Eden Read online

  EDEN

  The Animals’ Parable

  Keith Korman

  Illustrations by Lisa Paris

  If you have a soul—that’s where the wild trespass.

  Also the Angels.

  —Theron Raines 1925–2012

  For the lads, Ari and Vali—heirs to the Riddle of the Stones

  Contents

  The Legion

  Three Kings

  Flight into Egypt

  Nazareth

  The Essene

  The River

  The Wilderness

  A Wedding

  Judas

  Signs and Wonders

  Wind and Waves

  The Women

  Come Forth

  Palm Fronds

  By What Authority

  I Know Where He Will Be

  Bread and Wine

  The Garden

  Denial

  Let the Romans Decide

  INRI

  Two Nights and a Day

  BEFORE

  There is not enough darkness in the world to extinguish a single candle flame.

  —Saint Francis of Assisi

  The Legion

  The Roman Legionaries called the dog Old Gray. During the day his ashen fur made him look like a wolf, while at night the moon turned his coat silver from head to tail. Season after season Old Gray kept pace with the soldiers’ column, trotting beside their tramping feet. No one knew where he had come from, but as long as anyone could recall the dog had marched with the cohort, camp to camp. Out of companionship? Or for the scraps of Roman bread and soup at day’s end?

  Maybe both.

  When winter came and the weather grew cold Old Gray took shelter in their tents. In the heat of summer he lay on a folded cloak under the starry sky. Like all dogs he slept lightly, his ears and nose alert to any strange movement near at hand. And so Old Gray earned his keep, guarding the soldiers of the Legion.

  That winter the Roman army marched south many miles through endless barren hills and Old Gray kept pace, trotting mile after mile. Oftentimes he scouted ahead, then doubled back, only to overhear the cavalry horses who grumbled at every turn of the road.

  For weeks on end the warhorses whinnied the same complaint:

  “No grass. No grass.”

  Then grimly to anyone within earshot:

  “Bare ground. Everywhere bare ground.”

  The column’s surly mule, harnessed to the hay wagon laden with the Legions’ grub and the animals’ daily feed, grumbled along with the rest, “I have grass. Bales and bales of grass. They’ll feed you tonight, like they do every night. Be thankful you don’t have to pull it.”

  It was a soldier’s right to gripe. Mules and horses no exception. Old Gray took it in stride. Mules and horses could only graze if there was grass, while smart old dogs combed the roadside for birds’ eggs and every creature of the field. But Old Gray didn’t feel too sorry for the mules or horses; the soldiers always fed the beasts of burden first as the cohort wouldn’t move without the draft animals lugging food and water and the officers never traveled on foot.

  Every day, the barren road into the south stretched to oblivion. The column plodding on forever, a great serpent of men fading into the cloud of yellow dust that hovered over their line of march. The hills of this wilderness were mostly barren, but then they came upon flocks. Old Gray saw shepherds, their sheep straying for tufts and brambles in the rocky pastures above the road. At dusk Old Gray crept up the slope and found what he was looking for—a ewe and her lamb astray.

  At first the shepherd tried to strike the thieving dog with his crook, crying, “Get away! Get away!” But Old Gray darted off, herding the ewe and her lamb down the slope as the man stumbled in pursuit. Back in camp Old Gray was praised by all who saw him and the clink of Roman coins quieted the shepherd’s protest. Anything to shut him up.

  Old Gray had heard it all before.

  The herdsman retreated back up the pasture still griping about his poor lambs and stingy Roman soldiers. But at least he’d been paid.

  The next day the column marched on, their endless tramp indistinguishable from the day before. The dog hated this place; a land of bitter smoke, of dust, of stamping feet, too harsh for man or beast.

  “What’s your name?” Old Gray asked the ewe.

  “They call me Honey,” the sheep panted. “Because the bees follow me through the flowers in the spring. You see, they follow me yet.” Just as she said, two large, fat bees lazily circled her head. She fell in with some of the other cattle, several cows, a few pigs and goats marching beside the soldiers, until Old Gray told the ewe and her lamb, “I found you, you’re mine. You march with us.”

