Tree of Truth (Book of Pilgrimage 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

was expected to marry at sixteen, and there was great pressure to have children soon after—our dwindling population would be the end of us if we could not keep up. The Ancients often waited until twenty or thirty before getting married and even longer before having children, but we did not have that luxury.
    “Maybe Shelley wants to be my wife.” Even I knew the notion was full of foolish optimism.
    “She’s not even your girlfriend. Besides, she’s not right for you. Her family—” He didn’t want to say, but I knew what he was getting at. It hurt him to be reminded of Shelley’s brother. He died from the Early Onset when he was only a teen. Many in his family died the same way. It took Blake a long time to get over his death. They were the best of friends.
    “Maybe she’s different. Maybe she’s—”
    “Perhaps you should speak with Sylvia. She would make a good wife, and she likes you.”
    “Charlotte’s sister? I don’t think—”
    “Don’t be selfish, Marlowe. It’s for the best.” He kept interrupting. I was getting frustrated.
    “But I don’t like—”
    “She’s a nice, pretty girl, and she has a good family. I will arrange a date for this weekend.” His overbearance was making my blood boil.
    “I am not going on a date with—”
    “Yes. You are. Now go upstairs and do your homework.” He wouldn’t let me finish one sentence, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was infuriating. I stormed away, and he pretended nothing was wrong. That was his style—stern, pompous nonchalance. I couldn’t stand it. But what was I to do?
    *.*.*
     
    For hours I tossed and turned without so much as a hint of sleep. I had to get away from the house, the family, the source of my unhappiness, so I put on my clothes, crept down the stairs, and slipped surreptitiously out the backdoor. I tore madly through the night air of our sleepy little town and glided to a stop beneath Shelley’s bedroom window. My fitful fist rapped lightly upon the glass. A few moments later the window opened, and Shelley thrust her head into the cool night air. “Marlowe? What is it?”
    “I’m going for a walk.”
    “At this time of night? Whatever for?” She was still half asleep.
    “I need to think. Do you want to come with?”
    “You know I can’t. My cousin would kill me.” I was too frustrated to persuade her. I knew it would only add to my anxiety. I relented without a fight.
    “Okay. I’ll be in the meadow where we found the Pilgrim if you change your mind.” I didn’t even give her a second to respond before I trotted off. I didn’t hear the window close behind me. I hoped she was watching me as I walked away.
    The moon was bright, and I didn’t need a torch or flashlight to make my way to the meadow. The sky was clear, the stars were out, and I thought I saw a meteorite streak across the firmament. I made a wish that soon came true—the night was fair, though it would yet be fairer.
    I found a soft spot in the meadow. This late in the summer, the grass is thick and soft like plush carpeting. I lay there under the stars and thought about Shelley and the Pilgrim and all the things I had read in the Library. I thought about why my brother did not want me to marry her. So what if she died early? A few short years with someone I loved like Shelley would be worth more than a lifetime of marriage to a bore like Sylvia.
    I thought about my own Pilgrimage someday, and I thought, like all adventurous young boys, that maybe I would stumble across the Cure on one of my many fantastic journeys. They would hail me as a hero upon my return, and I would live happily into old age with my love, our children and grandchildren carousing about the house, pouncing on our laps while we tried to read, waking us to cuddle when nightmares haunted their sleep, pleading for answers to their homework (unsuccessfully), confiding to us their fears and hopes and dreams—that was my dream. But, alas, a dream was all it would ever