The Prologue

Beyond The Beginning ¹

When there was not yet any question of a Beginning, and all that existed was one serene, limpid light, an idea arose in His mind. It is scarcely possible to imagine where or when it came into being, let alone to picture Him. The imagination refuses to confine Him within space and time: first, because neither had yet been created; and second, because He would never have fitted within their bounds anyway. He dwelt in a separate order of worlds, beyond all perception, which could only be described as unknowable. No physical reality was associated with Him, and any attempt to describe Him would have exceeded the limits of human understanding. His sole manifestation was an omnipresent, uniform radiance. The ancients gave Him the name Ein Sof, meaning ‘infinity’ in the sacred tongue. Casting their mind’s eye through the impenetrable depths of concealment, the sages strained to hear an echo of that unfathomable idea and to reconstruct an image of the One in whose mind the original design had arisen.

One thing was missing from His existence in those other realms: the pleasure of companionship. His bottomless solitude called for a kindred spirit with whom He could while away eternity over a Glass Bead Game, exchanging thoughts in the easy intimacy of friendship. Yet, despite His efforts, He could never quite manage to create a worthy companion. No matter how many times He tried, the result was always the same: an indifferent angel who turned the mysterious game into a tedious task, performed flawlessly. After several failed experiments, He understood what His finished creations lacked: the desire to develop themselves. A partner would have to be raised, guided through the stages of spiritual growth, until he came to resemble his Creator in one singular quality—the ability to create. That was His idea. And so, without wasting any more of His infinite energy, He set to work.

First He had to make room for the future creation by withdrawing His presence. Within that space He diminished the intensity of the light, allowing stable structures to form, but did not extinguish it entirely: His creation would still need that light to live. Thus an expanse opened within Him, ready to receive the embodiment of His design. The ancients called this Tzimtzum Aleph—the First Contraction. ²

Now an act of will was needed to bring order and meaning to the primordial chaos. He fashioned a ruby-colored ray and directed it into the region filled with light. Cutting through space, the ray came to rest at its center. The most important event was to take place there, but the preparations were not yet complete. He decided to precede the principal creation with a preliminary sketch, a composite model that would guide His subsequent work. Thus arose the primordial pattern: an elusive world into whose making He poured all His skill. He fashioned it in His own likeness, according to His own forms and qualities, seeing in it the prototype of all that was to follow. The ancients called this world Adam Kadmon. ³

To carry out His further designs, He needed an alphabet of creation—a universal code for the cosmos. He sent down a rain of thirty-two streams: ten took the form of numbers, and twenty-two the form of letters. He established correspondences between them and made them interchangeable. Numbers could now be expressed through letters, while the meaning of the Word could be glimpsed in its numerical value. He called these values gematria. ⁴

Then came the time to transform the primordial light into an immaterial substance in which the qualities of the future creation could take shape. To do this, He added a letter from His own name to the word for light. And so light became ether. ⁵

Gradually, He grew adept at working with letters and numbers. A few more acts of will, and the energy of the ray gave rise to a system of four worlds: Atzilut, the world of abstract ideas; Beriah, the world of creation from nothingness; Yetzirah, the world of form; and Assiah, the world of action. Nested one within another, they extended equally in every direction. From the center, where the ray had been directed, one could see—or rather, sense—spherical horizons unfolding all around.

Within His own spiritual realm, He shaped the states and qualities of the worlds. With black fire upon white fire, He touched His creation gently, taking His time over every stroke. The ruby-colored ray, the embodiment of His will, was carefully concealed beneath a veil of patterns of cause and effect. To an outside observer, it might have seemed that the world existed entirely on its own, governed by strict yet purposeless laws.

Obeying the creative will, the ray began to change—almost imperceptibly at first, then with increasing clarity. A tremor ran along its length, and from the vibrations colored spheres began to billow outward. Once they had reached a certain size, and jostled one another a little, they settled into a balanced arrangement of precise geometric form. Channels like pipes stretched between them, carrying streams of warm, multicolored ether. Ten spheres emerged in all, marking out the space of the worlds. Their configurations repeated without end, each reflected within another. In every sphere one could discern the entire structure, and within that structure another, and so on as far as the imagination could reach. The sages called this ingenious matrix, nested endlessly within itself, the Tree of Sefirot. ⁶

Yet something was still missing from the harmony of qualities and the carefully measured order of structures: the final touch. The essential figure had not yet appeared—the one for whom all this magnificent scaffolding had been conceived and built. Knowing that the conditions for the decisive act were now in place, and that the success of the entire design depended upon it, He brought forth the emanation that completed the Tree of Sefirot. He named it Malchut and endowed it with free will. Here, under the influence of the primordial light, arose the source of choice, doubt and hope. Here He directed the first Soul, guiding it through the higher stages of formation, granting it understanding and strength, and conceiving for it a unique role. Through growth and development, it would have to attain perfection. He placed the Soul at the center of the worlds and gave it the name Adam Rishon—the First Human . ⁷

He looked upon the embodiment of His design and, finding no flaw in it, spoke the words that breathed life into the human being:

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth…

On This Side Of The Beginning

“In the beginning God created…” These words, spoken in the language of Creation, were formed from twenty-two letters—the very letters through which the structures of the worlds had come into being. None of the tongues that branched off in later ages possessed the fullness needed to describe what lay beyond the Beginning. For the power of the language of Creation resided in its letters and in the barely perceptible crowns above them. Adam understood the Creator’s words, and this allowed him to perceive the reality around him exactly as it was.

He stood at the centre of the universe, conscious of his own significance and aware that the worlds surrounding him resembled him, their structure reflecting that of his soul. As though possessed, he repeated the words he had just heard, delighting in every syllable, trying them in every possible intonation, playing with his voice and discovering dimensions of the universe that had until then remained unknown to him.

