by James Huss
We walked through the charred gate together, but then the one who spoke ran ahead and parleyed with an elder. The other two boys held their staves out to stop us, but there was never a sense of menace about it. The elder disappeared and returned presently with another elder, quite old it seemed—he had more gray hair than I had ever seen on a man. He also had that benevolent look I saw in those boys. The whole tribe, in fact, seemed always peaceful, always content.
The old man waved off the two taciturn youths, and they retreated with their weapons. He offered his hand to me, and I repaid the ancient custom. He took my hand in both of his and shook it firmly but gently. Then he turned to Shelley and gave her a grandfatherly hug. The boy who spoke then spoke once more: “This is Pastor Milton.”
“You may call me Pastor,” he said. “I wish I could welcome you on more pleasant terms. We have much to do. Much to do. Come.” Pastor turned and led us swiftly but calmly through the carnage. “The sun will set soon, and we must mourn the lambs that were slaughtered today.” He looked despairingly at that pile of other corpses. “And too we must mourn the wolves that took them from their fold.” Looking back at us he said, “You look hungry. Earn your dinner.” He exhorted us no more. He merely set the example for us to follow.
So we joined the spirit tribe in their work. I with the men helped situate those fated merchants upon their funeral beds, while Shelley with the women hugged and cried and lamented with sister, wife, brother, husband, even loyal patron.
The funeral for those slain villagers was simple, but solemn. Pastor read verses from a dog-eared book of poetry he had carried for many years, and then each pyre was lit with a prayer. We stood silent and watched their last moments on this earth. The sun was beginning its set, and there grew an eerie glow behind those burning bones. The fire warmed us on that unusually cool August evening. Shelley held my hand and laid her head on my shoulder. It was a good funeral, if there were such a thing.
When those innocent bodies had ascended to heaven, Pastor said a brief and earnest prayer for the lot of sickly nomads who had attacked that greedy but peaceful village. Around the bodies was laid a motley kindling—paper, straw, twigs, anything that would burn quickly and easily. One gentle touch of an elder’s torch sparked a flame that spread rapidly about the corpses and engulfed the mass of murderers in an adumbration of their hellfire.
The flames died and the torches were lit, for the sun had crossed the western horizon, and its rays, though still glowing orange and gold and purple, were fading fast. Pastor’s wife, who was there to console those who remained, pulled him aside to speak with him. When he returned, he was wearing again that gentle smile upon his face.
“We will have a special dinner tonight. The parishioners are preparing it now. It will be a solemnly sanguine dinner, for we must lament those who have left us before we celebrate those who will join us on our Pilgrimage.” He turned to a small group of villagers who were gathered around Pastor’s wife. Among them was that saucy girl from the hostel. She glanced at me with a faint glimmer of recognition overshadowed by despair and uncertainty. I knew exactly the feeling behind her gaze, for I saw the same aspect every time I looked in the mirror.
Chapter XXVI
We walked in a grim parade just a short distance north to the spirit tribe’s camp. They camped in a large oval. In the center was a gathering place. Like the poet tribe, they too ate upon a carpet on the ground. On one end was a makeshift kitchen, and on the other an altar. The altar was adorned with white tapers and flowers—I wondered at its purpose, but there were many things to wonder about. Their tents were decorated with symbols; some I recognized, like the cross and the crescent moon. But others were unfamiliar. They always wore their cloaks, even the women. The strangest thing about the tribe was their pastor—that venerable old man was thirty-five!
Pastor sat me down next to him at the head of the textile table. He asked me where we were from. I described our village to him. “Ah, yes—I’ve been to your village, many years ago. Probably about the time you were born.”
“Are you telling your boring stories again?” Pastor’s wife was directing the setting of the makeshift table and the serving of the food, but she took a moment out of her busy schedule to tease her husband-chief.
“Oh, come now, Harriett—you love my stories.”
Harriet looked at me with a wry grin. “I haven’t had a bad night of sleep since I married that old man.” She giggled as she took Pastor by the arm. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course. Would you excuse us?”
They spoke privately of some matter, likely of no importance—it seemed to evoke little emotion in either of them. When Pastor returned, he asked about our journey.
“It’s my brother—he doesn’t want me to marry Shelley. He thinks she’s dying. But I don’t care. I’d rather spend one night with Shelley than the rest of my life with,” I could hardly get the word out, “Sy-Sy-Sylvia.”
“You love her truly.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve never seen the moon gaze upon the water as you stand and read that young lady’s face. Why don’t you ask her to marry you?”
“My brother would kill me.”
“How old are you, Marlowe?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“You are a man, my son. It’s time you made your own decisions. Follow your heart.” My mind and my gut dithered incessantly, but my heart was steadfast. “I’m a minister, Marlowe. I can perform the ceremony, right here, before my God and my Tribe.” He took my hand and said, “I will marry you to the woman you love. I will marry you and Shelley.”
“But when? Where? How shall I ask her?” That moment I had the strongest instinct of my life. He was right—I had to marry her. I had to. My brother couldn’t stop me. It was my decision, not his—I was but kin to my affection! The thought terrified me, though not because of my brother. “What if she says no?”
