Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (5 page)

Chapter VIII

I wanted that time to last forever, at least a few moments longer, so I reached into my bag and pulled out Benjonsen’s Book. “Look what I have.”

“Benjonsen’s Book? I thought you left it in the Library.” She looked confused but intrigued.

“I want to know how his story ends, don’t you?”

“Can you read in this light?”

“I can try.” I peered into the Book and strained my eyes to read in the slim rays of pale moonlight.

* * *

“Those first few days I saw no one—no one who would talk to me, anyway. It was good to have that time alone, to adjust to my new life. Our mountain village was set in the valley, so I had to climb and descend the foothills on my way south. I knew these hills—I had explored them in my youth. I made it to the ridge with confidence, for I had spent many nights atop. The downward descent was treacherous and unknown—I had never traveled that far before. Few Pilgrims have ever returned from their journeys, and when they did, it was in the pages of Books, or in the plots of legends and exaggerations. One can never depend on the stories from afar. I was careful to pay attention to the stars at night.

“I didn’t mind sleeping outside—the weather was warm, and it hardly rains around here in August. In the day there were things to see, dangers to beware of. But the nights were lonely—those wily constellations dissembled her heavenly face, and every zephyr that echoed its beguiling whispers about my ears reminded me of her and of them. After a few sleepless nights I came to accept the solitude of my Pilgrimage, and I was no longer sad about my wife and my children—I knew my sadness did not and would not help me in my endeavor. Since then I have tried to think only of the days before my journey began. It was never easy to think of Tiesse and not remember that day on our porch, but I eventually got better at controlling my thoughts and whims, especially those heavy burdens of emotion. This Pilgrimage has strengthened my mind, and I smile even now, thinking of my love and my family.

“I gladly traded the calm hills and temperate weather for the shelter of the village at the bottom of the mountain. It was one of the old abandoned villages—they are all over. The elders say there were millions of people living in the ancient times. Millions. The landscape is scattered with their refuse. They seem to have cared little for their world. Their buildings were sturdy nonetheless, and my people are indebted to the architecture of our ancestors. I wandered a bit, looking for signs. They say not just ours but all of the old villages had signs along the streets, some with directions. I saw a few signs with strange names, but none that were of any use to me. I examined the trash—it was old and far past rotted. The abandoned villages are notorious for bandits who rob in the night, so I had to be sure I was alone. The nomads and bandits are wasteful and selfish—they leave their trash in the open to fester. It was the easiest way to spot their presence.

“After a few passes through the main streets, I was content that I was alone, or at least safe for the night. I crept down a somewhat secluded cul-de-sac, camouflaged by the overgrown trees and bushes. I chose the most humble of abodes—it is better to be inconspicuous in these villages, even when alone. I searched for an easy way in, an unlocked window or door. The nomads and looters break windows and kick down doors, but I have more respect for my ancestors—they left these structures for us, and much of the knowledge of their construction has been lost to the ages. Most of the windows were shut tight, probably locked, but I found a modest bathroom window I was able to pry open without breaking. It took some effort to shimmy through the narrow aperture—I fell through and nearly dashed my head on the corner of the sink. I picked myself up, closed the window, and wandered through the empty rooms.

“This house was what the elders call
clean
—it had not been stripped of its furnishings, and no one had lived there since the ancient times. Even the fireplace worked. It wasn’t yet dark, so I crept through the backyard and gathered a few dead branches to start a fire. Fallen trees still lay scattered from the storm season. There was plenty of kindling, and I only needed a little to warm the cakes I had. They were much better warm. The bread was thick and meaty—good sustenance for traveling—but a little tough. I had gnawed and chewed on those cold cakes for days, and I was ready for a hot meal, a warm and soft piece of bread. I knew already the piece I would eat that night—a little odd-shaped cake with fruit, apples I think, maybe more. I couldn’t wait to find out. With food on my mind and the sun sinking into oblivion, I quickly stripped the leaves from a few last branches and scurried inside.

“The wood stacked easily in the fireplace. The Ancients lived in luxury—they had no need for fire with their heaters and their stoves. They did not build fires to cook or stay warm; they built fires to sit and watch. I don’t blame them. The dancing flickers of blue, yellow, and red hypnotize the eye, and the crackle of wood as it is devoured by the ravishing flames entices the ear. The calm of destruction is a paradox, a funeral without a death, a pyre without a loved one. I was lucky to find a box of matches, the long kind that spare the fingertips—the Ancients thought of everything. The spark of sulfur made my nose tingle, and though it was not a pleasant odor, it exhilarated my sense of smell. I touched the burning twig to its wildly formed cousins, and the flame grew tenfold, engulfing the kindling in an instant. Smoke filled the room, and immediately I realized I had forgotten to open the flue.

