Eve and the Snake

We all know the story. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Then somewhere along the line he decided to make snakes (one of God’s less inspired ideas, really). Then he made Adam, which was fine. Finally he made Eve, and that’s when things really started to go downhill for this God individual.

Eve met a snake. The snake convinced her to disobey God. And just like that you have war, syphilis, and 30-day return policies. The downfall of humanity, in an instant.

That’s the story you know. What you don’t know is that in a parallel universe, not too far from us, some of that happened, but not all of it.  God made earth and sky, plants and snakes, Adam, and finally Eve, but that’s when things got interesting.

One day Eve was out in her garden, feeling the sweet grassy breeze on her nether regions when she saw the snake. Now, a little backstory, the snake was getting a name for himself as one of the craftiest of all the wild animals of the field. He wasn’t crafty in the sense that he was good at crochet or terrazzo. The snake was clever, but in a self-serving way that would make you question his motives. At least Eve should have questioned his motives, but Eve was somewhat uneducated, and she tended to take things at face value.

The snake was sitting coiled in a crook of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

“Hello,” said Eve, trying to be nice. The snake was weird, everyone knew that. But he was also interesting, so Eve wanted to stay on good terms.

The snake, who was never very fond of small-talk, lifted his brown head and said, “Hello, Eve. Is it true that you must not take an apple from thissssssss tree?”

Eve sighed. Again with the tree? she thought.

But, still trying to be polite, she said, “Yes, it’s true. We can take anything from any of the other trees in the garden, but God says we can’t take any of the apples—er he calls them ‘applications’ from the Tree of Good and Evil. He says that if we do, we’ll die.” She looked down, and unzipped her fanny pack.

“Here, it’s here somewhere. I have the memo,” she said, rooting around. “Oh dear, some pockets would be nice.”

The snake tightened his coils around the branch. “You most certainly will not die,” he said. “God is keeping these ‘aplicationsssss’ from you because he knows that if you use them, you will be like him. Your eyes will be open. You will know good from bad.” He flicked his forked tongue, “4 stars from 5.”

 “I don’t know,” said Eve, “he seemed pretty certain.”

The snake pointed his tail at an application. It hung daintily from a thin branch. The morning sun dappled across its surface and it glittered, just a little. “Take this one, for instance. You can use it to shop for decorations. Pick out some accent pieces for that bunch of trees that you and Adam use as a bathroom. Think of the possibilities…a toilet paper holder made of water hyacinth. A wooden sign that says ‘Bath.’ Pretty little towels."

Eve’s eyes brightened, and she tipped her head, but kept her hands down, one by her side, and one resting on her glorious, slightly hairy, hip.

“Or perhaps you’re looking for inssssssspiration, hmmmmmm?” And he glanced at a scrubby bunch of lavender. “You could elevate this garden to its full aesthetic potential.”

Eve shifted her feet and glanced over. The lavender bush was a bit wilty. And she hadn’t moved it in several years.

“I guess it is a little…” The snake nodded, and Eve said, “boring?”

“Of course it is! You should be looking at all the possibilities. You have an eternity here. Don’t sssssssettle.”

Then the snake slithered up and around another application, round and red. “What about this one?” he said. “It has links to many conflicting articles on parenting. Read them and share them with Adam. Afterwards, you two can….discussssssss.”

Eve crossed her arms and watched an earthworm disappear under a leaf. “The articles conflict?” she asked.

“Oh yessssssss,” said the snake, “they directly disagree with each other. And get thisssss,” he slithered closer to Eve and lowered his voice. “Each article claims that if you don’t do what they say, your children will grow up to be unfullfiled.” He bounced his eyebrows as he continued, “They’ll be disssssspirited with low ssssssself-esssssteem.” Then he smiled a wide, flat, car-salesmany smile.

“That does sound…,” Eve searched for a word.

“Captivating?”

“I was going to say, stressful,” said Eve, her flawless features forming a frown.

“Well yes,” said the snake, “maybe a smidge stressful, but also enlightening!” And he waived his tail theatrically at the sky.

Eve stared off at a distant hill, grassy and peaceful. She curled her toes into the soft loam, feeling the ground. “No thanks,” she said, and she started walking towards her tool shed.

“But,” said the snake, stretching his neck out after her. “What about your potential? What if you do something wrong?”

Eve kept walking. She wasn’t listening.

He whined, “What if you could have done something great? And you never do?”

Eve opened the door to her shed and pulled out a pair of purple gardening gloves. Then she pulled out an axe, shifting it from hand to hand, and it dipped heavy. It had been in the shed since the beginning of time. Part of the starter kit God gave them.

She walked back to the tree, smelling the less-than-perfect perfume of the lavender, a little dry, but calming. She paused, listening to the buzzing of bees, and the slow coo of a morning dove.

She raised her axe and chopped off the snake’s head. And to this day, people still use the phrase, ‘as stupid as a goddamn headless snake.’

Then Eve cut down the Tree of Good and Evil, as it had proved to be mostly trouble, and another of God’s not-so-great ideas. At first, God was angry. But Eve pointed out that he said they shouldn’t take any of the applications, but he never said anything about cutting down the tree itself. God decided he needed to brush up on his contract making skills.

And Eve lived happily ever after, content with her life. (Her children and her bathroom were fine.)