“To accomplish the great design,” he recited, giving voice to the Kabbalah newly revealed to him , “at the very beginning of the six days of Creation, the Almighty God, employing power and balance, fashioned the alphabet of the universe from emptiness and light. Using its letters, from the first to the last, He constructed the spiritual worlds, laid out their structure through the Sefirot, and then set one of them apart. Into that world He placed me and gave it the name Malchut.” ⁸

His conversations with God brought him genuine joy. His heart longed for these encounters, while his mind thirsted for knowledge. He imagined himself as an elegantly shaped vessel awaiting a worthy filling. And that filling was never denied him.

The source was inexhaustible, and learning through revelation never wearied him. It seemed effortless and endlessly fascinating. Each day, a table was laid before him, laden with sensations, concepts and meanings. Adam partook of what it offered, taking in as much as his understanding and development allowed.

By nightfall, the table was cleared, only to be laid again the following day, offering new knowledge and gradually revealing the world as Adam grew capable of comprehending it.

The six stages of Creation unfolded before him, and he explored the intricacies of the divine design with wonder and awe. Before long, he understood that everything he was discovering served some purpose, and that this purpose was somehow connected with him.

Aware that he was an important part of the plan, and conscious of his responsibility to the Creator, he deepened his knowledge and gained experience day by day. Whatever he undertook, he succeeded; for every step he took, ten steps were taken towards him. This encouraged him to redouble his efforts, and he sincerely believed that God was pleased with him.

Without being told, guided instead by a subtle intuition, he sensed that his principal task was to explore and master the world. His innate curiosity fuelled his interest, and he had already begun to wonder whether there might be something beyond everything he could see around him. What was everything made of? Could there be hidden forces and phenomena of which he knew nothing?

One day, he put the question directly to God.

“Is everything in the world governed by universal laws, established once and for all,” Adam asked, “or do You control it all as You see fit?”

God smiled.

“You're learning faster than we expected.”

“We? Is there someone else besides You and me? Well… apart from all these animals?”

“Let me show you something.”

At these words, Adam felt something turn over inside him. Although he continued to look around, what he now saw was entirely different.

The world had filled with translucent beings. They occupied every corner of space and most likely extended far beyond the limits of his vision. There were so many of them that Adam could not even comprehend their number.

Is there a number large enough to express the infinite multitude of these creatures? he wondered. They're like the Sefirot nested within one another. I never did manage to count those, either.

He compared almost everything to the Sefirot. There was something fascinating about searching their geometric elegance for reflections of the qualities of his own soul.

“These are angels,” the voice continued. “They govern the world according to a prescribed plan. Each has a task of his own, and that is the only task he knows how to perform. Almost all of them lack free will. Unlike you, by the way.”

“So that means only You and I can make decisions?”

“It would seem so. And I hope you won't let me down. When they first saw you, they mistook you for Me and broke into a hymn of praise.”

For the first time, God's laughter rang out through the Garden, and the entire translucent world answered with a thousand echoes.

* * *

“Now, to return to your question about how the world is governed. Yes, for the moment everything is working as intended. But no one knows how things will unfold. It's possible that I'll have to intervene from time to time, though I'd very much rather not. And a great deal depends on you. Almost everything, in fact.”

“On me?”

“Of course. Who do you think all this is for?” God gave a slight nod to one side. “The world was created for you. You're responsible for it.”

“Then tell me more about Your world,” Adam asked.

“Gladly. Especially since it's your world now, too. First, remember the most important thing: everything you perceive, both around you and within yourself, has a purpose. This Garden wasn't planted here by chance. It exists to fulfil the great design. That's why you were placed here. You have a task to accomplish, one you'll learn about when the time comes. Its successful completion is the very purpose of Creation.”

“And what if I fail?”

“I believe you'll succeed. No human being is given a task beyond his abilities. So simply act, and seek understanding.”

A delicate silence reigned throughout the world, and Adam's soul overflowed with the joyful anticipation of something momentous and unknown.

“The First Day contains within itself the entire potential for the development of the worlds. That is why it is One. On that day, light was created.

“I can already foresee how many fanciful theories and profoundly learned pronouncements will be made about it. But remember this: that light is the source of wisdom and knowledge. It is the key that opens the final door on the path to perfection. That is why the light of the First Day was separated from darkness and concealed. It is reserved for those who prove worthy of it.”

“What is a day?” Adam listened, afraid to miss a single word.

“A day is a state of the world, an act that transforms it. At its beginning, shadows enter the world, blurring the outlines of things and their qualities. Everything is indistinct. There are no clear concepts; qualities mingle with one another. In such chaos, it's easy to lose your bearings and fall into who knows what depths. This is what is meant by and there was evening.

“But then the time comes when the outlines grow clearer. Things and qualities reveal their true nature. The goal becomes discernible, and following it becomes easier. Then we say: and there was morning. Day One.”

“And what happened next?”

God smiled.

“Strictly speaking, there was no next. Everything happened simultaneously, and for us the six days are a single act. But the human mind cannot comprehend that. To make sense of anything at all, you need cause and effect, structures, a sequence in time and separation in space. That's how you're made, and that's a good thing.”

“Will You tell me about the other days?”

“Of course. All six of them. And even the seventh, the hidden one.”

“There's a seventh day, too?”

“Yes. And you'll learn about it when the time comes.”

* * *

“On the Second Day, a firmament was created to separate the upper waters from the lower. The upper waters ascended into the heavens, while the lower remained upon the earth. The lower waters are meant for you. Yet even they are merely a reflection of the truth concealed by the upper waters.

“Dwelling among the lower waters, the human soul will yearn for the upper waters, forever beyond its reach. And only the tears it sheds will be able to pass through the dividing firmament. Only those tears will be heard in Heaven and may bring about the necessary repair. But it's still too early to speak of that.”

