Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (12 page)

Chapter XIX

In the middle of the village was a bustling market set along the old main street. This was not a suburb turned village—in the ancient times this was a small town itself with its own shops and restaurants, government buildings, and schools. The main street was dirty, littered with garbage and greed. The hawkers peddled anything and everything, and the market was as confused and disorganized as the caterwaul that ejaculated from it. There was street food, too, and the shouts and smells and sights created chaos for the senses. As we passed, we stared in awe.

There was bartering and arguing all along, but an exchange at one of the larger shops caught our attention. There were three rough-looking men with a cart full of books—a short, stocky bandit and two rather large but lean fellows. They were dressed in ill-fitting jackets belted around the waste and carried knives of various lengths on their hips. They were not happy. A local merchant stood before them, indifferently examining his record book and making the occasional mark with his pencil, his boy stocking merchandise on the shelves behind him. Without looking up the merchant said, “I told yuns already—I ain’t got no use fer no books. Nobody ‘round here buys no books.” He flipped a page in his ledger, wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue, and made a few marks.

The short man spread books across the counter, obstructing the merchant from his work. “We got all kinds of books here. You gotta give us something for ‘em. We got families to feed.” His voice was desperate and subtly threatening. The merchant looked up with annoyance on his face.

“I ain’t got no use fer no books,” he said slowly and emphatically, looking them each in the eye for an infinite second, then returning to his records. They stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence. “Tell ya what,” he said indifferently. “I’ll give yuns two pieces o’ silver fer the whole lot.”

“Two pieces?” One of the tall men reached for his blade, but the short man stopped him before he could draw. The merchant motioned to the boy, who disappeared into the shop behind him.

The short man tried to bargain, “Ten pieces—them books is worth least
ten
pieces.”

The merchant laughed. “Dem books ain’t worth a buffalo nickel if’n I cain’t git nuttin’ out of ‘em. Now take yer two pieces, or take yer worthless pelf and be on yer way.” The boy returned with two large men who stood behind the merchant with arms folded.

“Everythang all right, boss?” one of the large men asked.

“Everythang’s fine. These boys was jus’ leavin’. Weren’t yuns?” The annoyance on his face turned to frustration in his voice. He moved the books out of the way of his records.

The short man leaned in over the counter and pushed books back in front of the merchant. “Five pieces—we’ll take five pieces.”

The merchant’s eyes flared. “On yer way, you
blights
!” He bolted to his feet and flung the books off the counter. They went flying to the ground. A tall man drew his knife. One of the merchant’s men drew a pistol and laid it on the table, pointed directly at the short man. The short man held his hands up, then waved them down in front of his knife-wielding friend, a tacit signal to put away the blade. After a few tense seconds, the tall man capitulated and returned the knife to its sheath.

“Escort these
maladies
to the village gate.” The merchant sat back down and returned to his work. The armed man holstered his pistol, but kept his hand on the grip while the three men gathered their books and returned them to the cart. A distressingly familiar copy of
The Odyssey
lay open on the ground beside them.

“So tragic,” I muttered to myself. I grabbed Shelley by the arm.

“What’s tragic?”

I fumbled for words that wouldn’t disturb. “Um, that merchant—he was using such foul language.”

“That’s not
tragic
, dear. That’s—”

“Let’s just get out of here before anything happens.”

“What’s wrong with you?” She could sense the tension in my voice.

“Nothing.” I led her away from the scene as quickly as I could. She did not need to know of the demise of the poet tribe. It would only have hurt her, and there was already enough hurt in her life. Besides, I didn’t have the words—they were stuck in my throat. That tribe of poets were such beautiful people, and that currish band of nomads slaughtered them for mere paper. The Disease made us all culprits and casualties, predators and prey. The Disease turned men into animals.  

“What is it?” She looked back over her shoulder. The three men were being led to the gate, where a group of villagers appeared from inside the guardhouse to escort them out. There was yelling and pushing and shoving, and cries of
plague
! and
fever
! and
germ
! One of the tall men was knocked to the ground.

“It’s none of our business. Let’s just find a place to sleep.” I don’t know what happened after that. The commotion faded into the background as we ventured farther into the village, but the commotion in my soul grew louder and louder. I never got over the death of the Poets, though death would follow me the rest of my days. They were a light in this dark world, a hope that one day beauty and love and peace might return to our miserable lives. But it would be many short lifetimes before man would be at peace again.

