THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Man at times bewares, I pray,
the faults of other men
as women do from men abroad
and women just as sinned

and though I'd love to laugh and sing
and say this isn't so
a purer world, there's no such thing
nor sanct for us to go

fruit beheld, for fruit begot,
it ripens on its tree
but what's to stop an animal
from taking there from thee?

Sword in hand, we guard its trunk
to fend off those who prey
and keep safe that which tastes of sweet
from those who'll have their way

snakes abound, and squirrels too,
they climb the tree at back
and by the time the squirrel can leave
the snake has had its snack

but lo, those fruits, remain untouched
pristine in ever's after-glory
red as fire, green as earth,
no mind paid to the scene so gory

We pride ourselves, day after day,
for tending to the fruits
but then it dawns again on us
who needed us at root

metaphors and similes
they fail to tell the tale
make simple what's all far complex
and flatten knowing stale

tree defensed, but children gone
we scratch our heads and cry
how ever did we all forget
it's our own flesh that makes beasts try?

* * *

Everyone was gathered again, joyful in mirth, contented with steaks and tarts; pies and pastas. I was amazed how global their palettes were. The Collector, blonde with freckles and a curiously catlike glint, was a strange mix of nice to your face and mean behind everyone's back – and yet she meant both honestly, and took her fair share of judgment from others in turn. By her old home, she'd worked her dream selling 'mystical stones' like amethysts and emeralds to lucky travelers, promising them luck and good favor with the Gods. Travel is a perilous venture indeed, and any small comfort is worth its weight – even a superstitious one. But she'd been forced to hand off the store to her successor, who pawned the whole place off and ran with the funds – leaving her without a cent of her own initial investment. She'd been utterly cheated, left only with a vague promise on a writ that she'd 'receive monthly interest'. Last we'd heard, her storefront had become a sausage stand – and I doubt the man there grinding meats was aware of the arrangement. Distraught, but not defeated, she became a woman of medicine here in Fogborn – something just as magical for herself to pursue, but more vital. The Plague had been 'round, and the people who remained were scared for their very lives. She'd drop water in their eyes, rub their hands together with oil, and speak incantations – they always left feeling better, even if they'd been certain of their own demise the moment they walked in. I admired her for that – unlike the rest of the Beckenovs, she'd been absolutely ruined, and still yet took her pride in the assistance of others before herself – even sometimes to her own detriment. I was finally able to trust someone, and we shared our favourite stories as easily as a pot of tea. The Collector was, despite her angry streak, a truly respectful human being worthy of esteem.
Her children, on the other hand, are the punchline to a setup I didn't know was supposed to be a joke. They were rowdy and sweet, but ever-so-gently insane – just like the rest of 'em. Left by their father for potion, they demanded I marry their mother (my own aunt) and become their new 'dad'. For a while, I figured the least I could do was teach them some of what I knew, but more fairly as their cousin than as their 'dad'. It was a hard thing for a child to hear, I imagine, but it was worth breaking them back into reality from the place where they'd been living. I'd been to school, they hadn't.

Now, from here-on out, I'm going to call The Rationeer something shorter: The Rater. This is because she's always had a habit of staunch appraisal, and guessing the worth of others within her periphery. A useful skill for her work, and a terrifying ray of pass-through judgment for everyone else for miles. She often used it to make the children feel transparent, and when she wasn't gushing joyfully about their little achievements (or their brave little crafts), she was whispering menace to them before bed. Tucking them in with violent threats, which I'd only managed to interrupt once – the look on her face was shock, and the old woman has been wary of me ever since. I was no longer the junior farmhand in her loving care, but now a harsh, critical voice that could dissent. She decided the smaller ones' ears were easier targets for her venomous mandibles, so she left me alone... but only until she could assess another weakness to press. While The Rater and Chief were yelling and punishing the children for their various misdeeds and squabbles, I was attempting to reach their little hearts and minds through kindness and understanding. It didn't take long for them to start to gravitate to me for it – they weren't used to being listened to by anyone aside from their mother. However, it wasn't always so effective, and I found myself greatly frustrated by the task – it was more than a teenager could handle alone, and their mother took every excuse to dissociate. She'd simply yawn, look the other way, and indulge herself in some red wine, and fine reading. I supposed that was well-earned, for a single mother of three, and shrugged it off. It was a noble challenge to lighten her burdens, and I'd already cut my teeth landscaping. How hard could it be?