God sighed.

Adam stared silently at a single point.

“Perhaps it won't be quite so terrible?” he ventured, breaking the silence.

“Not terrible at all. If you accomplish what has been entrusted to you, a worthy reward awaits.”

“I'll try,” the man promised.

“Don't try,” God said with a wry smile. “Just do it.”

* * *

“I'll tell you about the two great lights,” God said. “The greater and the lesser. They're also known as the light of day and the light of night. No one knows everything that is yet to happen, but certain peculiarities of human thinking are already beginning to reveal themselves. One of them is an apparently incurable desire to be wrong. Many of your descendants will become learned men, well versed in all manner of sciences. Some will even develop a passion for knowledge much like yours. Or almost like yours. They'll acquire an astonishing variety of information from sources both reliable and otherwise. And then, sooner or later, someone will contemplate this world”—God made a sweeping gesture—“and solemnly declare that no such world can possibly exist.”

“How can it not exist?” Adam exclaimed. “Here it is!”

God burst out laughing.

“That's easy for you to say. You and I are having this conversation, and you've already learned a great deal here. But now imagine someone very much like yourself—in fact, essentially identical to you—who has never been here at all. He's been elsewhere, in places very far removed from this one. And he's never experienced anything beyond…”

God hesitated slightly.

“…beyond his own material reality.”

“Wait. Is there another reality besides this one? I mean, including the angels and everything?”

“There is,” God replied, with a trace of sadness. “Unfortunately, for the time being, there is.”

“And what happens there?” Adam persisted.

“Oh, all sorts of things.” God shrugged. “All sorts of things. That's where people are inclined to make mistakes and believe in their misconceptions with extraordinary fervour.

“For instance, many of them will insist that light couldn't possibly have been created before the heavenly bodies. After all, they'll argue, the sun and the moon are its sources.”

Adam broke into such helpless, ringing laughter that God couldn't resist joining him.

“But that's an entirely different kind of light! The light of wisdom!” Adam managed to say, wiping tears from his eyes. “Don't they understand that?”

“Apparently not,” God replied. “And you cannot begin to imagine the strength of their convictions.”

“Then someone must teach them! Explain it to them! Show them! Let them experience it…”

Adam was already enthusiastically making plans.

“You'll have time for that,” the Almighty reassured him. “But first, listen to what I have to tell you about the heavenly bodies. It was only after their creation that the counting of days and nights became possible. And with it came the calendar. So, you see, the calendar is older than you are. But you're the only one who can actually make use of it.”

Adam listened intently.

“It will be your faithful companion, marking out spiritual beacons along your path. In the future, people will call them holidays.”

“Will people take time off work on those days?”

“Perhaps. Although that's hardly the point. The purpose of holidays is to give people an opportunity to stop, look at themselves from the outside—or, better still, look deep within—and ask themselves: Where am I in this immense current of time? Who am I? And what is my purpose in this world?”

“That's fascinating,” Adam murmured. “I'll have to think about it.”

“Much of what you see here foreshadows things and events that are yet to come. Look closely. The light of day is a source: it radiates light and warmth. The light of night receives that light, reflects it, and transforms it into moonlight. That's how experience and knowledge are passed on. One gives, another receives. Just as you and I do. I'm the teacher, and you're the student.”

“I'd never have thought of that myself,” Adam admitted.

“Tell me more about the animals that inhabit our world.”

“As for the animals,” God said with a mischievous smile, “I'd rather you told Me about them. I'll bring them before you, and you shall give them names.”

And so, for several days, Adam occupied himself with naming the animals.

Yet not one of them received a human name.

It was then decided in the higher worlds that it was not good for man to be alone. He needed someone of his own flesh, someone like himself, so that together they might complement one another.

Only then could the great design be fulfilled.

* * *

“Now the time has come for you to learn why you've been placed here and what work awaits you. To some extent, you've already worked it out for yourself. Your task is to study the world and come to understand it. Every source of knowledge and experience is at your disposal. Work, learn, build a civilisation. In short, cultivate this Garden. Then you'll see the fruits of your labour.

“You possess the potential to grow, to change, and to bring the world towards perfection. Don't remain as you are. Don't stop along the way. Grow into spiritual maturity. I need someone I can talk to. Someone who shares My vision.

“That is the purpose of Creation.”

Adam sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. He listened thoughtfully, nodding from time to time.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “when You explained that the world was good throughout the first five days, but became very good only on the sixth, was this the work You had in mind?”

“Precisely. Because you're the only one capable of transforming reality. Without your freedom to choose, without the unpredictability of your decisions, the world is dull and uninteresting. Everything in it is far too orderly, and everything is known in advance.

“You can—and must—bring something new into it! That's what makes you like Me. A great deal depends on your words and actions. By exercising the freedom you've been given, by perfecting the world within yourself and yourself within the world, you can fulfil the great design.

“But remember: the opposite is also possible. If you follow paths that aren't your own, you'll plunge all existence into chaos and the depths of the underworld. And there's an almost inexhaustible potential for that, too. Sitra Achra—the Other Side, the realm of shadow—has already been created. It lies in wait for you, always and everywhere.

“It's closer than you think.”

“Don't worry. I'll be careful,” Adam assured Him.

“Good. Let's hope so,” God replied, with a sadness Adam couldn't quite understand.

“And there's one more thing. Your work will be subject to a single restriction. Come with Me.”

* * *

They made their way towards the centre of the Garden along an unusual path, one Adam had never taken before. Although he had already visited this part of the Garden, he was now seeing it from an entirely new perspective.

The mighty trees growing here were breathtaking in their unimaginable height. Sunlight wandered through a labyrinth of branches. Adam gazed up at them, craning his neck and looking from side to side, while the path, curving steadily to the left, led them ever deeper into the Garden.