“She won’t say no, son.” He chuckled softly. “Ask her at dinner tonight. You will know when the moment is right.” It was time to screw my courage to the sticking post. It was time to take charge of my life. I was almost sixteen—I was a man! I spent every second between that moment and my imminent proposal gathering my mental strength to ask the most important question of my life.
In the meantime, Pastor entertained me with stories of his youth and his tribe’s beliefs and views. “I was twenty when my first wife died. She was older—I was her second husband. Her first husband, my cousin, was killed on a journey into the city. You two were lucky. The cities are safe havens from the horrors of the suburbs, but they are not inviolable. In desperate times like these, where man lurks, so too lurks his evil. But God protects this tribe, and we have never lost a parishioner except to the Light.”
“But your wife,” I began inquisitively. “I thought you said her first husband was killed.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I’ve digressed. That was before I found my way. I was twenty when she died, and it crushed my heathen heart. I had no one to turn to, no one to console me—we had not been blessed with children, and the rest of our families had been taken by the Light. It was a terrible time in my life. So one night I woke up from a dream, loaded my pack, and began my Pilgrimage in the divine splendor of God’s nocturnal lamp.”
“The moon?” He spoke almost like the poets.
“Yes, my son. The moon.” Pastor chuckled and placed his hand upon my shoulder.
“So, you still believe in the old gods? All of you?”
“God, Allah, Buddha. My people choose their god. But they choose only one god, one symbol, one metaphor for the transcendence of this body, this earth, this dreaded Disease. We are not like the fundamental tribes—they believe their god is the only god, and every other god is evil. Some of them are quite despicable, even violent. Most of the religious tribes of the ancient times were the same. But that is not our Pilgrimage—we are an enlightened people.”
“I don’t understand
. Do you believe in God or not?”
He laughed. “The God that can be spoken of is not the true God.” Pastor smiled at my puzzled look. “We human beings are funny—we say there is a God who knows all and who created all, as though we have any place to describe such a being. To think that the human mind and human language can describe the Creator of this vast universe is the height of human arrogance.”
“Then what is God?” I asked.
“I could not explain if I had an eternity to try. For God does not exist in our language, nor in our perception. I can see light, but His divine light is not visible to mine eyes. I can hear sound, but the word of God is none that mine ears can understand. His glory is not felt on the skin, but in the heart. God, Allah, Buddha, the Tao–these are but a few of the names Ancient man gave to that which is beyond his perception, beyond his consciousness.” He laughed heartily. “Even now we are talking about things we cannot talk about. It strikes me every time.”
The carpet filled with guests and drinks and dishes, and Shelley glanced often at me as she helped the parishioners prepare the feast. Pastor spoke again after a short pause. “To look inside yourself is to find the God you seek, for He exists not among books and prayers and prophets, and you will not know Him with that mind you think is yours, but with another mind, a purer mind, what the Ancients called the soul, the spirit. Understand?” I nodded in agreement, but I did not understand. At least not then.
Harriet finally settled down next to her husband, granting me a brief reprieve from his abstruse musings. “It’s time, dear,” she said. Shelley plopped down next to me—she was blithe and energetic, and there was a lively streak of blush in her cheek. Pastor took Harriet’s hand with his right and mine with his left, and each of the parishioners clasped hands in that great oval of people.
Pastor closed his eyes. “Let us pray. We thank thee, oh Numen of Nature, for these gifts of meat and vegetable. We thank thee, oh Master of the Men, for our health and our families and our loved ones. We thank thee, oh Forger of Fate, for guiding these new parishioners home. We thank thee, oh Namer of the Nameless, for your blessings and your mercy. Amen.” It seemed strange to thank a nameless god for the palpable misery of this world.
The feast was modest, but good. They did not glut themselves as the poets did. They were far more reserved. Nonetheless, all were laughing, smiling, enjoying the love and companionship of the tribal family. Shelley was absorbed in conversation with Harriet, despite Pastor’s attempts to cut in with his stories. I was absorbed in thought—how was I to ask Shelley to marry me? What would I say? I hardly spoke a word at dinner.
“What’s wrong, Marlowe?” Shelley finally asked.
“Nothing, it’s just that, uh, the food—it’s so delicious.” I feigned enthusiastic mastication. “Mmm, mmm, so good.” She smiled and flew back to intercourse with Harriet.
Pastor leaned back behind Shelley and hailed me where she could not see with his outstretched hand. “It’s time,” he whispered. My heart raced. I felt as though I might vomit. I tried to stand, but my knees gave way to gravity.
“What are you doing, silly?” Shelley asked.
Pastor stood, drawing Shelley’s attention away from me. The happy din and clamor fell to a murmur and then a whisper before it faded altogether. “Deacons, parishioners, little lambs.” He made a face at some children sitting near him. They giggled. “God has blessed us with new lambs for our flock.” A round of applause erupted as parishioners seated near the new members of the tribe hugged and patted them. “But God has also blessed us with two young Pilgrims wandering on a lonely path. I look at these two bodies,” gesturing at us, “yet I see one soul.” The entire tribe was staring at us. Shelley, though she should have been quite bewildered at this point, was calm and nonchalant. “And now our young brother Marlowe would like to say a few words. Marlowe.”
