In the Garden of Iden Read Online Free PDF Page B

“you will be severely punished.”
    “I did tell you the truth,” I squeaked.
    “Are you a Jew, little girl?”
    “No!”
    “When were you first taught Jewish rites?”
    “What?”
    “Have you ever been inside a Christian church?”
    “Yes.”
    “That proves nothing.” The priest made a gesture of dismissal. “The Jews go to Mass to mock the Sacrament. Many have confessed to it. What creed have you been taught, little girl?”
    What was a creed? I sat mute.
    “How often does your mother change her linen?”
    “Oh, lots,” I said. “She has to wash and wash, all the time.” I meant rows and rows of little diapers drying on the bushes, but that hadn’t been what he’d meant.
    “She washes, eh? And does she wash your food, also, before she prepares it?”
    “Sometimes.”
    The priest shot a triumphant look at the man in red. “You see? Even considering the child’s age and mendacity, certain things may be discovered.” Apparently he had scored a point of some kind. I looked from one to another of their faces, trying to guess what I’d done. The secretary got up to light a taper, because the room was filling with night. In this pause, the door opened and in came another Inquisidor.
    “Excellence.” He bowed. “The woman Mendoza has testified.”
    “And?”
    He looked cautiously at me, but the priest waved him on. “She has confessed that she is a practitioner of sorcery and stole the child from her parents.”
    “See!” I yelled, and the man in red positively grinned.
    “She has also confessed, however,” the Inquisidor continued, “to being a secret Jew, to being a Morisca, to being the concubine of Almanzor, and to being the Empress of Muscovy.” There fell a disgruntled silence.
    “Continue the inquiry,” ordered the priest. “Persuade her.”
    The Inquisidor bowed and left. “This always happens,” remarked the man in red.
    The priest swung back to me. “Do you see what happens to liars, little girl?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I don’t think you do.” He stood up. “We must show you.”
    They got up, and the Biscayan took me firmly by the wrist, and we left that room with the secretary scurrying after us, fumbling his paper and pen. We went along some halls to a dark place that smelled bad. I could hear crying, loud crying. I remember a little window high in a wall. They opened it and lifted me up to look through. It was dark in there, but as my eyes got used to the darkness, I could see glowing coals … and other things I would prefer not to describe.
    My eyes hurt. And I couldn’t breathe. The priest put his face up very close and said:
    “You can save your mother. All you have to do is tell us the truth.”
    I remember trying to push his face away with my hand because his breath was very hot. I found myself staring at the Biscayan. He was leaning against the wall, watching me, his mouth set, his eyes blank.
    I don’t remember what I said, but I must have said something to make them take me down from that terrible little window and let me look anywhere else. They didn’t take me back to my cell. I was taken to a different room, a tiny place. One chair filled it entirely. Here I was put, and the door was closed. I was left alone in the dark.
    But not for long. Briefly the door opened, and the man in red looked in at me. His eyes were full of compassion. “Pray, my child,” he told me. “Accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. Take this comfort.” He hung something on the inside of the door and closed it again.
    A little light slanted down from somewhere, and a figure swam toward me out of the darkness. It was Jesus on the Cross.
    A word here about comparative styles in religious art. My little village church had been built in the Gothic style. Stone arches, no plaster, not much decoration. Its furnishings were similarly rude and rustic, for we were, after all, a very poor parish. A few rough saints chopped out of the local stone, smoky candles guttering on rock. The