Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (3 page)

Benjonsen floated to the heavens as we watched in silence, our chores and obligations set aside for the moment, though still haunting our minds like insatiate ghosts, as they did every day of our difficult lives. And yet, we stayed until the flames waned and the body of that Pilgrim was nothing but ash and memory. When the fire went out, the crowd dispersed. Elder Whitman and a few others lingered to collect the ashes to be scattered in the river just outside of town. Earth, fire, air, and water all mingled in this liturgy of death. There was very ancient symbolism in the tradition, but not one of us knew what it meant, nor whence it came.

My brother was busy, but not unconcerned. “I will speak to you later.” He looked at the Book in my hand. “Take that to the Library.” I nodded in agreement. “Good day, Shelley.” He swiftly walked away. He had things to do. But he would not forget about my transgressions.

“Do you need me to go to the Library with you?” For a moment, I thought she actually wanted to go. “I really need to get to school—I have this big project that’s due.” She didn’t want to go with me after all.

“It’s okay, Shelley. I can do this. I’ll see you later.” I sank in my own skin. She started away, but then, out of nowhere, turned back to me and planted a kiss on my cheek, and every hair on my body stood at attention. Smiling, she took the first few steps of her exodus backward.

“See you later, Marlowe.” She turned and blithely walked away. I stood motionless as she disappeared from my view. It seemed almost sacrilegious to feel the way I did there on those funeral grounds.

I gathered my senses, shuttered my smile, and respectfully escorted the Book to the Library.

Chapter IV

The Pilgrim’s Library was no ordinary library. There were no works of fiction, no encyclopedias or dictionaries, no children’s picture books—only Books of Pilgrimage. Ours was an old church. They often were. The Library was a most sacred place. In the ancient times, churches too were most sacred places. Then the Great Disease came, and for a while the churches became even more important. People who had never darkened the doors of those divine halls were lining the pews and praying daily, especially once they had lost their precious loved ones to the Light that dims the soul eternally. But as the Disease continued to sweep through our miserable world with impunity, the thought of a benevolent god watching over us faded into the firmament to mingle with the myths that the ancient ones had abandoned centuries earlier. So we arrogated those shrines for our own pious purposes.

The agonizing wood pews were dismantled and clumsily rebuilt into shelves—they were sturdy, but not attractive. It was no longer in our nature to build for the sake of beauty. Function had supplanted form in most aspects of our lives. Odd looking and irregular, the shelves bore an eclectic collection of leather, wood, and even plastic-bound Books, Books handcrafted from whatever sturdy materials their Pilgrim-authors (or their wives) could find. There were hundreds of these Books in our Library alone, row after row of serried lives and deaths coated in the dust of ages. I found a lonely spot in the back for Benjonsen’s Book, and carefully placed it on the ledge where it might rest for eternity.

Benjonsen had been sent off with the respect he deserved, and my duty to him and my village was done. But the enormity and intrigue of that Library captured my attention and held it, despite my obligation to return to school and my burning desire to see Shelley again. I walked along the shelves, running my index finger along the spines, collecting the dust that had gathered since before I was born. I stopped at one strange-looking Book and drew it from its resting place. It was bound in leather, stitched by hand, and decorated with symbols I did not recognize, probably from some ancient belief or religion. That was not uncommon, although not our tradition. Most of these Books were not from our village—they were from Pilgrims who had wandered this way from other places, Pilgrims who had succumbed to the Light in and around our little town.

I flipped through the pages and read a few passages. The Pilgrim’s name was Virgil, and he spent the last few years of his Pilgrimage in a holy tribe. Holy tribes believed the Cure lay in prayer, devotion, and faith. They studied the ancient religious texts and followed the ancient liturgies. They spent their lives on a Pilgrimage of their own design, visiting the holy sites of old and searching for the god the ancients cherished so. They welcomed into their tribe the wanderers who had left their villages on their final Pilgrimages, hoping that at the end of their lives they would have some insight, some revelation to offer, some epiphany that might lead the entire tribe to enlightenment. This Pilgrim did not find the god he was seeking. He died by the river just outside of town.

I returned the Book to its shelf and ran my finger farther down the ledge. On the spine of another Book I saw the brown remnants of old blood stains. I pulled it from its place and thumbed straight to the end. This Pilgrim’s chronicle was unfinished—his last entry was laced with despair: “I am lost in the woods. Someone is following me. I’ve tried foraging for food, but the winter months have hidden the seedlings deep underground, and the creatures I might trap and eat are few and far between. I fear I will not make it through this night.” He wrote in the present tense and updated his journal daily. Some did this; others wrote their entire journey down in the last days of their lives.

Every Pilgrim had his own style, every Book had its own voice. It was interesting to read the tales within those pages. It was terrifying too, knowing that one day my own Book would sit upon a rickety shelf in a dusty Library much like this one, the record of the final days of my brief journey upon this earth collecting the particles that float out of sight until the sun’s light shines on them at just the right angle. In those brief moments of clarity one can almost grasp the illusion of human reality, reminded by cosmic light and ancient dust of the vastness of the universe that lies unknown just before our very faces, those billions of particles, perhaps each a universe in itself, unseen to the naked eye and barely visible even under the enlightening glare of our neighbor star.

