Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (18 page)

Chapter XXXI

I stayed in my room the whole next day. Charlotte brought food to my door. Blake said nothing, but I could hear them arguing. Blake is strong and pragmatic—to him there is no use in grieving.

“‘What’s gone is gone,’ he’d say. ‘What’s gone is gone.’ I suppose he’s right. What good does it do the quick and the dead to mourn that which shall never return? Lamentations do not call the spirits back, and tears do not soften Fate’s hard heart. Besides, you’ll always be here, in my memory and in my heart—no one, not even Death can take that away from me. And yet I cannot stop crying for you. Oh, Shelley, I miss you so much. How can I go on without you?” It is an awful trick of the mind to tease us with reason while emotion has us firmly in its grasp.

The next day Blake insisted I go back to school. Graduation was in a few weeks, and though it was merely a formality, there was still work to do. I was already up and dressed when he came to my room to wake me.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked.

“Huh? Uh, nobody.” I darted past him and downstairs. Breakfast was awkward. I had no appetite, anyway.

Blake came down slowly behind me and took his seat across the table. He stared at my Shroud. “How long are you going to wear that thing?”

“Blake!” was Charlotte’s response. “Leave him alone.” I was happy to have her on my side. My brother was firm, authoritative, and he even played that role in front of his wife. But we all knew better, for like all great wives, Charlotte controlled her husband with kindness, humility, and dignity. He loved her, and she loved him, and she would never disagree with Blake’s wise judgment. But when his judgments were not wise, she was not afraid to stand up to him.

I stared blankly into the bowl of porridge. My mind drifted away to the adventure I had revised in my mind, a vision I would replay over and over again. In it there were no treacherous nomads, no insidious doctors, and no irascible merchants. At the end was not death, but life. Long, happy life. In these daydreams, unlike the nightmares, this Marlowe
was
I, and this Shelley
was
she, and that house and those children and even the little dog barking at their feet were
ours
. But alas, it was all a fantasy!

My brother’s cold hand woke me from my dreams.

“Marlowe. Marlowe!” He shook my shoulder gently. I snapped out of my stupor. “You didn’t eat your breakfast.”

Charlotte reached in and took the untouched bowl from the table. “I’ll put it away. You can eat it later if you want.” She stroked my head gently, compassionately, motherly. I shot up out of my chair and marched wearily to school.

I kept to myself. My friends tried to comfort me, and they were kind, but I could not speak to them. I pulled my hood over my head and worked without stopping all day until the bell rang. Then I ran home to be with Shelley, just to sit with her until my brother got tired of calling and sent Charlotte up with my cold dinner. “Marlowe,” she said. “Shelley would not want to see you so upset.” I stared blankly at the cabinet that kept the leather pouch. “She would want you to move on with your life.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “You too, Charlotte?” I knew she was going to use this opportunity to try to convince me to marry Sylvia. I felt betrayed.

“Oh no, no, Marlowe, no—don’t think like that,” she pleaded. “It’s just that Shelley was so kind and generous, and she loved you so much. Don’t you think—”

“No!” I ended the conversation sharply, and things were awkward between us for a while. The next few days were relatively the same, except for my ever-present sister Harper, who left her husband and family to fend for themselves so she could be there for me. She tried her best to bring a smile to my face, but to no avail.

My birthday came and went and was uneventful except for a little cake that Charlotte made. I thanked her, and she hugged me, and we were close again. We didn’t celebrate aside from that. Birthdays are not things to be celebrated, but to be feared. Time beguiles us with candles and cakes. The Ancients sang songs and had great parties on their birthdays, but to us these anniversaries are only intimations of Death. They lost their cheer long ago.

Graduation came, and I insisted on staying home. But Charlotte, with her feminine diablerie, convinced me otherwise: “Marlowe—it’s your graduation. It’s special. It only happens once in your life. And besides, they will have a special presentation for Shelley, a memorial. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” I muttered as I slowly peeled myself off the bed and got ready to go.

I was late. There were few of us in that small town, so my intrusion upon the solemn event was not inconspicuous. I caught a multitude of stares as I walked in, but I had grown used to that. I took my seat, and everything was fine until my classmate Truman opened his big, fat mouth.

“Why’d you wear that stupid Shroud? This is graduation, you little virus—show some respect. Besides, she’s been dead for a week.”

I blew my top, but he was far too big (and mean) for me to engage in fisticuffs, so I turned my chair over and stormed out.

