The Tree of Knowledge

“I saw we kill ’um.”

“It’s not the worst idea…”

“We can’t just kill her! Look at her! She’s just a kid.”

“Do you honestly think that matters? We let her go, she’ll lead her friends right back here.”

“We could keep her tied up.”

“I don’t like the logistics of that. It doesn’t seem practical.”

“I aint feedin’ nobody’s not pullin’ their weight ’round here. I say we kill ’um.”

I’m lying on the cold, damp ground, eyes shut, head throbbing. I’ve been trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The good news is, it doesn’t sound like they intend to eat me like one.

I continue to feign unconsciousness, thinking perhaps I can wiggle out of the knots.

They prove to be obnoxiously fucking good knots.

“Look, she’s not a threat. She’s just a little girl.”

“Amigita had a gun, Marcos.”

“And now we have it. Threat eliminated.”

I carefully peak around the room. There’s ten of them, standing around, arguing. There’s one very old Native American man, and a teenage skinny white boy with a pimply face. The rest are middle aged people, a mix of men and women, white and Hispanic, and one very pretty Native American woman. The cavern we’re in is lit by torches crudely mounted to the walls. Across the room, there’s a Native American girl who looks to be about six with long dark hair and dark eyes. She probably belongs to the pretty woman. She’s peaking around a corner, clearly not supposed to be listening. She locks eyes with me, panics, and scurries away around the corner.

“Okay, we’ll put it to a vote.” A man says. Marcos. The woman called him Marcos.

“Is everyone agreed that we’ll vote on this?” he asks.

“Are we voting on voting?” a woman asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Marcos ignores her.

“We’re voting.” He says firmly. “All those in favor of execution?”

Five hands out of ten go up. My supporters include Marcos, the old man, a bookish looking white woman whose vote seems to cause the sarcastic woman some distress, the woman holding Marcos’s hand, and a balding white man.

“Well this aint workin’.” Another man says, lowering his meaty hand in frustration. He has a heavy southern accent, sunburnt skin, a pot belly, big arms, and a worn t-shirt that says, “Don’t Mess With Texas”.

“Do I get a vote?” I ask.

They wheel around in surprise.

“She’s awake!” the pimply boy shouts.

“You’re so very observant.” The sarcastic woman replies dryly.

“I vote you don’t kill me.” I say. “I’m not with the crazy cannibal people. I’m alone. I’m not a threat. You could just let me go. It’s okay.”

“We can’t risk the gods.” A woman says, shaking her head. The dirty looks she immediately receives from the other cave dwellers seem to indicate she should not have said this.

“What do you mean, ‘risk the gods’?” I ask, perplexed.

They’re all silent for several seconds. Finally, Marcos approaches me.

“I’m going to show you something precious.” He says. “And if you do anything to jeopardize it in any way, we will kill you. Do you understand?”

I nod. He moves to cut through the ropes.

“Hey idgit!” the redneck yells. “Ya think rope grows on the damn cactus?”

He pushes past Marcos and deftly unties the knots.

“I thought all you yuppies were ‘sposed to be about conservatin’ shit.”

I climb unsteadily to my feet.

“Thank you.” I say. He grunts.

“Still think we ought’ta kill you.”

I follow them to the other end of the cavern, to the corner the little girl peaked around. Around the corner is an even bigger torch lit cavern. Marcos waves a hand at it.

“Welcome to The Temple of the Unnamable Gods.” He says.