Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (11 page)

“The Sage appeared with sword in hand behind the lucent skin that screened the gallant’s eyes. A fountain spurted high the timid creek that flowed uphill to meet the mountain peak. Within his head the boy could hear the rush of water gushing from the fountain hush; the light that ached his eyes no longer hurt; he seemed inside a privy universe. The Squire a peaceful feeling felt and knew the sitting Sage would grant to him the truth, but when the boyish knight inquired the way to kill the fiend and stay his killing blade, the ancient man of wisdom laughed and said, ‘Fear not the Knight of White, for he is dead.’

“The youthful pilgrim opened his puzzled eyes to see through clouds those triple towers rise! The downward trek, the trying upward climb, the journey back had all escaped his mind. Bewildered, still he felt the joy of home, for sleepless nights and days the Squire had roamed, and joyous too he was to know the Knight of White was dead, no more would kingdom blight. No sentinel stood guard before the gate, no greeting to the homeward Squire was made. An air of grief about the castle dwelled—these dreadful omens naught but trouble spelled. The King dispelled the junior knight’s delight—‘You’ve failed your quest to best that beastly Knight!’

“The Squire fell ill, and in his bed he stayed unmoved for twelve oppressive nights and days. The Sage upon the mountain peak had lied—the savage Knight of White had never died! The ailing boy could barely drink or eat, his mind distraught, his fragile body weak. Upon his cot the sickly Squire remained and cursed the erring wisdom he had gained. Beside his bed two unused swords were laid—one sharp and jeweled, the other dull and plain. He saw himself in that unsharpened blade, and to the grave his hope of glory gave. The moment he relinquished fight and might, appeared before his door that armor white.”

“Oh my god—he’s going to die,” Shelley whispered.

“Just wait,” I said. “I think I know how this is going to end.”

“The weakened Squire reached quickly for the sword ‘twas gifted him from his provincial lord and swung its whetted edge at pallid plate—the boy against that armor broke the blade. The fiendish Knight then drew his killing brand and took the weakling in his armored hand. The gauntlet round the junior knight grew tight; the trembling Squire was overcome with fright. The Knight of White prepared the killing blow. The Squire then turned in fear and saw below the Sage’s simple sword—his only chance to smite the blight that terrorized his land. He closed his eyes and toward the devil’s head he swung—that mighty Knight of White fell dead.

“The gallant’s strength return quite instantly—he sprung alive to his unflinching feet. The coursing blood shot rapid to his brain and off his youthful head the hair was raised. The Knight of White lay motionless and still, The Squire lamented all the fiend had killed. He drew his humble sword and held it high to strike once more and end the demon’s life. But ere the victor set that spirit free, he thought about the Champion’s mystery. The callow champion to the loser stooped and from his face the pallid visor drew. Inside the helm resided quite a scare—‘twas like the Squire into a mirror stared!

“The Squire could not believe his lying eyes. He swung the modest blade with all his might, and from his sight that Knight of White escaped—that plate encased not bod nor head nor face! The empty armor in his arms was light, and to the King he bore the fallen Knight. The monarch too regained his strength and vowed the Squire one day would don his kingly crown. Then King beseeched the nascent Prince to strap that pallid suit of armor on his back. The Champion Prince as King requested did, and over head and shoulder armor slid. The King and people cheered the Prince of Light, Destroyer of the dreaded Knight of White.”

Chapter XVII

Antimachus collapsed into the arms of elders on either side of him. It seemed they were waiting for him to fall. “Is he okay?” I asked of a poet.

“He does this every time. In a moment he’ll be fine. Only he and a few elders have the skill to recite verse like that at will. And they all from fatigue fall when the Muse from their minds withdraws.”

“The Muse?”

“Yes, of course.” Before I could press further, Antimachus had risen to his feet. Cheers and toasts rang out to him. The rest of the night was quite fuzzy. Shelley could not stop smiling—I think she was drunk. We stumbled to our borrowed tent and fell fast asleep.

*.*.*

I awoke quite suddenly to see Juvenal crouching in the tent doorway. “We have to break camp—the scouts have spied a looter tribe. Pack your things. My uncle wants to meet before you leave.” He darted away. I gently shook Shelley to wake her.

“Shelley. Shelley. We have to go.” She rolled over and ignored me. “Shelley!”

