“As infidels,” Corwin concluded.
The angel gave a solemn nod.
“But isn’t your god needy as well?” challenged Corwin. “Doesn’t his desire for love also imply a deficiency, just of a different sort?”
“Love is a curious thing. Hoard it up, and you lose it. Give it away, and you gain more. It defies all the usual rules.”
A sparrow swooped down, sunlight glinting on its steel alloy wings. Alighting on Ransom’s shoulder, the bird chirped synthesized notes and bobbed its head with sharp, precise movements.
“Think back to something that filled you with happiness. It need not be anything dramatic. Even your favorite pizza will do.”
“Gianni’s sure made a mean pie,” Corwin reminisced. Even now, he could almost taste their rich, tangy sauce and aged pepperoni, thick-cut so that the singed edges curled each slice into a wonderful little cup of grease. You couldn’t get pepperoni like that at the chains. “If you told me that their Sicilian was divinely inspired, I might even believe you.”
“Actually, Gianni made a pact with a demon to acquire that recipe, but that’s beside the point. After you discovered Gianni’s Pizza, did you keep it to yourself?”
“Are you kidding? I should have gotten a discount for all the word-of-mouth advertising I gave that place.”
“In other words, you shared your love for your favorite pizzeria. Did you do so because you felt unfulfilled or deficient in some way?”
“No,” he admitted. “I enjoyed it, and so I told people about it.”
“The Father’s love is like that,” Ransom explained. “He yearns to share it, not out of any deficiency, but because his joy overflows. Just as a love-struck friend won’t shut up about their beloved, or new parents can’t resist sending an endless barrage of baby pictures to everyone they know, it is the nature of love to be shared.”
“Again, that sounds nice, but all this neat and tidy philosophy . . . Try telling that to the love-struck friend when his beloved is hit by a drunk driver! Try telling that to the new parents when their precious child is kidnapped!”
He could hear his voice rising, the fire swelling in his chest, but his attorney didn’t back down.
“Man is quick to blame God for the crimes of his fellow man, yet even in that instinct there hides a clue. You’ve felt it yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When you suffer injustice, especially grievous injustice, you instinctively feel a rage directed at something beyond man, something bigger. Your spirit burns and you want to roar at the universe and at its Maker!”
“If that’s evidence for god, it doesn’t bode well for his image.”
“The same holds true for feelings of profound joy. Think of a mother cradling her newborn child, her heart overcome with a gratitude so great that it transcends anyone who might deserve thanks in the mortal world.”
Corwin wasn’t sure that he had ever been that happy, but he had witnessed it, seen it in the eyes of others, and he was definitely acquainted with the former feeling.
The sparrow sprang from Ransom’s shoulder, flapping its wings to gain altitude and then wheeling away towards the pillar ahead. Where the pillar met the upper clouds, arcs of lightning leapt from its conduits and quietly vanished into the haze. Heedless of the danger, the bird flew closer.
Robotic birds were apparently no smarter than real ones. A bolt of light branched, its blazing hot touch frying the sparrow instantly. It trailed a thin stream of smoke as it dove out of the air.
“There’s one thing that your explanation overlooks,” realized Corwin. “You claim that god permits evil for the sake of free will, but not all suffering is the result of choices. Not all pain is inflicted by the willful hand of man. What about earthquakes or hurricanes or diseases spread by insect bites?
“There is plenty of evil that your god could stop without taking away anyone’s free will. So why doesn’t he? If he loves us so much, why does he stay silent while millions suffer at the whim of Mother Nature?”
A draft ruffled his coat, the current of the drifting clouds pulling at him gently but insistently. Corwin began to wish that the bridge had been built with handrails.
“A worthy question, and a difficult one,” said the angel. “Philosophy alone cannot answer it. One needs look to revelation, to man’s ancient beginnings, to . . .” he laid a hand on Corwin’s back, “the Fall!”
