Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (2 page)

Chapter III

It was a quiet walk from the Tree of Death. Whitman and the other Elders loaded the Pilgrim carefully into the cart, and we all marched very slowly back to the village. There would be a funeral the next morning. The whole village would stop everything to bid farewell to this stranger whom none of us knew, though we knew hundreds whose plights were nearly the same: fathers, brothers, cousins, friends—loved ones who left our village to wander in the darkness until the Light snatched them away without farewell. We were a people of tradition. We didn’t have much else. And our farewells to these strangers—strangers who managed to stumble close enough to our humble village before tumbling into the afterlife, strangers we felt we almost knew, strangers in a strange land like so many we did know—were like vicarious farewells to those we loved, but would never see again.

It was pitch black when we arrived home. Whitman handed me the Book. It cast an eerie shadow underneath the torchlight. It was the only part of the stranger’s life any of us knew, so I would read from it at his funeral. Shelley would stand next to me. We found the Pilgrim—it was tradition for us to bid him farewell. Whitman and the others left to store the body while they prepared the scaffold for the pyre. They would work through the night. I waited until they were out of sight, then took Shelley by the hand.

“I have to get going.” She shook my hand as though we had just returned from a business trip, and then, without a hint of emotion, she walked away. I stood paralyzed.

“What just happened,” I muttered to myself before clumsily catching up to her as she made her way home. “You’re not still nervous, are you? I thought we—”

“I’m sorry, Marlowe. We’re just friends. Today was—well, today was just excitement and nerves and—I’m sorry. I really like you. But we can’t be
together
.”

I had no words. My gut wrenched itself into a thousand unbreakable knots as she disappeared into the darkness. My whole life I had dreamed of being with her. I wasn’t going to let my brother stand in the way of that.

*.*.*

Blake was waiting up for me when I got home. He was not happy. “Where have you been?”

“I went for a walk. I found a Pilgrim out in the meadow past the old stone church. I had to wait for Elder Whitman. There will be a funeral tomorrow.” He thrust his stony glare upon me. He was only twenty-one, but his face betrayed a grandfatherly wisdom, and all too often along with it came an elderly condescension. He meant well. He’d had a great responsibility since our oldest cousin left on his Pilgrimage. Blake took over, according to family tradition, as leader of our clan, a sort of tanistry. Our fathers and mothers all died when we were young, so our families were made up of brothers, sisters, and cousins. Those without families were adopted by others and became family. Family was the only way to survive. So I listened to my brother and did what he said. Usually.

“Your dinner is cold.” He followed me into the kitchen as I sat before my plate, which was sitting alone on the table. “A Pilgrim,” he said with a hint of curiosity. “Haven’t seen one wander into this village in a long time. Wonder what he was looking for.”

“Must have been lost. That’s the only time anybody wanders into
this
town.” I polished off every scrap of food, yet I was still hungry. My want was not lost on my stern but custodial brother.

“There’s more in the fridge. Charlotte wasn’t feeling well. She left half her plate.” He opened the door of the small refrigerator and grabbed it. He dropped the plate in front of me, sending a few kernels of corn tumbling across the table—he didn’t even take the time to see the mess he had made as he stoically walked past me and retired to his bedroom.

“Don’t worry—
I’ll
get that.” I wasn’t often sarcastic with my brother. He didn’t have much of a sense of humor anymore. But I was tired and frustrated. It had been a long day, and he didn’t hear me anyway. I finished off the food, washed my dishes, and went to bed. It was a good sleep, and I dreamed of my sweet Shelley.

*.*.*

My brother woke us early the next morning. It was a busy household—Brother Blake had two daughters, and his wife, Charlotte, was pregnant again (my brother was hoping for a boy, but he’d never admit it). Charlotte was my sister-in-law, but I called her sister. She was more of a mother to me than anything else. Our mothers and sisters did not make the Pilgrimage, only our fathers and brothers. She would take care of our family until she was taken by the Light. It was a relief to know I would never have to see her leave, but still I feared her death.

I had two cousins on my father’s side, Cole and Emerson. They also lived with us. They were both married and had one son each. They were young; their families would grow larger before they left our village. I had a sister as well, Harper, but she lived with her husband’s family. Ours was a paternal system. We were not, however, a male-dominated society—it was just the way we chose to do things. The world was not easy, not like in the ancient times. We had to have a system for every aspect of our lives.

We lived in a large house with many rooms. In the ancient times, only one family lived in a house like ours, and each had his own room. But now children take care of children when mothers die young, and the bigger the family, the greater the chance of its survival. I had my own room, but was expected to share it with my future wife and family. It was difficult to maintain life in a house like that—there was always much to do, always something to be repaired. I almost envied the lives of the nomad tribes. Their entire lives were spent in Pilgrimage, and when they died, they died in the arms of family and friends.

My great-grandfather was from a nomad tribe. He came to our village an orphan when his tribe was attacked and left for dead. He was given the house, as it had not been occupied since the ancient times, and there was much work to do to convert the electric and plumbing systems. He worked tirelessly on what would become our ancestral home, and when he finished his work, he married a girl from the village, and they had three healthy children—two boys and a girl. The boys, my grandfather and my great uncle, took over when my great-grandfather left on his Pilgrimage.

Our household system was based on age. I was last to do everything. Since my nieces and second cousins were still too young to take care of themselves, even they went before me, including times like today. I readied my funeral clothes and sat in my room, waiting for the bathroom to empty. In my boredom I let my mind wander, and when my mind wandered, it almost always wandered to Shelley. I could see us together, getting married, having children, growing old. It was all a fantasy. I wasn’t sure if she even liked me like that. We certainly would not grow old together. None of us did.

A rap at the door rent my senseless vision.

“Marlowe!” It was Blake.

