Text copyright © 2005 by Daniel Quinn
Art copyright © 2005 by Michael McCurdy
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
For information about permission to reproduce
selections from this book, write to:
Steerforth Press L.C., 25 Lebanon Street
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Quinn, Daniel.
Tales of Adam / Daniel Quinn.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58642-191-5
1. Adam (Biblical figure) — Fiction. 2. Abel (Biblical figure) —
Fiction. 3. Bible. O.T. — History of Biblical events — Fiction.
4. Nature — Effect of human beings on — Fiction.
5. Hunting and gathering societies — Fiction.
6. Prehistoric peoples — Fiction.
7. Fathers and sons — Fiction. I. Title.
PS3567.U338T35 2005
813′.54–DC21
2003009152
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
The Sign of Abundance
The Business of a Rabbit
Tracks
The Cockroach Who Held a Mountain on His Back
Gazelle on a String
Finding an Accommodation with the Sea
The Web Woven Endlessly
INTRODUCTION
Ishmael, the work for which I am best known, is a literary curiosity, being the eighth version of a book I labored on for some thirteen years. In each version I followed a slightly different path and made slightly different discoveries. Some of these discoveries could be carried forward from one version to the next, and some—equally valuable or even more valuable—had to be left behind. The tales in this volume fall into this latter category. They were originally part of the fourth version, called The Book of Nahash (nahash being the Hebrew word for “serpent”). While the book as a whole didn’t accomplish what I wanted it to accomplish (that was a thing that didn’t happen until Ishmael), these tales have a life of their own that seems to me worth preserving.
DANIEL QUINN
THE SIGN OF ABUNDANCE
When the gods set out to make the universe, they said to themselves, “Let us make of it a manifestation of our unending abundance and a sign to be read by those who shall have eyes to read. Let us lavish care without stint on every thing: no less upon the most fragile blade of grass than upon the mightiest of stars, no less upon the gnat that sings for an hour than upon the mountain that stands for a millennium, no less upon a flake of mica than upon a river of gold. Let us make no two leaves the same from one branch to the next, no two branches the same from one tree to the next, no two trees the same from one land to the next, no two lands the same from one world to the next, no two worlds the same from one star to the next. In this way, the Law of Life will be plain to all who shall have eyes to read: the rabbit that creeps out to feed, the fox that lies in wait, the eagle that circles above, and the man who bends his bow to the sky.”
And this was how it was done from first to last, no two things alike in all the mighty universe, no single thing made with less care than any other thing throughout generations of species more numerous than the stars. And those who had eyes to see read the sign and followed the Law of Life.
THE BUSINESS OF A RABBIT
God is life in abundance wherever life is found, but not for all in every season. When the locusts thrive, the birds feast and the bison and the deer go hungry; still that place is as full of life as it was before and as full of life as it can be. No place where there is life is a desert, except to man.
It happened once that Adam was camped in such a place and had spent the day in luckless hunting. When he saw it was time to turn back, he said to his son Abel, “Tonight must be our night to go hungry; the god has nothing for us.” But just then a young goat crossed their path and Adam slew it. Lifting it to his shoulder, Adam said, “Come, let’s hurry back to camp and make a feast of it with your mother.”
But as they were crossing a stream near sunset, Abel saw a rabbit at the water’s edge and quickly raised his throwing stick. Before he could let fly, however, Adam put a hand over his son’s hand and held it fast in the air.
“Don’t you see it, Father?” Abel cried. “There’s a rabbit drinking at the stream!”
“I see it,” Adam replied.
“Then why did you stop me? It’s run away now. I might have killed it!”
Adam (who was only now beginning to prepare Abel for the hunter’s life) would soon become more experienced as a teacher, but for the moment he was caught flat-footed and could think of no way to answer his son’s objection. At last he mumbled a reply that seemed to him far from satisfactory, though it was the best he could do: “That rabbit had some business of its own to finish.”
Abel, as yet just a child, was full of questions about this, asking what business the rabbit might have had to finish and how his father had known of it, leaving Adam feeling foolish and inadequate, because of course he hadn’t the slightest idea what business the rabbit might have had to finish; this was just a manner of speaking, but he didn’t know how to explain that to Abel. That night in camp, after the goat had been butchered and eaten, Adam saw that his son was still puzzling over the rabbit, so he thought for a while and finally said to him: “Here’s a story for you. One day my son Abel went out hunting by himself and his path crossed the path of a lion returning to its den. This lion had been hunting all day without luck and knew that its mate and cubs would be hungry. So it fell upon Abel, killed him, and carried him off to its den. Now tell me what you think of this story and what I would do if this happened to you in fact.”
Abel thought for a while and said, “I think you would grieve for me.”
“You’re right,” Adam replied. “I would grieve for you, but I wouldn’t be angry with the lion for taking what the god had sent for its hunger. Now here’s a second story. One day Abel went out hunting by himself and his path crossed the path of a lion returning to its den. This lion was carrying a goat in its jaws, but seeing Abel it dropped the goat and fell upon him, saying to itself, ‘I will have the goat and the boy as well.’ Now tell me what you think of this story and what I would do if this happened to you in fact.”
