One day, after he had whipped up a batch of ocean and scattered stars and a sun for light, the Great Big God of Pine Mountain made a man. He wasn’t the smartest creature on the mountain or even the strongest, but he was a hard worker and he did what he was told. The God said, “Name all these animals here,” and the man named the red fox and the bobcat and the mountain vole and so on and so forth. Then the God said, “Have at these plants,” and the man named the hickory tree and the nettle and the wheat berry and the God was impressed. He said, “You’re not half as dumb as you look. I hope you like having power over all these plants and animals just as I like having power over you. All I ask is that you not eat the pawpaws. I don’t want you to get too big for your britches, and I don’t want you to sass me.”
The man obeyed the Great Big God of Pine Mountain, though after a time the God could see that the man was out of sorts: he mumbled to himself a good deal and appeared disgruntled, and coitus with goats grew tiresome. It was clear the man was lonely.
So the God of Pine Mountain laid the man down on the loam and fed him corn liquor, so he would fall asleep, and then he rooted around in his chest until there was a great crack. He removed a white and bloodied rib. From this he fashioned a woman. When the man awoke, he saw that her eyes were bright, her breasts were heavy, and that between her thighs was a thatch of unruly, scratchy hairs. All of this sparked his interest. In fact, the man felt a lurch in his loins when he gazed upon her and his mouth was dry when he said, “Whatever you do, don’t eat the pawpaws. If there’s one thing we can’t stand around here, it’s a uppity woman.”
So for a time they walked hand in hand on the springtime side of the mountain and they were happy as far as it went, but the man could not escape the feeling that something was missing from inside of him. He was sure that the God had stolen something from him while he was drunk and had hidden it in the woman, so one day he laid the woman down on the grass and pinned her there, so that he could better and deeper seek for his spare part within her. But no matter how he rooted—and he did it more and more often with less and less patience—he could not find what he was missing. And the woman, who at first wound herself around him in surprise and gratitude, became confused and weary of his mean pressing, which made a depression of her in the grass like a grave. So she snuck away and wandered around the slopes of Pine Mountain. She beat blazes in the pastures with her bare feet, she swam in the mountain streams, she petted the animals and named the stars. Eventually, she stumbled upon the pawpaw stand.
Now, out of a blackberry patch came a wily rabbit wearing a woolen jacket and crisp pantaloons, though the woman didn’t know what those were, because she’d never seen any before. She stared at the rabbit in frank alarm when he spoke: “How do, missy?”
She couldn’t remember if the man and the God allowed her to speak to strangers, so she only nodded.
“Oh Lord,” said the smartly dressed little rabbit with a sigh, “I sure wish I could reach me some of them pawpaws up there. God played a mean old nasty trick when he made me this short.”
The woman looked down at him with concern. It was true; he was a right midge, even as far as rabbits went.
The wily rabbit began to cry big, fat crocodile tears. “All I want”—he sobbed, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes—“all I want … is a little pleasure.”
The woman’s heart swelled with compassion. Surely, it could not be wrong to soothe the suffering of such a tiny, unusual creature? She plucked a pawpaw from the branch and handed it to the rabbit, who gobbled half of its yellow fruit immediately. Then he held the rest up for her to try, tears still wet on his fuzzy cheeks. “Eat with me, gal.”
“Oh, I can’t,” she said. “I’m not allowed.”
“Who says?”
“The Great Big God of Pine Mountain.”
The rabbit looked at her and said, plain as day, “But your God is a tyrant.” Then the woman saw the simple truth of the statement and ate the rest of the pawpaw, seeds and all. It filled her with delight, a delight that she immediately wanted to share. So she plucked a second pawpaw from the branch and went in search of the man.
When she found him, the man suspected what the fruit might be, but it smelled so sweet—like raspberry and pear and honey all in one—that he ate it without asking any questions. Then a strange thing happened. Clouds the color of hearth ashes rolled in from the east, and a new, chilly breeze blew over their heads. The God, who had been busy with his whiskey stills, marched down the mountainside and his voice rolled out like thunder. “What in creation have you done?”
The man turned on the woman. “It’s the woman’s fault! She ruined our good thing!” he cried.
“You didn’t have to listen to her!” said the God. “I left you in charge!”
“Well, you made the bitch,” muttered the man.
“Yes, it’s true, it’s true! It’s all my fault and only mine!” cried the woman, who, like her many daughters to come, drank down blame’s poison like clear mountain water. Then she began to cry, but she cried so hard it caused her skin to wrinkle, and the first gray hair of worry sprouted from her head, which the man noted with disgust and alarm. He decided he had never loved her.
But the God just shook his head wearily. “One rule…,” he said. “I gave you one goddamn arbitrary rule but apparently it was one too many. Your eating of the fruit is so vile, so unthinkably evil, you’re no longer worth the manure under my brogans. So get out. Go on and get off my mountain.”
Stricken, they prepared to leave, though there was little to take with them. The man was so ashamed of himself that he could no longer look at the body of the woman, so he killed his first animal, a cow, and covered the woman with its hide. He also covered himself in case he got cold on the journey. Then he led the woman across the cooling fields of Pine Mountain, while all the animals trailed behind them in curiosity and dismay, the chipmunks and the black bears and the deer alike. Soon the man stood on the edge of the future and he saw it was a broken and desert place. There were screwworms in the corn and weevils in the cotton. Kudzu choked the trees and the tobacco fields were cracked with drought. Even the light, which fell on the wasted land, was like weak beer. The man shook his fist and cried out, “I don’t deserve this fate!” But the God of Pine Mountain was already busy in his barns and he didn’t hear, or didn’t care. Either way, he would ignore them for the rest of time and leave them to their own devices.
The man was really angry now and looked behind him, realizing he would need a better companion than the woman if he ever hoped to find his way back here. Clearly, the woman could not be trusted. Without hesitation, the man stepped up to the tallest, strongest animal he could find—a horse—and grabbed it by a hank of its mane. Then with resolute steps, he led the woman off the verdant slopes of Pine Mountain, and the wide-eyed horse, bewildered by dislocation, followed behind.