Fruitful

I feel my arm sway under her weight, creaking with every push and pull of her legs. She generates a breeze that breathes against my skin. Her parents used to push her, but now her legs can pump hard enough on their own. 

Her hair dances in the wind–beautiful brunette strands dancing to its rhythmic blows as her tan scarf lays cast aside on the sandy floor. I am among the only ones to see her natural hair away from its imprisonment. 

How I long for this moment everyday. An eternal wishful dance of aspiration as she swings against the wind, against the confinements of religion, against the accepted societal macabre for youthful wonder. But even when she still swung the wooden seat would cease in movement with only the small rock in the ropes as her parents lit the porch lamps.

She would cover her hair tightly, and as her small legs bounded toward her small concrete house, she would offer me one last glance of yearning, marvel, and remorse.

As the girl grew, the swing’s ropes rotted and soon it seemed too perilous to use, to touch, to even see at risk of knowing what was now fortified as a memory. Nevertheless, I remained her favorite oasis. 

When she learned to read, my leaves would shield her ears from this surreptitious world allowing her enough peace to glimpse into her own. In return, she would prop her back against me in comfort, sitting near my roots. There were even times when she knew she was in complete isolation that she would unmask her silky gift, blessing me with the chance to see and now feel her brunette locks. 

Every time she finished her reading, she would turn to look at me with the same summerly glance. Her eyes tracing every nook and curve my branches had. It never felt admonishing, but when she studied my fruits, I couldn’t help but notice an overweening malice intertwining itself with her curiosity.

It was a known fact according to the whispers of the townspeople that my berries were too sublime for this world–too honest, too morally ambiguous, offering a divine delicious taste that would lead you to succumb to a fatal poison. That’s why I wasn’t the focal point of Al-Qurnah, rather just the gethsemane of a girl in her backyard. 

No bugs touched me either. I didn’t need bee pollination or butterfly accompaniment to showcase my splendor. I only required a careful glimpse of those with minds like Henry Thoreau and Ralph Emerson for my divine sublimity to be revealed. 

My stupor to the common eye granted me the ability to be the perfect hiding spot. As the seeker counted, she would jump into my arms full of jubilance, knowing they would never suspect a mundane tree to conceal their desire. 

Sometimes while the girl hid in my leaves, she would clutch me tightly and talk to me. It was as if she knew I too had a soul. Often we would get so lost in conversation, we wouldn’t realize the seeker had given up and headed home. When she did take notice, she would outstretch her limbs across mine and allow silence to take hold. A sort of solace as she unwound her scarf to again bless me with her gift as she stared up at the stars and I gave her rest. A quiet, divine, blissful solitude.

In the early dew, she grew to pluck my berries. The first time only one, the next a few, the time after more. Initially, she would tentatively roll them between her fingers, letting their red hue reflect the early sunlight; however, in gaining more familiarity, she began to drop them, letting them splat across the ground–a temptation of poisonous benevolence for any creature that scurried across my base. 

Her curiosity craved the feeling of holding death as she pressed them tightly between her index and her thumb. But she never touched noxious insides. She never tasted their insurmountable joyous demise.

As her height rose to where her scarf grazed my lowest branch and her hips widened and her breasts perked, an uneasy fear fostered within me. She was at the greatest point of enticement. She was no longer my eternal Summer; she was my mournful fall. A lamenting for a bygone sun. 

It was a late October night when she learned of impurity and shame. Her parents had been inside; their silhouetted figures waving their arms in conversation, unaware of the boy trailing at Evanthe’s fingertips. 

He grasped her hand as she reached my roots. I knew then I couldn’t save her. Her back pressed me, with his head in her hands rather than her books. Wisps of hair escaped the restricting hijab strained in agony, pleading for refuge as he snuck his other hand into her gift-swallowing it in his fist. Soon they were on the ground, an entanglement of bodies scratching at my bark. The stars above sobbed at the masked love as I remained insignificant. He was taking her from me.