  The rest of the day, Honey said little else. And after the first mile the bees vanished, buzzing back whence they came.

  But sheep were used to grazing, not marching. Soon the dust rimed the ewe’s nostrils, and her hooves hurt. Worried, Honey bleated for her lamb to stay abreast; and it was all the little one could do to keep up. At the end of the first day’s march the ewe had stopped giving milk and Honey had lost track of her child. The road was killing them both.

  That night the ewe stood some distance off, not wanting to be near the soldiers’ camp fire, not wanting to be with Old Gray. They tied her to a heavy shield, but Honey made no effort to escape. And so the fire burned, meat was shared and the night passed to the sound of snoring men.

  The next day’s march her lamb was nowhere to be seen, and the ewe barely kept pace with the column, so Old Gray hurried her along, nipping at her rear legs whenever she slowed.

  “Last night you sat by the fire while the soldiers turned the spit,” she cried. “How dare you snap at me now?”

  Old Gray thought for a moment.

  “It takes more than bees and flowers to walk the earth,” he growled.

  Then after a breath, “You’re either watching the spit or on it.”

  That day’s march Honey lagged farther and farther behind, as if she knew what awaited her.

  Old Gray knew.

  Soon there’d be another sheep for the coals.

  At length the Legionaries reached the walls of a stone city, the dog following the soldiers down narrow streets into the heart of the citadel. After twists and turns the column halted before the high temple. The great wooden doors stood open to the Romans, but within the doorway hung long linen panels. A cloth wall draped from the lintel, dividing the common street from the sanctuary. Embroidered in scarlet and purple and blue, great radiant veils showed the heavens and earth as made by Him those first six days.

  Without waiting for an invitation, the Roman horses brushed aside the dazzling curtains and passed into the courtyard. Old Gray came in with the first of the horsemen and no one dared to stop the dog.

  For a moment he paused to stare at these long lengths of cloth. He could smell the scents of a thousand animals within their weave: goats and birds and bulls. He could smell a thousand humans within the fabric: merchants from across the great sea, the harsh sweat of slaves and supplicants, even the faint scent of priests—dry, old pious men. These hanging curtains still held the touch of everything that passed between them. Wise, bright curtains, protecting the courtyard of the temple grounds, witness to all who entered. Good men and bad.

  As the dog followed the soldiers, the priests in their robes fell to bended knee. Old Gray passed row after row of prostrate figures—as if by offering their necks to a dog and the mighty Legionaries the old men might save their heads. The horsemen climbed the many steps and the priests shuffled aside, cowering as the animals strode into the sanctum.

  But Old Gray did not follow the horses. Instead he lingered by the stone altar. And once again he found a lamb, this one tied to an iron ring. The lamb reminded him of Honey but this
one’s fleece was finer than that of any sheep of the hills. The sacrificial lamb looked at Old Gray with liquid eyes as if to plead for help.

  “How did you come here?” Old Gray asked.

  The lamb shook her chain. “This morning I was outside the city walls but my master led me in. Many hands took me and now I am here. They say he sold me for my beautiful fleece. But I’m not sure that’s true.” The chain clanked. She tugged on her collar; her fleece rubbed away, neck raw. “Now my coat is ruined.”

  The Roman dog looked at the lamb with pity, but said nothing. You either wore a collar or you didn’t. Old Gray’s own neck had grown so used to the studded leather he barely noticed its grip. Just then the cavalry rode out the sanctum doors, stepping over the bodies of the prostrate priests. The Roman horses swept across the compound, tramped over every flagstone and left dung in every corner of the temple.

  The lamb’s eyes pleaded with Old Gray, begging him to free her, to lead her away. The dog met the lamb’s gaze.

  “You’ll be coming with us,” the dog told her.

  “Are you taking me somewhere nice?” the lamb asked.

  Old Gray thought of Honey, fallen by the wayside as one of the soldiers unfastened the lamb’s collar.

