by Rio Youers
I hoisted my backpack, adjusting the straps so the weight rested against the center of my back and took a deep breath, trying to quell the shake in my fingers. Wayward strands of ivy covered the small building housing the bathrooms, and long arms of the same extended across the parking lot. The air tasted heavy and still. Apocalyptic. I fished the Zippo from my pocket and flicked the wheel with my thumbnail. Ready or not, here I come.
With a soft exhalation, I headed into the trees, stepping over roots and branches and wincing every time a twig cracked beneath my heels. A squirrel ran across my path, stopped in the middle with its head cocked toward me, then took off with a scatter of dead leaves. A yellow-winged butterfly darted around my face. Clouds alternately obscured then revealed the spring sun, taking away then returning the early evening warmth and shrouding the trees in disconcerting shadows.
I heard the pilgrimage before I saw it. A low susurration, similar to the ocean from a distance, growing louder by degrees. The trees ended abruptly, and I staggered to a halt. I thought I was prepared. I’d seen videos on television and YouTube. I’d seen hundreds of pictures and spent way too many hours on websites solely devoted to the pilgrimage. But even the videos didn’t capture the feel of this sea of bodies, about a dozen across with neither beginning nor end anywhere in sight, moving in one long, slow wave down one side of the highway and back on the other.
In no small way, it reminded me of a zombie horde from television or the movies, that mindless forward locomotion. I curled my toes inside my sneakers. All those whispers, all those exhalations, all that fervent devotion. And somewhere in it all, my mom. Panic coiled on my tongue.
I didn’t have to be here. What did it matter that I didn’t have a mom to talk to when things were tough, that I had to do my own laundry when I was ten, that I learned about my period from other girls at school, most of whom knew barely more than I did? It could have been worse.
A man swung his head in my direction and the heat in his eyes sent me back several steps. I gripped the straps of my backpack until the edges dug into my skin. I dropped my hands to my sides, wiped the sweat from my palms on my jeans. I didn’t have to do this.
I narrowed my eyes. Bullshit. She didn’t give me a choice.
There was no pushing, there were no elbows in my ribs or abdomen, no sharp glances. Without words, the pilgrims made a space for me and it was as if I’d always been a part of the ouroboros. My pace slowed to match everyone else’s. I’d dreaded the reek of unwashed bodies, of rotting teeth. Dirty faces, tattered clothes and slack mouths. Instead, everyone had clean cheeks, some pinkened by the sun, and clothing well-worn but obviously cared for. Here and there, I breathed in hints of patchouli, of laundry detergent, of contentment and purpose. Whispered prayers filled the air with a soft syllabic hum, footsteps acting as punctuation.
I wasn’t the only person with a backpack, but most carried nothing, their arms swinging gently with each step or linked together with the person next to them. There was a camp along the highway, with food, water, tents, sleeping bags, and medical care donated by many different organizations. These weren’t the forgotten homeless. Anyone was welcome, and no one ever needed permission to stop walking, to rest. No one was in charge, except maybe the gods. And even that was suspect.
The pilgrimage was its own organism, started by a small band of people now called the Firsts and grown on the asphalt until it turned the lanes impassible by any car, no matter how long and hard the driver pressed the horn. Over the years, the number of people who joined had lessened, and a few of the elderly had passed away—all peacefully in their sleep, it was noted time and again—but only a handful of people left of their own accord. Several underage participants were removed by authorities in the beginning, but once the pilgrims’ numbers grew, even before the serpent swallowed its tail, that became all but impossible.
Moving with the crowd, I understood why. I felt as anonymous as the pilgrim beside me, as though I’d shed my identity simply by joining the masses. Easy enough to walk and sleep and eat and walk, to forget there was an outside world. I pinched my cheek between my teeth. Most of these people had left their lives behind. Their friends, their families, their daughters. They’d left behind empty places at the dinner table and houses full of hurt. Had they bothered to say goodbye or had they snuck out in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep?
