The Eden Prophecy

CHAPTER 30

Scindo stood with Cruor in the same darkened room in which he had been named. He was here for a different reason now. Another man stood in front of them, an older man with gray hair and reddish brown skin. Cruor called him Bashir.

“We have something for you,” Cruor said.

“I want nothing of yours,” Bashir said.

Cruor laughed, a deep, sickly laugh.

“What I give you was never mine, but once it was yours. Or so you say.”

From Bashir’s features and accent, Scindo knew he was Middle Eastern, Persian as opposed to his own Arabian heritage. Why he was present, Scindo didn’t know; that he’d been beaten was obvious. There were bruises around his face, and he hobbled when he walked.

He was also missing an eye, but that scar was old.

“You were friends with Ranga,” Cruor said to the prisoner. “He told us what you believed.”

“You tortured it out of him.”

“This was before we caught both of you, before Ranga had betrayed us.”

“You murdered him for leaving you,” Bashir said.

“No,” Cruor said. “We punished him for betrayal.”

“What right do you have to punish anyone?” Bashir asked, straining, angry.

“We claim the right, as gods have done for millennia,” Cruor said. “Ranga understood this. He was part of it. He knew the punishment. We all know it.”

Cruor carried with him a long cardboard tube, which he placed down. Scindo did not know what lay inside.

“I won’t help you,” Bashir said. “I have been tortured before. What can you do to me that they have not already done?”

Cruor reached out and grabbed Bashir by the face, pulling him closer and examining the old scar.

“We can do worse,” he insisted. “I promise you.”

Cruor released Bashir and shoved him backward into a chair. He picked up the long cardboard tube and opened it.

Scindo had expected to see a weapon, a spear or a sword or some kind of blade. Instead what he saw looked like a thin, curved piece of metal.

Cruor placed it down on the table and began to unroll it.

Bashir stood. He moved forward slowly, as if drawn to the table.

As Scindo watched, Cruor unbent the copper sheet, rolling it out with great effort and precision. Eventually, when the sheet had been made somewhat flat, he and another man clamped the edges to the table.

Scindo stared. He saw that symbols had been pounded into the copper.

“You have been looking for this half your life,” Cruor said. “We give you a chance to read it.”

Bashir looked up.

“Be careful you do not lie to us. We will have others to check what you say.”

“Why would you care?” Bashir asked. “It’s ancient.”

“It exposes the lie,” Cruor said.

“What lie?”

“The lie of God,” Cruor said.

Bashir looked confused.

“For one small act of disobedience, God cast humanity from paradise. For one mistake He confined us to a harsh life and to certain death. Some go to heaven and some to hell, or so we are told. But if a man can live forever, he has no need for heaven or hell or the claims of a false god.”

Bashir struggled to respond, but he looked as if he did not know what to say.

“It is the first lie!” Cruor shouted. “All the other lies have come from it. Go to any corner of the world. There you will find men begging a god they cannot see for forgiveness, for life. We will not beg for what we can take … and give if we choose.”

Bashir backed away. Cruor grabbed him.

“Look at it,” he said.

“You’re insane,” Bashir said, panicking. “All of you, more insane than those who kill for greed or lust.”

“The truth is written there!” Cruor shouted. “You said it yourself.”

“No,” Bashir said. “I will not show you.”

Cruor shoved Bashir’s head toward the scroll, slamming his face into it. “You will show us the way.”

“Go to hell,” Bashir managed.

Cruor pulled him back and struck him across the face, sending him flying into the wall.

Remaining on the floor, Bashir cowered as far from the Man of Blood as he could get.

Cruor motioned to another member of the brotherhood, who grabbed Bashir and dragged him forward. With a knife, Cruor cut Bashir’s hands free. Then, one by one, he chained them to the rails where Scindo’s hands had been cuffed days before.

“Scindo!” Cruor shouted, pointing to Bashir’s feet.

Scindo dropped to the ground and shackled Bashir’s feet. Despite the man’s struggles, he quickly pulled the straps tight so Bashir could no longer move.

“What are you doing?” Bashir shouted.

No answers.

Cruor moved toward a door. The other member of the brotherhood removed an acetylene torch from a rack and turned the handle for the gas.

With a spark, the flame lit. A jet of white and blue.

“I’ll read it,” Bashir said. “I’ll tell you what it says.”

Scindo knew it had to be done, but he felt sick inside. He looked to Cruor, who paused in the doorway as the man with the blowtorch moved up beside Bashir.

“Wait,” Cruor said.

Scindo’s heart pounded in his chest; a sense of relief swept over him. The Persian had come to his senses. Perhaps Cruor would spare him.

Cruor smiled at the man with the torch.

“Have Scindo do it,” he said with finality. “He must earn his stripes.” And then he stepped out and slammed the metal door shut.