It appeared suddenly, just beyond the next bend, as though it had sprung straight out of the ground.

Well, that's where trees come from, Adam thought.

The thought amused him.

He stopped, unable to tear his eyes away.

The sprawling giant, whose very existence had been unknown to him, exerted a mysterious attraction, a force that was difficult to resist.

“This is Etz ha Da'at—the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil,” he heard the familiar voice say. “Don't be afraid. Come closer.”

Adam approached the tree and wrapped his arms around its rough trunk. Its texture was unexpectedly pleasant to the touch. He felt an urge to press himself against it, to merge with it and become one.

As though of its own accord, one of the essential qualities of his soul—its receptivity—awakened within him.

He sensed new knowledge, unlike anything he had encountered before, slowly flowing into him in delicate streams. Adam could not have put the meaning of this revelation into words. It entered him in its entirety, and only later would he have to comprehend what he had received.

“The time will come,” the voice continued, “when you will attain the highest wisdom by eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. That will happen with the arrival of the Great Shabbat. And then you will see how the world is transformed.

“Shabbat is the Seventh Day, when all things are brought to their conclusion and what has been concealed is revealed. The results of your work will become apparent, and you yourself will be able to judge how well you have accomplished it.

“But the Sixth Day is not yet over. Until it is, you are forbidden to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. All the fruit in the Garden is yours—except this.

“Remember that. And don't let Me down.”

Adam felt God's hand touch him.

“One last thing I want to show you before I send you off to find your own way. Step away from the Tree.”

Adam took several steps backwards and suddenly froze halfway through a breath.

Right before his eyes, the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil seemed to split open along the entire length of its trunk, from bottom to top, turning itself inside out.

Adam felt a strange lightness in his lower abdomen. The Garden began to spin around him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, overcome by a violent wave of dizziness.

In the few moments that followed, he managed to glimpse another tree inside the first—one even more beautiful than the outer tree. It radiated a steady, bluish light, while the tree he had been embracing now seemed no more than an outer shell.

By the time Adam remembered that he had yet to breathe out, the Tree had closed again, returning to its original appearance.

“What was that?” Adam asked, his voice trembling.

“That was Etz ha Chaim, the Tree of Life,” God replied. “It is hidden from sight, and you should not look upon it any longer than necessary. I have shown you a few things that are concealed, so that you may know they exist.

“For now, that is enough.”

With these final words, God cast Adam into a deep stupor.

* * *

“Hello,” Hava heard a gentle, strangely penetrating voice say.

“Hello. But I can't see anyone.”

“I'm here, beneath the apple tree.”

Hava turned and caught sight of a stranger among the branches. He looked rather like Adam and herself. Unlike the animals, he walked on two legs. His face seemed almost too perfectly proportioned, and it glowed with a peculiar light.

What captivated Hava most were his enormous, attentive eyes. They shone like the stars she and Adam loved to watch on moonless nights in their Gan Eden.

“Who are you? I've never seen you here before.”

“My name is Nachash,” the stranger replied. “And you're quite right. I haven't been here very long.”

Hava felt her trust in him grow.

“Where did you come from, then?”

“From the Tree…”

Nachash was telling the truth.

Indeed, truth was the very foundation of his speech. He wove his arguments from the immutable foundations of existence, building them out of indisputable truths so that they appeared substantial, reliable and entirely convincing.

But at precisely the right moment, he would substitute one concept for another—similar in appearance, yet different in meaning. The weighty lever of truth would swing to the opposite side, turning everything upside down.

And once his victim had become entangled in this web of sophistry, there was little left to do but concede that he was right.

During those few moments when God had revealed the mysteries of the Trees to Adam, two entities had managed to slip through the opening between the worlds from the shadow side.

One of them was Lilith. True to her wild nature, she hid herself from the angels who guarded the foundations of the world and set about breeding demons in her own likeness.

The second arrival was a far more serious matter.

Satan, the supreme accusing angel who stood before the Throne of Glory, had come into this world in person, assuming the form of Nachash.

He had appeared before humanity with a test, presenting a challenge that man was expected to overcome.

But perhaps Satan was pursuing interests of his own, distinct from the divine design. Or perhaps the intricate scheme simply proved too difficult for the one being examined to unravel.

Whatever the reason, everything went wrong.

The chosen victim was the most defenceless of all: a being created for love and intuitive prophecy, with no chance whatsoever against the intellectual sophistry offered by the stranger.

“Did God really say that you must not eat from this tree?” Nachash asked insinuatingly.

“Yes. We may eat the fruit of every tree—except this one.”

After a moment's thought, Hava added, to make her answer more convincing:

“We're not even allowed to touch it.”

The trap clicked gently shut before Hava had time to realise what was happening.

Nor would she fully understand it afterwards, when it was already too late. When her life and Adam's—and with them, the life of all Creation—had changed irreversibly and forever, almost entirely losing their immediate connection with the divine presence.

“Could it be that you humans are simply following dogmas that have been drilled into your heads?” Nachash asked, regarding Hava with a gentle, faintly reproachful smile.

“What makes you say that?” Hava protested, offended. “Adam and I aren't some kind of brainwashed fanatics. We study the world and subject everything to critical examination.”

“Of course,” Nachash agreed. “No one would expect anything less of you. So can you explain why you're forbidden to eat the fruit of this tree?”

“Er…” Hava looked a little embarrassed. “Well, because… Because God told us not to.”

Nachash smiled knowingly, his eyes half-closed. From the expression on his face, Hava understood that this was precisely the answer he had expected.

“God told you that because, should you partake of its fruit, you shall become like Him.”

“What do you mean?” Hava asked, taken aback.