“I threw the iron lever down, and the flue swung opened with a ringing clang. The lingering smoke was stifling, so I rushed to the window nearby. It was painted shut. It seemed my luck was beginning to wane. I tried another, and another, and another—all painted shut and impossible to budge. The bathroom window through which I crawled was too small to vent the smoke, and besides it was on the other side of the house—I had to open the door. I knew the creaking door might draw unwanted attention, even more so than the smoke seeping out of the chimney, but it was a chance I had to take. There was no other way. I had carefully surveyed the area and was sure there were no others around, yet still I cracked the door carefully, slowly. I slipped my head out for a breath of fresh air as smoke billowed past me. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t make out the movement in the bushes. I coughed and out of shear anxiety slammed the door shut. That was not a good idea. ‘It must be a dog,’ I told myself. ‘It must be.’ It wasn’t.

“Those few agonizing seconds with my back against the door felt like hours. I held my breath, not for the smoke, but for the noise. I don’t know why—the fire was raging loud and bright. It was a mistake starting that fire. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t my first lapse in judgment on this journey. I looked around frantically for an extinguisher. It was a slim chance, but there was no water, and I had to stifle that smoke before I choked on it.

I must have had some luck, for there within the cabinet underneath the sink hung the bright red canister. ‘Please work. Please work. Please work.’ It did. I sprayed the fire down, sending white foam all over the living room floor. At least the fire was out. The extinguisher was loud—I didn’t hear him sneak up behind me. I sat down before the fireplace in relief, only to feel a stick rap me across the neck. It hurt, but not enough—adrenaline was wildly pumping through my tensed veins, and I spun around and clocked him in the head with the empty metal canister. It amazed me how easy it was to knock a man unconscious. Except it wasn’t a man.

“The bloody boy who lay before me couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, probably a scout from one of the looter tribes. I could tell by his clothes—random and ill-fitting; the looters dress in whatever garments they can get their hands on. They have no skill to sew, no knowledge of knitting. He was easily overcome, but there were surely many more of his kind nearby, and they would kill me for my cakes alone. His gaunt and tender face was as red with blood as the extinguisher I had throttled him with, but he was still breathing, so I quickly gathered my things and bolted for the back door. I probably could have put him (and me) out of misery, but that is not our way. It did not sit well with me that I had to leave him bleeding and unconscious, but his tribe would take care of his wounds, and I could not take the risk of lingering any longer. I left the door open so they would know where to find him. They came soon—I saw them later, from the hills in which I took refuge.

“The foothills scatter the landscape in this area. Any farther south and I would have been trapped in the piedmont with no hills and scarcely a place to hide. I still had a little luck left. The looter tribe would not search for me in the hills. There is nothing for them there, and they are not bent on revenge as other tribes sometimes are. They only care to loot. The danger in the hills lies in the unknown. I would have to be careful. I found a secluded grove and sat down to eat a cake—a dry, cold cake. I reached into my bag and found nothing. ‘The cakes.’ In my frenzied exodus from the sure doom that would follow that boy, I left the cakes by the fireplace. At least the young scout whose head I smashed would have a decent meal when he awoke. I, however, would have to forage for food, and I have never been very good at hunting or foraging. Fortune toyed with me.

“In my bag was a manual left by the Ancients. They trained their youth to survive in the wild. These tribes of boy scouts could roam the forests for days with little but their packs and their wits, and they wrote manuals to teach these skills. The manuals were hard to come by—I found mine in a crumbling library on one of my excursions to the surrounding villages. It was a well-worn copy with quite a few pages missing, but the information left within was priceless. I fashioned a lean-to out of twigs and grasses. I set traps for small animals. I built a fire with sticks and stones. I ate the scraped pulp from the bark of a tree and drank droplets of sweet water carefully squeezed from plant leaves and stems. I survived the night.

