Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (4 page)

Chapter VI

“Ow!” I awoke to a foot in my ribcage and the sun in my eyes. The light that glared from behind my brother’s ominous silhouette framed his head like a halo. The shaded angel spoke with fire in his throat.

“Get up.” I rubbed my clenched eyes and opened them again to see if perhaps the shadowy figure had disappeared, like some late broken dream that, despite how vivid, cowers into the deep recesses of the brain and hides forever in faded memory. I had no such luck.

“We looked for you half the night and all morning. Elder Mallory has been worried sick about Shelley.” Elder Mallory was the oldest cousin and leader of Shelley’s family. Brother Blake turned to her, softening his voice. “You’d better get home. Your family is still looking for you. And you’re late for school.”

“Yes, Elder Blake.” She hopped up and brushed the leaves of grass from her delicate frame. “Goodbye, Marlowe.”

“Goodbye, Shelley.” She jogged swiftly back toward the village. The haze of late-summer morning blurred her figure as the drying dew rose in waves to join its cloudy cousins. The humidity was already stifling, and it was not yet noon. I had awoken to a stark contrast from the cool evening air of the previous night, and a contrast it was—just hours earlier I was in the arms of my Shelley, staring at the universe and occasionally gazing at the stars, and at that moment I was at the mercy of my elder brother.

I could see several small figures in the distance sweeping their way across the field—Shelley’s family was still searching for her. When their leader saw her (I assumed it was Elder Mallory, although I could not make out his face), he ran to meet her, hugged her tightly, and then (from what I could tell) yelled at her as they disappeared completely out of my sight. He would not be angry long. He was stern, like my brother, but he cared for her. And he was more forgiving.

“You’ve caused quite the scandal with your little stunt. The whole town knows.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I found the two of you with your clothes on.” For some reason, I took great offense at his suggestion.
              “It wasn’t like that!” There was no real echo in the field, but I could hear those words reverberating in my head like a wolf’s bay in a deep, lonely canyon. I cut my eyes long enough to catch the stunned look on his face. Before he could respond, I jumped to my feet and defiantly walked away from him. It was the first time I had ever challenged my brother’s authority so openly.

“Where are you going?” Then I knew my brother did not know what to say, for the anger in his voice gave way to confusion—his second-hand cloak of leadership did not quite fit, and at that moment it seemed as oversized as ever. He would be dead before he had the time to grow into it. Such was the case with all the elders.

I kept walking, waiting for him to run me down and unleash his anger upon me, like a pack of dogs giving chase to a newly scented fox. But he just stood there and let me walk away. I walked straight to school without stopping, without glancing over my shoulder, without acknowledging the presence of the villagers on the street who knew me, but stared at me as though I had just returned from a years-long Pilgrimage.

*.*.*

Shelley was in the hall with our English teacher. They were having a chat. She was a nice lady, although barely a lady—she was only twenty. Her name was Louisa May, but in school we called her
teacher
. She wasn’t just our teacher—she was our friend. Still, we respected her. It was different from the ancient times. But everything was different.

There seemed an awkward pause in conversation upon my arrival. “Marlowe.” A look of mixed disdain and sympathy mingled in her eyes. She tried to hide it. “Did you finish the essay?” For a moment, I panicked; then I realized I had taken the essay with me to the meadow. I pulled the folded papers from my back pocket, straightened the creases the best I could, and handed them to her, smiling broadly. “Thank you, Marlowe.” She brushed a bit of dirt from the pages, smiled tepidly, and then turned back to Shelley. “We’ll talk more about this later. You two should get to your science class.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost lunchtime.”

We’d missed most of morning class. I was not unhappy about it. Unfortunately my science teacher, Conrad, was. Louisa May held the door open for us as we entered the class. Our English teacher’s presence lent a trace of excuse to our delay, but not much—the dismay in Conrad’s face was obvious. He was usually quite serious. Maybe it was because he had been teaching longer than anyone at the school. Maybe it was because he was twenty-four and would leave on his Pilgrimage soon. I never liked science, but I was rather fond of Conrad in a way. He was the only male teacher I’d ever had. It seemed odd for a man to teach, at least in our village.

“Take your seats. You’ve missed most of the lab, so I guess you can just observe the rest of class.”

“Sorry, teacher,” Shelley and I blurted our apologies in disharmonious unity. We looked at each other and giggled. Conrad was not pleased.