“Well, look…”

With these words, Nachash gave Hava a gentle push towards the tree, bringing one of its seductively succulent fruits directly before her. Almost involuntarily, she touched it, then immediately snatched her hand away.

Nothing happened.

Everything around her remained exactly as before, suffused with the same serene happiness.

“You see? You were worrying for nothing. Go on, taste it.”

Nachash watched as Hava's gaze lingered longer and longer upon the fragrant fruit.

“What is there to fear when you're exploring the world? Surely nothing should stand in the way of a curious mind seeking the truth. Besides, you've already taken the first step, and as everyone knows, that's the hardest one. All that remains is to strengthen your conviction. As they like to say around here, once you've said aleph, you must say bet.”

The fruit was pleasantly rough to the touch, much like the trunk of the tree itself. Her hands seemed to want to caress it of their own accord.

Hava passed it from one palm to the other, pressing it against her face.

Nachash watched her with a smile. He was in no hurry.

Adam appeared from somewhere.

The moment Hava noticed him, she sank her teeth into the soft flesh.

Its taste was unlike anything either of them had ever experienced in the Garden.

She held it to Adam's lips, and from then on they enjoyed it together.

* * *

Suddenly, they felt themselves losing their balance.

The world around them began to turn inside out, transforming into its own opposite. The bright daylight gave way to twilight. The outlines of everything around them grew indistinct, and Adam and Hava could no longer recognise their familiar Garden.

Their bodies were now constricted at the waist by stiff, rough belts. A chill came over them, and they huddled together in an attempt to keep warm.

“What on earth have you two done?” came a familiar voice, though they could see no one.

“She gave me the fruit…”

“And he gave it to me… that one. He called himself Nachash.”

“I knew it! I shouldn't have left you two alone for so long.” God sighed. “Still, I thought perhaps it might work out.”

“What has happened to us?” Adam asked, shivering with cold.

“Something that was never meant to happen,” God replied, His voice stern now.

“You have taken into yourselves an unripe fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, and with it a tangled mixture of light and darkness. Until now, good and evil had been ripening and separating in the world outside you. That process was almost complete. By the reckoning of the Sixth Day, there was scarcely an hour left… After that, you would have come to know good and evil in their purified form, and the purpose of Creation would have been fulfilled.

“But now this entire unripe mixture has entered you, which means it will also be passed on to your descendants. Correcting this mistake—that is, completely separating light from darkness within yourselves—will be far from easy. And it will take a very long time.”

God paused for a moment, as though weighing something in His mind.

“A thousand years to a day… That makes approximately six thousand years.”

“But we can't possibly live that long…” Fear showed in Adam's eyes.

“Of course not,” God replied calmly. “You have lost your immortality. And from now on, in the lower world to which you are going, generation after generation will have to devote themselves to repairing the work that has gone wrong.”

“Is there really nothing we can do to change it?”

“There is. But some things in this world cannot be restored by one person alone. It will take the efforts of thousands of your descendants.”

Adam and Hava seemed to shrink in stature.

Unable to comprehend what was happening, they looked around helplessly, still hoping to catch sight of the One they had always regarded as their absolute protection.

“You will have to earn your bread by the sweat of your brow,” the voice addressed Adam. “It won't be easy, especially at first. And unfortunately, you'll have very little time left for spiritual work or exploring the world. Though any efforts you make in that direction will be most welcome.”

“And you,” the voice turned to Hava, “will be entrusted with raising children. If only it all ended with childbirth—that would be half the trouble. But children must also be brought up. And that's where many will stumble.”

“As for that one…” They both knew whom He meant. “A curse shall be laid upon him. Instigators are not brought to trial, especially those driven by ideology, for the depth of evil within them is bottomless. They are beyond correction. And so he is condemned to crawl upon the earth and turn the energy of life into the dust of death.

“But you needn't concern yourselves with him.”

God looked at the man and woman standing before Him.

Adam and Hava remained silent, not knowing what to say.

“Don't mistake this for punishment,” God's voice softened again. “Punishment is not something we practise in the higher realms. These are simply new conditions under which the work must be done. In fact, neither now nor in the future should you regard this as a penalty—or, heaven forbid, a curse.

“You made a mistake that has complicated the task before us. But I have no intention of punishing you. What would be the point? What matters to Me is that the ultimate goal be achieved. And for that to happen, you must put right your part of the work, and I must put right Mine.

“So simply do what needs to be done.”

The humans remained silent, unable to find the words, not even knowing how to ask what was now expected of them.

The simplicity and clarity of the Garden of Eden had departed from them forever.

“And there's something else,” God added. “I'll need someone to carry out a special task, one without which the design cannot be fulfilled.

“At first, I think I'll entrust this role to a single human being—that is, to you.” The voice was addressing them both. “Then perhaps to a large family. And one day, perhaps, to a nation.

“Well, we'll see how things go.”

God hesitated for another moment, as though wondering whether to speak the final words.

Suddenly, Adam and Hava saw a familiar figure emerging from the gloom. They reached out towards Him, but the One whose presence they could still feel so close was now beyond their reach.

“I had hoped,” God said, “that your being would be whole, like the First Day of Creation. But things turned out differently, and I had to divide you. It took a series of failed attempts before we understood that, to accomplish the goal, both you and Hava were needed, each with a role of your own. Your union is an essential part of the task before us. Neither you nor she is meant to be whole in isolation. It is the union of your minds, souls and bodies that must form a single whole.

“That is what we called the human being.”

Hava suddenly felt a strange tickling sensation in her eyes.

Glancing at her, Adam noticed that her cheeks had grown wet and her lips were trembling.

He had never seen her like this before. His breathing faltered and became uneven.