“The squirrel that writhed in the noose I had set woke me early in the morning. I turned my head and closed my eyes as I smashed its tiny skull with a stone. I prayed mercy for him and forgiveness for me—to whom or what I knew not, but my futile utterings did provide some relief. I thought about the comfort that my wife must have felt with her gods and goddesses, who so readily bestowed their blessings, no matter how small or great the crime. I started to understand, but I could not continue to live this way. It was not enough to pray to the gods. I had to find another village. Besides, the meat was tough and scarce, and my stomach was still empty after devouring the small creature. I doused the fire and gathered my things and made my way down the hill to find another village. I was still far away from the city.

“After trekking a few hours in the hills, I saw the highway in the distance. An odd name—they were more like valleys than high places. There are things I will never understand about the Ancients. Nonetheless, the highways always lead to the cities, and I could not rely on the map I had—it was hand-drawn by a Pilgrim who journeyed many years. I found it in the pages of another’s Book of Pilgrimage. It was impossible to tell how many hands had exchanged it, how many travelers had found or lost their way with it, how many changes and revisions had been made along those journeys. I had no other choice but to trust its direction. The highway brought me comfort, for I knew at some point along its path I would find food, shelter, and perhaps civilization. At this point I faced a dilemma—walk directly down the highway to make up for lost time, or follow it in the nearby wood for safety. I chose speed. I should have stayed in the wood.

“The nomads who roam the highways are not like the looters. They are much worse. There is nothing to be found along the old roads except Pilgrims and traders. The traders travel in large groups and are generally well armed. The nomads would rather not clash with them, although there are tales of entire trader tribes attacked and left for dead. The nomads have no skill but to pillage and plunder, and the Pilgrims always have at least a bit of food to steal, if not more. Some Pilgrims are superstitious enough to carry items of luck, necklaces of gold and silver, rare stones on rings, and other precious things. We are easy prey, and the Shroud gives us away. I knew the highway would be fast but dangerous. I knew this, yet still I took that path.”

Chapter IX

The time passed quickly, and it was getting late. Shelly interrupted me, “We have to go soon, Marlowe. I don’t want us to get in trouble again.” The thought of pulling myself away from her was excruciating, but she was right. We didn’t need any more trouble in our lives.

“Okay. Let’s go.” I put the Book in my bag and took her by the hand. I led her down the dimly lit aisle to the theater exit. We stopped just outside the doors and gazed into each other’s eyes. “This was the best night of my life, Shelley.”

“Don’t be silly. We just—” I didn’t let her finish. I kissed her passionately. She wrapped her arms tightly around me. When I let go of her, she stumbled backward a little. I stooped to catch her. “I see stars, Marlowe.”

“Me too—your kisses are amazing.” In my bliss, I missed the look of panic in her eyes.

“No, Marlowe—I mean
those
stars.” She backed up against the theater wall and slid down to the ground. I sat next to her, holding her hand with one of mine and stroking her hair with the other.

“Maybe it’s not
that
. Maybe it’s something else.” I was foolishly optimistic, as usual. I helped her to her feet.

“Maybe you’re right.” She spoke with a blank stare and a hopeless tone. I knew she didn’t believe me. She held my hand tightly as I walked her home, and I gave her one last short, sweet kiss before she climbed through the window into her bedroom.

I made it home without incident. I tried to sleep, but the nightmare of Shelley walking into the Light haunted me every time I closed my weary eyes. She was everything to me, and soon she would be gone. The tension in my knotted stomach struggled violently to best the angst of my aching brain. It was a rough night.

*.*.*

By dawn I had given up on the charade of slumber. It was something of a relief, actually, not to have to play the role of unsuccessful sleeper, tossing and turning before an audience of none, thinking of Shelley and wondering if she were feeling the same misery. That morning I was hungrier than usual, and breakfast was an even more welcoming sight than the sun’s light. I could always eat, even in times of stress. I met Charlotte in the kitchen and helped her cook for the rest of the family. She pretended not to notice my nibbling and sampling.

We ate together, as we often did, and then we ventured off to our daily toils—my cousins would help my brother tend to the farm, and then Blake would escape to the meeting of the elders. It was not much of an escape, though, tending to those tenacious weeds that sprouted throughout our village. It was always something. My “sisters” (Charlotte and my cousins’ wives) would take care of the children and the house, and later they would prepare the noon and evening meals. We were pretty independent, although my cousins sometimes helped out on a few other farms and in a few of the trading shops. They were hard workers, and everyone appreciated them. It was a busy life, but it was a good life. That was the life that awaited me. I didn’t care—I only wished my Shelley could be a part of it.

