Chapter 4: The Doubter’s Exile

He'd tried everything—fertilizer, grafting, even talking to the trees at sunset. But the apples stubbornly followed their own schedule, immune to his tricks.

The Lord had no solution…

He listened patiently, then shook his head. For all his wisdom, even the Lord couldn't bend nature to his will—not in this case, anyway.

So he told me to serve Gideon tea as an apology. After all, when the Lord fought the Devil and was wounded, it was Gideon who gave him apples to restore his strength. The Lord couldn't refuse him out of gratitude, but since he truly had no answer, he had me serve tea and apologize.

I brewed the strongest tea we had, letting it steep until the air was thick with the scent. My hands shook as I poured, trying not to spill a drop. Gideon accepted the cup with a nod, his eyes kind but tired.

I dutifully poured a cup of tea and brought it to Gideon Green.

He drank it down in one long swallow, as if hoping the warmth would fill some emptiness inside. The room was silent except for the clink of the cup on the saucer.

He finished the tea, bowed to the Lord, and said, “Farewell.”

His voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it—a sense that he'd already made peace with disappointment.

“You came from afar, but I could not help you. I'm really sorry,” the Lord said, glancing at me. “Charles Crane, see Gideon Green out.”

The Lord's words were formal, but his eyes flickered with something like regret. I nodded, feeling the weight of failure settle in my chest.

I obeyed and escorted Gideon Green out of the Sanctuary.

We walked in silence down the long corridor, our footsteps echoing off the marble. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean and new.

At the gates, Gideon glanced around, then quietly said, “Elder Charles, has something changed in your Sanctuary?” (He called me 'Elder' out of respect, though I was barely older than him.)

He spoke so softly I almost missed it, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for answers in the clouds.

“Changed?”

I forced a smile, but my voice cracked. Gideon watched me, waiting.

“I see the apostles and angels here have all become blue-faced, fanged monsters—like walking corpses.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at him, heart pounding, realizing I wasn't alone in what I saw. The truth was out, and there was no going back.

Everyone knows I, Charles Crane, was banished to the mortal world by the Lord for questioning the Word. The story gets told and retold, but it always comes back to that moment.

My story became legend—a cautionary tale whispered in pews and Sunday school rooms. Some folks pitied me, others just shook their heads, warning their kids not to ask too many questions.

But what did I question?

Even now, I replay the moment in my mind—a crossroads I couldn't avoid. The Lord's eyes on me, the weight of expectation pressing down.

One day, the Lord said to everyone: “Within the world, only the Word can save all people. Only with faith in your heart can you find true happiness. So I've written the Word into scripture, and I ask that you deliver it to all people.”

His voice boomed through the sanctuary, filling every corner with certainty. The congregation listened, rapt, hanging on every word.

I saw the walking corpses lift their heads blankly. Then the Lord moved a finger.

It was a subtle gesture, but the effect was immediate. The saints and angels snapped to attention, their eyes empty, their movements mechanical.

Only then did they fold their hands, chant "Amen," and accept the order.

The sound echoed off the marble, hollow and strange. I shivered, feeling more alone than ever.