A soft voice came calling from behind. “Marlowe—wait up.” It was Sylvia. I didn’t want to stop, but the kindness in her voice drew me in. When I turned, we were face to face, and she pulled the hood down from my head. “It’ll be all right, Marlowe. Everything happens for a reason.” She smiled that same smile that I saw on my sister-in-law’s face every morning, and it warmed by cold heart. I replied with a strained grin and dashed away home.

I avoided my brother the rest of the night and all the next day. I knew I had embarrassed him. I was spared his wrath by the mercy of my beloved sister, but I could hear them arguing, and I did not want to cause her any more harm. She had done so much good; it was not right for her to suffer for me.

I joined the family at dinner, which took its usual somber tone. I don’t know what the others talked about—I tuned them all out. I was just waiting, waiting, waiting for the talk with Blake that I knew was coming.

The table was cleared, and the talk came. “Marlowe.” Charlotte listened while washing the dishes, occasionally turning her head and joining tacitly in the conversation. And I was glad—he would not be too tough on me with her around. “It’s time you took off the cloak.” I pulled the hood up over my head. “Don’t do that to me,” he said. I relented and pulled it back down. He was my brother, after all. He treated me like a son. I owed him respect. “And, Marlowe,” he looked at me very seriously, but very kindly, “it’s time you took Shelley’s ashes to the river.” He must have gone in my room! “She would have wanted it that way.” But I couldn’t be angry with him. He was right.

I looked over at Charlotte. She nodded gently. So I took Shelley’s ashes down to the river and returned my wife to the good earth.

That talk was not the talk I dreaded. The dreaded talk came when I returned from the river. It was late, and my brother was still up—I suppose he wanted to talk to me alone. He did not beat around the bush.

“Marlowe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but she’s gone, and she’s not coming back. I know it hurts. I know. I’ve lost people I love, and I know that soon I’ll—” and he choked up, and for the first time in my life I saw tears in my brother’s eyes. “Soon I’ll have to leave my sweet Charlotte, and it will break my heart worse, worse than if she were taken by the Light, for I must leave her and my little girls and my one who is not yet born, leave them here while I embark on some foolish journey, some futile path that our father took when we were boys and our mother needed him at home, and I will ponder every day of that journey that if I would just turn back and go home, home to die in the arms of my wife and surrounded by the love of my family, that I would die a happy man.” It was then that I knew how much my brother truly cherished his family and loved his dear Charlotte. “Marlowe, do you remember when Daddy left?”

“Barely.”

“I remember it well. Like yesterday. And yet for some reason I can’t remember his face. All I can see of him in my mind’s eye anymore is the back of that Shroud he wore as he left us on his Pilgrimage. But I remember what he said to me. I remember his words most of all. He told me to be strong and be brave and to take care of my family. He said it was a great responsibility, and I had to take it very seriously. He said if I didn’t, bad things might happen. So I promised him, Marlowe. I promised him that I would take care of this family. And I have tried my best every day since to keep that promise I made to our father.” Here and there a tear would fall from that stony face.

“We have to keep our family strong, little brother—it’s for our survival. We need Sylvia.
You
need Sylvia. Without family, there is no future for us in this world. Shelley would want this. I know she would, and I think you do too. She would want you to do the best for your family and for yourself. She would want you to have the life the two of you couldn’t have, and if there were a Heaven above, she’d look down and smile at your children playing in our yard, and she’d be happy for your joy.” He put both hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. “My dear brother, you know I love you. You know I want the best for you.”

“I know.” The words hardly came out. I was moved beyond my ability to respond.

“So, will you marry Sylvia?”

“Yes.” I had no emotion, no energy to deny one who had poured his heart out as my brother had done.

He hugged me tightly and then let go, and then he flashed one of those consolation smiles, a smile that spoke not happiness, but hope, thin, weary, distant hope, but hope nonetheless. “Very well,” he said. “Take your time. We will make the plans when you’re ready.”

“As soon as possible,” I said. If it were to be done, it would be best it were done quickly.

Weddings were about as elaborate as birthdays. They were purely functional, not like in the ancient times. I read about lavish weddings with hundreds of people and great parties afterwards. We met before the elders and swore allegiance to village, family, and spouse. There was no waiting time, no
engagement
as the Ancients might say. We would be married in two days, and my brother would read to us the nuptial oaths.

