Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (17 page)

Chapter XXIX

It was one of those late August afternoons—the air was still thick and humid, though cooling rapidly to the best part of the summer day, the time for sipping tea on the front porch, telling stories of a happier past, and forgetting about the sufferings of this brief life. The setting sun scattered purple and orange through the sparse clouds, and in its dying light the throngs of hidden cicadas, not inaudible alone and quite stentorian in numbers, chanted their rhythmic and unchanging evening chorus. The foothills rolled softly behind our little village, earthen monuments of ancient origin, by some divine miracle of Fate thrust into the heavens from the hellish ore below.

The human beast scarcely recognizes the life in his fellow man, much less the animal, vegetable, or mineral. But those mountains that he sees day by day, effaced by glaciers and adorned by nature’s flora, are proof that life exists everywhere, and indeed every atom is a living thing, a fidgeting, changing, evolving thing. Yet it is not a thing, for it is but one of many so-called things that merely constitute one of one—the universe. And though we see the dead and dying every day of our lives, nothing really ever dies.

It often requires a great distance from emotion for one to hear the cry of reason—emotion is powerful and bold. Emotion is the sun to those reasonable stars, its light so loud that it drowns out their soft twinkling by day; and only by night, when God’s fiery lamp is quiet and dim, do we hear the beckoning of its galactic twins.

It was many nights and many suns before I came to the realization that my Shelley had never really left me. But on that day my wife still lay unmoving upon her funeral bier, and I was still a lone soul in this vast universe.

Charlotte ran out from the crowd and threw her arms around me and held me tight. “Marlowe—you’re home!” My sister Harper was right behind. I hadn’t seen my sister in a long while, and she almost knocked me and Charlotte both to the ground before nearly squeezing the life out of me with her loving arms.

Blake was nonchalant. “It’s good to see you,” was all he said, but then to my surprise he joined my sisters in their embrace. They knew she was gone. And they knew I loved her dearly. The whole village knew. So they hugged me, my family and those villagers who could, one by one, as did the spirit tribe that morning, and those who couldn’t cast their pitiful gazes upon me and cried praises to my love and bravery.

Elder Whitman immediately began preparations for the funeral. Blake directed the spirit tribe to their temporary abodes (there were many empty houses still in the village), and Pastor was very thankful. Charlotte walked me home. We didn’t say a word as she led me into the house and up the stairs and to my room, and there I fell into the deepest sleep of my life.

I dreamed. I dreamed of Marlowe and Shelley, but not the Marlowe and Shelley of
this
Book—some other Marlowe and Shelley. And they were old, and there were children, and life was good. But that was just a dream, for Shelley was dead, and I would be too before I ever reached that age. I awoke the next morning just as I had done not many days before for Benjonsen’s funeral, except on that day over my funeral clothes I donned my mourning robe, my cloak of dole.

It was not unusual to wear a black Shroud to a funeral. Shelley was my wife, my closest kin. Pastor explained all so I didn’t have to, and his benevolence defended us against the detractors, though there were none, not even Blake—no opinion was audacious enough to trample upon the tragedy that had already transpired by making itself known. Still, I had a strange feeling that Blake would not always be so kind and condoling.

We ate breakfast together in silence, just like we did every morning before a funeral. Charlotte seemed elated to see me at the table again, and she was eager to show it, but she held back—she sensed my pain. I saw the joy and angst contending on her face, and I knew that she above all loved me as only a mother could, as my own mother never had the chance but for a few short years before she went to the Light. Charlotte was from a kind family. Her sister’s aping countenance and same soft demeanor were the only consolations in that dread proposal of matrimony. But there was another, graver ceremony at hand.

My sister was there, too. She sat next to me as she had growing up and every now and then tried her best to spark a smile with a nudge or a look, but even she could not lift my spirits. My cousins and their wives were solemn and quiet, though my baby cousins and nieces giggled joyfully, oblivious to the tragedies that unfolded around them. O, to be a child again! To be ignorant of death and disease! To be held in the arms of a loving mother and protected by a brave father! They would soon learn the woe of this world, but until that time they giggled and cooed and bestowed all their untainted love upon their doting parents.

We gathered at the field as always, and I for the second time in as many funerals stood for the departed—except this time the departed was my very heart, snatched from my breast yet beating and alive. What was left inside my chest was useless, bloody flesh. I could hardly stand, but I found the strength. Elder Mallory was already there, waiting with Elder Whitman next to the bier, which on that day for the first time was covered in white flowers and green branches, and it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. The spirit tribe had formed a great half-circle behind it and were holding hands and singing a harmonious dirge. The stands were filled, the singing faded, and Elder Whitman began the funeral rites.

