Paper Pilgrims

by Israfel Shae

There is something about the scent of Autumn that is like a used piece of paper. Weathered. Dog-eared. Loved.

This was what Kit thought as she let go of the handlebars and allowed her bike to coast lazily over the crumbling concrete.

Already, the maple trees flanking the lonely road were blushing, and the ivy that clothed them was becoming yellow and curled. The tortures of summer were over; the dying season’s burnt-out hues were sinking into the ground, leaving the faded concrete toasted with memory. Now, cool winds were whirling overhead, howling merrily as they stole the leaves from the trees and sent them frolicking in eddies and whirlpools. The very air tasted like pumpkin pie.

It was a shame not all could experience this.

Kit slammed her feet on her pedals once again and sped on, pools of warm light and cool shadow flashing over her in a garbled panic, like thoughts that would not leave.

There was a little boy in her mind, one she saw that morning at the shopping center. His face was twisted in emotion. Watery pain was blatant there, the reason for his tears anonymous through the eyes of a passing observer.

His mother was a cold woman, her face smeared with makeup, as if she had tried to paint on something that so obviously belonged inside. Annoyance contorted her face as the boy tugged on her sleeve. With a swift movement, she turned and slapped his face.

A pink lipstick smile, like plastic.

The witnesses turned their backs, continuing on with blank eyes. Alone, Kit lingered, troubled.

So this is a free nation, she thought bleakly. Even in a free nation, lives were tallied and owned, separated and marked. It was an unspoken rule that one could not reach out and touch another life, but must hunker, locked in their own.

He needed a book.

Kit pedaled furiously, her dark braids flying behind her.

He needed another life, one he could escape into. And, in the completion, he would find he was back wiser than before.

“No one reads anymore.”

That was what the editor had said. A grim lady, with dark circles under her eyes and hair streaked with gray.

“Don’t be an author, Honey. Be a teacher or a computer scientist or a janitor. At least you'll get paid minimum wage. But don’t be an author. Nobody reads anymore.”

“I read,” Kit had said fiercely.

Kit grasped the brakes, dragging her feet across the pavement to slow herself faster.

To her left stood a magnificent pavilion, half hidden in fiery maples and beeches. Terraced stone steps led down to a stage, moss creeping up to soften the pillars holding up the roof. This edifice was used for the rare plays and concerts held in this woody corner of the town, but now it stood empty and silent.

At this, she stared, lost in thought. Somewhere in the distance, the grumble of a car motor started up and then faded away. A single leaf fell toward her, spinning around her head like an idea.

She caught it and glanced down at it, tracing its fine veins absentmindedly.

Then, in a moment of decision, she dragged her bike to the side of the road and took off toward the pavilion with her backpack. She mounted the steps two at a time, until she had gotten to the back row.

There, in the shade, she halted. She opened her backpack and reached inside. Her fingers slid over the oddments she had gathered as memories: chipped marbles, crumbled leaves, dog- eared bookmarks. Then, her fingers brushed something smooth.

The spine of a book.

Kit pulled it out and turned it over in her hands. It was not large, nor vivid. But there was an air to it, as if it knew it was her pride, her dream, the hope that obstinately clung, whispering, "Someday."

It was hers. Now it would be someone else's.

From her notebook, she took a pen. For a second, she hesitated. Then she scribbled a quick note in one of the blank pages.

Hello,

I am a Paper Pilgrim. I am on a grand journey to make every broken piece be fixed, every lost love be found, and every child smile. So read me, carry me in your heart, and pass me on! There are so many more dimples waiting to bloom!

Simple. Anonymous. Somehow oblivious in a world of broken smiles and jagged hearts. Perhaps that was what magic was.

Kit laid it on a nearby bench, safe beneath the canopy. She jumped to her feet and walked briskly out of the building, forbidding herself to look at the thing of paper and dreams she had left behind. Forbidding herself to feel the pain that twisted within her. Forbidding herself to look at it as a loss.

But as she once more straddled her bike, she glanced back for just a moment. There the book lay, abandoned like some unwanted thing at the doorstep of fate. But as she gazed mournfully at it, something rose up in her and overflowed her heart—vast and nameless as the breath of the distant sea.