I tucked a hand in my back pocket, my fingers tracing first the edge of the photograph, then the Zippo. I’d find her, no matter how many hours or days or weeks I had to spend walking and pretending I was devout.
The whispers ceased and even the footsteps quieted as we approached the end of the highway. The sun emerged from another dance with the clouds to shine down onto the first shrine, gilding the metal frame and giving the wood an amber sheen. The first shrine, the first god.
Every photo, every video, of the gods was slightly blurred, suggesting they were constantly moving too fast for a lens to catch. There were sketches and paintings, but they were all slightly . . . off, distorted as though gods resisted being recreated in pen, ink, or charcoal. It didn’t stop people from selling medallions or even T-shirts, nor did it stop people from buying them.
A grey-haired woman stepped free from the crowd and knelt near the shrine, or as near as she could get. The ground was littered with twig figures, bent into triangles and tied with vines. They brought to mind the Maiden, the Mother, and Crone, but if this god was indeed that god, she never confirmed nor denied.
The shrine was also triangular-shaped and at the roof’s peak, another triangle the offerings emulated, both crafted from metal, curiously rust-free. The front of the shrine was open, the back and sides simple wood darkened almost black with varnish. A tree trunk served as the base the shrine was fixed upon, whether there first or put into place by the artist, I wasn’t sure.
The god herself took up most of the shrine’s interior. She was seated with folded legs, her chin resting on her chest. I slowed down, a stone in the river of people flowing around me. I stepped free, and the grey-haired woman shot me a look—not unkind, but mindful—so I knelt, too, peeking up at the god. She was small, which I expected, and appeared to be asleep. Her face was a wizened apple, her body a gourd, her limbs tucked in such a way to make them nearly invisible. Her hair, the color of storm clouds in winter, twisted in a long intricate braid cascading over one shoulder. A linen tunic appeared to be her only garment.
All the accounts I’d read said looking at the gods directly gave you the sensation of insects creeping on their skin, not unpleasant, but strange. They described a feeling inside, an expansive, awe-filled opening of sorts that brought unexpected tears, but I felt nothing. Nothing that explained anything. Nothing that made me want to abandon my life and take up the pursuit of walking this pilgrimage. I closed my eyes, emptied all my thoughts, and looked at the god again. This time, she was looking back, her eyes blue and penetrating.
I dropped my head and shrugged my shoulders forward, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. Could she tell the real reason I’d joined the pilgrimage? Would she let anyone else know? With a hard swallow, I darted back into the sea of people, pushing my way to the center. Once there, I couldn’t see the god through the crowd. Good. It meant she couldn’t see me either.
When she was well behind us, I moved closer to an older gentleman who had the look of a long-time pilgrim—weathered face, purposeful steps, soft shoulders, rapt, yet introspective eyes. But mostly, no audible prayer. The newer the pilgrim, the more they prayed, as though they had to prove their devotion and their place in the pilgrimage.
My shoes scuffed on the asphalt and I leaned a little closer to the man. “Are you one of the Firsts?” I asked, pushing a touch of the vacuous in my voice.
He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “No, I’m not, just old.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. You’re not the first to ask and you won’t be the last. Anyon
e over the age of fifty here has been asked the same. The Firsts,” he said, lifting a hand, “are wherever they want to be. Sometimes here, walking with us, sometimes at the camp, sometimes tending to the shrines, but they’re always here with us.” He patted the center of his chest and smiled.
I nodded, but my guts twisted. If they were here, there, and everywhere, how was I going to find them? They were the only people I definitely knew who’d been here before my mom joined, their faces graven in my memory due to all the press. Seven of them, all older, all devoted. If they’d snapped at a reporter or uttered a curse, if they’d acted anything other than serene and perfectly happy, maybe no one else would’ve joined the pilgrimage at all. Maybe my mom wouldn’t have walked out on us. My fingers tiptoed to the edge of the photograph and tugged it free.