“Despite knowing exactly what had to be done, the separation was not easy. I felt as though I were back on the Second Day, once again dividing the upper waters from the lower. But I made the decision, and fashioned Hava from you—from your soul and your flesh…

“Just as…”

God fell silent for a moment, as though remembering something so profound that humanity was never meant to know it.

“Just as I created the world by making room within Myself.”

At these words, the voice fell silent.

A white angel appeared, bearing a revolving, double-edged sword from which tongues of flame streamed.

The angel towered above the humans. Although he did not move from where he stood, they instinctively retreated, stumbled backwards and, for several long moments, felt their bodies become weightless.

As they fell, they caught a final glimpse of the sword transforming into a gigantic wheel of fire, sealing the heavenly garden off from them forever.

They regained consciousness beneath the trees of a picturesque valley beside a lake.

The murmur of a stream and the singing of birds delighted their ears. Gentle sunlight gilded the slopes of green hills.

Everything reminded them so much of their beloved Gan Eden.

But it was no longer Gan Eden.

Three Attempts

Once they found themselves in the lower world, humanity had no intention of sitting idly by. They devised all manner of ingenious schemes to win Heaven's favor.

Over the course of twenty generations, the descendants of the First Man made three attempts to repair what had gone wrong.

First came universal love—everyone loving everyone else—which descended into unbridled debauchery. Then came universal unity founded upon a common ideology, which ended in complete division. Finally, they turned to the supremacy of law, whose blind observance led to perversion and idolatry.

Things had gone wrong from the very beginning, when Cain rose against his brother Hevel, and the earth cried out over the blood that had been shed.

The sages of old taught that only three things could provoke such a conflict: power, wealth, or a woman.

Whatever the cause, humanity began its journey through the sinful world by murdering its own brother.

“You knew!” Adam cried, falling to his knees beside Hevel's lifeless body. “You knew everything! And still You sent us into this hell!”

Shaking his fists at the unresponsive heavens, Adam hurled curses at God until his voice gave out and his strength was spent.

Hava stood silently beside him. No one would have recognised her as the carefree explorer of the Garden of Eden.

Fortunately, Cain and Hevel had been born alongside their sisters. And when tragedy shattered the first and only family, their inconsolable mother was not left entirely alone.

The earthly Adam and Hava could no longer bear to be together. Their grief was simply too great.

The Lower Adam left home and wandered for many years through the land of Kush, searching for the fragments into which the Higher Adam had been shattered by the Fall.

The ancients called these fragments sparks of holiness. They believed that by gathering them together, it would be possible to restore the soul of the First Man.

Sometimes Adam discovered sparks of holiness in other people. Each discovery filled him with joy, though he never quite understood what he was supposed to do with them.

* * *

“Am I my brother's keeper?” Cain asked with a shrug.

“So you’re pretending I don't exist? That I cannot see your past, your present, and your future? Very well. Everyone is responsible for what they do. I shall conceal Myself from you, and you will never see Me again. As far as you are concerned, I no longer exist.”

Cain opened his mouth to object, but God silenced him with a commanding gesture.

“Each shall receive according to his deeds. You are condemned to wander the earth, never finding a place to call home. By killing your brother, you have sunk lower than the animals. They will no longer tremble before you in fear. Take care that they don't start mistreating you instead. But you must receive your due in full. Therefore, no mortal shall take your life before the seventh generation.

“And so that everyone may recognise you, I shall give you a special mark. Some will be frightened when they see it; others will turn away. Both humans and beasts will keep their distance from you.”

Eternal restlessness became Cain's fate.

An unrelenting sorrow drove him across the vast expanses of the earth, until, in a moment of utter despair, he discovered within himself a gift for building.

He founded the first cities, naming one of them after his firstborn son, Hanoch.

Discovering within himself the strength to create, he laid the foundations of craftsmanship and invented tools for cultivating the land.

Seven generations later, his descendant Yuval would discover the many beautiful things the world had to offer and become the father of music—that harmonious union of sound and emotion.

And in music, he preserved forever the tragic image of his ancestor.

A hundred and thirty years passed after the family had fallen apart before Adam returned to his wife.

Reunited, they had a third son and named him Shet—foundation.

From Cain and Shet sprang a colourful succession of generations: Hanochs, Lemechs, their sons and descendants, their bloodlines intertwining, joining, and branching out.

Some enjoyed God's friendship and, in recognition of their merits, were taken up to Heaven while still alive.

The daughters of men married giants who had appeared from goodness knows where. Some believed these giants were angels who had descended to earth to live among humanity forever.

And a patriarch named Metushelach, who lived for almost a thousand years, became renowned for slaying hordes of demons spawned by the insatiable Lilith, wielding his miraculous sword.

Years wove themselves into decades, and decades into centuries.

Human beings scarcely remembered their purpose anymore. Their divine nature lay buried beneath the sands of oblivion.

Neither promiscuity nor bestiality troubled anyone. Every living creature had corrupted its way upon the earth.

God looked upon the spreading depravity with sorrow.

In the tenth generation after Adam, a man appeared whom the Almighty had chosen for the great reset He was planning.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He kept his household in order and listened to God's advice.

And although the light of his righteousness was barely sufficient to warm himself and his own family, by the standards of the world before the Flood, even that was quite an achievement.

His contemporaries mocked him, calling him a hero in a shapeless robe.

His name was Noach, and he belonged to the line of Shet. His wife, however, descended from Cain.

Thus, within their family, the two original bloodlines were reunited.

For a hundred and twenty years, Noach cultivated a forest of shipbuilding pines, intending to use their timber to construct an ark.

The sheer absurdity of the undertaking—a ship in the middle of a forest—was bound to provoke astonishment, bewilderment, and disbelief. Perhaps it even planted in a few minds the sudden suspicion that something in the world might not be quite right.

Noach and his family worked conscientiously, not out of fear but from a sense of duty. Yet their ridiculous enterprise found not the slightest sympathy among those around them.

