In the Garden of Iden Read Online Free PDF Page A

was red too, and his eyes were bugging out a little.
    “We disregard it entirely, señor,” said the priest. “I mean, really. Women flying through the air on brooms. Toads that speak. What intelligent person credits such nonsense?”
    “The Bishop, for one,” said the man in red hotly. The Biscayan’s smile twisted deeper into his beard, and the priest sighed and rested his chin in his palm. The man in red went on: “Do you deny that demons can be raised to give powers to those who worship Satan? The German, Paracelsus, was carried off by just such, as all men know. These things have been witnessed and proved, worthy Inquisidor.”
    “You are treading on very shaky theological ground, señor.” The priest placed his hands flat on the table. “I would not, if I were you, assert that the Devil has powers equal to God’s.”
    “I never said that.” Now the man in red went white.
    “Good.” The priest nodded. “So, to the matter in hand.”
    “Nevertheless, we should remember that certain deluded souls do form cults to attempt to practice witchcraft,” said the Biscayan diplomatically. I lifted my head to stare at him. This time he had spoken in flawless, erudite Castilian, with just a little Biscayan accent. “And the evidence found in the house resembles such things as these cults use.”
    “That is possible, that they were cult objects,” admitted the priest. “But there are other dark rites that involve, for example, stars.” He rounded on me. “I believe this child is a secret Jew.”
    Well, my hair stood on end. I couldn’t get a word out, I was so terrified.
    “Now, how have you arrived at such a conclusion, worthy señor?” the Biscayan was asking in an intrigued voice.
    “I think that house was a nest of secret Jews,” said the priest. “Look, in all this inventory you will find not one Christian object of worship. Those that dabble in sorcery keep inverted crucifixes, defiled hosts, and such trash. All their cult is based on Christian belief. But the secret enclaves of Judaism find such things abhorrent. Then, too, the woman Mendoza has consistently testified that this child is her child. I point out to you that they both have hair as red as Judas’s beard. I think the child is lying, to disassociate herself from the others in hopes of escape. And you may depend upon it, she is our best hope of getting at the truth.”
    I shook my head numbly. I didn’t understand, they didn’t understand, and what did all those big words mean? The man in red was looking considerably deflated, but he rallied enough to say (yes, I swear he did):
    “She doesn’t look Jewish.”
    “None of them do anymore.” The priest pointed at me with a sneer. “Insidiously they have married into our noblest families and polluted the most ancient racial stock of Spain. Even here in the north, where the Moors never conquered! She may well have fair skin; it’s only the more likely there’s polluted blood there. The Jews have no interest in honest Spanish yeomen. They want noble wives, with rich dowers.”
    “No!” I yelled. “I’m very poor! But pure, señor, my mama says so, we’re descended from the Goths!” Whatever they were, I certainly didn’t know, but surely it was important.
    “Tell us the truth,” said the priest.
    “I am telling the truth!”
    “Who is your mother, if not the woman Mendoza?” asked the Biscayan.
    My downfall was coming, the consequence of spending my brief life as one of a swarming knot of children. “She lives with my papa and the others. Our house is made of stones. It has tiles on the roof,” I stammered.
    “But what are your parents’ names?” pressed the Biscayan.
    “Mama and Papa,” I said.
    “What is your family name?”
    I stared in confusion. The truth was, our house had been remote from the village and I had never heard anyone address my parents as Señor or Señora Anything. And my parents had been in the habit of addressing each other as Papacito or