I packed my lunch inside my schoolbag and said my farewells. We were usually polite to each other, whether we meant it or not. I even hugged my brother. He retreated from the hug with a victorious smile. Blake thought he had won the battle over Sylvia. He had no idea where I had gone the night before. But he would find out soon.

I made it to school in time to catch Shelley before she went inside. She looked cheerful—I guess I expected despondence and despair. But Shelley was tough and optimistic. That’s one of the things I loved about her.

“Good morning.” I leaned in to kiss her. She pulled away quickly.

“Not here. What were you thinking?” She was right. What
was
I thinking?

“Sorry—last night was just so—” I groped for words.

“I know, Marlowe. I know.” The morning bell rang, saving me from my clumsy tongue. “Are you ready to make up that lab for Conrad?”

“I’m not going to class. I just came to see you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll tell you later.” I looked around—everyone had already disappeared inside the building. “You should go. You’re going to be late.” She turned her head slightly, and I went in for the kill, gently pecking her on the cheek and then bolting before she had a chance to react. “Tell Conrad I’ll see him tomorrow,” I yelled as I trotted away.

I slipped away to the meadow to think. I had a few hours to kill. I sat next to the tree where Shelley and I found the Pilgrim Benjonsen. I wondered where his path led him, if he found what he was looking for, how he ended up under
that
tree outside of
our
humble village. I searched the pages of his Book for answers (I had gotten into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere). The city! He was searching for scientists in the city.

In the villages we heard many strange and amazing tales about the cities beyond our protective walls and wondered if they could possibly be true, but there was precious little time in our hectic and arduous lives to wonder, so we soon returned to our struggles, questions unanswered, hopes unprovoked. Still, one unanswered question would haunt my mind and would follow me until I reached the enigmatic city on the Pilgrim’s incomplete path. Was Benjonsen right? Did science hold the Cure?

The sun was getting higher, and it was time to go, so I gathered my thoughts, sorting out the questions and abandoning the vain memories. I carried with me only those burdens I had to bear and left the rest to that floral meadow. I had hoped to accomplish something that day—there would be a meeting of the elders, the convergence of all the living wisdom of our village and my chance to tap the shrewdest minds of our modest community. I would address them for the first (and last) time in my life.

It was my right as a citizen to have an audience with the elders at least once a year. Brother Blake would tell us stories about these Citizen Appeals, as they were called. There were important issues, like whether the town should construct a wall after a nearby village suffered an unprovoked attack from a tribe of nomads. There were minor issues like border disputes between farms, important to some despite their frivolity to the rest of us. And there was “just plain foolishness,” as Blake would put it, like a proposal to decorate the village buildings and streets in honor of the ancient holiday called
Christmas
(a citizen had read about it in the old texts, and she brought dozens of these books to support her proposal).

My proposal was more of a call to action, and it was a shot in the dark if there ever were one. But it was a shot nonetheless, and one I had to take. I didn’t know what else to do. I walked proudly through the streets, right past the school where I should have been, straight to Meeting Hall, where my fate had pushed me. I paused outside those great double doors, hoping my stomach would settle its churning. I gave up hope and slipped inside, trying to attract as little attention as possible.

The ancient door creaked on its closing swing, and all eyes in that hall of elders turned to me. The attention was short-lived, except from Blake, who would have killed me with his stare had he the power. I tried not to let him rattle me. I had important things to say.

I fidgeted on an uncomfortable bench in the back of Meeting Hall, waiting for my turn to speak. Citizen Appeals were held at the end of every meeting—I endured two hours of formalized bickering before presenting my case to the elders. They debated everything from maintenance of public spaces to the standardization of our bartering system. For every elder who offered his support, there was another who leveled his criticism. I sat patiently, trying to calm myself, running arguments through my head, visualizing the success of my persuasion.

Presiding over the debates was Elder Spencer, the oldest in the village by mere days. It wouldn’t be long before he left town on his Pilgrimage, and he would pass the gavel to the next in line. When all the issues had been laid on the table and thoroughly vetted for their profit and loss, he moved on to the next of the formalities.

“Citizen Appeals.” A collective groan echoed through the chamber. My heart flew like a hummingbird’s. Blake stared me down, nearly freezing me on the spot. After a brief pause I summoned my courage and overcame my apprehension, rising to my feet just as Elder Spencer raised his gavel with the intention of dropping it again.

