Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) (8 page)

“I couldn’t bear to describe in great detail the gore of that terrible day. I knew he wanted to know more, but all I could muster of the death and destruction were a few brief words. ‘They saved my life. They are brave and noble.’ The panic of the fray waned, but the panic of delay remained. The sun was dropping, and I was no closer to the city than I was a day before. I gathered my things hastily. The elder stopped me. ‘You will not celebrate with us tonight? It will be a grand feast—we found an abundant harvest in these fields, and now that the Howards have been killed, we will praise our Lord and our bellies with the fruits of our labor.’ They still believed in the god of the Ancients. ‘I cannot tarry any longer—I am on a journey, a Pilgrimage. I must make it to the city soon.’ He looked disappointed.

“He took my bag. ‘The city is still half a day’s journey. If you leave now, you will have to stop and camp anyway. You might as well camp with us tonight. Looks like you haven’t had a good rest and a full belly in many days. A scout will lead you to the highway first thing in the morning—you can make it to the city by afternoon.’ He was very convincing, and I was tired and hungry. I thought about Tiesse and what she would want. I thought about her life without me, what she might have been doing—probably finishing a hearty dinner with the children or getting ready to tuck them into bed for a good night’s sleep. If she were here she would tell me to stay and eat and rest. ‘Okay. I’ll stay.’

“The boss and his men led me beyond the fields to an ancient farmhouse. There was a porch with six majestic columns, like the façade of a Greek temple. The windows were still intact, and I could see the fringe of the drawn curtains. High-back rocking chairs sat lazily on the porch; the paint had barely a crack or peel; the boards on the porch had seen neither rot nor warp—it seemed that time had forgotten this provincial masterpiece. There was a barn, quite well preserved, standing silently and humbly next to its prettier sister. ‘We’ve been holed up here for a few days now. Just enough time to clear them fields.’ The women and girls were preparing the feast—word had already traveled back that the Howard Tribe was dead.

“They greeted me like a hero, as though I myself had been the one to kill those vagabonds. I felt a little uncomfortable, at least until after the third or fourth cup of wine. ‘It’s made from peaches. Our family recipe. Like it?’ I did. I had never had anything like it. We had grapes in the foothills, and they say grapes make the best wine. But I guess it’s all in the making, because this was the best wine I’d ever had. And the music. ‘It’s called blue-grass, our
other
family tradition.’ He held up his cup of wine to mine, and we each took a healthy drink. The boss ascended the porch steps, and the crowd settled its cheer. He made a prayer to their god and invited me to take the first portion of food. I felt meek among those generous people. Their food was good, and we ate and drank well after the sun set. I don’t remember falling asleep, but the bed I woke up in was spacious and comfortable. They had given me the best. I will bear their kindness to my funeral pyre.

“My head hurt a little, but the boy who woke me served some juice that assuaged the pain. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but carried himself as though he’d lived three dozen years. He would make a good boss when the current one departed. He had my bag in his hand, packed and ready. ‘There’s two days’ worth of food—it’s about all we could fit in there. Anymore’d go bad anyway.’ I took the bag and inspected the contents. The food was tightly wrapped and carefully packed among my things. Over my shoulder I could feel the heat from the morning sun, magnified by the window glass. ‘We’d better get going. Boss says you need to get to the city.’ He was all business.

“We walked from the bedroom into the hallway.  He stopped and pointed to the bathroom door. ‘Why don’t you wash up first? I’ll wait.’ There was soap and water and even a towel. I could hardly believe my eyes. I washed my face for the first time in many days. It felt quite refreshing. The boss and the elders were waiting for me on the porch. They each shook my hand and wished me luck on my journey. The boss told me they would pray for me. I thanked him. It was a gracious gesture, however futile. The trip to the highway was a short one—I had not wandered that far from the road after all. ‘May God be with you.’ The scout wished me well before he disappeared into the bush. For him the day of toil had just begun. For me, I hoped, the journey was nearly done.”

Chapter XIII

After lunch, Shelley and I decided to explore the village. It was full of abandoned homes and shops. Some were built to be stores, but many of the shops were in old houses, just like in our village. There were houses with broken doors and windows, houses that had burned to the ground, and houses that were utterly deteriorated—the skeletons of the ancient times. But there were many homes that almost looked as though people still lived there, those houses with the farms and modifications.

In the center of the suburb were several very large houses, one with a sign that said “Meeting Hall” and another marked “Library.” These were not villages in the old days, but neighborhoods. They were quite different from the old cities and towns, and many of those ancient houses no longer served as homes. But they served their villages nonetheless.

“Let’s check out the Library.” I was dying to find out what was inside.

“Shouldn’t we be on our way?” She was hesitant, but I knew she was curious too.

“We must be close to the city. These old suburbs always are. We are making good time.” I thought we were, anyway.

She relented, so we pried the rotting doors open and crept in as if someone were watching. The first room was large with old, well-built shelves. They were mismatched and odd, but sturdy nonetheless. On these shelves were classics of poetry and prose, nonfiction texts from all disciplines, and tomes of philosophy and religion. This was the village’s library of literature, but not its
Library
.

