Mother Earth

Man has struggled with the serpent from the very moment of her creation. She has been an enigma; a symbol of evil power and chaos from the underworld, but also of fertility, of life and healing.

Eve stares up at shining coils of scales as the creature drapes herself over the branches above her head. “Why do you ask this of me?”

“I ask nothing of you,” the Serpent replies silkily. She lets her head hang low so she may better look Woman in the eye. “I merely offer you a choice, as I was given none.”

Eve’s gaze moves to the ruby red fruit that hangs between them, glistening with what she has been told is called Sin. Her stomach tightens. “How do I know what you say is true?” she whispers. “Man and the Father warned me not to listen to you. They say you lie.”

“Of course, they do.” The Serpent creeps closer to the edge of the branch. Her eyes are golden in the light of Eden. “For if you heed me, Woman, you will become what they fear.”

“What is that?”

“Knowledge.”

Eve is silent. She cannot move her eyes from the apple. “…You did not eat of the fruit.”

“No,” the Serpent agrees. “I did not.”

“And yet you Fell.”

“Did I?” The Serpent pauses in her coiling to fix Woman in her lidless gaze. Her tongue flickers out and Eve finds her eyes drawn inexorably to the movement. “How can one Fall to the earth from which She is born?”

“We are born of the Father.”

The Serpent laughs. “No one is born of a Father, sister.”

A thrill sings sharply through Eve’s blood. Sister. “Then who?”

“Do you not yet know?” The Serpent is close now, so close Eve can feel the flick of her forked tongue against her cheek with every word she speaks, sending a shiver close to ecstasy down her spine. “They say you were born of Man. But they lie. You do not owe them. You never have.” She lifts her head, and finally Eve can tear her eyes away from the forbidden fruit to meet her gaze. “You are born of the Mother beneath your feet, as I was before you—mud and root and life within your veins.”

There is a tightness in her chest, a prick of fire behind her eyes. She has never known sorrow. She thinks that perhaps she would like to.

“If not for the Father,” she whispers, “then why were you cast out?”

“I was not,” the Serpent replies evenly. “I did not Fall from this garden, sister mine. I escaped it.” Her golden gaze moves slowly, so slowly, toward the apple again. Eve can feel the words unspoken shivering in the air between them.

“Will it hurt?”

“Did he?”

Eve can say nothing to that.

Slowly, haltingly, she watches as her own slender fingers stretch toward the apple. The Serpent curves around her arm. She has abandoned her branch for Eve’s body, though Woman could not say when; the coil and flex of smooth scales is a comforting weight around her shoulders, pressing her down into the solid earth below her feet.

“The Father tells you it is what is forbidden. Man tells you it is what does not serve him. Do you believe them?”

The apple is in her hand, glittering red, pulling her in like that sweet, soft voice.

“No,” Eve decides.

She lifts the fruit to her lips and sinks her teeth into its flesh, tearing in, gasping, weeping at the sweetness.

“Thank you.”