Read In the Garden of Iden for Free Online

church’s great crucifix was old and ax-hewn, stuck up in the shadows behind the altar, and what with the distance and the darkness, Jesus looked as if He were standing in a tree, watching us with alert if yellowed eyes.
    But this crucifix, now, was a fine expensive modern thing, from Castile or maybe even Naples. This might have been the Bishop’s very own crucifix. It was as real as they could make it. Someone had carved, someone had sanded and polished that poor gaunt body with such care that every bone and sinew shaped out perfect, anatomically precise. Someone had painted it with matte-smooth paint, the color of gray pearls or the skin of a dying man. And not to forget the details: the wounds pink and crusted with black at the edges for dried blood, just like the real thing. The wet yellow stain seeping down from the side wound. The artist who reproduced those thin red lines from the flagellum must have had a tiny brush, fine as an eyelash; yes, and he must have studied real welts, laid on live sweating backs, to show the bruising so well. The matted hair and vicious crown of thorns were reproduced with such veracity that you could see the dust caking the braids, you could see the bright blood drops.
    But it was the face, of course, that was the masterwork.
    An intelligent face, eyes wide and dark. You could imagine this Christ laughing, or angry, or asleep. Beyond all that, you could see the God shining through the man.
    Having given you all this, this living Christ that your heart went out to, the artist put the knife in and twisted it. The mouth was opening in a gasp of pain, the teeth were bared in agony. Those live dark eyes looked out in desperation from that agony to plead, to ask a question I had no answer for. God was being murdered in front of my eyes.
    So He hung before me in the gloom, illuminated by one weak beam of light. I was terrified. I couldn’t get away, I couldn’t.
    “I’m sorry, Lord Jesus, I’m sorry, Lord Jesus, I’m sorry, Lord Jesus …”
    “Why are you causing me such suffering?” cried my hallucination through bleeding lips.
    “I don’t know, Lord Jesus. I’m sorry, Lord Jesus. Couldn’t we get you down from there and get you a barber-surgeon or something?”
    “No.”
    “Couldn’t we put bandages on you to make you better?”
    “No.”
    “But why not?”
    “Because my suffering is eternal. While men live, they must sin; and while they sin, I must bleed here. I am dying in torment for you. You are the one who pushes these thorns in my flesh by your sin.”
    “But when did I sin?”
    “In the Garden. Because you sinned there, God sent me to be crucified.”
    “I’m sorry! I don’t remember what I did in the garden, but I’m sorry! Can’t you come down now?”
    “Never.” The weary eyes closed for a moment. He was so beautiful, He was in such pain, and I’d have done anything to get those nails out of His hands and feet. But I was so afraid of Him.
    “It’s not my fault,” I wept. “I wasn’t even born then.”
    “That doesn’t matter,” He explained. “As part of the human race, you are born to Sin. You’re one of the daughters of Eve. You can’t avoid Sin even if you want to.”
    “Then no matter what I do, I’ll always hurt you?” I was appalled.
    “Yes.”
    “Who made things this way?”
    “I did.” Sweat glittered on His brow. “I took your state upon myself to redeem you from all Sin.”
    “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. “You should go back to heaven and live with the angels. How could I ever be happy again if I hurt you so much? I don’t want you to suffer for me.”
    “You will not be saved.”
    I looked around at the darkened room, remembered my cell and the other room. “But I’m already damned, aren’t I? And at least you won’t be up on that cross anymore.”
    “You really mean this?” He looked intently at me.
    I meant it with all my heart.
    So He shrugged, and the nails came flying out of His hands