Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (9 page)

“Time to go?” She stood there anxiously with a book in her hand. “What’s that?”

“It’s called
Norton’s Anthology
. I found it downstairs.” She held it so I could see and flipped quickly through the pages. “Look at all the amazing stories! And it’s small enough to fit in my pack.”

I took the book and looked through it myself. “Can I borrow it sometime?”

She playfully snatched the book away. “Nope.”

“Look what I found.” I opened my bag and pulled out the old journal. “It’s almost three hundred years old!”

“Wow,” she said with wonder. “It must have been written when the sickness first appeared.”

“It’s full of newspaper clippings, all about the Disease.” I opened it and showed her some of the pictures and stories.

“I can’t believe it’s still in one piece.” She examined it carefully. “I’d love to read it. Can I borrow it sometime?” I snapped the book shut.

“Nope.” We laughed. “We should get going.” I opened my bag to replace the journal. She did the same to stow her own book. I noticed something curious in her bag. “What’s that?”

She zipped the bag quickly. “Nothing.”

“I didn’t pack that.” She turned to go.

“It’s nothing.” I caught her arm.

“Looks like a Book.” I knew what it was. I saw the leather binding. I knew.

She stopped and turned to me. She placed both of her hands gently upon my chest. Her eyes were cast downward as she spoke. “This is
my
Pilgrimage, Marlowe.”

“No, no, no. We’re going to the city to find the Cure. You don’t need that,” I pleaded futilely for hope, for faith, for optimism.

Her lids lifted, and she set her eyes directly on mine. I felt as though they pierced my very soul. “I’m dying, Marlowe. You know that. I will write my Book of Pilgrimage, and when the Light comes, you will recite from it before my funeral pyre.”

I turned from her and collapsed to the floor. “Stop saying that!” I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be fearless. But I wasn’t—I just sat there and cried like a child lost in the wilderness. She stooped down to hug me. I wished I were as strong as her.

Chapter XIV

We left the village and resumed our hunt for that elusive highway. I didn’t talk much on the way. I tried to keep thoughts of Shelley’s death at bay, tried to imagine the best possible ending to our quest. But the thoughts kept hounding me, pestering my head like a mosquito at night buzzing in my ear, flying away at the slightest wave of my hand, but returning quickly, undaunted and undeterred.

Shelley could sense my anguish. She broke the silence. “Will we make the highway before dark? Where will we sleep?”

She tried to hide the worry in her voice, but I could hear it anyway. “I don’t know.” The glowing aura of the approaching evening spread out across the distant horizon. The sun was hanging low, as were my hopes of reaching our destination before nightfall. “There are villages all around. We should find shelter soon.”

“But we’ve walked for hours, and we haven’t seen a thing.” There were some old farmhouses felled by time, but nothing resembling a village or town, nothing but fields and hills and that lonely road we had troddin for miles. “And it feels like rain. I’m getting nervous, Marlowe. We should have stayed in that village.”

“We will find something. I promise.” I picked up the pace as we walked anxiously, hoping to find something, anything. And then, just as the sun dipped below the distant ridge, I saw it—the old shopping center. “There!” We ran toward the shelter of that ancient market, and I knew from the stories and the Pilgrim’s map that the highway was on the other side. I slowed Shelley down as we approached the center. “We should be careful. There are bandits roaming the highways.” I wanted to make up for my earlier display of weakness; I wanted to be her hero. “Stay here—I’ll check it out.” I sat her down within a grove of trees and took off to assess the area.

The shopping center was long past looted of anything and everything of value—it was of no use to the bandits and nomads. I saw no recent trash, no scraps of food, nothing to indicate a human presence. I felt it was safe, but I wanted to find a place that would provide some protection and still allow for a quick exit just in case. I discovered the perfect spot—a small little corner shop that jutted out into the back parking lot. The door and windows were still intact, and there were old dressing rooms that would make sound sleeping quarters. I dashed back to the grove where I had left Shelley.

She was writing in her Book when I returned to her. She put it away quickly, and I bent over to catch my breath, pretending not to notice. It was better that way, for both of us. “I found a place—let’s go before it’s too late.” The moon was waxing, and the clouds were gathering to hide its brighter side—its dimming glow would not have been sufficient in that unfamiliar environment. We had to move quickly before the twilight faded into darkness.

Shelley was struck with awe by the old shopping center, the empty shelves and broken racks inside their cages of brick and glass, the concrete and asphalt punctured throughout by countless unmanicured sprouts, the tattered awnings and faded lights that once guided shoppers to a paradise of merchandise. It was amazing to me, too. In my earlier haste I did not take the time to admire the work of the Ancients, and even in its crumbling and dilapidated condition that structure still stood proud, boasting its colossal power like the Ramses of retail. For a moment, we were both lost in curiosity.