The man glanced over, as I’d expected he would.
“My mom and I,” I said, holding out the picture. “A long time ago.”
“You look a lot like her.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. We have the same hair.”
“Same smile, same eyes, too.”
I nodded. No recognition on his face whatsoever, unfortunately, and I returned the photo. It was a long shot anyway. Eventually we drew near to the second shrine, and the man left the group with a small wave to me as he went. I watched him kneel but made sure not to look too closely at either shrine or god. A brief glance gave me the impression of something vaguely elephantine tucked deep in an ornately carved structure.
I scanned the faces near me and those further away, looking closely at anyone with grey hair and lined faces. It would’ve been easier to sit on the side of the road and watch everyone as they passed, but no way that wouldn’t have made people suspicious.
Twilight descended and still, I walked and looked, sometimes dropping my pace to fall back into a new group of people. Dusk tumbled into full dark as we passed other shrines, and I avoided looking in their direction although lots of people stopped to pray or think or whatever they chose to do while others rose from bent knees and rejoined the rest of us.
A while after we passed the eleventh shrine, the pilgrimage curved back around, but before people continued on, they bent a knee facing away. A youngish guy with dreadlocks left the procession and disappeared into the trees. Two seconds later, another person did the same. I tugged the sleeve of the pilgrim nearest to me, a woman with a peaceful expression on her face and a skirt the color of a summer sky.
“Did they move the twelfth shrine?”
Her brow furrowed. “No, why would they do that?”
“But we didn’t pass it.”
“We can’t because of the road.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry? I’m new, I don’t understand.”
“Part of the road washed out after the big storm a couple months ago, so we can’t pass it this way. If you want to go, there’s a path through the woods, but I don’t recommend you go at night. Not if you’re new. It’ll be fixed this summer, that’s what the Firsts say,” she said and moved along before I could ask anything more.
I lost track of time, caught up in the endless lifting and dropping of my feet. When my legs started to ache, I slowed my pace, pausing now and again to rub my shins or flex my toes and ankles.
“You’re allowed to stop, you know,” a woman to my right whispered as she passed. “We’re pilgrims, not martyrs.”
My face burned with heat, but I didn’t stop, not until a stone found its way into my shoe and dug into my heel. I limped to the side of the road and plopped down, undoing the laces of my sneaker. I threw the pebble—way too small for so much pain—behind me and put my head in my hands. The pilgrimage went on and on, their feet whisking on the road. I felt as tiny as the stone yet even more insignificant.
The weight of the day and the long drive settled on my shoulders. I should go to the camp and find a place to sleep, if they’d let me, and if not, I’d come back. Everything I’d read said new pilgrims were welcome at the camp, but I’d find out if that were true soon enough.
A couple people pointed me in the right direction and signs large enough to find with my flashlight pointed the way through the woods. The clearing seemingly came out of nowhere. One minute I was dodging branches, the next, I stood on the edge of the camp, although camp, with its mental pictures of quaint two-person tents and stone circles for roasting marshmallows over a fire, was definitely the wrong word. I’d been to the Renaissance Faire last summer and the sprawl ahead reminded me of that, even in size. There were plenty of fires, dotting the expanse with golden light, and there were also tents, but not the small triangular sort. These, of canvas and metal and wood, gave the impressions of permanence with wide pathways, illuminated by solar lamps, in between the structures. Thick stands of trees bordered each side, giving the whole place a feeling of isolation. And the noise . . .
Here, the respectful quiet of the pilgrimage was replaced with the sounds of life, of many lives. People walked and talked and laughed. I smelled roasting meat and saw kids running around, despite the late hour. Little kids. What the hell were their parents thinking, having them here? How could they be so dumb? I almost retreated back into the woods, but someone came up behind me.
“If you’re new, go to the right. That big tent, all the way over there?” the person said, pointing. “They’ll help you out.”