A strong and sudden push cast Corwin over the bridge’s edge. In desperation he twisted about, grasping for some lifeline, but everything firm and solid might as well have been a thousand miles away.
“Not again!” he hollered, the wind whipping his hair.
The bridge dwindled to a stripe, dark against the sky, and the billowing folds of the clouds welcomed him with their cool embrace.
16
The Price of Paradise
“Corwin, you’ve got to hold on!”
Like words spoken underwater, Mary’s voice was muddled and remote.
“We’re losing him!” reported another, even farther away.
Their shouts were receding, a steady roar rising on the black wind. It was all around him now, buffeting him, prying at his eyelids. Corwin squinted.
The view was the same in all directions as he hurtled through the murky haze of the cloud sea. It might have been seconds or minutes, but finally the veil parted and he plunged into open sky. He wasn’t alone for long. Some yards away, his attorney burst through the clouds, streaking earthward like a bullet with a flapping tie. Ransom donned a pair of goggles, his arms pressed to his sides in a headfirst dive.
“You’ll see better with these!” yelled the angel.
He flung his spare eyewear as if sliding a drink down an invisible bar. They spun across the air between them and into Corwin’s flailing grasp.
“I’d rather have a parachute!”
He twirled and flipped, wrestling to get the strap around his head, and then opened his eyes.
“Whoa!”
If the world above the clouds had in small ways imitated nature, this world in every way magnified it. A broad valley unfurled, sparkling with azure lakes and rimmed with snow-capped mountains. Wildflowers of a hundred shades colored the fields and lush forests sprang from the foothills and riversides. There was a vitality in the air, an energy that bristled with new life. Breathing it in, Corwin felt like a boy again. He wanted to run through the meadows and roll down the hills.
But first there was the matter of landing.
“If you’ve got wings, now would be a good time to use them!”
“No need,” called Ransom. “Just put your feet down!”
Easier said than done.
Tossed about at the mercy of the turbulent wind, Corwin tried to remember what he had seen of skydivers on television. Compared to them, his clumsy movements weren’t much to look at, but he managed at last to gain some degree of control. Off to his right, Ransom tucked into a roll and spun out with his feet facing downward.
“Now you’re just showing off!”
As Corwin angled his legs, his furious descent began gradually to slow until he was floating to the ground like a balloon sapped of helium. Together with Ransom, he gingerly touched down on the slope of the vale.
Breathless, Corwin drank in the world around him. The pristine land was a painting come to life, only it was more real than any painting or photograph. Earthly vistas paled in contrast. The green blades of swaying grass were greener, the crisp, white snow on the mountaintops was whiter, and the deep blue of the cloud-dappled sky was bluer. To gaze upon the land was to feel it. The soft flex of the grass underfoot and the silky caress of the flowers in the fields, even the brisk tingle of the snow—he knew its touch, its scent. Every cell in his body sang in scintillating harmony with this place.
Gently rolling hills stretched long and low across the valley. In the flatlands were shallow pools, no more than knee-deep. Ringed in wildflowers, their crystal clear waters mirrored the sky. The va
lley dipped to their right, cradling a vast lake, and before its shores stood the largest, most magnificent tree that Corwin had ever beheld.
He wondered at how he hadn’t noticed it until now. The enormous tree dominated the landscape. Strong roots carpeted in evergreen moss burrowed into the earth, anchoring a trunk as wide as the base of a mountain. Even the oldest redwoods would have seemed but toothpicks beside it. It towered into the heavens, rising higher than the tallest frosty peaks before spreading its branches in a great canopy that shaded a swath of the land. Clouds enveloped its emerald leaves, the treetop lost to view.
Craning his neck to admire the gargantuan tree, Corwin discovered in awe that it had a twin. Beyond the mountains stood a second tree, no less impressive than the first, though the distance made its height easier to apprehend.
“Your world is broken, but it was not always so,” spoke Ransom as he pulled off his goggles. “Once long ago, the land was pure and young, untainted by man’s folly.”
