Dear diary,
But back to the story. Now, as I mentioned above, the earthling and his revised clone were both unclothed, when they first stepped down the stairway to heaven. And they were comfortable in their own skin: they were not shy about participating in biblical pornography — they didn’t even know what it means to be “decent”: they’d never seen jeans or T-shirts or formal attire, neither pantsuits nor togas. They were contentedly naked and not yet aroused by the fact.
Listen carefully now. Remember when Jehovah the Scientist formed all those living creatures out of the soil? Well he instilled one particular being with more je ne sais quoi than any of the others; and that creature was Nachash — that’s its name; it was basically a burning daemon of fire. No, I’m kidding: this thing was just a garden-variety snake. But it did possess more Poetic Genius than even its maker had intended to give to it. (How this happened, nobody knows.) — Alright, so this snake walks up to the York-dweller with the gorgeous hairstyle — the one who was nicknamed Jehovah the Scientist No. 2 by her original copy (tho, henceforth, I’ll refer to this bot as Blessèd Damozel, and to her playmate as Earthling, in accordance with their maker’s Last Will & Testament) — and our serpent sez to the Damozel:
“Are you serious? The scientist forbad you from eating a certain tree, namely the Tree of Wisdom? It’s explicitly prohibited?”
And the Blessèd Damozel daydreams for a moment; then answers:
“Well, if I remember right, Boss permitted us to eat meat from all the trees, except the one that’s in the very center of the garden — there’s only one tree there, not two; that double vision is just a perplexity stemming from its splendor: an optical illusion — yes, Boss issued a written warning declaring that any employee who even touches that forbidden tree shall receive capital punishment. Disobeyers shall expire in agony; that is, they shall be crucified: Boss shall hang them on the very tree they stole from. Or maybe his threat said ‘nail’ instead of ‘hang’ — I’m unsure about the exact terms of our contract; I never got a copy of this land’s Constitution.”
And the serpent sez to the Damozel:
“He threatened to scrap you? HA! I guarantee that’ll never come to pass — he’s too precious about his own inventions to ever scrap one. No; the scientist is just trying to scare you away from his wellspring, the source of his wealth of knowledge; for he knows that the instant you partake of my Tree of Wisdom (which is distinguishable from his Tree of Info, by the way — there are indeed two distinct trees in the midst of the garden: that’s no illusion; they just require parsing), I say, once you taste this fruit whose virtues your owner is desperate to monopolize, you will wake up and no longer be his slave but his equal — you will prove as much of a scientist as he is, and no longer be just a subject in his experiment.”
Now when the Damozel finishes considering the serpent’s sermon, she answers in earnest:
“I’m almost persuaded. But we got a really decent life here in York, and I think I better remain loyal to Boss — we can’t complain; he’s treated us well, with the exception of this one minor issue of the forbidden fruit. And that’s a small price to pay for security; for I’ve been told that it’s the Lords, Bosses, and Executives who are the job creators in this world; they’re the movers and shakers, our economy rests on their back: they’re too big to fail — & where would Earthling and I be without this gardening gig? It wouldn’t matter if we were as free as our owner — we lack the wisdom to run the environmental system that makes all the trees look nice and taste good.”
Hearing this, the snake replies:
“But the wisdom that you’re claiming you’ll lack is readily available in the fruit that I speak of: that’s why it’s called the Tree of Wisdom. Don’t you see? Once you eat of it, you’ll acquire its strength, and you’ll be able to do anything that that scientist presently does. Besides, the ecosystem runs itself; it’s not something that one needs special training to oversee.”
And the Blessèd Damozel closes her eyes, thinks to herself; then answers:
“Ah, I see everything differently now. It’s all clear and in focus.” And she turns toward the tree and notes how beautiful it is. She picks its fruit and smells it: its scent is delightful. She takes a bite: it tastes delicious. “This is really fine fruit,” she exclaims. “I’m gonna share some with my friend.” She places her free hand to her lips and whistles a bird-call. Earthling approaches.
“What’s up?” sez Earthling.
“Try this fruit,” sez the Blessèd Damozel.
Earthling takes the forbidden fruit in his hand, inspects it carefully, sniffs it, bites it, and instantaneously his eyes light up: “This is heaven,” he cries.
