Journeys were nothing new for men from Nostalgia. The unwritten rite of passage that each male youth of the town undertook forced them to journey far to the south, some people estimated the distance to be nearly five hundred miles one way, but others said it was a hundred miles at best. Of course, this journey could never be described as “best.”
The young man would walk south with nothing but the clothes he was wearing and a pocket knife. As Clifford thought back to his journey he realized that the pocket knife he’d taken was the same Swedish Navy Knife he carried now. The trek sent a young man south to the swamp-marshes and on farther, almost to the coast, or so it was said. Clifford sometimes doubted if there was even an ocean.
Once the young man had reached the land near to the coast, he was to find a certain tree, the elders called it a palm, but their understand of a palm tree was vastly different from any definition you likely know. Their idea of a palm tree is something we know of as a redwood, so you can see how they might be confused. The young man would scrape away a pocketful of the tree’s bark and bring it back to Nostalgia, where it would be burned during a ceremony recognizing that the young man had passed into full adulthood.
Clifford had passed into adulthood seventeen years ago and there were more than a few times that he’d had regrets about going on the journey. This was one of those times. He stood on a flat patch of rock about half-way down the hill, looking out over Historia, a city, capital of the land of the same name, and it was in ruins, burning, smoke billowing, screams rang out from various districts of the patchwork city.
Jaime Conner, post-boy, had already vanished into the smoky mire below and Clifford suspected that he should follow him, but for some reason he couldn’t move from the spot he stood on. He could see everything.
Smoke poured out of the upper windows of the massive pyramid topped with a green statue with an upraised cannon for an arm and a helmeted head, wrapping around the statue in an almost picturesque manner. Other buildings burned, some had already collapsed. Clifford looked down on the city (in more ways than one), and saw a small stream running along the northeast side, flowing down from the mountain and continuing northwest. For some reason this made him think of Schrodinger.
Away to the northwest was a tall building with a golden top. Clifford had the strange thought that this was the Vat-a-Can that the mouse had spoken of, and if he went there he could probably find just about any trinket that he wanted.
And then he took a step. He had to reach the pyramid, but as his foot hit the ground he heard a sound he hadn’t heard since leaving the Farm of Pepperidge: gunshots. He was entering a war zone. But he had to do it. He couldn’t say why, but he had to.
He basically ran down the hill, taking the same path that Jaime had taken. He wasn’t sure which way Jaime had gone once he’s reached the actual city, but the path down the mountain was clear. The streets of the city seemed to just start. No paths led into the city, but the roads just began. One step you’re on grass the next you’re on asphalt with no discernible change.
The first building Clifford passed was a large brick-face with the words BONA ALLEN painted on it. He glanced into the paned-glass windows of the structure, but he didn’t have the time to stop. The next building looked like a... well, at the University the Teacher had called them sky-scratchers, and this looked like one, only it had been cut off in a jagged line about four floor up. The sign out front read Hammarskjold Place. The building was black.
After crossing an oddly placed set of railroad tracks, Clifford stopped and looked out over a shining plaza with a large fountain in the middle. Beyond the fountain was a row of old looking buildings, some with banners above the doors. The only one Clifford could read stated it to be the house of Shakespeare, but Clifford didn’t know who that was, and really didn’t care.
Beyond that loomed the pyramid. The pyramid that Clifford had to reach. The pinnacle of his journey. It was the pinnacle, right? Clifford took another step.
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