“Is this, was this Earth?” asked Corwin.
“You stand in Eden.”
“Eden? As in the garden with the talking snake?”
Corwin couldn’t hide his scathing sarcasm, nor did he try to.
“Much of Genesis is wrapped in symbolism, but the Fall is no children’s story,” said Ransom. “There is truth to be found in the creation account.”
“Maybe in the sense of moral generalities. But historical truth? Surely you can see why no one takes the Genesis story seriously. Every early civilization has its creation myth. The Hebrews were no different.”
With a “just you wait” smile in his steel gray eyes, Ransom turned and set off down the slope. For once, he didn’t reach for his flask or his tin cigarette case, and somehow Corwin knew that he wouldn’t. Not here. To spoil the purity of this place in the slightest was unthinkable, and compared with the raw, invigorating air, even the artfully balanced spices of the finest cigars would taste like ash on one’s lips.
“The message of Genesis is less about how the universe as you know it was created, and more about how life was meant to be, and what went wrong,” explained Ransom. “One would think that an all-powerful Father would prepare a safer place for his children, rather than one where their lives might be stolen by the quaking of the earth or the thundering of the skies.”
“Or wild animals with a taste for human flesh,” added Corwin, startled by the abrupt stirring of what he had taken for a golden-brown outcropping of rock.
The lion, as still as stone a moment ago, raised its proud head, and it was easy to see why this beast had been crowned king of the jungle. Fearsome and dignified, it faced them with a glimmer of wisdom in the amber pearls of its eyes. Ransom halted as it padded towards him. The lines of its muscles were visible through its regal coat, telling of speed and might that the king could call upon if he deigned.
Corwin hovered cautiously behind the angel’s back.
“Your god devised quite the death trap for his beloved spawn.”
The lion brushed up against Ransom and he combed his fingers through its thick, golden mane. Tentatively, Corwin reached out. A low growl and a flash of fangs answered, and he hastily snapped his hand back.
“It makes you wonder.” Ransom soothed the lion with a pat. “How could a perfect and benevolent God create such an imperfect world?”
“It’s a logical contradiction,” asserted Corwin. “If god designed the universe, then he also designed scorpions and venomous spiders and rattlesnakes that kill children who wander through the wrong patch of grass.”
“He doesn’t sound very benevolent, does he? Unless there was a time when your universe was different, a time before sin.”
“You’re essentially admitting that without the creation story, Christianity doesn’t add up. I would hardly call that a point in its favor.”
Purring like a pampered house cat, the lion arched its back and then slipped free. It gave its wild mane a shake as the two travelers delved lower into the vale.
“There are few sentiments stronger in your age than the longing to, as you humans say, ‘get back to nature.’ Perhaps you’ve felt the same?”
“Living in a concrete jungle can do that to a man,” said Corwin. “Parking lots don’t exactly make for scenic vistas.”
“And yet, if you actually did get back to nature, something tells me that you would tire quickly of life without electricity and indoor plumbing, and then there’s the toil of hunting and growing your own food, and let’s not forget the lack of antibiotics . . .”
“I get the picture. So what are you trying to say?”
“Only that once again man’s spirit stands at odds with reality. You yearn to reunite with nature, but nature has thorns. What man truly desires is an idyllic natural world, a Garden of Eden, so to speak.” Ransom’s gaze panned across the snowy mountaintops. “It’s almost as though some part of you still remembers this place and longs to return.”
Corwin was far from convinced of that, but he couldn’t deny that there was a certain feeling about this land, an exultant sense that this was where he belonged. All of Earth seemed a birdcage by comparison. Here at last he was free, and every point on the compass promised a new adventure. Were it not for the angel by his side, Corwin might have dashed off to uncover the secrets of a mountain trail, or maybe just lay sprawled in the serene meadow’s inviting grass. Either choice was equally sublime.