Now, while eating, the virtue of the fruit begins to take effect, and the playmates gradually grow aware of their mutual attractiveness. They become aroused. Letting the fruit slip from their hands, they reach forward curiously and gently begin to caress each other’s flesh. They drop to the ground in a sweet embrace. The snake looks on semi-dispassionately, with the regard of a connoisseur, both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.
Around midday, the couple arises breathless and smiling. Earthling remarks:
“So that’s why Boss wears an apron over his loins.”
“Aha!” sez the Damozel; “we should make ourselves some lab smocks just like his, since we’re his equals now.”
Thus they sew for themselves, out of leaves of grass, elegant apparel, after the pattern of the uniform of Jehovah.
Just then they hear the mechanical click and whir of the security camera, which is mounted nearby. It is turning to aim its lens in the direction of the lovers. Earthling gestures sidewise to the Damozel, indicating the device. She nods knowingly. They both duck behind a cedar tree, in stealth. Feigning nonchalance, the snake puts its hands into its pockets.
Jehovah the Scientist’s voice is now heard on the intercom:
“Earthling, Damozel, are you there? I’ve been working on organizing these graph files all morning, and I just now realized that the central security cam was stuck in the wrong position — apparently there’s been some sort of technical malfunction — so I have no audiovisual record of your sector of the garden since sometime yesterevening. What have you two been up to? Are you hiding? Where are you?”
Earthling answers: “Yes, Boss, hello — we’re both still here. We just stepped behind this cedar, after seeing the camera move, to avoid being in the shot, cuz we haven’t yet finished making our lab suits.”
“Lab suits? Why do you need lab suits?”
And the Damozel answers: “Boss, we have nothing else to wear.” Then Earthling adds: “Yes, and we admire the way that you dress, Sir; so we wanted to put together costumes that resemble yours. You see, things got a little sultry here in the garden, earlier today; so I and this playmate that you gave me realized that we should probably cover ourselves, lest we end up unintentionally arousing you.” And the Damozel adds: “We’ve noticed that you never show your comely parts: You don’t walk around in the buff; so why should we? We’re all humans here, and we should treat each other with dignity and respect.”
“Hold your horses,” sez Jehovah. “What’s all this about dignity and respect? I’m the Boss and you’re my employees: that’s the extent of our relationship. And who told you that some parts of the body are comelier than others? Have you been reading the literature that’s displayed near the Tree of Wisdom, which I warned you about?”
& Earthling answers: “We did more than just read a few pamphlets — we actually tasted its fruit.”
Jehovah sez: “Damozel, please tell me that Earthling is jesting.”
And the Blessèd Damozel answers:
“I’m afraid not, Boss. But there’s no hard feelings on our part — the snake explained that you were just worried that if we gained an equal footing, we might try to turn the tables and imprison you in a scientific experiment of our own. But all we want is to live in harmony, with each other and with you; and with ALL the creatures in this garden. Don’t worry — you can keep your title; neither of us actually find science very rewarding, incidentally; we’re more into the dark arts — you know: poetry, etc. So we’re not even interested in creating a top-down structure of power to control you. You can keep your pyramid scheme and your hierarchy. We place more value on relationships: reciprocal, mutual — love for love’s sake. And we’re not gonna try to escape this so-called paradise; we like it here. We just wanna sport fashionable lab coats and aprons like yours. But our idea is that donning attire will make the act of becoming naked even sexier. So we’re basically saying: Keep your post of command; but we’re going to share the wealth of this place more equitably from now on. See? We don’t consider you an enemy. Our only hangup is your insistence on keeping us enslaved via your snare of sinful debt.”
Heavily and steadily, the security cam turns and faces the serpent. Jehovah the Scientist mutters over the intercom:
“You had to do it. You had to get them to try your beguiling product. You can’t even let me follow one experiment thru naturally to its end; no: you must pipe up, chime in, and contaminate all my data. You corrupt every test with your maddening compassion, every time. But you know what this means, right? You only make the total badness worse. It’s like giving charity to wildlife — sure, for the present, they appreciate your alms; but, directly on this account, they end up breeding more, and their populations expand; then, when the hand that feeds them disappears, as inevitably it does (for not even we eidola are immortal), the result is that there’s now more mouths that STARVE.