“Citizens and friends,” he said in that profound, eloquent voice, “we gather so often before some poor soul who has wandered into our village from afar, and yet as often, we lose those who have wandered afar on their own journeys. But today we bid farewell to a daughter, a cousin, a sister, a wife. Today we send one of our own into the heavens.” He spoke of her beautifully, as though she were indeed a star returning to the heavens, and there was not a dry face to be seen.

He held her Book in his hand. “Now we pay our final respects with the very words of the deceased, the only legacy of our dying people, the Book of Pilgrimage. Marlowe.” Elder Whitman handed me the book and bade me read. It was my duty, though I could scarcely bear to fulfill it.

Chapter XXX

My hands were trembling, but I managed to find the first page without difficulty. It was the first time I had really seen it—she addressed the entries to me. I read aloud from the beginning: “My Dear Marlowe,” she wrote it like a letter, not a Book. “Today was the best day and the worst day. Today you kissed me and held me tight, and today I saw that harrowing Light. Today I felt my soul come alive, and today I knew that I would soon die.” Her voice in my head was stronger than the one in my throat, and the words echoed in her deep, but feminine tones—she was speaking to me from the grave.

“You said perhaps it’s something else, but I knew it was Death full well. It took my father and his father too, and many of my kin It untimely slew. So when I returned home and kissed you goodnight, I christened this my Book and began to write. . . .

“Day Two: Today you told me you loved me, and I knew that we were meant to be. But I regret I could not speak to you, my love. It’s not that I don’t—I do, and very much! It’s my family’s luck, and your unguarded heart, and I know one day soon that forever we will part. That heart! That pure and noble heart! A masterpiece of the Creator’s art! And though with care I tried my best to tread, I overdid it, and hurt you nonetheless. But I digress.

“You said you would go to the city at first light, and I said no. But if you show at my window tonight, I’ll go, I’ll go, I promise I’ll go! We will fight this Disease together! And though I have no hopes of getting better, I’d rather die with you by my side, than live a thousand thousand lonely lives.

“Day Three: I think our adventure today has taken us quite far away, but I’ve never left home before, so I’ve no way of knowing for sure. We walked and talked and though I thought I knew your every attribute, I learned to love you even more, as on me doting words you poured. We found an old village like our own, where we dined as though our lives were long. I took a book that suited me, and you a book of poetry. We left to find another place to camp, and here for you I wait.

“Oh, Marlowe, my hero, you’ve gone ahead to see if the shopping mall is safe to sleep. You fain would be so brave for me, but sometimes I do believe you’re still a boy in a man’s body—today you swooned when you saw these pages, as though you never knew of my doom, of my fate. And though you have those childlike fears, your wisdom oft exceeds its years. I suppose that’s why I love you so—but here you return, and I must go.

“This is a strange and ancient place you found to keep your darling safe and sound. These little rooms, they’re quite amusing! I didn’t know how the Ancients used them—and then, Marlowe, you found the clothes. What fun we had pretending that the sun would rise unending, and you said I was the fairest thing your eyes had ever seen! But that is all in vain, and soon you’ll bear the pain and tears that tear the heart apart, for I must fast depart—the Light it daily grows, but no one knows! I will not suffer more, my sweet Marlowe, with petty woes and trifling cries! I am deaf and dumb and blind unto the Light!”

Oh, my sweet, sweet Shelley! There will never be another soul like hers. It was hard to continue. Blake reached for the book as though he would take it from me. I waved him off, cleared my throat, wiped my eyes, and continued reading.

“Day Four: I must jot a few lines before dinner tonight, lest I forget the predicament we found ourselves in. The shopping mall was not quite safe, and in the morn a thief had made his way into the aged boutique—my savior sprang fast to his feet and knocked that burglar to his knees! Away you dashed with me behind, and in the bush you had us hide. That burglar’s tribe was deathly nigh and quick surrounded us outside. Alas! the best-laid schemes of wives and men! Today I feared a swifter end than even what befell my kin!

“We soon discerned that burglar’s friends were kind enough to take us in. They are a roaming poet tribe, and in their cozy tent I lie—tonight we will imbibe! But first we rest. Your weary head lay on my lap as I composed today’s mishaps.

“Day Five: I woke up with the worst headache, but still we had to make our way. Marlowe—last night I was so drunk! Never again will I touch that stuff. But oh, it was a party of glad cheer, and for once I felt no sadness, no fear. It was a night to remember, though much remains unclear—I hope I said nothing to injure your ear!