The children, nine at the oldest and four at the youngest, took to following me around the yard while I worked – asking me questions about how things were, why they were that way, and what kinds of jobs they could have when they were older. A job was a title, a job was a name, a job was a life.
The eldest, a girl I called The Sheller, was boyish and outgoing, and had a way of making others react according to her pretty little whims. I say this in jest, of course – I was none too convinced by her curls and charms, and saw her too closely to myself by reflection to be fooled. That, and I'd heard the story of her adventures into cupboards to spill bags of sugar to play in. She was obviously a sweet-tooth and a sweet-talker, not someone to be often believed. She'd been a very popular infant, and took to star-lighting in crowds with cute dancing; embarrassing her mother, but not herself one bit. I was forced on one occasion, in front of everyone, to give her an 'Italian Hello', which is a dry peck to the cheeks and once on the lips. I was guilted for not wanting to do it, but I'd never kissed a girl before and didn't want it to be my cousin. Then again, I figured, you wouldn't say an Italian woman pecking her father 'Hello' had given up her first kiss to him, would you? That would be a gross overstatement of the level of affection being shown, for the sake of sexualizing something mundane. Which is what I was being accused of by NOT doing it, so... well, the backwards lot got their way, and I said 'hello' as quickly as I could. It never happened again, but I felt violated in the smallest of ways... because that was never one of MY customs, and they knew I wasn't comfortable with it. It wasn't the only time the girl was used to crusade for the inappropriate by her family: in fact, she was apparently a habitual streaker, and enjoyed the red on peoples' faces when she showed them her bare skin during a serious conversation. Or when her mother was sipping wine, with friends. She said it was 'only natural' and that it if you were uncomfortable that it 'revealed things about you'. She even said it was 'rape rhetoric' that nudity was 'inherently sexual', and that if you thought otherwise, you must be some kind of 'base animal'. While I understood that, for infants, she was correct, I don't think she understood: once pubescence starts, being nude no longer carries the same meaning, and becomes a communication of intentions. Only an ancient Greek would claim otherwise, and demand public nudity be sanctioned – and we all know what the Greeks held their belief in when it came to the young and old; the last thing I needed to see around here was oppressed young ones giving oil baths to their elders. It seemed to me like the 'excuse of innocence' was an intentional self-blinding to the consequences of natural body language, so as to absolve oneself, and then blame society, for any "accidents" that may occur. It wasn't so much 'blaming the victim', which was the argument she perceived she was fighting, as it was blaming puberty for happening to her kin, uninvited. If she'd had better sense, she would have made sure her budding daughter stayed covered – just in case she'd learned it was okay to show herself to someone less trustworthy than her cultesque relatives. It was unwise to let signals fly in such a dangerous place as real life often was, and then blame the monsters for their eyes, and decry their lack of self-control. Perhaps she thought she could rewrite the human script, to defend herself and her young passively. I knew better than that – it would take action, offense, and guardianship to accomplish that goal. There were beastly drunks about, and only a fool would let their young be seen unsafe around them. Even to know which houses featured the most vulnerable children was an invitation for disaster, and I was crying to shake my head for their loose lips on the matter – she was bragging about her 'liberated parenting techniques', as if that made her somehow more advanced than the rest of us; last I checked, the Garden of Eden was lost a long time ago, and they had snakes, too. Yet here it seemed they'd supposedly found it again, snake-free. To be fair, Ireland wasn't a place where snakes lived, but that didn't mean it was free of all predators.
In spite of my warnings, her defensive irresponsibility continued. She no longer wanted the topic discussed, and began to shush me if I'd so much as started a word. It was her way of saying, "we don't need this conversation, all people are good by default.. by virtue of my sheer belief". Actually, on average, many of us are dirtbags – potentially all, if not for education. Don't believe me, go look at the wildlife – they care far less than we do. The world was a bumpy ride, and one can't just grease their wheels for the squeak to keep gravity from having its knocks. You had to prepare, you had to batten your wares down and get ready for the bounce. Most of all, you had to make sure the height of admission for that ride was tall enough – so that nobody fell off the ride and cracked their skulls.

The children did not relent their pageant. In fact, all three were given complete leeway to appear as they pleased around the house and yard, bits and all. I suspected The Chief was well-met by this absurdity, and found it accommodating – but his reputation depended on his abstinence, which I supposed made him think himself a 'hero' for his resistance. As if any such hero should consider it first. I found it gross, vulnerizing, and unsanitary, but any comments I made, or revelation of those weaknesses, got ire and suspicion – they were so used to the battle of innocence versus perversion, I supposed, and believed that if you weren't with them, you were against them. And yet they relied on The Chief, of all people, for their daily bread. If only one of them had dared, even once, to show me the same attestament they showed him – I'd have at least more cause to have earned it. The Collector must not have known she was playing dice in the caves with him, or I doubt she'd have allowed this parade to continue. Perhaps The Chief had left her more space than he'd left me, and she was unconvinced of his danger. I wasn't with them on the 'omniant innocence' ideal, nor the other side; just trying to acknowledge bare reality for what it was – which was, ironically, something they were completely blind to. Still not convinced? Let me explain.