He sat down, but I still could not stand, so I knelt before my Shelley and took her hands in mine. My eyes filled with tears before I could utter the first word. “Shelley.” My voice cracked. Shelley giggled, then I giggled, then I composed myself again. “Shelley, I’ve loved you all my life, and all my past lives, and for all my future life I will still love you. I feel as though I’ve lived an eternity in the short time I’ve been with you, and yet eternity is scarcely enough for your eyes, your face, your smile, your grace—I could adore you until the sun refused to rise.”
I was uncharacteristically eloquent, though they were not my words. Something deep inside me wove that maudlin fabric, unconsciously threading word and syllable into a lovesick yarn. Shelley did not think it maudlin—she was deeply moved, I could see it in her face. I reached out and wiped a tear hanging from the end of her nose. She loosed that half-sigh, half-laugh that sometimes happens when a triviality treads upon a grave endeavor. “Miss Shelley, I do believe you are crying.”
“Go on, go on,” she uttered, as though anticipating what was not yet said.
I cleared my throat. “I know we have but a short time on this earth. We all do. And Time is cruel—he speeds past us in a blink of an eye all that we love, yet slows our misery and suffering to eternity. Our only hope is to seize every day, every hour, every moment, and never take a single of those precious moments for granted. Shel—” I tried to clear my throat. It was dry. Pastor gave me a cup with water, and I gulped it down. I gazed back at my Shelley. “Shelley, I want to ask you—” I choked up again.
But Shelley didn’t care. She burst out, “I will, I will!” and then threw her arms around me. The crowd rose to their feet in applause.
Shelley held me tightly and kissed my face all over. “Will you marry me?” I muttered.
“Yes. Yes, I will marry you!” And she planted a victorious kiss upon my quivering lips.
A chorus of children flew to flowers and candles, arranging and lighting the decorations for the wedding. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“You shall marry tonight!” Pastor said. Shelley’s face lit up with indubitable glee, and my heart was jolted to a gallop once again, but its furious beat this time was joyful, and I could not hide the broad grin on my face.
Harriet retrieved a small guitar from her tent, and she played a sweet melody while Pastor arranged us before him at the altar. The parishioners, still seated in their festive circle, continued to eat and be merry, though they quieted quickly when Pastor began to speak.
“We are gathered here to join two bodies whose souls have already been married in the heavens, for only God could bestow a love so great and so pure as the love that shines in the twinkle of Marlowe’s eye and the blush of Shelley’s cheek.” Pastor took Shelley’s hands and placed them in mine. He asked if I would love her and honor her and cherish her. Of course I said yes—I already did all those things. He asked if I would marry her. I wanted to say yes, yes, a thousand times yes, but only one yes crossed my lips before they were overcome by an intractable smile.
Pastor turned to Shelley: “Do you take this Marlowe to be your husband?”
“Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!”
We kissed. The tribe cheered. Pastor led us through hoots and hollers to a special tent they had prepared for us. It was covered in flower blossoms, and there were torches lighting a pathway to it. They must have known—they had made the preparations before I even asked Shelley to marry me. Pastor pulled back the tent flaps. “Your wedding bed.” We scurried inside. The tent flaps closed, and the torches along the path were extinguished one by one. I was alone for the first time with my new wife.
We embraced and kissed and made our marriage complete. Neither of us knew what we were doing—we just did what came naturally. We giggled at the awkwardness of it all, for true love knows no awkwardness, and nothing could have tarnished the most beautiful night of our lives.
We talked until the wee hours of morning. “When we get back to the village,” I said, “I’ll fix up my room—I can get rid of lots of junk, old stuff that I never use anymore.” I lay in Shelley’s lap, looking up at her
soft eyes, rambling like there was no tomorrow as she played with my hair and caressed my face.
“We’ll finish school soon, and you can teach, and I can work on the farm and maybe one day follow in my brother’s footsteps and become a village elder.”
“You will make a great elder, Marlowe. I think you would be a good leader. And a good father.”
“How many kids do you want? I think three would be perfect. Two boys and a girl!”
“Why not two girls and a boy?” Shelley said playfully.
“Why not? Two girls and a boy!”
We wasted away our breath and the night with idle chatter, tickles and giggles, and soft kisses all over. I don’t remember falling asleep. I only remember the nightmare of waking up.
Chapter XXVII
“Marlowe—Marlowe.” Shelley’s soft voice tickled my eardrums. I thought I was still dreaming. “Marlowe—wake up.” I rolled over languidly and opened my sleepy eyes.
I rubbed my face with both hands and tried to focus my vision. It was dark but for a pale morning light, an intimation of sunrise that gave a soft glow to the tent and formed an aura behind Shelley’s sweet face. “What is it, Shelley?”
“I want you to watch the sunrise with me one last time before I go.” Her voice was shaking, and there were tears welling in her eyes.
“Where are you going, Shelley?” My hands started trembling violently. She took them in hers and tried futilely to stifle their shaking.
“It’s okay, Marlowe.” She had a confidence in her voice—my weakness made her stronger. She pulled me in close.