  “That’s never up to me,” the dog said. “At least you’ll be off that ring.”

  Old Gray and the lamb followed the cavalry from the temple compound and trotted side by side through the paved streets. Neither spoke. The city stones burned in the sun, while the doors and alleys on every side stumbled past like gaps in a labyrinth. The noon heat struck in full as they reached their final destination. The garrison.

  The great cedar door groaned open and the Roman Legionaries wearily filed in. A sentry clanged spear to shield as the commander rode under the arch. The Legionary who had freed the lamb dragged her inside by a rope. She glanced once at Old Gray standing in the street, her terrified eyes pleading, help! But Old Gray did nothing.

  You either turned the spit or—

  The two watchdogs that guarded the garrison charged out the gateway, leapt across the threshold and lunged into the street—only to be yanked back on their chains. Their paws scrabbled on the stone steps. Teeth bared, lips snarling, “No camp followers here, not here, not here! Get lost! Scram!”

  They kept barking, until the sentry clanged his spear to shield again and shouted, “Shut up, both of you! Shut up!”

  The metal door ground closed. The guard dogs’ growls faded from inside and the garrison walls stared down at Old Gray in the street. The sentry leaned his spear and shield against the stone and sat on a wooden stool. He uncorked a water bottle and took a swig. After recorking the bottle the man closed his eyes, leaned back against the hot stones and quietly began to snore.

  Old Gray didn’t know what to do. So he sat in the street by a merchant’s stall to think matters through. Even under the awnings’ shade, the sun beat the ground and the streets smelled of human stink. Old Gray sniffed at the canvas of a butcher’s stand with its hanging meat; the surly merchant threw a handful of pebbles and cursed, “Lousy dog. Get lost.”

  No one offered Old Gray water.

  No one offered him food.

  No one offered him a place to lie down.

  This city was no place for him. And the Legion would always choose mutton over a marching dog. The garrison doors shut tight against camp followers.

  Before sunset the Romans’ watchdog no longer belonged to the Legion. Old Gray found another caravan of camels and mules heading from the city. And as he once came south, now he traveled north. The camels looked down their noses refusing to speak, but the poky mules let him walk in their shadow. One in particular sighed as he trotted along beside her. She’d been on this route before, complaining at the packs of bound wool on her truss, “Oh so heavy, so heavy. So many miles, so many.”

  Old Gray knew this kind of work—march along during the day, sleep at night beside a fire. Wake the travelers at the first sign of trouble. But this caravan wasn’t like the Romans’ column; they didn’t scavenge the countryside, and only ate what they brought with them. Food was scarce, and Old Gray rummaged the fire pits for burnt bones in the morning. After two days’ march he was weary, hungry and parched. He’d lapped some muddy puddles, but no one gave him so much as a crust. And his fellow animals were no help at all.

  The camels couldn’t care less: “We carry our water with us. Get a hump so you can drink.” And the donkey no better: “Perhaps if you wear a truss to carry wool they’ll give you water.” Hard to think such creatures were worse than soldiers. At least soldiers knew a dog’s worth when they needed one.

  Tongue hanging out, Old Gray stopped in his tracks.

  There was something familiar about this stretch of hills, the scent of sweetness in the air, orange blossom, yes, there—bees flitting from flower to flower up the rocky slope. And boxes where the bees gathered, yes, honey. Deep in the pasture a fat ewe suckled a baby lamb. The mother lamb looked down at him with peaceful eyes, her infant at her teat. All was right with the world. And Old Gray knew where he was.

  The shepherd’s dog met him halfway up the slope. And Old Gray could see the mutt was even older than himself. Creaky on his legs and near toothless.

  “Who goes there?” the Ancient growled. “Friend or foe?”

  “I’ve been here before,” Old Gray told the Ancient.

  “You!” The Ancient immediately knew the stranger. “You were the one who took poor Honey,” he growled. “For shame. You took her while I slept.”

