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Christmas Outside of Eden
by
Throwing out his chest, he strode valiantly past them, utterly ignoring their presence.
From behind him a voice called whimperingly. It was the lion’s, the King of Beasts, squeaky and falsetto with panic. “Master, thou art wise. What has happened? Tell us.”
Had he known how, the Man would have laughed. But the laugh comes later in the story. Without turning his head, still going away from them he answered. “It is a punishment for what thou and thy people have done to me and my Woman, oh, lion.”
He had made the answer up on the spur of the moment; he knew no more than they did what had happened. But he loved inventing and was never so content as when he was pretending that he was God.
Immediately they forgot the wrong answers he had given them and how he had deceived them in the past. The leaves rustled as they lifted up their heads from between their paws. Their voices trembled as one when they besought him, “Master, stay with us. We are in terror. Make it leave off.”
Turning slowly, he blinked at them through the dimness. Folding his arms, he regarded them thoughtfully with his legs wide apart. He did it as he supposed God might have done it. He spoke at last. “It’s only just begun. Why should I make it leave off?”
“Because thou art strong and we are repentant.”
Their manner was so humble and adoring that he felt sorry for them. They had begged his pardon in the same words that he had intended to beg God’s. And then he was just–the only just creature that God had created. In his heart he knew that he had merited their revenge–there was scarcely one of them at whom he had not hurled his rocks. He came back walking in stately fashion till he stood fearlessly in the centre of them. Looking up through the burdened branches at the calamity which he did not understand, he commanded, “Leave off.”
To his immense surprise, on the instant the snow ceased falling. It settled gently like a tired bird into its nest. The serenity of the stillness was unbroken.
“I am hungry,” he said.
The animals hurried to their stores of food and waited on him.
“I have not slept.”
The squirrels scraped fallen leaves into a bed, and the bear and the wolf stood guard.
When he awoke it was a brilliant winter’s morning. The sun was charioteering in highest heaven. The forest was white as though cotton-wool had blown through it. As far as eye could search, everything glittered, sheathed in a film of glass. Snow bulged from branches like pillows filled to bursting. Icicles hung down like fantastic swords. Down the colonnaded avenues trees cast their shadows in heavy bars; the spaces between them were golden splashes.
The Man yawned. “I am still tired. Fetch the horse that he may carry me back to my dwelling.”
He ordered the horse to be fetched because he had forgotten where his cave was. It was clever of him. He did it to keep the animals from knowing his ignorance.
The horse came galloping up obediently. Clutching him by the mane, the Man bestrode him. Off they started at a sharp trot, with the animals shouting and bounding beside them. As they travelled, the Man could hardly keep from smiling at picturing what a fine fellow he was. He made no attempt to restrain himself from giving orders. All the time he kept urging the animals to shout louder. He wanted the Woman to hear them, so that she might crawl to the entrance of the cave and be a witness of his triumphant home-coming. It wasn’t good enough merely to picture himself as a fine fellow. He was anxious to hear her say to him, “Oh, Man, what a fine fellow you are!” He’d forgotten completely the purpose of his errand–that he’d set out through the world’s first snowstorm in search of God.