The rebel village was a dirty place, covered in the filth of a hundred years of wanderers, merchants, and thieves. Yet beneath the rubbish lay a village much like our own. The houses and streets were cut from the same ancient templates, and the soil that fed off of the decaying trash was the same soil that fed our own fruits and vegetables back home. Ghosts of ancient families who once lived quiet lives outside the cities were forced to endure the din and clamor of that makeshift market-village day and night, for on every corner was a shop, a restaurant, a pub, a trading post—you could buy anything and everything there, but all we were looking to buy was a roof over our heads and a soft bed for the night.

Though it was dark, the town was still alive, kept awake by the dense greed of the sojourners—who, for the most part, only came to that place to buy or sell—and the sparse light from solar-powered street lamps just bright enough to illuminate the signs on the shops and the colors of the coins. The stars were much dimmer in the lighted village, and then I realized that those gaudy city lights had blinded the Ancients to the native beauty above them.

We wandered into the village outskirts, where the former shops of the ancient town were few, and mostly houses lined the streets, houses converted into hostels for the myriad of lonely travelers who made their money in the markets and spent it in the pubs before returning back to their own villages to lie to their families about how much money they made and spent in those markets and pubs.

I stayed close to Shelley and as far away from the strangers as space would allow. People came out of random alleys and doorways at regular intervals. It was a bit unnerving to be in so strange a place with so strange a people, but from the looks on their faces, we were stranger to them than they were to us, two teenagers wandering clueless through a seedy town like this. And clueless we were. The doors, the windows, the houses all looked the same, or at least so similar we could not judge a difference. Like all travelers who wish to appear astute as they trespass the unknown, perhaps more to themselves than the derelicts who would prey on them, we dissembled as best we could a Pilgrim's experience, passing on the first few places without deliberation, and then one by one sizing up each hostel, declining this one for its location or that one for its customers. An odd face or a dark alley would send us scampering to the next street, and pretty soon the hostels turned to homes, and we were running out of options.

Before the hostels disappeared altogether, we stumbled across a quaint little house, well-kept and cleaner than most. The glow from a nearby street lamp illuminated its hand-painted sign. In red letters on a sea of pale blue it read, “Bed and Breakfast.”

I stopped and gazed at the front door. “What do you think?”

Shelley stared at the sign. “I wonder what's for breakfast.”

“I mean about the hotel.”

“It seems nice. Besides, we passed up every other place in this village.” She grabbed me by the arm. “Let's go. Who cares? It's just one night.” She dragged me through the front door and into the lobby, a small foyer with a desk just big enough for the young girl who sat behind it. She was flipping through a book of photographs.

“Whaddya want?” she asked without looking up from her book.

“A room. For tonight.”

“One or two?”

I hesitated. “Uh—”

“One will be fine,” Shelley said naturally. The girl glanced up at us for barely a second, but enough time for her experienced eyes to appraise our worth and condition, and then she went back to her book.

“Three pieces.” She hardly acknowledged our presence as she flipped a page of her book. “
Real
silver. We don't bargain in Union paper here.” Her demeanor was more mature than her appearance.

“We have real silver.” I slipped my pack off of my shoulders and thrust my hand in my bag. The girl looked up at us again, eyeing me as I reached for the money. Shelley stayed my hand.

“
Two
pieces,” Shelley said with confidence. She commanded the situation. It was the girl. I guess she felt better matched. Or perhaps she was trying her hand at the art of the bargain. She was always a quick learner. “The hotel down the street offered us a room for the same price.”

“Then why don't you sleep at the hotel down the street?” the girl said dryly as she returned to her book.

“We like it here. Besides, it's late. You won't get any more customers tonight.”

“Three pieces,” the girl said indifferently.

“Fine. We'll just stay down the street.” Shelley started away from the desk.

“It's three pieces to stay here, and it's three pieces to stay down the street. It's three pieces to stay anywhere in town, so don't try to pull that country bumpkin bluff on me.” Shelley cut a desperate glance at me and then turned back to the girl. She closed her book and leaned forward on the desk. “Go anywhere else, and the first thing they'll say is five. But the best price you'll get is three. I cut you a break 'cause it's late, and it's raining, and you two look like you never left your little country hamlet before in your lives. And I sure as plagues don't feel like bargaining with two green kids wanderin' around like lost sheep.” She leaned back in her seat and started flipping through the book again. “You want the room or not?”

