Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (6 page)

Blake brushed himself off casually, like the boxing champion caught off-guard by a glancing blow from a junior opponent, knowing his prowess superior and still confident the fight was his. His face strained to suppress his rage. Before he had a chance to utter another word, I sprinted as fast as I could, far away from that miserable hall and my overbearing brother.

Chapter X

I didn’t stop running until I was completely out of breath. I stooped with my hands on my knees and heaved the air in and out until I could stand again. When I looked up, the Library lay directly in my path. Something had led me there—perhaps fate or my own mind or the Ancients’ mysterious god—I did not know. But I was compelled to cross that sacred threshold and search those crowded shelves for answers.

I thumbed through dozens and dozens of bootless Books, dismissing the endeavors into the realm of ancient legend and returning to the shelves those failed missions for that elusive Tree of Truth. I had no interest in mythology—I was on a quest for science. A scarce few of those Books had anything to offer. One described a particularly interesting theory about a conspiracy of ancient scientists believed to have invented the Great Disease to control the rampant population growth. Another suggested that it was not even a disease, or at least a disease as we knew it. But what other kind of disease is there? Those dubious tales were of little help.

I read more of Benjonsen’s Book. After all, it was interesting, and he was the one Pilgrim I had encountered who knew science was the key. I wondered what happened to those books he read that gave him such ideas. I wondered if I could still find those books in some dusty, ancient library somewhere. I thought about the love he had for his Tiesse and how lucky he was to have a wife to say goodbye to as he departed on his Pilgrimage. I imagined leaving Shelley on our own porch and saying goodbye to our own children, and I imagined returning years later with the Cure, the children grown and longing for their father, she on the porch with open arms awaiting her beloved husband. It was all a fantasy.

The fantastic vision broke when I heard the creaking of the Library door. It was Blake. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon. Why aren’t you at school?”

He wasn’t angry, even after what I did to him, even after the embarrassment and the frustration. There was a silver lining to his cold nature—he rarely lost his temper. Still, I trod lightly with my words. “I just needed to think. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

He sat down at the table next to me. For the first time in a while, he seemed more like my big brother than my stern father. “I know it’s hard. We all have to make tough decisions. In the old days, people had more choices, more freedom. But the Disease—”

I couldn’t let him finish. I just blurted out, “Shelley saw the Light. It was the other night. I snuck out to see her, and we went to the old theater together. She saw the Light. I don’t know what to do. I really love her, Blake, and she’s dying.” I started crying. He put his arm around me.

“There is nothing you can do. This is the way. I know that in a few years I will have to leave my precious Charlotte and our little girls and even you, and I know that it will break my heart. But this is our world. This Disease is our burden, and we must bear it with strength.” He gave me a hug, a real, brotherly hug. “Take the next few weeks and spend them with the woman you love. Stay with her until she passes. I’ll talk to Sylvia and her family. They will understand. When you finish your grieving, then we will talk about the wedding.”

“Wedding? What wedding?” I pulled away and stood up, glaring down upon him.

“We want you to marry Sylvia. She likes you, and her family likes you, and she will make an excellent wife. What other choice do you have? You’ll have to marry soon—you’re nearly sixteen.”

“You don’t know that Shelley will die! You don’t know if there is a Cure! I am not marrying Sylvia!” I stormed from the Library and ran straight to school, where I knew Shelley would be waiting.

I sat on the bench by the exit she used in the afternoon. Even an hour after leaving the Library I was still fuming. I tried not to make eye contact with any of my peers—I didn’t feel like explaining where I had been or what was wrong. I only wanted to talk to Shelley. I caught her by the arm as she strolled past me.

“Marlowe! Where have you been?”

“The Library.”

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you so upset?”

“Can we take a walk?”

She nodded and hooked her elbow inside of mine. I told her about everything: the meeting, the Library, the fight with my brother. She listened intently, and when I finished she turned to me and grasped both of my arms. “You did this all for me?”

“I love you.” I just blurted it out. I couldn’t help myself. I was nervous and a little embarrassed, but felt this great sense of relief. I wanted to say it a thousand more times, but that look she gave me told me not to. I couldn’t figure it out. It was like flattery and sympathy and uncertainty all fighting for control of her confused countenance. She hugged me.

