Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (13 page)

Chapter XXI

When I got to the room, Shelley was in the bed writing in her Book. She put it away quickly. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and took my shoes off. “Nothing.”

She repeated herself in a softer voice, “What’s wrong, Marlowe?”

“You were flirting with him,” I said without looking at her.

“I was not.” I looked at her with my eyebrow raised. She looked away. “Okay, maybe a little. But he was charming, don’t you think?”

“No,” I replied. “He was creepy.” She giggled softly as she slid over on the bed and sat next to me.

She caressed my back gently. “What are you worried about, anyway? We’ll never see him again.”

I smiled half a smile, then grabbed a pillow and lay down on the floor. “I guess you’re right,” I mumbled.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep.”

“On the floor?” She pulled the covers back for me. “Get in the bed.”

*.*.*

I woke up on the edge of the bed with Shelley’s leg and arm draped across my body. She was swaddled in covers as I lay bare to the elements. “So this is what it’s like to sleep with a woman,” I muttered to myself. The sun’s dawning light through the threadbare curtains set her face aglow, soft rays shimmering in a hazy aura about soft skin and soft features—it was surreal and yet the most beautiful image upon which I’d ever gazed, and every day I still see with my mind’s eye the flush of her cheek, the slight grin on her sleeping face, the smooth orbs protruding ever so slightly beneath her closed eyelids, occasionally darting to and fro as they followed the illusions in her dreams. She turned her head toward me as though she were about to wake, but then rolled over and went limp again, taking the last shred of quilted fabric with her.

I sat up. “Shelley,” I said softly. “You awake?” She groaned and rolled over.

“I am now.” She rubbed her eyes and looked at me. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, offering me the blanket.

“I’m fine. We have to get up and get going anyway.” She rolled over and sat upright, planting her feet on the floor. “Wanna take a shower? I’ll turn on the pump.”

She took longer than I expected. I wondered if women always took this long to get ready. Then it was my turn, and I realized the niggardly spigot would part with but one meager drop of water at a time, though I was thankful for every one of them.

It was still quite early, but that saucy girl was already at her post. I saw no sign of H.F. “Have you seen the gentleman we were with last night? H.F.?” I dropped my key on the counter. She sat up and reached out with her left hand, covering the key and sliding it off the counter into her right.

“Left early this morning.” She pulled the master key out from under her shirt and opened the box that said “Four,” replacing its key and retrieving from it a carefully folded note. “Left this for you.” She handed me the note. It was from H.F.

“What is it?” Shelley leaned in to read.

“A name. And an address.” That was all. “In Green City.” I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. “Thanks for the hospitality.” I took Shelley’s hand. “Let’s go.”

*.*.*

We had crossed the bridge and were ascending a slight hill when we first saw them. There were dozens, running in formation toward the village gate, carrying clubs and axes and torches. They descended upon the sleepy town with a vengeance. I urged Shelley on, for our only safety was in distance from those diseased barbarians. Even from that distance, it was terrible to hear the clash, the scream, the kindling of house and hostel. At first there were gunshots, and though they did not last, the sound of them spurred us to a swifter pace—we were almost running to the top of that hill. The yawp and holler waned as the weep and wail waxed, though all the cacophonies of war faded fast once we crossed the ridge and descended the other side of the hill and the village was out of sight, but not out of mind.

We said nothing to each other. We just walked. What was there to say? We didn’t know those people, and they cared not for us, only our silver. They were a heartless and avaricious people. And yet they were people nonetheless. We felt sorry for them, but we would shed no tears, for we had none to spare.

The road became flatter and smoother as we traveled along. We saw a trader carting his fare to that Sodom or Gomorrah, and we tried to warn him of the danger. But he merely whipped his horses and rode swiftly past us as though we were highwaymen. There was no trust in these paths, nor should there be. I feared what danger that merchant’s caution might incite. That fear did not last. We had our own dangers to contend with.