Having long since lost the habit of productive labour, people showed no interest in anything beyond the most primitive amusements.

The generation's decline continued unchecked until, at last, the Almighty's patience was exhausted.

Then, for forty days, the floodgates of Heaven opened, and everything upon the earth slowly began to disappear beneath the waters.

Now, suddenly, the ark seemed a rather sensible idea.

It would carry Noach, his wife, their three sons and their wives, together with a selection of animals gathered in pairs according to God's instructions, into another, unfamiliar world.

During the year-long voyage, the passengers had little time for anything other than looking after this floating zoo.

When the ark finally came to rest upon Mount Ararat and the descendants of Adam and Hava stepped onto dry land, the world seemed neither as vast nor as bright as the one they had known before.

The conditions of their existence had become more modest. The colours of the world had acquired subtler shades.

And they rather liked it.

For now, as they set about repopulating the earth, they could return to the work they had abandoned so long ago.

Having bid farewell to the idea of universal love, God made a new covenant with the sons of Noach, promising never again to bring a flood upon the entire world.

And so that He would not forget His promise, He placed a rainbow above the earth as a reminder of their agreement.

This was why the ancients were not particularly delighted when seven-coloured bands appeared across the sky.

After all, a rainbow might mean that something terrible was happening nearby—and that, were it not for this saving sign, the world itself might once again be in danger.

* * *

Nimrod became the first king among men.

He owed his extraordinary rise to a peculiar gift his subjects attributed to him, one they believed bordered on the magic practised by the ancient patriarchs.

They were convinced that their king understood the language of beasts and birds, which naturally raised him considerably in their estimation.

There was, however, only a grain of truth in this.

The remarkable power belonged not to Nimrod himself, but to a colourful garment he had inherited through a long family line from Noach.

Noach had brought it with him from the world before the Flood and passed it on to one of his sons. For generations, the owners of this wondrous garment had preserved the tradition that it had once belonged to Adam himself, when he was sent from Gan Eden into the sinful world.

Be that as it may, Nimrod managed to turn this circumstance to his advantage, gaining authority and elevating himself above everyone else.

As befitted a ruler—even though there had never been one before him—he considered his principal duty to be the immortalisation of himself and his age.

Centralised power, a common language, and a universal culture became the accepted order of things, finding their way into every home.

To crown the triumph of his ideology, the king needed a construction project on a truly global scale.

And so it began.

The undertaking advanced at a tremendous pace, enjoying the broadest possible support among the people.

The choice of a Tower reaching into the clouds was no accident. Memories of the Flood were still far too vivid in the minds of their descendants.

To prevent another catastrophe, people hoped to reach Heaven itself and gain access to the source of rain.

No one remembered God's promise. Besides, they preferred to rely on their own strength.

In their feverish enthusiasm, the builders of the Tower discovered the art of making bricks, quite rightly observing that fired clay was better suited to construction than rough, unworked stone.

Thus, little by little, the works of human hands began to replace what had not been made by human hands.

And step by step, brick by brick, humanity moved further away from God.

There would have been nothing particularly wrong with that, except that building materials gradually became more valuable than human life.

A broken brick was an occasion for universal grief.

But when a man fell from the Tower, hardly anyone paid him the slightest attention.

Even those who took no part in the construction regarded the project as their own.

Not because they had anything to do with it, but because they felt themselves part of something magnificent.

The Tower grew by leaps and bounds, and some had already begun to feel that Heaven was almost within reach.

God watched what was happening among humanity and saw how, like the identical bricks, human beings were gradually being stripped of their individuality, becoming indistinguishable from one another.

“It could hardly be otherwise,” He thought. “That is the very essence of any ideology.”

The attempt to repair the First Man's mistake was clearly not going according to plan.

Once again, the world was heading in the wrong direction.

One day, towards the end of winter, in the month of Adar, the builders suddenly ceased to understand one another.

Only yesterday, they had all spoken the same language, understood by everyone. Yet today, something had happened that no one could bring themselves to believe.

People rushed from one familiar face to another, trying desperately to make themselves heard, appealing to reason and compassion.

But it was all in vain.

No one could reach an understanding with anyone else.

There was no need for another Flood.

Unlike humanity, God remembered His covenant with Noach.

He divided the common language into seventy tongues, thereby bringing the ambitious project to an end.

Having lost interest in one another, the devotees of the Tower's ideology scattered in every direction across the face of the earth.

The second attempt to repair the world by uniting humanity around a great idea had crumbled into dust.

* * *

In Sdom, the people revered the law above all else.

Their regulations had become so strict that each inhabitant was allotted a personal living space, which no one else was permitted to encroach upon. Friendship and hospitality were held in little esteem and, in time, were outlawed altogether.

It was doubtful that this way of life brought the townspeople much happiness or satisfaction. They trudged through their days in the faint hope that the rigid rules governing their existence would create the conditions necessary to restore the First Man.

“It's all his fault, his emotional immaturity!” they complained to one another. “Before his unfortunate blunder, everything in the world ran according to strict rules, like clockwork.”

“Even nature itself,” some would add, “obeyed immutable laws.”

Yet no one smiled at this clever observation.

The lives of the local inhabitants dragged on, monotonous and joyless. They had forgotten both colour and feeling.

One day, a man named Lot arrived in Sdom.

Rumour had it that he had parted ways with his uncle Abraham after their shepherds quarrelled over grazing land.

Lot had subsequently been captured by four kings who ruled those territories, and his uncle had been obliged to rescue him, joining forces with five other kings.

Afterwards, the people of Sdom allowed Lot to remain among them. As a newcomer, he was required to settle near the city gates.

He was married off to the niece of a prominent citizen, and the couple had two daughters.