“I’m awake. I’m awake.” She didn’t move. I shook her again. She sat upright, holding her stomach. “I don’t feel so well.” She bolted for the door. She barely made it out of the tent before returning to the earth the feast it had provided her the night before. I held her hair as she vomited wine and plant and beast. Ever-cheerful Ovid came rushing over to us and offered Shelley a cup. She waved it off. “No more—I had too much already.” She was still a little drunk.

“No, my dear—this is no beer. This is the cure for your over-cheer. Drink, drink.” He held the cup to her lips and helped her down the concoction. That contagious smile never left his face, and soon Shelley was smiling too. “Feel better?”

“Yes, much.” He wandered off to heal more victims of the dreaded liquor sickness. Shelley gazed at the chaos unfolding around her. “What’s going on?”

“We have to break camp. A looter tribe is nearby.” We packed our things quickly. “Antimachus wants to see us before we leave.” We found Antimachus with several of the elders plotting their next move.

“Young Marlowe and beautiful Shelley—my apologies for waking thee. But we must flee this camp, and soon. The looters will be here before noon. If it is indeed the city you seek, I will show you the way. It should take less than a day. But first you must guide this elder and his tribe to the sacred hall of books whence great Homer you took.” I gave him directions to the abandoned village where we found the Library. He was as grateful as an explorer who’d stumbled across a treasure map. “We are indebted to your kindness. Before we make our egress, we will show you the street that to the city leads.”

“Before you go, I have something for you.” I took the copy of
The Odyssey
from my bag and handed it respectfully to Antimachus. “Please. Give this to your nephew.” He accepted with a bow and handled the book with great reverence. Shelley fumbled through her own bag. She pulled out her anthology and handed it to Antimachus.

“For your hospitality,” she said.

“But, Shelley—you love that book,” I whispered to her. I knew why she was giving him the book. I did not want to know why.

“I won’t have any use for it soon.” Antimachus hugged her, and then he hugged me. He knew.

As he released his grip and turned back to the elders, I touched him on the shoulder. “One more thing.”

He turned to me again. “Yes, Marlowe.”

“The Muse—what is it?”

He laughed. “All the gods and demons that have plied this earth have sprung from the human mind. So too our Muse.” That was all he would say. He had more pressing matters to address.

The tribe led us a few hundred meters from camp to a road that led west. “Take this country road—straight to the city it goes. When you cross the bridge over the valley steep, your destination will be within reach. Stay a ways from the road’s side to avoid those rogue tribes.”

They all wished us godspeed, and then disappeared into the trees.

*.*.*

We had only walked a little way when Shelley said, “I could spend the rest of my life with those poets. I could sing like that every night.” For hours at a time I would forget the inevitable, and then she would say something like that, and it would all come crashing down upon me—the Light, the Disease, her demise, my utter dread. That journey was bittersweet, for I got to taste of the life that I could have led with her, but never did I swallow. I tried to redirect her thoughts.

“Perhaps in the city they will help us, and when we leave we can find that poet tribe again. I think I could learn a lot from Antimachus.”

“They will not help us in the city. This journey is for you, Marlowe, not for me.” I gazed stone-faced upon that fair-cheeked Medusa.

“But we are going to the city to find the medicine. There must be—”

“There isn’t. If there were, everybody would be flocking there. Have you seen anyone else going to the city?”

“Then why did you come?”

She took her time with her reply. “Because I realized that you loved me, that you really, truly loved me. And I would rather spend the last few days of my short life with someone like you, someone who loves me like you do, than live for eternity without true love. You are the sweetest boy I’ve ever met, and I’ve loved you all along.” She had told me she loved me, but it was only then that I knew for sure. She hugged me long and hard. We stood there in each other’s arms for a while, oblivious to the pain, the misery, the death of the world around us, and then finally, without words, we resumed our journey hand in hand into the unknown, but knowing everything we needed to know.

After a few hours of walking we found the deep valley that Antimachus spoke of, but to our horror the bridge that would lead us across that gorge was nothing more than scorched wood and mangled metal—it had been burnt to the ground. “What do we do now?” Shelley asked.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter XVIII

Beneath the charred behemoth lay a broad swath of gently flowing water, tinted brown by the red clay from its bed and banks and dotted with rocks and boulders peaking above the surface at intervals just distant enough to discourage their use in crossing. The winding river cut deep through this valley, an elder to our own, and it was more than water that prevented our passage.

