The Pilgrimage

For as far as he could see, until the road curved up and over the mountain, people dotted the rocky path. Horses trotted along slowly, pulling wagons full of supplies, the sick and the elderly. At its widest, the caravan was 4 people across, though the line was neither a march nor was it unbroken. As the road winded up the rockiest spots, the climbers abandoned company for comfort and walked at their own pace. And no one in this line ever “caught back up.” The result was a broken mishmash of silent pilgrims, all walking to their own time, their own beat, and their own minds.

The whole world stayed quiet. Some thought it was the universe saying a silent prayer for their journey. Others thought it proof that they truly were damned. The few that walked alone didn’t think anything of it at all. The sound of horse hooves and rolling wagon wheels traveled down the mountainside. Shoes scraping against the endless pebbles of the road signalled someone passing or being passed.

Somewhere, several miles up, someone was heard giving up. Their collapse across the mountainside was acknowledged by a polite slide of a few dozen rocks. A few people stopped to look up. No one said anything. The road was too long to talk about every sacrifice.

He was so tired of walking.

It’s not that the world was bleak. The sky was blue, and the landscape was lush. The weather was warm, but the sun was not too hot. The mountain air had a slight chill to it, but only one blanket a piece was needed at night. Where the ridges were not too sharp, grass and greenery grew in spades. To look back on the way they had all come revealed a vibrant stretching hillside with fertile soil. If any of them bothered to look off the road on the way, they would have sworn they were walking through Eden itself.

But they were answering a Call. A Call that Must Be Answered.

He often occupied himself with the Promises. He knew that if he sat in Eden, he may never rise again. He would become a sacrifice, doomed to death in the grassy knolls. His every step was weighted with temptation. And so instead, he thought of what was awaiting him. The Promises.

There, the heavens would never again judge him. There, they would be free of judgement from above and would finally receive their turn to judge the skies. And he was ready and able to judge. No single ray of holy light would penetrate their ground – his ground - unless it was deemed worthy. There, nothing would grow without his guidance, his providence, and his will.

There, everything was permissible. Sights and sounds surreal and unimaginable could not only exist, but thrive. No being almighty would dare to intervene and tell them what to do. No one would be powerful enough. The gods and their demands would not welcome. There, all creation would grow unbounded.

There, five great towers heralding the supremacy of humanity rise as beacons so that no one would ever lose their way again. So that no one would ever have to make the aimless journey twice. There, under the shadows of certain structure, he could finally lay to rest his weary bones.

It was said that the City was built by their great, great ancestors, numberless years ago. The Ladies. Desiring for Themselves immortal life, the gods denied Them everything in jealous rage. And though Their very blood was torn from Them, They did not relent. And so, though lost forever, They built paradise eternal. “Those who have nothing, cannot be swayed. Those who are robbed of the sun need no sunlight.”

Now They sing ceaselessly in Their towers for the return of Their children. Though the road was long, no length or divine imposition was too much. They would welcome every one of Their sons and daughters with open arms, no matter how wretched, worthless or broken. “No matter how wretched,” he told himself over and over again. “No matter how wretched.”

For they were the Children of Reubin, and theirs were the Promises.

The nameless gods certainly did not make it easy on them. He had been on the road for longer than he cared to remember. He had a vague recollection of a place where he used to call home, but that thought replayed itself as if it were someone else’s memory. He had never had a home. Not yet. His home had spire after spire after spire pointing toward the sky.

There was always a mountain. He was always climbing up or climbing down. His shoes were worn down to dirty flaps of leather. All his belongings lay in a sack strapped across his shoulder. As the months went on, he slowly emptied it to lighten the burden. He was not the only one. The path was often littered by the abandoned paraphernalia of other walkers, or materials tossed from an overtaxed wagon. Things that, in the beginning, they thought worth the effort. Fragments of poetry books, pieces of stomped on jewellery, dirtied teddy bears.

He was so tired.

He had begun to notice that with every hill the air had a bit more chill. He remembered his childhood days with warmth. Running up and down the dirt path, meeting up with his fellow walkers, playing silent games. It seemed so simple then. So fresh and new. Even the ground seemed softer. Now, he wondered whether he would be able to walk against the inevitable wind. Currently, it was all he could do to raise his foot over the next rock. He did not even look up to the sky in despair any longer, so great was the effort to lift his head.

Somewhere above him, he heard the familiar slide of rocks giving way to a fallen body. Another sacrifice. “No matter how wretched.”

In truth, the nights were the worst. When a man fears his sleeping thoughts more than his waking ones, then he truly feels doomed. No amount of discipline or distraction can protect a prostrate mind. He thought that if he could just get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep a night, the walk would be more bearable. But he his dreams were filled of talks, the discussion that he and his fellow walkers never dared to have. What if they never found the Horizon – that sacred spot from which the great Spires could be seen to reaffirm their faith? What if it did not exist and all the Children that ever were, walked into their oblivion?

He’d noticed the thinning of the crowd as the years went on. The look in the faces of all the others told him that they’d noticed it too. What if this was all there was? In his dreams, he could not even utter the Promises silently to himself. In sleep, there was no salvation.

He longed for the dreams of his happiness. Of the primal joy that he was reminded of by the swing of a woman’s hips. Of the sardonic pleasure that he knew until the last drops of his olde liquor. Of the blissful refreshment that was encouraged by the lively music of forgotten instruments. Of meaning and substance. He longed to enjoy all those things in his sleep, that he was unable to enjoy on his journey.

And he hated the gods from denying him those dreams. They were a cruel and horrible lot, whose jealousy was unparalleled. In every waking moment, they teased him, making the way back and the way astray so much more convenient. The way forward they made so much more difficult. They hated his will and his birthright. They could not stand that he preferred to live by his own hand rather than on their whim. Anyone who sought the City was made the enemy of their omnipotent powers.

It was their fault he was so tired. Was it any wonder that they were hated? That they were referred to in legend as Dogs? Angry beasts, barking and begging for blood. Awaiting the surrender of the pilgrims, watching them, silently hounding them, until they give up and show throat. They were despicable.

But the Ladies existed, he believed it. There was a Horizon. And beyond that, there was a City, where the Ladies kept the Dogs out and judged the heavens above. There, they all would. The gods may make him wretched, but the Ladies wanted only the best. They wanted him.

He was beyond tired, but he was coming home. Their Children were coming home.