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In the days following Tiamat's defeat, the newly formed land was barren. The gods, seeing the lack of life in the earth, scattered Tiamat's blood over the earth and each drop of blood became a seed and in this way the world was made fertile.
Every seed grew where it fell, for farming had not yet been invented. Every seed, except one. This one seed, the very first drop of Tiamat's blood to be spilled, was found by a young god who was walking on the new land. He came upon the seed in the middle of the desert, where the dark seed stood out against the tan sand. When the god picked up the small seed, he saw a myriad of colors swirling upon it. It was cool to the touch, despite having lain in the sun, and as smooth and reflective as the water on a windless day.
The god tucked the seed into a small strip of linen wrapped around his wrist. He often slipped interesting objects into this piece of fabric, as he was still a young god and occasionally surprised by the world around him. This particular day, the seed shared space in the linen with a small violet flower and a emerald green beetle. The young god, having secured his find, continued his wandering.
Now, this god, like most young gods, was not yet fully formed. Gods do not just leap, fully formed, from the heads of their father. They emerge as adults, true, but they are constantly shifting. As they experience the world, gods change, losing and gaining traits until they settle into their final selves. In the days of creation, many gods roamed the land and sea, trying to build up enough experiences to settle into one form. The young god who found Tiamat's first drop was neither male nor female. He – and I say he, of course, because even though the young god had both beard and breasts I have to call him something, and he had no name yet – was compassionate and cruel, curious and practical. He had hard muscles for smithing, but soft hands for weaving. In effect, the god was an empty loom to be filled.
When the god finally came to rest, he untied the linen from his wrist and laid out his finds. He discarded the beetle, wove the flower into his hair, and rubbed the small seed between his fingers. It was still cool, still smooth, and its surface still shone with a million colors. After some deliberation, the young god chose to protect his new treasure and add it to his collection. He went over to his hiding spot by a small pool and dug a small hole. He dropped the seed inside and gently covered it with soil. As he patted the newly disturbed ground, his eyes searched the reeds that grew around him. He found a small white stone and placed it over the filled hole.
Many days passed. Many months passed. And finally, the young god remembered the seed he had buried. He returned to the pond and searched for the white pebble. But the pebble was no longer on the smooth ground; it was leaning against the side of a young sapling. The god thought for a moment; on one hand, his treasure was now very safe as the tree grew over the top of it – for one of the characteristics this god had formed was jealousy – but, on the other hand, he was now unable to reach his treasure. The young god sat by the tree and pondered. Should he tear up the tree and retrieve his treasure, or should he allow the tree to grow very large so no one would ever be able to reach the seed?
The god heard a voice to his left. He looked down at an iridescent serpent looking up at him with wide yellow eyes. The serpent told him the seed was gone. The young god did not understand. He demanded that the serpent explain its meaning.
The snake replied: The seed has transformed in the way of seeds. That tree is your seed.
The god was confused. He understood that gods changed and transformed as they grew, but they remained basically the same shape. Could an object really transform as much as this seed had? To morph from tiny and smooth into large and complex?
He turned to ask the snake about this tree, but the snake was gone, and the god was alone once more. After much deliberation, the god chose to test the snake's word.
The god collected seeds from all the flowers he could find. Since he was a god, he remembered which seed matched which plant, for once a god knows, he never forgets. The god made neat rows of flowers by color and size. He brought water to the plants in his cupped hands, carefully sprinkling it over the rows. In this manner he continued for many days until one morning he noticed bright green sprouts emerging from the dark soil in neat lines. Everyday he carried water to the plants, and everyday the plants grew taller. One day, leaves appeared. Then, buds. Finally, the young god arrived at his flower bed to find rows of many colors instead of only green. This was the first garden.
Of course, the god was not satisfied with planting only these few rows of flowers. He began to tear up all of the plants surrounding the pond he had claimed as his own and replace them with carefully planned patterns of flowers and crops. As he planted and harvested, the god's body began to change. His breasts receded, replaced by hard muscles. His voice dropped steadily until it was so low his chest rumbled as he spoke. His hips narrowed. His hands grew callused and tough while dirt collected under his nails.
In the center of his garden sat the tree sprouted from Tiamat's first blood. The tree towered over the garden, and the iridescent fruits that grew on its branches shone for miles. For years, the god allowed the fruit to simply fall to the earth, to be absorbed into the earth to provide nourishment for the tree itself. And the god allowed this largely because he never looked too closely at the tree, preferring instead to look at his neat and ordered garden. One day, though, the god caught sight of one of the glimmering fruits and was drawn slowly towards it. He reached up, grabbing the shimmering fruit and pulling it easily from the branch. He looked closely at the fruit in his hand. It was spherical and smooth, cool despite the heat of the day, and reflected a million dark colors in its peel. The god raised the fruit to his mouth; his teeth broke the crisp skin, and sticky sweet juice flooded his mouth. As the liquid ran down his throat, the god felt a rush of awareness flood his mind. Knowledge.
He walked to the pond and found his reflection staring back at him. By now, any trace of femininity had disappeared. He looked at himself.
The god whispered: I am.
He grew louder: I Am.
He shouted to the sky: I AM!
Then, the god heard the snake's hissing voice once more. The snake asked:
Is that your name? Yahweh?
As you may now, the language of the gods is lost to us now. But, we do know that in the language of the gods I am sounds like Yahweh. And it was in this way that the young god received his name.
Yahweh nodded at the snake and the snake slithered off into the tall grass as he said:
Everyone needs a name.
Yahweh looked around his garden, with its neat rows of flowers and crops. Caring for the plants no longer seemed like enough for a god who had eaten from the tree of knowledge. But, by abandoning the garden, Yahweh would be allowing the order of the garden to become chaos once more.
Unless, he could create another to care for the garden in his stead. A...man, in Yahweh's image. A caretaker of order, who had not eaten from the tree and would therefore be content weeding and planting in the earth, content with nakedness and monotony.
Yahweh turned from the garden. There was work to be done.