The rain began to fall in sporadic little drops. “This way.” I guided Shelley to our temporary home. The little hovel that once harbored shirts and pants and shoes would harbor the two of us for the night.

“Very nice.” She looked at the little shop as though she were appraising a house. A sign that once announced the deals inside was dangling by one corner, clinging to its former life by a single rusty screw praying the wind to free its burden and plunge the aged emblem to its doom. The glass door that separated the inside from the elements was opaque with layers of dust and grime. It was a humble abode, but an abode nonetheless. The droplets of rain fell faster and thicker, quickening the rhythm of the soggy drumbeat upon the thin roof that covered the walkways between buildings.

I tugged at the metal handle of the door, but it didn’t budge. I squatted down to peer through the crack between the door and the frame—the lock was broken and was not the obstruction. I tugged again at the door, harder this time. It made a loud screech as it inched open slightly. I grabbed the handle with both hands and threw my weight backward, pulling it with all my might. The door swung wide, and, losing my balance, I tumbled to the ground behind me.

Shelley reached down to help me up, holding back her laughter. “You okay?”

I refused her help. “I’m fine.” A snort and a laugh escaped her clenched lips. “Very funny,” I said with chagrin.

“I’m sorry.” She muffled her laughter as best she could. When I rose to my feet, she brushed me off and put her arm around me. “
I
couldn’t have opened it.” Her affectionate grin shattered the gravity of my embarrassment. I cracked a faint smile; she laughed again, and I laughed with her. “Let’s go, my hero.” She took my hand and led me inside.

I pulled the door, but it stuck just shy of its frame. I thought it better, anyway, that I could still hear the sounds from outside through the slight opening. One never knew what lurked in those strange places far away from the safety of friends and family. From my bag I pulled two small candles and lit them. I gave one to Shelley and walked her to the back of the shop where there were several small dressing rooms—I chose the nicest one and threw its curtain back.

“Your room for the night.” I pantomimed a grand motion for Shelley to enter.

“Thank you, sir.” She handed me a pretend tip. I pretended to look at it with dissatisfaction, so she padded her pretend tip with more pretend money. I smiled and pretended to put it in my pocket. I often imagined what it was like to sit in a theater, dine in a restaurant, or sleep in a hotel, things the Ancients did without question, without wonder, without fear. And I thought perhaps one day, when the Disease was eradicated, our civilization would return to such leisurely ways. Until then, the closest we would come was to pretend.

She unpacked her sleeping pad, and I helped her unroll and straighten it. She lay down to test its comfort. I sat next to her. “Okay?” She sat back up.

“Okay.” I went into the adjacent room and cleared a spot for my own sleeping pad. After arranging my little bedroom, I peeked through the curtain to see what Shelley was doing. She was writing in her Book. I left her alone and explored our temporary home. That store, as were all the rest, was emptied of its contents—even the shelves were dismantled, pilfered and utilized as some makeshift table in some makeshift home. Only a few broken racks and hangers lay scattered about the floor.

The walls were constructed in some strange slatted fashion I had never seen. I ran my hand across the wood to get a feel for the material—it was an odd, artificial kind of wood painted white with black contrasts between the boards. In the back of the store I noticed a crack on either side of a door-sized section of the wall, and as I guided my candle down beside it I found the hinges, not really hidden, but just inconspicuous enough to have escaped the chaotic looting and rioting that robbed this shop of its former glory. On the other side was a small hole with a latch inside.

With one easy click the door popped open. “Shelley!” In their haste, both ancient and modern thieves had overlooked a secret treasure—the room was full of boxes, stored merchandise that had survived the bedlam behind the camouflage of that half-hidden door. From behind me Shelley playfully propped her chin on my shoulder and peered inside.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Let’s check it out.” We squatted down before one of the crumbling boxes and carefully peeled back its brittle tape—its contents were surprisingly well intact. The box was full of sweaters. I lifted one up by its shoulders and held it before me. “How do I look?”

“That’s for girls, silly.” She snatched it out of my hand and eyed it for herself.

“Lovely,” I said. She smiled.

“Thank you.” She put it on over her simple, handmade top. We never had fancy clothes like these, never cared really for how we dressed. Dressing for us was of necessity; for the Ancients it was different. They wore colorful outfits and changed them daily, sometimes once or twice in the same day. How hectic life must have been wearing different sets of clothes at work and at home, during the week and on weekends. I had my farm clothes and my school clothes, and that was all.