“Coming!” I opened the door, and he just stood there, staring with that impatient look of his.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“I called you three times.”

“Sorry.” I hurried to the bathroom to wash up and dress for the funeral. The family waited downstairs for me. We ate breakfast together, as we often did, except this was a symbolic breakfast, a solemn meal. Each of the village families dined together on funeral days—that was our tradition. There was no reason to be sad, no family to feel our sympathies, no wife or child upon whom to bestow our condolences. But the Pilgrimage was a revered endeavor, and those who would undertake such a journey solely for the sake of those who would be left behind deserved our honors and respects, so we paid them. In the ancient times the people would give thanks to their god before eating. After the Great Disease most of us abandoned that god, but on funeral days before we ate, we uttered dedications to the dead, much like the way those of old uttered their thanks. And, much like the Ancients, we knew not whence so many of our traditions came. We followed them because they were a part of us, even when they made our lives more difficult.

We walked together to an old sports field near the edge of town. Lines of people from all parts of the village converged near the entrance to the modest stadium. It was a good place for town gatherings (when the weather was warm), funeral ceremonies, and the occasional musical or dramatic performance, although those were scarce. We rarely had time for such luxuries—those who would perform and attend were usually embroiled in the daily toils that kept us alive. Along either side of the field were scaffolded rows of metal seats, and erected in the center was the majestic and sedate timber that would support the late wanderer as flames engulfed his physical remains.

Around the pyre, the field was black as coal. It was the site of many funerals, not only for the Pilgrims who went away, but also for those who stayed behind—the mothers who cared for their babes until their very last day and the naysayers who chose not go through the motions of that dramatic act of departure. It was our tradition, and though many eschewed them for their refusal, when the Great Disease left them breathless in their beds, they were sent into the heavens with respect nonetheless.

Those ceremonies were simple and somber. Today’s would be one imbued with gloom and grandeur, a grim tribute to the selfless journey undertaken by the deceased. It was indeed a show of earnest respect, but I could not quell the suspicion that it was in some way crafted to inspire those who might make the Pilgrimage themselves when their ends were nigh.

I scanned the field for Shelley, but the rising sun blinded me to all but slowly marching silhouettes, and I could not distinguish her delicate shadow from those of the rest of the throng. I would see her soon. Once we were inside the stadium, my brother kissed his wife and daughters and sent them to their seats in the bleachers, then escorted me to a platform in front of the funeral pyre. He would stand silently with the other village elders while Elder Whitman delivered the benediction. I, and Shelley perhaps, would speak last, and then Whitman would light the fire. I would read passages from the Pilgrim’s Book, for that chronicle of his final days was all that any of us would ever know of him.

I started to wonder if Shelley had decided not to come. Elder Whitman approached us as we approached the platform. “Where’s Shelley?”

My brother looked at me with contempt. “
Shelley
?”

I hesitantly offered a terse explanation. “She was with me when we found the body.”

“Why?” His look did not change. “I told you,” he grumbled with his teeth clenched.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. He and Shelley’s brother had been close friends before the Disease took him. He just didn’t think she was right for me. To him, marriages are too important to the family, to the community, to the species. Our oldest cousin, Blake’s predecessor, never took a wife, and when he left on his Pilgrimage our small family was yet one smaller. In a way, my brother was right. Marriage was important. We died too young to waste our chances. But I loved Shelley, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being with another. It had not been easy to hide from Blake my crush on her—he knew all about it.

I tried unsuccessfully to whitewash the day. “We were just exploring. It was nothing.”

“It’s never
nothing
. What did I—” Blake paused mid-sentence. With the most splendid timing, Shelley walked up behind me. “Oh, Shelley. Good morning,” he said with feigned civility. My heart raced like a hungry fox chasing a swift rabbit. I turned, and there she stood in a solemn dress loosely draping to the tops of her ankles. Her dark hair hung in a single braid that fell forward over her shoulder and dangled about her chest; the morning sun kissed her high, protruding cheeks and caressed her shimmering eyes, and from beneath those long, delicate lashes she cast her soft gaze right at me.

“Good morning, Elder Blake.” Oh, that voice, that soft, elegant voice! With a pitch that sank just a hint from its gender, but still full in its femininity, it sang with every syllable of its resonant tone. I lost myself as I often did when she spoke. To make it worse, she hadn’t taken her eyes off me—that voice, that hair, that longing stare—they untamed my broken heart! “Good morning, Marlowe.” She fiddled nervously with the plait that hung lazily over her shoulder.

I cleared my throat, but still it cracked when I spoke. “Good morning, Shelley.” The anxiety of the moment was unrivaled at that time in my short life, yet somehow I managed to compose myself. Whitman escorted us up the steps of the platform. Once atop, he handed me the late traveler’s Book of Pilgrimage. I held it reverently. Blake did not take his eyes off of us until the crowd settled in their seats and the ceremonies began.

Elder Whitman gave the benediction. His voice was profound with its words and its sound, and the normally reticent man spoke eloquently that day. This was his passion, his family’s legacy, and when he left town on his own Pilgrimage, the quick
and
the dead would miss him much.

It was my turn to speak. I carefully opened the Book and read from the beginning. This Benjonsen would have wanted the world, or at least our little cantle of it, to know how much he adored his wife and children and how much it pained him to leave them that day. Most in the audience were sitting quietly. Some shed tears. Shelley held hers back, but I could see the moist traces in the corners of her eyes as I cast quick glances at her between paragraphs. I skipped to the end and read the Pilgrim’s poignant epilogue. When I finished, another Elder passed a lighted torch to Whitman, who gently wed its flame to the sacred kindling and set the pyre ablaze. Overcome with emotion, Shelley caught my hand and held it tight. It did not go unnoticed.