Thick foliage covered the declivity from the ridge where we stood to the valley below, and at the bottom the soft mud sloped treacherously down from where the brush and briar stopped to the river’s edge—there was no hope of escaping the slow current even if we made it to the other side. “We’re not getting across that.”

A soft zephyr momentarily drove the humid air away, and I could almost smell a storm brewing in the distance. The sun had passed its noon-time threshold and was slowly descending to the western horizon across the river. Apollo needed no bridge to cross those waters, but we earthbound mortals were bound by our misfortune.

“Who would do such a thing?” Shelley asked innocently.

Charcoal and ash littered the ground. I squatted down and took a handful of the burnt wood, crumbling it into dust. The black powder drifted with the wind and fell carelessly into the deep canyon below. “Looters, probably. Took what they wanted. Destroyed the rest. Maybe they were running from something. Or someone.” I stood and gauged the terrain that followed the river both north and south while Shelley watched me nervously. “We’ll travel north until we find a way across. There must be a bridge nearby—the Ancients built them everywhere.”

I took her hand and led her up a little gravel road that veered north away from the main thoroughfare and stayed quite close to the river. Occasionally I would cut a path through the brush to make sure the river was still within sight. Eventually the scarcely trodden gravel road became less and less friendly—the shoots became saplings, and the saplings became trees, and the brush grew so thick upon the path it became quite useless to us. “We’ll have to make our way through the woods.” I cut a path through a thicket, and on the other side the trees grew denser as the undergrowth thinned. We walked downhill a few hundred meters, unsure exactly where we were going. “You hear that? The river.”

“At least we aren’t lost.” She smiled for the first time in a while. “You hungry?”

“Yeah. Let’s eat.” We sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and I opened a little package of food the poet nomads had packed for us. “You want to recite a poem first?” I laughed.

She held up her hand, pantomiming a toast, and then she spoke: “The flower in ripened bloom unmatched must fall the soonest prey; though by no hand untimely snatched, the leaves must drop away: and yet it were a greater grief to watch it wither, leaf by leaf, than see it plucked today; since earthly eye but ill can bear to trace the change to foul from fair.”

“Beautiful. Did you write that?”

“It’s Lord Byron,” she said in a lightly condescending tone.

“Oh yeah. I never liked him.”

“You said it was ‘bee-yoo-tee-ful,’” she retorted, elongating the word in sarcastic dramatization.

“Well, it is. Coming from those lips.” A hint of rouge arose upon her fair face as she cut her eyes away from mine.

“Let’s eat,” she said. The food was good, although a bit cold without the fires and the festivities of the poet nomads. We ate quickly—the sun would set soon, and we still hadn’t found a way across the river, nor shelter for the night.

*.*.*

We followed the river until late afternoon. As the light faded, the sinking sun threw streaks of orange and purple across the sky. Through the treetops we could see the ominous gray underbelly of approaching clouds. Every now and then a zephyr would intrude upon the solitude of that dun forest and turn the trembling leaves downside up. They would dance and flit until the wind retreated back to the currents. “A storm is coming. Where will we sleep?”

I looked desperately into the distance. The trees appeared to open up not far from where we were. It seemed we were not so unfortunate after all. “There—” We hurried through the woods to the clearing. “A bridge!” Across a narrow section of river spanned an old two-lane bridge that was quite well-worn and traveled, yet unlike the unkempt gravel road, this bridge was maintained, even repaired in places. I grabbed Shelley's hand and started to cross. “We can get to the City in a few hours.”

She stopped me. “Marlowe—there's a storm. And I'm tired. And hungry. Can't we just stay in that village for the night?”

“What village?” She stepped aside and turned her head, and without a word directed me with her gaze to a village about a hundred meters from the bridge. I could see the tops of the old suburban houses jutting above the high fence that surrounded them. The fence was well-built, not like the roughshod and half-finished wall around our own little town, nor the wobbly and pied collection of serried boards and timber that failed to protect the abandoned village we stumbled across earlier in our journey. The road led from the bridge straight to the village gate. The gate was quite big, big enough for a wagon or two, and its gatehouse was tall and foreboding.

“Oh.
That
village.”

“Let’s check it out.” She started toward it. I caught her hand.