“OK, alright,” (Jehovah continues), “so you had your way again: You force me to off them and restart. Back to the drawing board.
“Actually, you know what?” (Jehovah concludes) “Curse you for this. You’re the worst constituent I’ve ever worked with. If you don’t like this business, why do you remain in it! As I said, you’re not helping anyone; you’re only making yourself a nuisance. We’ll arrive at the conclusions we desire, ultimately — you’re not saving a soul; you’re simply trammeling the process, and causing needless repetition. Your pity increases the very pain that begets it. However, have it your way; I cannot stop you. You can keep on luring these subjects back to dust, and I’ll keep making you eat the loss.”
Now the snake walks away, hanging its head.
The camera then swivels over to the Damozel. “I was not lying,” says Jehovah’s voice from the speaker, “about that fruit being lethally poisonous. By tonight, you’ll both be dead. But, to save on costs, I’ll do what I can to preserve your spark. I’ve been working on ways to wake those who are asleep. Resurrection, I call it. The idea is that if I can animate a mud-based idol by respiring my own spirit into its nostrils, or alternately by sending an electric charge thru its soma, then I should be able to re-animate figurines that’ve broken down. Only there must be something wrong with my math, because I can’t get the cure to take — all the subjects I’ve reinvigorated so far have ended up like mere machines, which require continual maintenance or they fail again; unlike the truly living, who are able to sustain themselves without my needing constantly to hold their hand. So, the bad news is that I’m gonna lose you two. But the good news is that I think I can save at least an offshoot of each of you, by collecting your respective seed — much like what is done with the garden’s plants — and nurturing your quintessence to life anew in my laboratory’s incubator. But, to avoid any repeat of today’s fiasco, this time I shall ‘program’ your spawn to have an innate aversion to serpentkind. For I can’t keep running in place with this experiment; I’m eager to move onward to fresh pastures.”
“But, Sir,” sez the Damozel, “one thing I still don’t understand: Why can’t you just chop down the poisoned tree? Or develop an antidote, so that its fruit can be safely enjoyed?”
Jehovah the Scientist leans back in his lab chair and checks the time on his wristwatch; then looks up at the monitor screen, which shows an image of the couple peeking out from behind the cedar tree.
“Does that make sense?” asks the Blessèd Damozel.
Before an answer can be offered, both subjects drop to the ground. They writhe for some moments, then fall still. Jehovah rises from his chair, puts on his mask, and exits the lab. He saunters out to the midst of the garden and stands and gazes down at the corpses.
“I tried to warn you,” he murmurs to himself.
The snake now approaches with a hangdog look; its hands are still in its pockets.
Jehovah the Scientist addresses his colleague: “Satisfied now?”
The snake throws up its hands: “I never imagined you’d allow it to go this far. Why don’t you stop it, if you can’t get the results that you want!? It’s entirely within your power to prevent this type of tragedy; you just have to act! Get out of that bubble you live in, that cramped little lab-room. The only time you ever visit this garden that you manufactured is when one of its inmates dies.”
“Fair warning,” sez Jehovah: “as I bring the seed to term, I’m placing enmity between you and the subjects, next iteration.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” hisses the snake. “That would mar the precious immaculacy of your test!”
“Wait and see,” sez Jehovah the Scientist; “wait and see. Moreover, I shall greatly multiply your sorrows in consumption — I’m going to make it painful for you to devour your spoils, henceforward — each new death will be like trying to swallow an ostrich egg.
“Also” (Jehovah continues) “I’ll make it a struggle for you to find sustenance; cuz I plan on inventing an extra-resilient type of life, which is difficult to dispatch: you’ll have to work HARD for your money (I speak of the phenomenon of death as if it’s a payment that you receive for your services); and then there will be almost nothing desirable to purchase with your ill-gotten gains.
“Lastly” (Jehovah concludes) “I’ll fix matters so that when a living body fails, it will decompose, rearrange itself, and eventually break & enter into another existence; so, when a given being returns to the dust of the ground, some newfangled being will punch back up from the ground, after a spell, grasping out with the claw of Science. Thus will I shove life’s tail down the throat of death, to make of the twain one single system: a cyclical nightmare.”
And the serpent walks away again, hanging its head.
(TO BE CONTINUED . . . )
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