“Today we found this quaint hotel—I think tonight we’ll both sleep well. I feel as though I’ve already vowed to be your loving, lifelong spouse. I know it’s foolish, dear, but ere I die I want your hand in mine to be eternally your wife—I’ll be your bride despite the Light!

“Just a few lines before I sleep. Your jealousy tonight was sweet. But really, do you think I’d like that quirky little H.F. guy? He was funny, certainly, but he was not my groom to be! And here I wait with bated breath for you to come upstairs to bed.

“Day Six: I fear these words will be my last—the Light that blinds is growing fast! Today I lost all hope for life, but love has made me your dear wife. My champion once again came through, and saved me from those doctors who had promised painless interviews, but then refused to let me loose. They questioned me of the Disease, and then I thought they’d set me free. But to another room they led me, strapped upon a rolling bed. They poked and prodded with their pens, and then they poked with sharper ends. They drew my blood, they gave me drugs, they shoved a tube—” I couldn’t go on. I closed the Book and collapsed to my knees.

Charlotte came over and put her arms around me. She gently pulled the Book from my quivering hands and gave it to Blake. I thought the funeral was over, but Blake did the most uncharacteristic thing in his life—he read from Shelley’s Book. He read for me and for my Shelley! It was the greatest kindness my brother ever showed. He scanned the pages to find the place, though I was grateful he did not read the rest of that hospital scene.

“We left the city and sadly found the wreckage of that rebel town. There we met a spirit tribe who sought the Cure through the Divine. Unrivaled kindness they did show, and with the Pastor’s wife I spoke. I told her of my love for you. She said she’d see what she could do. We crafted well that wedding plan—and you thought I’d deny your hand. Ha! You trembled as you spoke and yet your loving phrases flowed. I didn’t wait for you to ask—I took you in my grasp and cried, I will, I will, I will be your wife!

“Tonight we made our wedding bed, and though I knew I’d soon be dead, I felt the bliss of happiness. You slept through many a tender kiss, but once this final verse I’ve penned, I’ll wake you up for one last buss before the Light uncouples us. The Light! It comes!

“But no, it was a vision bright. A vision of you, Marlowe, bathed in light!” Blake coughed and stumbled over the line, and I hardly noticed the lack of transition, the disjointed text—Shelley did not write like that, even on her deathbed. But at the time it had not dawned on me. He fumbled with the Book and began again: “. . . you must always know that I love you, Marlowe. For now I bid farewell, but I will see you again! I will, I will!”

“My name is Shelley of the Piedmont Villages, Citizen of the Tiger Valley Tribe, allied with the Eastern Commonwealth and Southern State, and loyal to the Union of New America. On the 4
th
September Moon, in the 81
st
Solar Revolution of the Third Century M.E., my quest and my breath came to an end on my wedding bed. This is my Book of Pilgrimage.”

Upon those words the torches fell, and the flames arose, and before long there was nothing left of my dear wife Shelley but ashes and memories and a few short utterances of her soul, scattered in ink and dried upon the pages of that Book. It is more sacred to me than the bones of a saint, and I’ve kept it by my heart always and to this very day, though I shudder to read and only open it in times of great emotional need.

Sometimes I awake so desperate to hear her voice, and sometimes I terrify myself with the thought that I might have forgotten that tone, that softness, that eloquence. But one short passage of her elegant verse, and it all comes back to me—all the joy and sorrow and love and angst. To be reminded of that sweet voice I also am forced to remember the life draining from her face as she faded into the Light, her ashes upon the pyre, and the empty bed upon which I lie, night after night, pining for my love and no other. And so I read with caution, never imbibing too much in the bliss of her memories lest I be drowned by the sorrow of her loss.

I stayed by the pyre until the last coal had turned to ash. Elder Whitman stayed with a few others to help, but I took it upon myself alone to deliver my wife to the waters of the earth. I gathered the ashes and deposited them in a leather bag Elder Whitman had given me. I was there for hours, but time had lost its meaning in my mind. I worked unconsciously, without a thought, for upon the wings of every caprice flew the sorrows of my loss. I refused to think—I was a lifeless drone. I sent the elders home and sat there with the ashes until sunset. I spoke to them. I spoke to the ashes! I felt my mind slipping away. My soul was already gone.

I was to scatter the ashes in the river. It was our tradition. Instead I took them home. I was not about to leave what little remained of my Shelley in those turbid waters to be tossed about in the mud and lost forever to the careless currents. No, I kept her with me in my room, and I spoke to her.