In our excitement we began tearing open boxes, strewing the contents across the floor, rummaging through luxuries we never knew, playing again that pretend ancient life. Shelley disappeared into the dressing room. I was sitting on the floor when she returned. She was wearing a tight-fitting summer dress. It was brightly colored with tiny straps strung across the shoulders and adorned with flowers. It flared out just above the knee.

“Your legs!” She blushed sheepishly, and then I blushed from embarrassment. I just blurted it out. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. She started back to the dressing room. “Wait!” She stopped. “You look—you look
beautiful
.”

“You really think so?” She proudly modeled her outfit for me, turning gracefully on her toes and fanning the skirt out around her. I could just see the teardrop curve in the delicate muscle at the bottom of her thigh. The dim candlelight cast a glow upon her face and bare shoulders, and the shadows accentuated her features in a way I had never seen. She caught me staring, wide-eyed and stupefied. “Marlowe!” I shook my head out of its daze. She giggled and sat down next to me. “I’ve never felt pretty before.”

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

She slapped my shoulder playfully. “You’ve hardly seen any girls.” Her eyes shifted in and out of my gaze.

“I’ve seen the girls in those ancient magazines,” I said defiantly. “You’re prettier than any of them.” I stared intently at her, and her nervous eyes finally settled on mine.

“You’re a sweet boy, Marlowe. I wish I could stay with you forever.” She rested her head on my shoulder and grabbed my hand in both of hers. A tear dropped from her cheek. We sat there for a while. I would have sat there forever. But it was getting late, and we were both exhausted, so we packed our new clothes, as many as we could carry, and went to sleep.

Chapter XV

I had the dream again that night. I’ve had it many times, and it’s always the same. I chase something, I know not what. I struggle to move, but my legs don’t work—they pull and bind with no strength in their motion, as though I were trekking through thick, soft snow in the paralyzing cold, or stumbling against the current and the waves in waist-deep ocean water. Gradually, I feel my prey elude me as its predator wages agonizing steps, each one more onerous than the last, and the frustration builds until I wake in a panic. Every time I leap from my bed and stagger around on those useful legs in defiance and disbelief, the dream that left them useless still fresh upon my brain.

When I awoke that morning to the sound of a stranger rummaging through my things, I sorely needed those legs, and though my still-dreaming brain thought for a moment they would not work, they surely did.

“Shelley! Shelley!” She leapt from behind the curtain as I swung my clenched fist against the side of the stranger’s head—he was trying to rob us in our sleep! My bag flew from his hands as he fell against the dressing room wall with a thud and slid down in a daze. “Run!” I grabbed what I could and took off running on Shelley’s heels. We dashed through the stores, the lot, the scattered eyes glaring in the early-morning sun. I could feel them hesitate before they started after us, like my hesitating legs in that recurring dream. Their hesitation was short-lived.

We scarcely made it out of the parking lot before they made full chase. We caught them off-guard—they were not expecting two foolish travelers asleep in that abandoned store. I heard a young voice yelling and then scattered hoots and hollers, but nothing clear, nothing I could understand. Only panic echoed across the fields as we ran, fast and hard, panting and heaving with clumsy steps, dodging stump and hole as we fled that pursuing tribe. Flashing through my mind were scenes of terror—those barbaric nomads in Benjonsen’s Book, the marauders who emptied that village of its folk, the legends and stories that kept the curious young ones safe within the village walls. I overtook Shelley and grabbed her hand, dragging her behind me. We flew into the hills behind the ancient marketplace.

Shelley let go my hand and lagged behind. “I can’t keep up.” She was panting madly. I stopped for a second until she caught her fleeting breath.

“Just up that hill.” There were thick groves ahead. “We can hide among the trees. It’s our only chance.” She looked at me without speaking, just a slight nod of the head and a settling of the breath, and I knew she was ready. We ran again.

The bush rustled behind us, and soon the sound dispersed in all directions—they were fanning out. I pulled Shelley into the thickest bush. I cleared the way for her as the thorns and twigs tore at my flesh. A thorn caught her leg, and she let out a squeal. We froze. The footsteps in the flora stopped but for a moment before they converged upon us.

I put my finger to my lips to keep Shelley quiet as we backed into the brush. The sun was rising quickly, but the leaves were thick, and we were quite well-camouflaged. The footsteps kept coming, slower in their pace, as the confused caterwaul became clearer.

