That day they veered south towards the highway. The next point on Jonathan’s list was adjacent to the road. It’d been a larger town along the way which he knew would be demolished by now. But he was hoping to see its remnants and two tall pines nearby. It was here that Jonathan had buried two burlap bags full of books long ago.
The pines were found, even from a distance, but the town had entirely disappeared. Only as he was crossing its site did he notice rubble beneath the grass, the graveyard of buildings. The road crews had done their work well. It was the goal of the Church to leave the impression that there was absolutely nothing, not even ruins, besides itself.
They climbed a low hill and dug directly between the two trees. It took less than an hour before Jonathan had his two bundles. Water had seeped into both sacks and the books he dumped out were in a decrepit, stinking condition. Much to his dismay, he found here a far higher class of literature than he’d recovered at the last site. There were at least ten volumes of solid history, some great novels and drama, including a complete Shakespeare.
He had his followers build a fire and he spent the rest of the day trying to dry the books, without much success. Some ripped at his finger's touch, the pages stuck together. But he didn’t despair. He’d wrap them and carry them back to his sanctuary, taking all the time and care in the world to dry them out and copy their lore, page by page and he knew he would succeed. He made up three small bundles which he distributed to his followers, showing them how to hide the packages in their camp gear after discarding useless items.
It took them another five days to discover their third plot. It was ten miles north of the highway among steep hills. When they did find the little town Jonathan realized that it stood unchanged from his last visit except for the slow erosion of time. There was a street of five or six houses overgrown with vines and weeds but still standing. There was a small church and beside it a brick store which a tree had fallen against, but it too was standing.
Jonathan found his precious treasure behind this building in good condition, buried in a solid packing trunk wrapped in canvas. He picked out another twenty volumes of great literature, as much as he thought the four of them could discreetly carry. He had to ask the boys to carry some of the larger books, winding them up in their tents in such a way as no one would notice. They’d only be spreading their tents when alone so it seemed like a good hiding place.
By now Simon strongly favored this scheme and Paul agreed to anything Jonathan asked of him. The nightly readings were already a relished custom. They’d gone through the "Crusoe" and were now taking in the ‘Treasury of English Verse’. Of course Jonathan had to fill in the backgrounds and contexts of many poems, but the youths had never heard such finery before and were moved to awe and sometimes to tears. The best poems needed no explanation at all and never will.
After looking through the books Jonathan began to look at the town itself. He remembered from the last time he passed through here that it contained all sorts of supplies along with the books he had gathered up. He’d recovered one pen that was thrown in with the books, and now he was sure that a careful search would turn up others. He could tell that the place had never been pillaged, which was strange. Perhaps the inhabitants had passed away to the last soul, victims of the plague and took with them even the memory of their hamlet from a distracted world.
They made camp for three days and began going through each structure together, Jonathan telling them what to look for. In the houses there were cans of food and many pens and pencils and all sorts of interesting items which they couldn’t carry with them. In the church there was nothing except one bible, which after some thought Jonathan reluctantly packed away. In the store there were shelves, though most of them bare, as if someone had hastily collected armloads of goods and then left. But there was a locked closet behind the counter and when they kicked the door in they found a bonanza of supplies, a testament to an age of prosperity.
Jonathan immediately spotted the boxes of ammunition and two rifles. He grabbed these and also a box of pens and several blank ledgers. Paul came across various tools, large and small, and a set of carving knives in a case which he wouldn’t part with. Simon found a compass which he wanted to keep, and Mary discovered a sewing kit and more excitedly, cloth sheets still packaged with floral patterns and rainbow colors unfaded. They spent the day going through every item here, listening to Jonathan describe the old ways in detail. Their packs would now be full to the brim. Each had their treasure and even gifts for the others as Jonathan had to remind them in their new-found greed.
By now they had been six months on the road and were tired of travel. Back on the highway they borrowed the first carriage they came across and were driven long stages to White Seat. From there Jonathan made only one more detour, this time alone on horseback, to the spot he’d waylaid the bicycle messenger a quarter century before. Without difficulty he located the rock by the road and then trudged through the thicket to the same spot in the woods where he’d long ago tied the poor soul to a tree.
The scene had long played an eerie role in his imagination and he was surprised to find it much like the grim vision of his nightmares. Around the trunk of the tree hung the rotting cords and below them lay the scattered bones of his victim. Time hadn’t erased the crime. He touched the dirt and with his fingers, still wondering how long the man might have endured before his end. Then he looked for his pistol. He found its hiding place easily, loosed it from its bundle of cloth and slipped it into its holster as smoothly as if it were only a moment ago that he’d taken it out.
The last thing he did was to make a small hole, collect the scattered bones and cover them. He left the spot quickly without looking back. It was as if he’d been an intruder into some dark corner of his own psyche and it was not a place to linger. He rode back to White Seat and his companions and without further ado they boarded a ship for White Sans. After a two week wait they were able to catch the tanker bound for White Syd and a smaller tanker from there. During this whole span they kept to themselves in their cabins or rooms, tight lipped to the rest of the world. They had to forgo their new custom of reading and even interesting talk, as they were hardly ever out of the hearing of strangers.
When they did reach their hometown they were greatly relieved and as glad to be back as their friends were to see them. For several days they were feasted and celebrated as heroes. The great seals and diplomas that Jonathan had brought back made a grand impression in such a small place. He insisted that these be left here, in the altar of the temple beside his bible to commemorate this starting point.
Even though his followers were eager to rejoin their companions at the sanctuary, and share the real news of the trip, Jonathan insisted that they stay longer. He wanted to show the proper respect to the priests and townsfolk and not rush off after so long an absence. But more than anything he wanted to spend a few quiet days with the old priest who was now bedridden and close to death.
While he was away this old man had stayed many months at the sanctuary, more looked after than looking over his three wards. But he was carried back to town when his health declined. Jonathan found him pale, short of breath and unable to rise without help from his bed. But like a faithful trustee he tried in whispered words to give Jonathan a report of the progress they’d made in his absence. Jonathan hushed his friend and thanked him for his care and told him of the diplomas he’d received and of the bright future for his school.
"I would like to see the shrine in its full prosperity" said the old man, "but I know I will not. It’s a favor that I am allowed to see you again. If it were still the custom, I would wish to be buried there. But I know I cannot. I must be burned in the public square before the eyes of my people. There’s one thing I must tell you, the priest who will succeed me is not your friend and I fear he will do mischief to you if he can."
He spoke these words with great difficulty and many pauses. Jonathan thanked him for the warning and told him not to worry.
"I have my charters" he said, "and I can have my privacy too. They shall not visit us if they intend mischief. I will cover the path."
But even while saying this two priests were at the door and peeking in, suspicious of every moment he passed with the old man. This determined Jonathan to leave right away. But he stayed another hour, sending away the intruders with an evil glance. He wanted to thank the old man for all he’d done; for saving his life in an hour of despair, not intentionally, but through a kindness even better than that. He took the old man's hand up in his own and felt the most feeble pulse. He shuddered at the near approach. The old man smiled faintly while Jonathan smiled back and with unheeded words promised to build him a memorial at the shrine. It was the smile that counted. The old man lay peaceful in his bed.
Jonathan stepped out and gathered his three disciples that evening without explanations, with only their bags and a single burro for their return trip. Before the priests could gather he was gone and walking through a darkness which no one else dared look upon with his small flock and a single torch.