I rustled my branches. I shook vigorously in the wind. I wanted her safety, her protection but I knew my girl was gone as a woman stared up at me with a novel vacuous trepidation as the boy moved slowly up and down her body. 

“You are mine.” He whispered as he licked her ear. 

In desperation, I twisted my trunk. Screeching in the wind, fighting remorse, I willed my body to break. I splintered my roots. I cracked my bark. I watched as I cut my own berries from their stems. I watched them fall to the ground. I watched them splatter. It was no longer raining fruit but my blood. 

So many had been taken. Drawn into the depths of curiosity without caution. A temptation so thrilling, to resist would be to break one’s will. Distort society’s accepted consciousness. 

Not all of the berries broke upon contact with the sandy floor. Some bounced and landed on their bodies. Some rolled up next to their sides, their hands, necks, lips. After their animostic dance, the boy shared a belial grin as his eyes crept along the woman’s body to a fixated gaze on her dilated pupils, reflecting the red of the fruitful carnage. 

“Eve,” He breathed. 

“Yes?” She replied, regaining control of her own breath. 

“Have you ever tried one?” He rolled an unbroken berry between his fingers just as she used to. 

“Never.” The woman responded, calm despite the smeared blood on her back and shayla. “They are poisonous.”

“Poisonous? Who told you they were poisonous?” He pulled her tighter to his chest, bringing his hand with the berry just below her face. 

“I don’t know.”

My open wounds throbbed. I could no longer make noise despite my inner screams. Lord, protect her, save her from this world. If a man can be resurrected from the dead, surely she can be too. Let this man die by my poison in agony and lust, but make my girl’s heart strong. Forgive her, O’ Father, let her return to Eden. 

He licked the fruit, his tongue oddly long and thin. “It doesn’t seem poisonous.” He slurred his words as his tongue rattled against his teeth. “In fact, it seems glorious.” He shoved the fruit into his mouth. His hands scrounged for more in delirium. His eyes brightened and grew with each oncoming bite, lighting up to glow with a red undertone. “Delicious.” He panted through a mouthful. 

The woman watched, absent of expected disgust rather fully enticed. All the times she had come to this tree as a child to enjoy the peace in solitude without expected grandeur or dismal. She had always heard to never eat the berries. She had always seen people avoid even looking at the tree. Though, she had never actually seen someone eat the berries. She couldn’t remember the last time she heard the whispers of their fruitful fatality. She couldn’t remember who had first told her of their lethal excellence. Maybe people were trying to keep them from her. Maybe as she lost herself in deep-seeded presence and gratitude for the tree’s blissful nirvana, people would sneak into her family’s yard and steal whatever berries they could without rustling leaves or cracking branches. Maybe at midnight hours, as she laid in the tree's arms, they brought baskets, skipping in their successful attempt at safeguarding the tree’s most rewarding blessing from the foolish little girl as they stuffed their mouths and pockets and baskets until all were overflowing in gluttony and greed. 

In recent years, some nights she would awake only an hour after falling asleep to the sounds of quiet shouts of accusations and refutes. They must have been fighting over the berries right outside her window, arguing while they lick their teeth in gritful snarls to see how they can increase their taking. 

The handsome face in front of her didn’t swell. His muscles didn’t convulse. He was still alive. The berries were never poisonous, they were delicious.

Continuing to stuff his mouth with even smooshed fruits with one hand, the boy offered her a berry in his other. 

She laid on her stomach. The sand, a familiar bed around her. The stars glistening–extending one last plea. The tree–her tree–still providing comfort all these years later. Its root soothing her body. 

She took the berry. She swallowed. 

It was tangy, yet the flavor was vacant. Instead, as it traveled down her throat, she felt it scrape against her insides. Her mind let out a final cry of agony, repulsed. I moaned. 

Evanthe was dead. 

“How does it feel?” The boy munched. 