“Where?—In the bush!—I don’t see them—They must be—“

Then all went quiet, even the wind and kites. I felt my heart in my ears and heard it in my chest. Shelley buried her head in my shoulder, and I clutched her tight with one hand, grasping for a stick with the other. The silence burned as we held our tongues, held our breath, held each other. The moment seemed an eternity. But it was only a few seconds before I heard those quick steps behind me and a call echoing through the woods. “Over here!”

I swung the stick behind me. It cracked against a sapling, and the half-rotted wood fell crumbling to the ground. I grabbed Shelley’s hand and pulled her from the bush into a small clearing where the sun shone in streaks through the dense but scattered leaves of late-summer trees. I darted across the clearing with Shelley in tow. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw eyes peering from the foliage. They were everywhere. We were surrounded.

“I love you, Shelley.” I held her hand tight.

“I love you, too,” she whispered gently, calmly. I didn’t want to die that day, but I was ready. We were always ready. Dying young was no tragedy to us. It was life. At least I had Shelley by my side, and maybe they would lay us together on the pyre, and she would be with me forever, our smoke drifting into the firmament intertwined and indistinguishable, our ashes mingled and scattered in the sacred river, flowing as one stream into eternity.

A face emerged from the darkness of the thick foliage, an old face, perhaps the oldest I’d ever seen—he must have been thirty. He approached slowly, looking us up and down. Shelley stood bravely with me. She was not afraid. I tried to stand strong, but inside I was praying to gods I did not know for that warrior tribe to stumble across this clearing and save us with their courage (and their staves) like they saved Benjonsen from those virulent nomads. But they would not come that day. That day we faced the nomads alone.

The old man spoke, “There shall be a recompense for this morning’s sins.” I supposed he was angry over the boy I struck as we escaped that hostile hostel. But strangely he did not seem angry—no fire in his eyes, no furrows in his brow, no clenched fists or tensed forearms. He just looked at us in curiosity. It frightened me more not knowing what he would do. He called out to the woods. “Juvenal! Juvenal!” I thought it must have been his henchman, his executioner. Tribal leaders of his status do not do their own dirty work.

But a henchman did not emerge from those woods. It was a boy,
the
boy. There was a lump on the side of his head—I knocked him quite hard. He timidly approached, head hung low with shameful eyes gazing just high enough to guide him to us. He held a book in both hands. “Give it to him, you mischievous imp,” the old man barked at him with a tone of disdain.

“Yes, Antimachus.” The boy came just close enough to reach out to me. Bowing from the waste apologetically, he presented me the book, my book—
The Odyssey
. He had stolen it from my bag. There was a purse full of silver in that pack of mine, but the boy took only the book. He turned his hanging head to his leader. “I’m sorry, Antimachus.”

“Do not direct your apologies to me.” The boy turned back to us and offered his apology again. Antimachus stepped up and gently pushed him to the side. “Excuse my nephew’s crimes. He can be quite foolish at times, but he means no harm to you and your wife.” I glanced at Shelley. She could not subdue her silly grin despite her attempts.

“We aren’t married,” I said. “We are on a journey to the city.” Faces from all around the clearing emerged from the trees. These people looked quite peaceful, nothing like what a tribe of bandits or marauders might. They dressed very simply and did not cut their hair. There were many elders among them. I looked down at the book in my still-trembling hands. “Why? There is a bag of silver, food, and clothes in my bag. He ignored them all for this book. Why?”

“It is a sacred text of our tribe. For my people, ‘tis a glorious find. That book of old is more precious than gold.” He had a strange way of speaking. “We are a wandering tribe of poets, players, and writers, nomadic bards who verse and sing to escape the plague—the Great Disease.” Poet nomads—until that day I thought they were legend. “Young traveler, you have a love for Homer?”

“I prefer Virgil, but I couldn’t resist. I found it in an old library in a village not far from here.” His eyes brightened.

“There were other books whence the epic you took?”

“Many more. I wish I could have taken them all.”

“You must direct my tribe and me to that village’s library. But first to repay for my nephew’s rudeness, we will provide you hot food and a place to rest.” He guided us through the woods to their camp. We talked along the way. His speech was charming—words flowed from his lips like water from a spring, and there was poesy in every sentence. This man and his people had spent many years studying verse. It was their way, as the Pilgrimage was ours. They believed their studies would free them from the Disease, and for good reason. “I’m nearly twenty-nine, and I’ve yet to see the Light.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “Nobody lives that long.”

“The spirit and brain are greater far than mortal frame.”

It was then I began to realize the power of the mind. But it would be many years before that realization would fully manifest.