“Let’s go home.” We walked quietly the rest of the way to her house.

I dropped her off at her doorstep as I had many times, but after the door closed I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I tapped on her window. She opened it. “Forget something, Marlowe?” I kissed her quickly. She giggled. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you feel weird.”

“It’s okay.” I felt confidence in my veins, like it was the end of the world, and I could say anything without consequence. “I still love you, and I will love you no matter how you feel about me. And one day, you will love me too. I know you will.”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “I do love you, Marlowe.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

The tears streamed down her face. “I saw the Light again—I’m dying. It’s not right to tell you I love you. It’s not right to let you get your hopes up. You should marry Sylvia. She will make a good wife.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know how long you will live. It’s the Early Onset—nobody knows what it will do.”

“Move on with your life, Marlowe.”

“What if there were a Cure? What if we could find it?”

“There is no Cure.”

“You don’t know that. There are scientists in the city. They study these things. I read it in Benjonsen’s Book.”

“We read a lot of stories in books, Marlowe. How many of them are true?”

“Let’s find out. Let’s go to the city together. We can leave in the morning.”

“Go home, Marlowe. I’ll see you tomorrow. At school.” She closed the window slowly. I stood in disbelief at all that had transpired. Before I turned to go, the window opened again. “I love you, Marlowe. I do. But you have your own life to live.” Then she closed the window on my aching face. I wanted the house to fall on me. But it didn’t. So I sulked my way home.

I said nothing at dinner. I ate very little. I avoided my brother. I went to bed, but did not sleep. It was a long and miserable night.

Chapter XI

I tapped lightly on Shelley’s window before the sun had even hinted its uprising. I paced in the cool morning air and stared at the twinkling stars above. There were no lights in the village between dusk and dawn, not like the luminous cities of the ancient times. I had seen pictures—brilliant displays of all shapes and colors. That must have been a sight. All I had ever seen in my short life were those same stars that stared at me night after night—I knew them by heart.

The window slid slowly open. The moonlight enhanced the blush of her cheek and the slant of her delicate jaw—she was beautiful, even with her mussed hair and groggy expression. “Marlowe? What are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?” She rubbed either side of her face up and down with both hands, on the final stroke gliding them up across her forehead and brushing her hair back with her fingers.

“I’m leaving for the city. I packed food and supplies for both of us. I’ve been up all night.” I had a pack on my back and one in my hand. I raised the one in my hand for her to see. “We can visit the doctors there. We can ask about the medicine.”

“What medicine? There is no medicine.” She leaned against the window sill and stared blankly into the starlit sky.

“We don’t know that. The Pilgrim Benjonsen, he thought there was something there. There must be—there are scientists in the city. They’ve been researching the Disease for years. I read so many stories about it in the Library.” I leaned in close and clasped her arm gently. The warm and tender skin on the back of her arm made the hair on mine stand at attention. “I have it all planned out. We’ll use Benjonsen’s map. We can get there in three days, and I have plenty of food and supplies. I even brought money to buy more food and supplies when we get there.” I dropped my bag to one shoulder and drew a small pouch from it, holding it high and shaking the currency inside. The coins rattled with muffled clanks against the soft lining of the pouch. “It’s my life’s savings.”

She stared at me with her chestnut-brown eyes. A subtle squint and a slight furrow of her brow betrayed frustration and bewilderment. “What if we go all that way and find nothing? What if there is no medicine? What then?” I could sense the desperation in her soft, sleepy voice. What had I to offer but a fanciful dream of life beyond these fleeting teenage years, a dream based on legend and fantasy gleaned from the scribblings of the walking dead?

“Then we’ve had the adventure of our lives. We’ve slept under the stars, we’ve been to the big city, we’ve seen strange things we never thought we would, and we’ve experienced life outside this dismal village. And we can spend the rest of that life, however long or short, knowing that beyond the hills that surround this town lies a world we never knew, a world that most of us in our toil and trouble never get to see, never even glimpse. Why not?” I gazed at her longingly. She turned away.

“I just don’t believe—”

I stopped her mid-sentence. “One who has no hope should know no fear.” She looked back at me, head tilted with that look of bewilderment, but this time not so subtle. It only took her a moment to make up her mind.