“Take your seats.” He reiterated himself slowly and just loud enough to catch the attention of our classmates. Every eye from behind every set of goggles abandoned its aim and cast its gaze upon us as we made our way to the back of the classroom. We took our seats, and the class went back to their experiments. Except Sylvia. Sylvia was staring uncomfortably at me with a look of bewilderment and dissatisfaction. At the time I didn’t even think about it. It was one of a million cares I didn’t have in this world.

Shelley and I had nothing to do but watch—the class was finishing a lab they began that morning. Conrad expected us to pay attention. I could not. He shot glances in our direction every few seconds, but he didn’t seem all that menacing—he was taking it easy on us. I was normally a pretty good student. I didn’t like science, but I did my work, and I listened. Most days. I think Conrad actually liked me.

“You think Conrad likes me?”

“What are you talking about?” Shelley whispered inconspicuously through the corner of her mouth without looking. She sat properly upright, and kept her eyes on the class.

“
Conrad
. You think he likes me?”

“Sshhh.” She was getting a little frustrated with me.

“Did you bring anything for lunch?” I wasn’t hungry. Her attention was all I craved.

“Marlowe!” she chided me in her loudest whisper.

“Marlowe.” Conrad caught me not paying attention. I sat upright and looked forward, glancing at the open notebook before me and pantomiming studious notations. He wasn’t buying it. “Pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.” I looked at the clock. It was nearly noon. I squirmed in my seat. Each tick of the clock crept across its face slower and slower. I stared at Shelley. She stayed her gaze with military precision. I tried to distract her with a funny expression, but she reached under the desk and pinched my leg. “Ow!”

“Marlowe!” Conrad said, with flared nostrils and wide eyes. He came storming to the back of the class. Before a word escaped his cockled lips, the bell rang with splendid timing. I hopped up to leave. Conrad caught me by the shirtsleeve. Shelley crept away, avoiding the tension between us and escaping her own peril. “I know you only have a few weeks of school left, but that’s no reason to lose focus.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood there long enough to make sure he was finished with me. He relaxed his stern countenance.

“Go to lunch, kid.” He leaned in close and landed a friendly hand on my shoulder. “I think someone’s waiting for you.” I was right—he
did
like me. I rushed from the classroom and caught up with Shelley in the hallway.

“You never told me what you brought for lunch.”

Chapter VII

I had come straight to school from the meadow with nothing to eat. Shelley shared her sandwich with me, but it wasn’t much, just a few vegetables on bread, and I knew she was still hungry despite what she said. I ran home to grab something for us to snack on later. My sister was finishing her own lunch alone. “Where’s Blake?”

“He’s gone to the market to pick up a few things. He’s been working all morning on the farm,” she said.

It wasn’t what the Ancients would have called a farm. It was just big enough to feed our family and have enough left over to barter for odds and ends. We often bartered for the things we needed. The Union had its own currency, but those monies were scarce, and when one had money, one did not often spend it. Not everyone saw the value in coins and silver, and fewer still respected the authority of the Union. It was not like the powerful governments of the ancient times, but a mere shadow, a nascent entity struggling for recognition. Nonetheless, in our village, and in many others, the people respected the Union. It was our only hope of a stable future, so we clung to it, as the Ancients clung to their crumbling governments, even up until the end.

After the Great Disease, when governments no long controlled their currencies and regulated their banks, rich became poor, for the money they so avariciously hoarded lost all value in the chaos that ensued, and those who once had everything they desired were left foraging through leftovers and garbage to fill their starving bellies. All that mattered anymore was food. Many still feared the recurrence of such a consequence and refused to rely on the tenuous value of Union papers and coins. So, we bartered.

“I just came to get something to eat. I didn’t take my lunch this morning.”

“There’s something in the fridge. I packed it while your brother was out looking for you.” Taking care of the family was second nature to Charlotte. She was like the mother I never knew. I grabbed the bag from the refrigerator and bolted. I wanted to get back in time to share my lunch with Shelley. “Goodbye, Marlowe.” Her elongated and gentle tone was her way of reminding me that I had forgotten my manners. She was subtle, not like my brother. I stopped in the doorway.

“Thank you, Charlotte. See you tonight.” I took her broad smile as my cue to leave.

Dashing through the streets, I noticed Blake in what seemed a rather intense conversation with Sylvia’s brother and his own brother-in-law, Elder Emerson. I stopped just before they noticed me. I got the impression that Emerson was not happy with something (or someone), and I thought for a moment they were talking of me, but I could not figure what it might have been, so I dismissed my suspicions as imagination. I hadn’t slept much, after all. I cleared my throat upon my approach.