For another fifteen years, God watched Sdom and neighbouring Gomorrah, waiting to see whether anything at all might change in these cities that knew no mercy.

But nothing did.

Their inhabitants judged their neighbors exclusively by measuring them with a pair of compasses and a ruler.

Not a flicker of emotion, not the slightest feeling of compassion stirred within their souls.

This led the higher realms to reflect upon a troubling possibility: even the most refined instrument, the very one by which God had so carefully measured the laws of existence and brought the proportions of Creation into harmony, could become a source of evil and destruction when placed in unskilled hands.

To make matters worse, merciless trials became increasingly common in Sdom, even for the most insignificant violations of the law.

Informing on one's neighbours began to flourish, although only yesterday it had seemed a relic of darker times.

Even prominent citizens felt no shame in denouncing others.

The practice went by the name:

“A Crime in the Evening, a Punishment by Morning.”

The people of Sdom sincerely believed they were repairing the world.

Taking advantage of the general apathy, the authorities managed, through a few simple sophistries, to convince the population that they were invariably right, whatever the circumstances.

Although few citizens had ever ventured beyond the surrounding desert, most were convinced that the countries of the distant West had but one ambition: to conquer and subjugate them.

The image of the enemy had become deeply embedded in the public consciousness, serving as the principal bond holding society together.

The few who still attempted to think independently found this conviction bewildering.

After all, apart from deposits of sea salt and the creeping fire with which the people of Sdom regularly threatened everyone around them, the city had precious little to boast about.

Their constant hostile attacks on neighbouring lands eventually led those neighbours to sever all relations with the deranged city.

Every fresh abuse of power was immediately elevated to the status of law, giving the punitive authorities a free hand.

Those who disagreed or attempted to resist were subjected to repression.

And so it continued for a very long time, largely because most of the population were perfectly content with the arrangement.

One evening, as the sun was setting, two travellers appeared at the city gates.

They knocked on Lot's door and were warmly welcomed by their hosts.

By the standards of Sdom, this was an outrageous incident.

Within half an hour, a crowd began gathering outside the house.

Filled with righteous indignation, the townspeople demanded in no uncertain terms that the strangers be handed over for trial and sentencing, since the sacred law prohibiting the reception of guests had been violated.

Lot stepped outside and offered them his daughters instead, provoking even greater displeasure among those assembled.

“Are you suggesting we're rapists?” the crowd protested indignantly.

“We have no need of your daughters, for they are innocent. We want your guests!”

The people of Sdom could not have known that they and their ill-fated cities had long since been condemned.

The uninvited strangers stepped out towards the crowd and cast a barely perceptible glance over those gathered.

Whether as a result of that glance or for some other reason, the townspeople instantly lost all sense of space and time.

All they could do was wander about aimlessly, stumbling into walls and colliding with one another.

But by then, it hardly mattered.

One of the guests, the archangel Michael, was already hastily leading Lot and his family towards the mountains.

The other, Gabriel, set about the task for which he had come: raining ash and sulphur from Heaven upon the burning cities.

“Whatever happens, do not look back,” Gabriel commanded the fugitives.

Yet as they scrambled over the sharp rocks of the Dead Sea wilderness, sensing something terrible and inevitable behind them, the young woman turned to look.

Beautiful and full of life, she was frozen forever in a pillar of salt: her graceful body caught in a swift turn, strands of hair escaping from beneath her headscarf, and terror fixed upon her lovely face.

Overwhelmed by confusion and fear, haunted by the certainty of an approaching end, and convinced that they were the last surviving humans on earth, the daughters gave their father wine and committed incest.

As so often happens, with the very best of intentions.

From them arose two great peoples: Ammon and Moab.

* * *

The Council of the Highest Angels was in full session.

The powers governing all existence were presenting their arguments for and against humanity.

Mercy spoke first:

“Create him and protect him, in the hope that he may learn to do good.”

Truth replied:

“Do not preserve him, for he is falsehood through and through.”

Justice objected:

“Keep him and defend him, for he yearns for justice.”

“Erase him,” insisted Peace, “for all he brings is strife.”

“Look,” they appealed to the Almighty, “Man was given a task in Gan Eden, and he failed to accomplish it. We gave him three attempts in the lower world, and what came of them? Unrestrained love had to be washed away by the waters of purification. The ideology of universal construction around that absurd Tower could only be brought to an end by dividing its enthusiasts.

“And as for the triumph of heartless law in Sdom and Gomorrah, we would rather not even recall how that ended.

“Isn't it time to acknowledge that the project of creating and developing Man has proved unworkable, at least in its present form, and bring the whole undertaking to an end?”

No one knows which way the scales of heavenly judgment might have tipped.

The arguments put forward by the Highest Angels, both for and against mortals, carried such weight that it seemed impossible to favour either side.

And then the Almighty played His final card.

“Don't worry about the Tower,” He interjected. “If those souls have grown so fond of their bricks, they will have to spend some time making them against their will. That should restore the balance in the world.”

When calm had returned among the disputants, God continued:

“I shall introduce you to a man who, by my reckoning, should convince you that the entire undertaking is worthwhile.”

The qualities of Creation, embodied in luminous angels, regarded Him with suspicion. Some grew distinctly uneasy, anticipating yet another unexpected twist.

“With this man, mercy will come into the human world, where until now it has scarcely found its way into people's hearts. I shall make a covenant with him, and from him great tribes shall arise. I shall help him establish a large family, with strong and rich traditions.

“And then… then, perhaps, I shall nurture that family into a nation, and together we shall make another attempt to repair the mistake of the Higher Adam.”

The angels maintained a respectful silence.

“This man has already been living for some time in the world under your care. His name is…”

Here the Almighty made a certain sign, understood only by the Highest Angels.

And they nodded in agreement.

Part One — Mitzrayim

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