  Old Gray bowed his head. “I did. That was my job.”

  But what was done was done; he met the Ancient’s eyes and circled cautiously.

  What now?

  “I saw the bees,” Old Gray told him. “I’m done with marching.” He was close to exhaustion, and nearly wild with thirst. “Is there no place for me here?”

  The Ancient looked Old Gray nose to nose; the two dogs were almost on equal footing, and a fight now might wound or kill them both. What then of the shepherd with no one to wake him or watch for danger’s approach?

  “Harrumph,” the Ancient grumbled, giving in. “If you know how to steal, maybe you can learn how to keep.”

  “I kept the Legion,” Old Gray panted. “Right up till the garrison. Until they didn’t need me. Now I keep it no more. Is keeping sheep more difficult?”

  “Hah!” the Ancient laughed. “Only when a Legion camps nearby.”

  The Ancient wearily wagged his tail and shrugged. “Come along then. There’s water and a fire, and maybe something left to eat. Besides there are mice out at night in the fields, if you’re very desperate. And very quick.”

  So the two animals postponed their test of who would rule, and put their fate aside. Old Gray followed the Ancient to water in a clay bowl. That deep drink of water, the best he ever drank. There was fire and a bone. At last Old Gray closed his eyes, sinking into the lap of sleep. As the moon rose, the Legionaries’ dog dreamt of poor Honey, with bees over her head and flower blossoms in her fleece. When dawn broke, the wind sighed across the pasture, a whisper of emptiness. The sheep stared silently, not one of them bending his head to graze.

  “What?” Old Gray asked them. “What is it?” Then he saw the answer.

  The wizened dog had gone in his sleep.

  Old Gray nosed the dry, cracked muzzle, but there was no one left inside.

  Time and fate had decided who would guard the flock, who would rule the pasture.

  And Old Gray took the Ancient’s place.

  Three Kings

  Some years and many lambs later, the sheep of the pasture still wandered the stony slopes and Old Gray’s descendants still watched over their flocks by night.

  The shepherds of the hills called Old Gray’s great-grandson Noah—because he protected the flocks with relentless zeal. Herding them, moving them—guarding them with open eyes while they grazed or slept. Nothing escaped his notice; not a single lamb allowed to stray, nor a single old goat al
lowed to wander off.

  Noah sniffed every scent, inspected every blade of grass, cocking his ears forward and then laying them back behind a furrowed, pensive brow. Always alert, even to the most harmless things: snuffing at the shape of a rock in the pasture, at the scents of the flowers over the hill—cocking his head at the buzz of bees in their honeycomb crates, at the little lamb bleating for its ewe. Staring up at the stars at night, Noah watched their passage across the great arc of heaven; a dog searching for any change in the wind.

  Not far off in a cleft of hills stood a little town. Noah often accompanied his herdsman there, when the man went to sell his wool or sought food or drink or company. Naturally Noah noticed there had been much traffic down on the road of late. Events in the great wide world had stirred people from their homes. Day and night they marched along the road, in caravans or groups of two or three, or even singly. For weeks, throngs on their way from one place to another passed through the little town never to be seen again.

  But why they traveled and where they were going, Noah did not know.

  While hanging in the sky at night, one star seemed to travel above the endless stream of camel trains on the road, every night a little closer. Noah had watched the star move westward inch by inch all year, always brighter than the rest—until it hung nearly overhead. This night it seemed to pause motionless over the town.

  For once the road below lay empty of men and mules except for one caravan, plodding wearily on. Not a very big caravan, only three camels, but the light of the star seemed to shine around them—a soft glow that enveloped the camels and their riders as they trudged along, a halo in the darkness. What could this mean?

  Who were these travelers?

  Why had they come?

  Listening hard, Noah heard the mice in the fields chattering away, “See! See! Look! See!” squeaking in their high little voices mouse to mouse all the way down to the road. Each and every one of them seemed to know something special about the caravan, as if they’d heard it on the wind. And suddenly Noah knew he must see for himself.