My brother cut a hard glance at me. “Skipping school again?”

“I went home to get lunch. I forgot it this morning.”

He looked at his watch. “You’d better get back. Lunch is almost over, isn’t it?”

“I’m on my way. Good day, Elder Emerson.” He nodded. “Good day, Brother Blake.” My feigned formality was subtly insincere.

The last thing I heard my brother say before he faded out of earshot was, “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry, Elder.” I assumed it had something to do with town business. There would be a meeting of the elders the next day. There was always something to be discussed or debated or argued at those meetings. I was glad I did not have to bear the responsibilities of my elder brother—he had to take care of the town and the family. I could hardly keep up with my science homework.

I made it back to school just in time to share a little of my lunch with Shelley. I felt as though I hadn’t left her side in days. I wanted to live like this the rest of my life, no matter how long or short.

That feeling never left me, even after she did.

* * *

English was a bore. We read our essays. Shelley wrote about lasting love amidst the brevity of life. It was quite good, and it made me think
Romeo and Juliet
wasn’t so mawkish after all. My paper was about the futility of the human journey. I thought it lost on most of the class, but Shelley seemed to get it—that was all that mattered to me. The rest of the afternoon was the usual parade of banalities: fate versus free will, some kid’s coming of age, a death turning a life upside down, and the like. When the knell finally tolled on that lifeless recitation, I bid farewell to my boredom and escorted Shelley from the classroom to our freedom.

We walked quietly together. We were both tired. I grazed the back of my hand against hers, hoping she would take the hint and catch it in her grasp. She didn’t. I shot quick glances at her, but her weary eyes did not return the favor. Finally I blurted out, “Let’s look at the stars again tonight.” It was a long shot, I knew, but I took it anyway.

She stopped and made the eye contact I was so hungry for. “I’m tired, Marlowe. I hardly slept last night. And my cousin is still mad at me. I think we should just rest and let things settle.” My head hung low, but my heart sank lower. She sensed my chagrin. “Maybe tomorrow night,” she uttered gently. I gobbled those words like a teething puppy wolfing down a bone.

“Okay. Sounds good.” I was always foolishly optimistic with anything Shelley. But lately things had gone well. I started planning right away. The organic gears of my brain whirred the machinations of our upcoming date, spinning madly like the cogs and sprockets of some overwound pocket watch. The Shelley of my imagination had momentarily distracted me from the Shelley walking right next to me.

“What are you thinking about?” she said softly.

“Oh, nothing.” She took my hand in hers as we walked quietly home, and it made my feet and heart prance to feel her palm against mine. It was a nice walk, and I left her at her doorstep with a gentle hug. “Goodbye, Shelley.”

“Goodbye, Marlowe.” She flashed a coy grin before she turned and went inside. It took but a moment for the air of my elation to seep into the skies and the smile upon my face to tumble to the ground, for as soon as I stepped away from her door, the dread of the awkward dinner that awaited sprang full upon me. I inched my way home with angst in every step.

*.*.*

Dinner was actually less painful than I had imagined. Everyone was rather cheerful, even Blake. He went on and on about my forthcoming graduation, how much I had grown, and how one day I might even make a strong village elder. Our family produced many elders. Maybe it was in our blood, but more likely it was in our namesake. Our world was a familial one, and trades were passed from father to son, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. Being an elder was almost like a trade. Our family was not skilled doctors or erudite teachers or fluent merchants—we were leaders, or at least the people saw us that way. And a good public image is sometimes all it takes to be an influential and accomplished leader. My family had the finest.

I thought it was over, I thought I had escaped unscathed, but Blake had saved the best for last. With a wry grin he announced, “Marlowe will see Sylvia this weekend. I have already spoken to Elder Emerson.” Charlotte smiled and patted my knee. My cousins nudged me playfully, and their wives grinned silly grins. The children giggled, aping their cheerful parents. I glared at my brother, but said nothing to disrupt the joy of the moment. “She would make a good wife, don’t you think?”

A murmur of agreement buzzed perniciously about the table—I wanted to swat it down like a pesky fly. I pantomimed a nod of consent, but my compliance was counterfeit. I felt as though that feigned expression glazing my face would crack under the pressure of my mounting frustration. I sat motionless while my family rose to clean their dishes, utterly oblivious to the contempt that was building inside me. No one seemed to even notice that I hadn’t moved from my chair as they finished the dinner chores and dispersed to their own privy worlds.