Shelley found a shelf she couldn’t pull herself away from. “Drama!” she whispered loudly. She jauntily browsed the spines and pulled forward every book to glance at its cover, stacking a few select copies on a table in the center of the main room. Whispering again, she said, “Look how old they are.” She blew dust off of a copy, and it made me cough.

“Why are you whispering?” I whispered. We both giggled. Soon she was not paying any attention to me, and I became bored quickly. I snagged a copy of
The Odyssey
and stuffed it inside my bag. I browsed halfheartedly at the shelves near Shelley before finally announcing, “I’m going to look around.” She acknowledged me with a listless nod. I darted in and out of the other rooms. The rest of the house downstairs was more of the same, a typical library. I was looking for the Books.

“I’m going upstairs.” I wandered up the creaking staircase, where I found what I was looking for.

The Library in my village bore a mere resemblance to the motley assortment of odd, dusty, yellowing texts that lay before me. It was a collection like I had never seen. The sun’s light scattered unevenly through the tattered shades, revealing with its exposing rays the restless particles of dust that swim through the air inconspicuous to the naked eye, but uncomfortably naked to that celestial brightness. The ancient journals in its daily path wore a strange pattern of fade and blemish—the curtain that once protected those who slept here scarred with its irregularity the current residents of this bedroom turned bookroom.

My eyes were drawn immediately to the familiar, a shelf with those leather, wood, and plastic-bound Books I was so used to. I ran my finger across the tops, tilting toward me each one, looking for the Book that stood out. I hadn’t much time. There was little to set one apart from another, so letting my instinct guide me (or at least hoping it would), I made a random selection and sat down on the floor to read.

The Book was recent, from the 72
nd
year of the Third Century M.E., our “Modern Era.” It was written not even ten years before we began our own journey. The author had wandered into this village on the last leg of his Pilgrimage. They fed him and treated him well. “The people here are few—I fear they will not survive long. There is an air of optimism, but it feels like a façade. I have seen not one child, nor one person under the age of twenty.” I flipped a few pages. “All of the townspeople eat dinner together in Meeting Hall—it is a small group. After dinner I was told to be wary of the neighboring tribes. A group of marauding nomads has been regularly attacking, molesting, and even killing the villagers. I almost welcome the coming of the Light—I do not wish to leave this world as many of these people have.” I skipped to the end. “A group has decided to abandon the village. They will leave in the morning. They’ve invited me to travel with them, but I know my time is near—the Light flickers almost hourly, and I don’t think I will live past tomorrow.” His next entry was penned under his Tree of Death, in the center of that forsaken town.

I closed the Book and returned it to its timbered tomb. On another shelf were Books of a different sort—not like the Books I knew at all. These were even more random, but they did not look handmade. Instead, they looked like the note-taking books of the ancient times, with brand names and logos, some with spiraled wire bindings and others with metal rings that locked together. I came across one with a faded blue cover, torn in several places and barely clinging to the metal ringlets that held it in place. The words “Death Diary” were scribbled across the front in black ink. I pulled it from the shelf and sat back down to take a look.

Each entry was dated separately, beginning in 2189 C.E. of the old calendar. The Book was over a hundred years old, older than the Union, even older than the founders of the Union, who considered the Great Disease the beginning of a new era, so they memorialized it with a new calendar that began the moment the grim pestilence claimed its first victims. The pages of that Book were yellow and brittle, but the ink was remarkably intact. I carefully peeled back each decrepit page as I thumbed through the ancient entries. It began in an odd way: “I have seen the Light of the Great Disease, and so I have begun my exile in hopes of saving my family from the pain of watching me die. I keep this journal so that a part of me will continue on.” He was a Pilgrim of sorts, but not like those of our time. I traveled with him on his ill-fated journey.

“March 1
st
, 2189. Today is my first day away from family. I have left our quarantine camp and headed west—the city to the east lies in ruin, and the chaos that has erupted there after the Second Coming has left many dead. The Disease has plagued our camp, and many of my young friends are already dead. The misery that awaits me cannot be much worse than the misery I leave behind. . .

“March 4
th
, 2189. I have hiked for several days now, and I have not seen a soul. The apparent mutation of the Great Disease has cut a swath of destruction, both from the lives it has taken and the insanity it has incited—it now fells like a reaper the old
and
the young, and it has not yet become clear who exactly is susceptible to its deadly scythe. . .

“March 6
th
, 2189. I’ve stumbled across a quarantine camp much unlike my own. The people were friendly, but wary of my presence. Upon entering camp, I was greeted by a group of men who call themselves ‘elders,’ though they look quite young. They escorted me throughout my visit, eyeing me carefully and murmuring to each other just out of earshot. I was fed and then promptly asked to move on. It was a strange mingling of hospitality and mistrust. I chose not to chance their suspicion and left upon their request. . .

“March 9
th
, 2189. It took me over a week to get to the city to the west. After careful inspection, the city guards allowed me entrance into their gates. A small government is emerging here—the people hold regular meetings and have elected a city council. They hope to found some union of cities and villages, although that seems unlikely. It appears as if this is only place to have risen above the pandemonium of the pestilence. But still, I sense some danger lurking in these streets. I will stay here as long as they allow or until the Light of the Disease comes full upon me. The flickers are already increasing in frequency. . .”