For hours I browsed Book after Book of life and death, hope and doubt, certainty and conjecture. Among the stories were dozens of theories on the Great Disease, mostly about how it might be cured, but some speculating its origins. Everything from a conspiracy of scientists to the wrath of God was blamed. Perhaps the pestilence was a product of evolution, a natural development by our own planet to protect itself from the sickness wrought by the overpopulation of man. Because the Disease spread so rapidly, because it was so devastating, it caught mankind off-guard. We didn’t even have a name for it; we just called it the Great Disease. It was, in fact, the greatest disease man had ever known, and yet where it came from we knew not. No matter what the cause, we sought the Cure.

As I walked from under the shade of one of those shelves, the afternoon sun shining through the uncurtained window nearly blinded me. “Bloody viruses! I’m late for school!” I bolted for the door, but something stopped me—Benjonsen. His Book drew me to it. I yanked it off the shelf, stuffed it in my bag, and dashed through the double doors of the Library and into the street. I had to get to school. I didn’t care about missing class—school was the only place I was sure to see Shelley.

*.*.*

I slipped in surreptitiously through the back door of the classroom and took my seat right next to her. “Where’ve you been?” she whispered.

“The Library.”

“All this time?”

“I got distracted.”

My teacher stood up from behind her desk. “So good of you to join us today, Marlowe.” My cover was blown. I rose from my seat, but left my head hanging low.

“I’m sorry—I had to take the Pilgrim’s Book to the Library, and I, uh, I got distracted.”

“Your assignment is on the board. You have until the end of class to finish.” It was English, and we were writing essays. Luckily, I missed science and math. That was in the morning. Every day, science and math in the morning, English and history in the afternoon. We didn’t really learn math—we had to know it for science. It was the same with history—we studied history to learn more English. It was all quite boring and tedious. We didn’t have time for much else—we only went to school until we were sixteen. The Ancients sometimes went to school for decades and even studied subjects like philosophy, art, and music. We had precious little time before work and family took over. So the elders decided long ago that English and science mattered most. To them, books were our keys to the past, and science was our key to the future.

In the days before the Disease, the people did not revere their language as they do today. They wrote their words on computers, even let the computers write for them. And their words were simple because they were obsessed with pictures and images. But after the pestilence, those computers stopped working, and their technology ceased. Our teachers were taken by the Light, our records were lost with technology, and the people were indifferent to history amidst the chaos of the Disease. But we still had our books, and so at some point in our plaguy history, books and words became sacred to us.

You may still hear the old dialects among the uneducated nomad and bandit tribes. They were as bad as the Ancients. They didn’t value books and knowledge, only silver and gold. Their lives must be empty and dreadful. I didn’t know what I would do without my books.

The Ancients treated science with the same disdain as their language. Our world was suffering from greed and pollution, and all they could do was pray to their gods and belie with their beliefs our greatest discoveries. Maybe that’s why some people thought the Disease was the earth’s reaction to our attacks upon it. But then the factories closed, and the pollution disappeared, and still we were dying.

I turned and whispered to Shelley, “What are you writing about?”

“
Romeo and Juliet
.”

I chuckled. “You’re hopeless.” She reached over and pinched me. I blurted out, “Ow!”

“Marlowe!” My teacher was getting annoyed.

“Sorry.” I whispered again to Shelley, “I’m writing about
Heart of Darkness
.”

“I hate that book. So depressing.”

“And
Romeo and Juliet
is not?”

“Stop distracting me.” She buried her head in her essay and ignored me. I wrote frantically, barely finishing one page before that cacophonous bell sounded our freedom as it did every afternoon. I penned a one-sentence conclusion before turning my paper in. My teacher gave me a stern look of disapproval, and then handed the paper back to me.

“I expect better than this. You can turn the essay in tomorrow. Try not to get so distracted next time.”

“There won’t be a next time. I promise.” I took the paper. “Thank you.”

Shelley was waiting for me in the hallway. “Were you really at the Library
all day
?”

“Have you ever been there? All those Books, all those stories, those
tragedies
—I got lost in that place.”

“Sounds depressing.” She didn’t have much else to say about it. I walked her home—she didn’t live far from school. We didn’t really talk on the way. I didn’t mind. I liked just spending time with her. We had known each other since we were kids. We didn’t have to search for things to talk about; we were fine just walking together. I could have walked the globe with her.

When we got to her house, she asked, “Is your brother mad at you?” I suppose she had been thinking it all along, but didn’t want to ruin the walk with the discomfort of that question.

“I don’t know. Probably. I’ll find out soon.” She gave me a hug.