“If this is Eden, it’s certainly a sight to behold, but I must admit that I was expecting something a little less . . . literal. The Forbidden Fruit, serpents and shame; you don’t have to be Freud to see the sexual symbolism in Genesis.”
“You humans turn everything into sexual symbolism,” snorted Ransom. “You can scarcely look at the sky without seeing phalluses in the clouds! No, the Fall is not some Freudian allegory. The fruit is real fruit. And the serpent, well, you’ll meet him soon enough.”
“But doesn’t that make it all the more absurd? Why create a tree which bears such marvelous fruit and plant it right smack in the middle of Eden, only to forbid Adam from taking a bite? Christians like to pin temptation on the devil, but it’s pretty clear who taught him everything he knows.”
“Remind me, besides avoiding the Forbidden Fruit, what other commandments was Adam given in this place?”
Like any studious atheist, Corwin was well-versed on the Book of Genesis.
“To be fruitful and multiply, to fill the earth and subdue it, to have dominion over the animals, to cultivate and care for the land . . .”
“All very practical things, things that he might have done anyway. But not so for the fruit. By all appearances, the Forbidden Fruit was pleasant to eat. It would even grant knowledge to him who ate it. To obey the Father’s will therefore meant a sheer act of trust, a heroic obedience.”
“And the Father prefers heroes to pragmatists.”
“Now you’re catching on! But there is more to the story than most of your theologians know. Adam’s fault was not merely that he succumbed to temptation. Heroes are supposed to be courageous.”
Farther below, near the gnarled fingers of the tree’s outlying roots, a pair of figures came into view atop the crest of a low hill. Even at a distance, Corwin was struck by their elegance. These were no grunting Neanderthals. Both the man and the woman carried themselves with a natural nobility that no degree of nakedness could impugn. The very idea of robing their perfectly sculpted forms in clothing seemed terribly childish, like playing dress-up by slinging a royal cape over the shoulders of the lion they had earlier encountered.
“Ah, there are your ancestors now!” Ransom declared.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just assume that they got here after a million years of evolution,” said Corwin.
The man’s hair was long and brown and the woman’s golden locks were longer still. They walked hand-in-hand under the cool shade of the tree.
“Shall we get a closer look?” proposed Ransom.
Trekking across the valle
y, Corwin felt no fatigue in his legs. Whatever it was about the air here, he knew that to breathe it in was to never tire.
“Of all the things to forbid, why knowledge? What kind of father seeks to keep his children ignorant?”
“Do you really think that prior to eating the fruit, Adam had no conception of good and evil? How then would he have known whether it was right or wrong to obey the Lord’s command in the first place?”
The question flipped a light switch in Corwin’s head.
“Wow! Your creation myth is even more flawed than I thought!”
“Ever heard the phrase: ‘To know in the biblical sense’?”
Corwin had heard it said, though usually in the context of a crude joke.
Ransom continued, “What Adam lacked was firsthand knowledge of evil. Experience. That’s what the Father wished to keep him from.”
Adam and Eve were yet a hundred yards away when they crossed beneath the leafy canopy. Suddenly the branches above creaked and shook. From the shadowy boughs of the tree, a menacing form took shape. The serpent.
Corwin felt his knees go weak.
The ancient dragon descended, its lithe and powerful body curling around the trunk. A glistening coat of obsidian scales armored its sides, and long, sharp talons gouged the tree bark. Its teeth alone were several times the height of a man. Black wings unfurled as the serpent inclined its head towards the two insignificant humans.
Adam shrank back a step, but Eve stood her ground.
Regarding her, the dragon opened its jaws and a thousand hissing voices spoke as one.
“Did God say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree of the garden’?” it inquired innocently, fires blazing in the pits of its eyes.
“Of the fruit of the trees of paradise we may eat,” answered Eve. “It is only the fruit of the tree which grows in the middle of the garden, of which God said, ‘Thou shall not eat it or even touch it, lest you die.’”
Dead & Godless Page 14