The Tree of Knowledge

There are paintings propped up against the walls of the cavern. Old looking, museum quality paintings. Fat Buddahs smile up at me from a few of them. The fierce eyes of a many armed Hindu god follow me around the room. One row seems to feature all Greek mythology. I recognize one image of Zesus as a swan, raping a mortal woman whose name I can’t remember. There’s Egyptian art as well, the images of great spynxs and hounds dotted with hieroglyphs. More still I don’t recognize; images of animals and animal/human hybrids with grinning faces. Turtles and spiders. Glowing giants and naked women with huge, pregnant bellies. In another section is a stash of Native American art work in a variety of mediums; paintings and mosaics and intricately woven baskets.

There’s a whole pallet of books, some old and next to crumbling get their own special place, a pair of white gloves lying on top of the stack. Others are brand new. I spot a copy of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods right along side The Iliad and The Quran. Everything from religious texts to history books to fiction.

And on every inch of the walls someone has painted murals. Images of the gods, along with their names painted in foot tall, elegant letters.

Isis

Izanagi-no-Mikoto

Molech

Shiva

Vishnu

Buddah

Hera

Laguna

Ganesha

Shakti

Hades

Osiris

The list goes on in no particular order, each name accompanied by a painted image. Right in the middle, surrounded by the pictures, is a quote from Deuteronomy chapter twelve, “Destroy completely all the places where the nations you are driving out worship their gods; on the high mountains, on the hills, and under every flourishing tree. Tear down their altars, smash their sacred pillars, burn up their Asherah poles, cut down the carved images of their gods, and wipe their names out of every place.”

“They were burning books.” a woman says.

“It looked like fucking Nazi Germany.” the woman next to her replies.

“We were librarians at the University of New Mexico.” the first woman continues. “They put us in charge of sorting out what needed to be burnt. We got out everything we could.”

“My wife and I helped.” a man says. “I was a professor at the university. I taught Eastern Literature…these stories, they’re an important part of our history and our culture. I couldn’t let them just disappear.”

“So he called me,” Marcos continues, “and told me what they were planning. I was the curator at the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History. I was also put in charge of sorting out what needed to be burned. And I couldn’t do it. My wife Isabel and I stayed up all night packing everything we could into a rental van.”

“And I caught them.” the boy says, almost proudly. “I was the night shift security guard at the museum. I volunteered to help.”

“I called Joe,” Marcos says. He points to the old man.

“I was a consultant with the museum.” Joe says. “The Jicarilla Apache Nation loaned several pieces to the museum for an exhibit. Marcos told me he was going to get them out. I told him I’d meet him here, with everything the museum didn’t have. My people fought so hard to keep our culture alive, and now they were so ready to turn it all to ashes. My daughter, Ela, and my granddaughter Bonita came with me.”

Ela climes in, “I had to leave my husband. He didn’t understand…”

“Who did the paintings?” I ask, indicating the murals.

“I did.” Isabel, Marcos’s wife says.

“They’re beautiful.” I tell her.

She smiles. “They’re not finished yet.”

I take it all in, transfixed by the images, and awestruck by these people who risked everything for them.

“Aren’t you all worried you’re going to Hell?” I ask.

There’s an awkward silence.

“Well,” Marcos says, “Miranda and Rosa,” he points to the librarians, “they’re already going to Hell because they’re unrepentant lesbians.”

He points to the professor, “Jeff has taken up worshiping Satan. He certain he’s going to Hell, but assumes Hell won’t be such a terrible place if he can get on the Devil’s good side. Susie here is Jeff’s wife, and as far as she’s concerned she was just obeying her husband, so she’s in the clear. Dave here-”

He points to the young security guard, “believes the whole think actually an elaborate hoax constructed for the amusement of extraterrestrial life forms. And Joe and Ela, they just don’t believe in God despite all the evidence to the contrary.”

“I think Coyote plays tricks.” Bonita says solemnly.

“And you and Isabel?” I ask.

Isabel takes his hand. “We just aren’t ready to ask forgiveness yet, and we’re hoping we don’t die suddenly in the meantime. And you?”

“Me? ….I think I’m going to Hell.”