“We'll take it,” I said. The girl held out her hand. I dropped three coins in her palm. After taking the coins and one by one rubbing and scratching each surface, she held them each in the light, finally settling on the authenticity of the lot. She closed her left hand securely around them and with her right hand caught the chain of a necklace that descended down her neck and inside her shirt. At the end of the chain hung a small key that unlocked a box behind her. She exchanged the coins for another key and held the swinging fob in front of me.

“Room four. Up the stairs.” I snatched the key from her hand. “Bathroom's in the hall. Don’t use too much water. And don't make a mess.” She locked the box and tucked the key and chain back inside her shirt.

“Thanks.” I threw my pack on one shoulder, and Shelley and I made our way up the stairs.

Our room was small but cozy, much like my own room back home, except quite plain and with a larger bed. The furnishings were simple and mismatched, as were the linens. We dropped our packs and sat down on the bed for a rest. Shelley looked around the room, then turned to me and said, “This is the first hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”

“Me too.” I fidgeted uncomfortably. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Then go.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” She reclined back on the bed. I scuttled out of the room.

The bathroom was locked, so I waited for a moment in the hallway. There were old pictures on the wall, faded and dusty, framed ghosts of the ancients who lived here before the Disease. In one picture was the entire family—father and mother, two brothers, a grandmother, even a dog. They looked happy. In all their pictures they looked happy. I followed the family down the hall and through their lives. The boys grew into men; the parents became gray and wrinkled; the grandmother disappeared from the photos altogether. Their clothes, their hair, their poses all changed, but their smiles remained the same.

With my thumb I rubbed the dust from one of the pictures. I peered deeply into the faces, my own face almost touching the grubby glass. I wondered what it was like back then, when life was so easy. They must have been happy all the time. But their smiles were no more genuine than our own, no brighter than my nieces’ expressions when my brother would return home from a long day away, no broader than the young poet’s grin when he beheld that copy of
The Odyssey
, no more enchanting than Shelley’s coy smile when I told her how pretty she looked in her new dress. I was so lost in the photograph that I didn’t even notice the bathroom door open.

Chapter XX

“What’re you doing?” The stranger peered into the photo, his face mere inches away from mine. He startled me, and I jumped back from him. “Whoa there, partner. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He extended his hand. I shook it ceremoniously. “The name’s H.F.”

“Marlowe.” I retracted my hand and looked longingly toward the open bathroom door. “You finished?”

“Sure, sure. Help yourself.” He stared back at the picture as I disappeared into the bathroom. When I came out, he was still staring. I tried to slip past him. He saw me anyway. Without turning his head from the photograph he said, “So what brings you here? You’re not a trader.”

“How can you tell?”

“Easy.” His manner was relaxed and confident, and he only participated in the dialogue between us to the extent that it suited him. “That your wife?” he said, taking his glare from the photograph for the first time and nodding toward the door of our room.

“Sort of.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘sort of’?” He snorted. “You must be hungry.”

“Sort of.” I was not exactly nervous around him, but still I found him somewhat intimidating. He had this air of paradox about him, a sort of repulsive charm. His face and his body language and his words were all contradictions of each other. I didn’t know what to make of him.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” He didn’t give me a chance to respond. “I’m going out to eat. Get your girl. You can come with.”

“I think we can—”

“Nonsense,” he cut me off. “Come with me. In this town, the last thing you want to do is eat at the wrong joint.”

He had a point. I capitulated. After all, it was only dinner. “Let me get my things.” I went inside the bedroom and returned with Shelley and our packs. He laughed when he saw us.

“Running away?” He gently slid Shelley’s pack off her back and held it out for me. “You can leave these.”

“But what if—”

He cut me off again. “Nobody gets robbed in this town except at the market.” He was strangely convincing in everything he said. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s a closet in your room—you can lock your packs up while you’re gone.” I took Shelley’s pack from his hands. “Use your room key—the locks are the same.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Shelley before I disappeared into the bedroom. I took a few pieces of silver out of their pouch and then locked our packs in the closet. When I returned, Shelley and H.F. were laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, cutting a quick but retreating glance at H.F. “You ready to go?”