Abel thought again and said, “I think no lion would do that.”
“You’re wrong,” Adam replied. “A certain kind of lion would do that, and I would track it down and kill it, because it’s a lion gone mad, a lion that kills whatever it sees, beyond need. It’s thinking: ‘If I kill everything I see, then the gods will have no power over me and will never be able to say, “Today it’s the lion’s turn to go hungry, today it’s the lion’s turn to starve, today it’s the lion’s turn to die.” I’ll kill everything in the world so that I alone may live. I’ll eat the hare that would have been the fox’s, and the fox will die; I’ll eat the antelope that would have been the wolf’s and the wolf will die; but I will live. I shall decide who eats and who starves, who lives and who dies. In this way I shall live forever and thwart the gods.’ And this madness makes the lion into a murderer of all life.”
Then Adam went on: “The goat and the rabbit we saw today both belonged to the life of this place, which is god; both were living in its hand, as were we. But the rabbit was not ours to kill. The goat was ours; the god sent it to us as its gift. But the rabbit still belonged to the god; it had another hour or another day or another year to live in the god’s hand. To have killed it would have been to steal what belonged to the god, and that would have been murder.”
The next day was another luckless day of hunting for Adam and his son, and near sunset they turn
ed toward their camp empty-handed. But as they crossed the stream they found the same rabbit waiting at the water’s edge. Adam slew it and said to Abel: “You see now that there was no need for us to snatch this rabbit from the hand of the god to save against tomorrow, for the god meant to give it to us anyway: if not the rabbit, some other creature. The god meant the rabbit to live another day, as now, by sending us this rabbit, it means us to live another day. The fire of life burns forever because god gives one to another without stint, each in its own time.”
So it was that, in those days, the gods were allowed to tend the garden they had sown. Where they sent the fire of life, there it flowed, and where they turned it aside, there it ebbed, as they would have it. And as they had written in the universe as a whole, so they wrote on earth: that no two things would be made alike in the same generation or from one generation to the next. They wrote this in the very scheme of things, so that every kind and every species grew and changed in their hands, generation after generation, age after age.
And the kind called Man or Adam or Homo grew and changed no less than the rest under the Law of Life, so that over tens of thousands of centuries Homo habilis became Homo erectus, and Homo erectus became Homo sapiens. But all were of the human kind and all were hunter-gatherers generation after generation without exception, and as such were followers of the same Law and the same life as the sparrow and the bear and the dolphin.
And through these hundreds of thousands of generations of them, the gods found no cause to rebuke them for their lives or to give them statutes for their governance or to send them teachers for their enlightenment or to raise up prophets for their salvation, for they were already following the single Law they had written in the universe for all to follow and so were living in their hands.
TRACKS
One day Adam took his son Abel into the forest. The birds were making a racket in the trees above, and Adam stopped in the path and signaled to his son to do the same. For a while, neither of them moved or spoke; then Abel said, “Why are we stopping here, Father?” But Adam signaled with his hand: Be still.
Soon the forest grew quiet and Adam said softly: “The birds have forgotten we’re here and have stopped giving the alarm. Be still and watch.” And as Adam and Abel watched, the creatures of the forest that had hidden during the alarm of the birds reappeared one by one to resume their interrupted activities. The mouse, the mole, the badger, the raccoon, the squirrel, and the deer all went about their business as though Adam and Abel were invisible. As each moved, Adam showed Abel its track and how every pause to feed, every hesitation to reconnoiter, every momentary fright or hurried step could be read plainly in the path. Adam then held out his open hand, and, without understanding why he was to do so, Abel studied the tracks to be found there in his father’s palm.
Finally Adam led his son back along the path by which they had entered the forest, pointing out where their tracks had been crossed or followed by other creatures going about their business. When at last they left the forest and Adam said nothing more, Abel asked his father to explain the meaning of what he’d been shown. “There’s nothing to explain,” Adam replied. “Every track begins and ends in the hand of god. Every track is a lifetime long.”
But Abel wasn’t satisfied with this answer and asked his father to go on. Adam thought for a while and said, “Hunter and hunted are both standing in their tracks when they meet, and there are no tracks, however far-flung, that fall outside the hand of god.”
But Abel continued to press his father with questions. At last Adam said, “All paths lie together in the hand of god like a web endlessly woven, and yours and mine are no greater or less than the beetle’s or the squirrel’s or the sparrow’s. All are held together.”
And beyond this Adam could think of nothing more to say.
THE COCKROACH WHO HELD A MOUNTAIN ON HIS BACK
Late one fall Adam and his family prepared to move their camp, which was made in the place under the little hills. Abel was still a boy at this time and he asked: “Why are we leaving?”