The journal ended soon after. The papers crackled as I closed the Book, and the cover nearly came undone when I slid it back into place. The Books appeared to be arranged chronologically, so I followed the morbid timeline further into the dreadful past. In the next era of the Disease I found a quite intact and well-preserved journal, bound in stiff cardboard and neatly marked with the words “Life Journal.” The ink was faded somewhat, but still legible, although the script was a kind of cursive I was not used to. It was dated 2101 C.E.—no other date was given.

“When our camp ran dry of food and supplies, my son and I left to find a better life. Since the ban on travel was lifted and the gates of the camps were opened, many have done the same. In the early days the government airlifted food and water, but our leaders have become quite useless, and now we fend for ourselves. . .” He described an odd journey through crumbling communities and tumultuous towns. “The people have lost all sense of themselves—they loot and rob and care nothing for the lives of others. The whole country has fallen into lawlessness since the government collapsed and the camps opened up. My son and I had to hide in the woods for two days to avoid a group of bandits scavenging the highway. . .” He too was looking for the city. “We wandered for weeks trying to make it to the city—there is a rumor of a vaccine there. . .”

The script became illegible and abruptly changed to another style, another point of view. “My father has passed—the disease has taken him. It was like they say—a light appeared before his eyes, and within a few days he died. I took him to the burial pits on the outskirts of the city. It was gut-wrenching to see his limp and lifeless body flung into that pile with dozens of the dead, most of them without friend or family to lament their loss. He had no funeral, no farewell, no tears of grief except the few that stained my cheeks. Is this the fate that awaits me?” The journal ended there—no date, signature, or valediction.

I sat with the journal on my lap for a moment, collecting my thoughts and wondering what life was like in those harrowing centuries after the Disease first appeared. It seemed much worse than my own, and I felt a great appreciation for what I had. I missed my family, even my brother. I replaced the Book to the shelf where it belonged and crept halfway down the staircase to peek at Shelley. She was happily lost in her books. I left her alone and returned to the morbid collection upstairs.

Minding the time, I resigned from my curious readings and dug deep into the farthest recesses of that Library to find the most ancient of those texts. My quest led me to a dusty scrapbook in the back corner, not a journal exactly, more a compilation of pasted newspaper clippings with a few annotations. I had never seen a newspaper before—they had all but disappeared in the years that followed the Great Disease. A handful in the cities printed petty local stories, but nothing like the ancient papers. The Ancients could read about anything in the world almost the instant it happened. My people relied on rumor and legend, and rarely was anything as it seemed.

The scrapbook began with a dire headline: “Mysterious Disease Strikes India, China.” It was from the year 2025 of the old calendar. Below it was pasted another: “Millions Dead—CDC, WHO Scramble for Answers.” And another: “Beijing Declares Martial Law, Panic Rips Nation.” There were pictures—bodies piled along the streets, mothers clutching children in fear, crowds rioting government buildings. The wretched photographs sent shivers down my spine, and I turned the page, slowly. My hand trembled from trepidation of what lay in wait.

The headline atop the next page read, “US Gripping for Spread of Disease.” The article was pasted below: “Authorities are searching for answers to the rapid spread of the unknown disease plaguing much of Asia. The deaths of millions over the age of 50 have baffled scientists. The FTA has suspended all flights in and out of the US. . .” An annotation read, “Unsubstantiated rumors of quarantine camps have surfaced—I fear this is the end.” Scattered about the page were more pictures of more dread. I reluctantly continued on.

“Stock Market Crashes as Disease Hits US,” read the headline. The pictures told much of the story: cities in flames, looting and rioting, bodies littering the streets. “Citizens Forced into Quarantine Camps.” Barbed-wire fences protected and imprisoned the desperate and displaced. “Disease Spreads through Camps, Hope Lost.” But hope was not lost. On the next page the tone briefly changed: “Possible Vaccine, Citizens Clamber for Cities.” The headline beneath did not reek of hope: “Vaccine Failure Incites Rioting.”

Two disturbing pictures graced the next page—a burning building in one and four men hanging by their necks before a cheering crowd in another. Pasted below was the story: “A mob stormed the offices of Koch Pharmaceuticals, reacting to rumors that the worldwide pandemic was created by researchers in their own Indian laboratories. . .” It was all quite unsettling. But I wanted to know more. I needed to know more.

Page after page revealed little more but further death and destruction, toppled and crumbling governments, the decline of humanity in the face of the Great Disease. It was the apocalypse the Ancients had so often predicted; it was the end of life as they knew it. It concluded with a grim post script: “Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.” It was from the old religion. I thought it strange how the Ancients knew things, but not in the way they thought they knew.

I heard footsteps rushing up the staircase. “Marlowe!” I closed the Book and returned it to the shelf, but I couldn’t take my hand off it, so I slid it back from its resting place and stuffed it in my bag. Shelley poked her head in the door. “Marlowe—do you know what time it is?” I drew the curtain back and gauged the descending sun.