FATE, IT TURNS out, is not an entirely merciless bitch. As I kneel by a puddle scrubbing blood spots from the collar of the jacket, three coins tumble from its pocket. They are not like the ones I have earned, but are thick, shiny silver. I spirit them into the folds of my beggar’s clothes, not that there's anyone around to see. My heart races. I am ready. I can do this. Every moment I wander the streets with these coins in my pockets is a moment that someone could take them away from me. I dive headlong into my scheme.
The evening sun sinking away, I walk into the heart of the Outpost, toward the Rustler. My eyes search through the windows, down the street. They never come. I stand in the shadows, lingering until the darkness is far too deep, and then, hopes dashed, I scurry off.
Disappointed and relieved, I wander toward the beggar encampment. Someone scuffles in the shadows of an alleyway. Footsteps sound on the pavement, but I cannot tell if they are following me or just headed in the same direction. Paranoia grips me. I need to find safety. The encampment is too far away.
A pool of light looms from an open window in an alleyway, warm and inviting. Around the window's base are a mass of huddled bodies, hunched against the walls on both sides. I hurry to join them, and sink down a few paces from the nearest beggar. Whoever was behind me goes on by. Quiet faces are touched here and there by the yellow lamplight. A voice from inside the building rings strong and clear into the alley through the wide-open window. It's a sermon.
The Third Law of the New World Covenant states that any organized religious or spiritual practice is banned, with the exception of those within the confines of a private dwelling. This open window is set in someone's house. Inside, they may practice whatever religious rites they want. If their window happens to be open, and beggars happen to gather outside, well, it's not like the one has anything to do with the other. There is no preaching going on here. Not that a machine could see.
I’m content to have a place to sit, within the safety of numbers. I relax against the wall and think of my failed plans. A temporary setback. I'll try again tomorrow. I close my eyes and rest, the words of the sermon drifting in and out of my consciousness. Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, eating the forbidden fruit, discovering their own nakedness. The voice, thick and heavy, drones on....
The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them. And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.
I feel myself slipping into the dark drift of sleep, but for a moment there is an in-between space, not here nor there. The words of the sermon spin in my brain, and though I've never given it thought before, in the space of one breath I know my name. My new name. Not Eve, who was cast out for her sin. I may be an outcast, but I refuse to accept that fate. I will rebuild my world, reclaim what I have lost. I am Eden. Everything I need is within myself. I will become my own garden.