The Will of Eden

There comes a time when all of us must beckon to a calling, whether it be for service to a higher power, a higher decree, or simply to go out and create a garden. All of humanity will hear the callings, but most are ignored. That is free will, and all of human kind possesses such ability. There are those who listen, and there are those who feel they must abide by those callings. Guided by choice, regardless to how they may seem to follow without conscience, guided by the power of their hearts, without question, guided by thought, but not submission. One who followed her callings no matter how grand, or miniscule was Eve. She heard it when she had met her husband, and had asked him to come for dinner when she was just fourteen. She had heard it when she was seventeen, when her country asked her to enlist for war. She heard it again shortly after when her husband had asked for her hand and marriage, and when she had returned they became wed.

They married in the spring and their child came a year later. With her time at home, caring for her young, she then was beckoned to create a garden with datura, ivy, honey suckles, and in the middle a Pong-pong tree. Datura made the most beautiful flowers, the ivy crept and crawled, and bore berries of a delightful sight, as did the honey suckles, whose fruit was white. The Pong-pong had luscious fruits of green, and in a certain light gleamed. A wondrous garden she had erected, so beautiful her neighbors often commented on its appeal. Even when the daturas’ bore their thorn apples, it gave an angelic sight to behold.

Eve was once again beckoned her for duty, her country needed her once again. She was not one to abandon a calling. When she left, her garden was in bloom, her son began to walk and move; her fruits of labor, and love were left at their most wondrous sights. A kiss, and look of longing and assurance given to her husband, a promise to return. A wave goodbye, and a sullen stride, she obliged to the voice that beckons. War is not kind, death and woe follows many.

While gone over seas, Eve’s garden bloomed, and fruited. The Sun would rise, and the fruits would gleam with the morning dew, but the fruits of the pong-pong tree would glisten well past noon. War is not kind, death follows many, Eve was no exception. She gave good on her promise, and she returned home. Distraught and saddened, her husband wept and howled, his tears gleam and glistened. Inattentive, his child crept and crawled. His fruit, wanders to the garden. Children and berries, often make for good, and joy. Often healthy and tasty, but the fruit of vines and honeysuckles have their devious subjections. Eve’s husband collected, remembers their child, and seeks for his comfort. The last bit of his world, the last morsel of his wife was left in their son. He finds him in the garden, the dew gleam from the berries, and the green fruit of the Pong-pong tree glistens. The vines creep and crawl upon the wall. And a child convulses, and foams from his mouth. He cries tears of blood and it flowed freely from every faucet on his face. Nothing could be done, the berries, the fruit beauteous and splendid in sight gave way to insidious intent. Look, but do not touch the fruit. Madden and frayed, the man looks down upon his offspring, the boy’s face gleamed and glistened, as his tears crept and crawled upon his lifeless body. Wife, and child gone, and all that was left was the garden, and in the center the Pong-pong tree, with it’s fruit that glistened, and gleamed in the light.

The man called frantically for help, screamed for someone to hear. Bellowed for his child. Howled his pain. Then help came, came too late. His neighbors, who once gave compliments on the wondrous sight of Eve’s garden, now gave way to gossip, and hushed hisses.

‘His wife created the garden full of poisons knowingly, and with a small child in her care!’

‘She left for war, even though she knew her husband was inattentive to their son!’

‘He was crying, when he should have been watching his boy!’

‘I don’t know how I could live with myself if that happened to me,’

The voices, hushed, yet not unheard. Hissing their discontent of the grotesque circumstance. In the morning, when the dew made the fruits and flowers gleam, the man went to the garden. He tore away the honey suckles, and ripped out the datura. And gathered the thorny vines of ivy and fastened a good rope. One to hold weight, one to hold strength. When the time came, the Pong-pong tree bore a new strange fruit that too glistened in the light past noon.