for.
The Library in my village bore a mere resemblance to the motley assortment of odd, dusty, yellowing texts that lay before me. It was a collection like I had never seen. The sun’s light scattered unevenly through the tattered shades, revealing with its exposing rays the restless particles of dust that swim through the air inconspicuous to the naked eye, but uncomfortably naked to that celestial brightness. The ancient journals in its daily path wore a strange pattern of fade and blemish—the curtain that once protected those who slept here scarred with its irregularity the current residents of this bedroom turned bookroom.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the familiar, a shelf with those leather, wood, and plastic-bound Books I was so used to. I ran my finger across the tops, tilting toward me each one, looking for the Book that stood out. I hadn’t much time. There was little to set one apart from another, so letting my instinct guide me (or at least hoping it would), I made a random selection and sat down on the floor to read.
The Book was recent, from the 72 nd year of the Third Century M.E., our “Modern Era.” It was written not even ten years before we began our own journey. The author had wandered into this village on the last leg of his Pilgrimage. They fed him and treated him well. “The people here are few—I fear they will not survive long. There is an air of optimism, but it feels like a façade. I have seen not one child, nor one person under the age of twenty.” I flipped a few pages. “All of the townspeople eat dinner together in Meeting Hall—it is a small group. After dinner I was told to be wary of the neighboring tribes. A group of marauding nomads has been regularly attacking, molesting, and even killing the villagers. I almost welcome the coming of the Light—I do not wish to leave this world as many of these people have.” I skipped to the end. “A group has decided to abandon the village. They will leave in the morning. They’ve invited me to travel with them, but I know my time is near—the Light flickers almost hourly, and I don’t think I will live past tomorrow.” His next entry was penned under his Tree of Death, in the center of that forsaken town.
I closed the Book and returned it to its timbered tomb. On another shelf were Books of a different sort—not like the Books I knew at all. These were even more random, but they did not look handmade. Instead, they looked like the note-taking books of the ancient times, with brand names and logos, some with spiraled wire bindings and others with metal rings that locked together. I came across one with a faded blue cover, torn in several places and barely clinging to the metal ringlets that held it in place. The words “Death Diary” were scribbled across the front in black ink. I pulled it from the shelf and sat back down to take a look.
Each entry was dated separately, beginning in 2189 C.E. of the old calendar. The Book was over a hundred years old, older than the Union, even older than the founders of the Union, who considered the Great Disease the beginning of a new era, so they memorialized it with a new calendar that began the moment the grim pestilence claimed its first victims. The pages of that Book were yellow and brittle, but the ink was remarkably intact. I carefully peeled back each decrepit page as I thumbed through the ancient entries. It began in an odd way: “I have seen the Light of the Great Disease, and so I have begun my exile in hopes of saving my family from the pain of watching me die. I keep this journal so that a part of me will continue on.” He was a Pilgrim of sorts, but not like those of our time. I traveled with him on his ill-fated journey.
“March 1 st , 2189. Today is my first day away from family. I have left our quarantine camp and headed west—the city to the east lies in ruin, and the chaos that has erupted there after the Second Coming has left many dead. The Disease has plagued
The Library in my village bore a mere resemblance to the motley assortment of odd, dusty, yellowing texts that lay before me. It was a collection like I had never seen. The sun’s light scattered unevenly through the tattered shades, revealing with its exposing rays the restless particles of dust that swim through the air inconspicuous to the naked eye, but uncomfortably naked to that celestial brightness. The ancient journals in its daily path wore a strange pattern of fade and blemish—the curtain that once protected those who slept here scarred with its irregularity the current residents of this bedroom turned bookroom.
My eyes were drawn immediately to the familiar, a shelf with those leather, wood, and plastic-bound Books I was so used to. I ran my finger across the tops, tilting toward me each one, looking for the Book that stood out. I hadn’t much time. There was little to set one apart from another, so letting my instinct guide me (or at least hoping it would), I made a random selection and sat down on the floor to read.
The Book was recent, from the 72 nd year of the Third Century M.E., our “Modern Era.” It was written not even ten years before we began our own journey. The author had wandered into this village on the last leg of his Pilgrimage. They fed him and treated him well. “The people here are few—I fear they will not survive long. There is an air of optimism, but it feels like a façade. I have seen not one child, nor one person under the age of twenty.” I flipped a few pages. “All of the townspeople eat dinner together in Meeting Hall—it is a small group. After dinner I was told to be wary of the neighboring tribes. A group of marauding nomads has been regularly attacking, molesting, and even killing the villagers. I almost welcome the coming of the Light—I do not wish to leave this world as many of these people have.” I skipped to the end. “A group has decided to abandon the village. They will leave in the morning. They’ve invited me to travel with them, but I know my time is near—the Light flickers almost hourly, and I don’t think I will live past tomorrow.” His next entry was penned under his Tree of Death, in the center of that forsaken town.
I closed the Book and returned it to its timbered tomb. On another shelf were Books of a different sort—not like the Books I knew at all. These were even more random, but they did not look handmade. Instead, they looked like the note-taking books of the ancient times, with brand names and logos, some with spiraled wire bindings and others with metal rings that locked together. I came across one with a faded blue cover, torn in several places and barely clinging to the metal ringlets that held it in place. The words “Death Diary” were scribbled across the front in black ink. I pulled it from the shelf and sat back down to take a look.
Each entry was dated separately, beginning in 2189 C.E. of the old calendar. The Book was over a hundred years old, older than the Union, even older than the founders of the Union, who considered the Great Disease the beginning of a new era, so they memorialized it with a new calendar that began the moment the grim pestilence claimed its first victims. The pages of that Book were yellow and brittle, but the ink was remarkably intact. I carefully peeled back each decrepit page as I thumbed through the ancient entries. It began in an odd way: “I have seen the Light of the Great Disease, and so I have begun my exile in hopes of saving my family from the pain of watching me die. I keep this journal so that a part of me will continue on.” He was a Pilgrim of sorts, but not like those of our time. I traveled with him on his ill-fated journey.
“March 1 st , 2189. Today is my first day away from family. I have left our quarantine camp and headed west—the city to the east lies in ruin, and the chaos that has erupted there after the Second Coming has left many dead. The Disease has plagued
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