Chapter XXXII

The next day was a blur of muted excitement. I knew my sister-in-law was happy for many reasons. She would have a helper and a companion, and it would be her own childhood best friend—her little sister. But more so, I think, she loved me, and she loved her sister, and she knew that Sylvia would treat me well and be a good wife for me. In a world without Shelley, I would have been happy to marry Sylvia. But at that young age I had already known true love, truer even than the love my brother knew for his cherished wife, for if I were given the choice between folklore and family, I would choose family every time. Only Death himself could pry Shelley from my tenacious grip, and I would walk a thousand thousand miles to have her in my arms again for a thousandth of a second!

Brother Blake called upon Sylvia’s family and spent most of the afternoon there making arrangements. By making arrangements, I mean drinking with Sylvia’s cousins. He burst through the door late for dinner, and it was obvious he’d had too much. I’d only seen Blake that drunk one other time—when he lost his best friend, Shelley’s brother, to the Light. We both loved somebody who died early.

My brother was no mean drunk. O, to the contrary! He was the nicest man you could ever meet, much nicer than sober Blake. It was almost as if all that pent-up kindness burst from the cage that alcohol left agape. He began by professing his love for Charlotte: “Charlotte, my dear.” He tried to give her a kiss. She playfully turned her head and the kiss landed on her cheek. “Charlotte, my sweet.” He staggered. We all giggled, and he shot playfully indignant glances at each of us. “Charlotte, my love—I will never, ever, never ever ever ever leave you. Ever. I promise!”

“You’re drunk.” Charlotte guided him to his chair. “Eat your dinner.” She poured a tall glass of water and set it on the table in front of him. “And you’d better drink this.” She looked at me inquisitively. “Did something happen today?”

Something had set him off, but I didn’t know what. Was it our conversation? I shrugged.

I waited on Blake to finish his dinner—Charlotte would need help getting him upstairs. The whole time he yammered on about how much he loved Charlotte, and how happy he was I was getting married, and how great it was that our family was getting bigger, and on and on. He was still talking when his eyelids fell and he lost consciousness.

Before she bade me goodnight, Charlotte touched my chest lightly and said, “That pain is great, Marlowe, but someday it will go away. Yet your love and your memories of her don’t ever have to fade. Just keep her right here in your heart. And you can still love my sister with Shelley in your heart, you can!” The tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and she grabbed me and held me tight. It seemed as though the whole world depended on my marriage to Sylvia. It tore my heart and soul in two.

I lay awake all night thinking about my future, what was in store, what kind of life I was to lead without my darling Shelley. I wondered if I would get used to marriage with Sylvia. And I thought about Sylvia, too. I thought that maybe I was wrong to marry her—maybe there was somebody who loved her the way I loved Shelley, and I would stand in his way if I took Sylvia’s hand. But alas! we do not marry for love. Romance was a luxury of the Ancients. We marry because we must.

I tried reading to fend the insomnia that haunted me, but there was no joy in any words but hers. Her Book sat next to me on a table by my bed. I always kept it close. I reached for it, then pulled my hand back, then reached for it again. I had not opened it since the funeral. I couldn’t. So I just held it to my chest and stared through my window at the darkness of the night sky.

No sleep came, and when the sun began to peak above the horizon, I was still tossing and turning in my head. “Shelley,” I said, as though she were rising with the sun. “Tell me what to do, Shelley. Give me a sign.” In my utter desperation, all became a blur, the sun blanched my sight, and I saw her face in the beaming light of our dawning star.

It was like the morning she died, except the sun didn’t drain the life from her face—it gave her life! She was bright and divine and smiling at me. Her hair shot from her head like rays, and her face glowed pink and red and orange. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, and when I opened them, I was purblind.

It took a few minutes to regain my sight. What did it mean? What was she trying to say? The pleasant vision became a terror in my mind as I interpreted and reinterpreted its meaning. I was drowning in frustration, misery, and fear—fear that what I was about to do was not my fate, my path, my Pilgrimage. I grabbed the book and tore off down to the river.

It was the last place I saw her, the last time I felt her as the ashes fell through my fingers into the river below. I sat upon the bank and with my trembling hands opened her Book and read. There were parts I read over and over, and there were parts I didn’t read at all. It wasn’t until I neared the end that it dawned on me—Blake had skipped a passage. That cankerous cur! And I thought he loved me!

