Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (10 page)

Chapter XVI

They fed us well, though it was a modest lunch. There would be a grander meal that evening, for they often celebrated their short and difficult lives with food, wine, and song. Antimachus talked us into staying. Shelley had not seen the Light in some time, he assured us the city was not far away, and she too was smitten with these people and their poetry. They were quite smitten with her—they had a love for beauty in all forms, and Shelley was beautiful not just to my eyes. We felt welcome, and though we could not afford to stay for long, we could stay for the night.

After lunch Antimachus and the other elders retired to their tents to read and write. They practiced every day. Some of the younger tribesmen went hunting as the mothers and sisters stayed home to play games with the children, each one of them accompanied by a song. Shelley and I rested in a borrowed tent. She fell right asleep, and though I was tired, I stayed awake and played with her raven hair, staring at the half-smile that graced her unconscious face. Eventually fatigue overcame me, and I laid my head next to hers.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I awoke to the sound of hunters chanting on their way back to camp. I pulled the tent flaps back. They were carrying two deer and a large boar on sticks, singing in unison their victory song. It must have been a good hunt. The whole camp converged upon the crew and immediately went to work on the two beasts.

After greeting the hunters, Antimachus came over to our tent. “You have brought good fortune to us, so in your honor we sup.” And then the tribal head, the leader and king of those people, went to work with the rest to flay and cut and season and roast. He and his people were one—he was as great and humble a man as I had ever met.

Once the animals were prepared and placed upon the spit, a sanguine and cheery elder emerged from a large tent with two flasks of wine. A youth followed him with a basket. “They call me Ovid,” he said with a smile as he handed us each a cup from the basket. “Wine and good livers make true lovers,” he quipped, while pouring two generous portions of wine. It smelled sweet and crisp, but not like the wine from our village. “It’s made from honey. The hunters on their journeys stumbled across an ancient apiary—that was two months ago today!” He flashed a mouthful of teeth. “The maturation of this mead was timed perfectly for this feast.”

He poured himself a cup and lifted it up. Shelley and I lifted our cups and accepted his toast. She sipped cautiously as I dove headlong into a gulp. With a grin, Ovid refilled my wine and then moved on to the rest of the tribe. Soon we all imbibed, and before too long the feast was prepared.

The food was spread across several great blankets that covered the ground. Wine was poured all around, and Antimachus raised his cup to the tribe. “A toast to the Muse and the travelers two! And blessings upon those three great beasts that tendered their lives for our great feast!” Cups were raised high as the tribe awaited their modest king to take the first sip. A cheer rang out when his cup kissed his lips. Then every cup took an upward turn, and months of work by bee and brewer were consummated with a gleeful gulp.

We ate and drank and ate and drank some more. There was singing and dancing throughout the meal. Shelley and I tried our best to sing along, but these were songs we’d never heard, songs the poet nomads had written themselves. So we listened carefully and stumbled through the choruses. The poets all smiled with approval at our effort. It was a joyous occasion, and for a few hours we drained the miseries from our minds like wine from the flask.

After a few songs, Antimachus stood and hushed the crowd. “Dear friends, there are those who pray to deities before they set upon the feast, and those who sacrifice to gods the animals that roam their sod. But we, the rhymed and metered troupe, must praise that graceful poet Muse. And so without further ado, a few lines composed by my young nephew.”

The boy Juvenal wandered from among the feasters, as he had wandered out of that grove earlier in the day, except this time with a look of nervous pride instead of anxious shame. He stood before the crowd with folded papers in his hands. Their mirthful murmurs faded into solemn silence.

“This little piece I call ‘The Master and His Beast.’ And though I am a mere poetaster, I hope not to offend your discriminating sense with the verses I have penned.” The young poet unfolded the papers and began his recitation:

“In fields of floral fauna reaped a man who mastered all he surveyed of his land. He worked the field and pastures all day long, his spirit pure, his mind and body strong. He tilled the soil and planted crops each spring, and all year long he cared for everything. In town the fruits and vegetables were sold—to pay for all his land he needed gold. His beast was broad and pulled his cart of fare. To help the master, beast was ever there. The master needed beast, and it the same. The beast was ever gentle, ever tame, because it knew the master was its lord, and always by his side was master’s sword . . .”