“Elders and citizens,” I announced myself in the traditional way. “I have a Citizen Appeal.” I followed our parliamentary procedure closely. I wanted them to take me seriously from the very beginning.

Elder Spencer spoke, “Approach the podium.” Blake leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Spencer dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Blake did not look happy. As I walked toward the front, I scanned the crowd of elders, not one a day older than twenty-five. The elders were men of tradition. When the time came to don their Shrouds and leave on their Pilgrimages, they did. Only once, many years ago, did an elder forgo the custom—he was immediately and unanimously voted off the Board. That’s how important our traditions are, even though we know not whence they came, nor their true origins. Life was already difficult without the Pilgrimage, which meant that even the elders left our village prematurely, serving but a brief time before their candles were extinguished by the Light. Yet we still maintained those troublesome ways.

The elder died not long after. Maybe that was legend. Nonetheless, these elder statesmen, young by the standards of the Ancients, took their positions and their traditions seriously, and upon their faces hung an air of solemnity. It was intimidating.

I stepped up to the podium, took a deep breath, and then addressed the assembly. “Elders and citizens, I stand before you with an appeal to action. This Great Disease our people have suffered for so many generations has soiled the very fabric of our existence: it binds us to this life of toil and hardship; it divides us into sects of wanderers and outcasts; it takes our lives before their times and snatches our love away in its infancy.” I paused for a moment—the elders all were listening closely, waiting patiently for my appeal. I imagine some were merely curious. But at least I had their attention.

“There are some who say there is no Cure. There are some who wander about the weal, searching for the so-called Tree of Truth, the unfulfilled prophecy still lingering in our legends. There are tribes of warriors, poets, and priests who believe the answer lies on their own privy paths. There are as many unsure answers as there are unanswered questions about this pestilence that plagues us.” The speech was going well, but I could tell by the looks on their faces that their patience was wearing thin.

“Everything we know we owe to the Ancients, and the Ancients knew, above all else, that science was the answer to the unexplained. There are scientists in the city, and they have been studying the Disease for years—the Pilgrim I found in the meadow wrote about them in his Book, and upon his path their laboratories lay. But like so many of us, he died too soon.

“Perhaps there is a Cure, or at least a medicine that may stay the effects. But we will never know, hidden away here in our country village, going about our lives oblivious to the work and progress of those men of science. The way to the city is fraught with peril—a lone traveler would be foolish to attempt the journey. If we wish to discover the secrets of the city scientists, we must travel as a team, a company of men who could well protect each other from the bandits and nomads who roam that path.

“I stand before you today with this appeal—that we assemble a troop of the strong and the wise, brave villagers who would spare a few days from their farms and their families to dare the dangers of the unknown, perchance to discover that those stories of the city ring true, or, if not, to bury them with the long-forgotten legends of the Ancients. Our loved ones are dying. It is our duty to try. This is my appeal.”

The elders sat motionless. The silence was deafening.

Elder Spencer broke the silence with procedure. “The elders have heard your appeal. You may step down from the podium.” I retired to the familiar bench in the back of the hall. The Elders discussed my appeal. There were those for and those against. Most against were not convinced that anything had been learned about the Disease. They did not believe the stories of the city (they had heard many fantastic stories in their lives). They did not believe in technology, for as far as they knew it had not advanced since we were first plagued by that redoubtable sickness. Those for were mostly the younger of our brood: adventurous, optimistic, energetic. I think I could have assembled a team right there from among the elders themselves. But age and wisdom won the day—the senior elders quelled the “impractical” appeal and sent me on my way.

I moped about the front of Meeting Hall—I could not bear the thought of returning to school, defeated, to face the one for whom this hopeless endeavor was launched. I heard the loud crack of wood on wood as the gavel dropped to adjourn the meeting. They filed out one by one, patting me on the back, offering their condolences, some even praising my eloquence.

Blake and Emerson were the last to leave. They were engaged in businesslike conversation. My brother abruptly cut away the moment he noticed me still standing there. He was oddly supportive. “That was a great speech, a noble effort. I’m proud of you.” For a moment I actually thought I had convinced him. “But you cannot save her. No one can.”

The anger welled up within me and lifted my arms, thrusting them into his chest. I had no control over my body—my mind sat helpless, a mere observer to this foolish and impetuous act of defiance. Blake stumbled backward, lost his balance, and tumbled to the dusty ground behind him. “Marlowe!” He was angry and astonished. Elder Emerson helped him to his feet.