Eve didn’t speak. It was too loud. My leaves could no longer save her ears. The wind howled. The boy’s chewing echoed. The sounds of shouting from her house filled her. The sand itched. My roots cut. The boy’s arms now felt slimy. She twisted to get away from him. 

“My darling,” He seethed. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

She was aware. Aware of her unyielded wisps of hair. Aware of her dirtied scarf. Aware of the tears that provided the last youthful comfort she would ever feel. Aware of her loss. She sobbed. She couldn’t meet his eyes. 

Sitting on her knees, her back rounded and bobbed with each heave. Her hands were unclean. Dyed by my blood. 

He still chewed. 

I wanted to call out to her. She had seemed so hopeful, so pure, so honest, so good. 

Suddenly, there were bugs. Eating at my berries and running over her fingers. She could feel crawling all over her skin. She turned horrified to the boy, only to see him no longer eating the berries but the sand. Shoving his hands into his mouth at a quickening pace. Then, his hands never left his mouth. They dived deeper into his throat, but he kept chewing. She didn’t know if it was his blood or mine anymore as his eyes remained on hers. She knew his eyes weren’t a reflection–they were red.

She screamed. The porch light wasn’t on, but she worked to shove her hair into her hijab and run back to the house.

The shouts from inside were deafening as she ripped open the back door. She never looked back. The stars were too haunting.

Captivated by the noise, she went to her parents. It was the first time she had seen the bruises on her mother’s wrists. The purple specks around her throat. Her father’s face red in anger and not sunburn. First time she listened to either raise their voice. They were the greedy and the gluttony–searching for how to take the most from the other. And now Eve was too. 

           The noise was too loud. Her hair was itching at her head, failing to hide itself—it was too much. She couldn’t bear the weight. She brought her hands to her hairline and pulled. Her parents stood in gaping horror as her fists became full of once enchanting brown hair. The following silence was so hostile compared to her past solitude. 

She never came back. Although, I knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Yet, I am glad she never saw the boy turn his head eerily to meet my base and smear his bloodied hands on my body.

He had murmured, “Back again old friend,” before vanishing into the next whipping gust.  

He had been no boy at all.

I didn’t know what he was. 

Although, it was then that I recognized the rattle of his tongue. 

I am beautiful. I am fruitful. I am everlasting. 

It was three of us in a paradise unknown to the modern man. A utopia of all good things. Things that were living in co-existence without gnaring teeth or blasphemy. There was no need for moral autonomy because everything was good. 

Then, he appeared. He had green scales and dark red irises surrounding slitted pupils. Every so often, he would rattle his long slitted tongue between his fangs. 

I hated the feeling of his stomach as he twisted himself around me, suffocating my branches until I was sure he would snap them off. He knew of my fruits—knew that my red berries weren't delicious to the tongue but to the eye. 

A deception to the mind as whoever ate them would surely die. 

I never desired to make them wise. I only sought longevity for our peace. Yet, I remain the greatest deceiver as my sight offered elegance while my taste revealed my concealed hideousness. I couldn’t stop them.

And centuries later, while it wasn’t my wood that hung the prophet’s bloodied hands and feet, I could still hear his breath. I could still feel him through every splinter. I could feel his crown of thorns etch my skin. I was not the one that held him up–I am the one that put him up. I was the one that introduced him to evil as I whispered death into his ear. 

Maybe it was never your fault. Maybe it was mine. Maybe I am too beautiful for this world and too tempting for the right-minded. I am moral autonomy. I am temptation. I am crucifixion. 

Here I stand. I still have my leaves and my arms and my fruits. I shake in the breeze, and I offer shade that hides the sunlight. I can cool you down, I can provide you comfort as Al-Qurnah burns. As the world burns. If you haven’t eaten my fruits the fires will stay obsolete, you’ll feel only their warmth. You won’t hear the cries of judgment nor the banishing of Lucifer. 

Rest your weight on me. Lay your head back. Let the seven trumpets blow. 

Don’t eat my berries, you shall surely die.