I read with intense curiosity: “But no, it was a vision bright. A vision of you, Marlowe, bathed in light! Your eyes aglow, your hair upraised, you stood before a tree ablaze! Electric flames its trunk upshot, and leaves like lightning sparked and popped. Your hoary beard betrayed your age, and so it seemed you’d saved our race. The vision faded, then I knew—you’d found that fabled Tree of Truth! What this portends I cannot ken, and soon I’ll see that Light again. I bid you, love, to go and find the Tree that will redeem mankind! But one last word before I go—you must always know that I love you, Marlowe. For now I bid farewell, but I will see you again! I will, I will!”

It was then that I knew what I had to do. I ran back to the house as fast as I could. Blake and the family were waiting for me.

“Where’ve you been?” Blake asked with irritation in his voice.

“Nowhere.” I was trying to catch my breath.

“You’re going to be late. The wedding is in fifteen minutes.” Blake was not very happy.

“Go on ahead. I’ll change quickly and meet you there.” They left without me. I ran up the stairs and prepared my things as fast as I could.

Meeting Hall was packed that day. My romance and tragedy had endeared the village to my pitiful character, and they were eager to read the next chapters of my life. When I entered, everyone stood and stared.

Brother Blake looked most perplexed. “What the virus are you doing?” I said nothing, but merely held my hand to silence him. I felt a strange power that day, over my brother, over my village, over myself. The murmur that followed me into that great hall died away, and I addressed the silent and bewildered crowd.

“Today is a day of celebration. Today I begin a great journey, the journey of my life.” Sylvia looked confused, though hopeful, for somewhere in the back of her mind she believed the future adventure I was describing was with her. “Today I bid you farewell, for today I depart on my Pilgrimage to find the Tree of Truth, the Arbor of Knowledge, the savior of mankind! Today I leave the safety of my village for the treachery that lies beyond. I journey not for myself, but for my family and for my people, and most of all for some poor Marlowe unborn, pining for his poor unborn Shelley!” Sylvia lost it. She ran crying from the hall.

“Before I go, know that I love you all.” Charlotte was crying too, but not for her sister—for me. I hugged her tightly. Blake just stared blankly as I embraced him and then proceeded to hug my dear sister, my cousins and their wives, and especially my little nieces and infant cousins—I held them all in my arms for the last time. Then I cast my gaze once more across the roomful of motley looks from family, friends, and classmates—looks of bewilderment from most, disdain from many, and reverence from those few who knew the importance of my path and believed in my journey. I pulled my hood over my head and departed on my Pilgrimage.

I was just about at the village gate when Blake came running up behind me. “Stop,” he said.

I kept walking. “You can’t stop me.”

“I don’t mean—” He ran up and caught me by the arm. “I don’t mean it like that.”

I stop and turned. He held a stick in his hand. “You going to
beat
me with that?”

He looked at the stick and laughed. “No, Marlowe. This is a
gift
.” He held it up proudly. “I made it myself. I was going to take it on my own Pilgrimage, but I can make another. I want you to have it.” He handed me the staff. “See the design?” He pointed at the intricate carving. “Daddy taught me how to do it. It’s almost finished—you can finish it yourself. Just copy that incision there—let me show you.” He started to pull out his pocket knife. I stopped.

“It’s okay. I think I can do it.” I tapped the end of the stick on the ground a few times and swung it to and fro. “It’s a good stick. Thank you.” He smiled. “So you’re not mad at me? You’re not going to try to stop me?”

He shook his head. “There is an old tradition, some say even a law—though I’ve never seen it on the books—that once a man has departed on his Pilgrimage, it is no man’s place to stand in his way. I send you off with my love, my respect, and my honor. Take care of yourself, and remember—you are always welcome in our home and in our family.” He hugged me one last time, and the tears streamed down his face as I had never seen before and would never see again.

The sun was shining brightly on that late summer’s day. The weather was calm, though the breeze would pick up every now and then to chase the humid air away. The pale-blue sky was perfect and serene—there were no clouds, not even a mist or a haze, to blemish that welkin face. It was warm, but not stifling, and you could almost smell the autumn winds drifting in.

With stick in my hand, Shroud upon on my back, and her Book by my heart, I left that village never to return, and my journey has been full of adventure ever since. But my heart remains empty and forever will, even to the end of my short life.

*.*.*

My name is Marlowe 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 15
th
September Moon, in the 81
st
Solar Revolution of the Third Century M.E., I departed on a quest for the Tree of Truth. This is my Book of Pilgrimage.

*.*.*.*.*.*

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