beginning every green thing grew here. Every creature thrived. The first men and women lived in amity together. They knew no hunger or pain. Saturnus's people kept the Feast.’
The other gardens, remembered John. Saturnus's long-dead people in their long-gone garden. But where was their own feast? His and his mother's?
‘But their enemies came,’ his mother continued. ‘They worshipped a different god. A jealous god. His priests called him Jehovah. They condemned Saturnus as a false idol who had led his people into sin. Their amity was lust, the priests said. Their ease was sloth. The Feast was greed.’
He watched her hands, red from the cold, follow the lines of faded ink as if she could discern the alien words through her fingertips.
‘This life was meant as a trial, Jehovah's priests claimed. In this world, men toiled in the fields for their bread. Women brought forth their children in pain and the strong had dominion over the weak. Only in Jehovah's kingdom would their tribulations end and only Jehovah's priests could guide them there because that place lay beyond death. So the priests told their people. But Saturnus's people knew different. They needed no priests, or guides. They knew there was no kingdom beyond death. Their heaven was here.’
‘The garden,’ said John, shifting on the cold hard ground.
‘Yes,’ his mother answered. ‘And Jehovah's priests knew it too, and knowing it kindled a terrible anger in them. So they tore up the garden. They told their people that Jehovah had expelled them all for Eve's sin. Saturnus's people were scattered.’
John frowned. ‘But Bellicca brought the garden here. She brought the Feast. How?’
‘They wrote it down, those first men and women.’ His mother laid her palm fiat on the book. ‘In here. And those that came after them wrote it anew, generation upon generation. They hid their garden in the Feast. Every green thing that grew. Every creature that thrived. They all had their place at Saturnus's Table.’
The fire glowed red between them. The broken walls and the heavy crowns of the trees loomed behind. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the embers and up the chimney. John watched his mother's fingers brush the trunks of the great palms with their bunches of dates. From the branches hung hives flowing with honey. Below, crocuses studded the ground. Then her fingers traced the strange symbols in the goblet and she began to recite.
"Date ‘Palms grew in the First Garden. Bees filled the Combs in the Hives and Crocuses offered their Saffron. Let the first Dish be great enough for All to dip their Cups. Let the Feast begin with Spiced Wine . . .‘
As she worked her way down the cup, John felt his demon creep forward. A new warmth crept through his limbs, not the anger he had felt at the villagers but a gentler heat as if the warm wine were filling his belly, soothing the scorching coal with its balm. The heady fumes wafted in his nostrils. The liquor steamed in its imagined urn, as vivid to John as if he had dipped his own cup beneath the glossy surface. This was what she had waited to teach him, he thought. This was why he had spent the long hours hunched over the book. As his hunger abated, so did his anger. The Feast was theirs, he thought. It would always be theirs. As his mother spoke, a strange contentment stole over him.
The second Garden was planted in the Air. Saturnus fattened Larks and Herns in the Treetops. ‘Plovers and sharp-billed Snipes swayed on the high Boughs . .All the Fowls increased in their Nests . . .’
The villagers had chanted of blackbirds and pigeons, John remembered. Chicken-feet for candies, the women had said in the hut. Now strange birds fluttered up from treetops. Each garden yielded a surpassing dish. His stomach rumbled and growled. But beneath his hunger lay a new understanding, as if the dishes of Saturnus's Feast had always been waiting for them up here.
That night his mother's coughing seemed to abate. Even her
The other gardens, remembered John. Saturnus's long-dead people in their long-gone garden. But where was their own feast? His and his mother's?
‘But their enemies came,’ his mother continued. ‘They worshipped a different god. A jealous god. His priests called him Jehovah. They condemned Saturnus as a false idol who had led his people into sin. Their amity was lust, the priests said. Their ease was sloth. The Feast was greed.’
He watched her hands, red from the cold, follow the lines of faded ink as if she could discern the alien words through her fingertips.
‘This life was meant as a trial, Jehovah's priests claimed. In this world, men toiled in the fields for their bread. Women brought forth their children in pain and the strong had dominion over the weak. Only in Jehovah's kingdom would their tribulations end and only Jehovah's priests could guide them there because that place lay beyond death. So the priests told their people. But Saturnus's people knew different. They needed no priests, or guides. They knew there was no kingdom beyond death. Their heaven was here.’
‘The garden,’ said John, shifting on the cold hard ground.
‘Yes,’ his mother answered. ‘And Jehovah's priests knew it too, and knowing it kindled a terrible anger in them. So they tore up the garden. They told their people that Jehovah had expelled them all for Eve's sin. Saturnus's people were scattered.’
John frowned. ‘But Bellicca brought the garden here. She brought the Feast. How?’
‘They wrote it down, those first men and women.’ His mother laid her palm fiat on the book. ‘In here. And those that came after them wrote it anew, generation upon generation. They hid their garden in the Feast. Every green thing that grew. Every creature that thrived. They all had their place at Saturnus's Table.’
The fire glowed red between them. The broken walls and the heavy crowns of the trees loomed behind. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the embers and up the chimney. John watched his mother's fingers brush the trunks of the great palms with their bunches of dates. From the branches hung hives flowing with honey. Below, crocuses studded the ground. Then her fingers traced the strange symbols in the goblet and she began to recite.
"Date ‘Palms grew in the First Garden. Bees filled the Combs in the Hives and Crocuses offered their Saffron. Let the first Dish be great enough for All to dip their Cups. Let the Feast begin with Spiced Wine . . .‘
As she worked her way down the cup, John felt his demon creep forward. A new warmth crept through his limbs, not the anger he had felt at the villagers but a gentler heat as if the warm wine were filling his belly, soothing the scorching coal with its balm. The heady fumes wafted in his nostrils. The liquor steamed in its imagined urn, as vivid to John as if he had dipped his own cup beneath the glossy surface. This was what she had waited to teach him, he thought. This was why he had spent the long hours hunched over the book. As his hunger abated, so did his anger. The Feast was theirs, he thought. It would always be theirs. As his mother spoke, a strange contentment stole over him.
The second Garden was planted in the Air. Saturnus fattened Larks and Herns in the Treetops. ‘Plovers and sharp-billed Snipes swayed on the high Boughs . .All the Fowls increased in their Nests . . .’
The villagers had chanted of blackbirds and pigeons, John remembered. Chicken-feet for candies, the women had said in the hut. Now strange birds fluttered up from treetops. Each garden yielded a surpassing dish. His stomach rumbled and growled. But beneath his hunger lay a new understanding, as if the dishes of Saturnus's Feast had always been waiting for them up here.
That night his mother's coughing seemed to abate. Even her
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