t you, like, make him undeaf?’ Eve looked up, jerking her thumb in the direction where Adam had retreated.
‘No can do. Sorry.’
‘But you can do everything, can’t you?’
‘Yes I can,’ rumbled God, ‘but I won’t. Look girlie, sure, I created night and day.’ He continued. ‘The angels. The beasts in the fields, the fishes in the sea. You two. I made the earth, too, all those fjords I did in Scandinavia were pretty good. Look, I worked bloody hard, six whole days and nights and I didn’t stop once, not even for a smoke, and a fat lot of thanks I get for it. So compared with all that, yes, I will say that fixing Adam’s hearing would be a doddle. But no. I will not do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m in a foul mood. And because this is about fate, girlie. Free will. You decide. Ain’t nothing to do with Me. Shit happens, you know. Hardly My fault if it does.’
‘That’s not fair. And don’t call me girlie.’
She stomped away, found a log, sat down and glared at nothing in particular. Meanwhile, Adam made his way back to the peach tree. He reached up, tugged the fine-looking peach from the branch, examined it closely, and bit into it. He chewed a while and smiled, a trickle of peach juice dribbling down his chin. He looked around and found Eve on the log.
‘Hey Eve, babe,’ he called, holding out the half-chewed peach. ‘This is pretty good.’
‘I miss the sexy and incredibly attractive Swedish beast named Adam. Man, he’s a God!, NO,’ Eve shrieked. ‘You weren’t supposed to – I clearly and expressly said to you Do – Not – Touch – That – Peach.’
‘Peach? Peach? So now you tell me,’ shouted Adam. ‘Thank you, Eve. Thank you very much. I just thought you were saying something weird about doughnuts and speeches. Look I just assumed this was something you were working on with God, stuff like, maybe you were gonna be writing His speeches, you’re always talking to Him and do you ever tell me what’s going on? Oh no, course not . . . ‘
‘Adam, you idiot. Writing hasn’t been invented yet.’
Adam’s eyes grew wide. He speared a finger in Eve’s face. ‘Don’t you ever,’ he spluttered, ‘don’t you EVER call me an idiot.’
From behind them, the mewing and hiccupping started again. Eve whirled around.
‘Oh, shut up. Dear God, what’s going to happen now?’ Eve wailed.
‘Some pretty heavy shit,’ muttered God, in a stern, brassy rumble. ‘That’s what’s going to happen now.’
The sun disappeared behind ominous billowing blue-black clouds. A crack of thunder rent the air.
Eve turned back to the serpent. ‘This is all your bloody fault.’
‘Madame? My fault? Mais non, non,’ the serpent hissed. ‘La peach, most delicious she is, non?’
Its fangs glittered in the gloom. ‘And now, madame shall know everythink.’
A pinpoint of light appeared in front of them. Adam and Eve stepped back as it grew and grew, terrible in its brightness. It took the shape of a warrior angel with a flaming sword. It glared and pointed its sword at them. Adam dropped the peach and clutched at Eve.
‘Thou hast partaken of the tree of knowledge, concerning which I charged thee, thou shalt not eat thereof, but ye didst. Cursed is the ground for thy sake, many be the thorns and thistles it shalt bring forth to prick thy feets. In pain thou shalt bear children. Begone from here, ye accursed.’
‘Look here mate,’ shouted Eve, ‘I didn’t do it. Adam didn’t hear you. He didn’t know we weren’t supposed to touch no peach, and, and it’s discrimination or something. Against the disabled. We can’t be blamed for that.’
The warrior angel grew higher, shone more terribly, and sparks spat from its sword.
‘Well?’ Eve pointed to the angel. ‘C’mon mate. You deaf or something?’
‘What’d it say? What do we have to do?’
‘Shit, Adam. Shit. Shit. Shit.’
Michael Uniacke has been writing for a while, and has been published in a variety of publications in print and online. More recently he has turned to long-form works on subjects relating to deafness and disability. winning some awards and fellowships. He self-published two memoirs on deafness, and is working on historical fiction relating to disability. He lives in Castlemaine with a housemate and with his cat Baby Jesus.