It wasn’t long before the sun was high in the sky and we were cresting what seemed the thousandth ridge. The foothills were just that—hills. Endless hills everywhere. Those hills protected us in many ways, but for travelers they were no boon. This particular hill was not boonless, for as I crested that thousandth ridge, I was blinded by the shimmer of sun off glass, glass high in the cloudless sky and free of the strangling vine that creeps along the lesser buildings and cloaks their archaic splendor. It was the shimmering glass of one of those magnificent skyscrapers the Ancients erected in their cities, and it was divine! Green City!

“Shelley—we’re here!”

Chapter XXII

The sun drew the evening rainwaters from the earth, making the air thick and humid. A fog encircled the jagged skyline, separating the upper floors of the buildings from the ground below, and the tops of those great skyscrapers seemed almost afloat in the misty air. Behind them the foothills sat, they too aiming for the skies, but gently lured toward the heavens by the gods, not hastily thrust into the welkin by men. It was a stark contrast between the masterworks of a mother and her children.

I bolted down the suburban road and immediately tripped on a root that had ages ago penetrated the asphalt path and lay in wait to ambush the careless pedestrian. This pedestrian went tumbling down the hillside. “Marlowe!” Shelley yelled, as my pack spilled opened and littered the ground with my every possession. I came to a thumping halt against a large oak just off the road. “Are you okay?” She ran over and sat down beside me, examining my head and face for injuries.

“Ow,” was all I could say. The fall hurt my pride more than my head.

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

She brushed the grass and dirt out of my hair. “Oh, baby . . .” She kissed my forehead. “That was . . .” I closed my eyes and patiently awaited the sweet nothings she would surely utter to sooth my aching head. “That was . . .
hilarious
.” She laughed heartily. My jaw dropped. She stifled her laugh with her hand, but it nevertheless burst through in snorts and grunts.

“Oh, Marlowe.” My face turned red. “It’s okay.” Her futile attempt at holding back laughter incited my own. I turned my head, but she caught a glimpse of my expanding grin. She let loose her laughter, and mine exploded right behind. We fell to the grass, and (of course) we kissed, right there in the shadow of those ancient steel and concrete and glass spires wherein our salvation lay. Or so we hoped.

We sat giggling and poking and kissing and tickling until footsteps on the path brought our accidental tryst to an end.

“These your things?” The voice came from a tall, imposing figure. He was scanning our scattering of belongings and gauging them for their worth. We clumsily gathered my things and stuffed them in my bag. “Relax. I ain’t gonna swipe your stuff.” And with that, the man lazily strolled down the path.

We watched him disappear and sighed relief when he was gone. I looked into Shelley’s eyes, and for one unforgettable moment escaped this awful world, this pain and misery that followed us through our dearth of days. We had left death behind, and we were on our way to meet death yet again, but in that moment there was no sadness, no suffering, no Disease—just Shelley. My mind was empty of every thought but her, and I gazed at her aura with a half-drunken smile.

“Marlowe? Are you okay? You look dizzy. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

I came to and started gathering my things again. I was a little embarrassed. I suppose I always loved Shelley more than she loved me. But I never cared about that, as long as she loved me. She grabbed my arm. “Oh, Marlowe, I’m just kidding.” She stared deeply into my eyes as a thought gathered behind her own. “You know, Marlowe, sometimes you make me forget all about this dreadful world.” She smiled and gave me a quick kiss, and we gathered up the rest of my things.

*.*.*

The fence, the guard, the gate—they were so much like the description in Benjonsen’s book, I didn’t have to ask. But nervousness and excitement prompted the unnecessary question, anyway.

The guard replied tepidly, “Yeah, yeah, it’s Green City. See that big sign over there?”

It was faded and rusty, and I could barely make out the words. “I think it says Green
ville
.”

“Yeah, yeah, same difference. You coming in or not?” The city guard waited impatiently at the gate.

I took Shelley by the hand. “We’re finally here—Green City!”

“Yeah, yeah, I ain’t got all day.” The guard’s eyes widened as he tilted his head in the direction of the gate.

“Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Shelley darted ahead of me. I cut my eyes at the guard, who had already mounted his post, a wobbly wooden chair with a folded blanket for a cushion and a bucket for an ottoman.

“Shelley—wait up!” She slowed her gait to a meandering pace, and I caught up to her quickly. “You know, we traveled all this way, and we got lost, and nearly killed, and we finally found this place, and I—” I was rambling. Shelley stopped me.

“Relax, Marlowe. It’s just a city. Don’t get your hopes up.” It was too late for that.

“The hospital!” I pulled the name and address from my pocket.

“Don’t you want to explore first?” She spun around slowly and gazed at the great buildings that surrounded us.

“No time for that.” I was impatient to the last. There was no time, no time. But there
was
time, and yet I wasted it like a hopeless fool. I often wondered what I would do with more time in my life, more than these few and trying decades my people are cursed to bear. The Ancients lived a hundred years or more. I suppose anybody could find happiness in a hundred years. But I would not exchange that fortnight with Shelley for a thousand of those ancient lives. We should have explored the city.

Beyond the city gates was a market; there was a similar market at the western gate. Again, it was just like Benjonsen’s Book. It’s no wonder the two cities were confused. “Look, Shelley—it’s just like in the Book we found. You hungry?”

“Of course, I’m hungry.” I fished out a couple of coins and kept them at the ready. We scanned the rows of vendors. I felt like I could have eaten one of everything. “Ooh—hot dogs! I’ll have two, please. You want a hot dog, Marlowe?”

“Two. Chili and slaw. No onions.”

“
Extra
onions for me, please.”

“Gross. I’m not kissing you.”

“Suit yourself.” Shelley made a ridiculous face, which turned flush as the vendor reached out to hand her the two dogs. When he turned his back again, she took a huge bite, those dreadful onions and all, and after a few rapid mastications blew that fetid stench right in my face. I was appalled.

The hot dog vendor set out three odd buckets for a table and chairs, and we dined. I asked him where the hospital was and showed him the address from H.F.

He took the paper and shook his head. “That ain’t the hospital,” he said, handing the paper back to me. “The hospital’s over there.” He pointed to the top of a red brick building maybe a quarter of a mile away.

I shoved the last of my dog in my mouth. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my bag.

“What was that? I can’t understand you with all that food in your mouth.”

I chewed furiously. “I said, let’s go.”

“I’m not finished yet.” She was chewing the last bite slowly, all the while staring at me with an undulating half-grin. When she finished, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, folded it, and laid it gently on the bucket-table before us. “
Now
I’m finished. We can go.”

I urged Shelley on—she was in no hurry at all. Still, it only took a few minutes to get to the hospital. It was a chaotic amalgam of peoples and technologies. The ancient technology is difficult to maintain, though our amateur engineers have made quite brilliant modifications. They work in vain, for the Disease rages on, and there are few who choose to waste their precious little time on earth rebuilding the gadgets and the machines that once made life seem so much fairer, so much easier.

A young girl sat at the reception desk. It was cluttered and busy, with nurses floating to and fro, grabbing clipboards and calling for patients. The receptionist wore ill-fitting glasses that she nervously arranged and adjusted. “Can I help you?” She pushed the glasses up her nose.

“We’re here to see a doctor.”

The girl lowered her glasses, assessing Shelley’s condition, then pushed them back up her nose again. “She don’t look pregnant.”

“She’s not.”

“I’m not.”

The words were spoken in conjoined disharmony.

“Then why do you need to see the doctor?” she asked with a doubting voice.

“She has the Disease.”

“We’ve all got the Disease,” she responded, coldly.

“I mean the Early Onset. She saw the Light. Just the other day.” The receptionist didn’t seem to care.

“There’s not really anything we can do. Is there a particular doctor you’d like to see, sir?” I took out the paper and handed it to her. She but glanced at it before handing it back. “There’s no doctor here by that name.”

I leaned in close. “Don’t they do
research
at this hospital?”             

“Sir, I don’t think you’re in the right place.”

