Read Online Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) by James Huss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Huss
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yelled as I trotted away.
I slipped away to the meadow to think. I had a few hours to kill. I sat next to the tree where Shelley and I found the Pilgrim Benjonsen. I wondered where his path led him, if he found what he was looking for, how he ended up under that tree outside of our humble village. I searched the pages of his Book for answers (I had gotten into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere). The city! He was searching for scientists in the city.
In the villages we heard many strange and amazing tales about the cities beyond our protective walls and wondered if they could possibly be true, but there was precious little time in our hectic and arduous lives to wonder, so we soon returned to our struggles, questions unanswered, hopes unprovoked. Still, one unanswered question would haunt my mind and would follow me until I reached the enigmatic city on the Pilgrim’s incomplete path. Was Benjonsen right? Did science hold the Cure?
The sun was getting higher, and it was time to go, so I gathered my thoughts, sorting out the questions and abandoning the vain memories. I carried with me only those burdens I had to bear and left the rest to that floral meadow. I had hoped to accomplish something that day—there would be a meeting of the elders, the convergence of all the living wisdom of our village and my chance to tap the shrewdest minds of our modest community. I would address them for the first (and last) time in my life.
It was my right as a citizen to have an audience with the elders at least once a year. Brother Blake would tell us stories about these Citizen Appeals, as they were called. There were important issues, like whether the town should construct a wall after a nearby village suffered an unprovoked attack from a tribe of nomads. There were minor issues like border disputes between farms, important to some despite their frivolity to the rest of us. And there was “just plain foolishness,” as Blake would put it, like a proposal to decorate the village buildings and streets in honor of the ancient holiday called Christmas (a citizen had read about it in the old texts, and she brought dozens of these books to support her proposal).
My proposal was more of a call to action, and it was a shot in the dark if there ever were one. But it was a shot nonetheless, and one I had to take. I didn’t know what else to do. I walked proudly through the streets, right past the school where I should have been, straight to Meeting Hall, where my fate had pushed me. I paused outside those great double doors, hoping my stomach would settle its churning. I gave up hope and slipped inside, trying to attract as little attention as possible.
The ancient door creaked on its closing swing, and all eyes in that hall of elders turned to me. The attention was short-lived, except from Blake, who would have killed me with his stare had he the power. I tried not to let him rattle me. I had important things to say.
I fidgeted on an uncomfortable bench in the back of Meeting Hall, waiting for my turn to speak. Citizen Appeals were held at the end of every meeting—I endured two hours of formalized bickering before presenting my case to the elders. They debated everything from maintenance of public spaces to the standardization of our bartering system. For every elder who offered his support, there was another who leveled his criticism. I sat patiently, trying to calm myself, running arguments through my head, visualizing the success of my persuasion.
Presiding over the debates was Elder Spencer, the oldest in the village by mere days. It wouldn’t be long before he left town on his Pilgrimage, and he would pass the gavel to the next in line. When all the issues had been laid on the table and thoroughly vetted for their profit and loss, he moved on to the next of the formalities.
“Citizen Appeals.” A collective groan echoed through the chamber. My heart flew like a hummingbird’s. Blake stared me down, nearly freezing me
I slipped away to the meadow to think. I had a few hours to kill. I sat next to the tree where Shelley and I found the Pilgrim Benjonsen. I wondered where his path led him, if he found what he was looking for, how he ended up under that tree outside of our humble village. I searched the pages of his Book for answers (I had gotten into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere). The city! He was searching for scientists in the city.
In the villages we heard many strange and amazing tales about the cities beyond our protective walls and wondered if they could possibly be true, but there was precious little time in our hectic and arduous lives to wonder, so we soon returned to our struggles, questions unanswered, hopes unprovoked. Still, one unanswered question would haunt my mind and would follow me until I reached the enigmatic city on the Pilgrim’s incomplete path. Was Benjonsen right? Did science hold the Cure?
The sun was getting higher, and it was time to go, so I gathered my thoughts, sorting out the questions and abandoning the vain memories. I carried with me only those burdens I had to bear and left the rest to that floral meadow. I had hoped to accomplish something that day—there would be a meeting of the elders, the convergence of all the living wisdom of our village and my chance to tap the shrewdest minds of our modest community. I would address them for the first (and last) time in my life.
It was my right as a citizen to have an audience with the elders at least once a year. Brother Blake would tell us stories about these Citizen Appeals, as they were called. There were important issues, like whether the town should construct a wall after a nearby village suffered an unprovoked attack from a tribe of nomads. There were minor issues like border disputes between farms, important to some despite their frivolity to the rest of us. And there was “just plain foolishness,” as Blake would put it, like a proposal to decorate the village buildings and streets in honor of the ancient holiday called Christmas (a citizen had read about it in the old texts, and she brought dozens of these books to support her proposal).
My proposal was more of a call to action, and it was a shot in the dark if there ever were one. But it was a shot nonetheless, and one I had to take. I didn’t know what else to do. I walked proudly through the streets, right past the school where I should have been, straight to Meeting Hall, where my fate had pushed me. I paused outside those great double doors, hoping my stomach would settle its churning. I gave up hope and slipped inside, trying to attract as little attention as possible.
The ancient door creaked on its closing swing, and all eyes in that hall of elders turned to me. The attention was short-lived, except from Blake, who would have killed me with his stare had he the power. I tried not to let him rattle me. I had important things to say.
I fidgeted on an uncomfortable bench in the back of Meeting Hall, waiting for my turn to speak. Citizen Appeals were held at the end of every meeting—I endured two hours of formalized bickering before presenting my case to the elders. They debated everything from maintenance of public spaces to the standardization of our bartering system. For every elder who offered his support, there was another who leveled his criticism. I sat patiently, trying to calm myself, running arguments through my head, visualizing the success of my persuasion.
Presiding over the debates was Elder Spencer, the oldest in the village by mere days. It wouldn’t be long before he left town on his Pilgrimage, and he would pass the gavel to the next in line. When all the issues had been laid on the table and thoroughly vetted for their profit and loss, he moved on to the next of the formalities.
“Citizen Appeals.” A collective groan echoed through the chamber. My heart flew like a hummingbird’s. Blake stared me down, nearly freezing me
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