I whispered to Shelley, “It’s nice, don’t you think?”

“Sssshh! I can’t hear,” she responded playfully. I was lost in her eyes, but she stared at the poet, coyly avoiding my gaze. Before I knew it, the poet was almost done, and I had missed most of his tale.

The young poet finished his verse: “The man, now master, thought about the beast, ‘I’ll slay that evil thing and have a feast.’ He drew his deadly sword from out its sheath and dragged the trembling beast onto the heath. Now closer still the beast was to its death, but said to master in its final breath, ‘Oh master, please, you must forgive my soul—I only wanted knowledge of your role.’ The master saw the spirit in its eyes and knew that killing it would not be wise. He sheathed the sword and freed the animal to help him work and till the barren soil. A grudge he never held, not in the least. For he, the master, needed his great beast.”

The boy folded the papers and tucked them away. “Thank you for listening to my humble writing.” Antimachus stood and gave him a hug. The crowd applauded heartily.

Antimachus raised his cup once more. “To my poet kin, we drink again!” and all took a gulp. Juvenal retired into the crowd, and the feasting and drinking and singing commenced. It seemed the feast was nearly over and all quite drunk, even Antimachus, when the tribal leader took the poet’s seat and introduced his song. “Before we lay our heads abed, the final verse must first be read. For though she is our loving Queen, the Muse for verse has naught but greed.” The tribe cheered his announcement, but quickly grew quiet as he closed his eyes.

When Antimachus cleaved his lids again, it was as though he were in a trance—his body straightened, his voice cleared, his eyes saw everything and nothing. He seemed not at all himself, and the hint of drunkenness that accompanied him before had fled his sobered head. He made one more plea before he began his speech. “Great Goddess, take this mortal frame and sing your immortal refrains.” The master poet began his song:

“The crowded clouds atop a mountain peak, by towers three beneath so coarsely cleaved, adorned a castle keep that reigned the state below—its weal in peace until the Fates beseeched a demon donned in metal bright to lavish on the land a dreadful blight. The kingdom plagued, a pestilence crept in at night. At morning mothers daily wept, their children cold, their spouses stiff, despair about the house and death throughout the air, and husbands swore their oaths to bravely fight that horrid oaf who took their babes and wives, for every evening came a sword aside a suit of armor white to claim a life.

“The bitter King before his people swore to smite that wicked Knight of White, who tore apart the kingdom as he bore away the spirits early to their earthly graves. The monarch waged a war upon the weal—the bloody strife did not the sickness heal; instead it turned the subjects ‘gainst their head, as morning sun alit the masses dead, who fell deceased to both that Knight of White and mortal men engaged in futile fight. The King believed the pearly paladin to be a warrior of his native land. But lo! that man of arms was born afar, and kingly hate did haste the killing gar.

“The grieving King amassed his noble horde and sent them fast to fight that Knight abhorred, but none returned save one who’d never felt defeat—on him a victory yet was dealt. The monarch’s Champion failed to best the beast that stalked the kingdom, dealing death to each. The ghastly Knight of White too failed the fight—his strength was matched against the Champion’s might. The Champion, head hung low, addressed his King: ‘I failed, my liege, to quell that savage thing, and purge your graceful state of death and grief, so I in shame to exile take my leave.’ With that the monarch lost his ablest man—the Champion never home returned again.

“For twelve pernicious years the Knight beset the kingdom with his spear and sword of death. The King, benumbed, bemoaned upon his throne, bedecked in robes of woe and crown of stone. His people pleaded him to keep alive the fight against the dreaded Knight of White, but he relented to the fate that vexed the state—abandoned was his noble quest. And so his hopeless vassals sat in wait until the day that Knight would lay to waste beloved kin and friend—that hellish fiend! No help from their unwilling King received. The killing sallied forth until the blanched disease besieged the royal daughter’s hand.

“Rekindled now his hate, the King repledged his oath to end the pallid devil’s threat. He gathered up his men again to fight with all their might against the frightful Knight. But old and weak and timid they had grown, and they refused to wander from their homes. The honor they had known full well in youth, by doubt and dole and death had been removed. A single voice bespoke amongst the crowd; a callow Squire to kill the killer vowed. Aloud the laughter floated from the rest—‘You’ve never even been to war!’ they said. He hushed the mockers fast when he replied, ‘I loved the comely Princess ere she died.’”