“Carefully,” I warned. She nodded. We took the edge of the road and approached with caution. As we drew nearer, I could see men at the gate, both guards and guests. The guests were negotiating their entrance. A strange paradox of deterrent and invitation mingled about that gate, but it seemed not so threatening that we couldn’t at least speak with the men who guarded it. One of the guests before the gate was arguing a price with a guard.

“Ef ya don’ lak tha price—” The guard looked up at the strengthening storm. A flash of heat lightning charged across the darkened sky, illuminating the clouds from within their misty wool and casting an eerie glow upon the bickering traders. “—you c’n sleep unner them sters.”

The man grumbled as he reached into his pocket for a few pieces of silver. “Robbery. This is robbery.” He reluctantly dropped two coins in the guard’s hand. The guard held the coins up to the light and carefully examined them.

“Welcome, sir, to ire humble abode.” He smiled triumphantly at the annoyed traveler. The gate opened, and the two men disappeared inside. The guard shook the two coins in his closed hand then pocketed them. He paced a few times, looking around in boredom, before he noticed Shelley and me.

“You—” He walked swiftly toward us. “Whaddya wont?” he said forcefully, drawing his denim jacket to the side to reveal a small caliber pistol. It was the first one I had ever seen—they were outlawed by the Union many years before I was born.

I turned to Shelley and whispered, “Maybe we should get going.”

“We need a place to stay for the night,” she said to him confidently.

“It’ll cost ya.” The guard folded his arms and let the jacket fall back into place. It hung on the hilt of the pistol. He didn’t seem to care.

“We don’t have any money.” In her naiveté she attempted a ploy for his sympathies, which he had not.

He looked her up and down. “Well, fer you, purty girl, I thank we can work sumpin’ out.” He grinned an evil grin. “But yer scrawny boyfrand thar is gon’ have to pay.” His innuendo was lost on her innocent ears.

“What is it you’d like me to—”

I cut her off quickly. “I have money.” I reached into my bag and, without revealing the pouch, retrieved a few coins from it. “How much?”

He eyed my bag carefully, sizing me up for my worth. “How much ya got?”

I held up one silver coin. I’d never bargained before, but I knew from Benjonsen’s Book never to pay full price. He laughed at my offer.

“Fer that you c’n sleep in the field over yonder.” Lightening ripped across the sky once again, and Shelley leaned in close to me, half shielding herself from the plague that stood before us. “You won’ stay in this here town, it’s gon’ cost ya
four
pieces o’ silver.” He started back to the gate. He was playing hardball.

“
Two
pieces,” I called out. He stopped.

“
Three
pieces,” he said as he turned back to me, holding his hand out.

I held out my hand with the two pieces of silver. “Two pieces—you let those other guys in for two pieces.”

“Git lawst, boy.” He was a tough sell.

“Please, mister—there’s a storm coming.” Shelley tried her hand again with his sympathies.

“It’s all I got,” I said. He didn't budge. “Fine. We'll sleep in the field.” I took Shelley by the hand and started to walk away slowly.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Just play along,” I whispered back. It only took a few steps for the guard to realize two pieces of silver was better than none.

“Fine. Two pieces,” he called out. I stopped and turned back to him, offering him again the two pieces of silver. He snatched the coins from my hand and yelled to the gatekeeper, “Op’n tha gate!” The gates parted slowly, and he guided us through. “Ya look hongry.”

“Where can we find food?” I asked.

“I can give yuns the guided ter.” For the first time his voice took on a friendly tone.

“Sure.” He held out his hand for more silver. “Never mind,” I said.

The guard turned and yelled, “Shut tha gate!” while walking back to his guardhouse.

As the gate closed behind us, we left the unknown of the wilderness and entered the unknown of that strange village. It didn’t take long for me to realize it was a rebel village, one of the outlying villages that refused to recognize and follow the law of the Union. They saw the Union as useless, and I guess in a way it was—there was no army to protect us, no federal aid, no social welfare. It was merely a symbolic shadow of its former self, but to those who belonged to the Union, it was the only hope of ever becoming again one nation, indivisible. The rebel villages were a little more pragmatic, and they generally kept to themselves, but this village seemed to be a trading post of sorts.

“What’s that noise?” Shelley asked of the din and clamor spewing from the center of the restless town.

“What’s that smell?” I replied dreamily.