The Habitation of the Blessed - Catherynne M. Valente [61]
“Please tell me about it, John. I enjoy stories.”
I sweated in the cave. I was not meant for such practice. Books and quiet prayer, study, reflection. I have never seen conversion come from words alone, and I have not the heart for those other tools. “God… God dwelt in the Void, until he made all the beasts of the field and the fruits of the earth, and he caused the water to be separate from the land, and great mountains to rise, and oceans to swell, and set the stars in their firmament.”
“Why?” The beast had a heart like a child, never able to let a sentence lie unworried.
“What?”
“Why did God make the… beasts,” the word seemed bitter in Fortunatus’ mouth. “In your opinion. Why did he make the water and the mountains? Why did he do it then and not at another time? Was the Void unsatisfactory in some way?”
“I… I could not say. I could not possibly say.” I was accustomed to wrangling my faith with men who all knew the same things I did, who shared a kind of tribal knowledge, a common table, and no one of them would have asked if the Void was not good enough for God. Yet he required an answer, and no older priest would appear and save me. “Perhaps He was lonely.”
For a moment I could not continue—a dreadful sorrow came over me, in this place, this golden hovel, without a friend or a face anything like my own. When I continued on, I felt the roughness of my voice in my throat. “Finally, He created Man, in his own image, and called him Adam, and this was the greatest of His endeavors. He breathed the living soul of His Divine Love into Adam, and set him in a wonderful garden full of every good thing, every green and growing plant, every proud and noble beast, and gave him dominion over all of them, and made his son to name each flower and beast according to their nature. This place He called Eden. Out of Adam’s rib He fashioned Woman, and called her Eve, and bade them eat and drink and enjoy every thing in the garden, save one tree, which was the Tree of Knowledge, and that God said was His and His alone.”
“What kind of tree was it?”
“Some say apple; some say fig. It isn’t important.”
“I’m sorry, but I must disagree. The Tree of Knowledge sounds like an astonishing thing. I would give very much to know its botanical properties. Did it speak? What sort of knowledge did it own? Was it a book that gave it life, a stone, a corpse? Was it perhaps some earlier attempt of your God’s to incarnate, and upon his death, did he become the tree you speak of? Or perhaps one of his lieutenants—I assume your God has them?”
“Angels,” I said numbly. “Like men, but pure, sexless, winged.”
Fortunatus furrowed his owlish brows. “I think you must meet my friend Qaspiel. It is also sexless and winged.”
I admit it, I snorted in disbelief. The spices of the soup pricked my nose.
Fortunatus hurried on, warming to his topic. “Perhaps one of these angels perished and from its body a tree of perfect, sexless apples grew, garlanded with wings and leaves, the most beautiful tree!”
I thought of the sheep-tree, the siege-elms. “Fortunatus, I am afraid that where I come from, a dead thing planted remains dead. There are no living trees like the ones you speak.”
“Oh, your pardon, John. I did not mean to be prideful or boast of my land over yours. But you cannot deny the tragedy of your home. I must take you to see my wife’s tree, and my daughter’s. Then you would know how death may be ransomed.”
Not knowing how to reply to this madness, I continued my scripture as though he had not interrupted me. “But Eve was a woman and therefore possessed within her the seed of wickedness, and the serpent, who was Satan, also dwelt in the Garden, came to her and tempted her to eat of the forbidden tree. Because of her weakness, she did so, and with her skills of seduction convinced Adam to eat as well.”
Fortunatus worried at his feathers in distress, his beak clicking. “What ugly things you think,” he whispered. “How sorry