This time it was I who caught Brother Blake by the arm as he walked upstairs. “I am
not
going out with Sylvia.” My teeth ached from the pain of grit. “I don’t even like her.”

“Don’t be foolish.” His nonchalance was exasperating. “She’s a pretty girl. And she’s one of the smartest in your class. You’ll learn to like her.”

“I already love someone else.” My hand was still clasping his arm. He tried to pull away, but my grip grew tighter.
              “You’ll get over it.” He jerked his arm loose. “Besides, you know her family.” I wanted to strike him.

“I don’t care. I love her.”

Blake repeated slowly, “You know her family. They’ve
all
died early. You need to be with someone you can have a life with. What happens if you and Shelley do marry, and she dies? What then? Do you think Sylvia will just wait for you?”

The Early Onset is rare. It’s also genetic. Shelley’s father died right after she was born. He was seventeen. He was the only child of his father, who died at sixteen, before his son was born. At least they lived long enough to have children. The women with Early Onset are usually not so lucky, and sometimes they even die with child. But I never thought about such things. There was still a chance Shelley didn’t have it. It wasn’t always inherited. Maybe we would have a few good years together. Maybe we would have a child, or two, or three. Maybe she would live until I left on my Pilgrimage.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Go out with Sylvia. Forget Shelley. If you don’t, it will only break your heart when she dies.” I don’t think he meant to be so cold, but his levity sent a shiver down my tensing spine. I curled my right hand into a tightly clenched fist. He turned to go upstairs, and I took a hesitant step in his direction. I wanted to throttle him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. So the moment he disappeared up the stairs, I snatched my bag from off the chair and ran into the night.

I was out of breath by the time I reached Shelley’s house. I tapped on her window. She answered quickly. “Marlowe! What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I was—I was running.” I stifled the heaving of my overwrought lungs.

“Since when do you go running?” She caught my aching stare. “Oh, Marlowe. What’s the matter?”

“I just need a friend right now.” I was lying. I needed my best friend. I needed her.

“Let me get my shoes.” She disappeared for a moment then returned to the window; she climbed out carefully and silently. We walked around the village as I told her about the dinner disaster. I didn’t tell her everything—of course I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her. I was too scared.

We were on the edge of town, in front of the old theater. I gazed at her like a painted lover, motionless except for the short, nervous breaths I was powerless to subdue. We were all alone. I wanted so badly to kiss her. I started to lean in when something caught her attention. She pulled away quickly and looked longingly past me at the theater.

“Wanna go inside?” She darted over to the entrance and tugged at the dusty, ancient front doors of the theater. “Locked.” I followed her around back where she found an unlocked entrance. She pulled the creaking door open and held it for me. “After you.”

“You sure this is okay?” I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted back my moment. I wanted back my chance to kiss her.

“It’s fine, scaredy-cat.” I looked at her hesitantly. “Go!” I crept inside. She pushed me gently before she let loose the door. It slammed shut and gave her a start. She squealed.

“Who’s the scaredy-cat now?” I chuckled. There was enough moonshine through the cracks of the deteriorating building that we could see well enough to get around. I led her to the front, and we found two seats still somewhat intact. “Can you believe that people used to sit here for hours, just to watch movies? The Ancients had so much time on their hands.”

“It must have been great fun! I would love to see
Romeo and Juliet
on that big screen.” The soft glow of scattered light cast a slight blush upon her cheeks, and her eyes shimmered in the pale effulgence that crept crevice by crevice into the decaying theater.

I saw my chance and jumped. It was the very scene I had rehearsed so oft in my head on restless days and on my bed in sleepless nights. I stood up, took her by the hand, and with passionately but poorly executed histrionics recited the lines I memorized just for her: “If I profane with my unworthy hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rugged touch with tender kiss.” It was all I could remember.

She stood and responded with splendid timing and impeccable lines: “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

And then she kissed me. Not on the cheek, like before, but a long, loving kiss. It was the most perfect moment of my life.

We talked for a while about plays we had read and movies we had read about. We mused about what the past was like and what the future might hold. I almost told her I loved her, but I didn’t, even though I had a feeling she already knew. We held hands and exchanged little pecks and busses, the sweet and unprovoked kind that inevitably follow that first big kiss between two lovers.