“I told you, Marlowe. There is no Cure,” said Shelley. She spoke softly and sweetly, as a caring mother might to a disappointed child. “Let’s just go home.” She rubbed my arm tenderly.

“But the stories, the books, Benjonsen’s map—was it all just bosh?”

“It’s okay, Marlowe,” Shelley said calmly. “Let’s go home.”

I just stood there. I couldn’t go home after all we had been through—making the Citizen’s Appeal, defying my brother, abandoning my family, embarking on that harrowing journey—all for nothing. Nothing. I was paralyzed.

A nurse came from behind the desk and pulled me gently away. “Room 504—Dr. Meyer. He can help you.” Before I could relay the message to Shelley, the nurse disappeared into the motley crowd of expecting and infected.

I pulled Shelley into the corner away from the crowd. “Where are the stairs?” We both looked around.

“Why? Where are we—over there!” She grabbed my hand, and we darted for the stairwell. “Where are we going?” I held the stairwell door for her. “And why are we in such a hurry?”

“You’ll see. Fifth floor.”

“Ugh. Could you at least slow down a little?”

On the first few floors, the stairwell was bustling with people. By the time we got to the fifth, it was barren, almost ghostlike. The stairwell door creaked as we opened it, and though I thought I heard voices, there was not a soul in sight. “Did you say something?”

“No, why?”

“Nothing. The nurse said 504.”

“That way.” It was just down the hall from the stairwell.

“504—Dr. Meyers. This is the place.” I rapped lightly at the door. There was no answer. I checked the lock—it was open.

“Just go in, silly. It’s a doctor’s office.” Shelley darted in before me. We stepped into what appeared to be some sort of pre-examination area—in the corner sat a small table with a curtain that could be drawn in a circle around it, like our shower back home; next to the table was a stool with wheels (I had never seen one like it before); there were chairs for waiting or consultation; there were shelves and cabinets with rather innocuous-looking medical tools and bandages. There was no hint of the surgical or morbid, but there was a door in the rear of the room.

After finding nothing else of interest, Shelley walked boldly to it. “What do you think’s in here?”

“Maybe we should find a nurse.”

“Let me check the lock.”

Flashing that silly grin at me, Shelley reached for the door without looking. But her hand found no handle, and the door disappeared. In its place stood a silhouette in a lab coat. The bright light glaring off the sterile background of stark-white tile and paint engulfed the pallid figure in a ghastly radiance. My eyes widened in anticipation. I was not afraid, though I surely looked it, for when Shelley saw my face, her own drained itself white as that silly grin faded to oblivion. The half-second it took for her to turn from my ghastly image to the one standing ominously behind her was just long enough to foment a shrill and stentorian shriek. She swooned and collapsed into the doctor’s arms.

The doctor gently laid Shelley upon the examination table. He sat down on the stool, placed a blanket under her head, and checked her vital signs. He was quite gentle with her. “Are you okay?” He was young, but he had that soft yet assertive voice that only comes with years of comforting the uncomfortable. Shelley shook off her stupor and raised up on her elbows. “Easy there. Lie back down.” He gently urged her back to her pillow. “Just rest a moment.”

“Dr. Meyers?”

“Yes?” He slid his stool back.

“The nurse downstairs sent me to find you.”

He looked at me for the first time. His face was a paradox—solid, square, the kind of face that looked years beyond its age, not from work or sun or abuse, but from pure and natural masculinity. He had olive skin that wrinkled slightly about his eyes, and the coarse hair on his face grew so fast as to pierce the skin’s surface nearly as soon as those relentless strands were razed. Yet this gallant, manly face sat squarely on a boy’s frame, for the doctor was of a slight build and stood no taller than five-foot-six. His hands and forearms boasted no history of work or sports—his life was in his study and research. His hair was full, though the beginnings of its end were apparent. I would have judged him to be almost thirty; I had faith in his wisdom.

“We should move her to a more comfortable place.” That voice—so subtle and elegant and trustworthy. I did as he suggested.