Through the world's first summer things had not been so bad, though of
course the wilderness that grew outside of Eden was not so comfortable
as the garden they had lost. In the garden no one had needed to work:
food had grown on the trees to one's hand and, because it was so
sheltered, the weather had been always pleasant. It hadn't been
necessary to wear clothing; it hadn't been necessary to build houses,
for it had never rained. Birds hadn't troubled to make nests, nor
rabbits to dig warrens. Everybody had felt perfectly safe to sleep
out-of-doors, wherever he happened to find himself, without a thought
of protection.
Here in the wilderness it was different. There were no paths. The jungle
grew up tall and threatening. Thorns leant out to tear one's flesh. If
it hadn't been for the elephant uprooting trees in his fits of temper,
no one would have been able to travel anywhere. One by one the animals
slunk away and began to lead their own lives independently, making lairs
for themselves. Every day that went by they avoided the Man and Woman
more and more. At first they used to peep out of the thicket to jeer at
their helplessness; soon they learnt to disregard them as if they were
not there. From having believed himself to be the wisest of living
creatures the Man discovered himself to be the most incompetent. Often
and often he would creep to the gold-locked gates and peer between the
bars, hoping to see God walking there as formerly. But God walked no
more. As He had climbed back into Heaven, He had destroyed the sky-blue
stairs behind Him. There was no way in which the Man could reach Him to
ask His advice or pardon.
But it was the Woman who caused the Man most unhappiness. It wasn't that
she despised and blamed him. He'd grown used to that since leaving Eden.
Everybody, except the dog and the robin, despised and blamed him. The
Woman caused him unhappiness because she was unwell--really unwell; not
just an upset stomach or a headache. In Eden she had always been strong
and beautiful, like sunlight leaping on the smooth, green lawn--so white
and pink and darting. Her long gold hair had swayed about her like a
flame; her white arms had parted it as though she were a swimmer. Her
eyes had been shy and merry from dawn to dusk. She had been a darling;
never a cross word had she spoken. The furry creatures of the woods had
been her playmates and the birds had perched upon her shoulders to sing
their finest songs.
Now she was wan and thin as a withered branch. Like the elephant
uprooting trees, she often lost her temper. Sometimes she was sorry for
her crossness; more often she wasn't. When the Man offered her things to
eat, no matter what trouble he'd taken to get them, she'd say she wasn't
hungry. And yet he loved her none the less for her perverseness. He was
so afraid.... He couldn't have told you of what he was afraid, for
nobody had had time to die in the world as yet. He was filled with dread
lest, like God, she might vanish and walk the earth no more. So he
cudgelled his brains to find things to cure her. He invented wrong
remedies, just as in Eden he had invented wrong answers to the animals'
questions. He was never certain whether they would do her good or harm;
but he always assured her gravely that, if she'd only try them, she'd
feel instantly better. She never did; on the contrary she felt worse
and worse. Perhaps the wilderness was the cause. Perhaps it was the
forbidden fruit she had eaten. Perhaps it was a little of both, plus a
touch of Eden-sickness. She had never known an hour's ill-health up to
the moment when she had eaten the fruit and been turned out of the
garden. The poor Man was distracted. He didn't care what he did or whom
he robbed, if only he might hear her singing again and see her once more
smiling.
What he did wasn't tactful; it only made the animals hate him--all
except the dog and the robin--and brought new dangers about his head. It
was the month of October and nights were getting shivery. He had scraped
together fallen leaves to make a bed for her and had woven a covering of
withered grasses. In spite of this, from the setting of the sun till
long after its rising, all through the dark hours her teeth chattered.
She cried continually; every time she cried, out in the jungle the hyena
scoffed. The Man rarely got any rest until full day. All night he was
rubbing her back, her feet and hands in an effort to make her warm. As
a consequence he slept late and accomplished hardly any work. He didn't
even have time to notice how all the animals were building houses. The
Woman was so fretful that he never dared leave her for longer than an
hour. The poor thing was forever complaining that God might have made
her out of something better than a rib, if He was going to make her
at all.
It was a colder night than usual, when the Woman was crying very
bitterly and the hyena was doing more than his ordinary share of
scoffing, that the idea occurred to the Man. The hyena was scoffing
because he was comfortable; he was comfortable because of the heavy coat
that he wore. The Man determined to teach him a lesson by taking his
coat from him. It was another remedy; he hoped that if he clothed the
Woman with it, she might grow strong. Telling her that he wouldn't be
gone for long, he padded stealthily away, followed by the dog, and faded
out of sight among the shadows.
They found the hyena in an open space which the elephant had been
clearing the day before. He was seated on his hind legs, gazing up
at the moon with his fine warm coat all bristly, scoffing and scoffing.
He was far too busy with his ill-natured merriment to hear them coming.
In a flash the dog had him by the throat, holding him while the man
robbed him of his clothing. When they had stripped him of everything,
even of his bushy tail, they let him go and he fled naked, howling the
alarm through the forest. By the time they got back to the Woman all the
underbrush was stirring. From every part of the wilderness, in twos and
threes, the animals were coming together. The night was alive with their
glowing eyes; the leaves trembled with their savage muttering.
"Be quick," whispered the Man. "Put this on."
She dried her tears as she felt the warmth of the fur. "It's comfy," she
sobbed. "It fits exactly." And then, "Oh, Man, I'm frightened. What have
you done? You gave me a present once before."
The Man was making a club out of a tree. As he stripped it of its
branches, he answered boastfully, "It was I and the dog; we did it
together. You were cold, so we stole the hyena's coat from him. All the
animals are angry. They know that we shall do again what we have done
once. They feel safe no longer. They say it must be stopped. They want
to get back the hyena's coat from us."
"And they will, oh, my master," the dog interrupted, "unless we protect
ourselves. Through the wilderness, not many miles from here, a limestone
ridge rises above the forest. In the limestone ridge there is a cave. If
we can win our way to it before our enemies come together, we can stand
in the entrance and guard the Woman."
So the dog ran ahead growling with such fierceness that everything fled
from his path. Behind him came the Man carrying the Woman very closely
because he loved her, and trailing his tremendous club. By dawn, before
their enemies could guess their purpose, they had gained the cave. By
the time the animals had held their conference and decreed that the Man
and the dog must be punished, they had escaped and were ready to defy
all comers.