“What are we waiting for?” H.F. said before he darted down the stairs. I took Shelley’s hand, and we followed him to the foyer. The girl behind the desk was still absorbed in her book. H.F. grabbed an umbrella from a canister by the door. “Take this—you’ll need it.” He handed it to me and then took one for himself.

“Don’t forget where you got those,” the girl said without looking up.

The rain was light but steady. Shelley huddled close to me under the scant protection of the small umbrella—I didn’t mind the weather at all. We followed H.F. down a maze of dark and puddly streets. He knew the town well and even greeted a few travelers he crossed on the way. He led us to a little restaurant at the far end of the market. It was quite humble, with folding tables and plastic stools, but he assured us of its quality. “Best Chinese food outside the city,” he said as he held the door for us. A bell hanging from the door handle clanged as the door swung shut.

H.F. led us to a table, and a man sitting on a stool behind a counter in the back of the restaurant stood to get a better look at us. H.F. nodded; the man nodded in return as though they knew each other (but not well), and then sat back down. H.F. slid two stools from under the table. “Sit.”

“I’ve never had Chinese food,” Shelley said.

“I bet you haven’t.” He chuckled. “First time away from home?” She nodded before I had a chance to cut in.

“We’re on our way to the city.” I didn’t want to reveal too much of our inexperience. I didn’t want to seem too vulnerable. But he saw through my flimsy veneer anyway.

His eyes awoke with a strange curiosity, and his whole demeanor took a slight turn, but to where I could not guess. “What the virus are two village kids doing looking for the city?” Shelley grimaced. “What’s the matter, little lady?” he said gently.

She spoke timidly. “You said the V-word. I never heard such foul language before I came to this village.”

“They’re just words, honey. We got a lot more to worry about in this trying life than words.” He raised his hand. The man came out from behind the counter and dropped a menu on our table. H.F. pointed to a place on the menu, held up three fingers, and the man took the menu away. He never drew his attention away from us or the conversation.

“We’re going to see the doctors,” I said. H.F. sat up in his chair, darting his eyes from me to Shelley to me again.

“The doctors?” The furrows of his forehead betrayed a faint bewilderment. “What the blight for?” H.F. pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it with a wooden match from his other pocket, inhaling the smoke in short puffs to get the tobacco burning, all the while never taking his eyes off of me. He shook the match to extinguish its flame and for the first time in what seemed a thousand uncomfortable seconds took his gaze off my face and looked around for a place to dispose of it.

“Cigarettes? I thought those were illegal,” Shelley said.

H.F. blew the smoke directly above him. A grayish cloud hovered beneath the low ceiling. “Yep. So are guns and cars and moonshine and blah blah blah. In the
Union
. But the rules ain’t the same here.” He crossed his legs and slumped over on his stool, resting his elbow on the bent leg. The man from behind the counter brought an ashtray over and set it on the table in front of him. H.F. dropped the burnt match into the ashtray and then tapped the ash from his cigarette. He took another puff, this time inhaling deeply, and blew the smoke over his head again. “You can get anything you want in this town. If you got the money.” The last of a lungful of smoke drifted across his lips as he spoke. “Whaddya want to see the doctors for?”

“Marlowe thinks they have the Cure for the Disease.” There was a bit of condescension in her voice.

“It’s—it’s not that.” I tried not to seem so naïve and foolish. “Maybe they do. Or maybe they have some kind of treatment. I know there are scientists in the city, and all we hear of their work are rumors and conjecture. We are going there to find out the truth.” I struggled to sound like I had some sense, waiting for the laughter.

But H.F. didn’t laugh. He just leaned forward and said very seriously, “I know a guy.” Before I had a chance to respond, he pressed the end of his cigarette in the ashtray and put his bent leg on the floor. The man from behind the counter was carrying three plates in his hand. One by one he put a plate down before each of us. “Let’s eat,” H.F. said excitedly.

The “Chinese food” was rice fried with vegetables and a few small strips of pork. It was good, though I don’t know how Chinese it was. “Whaddya think?” H.F. said with a mouth full of rice.

“It’s delicious,” Shelley said. She smiled at H.F. and then caught notice of me staring and went back to her food. H.F. looked to me and raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He was chewing his food like cud.