Perhaps it would be thrown away carelessly by the janitor, and all would be for nothing. But perhaps it would be a pilgrim, and wander from place to place, life to life, like a godsend that could never be traced.

There was no knowing.

Kit stepped on the pedals and raced back home as fast as she could, the fiery leaves leaping up and dancing after her like a whirling song.

…

Katherine Hope smiled as the last echoes of her speech died, and the sonorous whispers crept in on the breathlessness of before. The crowds that filled the pavilion, spilling over its steps and leaning against its pillars, began to almost hum with the wonder of her spell. She had been looking over the heads and back toward the soft green of nature all the while, but now she allowed herself one glance over her audience.

The little boy. The old lady. The young man, holding his wife's hand. These people, brought here like drops of water conglomerating into a stream, all had one thing in common.

They had a spark.

Katherine could feel the eyes on her as she dismounted from her spot of attention and strode to the side to lean against a mossy pillar and gaze out across the lands of spring.

For it had been twenty years since Kit had stood where Katherine did, and breathed the scent of autumn, and laid a book on the stone. The pavilion was a tad bit mossier than before, softened by the ivy leaking up its walls. Its roof sagged slightly, telling stories in a softly complaining creak of the rains and winds which it had borne, and the things it had seen.

It had watched Katherine's struggle for success.

Why did you do it? sang the bird songs and the sweet scent of honeysuckle, ripe and oozing with the mellow smell of Spring.

It was not for the eyes, as so many guessed. Not for the place as a god-thing, lifted up upon the shoulders of the marveling people. It was not for the common fan that she had grasped at fame. It was for those who came.

For they did. They always did.

Even though the speech was done, and all the others were packing and leaving, chattering as if the world had not stood still, some lingered. There was a little child, shyly creeping up to whisper some wholehearted compliment before fleeing. There was a proud lad muttering, "This changed my life." There was the smiling lass, who wrung the author's hand and poured out exclamations. Best of all were those who had no words to give, but could only cry.

These were the people who left Katherine smiling irrepressibly to the indifferent walls, her heart swelling up so much it ached. "I made someone happy," she would whisper. "I made the world a bit better."

And maybe, someone else's wick would be lit, and they too would carry on the flame. Who would it be? Who would come next?

Now there came a young man, intention bold in his stride and in his dark eyes. Here was something different, and Katherine watched him in curiosity out of the corner of her eye.

"Is this yours?"

Katherine stared at the thing he held gently in his hands. It was tattered, patched together in a million places by a million means, scribbled over like a sidewalk. But as he offered it to her, she recognized it with a jolt.

"It’s a book," she said, reaching out and taking it from him. Its cover had fallen away, as well as its spine, which was replaced with countless pieces of string. Its pages had been worn thin with fingers and were as delicate and haphazard as fallen leaves.

"Is it your book?" The man asked again, his eyes probing. With his finger, he led her gaze to a few scribbles on the title page.

Katherine choked. For there was the greeting of the paper pilgrim, its ink faded where fingers had run themselves over the words again and again. It was her book, back when she was Kit and the world was autumn. How far had it wandered? What adventures had it been on that it could not tell? For the journey was untraceable, as were the anonymous smiles cleansing the air like a breath.

"I thought so," said the man, when he saw the look on her face. "I have been obsessed with finding the founder for a year now—ever since I found it in the trunk of my car when I was in a bad place. How many of these have you sent out into the world since this one?"

"Thousands," Katherine whispered, thinking of all the notes and prayers. "Don't tell anyone—please! There is a sort of magic to anonymity, and I would hate for it to be spoiled for all those people."

"Magic? I can tell you what magic is. Open that book—take a look."

Katherine did, not daring to believe her eyes.

For on every page, crammed between every line, were thousands upon thousands of notes.

—

When Israfel Shae ran out of good books to read, she set out on an epic adventure to write stories with the power of the classics and the punch of modern fiction. When she isn't staring out of the window, removing a cat from her keyboard, or searching for a pen in the couch cushions, she is wandering through the woods, reading classics, and preparing for the day that books are great again. You can find out more about her at israfelshae.com.

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