After a brief hesitation, I followed her instructions and everything I’d read proved correct. I was given a warm meal, a cot in a small but private tent, a bag of toiletries, and basic instructions on how the camp functioned. And like that, I was a part of it all. No questions about my reasons for being here or my devotion or anything else. Not exactly smart, in my opinion, but way easier for me.
In spite of being so tired my eyelids closed as soon as I was horizontal, I had trouble sleeping with so many bodies, so much movement, around me. I was up and back at the pilgrimage before the sun finished rising. The day passed slowly. Walking, the endless walking—I stuck to the middle of the pilgrimage so the people on either side of me blocked the gods from my sight. I searched for the Firsts, I searched for my mom, seeking her face in every woman about her age, wondering how changed she’d be now. Hair grey? Lined face? Would she be thinner? Heavier?
I pulled out the photo now and again and always with the same result. Comments on how I resembled her and nothing more. When I got hungry, I went back to camp and ate at a long table with a bunch of other people. A cheeseburger from the grill, potato chips, an apple. I set the photo near my plate and after a few minutes, it was passed around while people commented on our appearances. No recognition though, at least not that I could tell.
I didn’t want to go back to the pilgrimage—my feet already hurt—but I did anyway. More walking, more sharing the photo, more nothing. After, it was dinner at the same table. Different people, but they might as well have been the same ones. I spent another restless night and, in the morning, I stared up at the dull grey canvas of my tent. The cot wasn’t particularly comfortable and the air outside was already thick with voices and laughter, but I didn’t want to get up. My third day here and I couldn’t stand it already. Even just the thought of walking made my jaw clench.
I rolled onto my side, the cot creaking the entire time. A human-shaped shadow moved across the side of the tent. Moved, then grew larger as whoever it belonged to stepped closer to my tent. Then it moved even closer. I held my breath, and the shadow withdrew.
I clambered from the cot, spilling the blanket and pillow onto the floor of the tent and rushed through the entrance flaps, grateful that I’d slept in sweatpants and a T-shirt. A narrow pathway ran behind my tent, extending the length of the camp. I checked right and left and saw plenty of people but no one rushing away or looking back at me. No one familiar. No Mom.
I stormed back in my tent, grabbed shoes and socks, and wandered to the back of the camp. The whole place was setup in a well-planned grid pattern, the pathways packed firm. The Firsts were responsible; when people had begun ar
riving in droves, they refused to allow it to turn chaotic.
As I walked, I wondered if the Firsts were even still here. Maybe they’d left—or died—and it was some big secret kept from the newbies. I scoffed, drawing a quick glance from a man with a shaved head tending to a pot suspended over an open flame. When I reached the end of the path, I took the one running perpendicular but turned onto the next that ran parallel to the first. I checked and double-checked the faces of everyone I saw and when a tent had its flaps open, I glanced in, although I was as careful as I could be not to make it look like I was looking.
Maybe I’d only imagined the shadow. Maybe Mom wasn’t even here. Maybe the note she’d left behind was a lie. But that also meant that the way she’d acted, the way she’d changed into practically another person—watching everything on TV and reading every article she could find about the gods, praying to them, trying to get Dad and I to do the same—until that night was a lie, too, and I didn’t think so.
I raked my fingers through my hair, pulling it away from my face as a commotion began to my right. I turned to see a group of elderly men and women walking the path and people emerging from tents or moving closer to greet them. The Firsts. Seven people with wrinkles, white hair, and slightly stooped shoulders. Seven people with serene countenances I recognized from the net, the TV. Seven, all present and accounted for. So much for hidden deaths and big secrets.
A tall man walked ahead, another behind, scanning the camp and everyone who approached. The four women and three men they guarded took hands that were extended, not to shake but to cup it briefly between theirs, speaking in a voice too low to discern and continued on the path. Heading toward me, so I forced my spine straight and my face neutral. They drew even closer and I dropped my gaze as I held out a hand. The one that took mine was delicately boned, her skin warm and slightly dry.