It had to be Adam who did it. Nobody else would have been strong enough. But it had broken him, muddling his mind with so much grief that it had become a knot of thorns. Without Eve, what joy was there in the world? Without her there to remind him how to love them and forgive them their countless everyday cruelties, why should Adam care for his descendants? Why shouldn’t he just join her in death?
Crab hums gently to himself as he steers, and as Adam listens to the song, he knows why he’s still alive. He’s alive for Crab, and for Crow, and Rook and Butterfly, Owl and Magpie. He’s alive for Kingfisher, and Lynx, and Crane, and all the others who still survive of Eden. It is his honour to know them, and love them, and care for them still, even after all this time. Even without Eve to help him.
Eventually, Crab navigates to the edge of a stream and pulls his little boat up the embankment. “She’s just up there,” he says. “Over the ridge. You buried her here. There was a church, but I don’t reckon there’s a congregation any more. You want company?”
“I should do this alone.”
“Of course, lad.” Crab settles down on the bank, and removes his sandals, paddling in the stream. Then, he begins to hum a low song. As Adam climbs the steep embankment, he realises that he recognises the tune. It’s another old shanty, he knows, but this one is for lost friends. It’s a funeral song, but not an unhappy one: a song to celebrate a long life well lived.
At the top of the ridge, Adam sees the ruins of the church.
It was a modest building, built mostly out of stone, and appears to have tumbled into itself a long time ago. Spring has been kind to it, filling the small field with daisies and dandelions. A fitting place, Adam thinks as he makes his way through the grasses. It takes him a while, pausing at every sunken gravestone, until he finds the one he’s looking for.
Time has worn away every word once etched into it, but that doesn’t matter. Adam knows that it’s Eve’s grave. For a while, he sits up against it and talks to her. He tells her about Magpie, and about the Sinclairs, and about Pig, and he tells her about the restoration of the garden. He tells her about the lives he has been living, and he tells her about all the lives he’s taken. Then, when he’s told her as much as he is able, he crouches over her grave and plants the rose above it.
Eden’s rose, to mark Eve’s final resting place. And with its planting, he feels the thorns binding his memories slip away. At least for the moment.
The grasses and flowers here will rise and die, rise and die. The church and all the gravestones will be worn away. The valley itself will subside, shaped by the river that runs through it. The mountains in the distance will be ground low by time. And the rose will survive it all. It will be here when all of Adam’s descendants are dead, and the land is occupied by whatever comes after. It will be here until the end of time, every bit as perfect as the day it was made.
On his way back to Crab, Adam realises that he’s not going to stay in the reconstructed garden either. He’ll stay long enough to finish his work on it, but there are still too many lives he would like to live out in the world that his children have made. He will visit, he knows, but there’s still too much on Earth that he wants to see.
It’s just like the time he left Eden, he thinks:
What’s a pond compared to the open sea?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Some books take months to write, and some take years. Birds of Paradise took just over a decade to write, and I have so much gratitude for all those who helped me along the way.
To everyone at Titan: thank you. I am eternally grateful for George Sandison’s vision and passion for the book, and without Davi Lancett there would be no Fox. The book is beautiful inside and out because of Julia Lloyd, and the brilliant interior illustration is the work of Darren Kerrigan. Dan Coxon and Andy Hawes made certain that everything was where it should be.
To all my readers: thank you. Robert Dinsdale’s endless kindness and advice was invaluable as I worked through various drafts, and Tam Moules’ wise and patient council was instrumental as I worked on this final version. Aliya Whiteley was kind enough to help me to untangle some of the earlier chapters, and Zoe Strachan gave me some much-needed encouragement at a critical moment. I hope you’ll be able to see some of Cynthia Rogerson’s enthusiasm in these pages, along with Michel Faber’s critical eye. Kirsty Gunn, Jim Stewart and Eddie Small had so much influence on this book, as did Rob Maslen and all the Fantasy Phoenixes. Paul Davies, James White and Ross Weryk were all kind enough to give me feedback