“Good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She looked once more into my eyes and then darted inside. The sun was setting, so I wasted no time getting home. I knew there would be tension. I wanted to think that I chose my own path, but Shelley was right. My brother did practically run this town, and until he left on his Pilgrimage, I would have to listen to him.

Chapter V

Dinner was a quiet affair. Everyone was quite tired from the long day—funeral days were always long days. The peace of death brought no respite for the living. We finished eating, and I helped with the dishes. I thought I was in the clear with Brother Blake as I started for my bedroom to work on my paper. But before my foot landed on the first step, he grabbed me gently by the arm, snapping me out of my dream of a carefree egress from that den of anxiety.

“We need to talk.” I should have known better.

We walked outside. The sun had set, and it was cool for an August night. “What is it?”

“You know what it is.” I did. I did not want to admit it. To admit it would have been to acknowledge there was something wrong in it. But I would never admit that loving Shelley was wrong.

“We’re just friends, Blake.” It was true. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was true.

“I know you love her. It’s obvious.” Blake was stern and tough, but he was a good leader for our family. He cared for us. He took care of things. He paid attention, and he knew us all well, perhaps too well.

“Nonetheless—we are just friends.” I began to fidget nervously.

“You will be sixteen soon. You need to stop wasting your time with Shelley. You need to find a wife.” Everyone was expected to marry at sixteen, and there was great pressure to have children soon after—our dwindling population would be the end of us if we could not keep up. The Ancients often waited until twenty or thirty before getting married and even longer before having children, but we did not have that luxury.

“Maybe Shelley
wants
to be my wife.” Even I knew the notion was full of foolish optimism.

“She’s not even your girlfriend. Besides, she’s not right for you. Her family—” He didn’t want to say, but I knew what he was getting at. It hurt him to be reminded of Shelley’s brother. He died from the Early Onset when he was only a teen. Many in his family died the same way. It took Blake a long time to get over his death. They were the best of friends.

“Maybe she’s different. Maybe she’s—”

“Perhaps you should speak with Sylvia. She would make a good wife, and she likes you.”

“Charlotte’s sister? I don’t think—”

“Don’t be selfish, Marlowe. It’s for the best.” He kept interrupting. I was getting frustrated.

“But I don’t like—”

“She’s a nice, pretty girl, and she has a good family. I will arrange a date for this weekend.” His overbearance was making my blood boil.

“I am not going on a date with—”

“Yes. You are. Now go upstairs and do your homework.” He wouldn’t let me finish one sentence, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was infuriating. I stormed away, and he pretended nothing was wrong. That was his style—stern, pompous nonchalance. I couldn’t stand it. But what was I to do?

*.*.*

For hours I tossed and turned without so much as a hint of sleep. I had to get away from the house, the family, the source of my unhappiness, so I put on my clothes, crept down the stairs, and slipped surreptitiously out the backdoor. I tore madly through the night air of our sleepy little town and glided to a stop beneath Shelley’s bedroom window. My fitful fist rapped lightly upon the glass. A few moments later the window opened, and Shelley thrust her head into the cool night air. “Marlowe? What is it?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“At this time of night? Whatever for?” She was still half asleep.

“I need to think. Do you want to come with?”

“You know I can’t. My cousin would kill me.” I was too frustrated to persuade her. I knew it would only add to my anxiety. I relented without a fight.

“Okay. I’ll be in the meadow where we found the Pilgrim if you change your mind.” I didn’t even give her a second to respond before I trotted off. I didn’t hear the window close behind me. I hoped she was watching me as I walked away.

The moon was bright, and I didn’t need a torch or flashlight to make my way to the meadow. The sky was clear, the stars were out, and I thought I saw a meteorite streak across the firmament. I made a wish that soon came true—the night was fair, though it would yet be fairer.

I found a soft spot in the meadow. This late in the summer, the grass is thick and soft like plush carpeting. I lay there under the stars and thought about Shelley and the Pilgrim and all the things I had read in the Library. I thought about why my brother did not want me to marry her. So what if she died early? A few short years with someone I loved like Shelley would be worth more than a lifetime of marriage to a bore like Sylvia.

I thought about my own Pilgrimage someday, and I thought, like all adventurous young boys, that maybe
I
would stumble across the Cure on one of my many fantastic journeys. They would hail me as a hero upon my return, and I would live happily into old age with my love, our children and grandchildren carousing about the house, pouncing on our laps while we tried to read, waking us to cuddle when nightmares haunted their sleep, pleading for answers to their homework (unsuccessfully), confiding to us their fears and hopes and dreams—that was
my
dream. But, alas, a dream was all it would ever be.

I heard footsteps in the soft wildflowers, and a faint shadow crept slowly over me. It was Shelley. “Hey, you.”

“Hey. I didn’t think you’d come.” I sat upright.

“I shouldn’t have,” she said with a chuckle. I reached my hand up as though I needed her help to stand, but then I pulled her down beside me. She fell clumsily, and we both laughed as we lay back in our grassy bed. We talked until the morning dew kissed our cheeks and the dawning sun peeked over the horizon.