“Let me get my things.”

* * *

The trip to the edge of the village was an easy one, even in the dark. There was plenty enough moonlight to navigate those well-known streets we had walked our entire lives. Once we left the protection of the familiar, the sun had just begun to rise, casting a modest glow upon the land before us. I was certain the highway was near—I’d heard the tales of villagers who had ventured to that stretch of treacherous road in times of need (or foolish curiosity), and Benjonsen could not have been far from it when he found his Tree of Death. With the sun as our guide, we set our direction due south to find the ancient (and dangerous) thoroughfare that would lead us to the city.

It was a mild day, the air was clear, and we were making good time. Once the sun was bright in the sky, Shelley woke to full consciousness and became quite talkative. “What do you think the city is like? I heard all sorts of stories when I was a kid—markets with foods from everywhere, stores with pretty dresses, even restaurants like the ones from the ancient times. Do you really think they still have plays and concerts in the city? That’s what I heard too. Wouldn’t that be fun? I wonder what the food is like. Did you eat breakfast? I’m hungry.” Her rambling chatter was endearing to my ears. I reached inside my bag and grabbed two small packages.

“My sister made these last night—she’s probably looking for them right now. I left a note in the fridge.” I handed Shelley one of the carefully wrapped packages, which she presently opened. Inside was a small cake, thick with fruits and nuts. She took the cake and turned it over, casting her guilty look on both sides and around the edges. Then she lunged into it with a hearty bite.

“This is delicious.” I could hardly make out the words through the mouthful of chewed food.

“Charlotte’s a good cook. I hope she’s not mad at me.” I opened my own package and ate the tasty contents. I took the wrapping from Shelley’s hand—she didn’t seem to even notice. We were so comfortable, so natural together. “I have more.”

“No, I’m fine. Save them for later.” She smiled contentedly.

“We can stop for lunch. We will be near the highway by then.”

“That close?” she asked. I nodded. I thought it was closer than it was.

*.*.*

By noon we had not reached the highway, nor had we seen any sign of it. We’d stuck to the old roads—they often led to the highways, but more importantly they were easy to navigate and hard to lose. Despite all the destruction and chaos of the Great Disease, those enduring roads remained. But this little road had not led us to the grander road we were searching for. It did lead us through a peculiar village, one that looked very much like our own, but completely devoid of human life.

“Feel like eating?”

Shelley nodded. “And resting. I’m a little tired.” We had walked for hours without stopping.

“Let’s find a place to lunch.”

“What do you think this is?” She looked around at the abandoned buildings and empty streets. “I don’t see a soul. Looks like no one’s lived here for years.” The grass was wild and sprouted tall through the cracks in the streets and the sidewalks. “Is this one of those ancient villages?”

“
Suburbs
. They called them suburbs.” I had read about these archaic neighborhoods, small villages outside of the city with nothing but houses and maybe a few stores or a park. This one was different. “It looks so much like home.” There was a little guardhouse on the outskirts, very much like our own; there was an unfinished fence surrounding the town, wobbly and awkward—not so uniform as the construction of the ancients; there were solar panels on the roofs, bolted on and clumsily attached like the modifications that were made after the Great Disease, after the collapse, after the people could no longer depend on the electric companies; there were makeshift farms scattered about behind each house, overgrown from disuse.

“This village was abandoned
recently
.”

We wandered around a bit until we discovered an old café with benches and tables in front. Jutting from holes in the centers of the tables were faded, threadbare umbrellas, mostly holes and tears really. The weather had taken its toll on them, as it had on most everything there. Shelley brushed the dust off a bench and sat. “It must have been nice to sit here and have dinner under the shade in the old days.” She raised her hand and said playfully, “Waiter! Oh, Waiter!”

“Yes, ma’am, what can I get for you?” I pantomimed a pad and pencil. “We have a fabulous special today—roast leg of lamb with rosemary potatoes. It’s delightful.”

“I’ll have that.” She clasped her hands together and gazed thoughtfully past me.

“And something to drink? We have a fine wine selection.” I handed her a pretend wine list, which she pretended to open.

“Chardonnay, of course.” She closed the pretend list.

“Of course.” We both laughed. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down next her. We kissed.