Shelley leaned over and whispered to me, “It’s a romance.”

“It’s an allegory,” I replied softly. “Shhhh. It’s getting good.”

“The King espied devotion in his face and on the Squire bestowed approving grace. From high above the kingly throne he drew an ancient saber many rivals slew. On budding shoulders laid the tapered blade—a knight the youthful Squire the monarch made. He then bequeathed the jeweled hilt and sword unto that boy whose love drove him to war. ‘This whetted weapon oft has proved its might. I pray it proves itself against the Knight.’ The Squire with reverence took the deadly prize, and to the King his odyssey apprised: ‘I’ll fight the Knight, but first I fly to find the one whose strength did meet the beast in kind.’

“The Squire descended down the mountain ridge to lure the Champion from his hermitage, for he alone had braved the devil’s blade, and though he failed, unconquered walked away. At dusk the youth espied a lowly town within the dale he on his journey found, a peaceful lake its placid centerpiece, an ambling creek escaping water’s brink. The villagers with wonder met the Squire, and, curious, his mission they inquired. The callow knight then to the folk disclosed the havoc wreaked by that pale plated ghost. The people in confusion thus replied, ‘None here the vicious Knight of White has plied.’

“The Squire about the village cast his stare and marked the calm and stillness in the air—the citizens in harmony remained despite the harm that maimed their King’s domain. ‘But how’d your town escape his killing blade, and why on you this peerless mercy laid?’ Their fortune thus unknown to them, they lacked an explanation how they dodged attack. The peaceful people fed the youth before they sent him off to seek that man of war. Along the river banks he made his way, but ere he left he heard an ancient say, ‘Upon the river lives the Champion knight—depend you not, though, on his mortal might.’

“The Squire and river ambled down the glen as sun and moon exchanged their place again. Though flowing steady, still the water stayed, unrippled and unwaved its quiet face. For hours in the dark the gallant youth his mentor sought, and when the rising moon its zenith reached and valley reached its base, the tranquil creek became a tranquil lake. The junior knight from wetted banks beheld a school of eels encased in silver scales, an owl of white in predatory glide, an eerie glow that reeked from every side. Unnerved, the Squire around the lake traversed and found the river flowing in reverse!”

“I don’t get it,” Shelley uttered in confusion.

“I told you it was an allegory. Listen—”

“The weary Squire on legs fatigued advanced the steep and rugged hills to find the man who met the beast and equaled him in strength—the river flowed with ease its upward length. The mountain peak ascended through the clouds, but trail and creek at midpoint leveled out, revealing yet again a lake where near the water’s edge a jagged cave appeared. Beside the cavern’s mouth, a hoary head inside a pair of wrinkled hands was set. The Squire with care approached the ancient man and saw upon his hip a rusty brand. ‘Could this unflinching statue be the knight who of our kingdom had the greatest might?’

“The Champion to his feet arose with ease—‘I am the same who failed to tame the beast.’ He sat again unmoved and reticent. The youthful gallant begged him wisdom vent: ‘Pray tell, my lord, if I upon that Knight of White should lay my borrowed sword to fight, how might I conquer his unrivaled might and free our nation from the savage blight?’ The Champion raised his head enough to pierce his junior’s eyes with gaze both calm and fierce. ‘You cannot fell that fiend—that pallid plate and helm encase not bod nor head nor face. For three long years I pondered in this cave, but naught I gained of that uncanny day.’

“The daunted Squire began his journey home, but ere he set the path to downward roam, in faded words he heard the Champion prate: ‘Ascend the mountain peak and seek the Sage.’ The gallant youth was moved to keep his quest alive, so at the Champion knight’s behest (perhaps it was the voice inside his head!), to lofty alps again his path was set. The ardor of that hike was none the Squire had ever known. The sun shone down its ire midday and beat his face with scorching might—its rays obscured the path from pilgrim’s sight. The Squire then clenched his lids and owing naught to fruitless eyes descried the prize he sought.