Adam replied: “Do you remember how it was when we came to this place in the summer? The game was plentiful, and berries, grain, fruit, and nuts grew everywhere. But now the game has fled beyond our reach, and the trees and fields nearby have given us their bounty. You’ve seen that finding what we need takes us farther from camp every day. To stay longer would only exhaust us to no purpose.”
Abel asked if they would return the following year. Adam said, “No, not next year, nor the next, but in the third year we’ll return.”
Adam then led his son far up into the hills one last time, and Abel asked: “Why are we hunting, Father? There’s food in our camp for today.” Adam smiled and replied, “If the god sends us something, we’ll take it, not for our convenience but for our need. The journey to our winter camp is a long one and we’ll have little time for hunting.”
As they walked up into the hills, it began to snow heavily, and Abel said, “Let’s turn back, Father, or we’ll freeze to death here.” But Adam said, “We won’t freeze to death,” and pressed on.
Before long they found fresh tracks in the snow, and Adam said, “Come, I’ll show you how to outrun a hare, then you’ll be warm.” As they followed the trail, Adam explained what Abel was to do in the chase, and soon they came in sight of their quarry.
Having heard the hunters approach, the hare was crouching motionless in the snow, where it was almost invisible. But when the hunters still came on and were only a few paces away, the hare sprang up and bolted forward. The hunters gave chase but were quickly outdistanced until Adam shouted, “Now!” and veered to the left. Following his father’s instructions, Abel veered to the right, but saying to himself, “We’ll never outrun this hare!” At the same moment, however, the hare turned right, directly into Abel’s path, and the boy easily scooped it up on the run.
Astonished, Abel asked his father how he’d known when the hare was going to turn aside in this way. “When you’re chasing a hare, watch its ears,” Adam replied. “Just before it turns, it will lay them back along its neck. This is your signal to veer to one side or the other. If you guess right, the hare will run straight into your hands. If you guess wrong and it runs the other way, you only have to stalk it again and hope that your second guess is better.”
As the hunters turned back toward their camp, it was snowing even more heavily, and Abel’s teeth began to chatter. “Why are you making so much noise?” Adam asked, and his son said he was cold. “Then let’s stop and warm up,” Adam said and sat down in the snow.
“Aren’t you going to build a fire?” Abel asked. But his father said, “Building a fire is one way to be warm. This is another. Sit down quietly and stop thinking of the cold as an enemy bent on your destruction.”
Abel did as he was told, but his teeth continued to chatter and he pulled his clothes close around him. Watching him, his father remarked, “It’s your clothes that are making you cold.” Adam held up the hare they’d caught and said, “It wasn’t its fur that kept this hare warm. It and the cold were simply one thing.”
Adam then took off all his clothes and set them aside. “That’s better,” he said. “I’m feeling warmer already.” But Abel wouldn’t take off his clothes and soon he was shaking like a bird in the jaws of a fox.
“Perhaps listening to a story will warm you up,” Adam said. “Let’s see if I can think of one.” After a while he began.
There once was a young cockroach who lived under a tree on a mountainside (Adam began). He was a very brave and stalwart young cockroach but also very headstrong. As he grew up he learned what it is to be a cockroach, but being headstrong he rejected it. “We cockroaches make way,” his father had told him. “We make way for everything, and that’s why we survive. At the approach of the slightest danger, we make ourselves as thin as a leaf and slip into the narrowest crack around.”
But the young cockroach found this approach to life cowardly and contemptible. “It’s tr
ue that we can make ourselves as thin as leaves,” he said, “but didn’t the gods give us a good, tough shell to protect us? I refuse to make way for anything. The place my body occupies is mine. I will not abandon it by making myself as thin as a leaf and scuttling into a crack. I will defend it with my good, tough shell.”
One day a leaf from the tree fell on top of him, but he stood his ground, saying to the leaf, “You shall not have this place. I will not abandon it by making myself as thin as you and scuttling into a crack. I will not make way for you.” And the cockroach withstood the leaf and before long it blew away.
Soon a nut from the tree fell on top of him, but the cockroach stood his ground, saying to the nut, “I know that if I made myself as thin as a leaf, you would come to rest in the place my body now occupies, but this is my place and you shall not have it. I will not make way for you.” And he withstood the nut and soon it rolled away.
But before long a heavy stone came tumbling down the mountainside and landed right on top of the cockroach. All the same, the cockroach stood his ground, saying to the rock, “I know that of all the places on earth you have picked the one encompassed by my body as your resting place for the centuries to come, but you shall not have it. I will not yield it to you by making myself as thin as a leaf. I will not make way for you.” And, his legs trembling with exertion and his back aching, the cockroach withstood the stone and soon it toppled off his shell and rolled away.
But the stone had only been the beginning of an avalanche, for it was time for this mountain to collapse. Soon the whole thing fell over right onto the cockroach. Yet even under this enormous weight, the cockroach held his ground, saying, “You think that just because you’re a mountain you can make me give way, but I won’t. You may overwhelm the rest of the world—all the seas and valleys and plains of it—but I will deny to you this tiny space my body encompasses. I will not abandon it by making myself as thin as a leaf.”