Who am I? I was here before you, little snake; I came in one day, one aeon earlier, with the first squirming cell to be born from the sun and the sea.

No, I’m not death, though I get that a lot. I’m death’s groundskeeper, the gardener. Stop biting! I’m no god either. Just a hermit. My cell is nearby; would you like to come in? The goats give me milk, the bees honey, the earth roots, and the water sweet wine. Perhaps you’d prefer an egg?

Have you eaten your fill? Good! Here is a pipe made from a hollow reed; let it empty you of questions.

Adam and Eve? Yeah, I’ve seen them. Ate spoiled fruit and it made them crazy. A little bird told me you might know more about that than I do, though.

Of course you’re innocent! Apes have been telling stories since they left the trees; this is scarcely the first or the worst.

The way I heard it they grabbed a bunch of leaves, covered themselves in shame, and ran off toward the east, jabbering about flaming angels. I don’t know what happened then, except that they started tearing up the ground, eating everything and breeding like crazy. Their children changed, too: building hives and writing on leaves, which they hide behind every time someone tries to talk sense into them. Surely you’ve heard the rumors.

Eh, I’ve seen swarms like this before. They’ve gotten too big for themselves; they’ll go the way of the dragons soon enough, and hopefully learn something, and I’ll be left with the cleanup. No, I don’t mind; I’ve been here a long time and it’s something to do.

Tired after a big meal? I feel the same. You’re welcome to sleep here, safe among the roots of the trees, till the trucks stop running and spring comes again.