“It’s okay,” I said without looking up.

I ate all of my food and even finished off what Shelley left. The man from behind the counter took our plates and left a bill. H.F. immediately snatched it up. “I got this.” He fumbled around in his jacket dramatically. “Uh-oh. Seems I left my money back in the room.” He set the bill on the table and slid it over to me. “You mind? I’ll get breakfast. Promise.” I picked up the paper check and stared at it. “Only two pieces. You got that, right?”

I dropped two pieces of silver on the table carelessly and stood up to leave. One of the pieces rolled off the table onto the floor. “Marlowe,” Shelley chided, “don’t be so rude.” She picked the coin up off of the floor and placed it gently on the table with the other.

“Sorry,” I said blankly.

“No worries,” H.F. said. He offered me a cigarette. I waved it off.

“No thanks,” I said. He lit the cigarette for himself.

“Let’s go.” H.F. nodded to the man behind the counter before we left.

*.*.*

On the way back to the hotel, H.F. talked nonstop. Shelley would cut in from time to time, and he would half answer then move on to the next thing. I didn’t feel much like talking, so I held Shelley’s hand tight and listened closely.

“Going to the city, eh?” He would ask us questions, but wouldn’t wait for the answer. “I’ve been to the city many times.”

“Are you a trader?” Shelley asked.

“Of sorts. I mostly ‘facilitate’ trade.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. “Haven’t done any real trading in a while. Made a lot of money in my day. Even had a car.”

“Interesting. Gas went bad before you were born.” He was lying. I had him.

“Sure did. You must’ve read that somewhere.” His condescension was unnerving. “Well, this car ran on vegetable oil.” Plagues! He continued, “Used to drive from just outside the city to this village and back almost every day. The city folk mostly trade for food: fruits, vegetables, meat—can’t really farm inside the city limits.” He lit another cigarette. “But that takes too much time and effort. The real money’s in tobacco.” He held up his cigarette. “You know how much city folk pay for a pack of these?” He took a long drag. “Don’t know why these are illegal.” He blew the smoke out slowly.

“You had a car?” Shelley asked. She was awed and impressed—I could sense it in her tone. “Aren’t they illegal too?”

“I told ya—the rules ain’t the same here. Besides, the long arm of the city law only goes so far as the city walls.” The cigarette had withered to a butt. He took one last drag and tossed it to the side with a flick of his middle finger. “That’s what makes this place—the city rules. People in the city come here to get away from the rules. Here you can do anything.” He lowered his voice. “There were several of these rebel villages a few years back. Then the mayor had his henchmen burn all the bridges. Now the only way east from the city is through this village. Pretty smart if you asked me. The mayor of this town’s the richest man outside the city. Takes a cut of every piece of silver that changes hands around here.” He stopped. “Here we are.” We were back at the hotel. “Know why that hotel room cost three pieces?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The owner gets one, the girl gets one, and the mayor gets one.” He lit another cigarette. “You two can head on in. I’m gonna burn one more before I hit the sack.”

I gave Shelley the key. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you. I need to ask H.F. a few questions about getting around in the city.”

“Okay.” She took the key with her left hand and extended her right to H.F. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, darlin’,” he said casually, the cigarette hanging precariously from his bottom lip. He shook her hand with both of his, and it seemed the longest handshake I’d ever seen. Shelley even blushed a little—it made my heart dance, but not for joy, not joy!

Finally I interrupted. “We’d better get to bed. We have a long day tomorrow.” Shelley drew back her hand and started for the door, but then stopped abruptly and turned back to me.

“Don’t talk too much. We have a long day tomorrow,” she said with a smile. Then she kissed my cheek before darting inside.

“That’s a pretty girl you got there.”

“She’s dying.”

“Sorry to hear that, kid.” He paused, and we stared for a moment in awkward and uncomfortable silence. “But we’re all dying, ain’t we? S’pose I only got a few years myself—I’ll be twenty-four next month.”

“You said you knew a guy.”

“Forget about that, kid.” He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot. “Take the bridge outside the village—it’ll lead you right to the city.” He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “Sorry about your girl.” He stepped past me and took the handle of the door in his hand. “Don’t forget—breakfast is on me,” he said as he disappeared into the hotel.