Today, Oxford is a vibrant, charming town patterned after its British namesake, with a bustling town square complete with London-inspired double-decker tourist buses and red telephone booths.
Encouraged by the temperate weather, I spent a leisurely day in the town. I rode the double-decker bus, ate lunch in the town square at the Ajax Diner, browsed books at the famous Square Books bookstore, then spent the rest of the afternoon at Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s home turned museum. I thought it might be interesting to camp somewhere on the twenty-nine-acre estate, but discovered that the site was as well guarded as it was maintained. I spent the night closer to the highway.
I suppose it was destiny that my road south led through Elvis’s hometown of Tupelo, a route I traveled in reverse of the path the King took to global stardom. Five days from Memphis I exited the Appalachian Highway into Tupelo.
Tupelo is a sleepy, brittle town, little more than a memorial to Elvis’s life. Not surprisingly, its downtown was decorated with vinyl banners silk-screened with heroic-sized images of Elvis’s face.
Less heralded than the King’s birthplace is the site of the Civil War Battle of Tupelo, a standoff between Union General Andrew Jackson Smith and confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest. At that point in the conflict, the tide had already turned on the South and it was the last time Forrest’s troops would see war.
It was dark when I reached the city center, so I ate dinner at Romie’s Barbeque and booked a room at the Hilton Garden Inn.
CHAPTER
Twenty-nine
Today I walked through Tupelo, Elvis’s birthplace. Those who wish a magnified life should remember that no one is born great. No one. Every entertainer began in the audience. This is encouraging. Elvis began life in a sharecropper’s shack. Lincoln, a log cabin. Jesus a manger.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I ate the hotel’s complimentary breakfast, which, in addition to the standard fare, also included grits. After breakfast I walked to Elvis’s birthplace.
Elvis’s home was tiny, a sharecropper’s shack, about a tenth the size of the museum built to celebrate it. In its day the home cost $180 to construct and was built with borrowed money. The Presley family lived there until Elvis’s father, Vernon, was sent to jail for eight months for forging a check (he had altered the amount from $4 to $14) and the home was lost. Elvis repurchased the home and property the same year he bought Graceland.
I didn’t spend much time in Tupelo, just long enough to get the rest of Elvis’s story, then, avoiding the interstate, headed south on Highway 6 toward 278, then east, crossing into Alabama. My route led me through two of the most peculiarly named towns I had encountered, the neighboring municipalities of Guin and Gu-win. I sensed there was a story there, so I asked an employee of a Guin gas mart how the towns got their names. I was told that the town of Guin, with a population of less than a thousand, was seeking to annex the neighboring town of Ear Gap. (Really, who comes up with these names?) The owner of the drive-in theater in Ear Gap—a justifiably influential man in a town of less than a hundred—was about to put up a new sign at his theater, so he lobbied to change the town name to Gu-win, close enough to Guin that he wouldn’t have to change his sign if the annexation went through. The town’s name change succeeded, but the annexation failed.
Highway 278 intersected with Interstate 78, a busier, but better-constructed road, which took me southeast into the heart of Birmingham. I walked through Homewood (the site of Red Mountain with its famous Vulcan statue—the largest cast-iron statue in the world) and Vestavia Hills, stopping for the day in Hoover.
Birmingham is Alabama’s largest city and, like all metropolitan areas, wasn’t the easiest walking. Still, Birmingham has a welcoming southern ambience that made me glad to be there. I considered staying an extra day, but eventually decided to keep on walking.
If someone had told me what I would encounter on the next leg of my journey, I never would have believed them.
CHAPTER
Thirty
Those willing to trade freedom for certainty are certain to find the cure worse than the ailment.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
My next target destination, Montgomery, Alabama, was a little more than ninety miles south of Birmingham, which, health willing, I could make in four days at a reasonable pace. Departing Birmingham from Hoover, I walked twenty miles the first day to the little town of Pasqua, then, feeling strong, followed up with a grueling twenty-four miles to Clanton and almost sixteen miles the third day to a tiny dot on my map called Pine Flat. Actually, I didn’t quite make it to Pine Flat. As my day wound down, about a mile before I reached my day’s walking goal, I had one of the strangest and most frightening experiences of my entire walk—one that haunts me to this day.
In the flammeous, retreating light of a fading day, it took me a moment to be sure of what I was looking at. Or maybe it was just my difficulty in believing it. There, in the middle of nowhere, about twenty yards back from the road near a grove of dogwoods, a woman was tied by her wrists to a tree. She was young and reasonably attractive, in her mid-twenties, with long, golden hair that rested on her shoulders. She was partially obscured by the tree, and had it not been for the bright yellow T-shirt she wore, I might not have seen her at all.
I couldn’t make sense of the situation. The woman wasn’t struggling nor did she seem distressed. I briefly looked around to make sure there wasn’t anyone else nearby before I crept toward her.
When I was ten yards away, I asked, “Are you okay?”
I startled her. She looked at me warily. Silently.
After a moment I said, “You’re tied up.”
She didn’t respond.
“Do you need help?”
Still nothing.
I looked around me, then walked closer, wondering if she were perhaps deaf. “Would you like me to untie you?” I said, making gestures to my own wrists.
“Stay away,” she barked.
I hadn’t expected that response. “Why are you tied to a tree?”
“My master tied me here.”
“Your master?”
“Master El.”
I definitely hadn’t expected that response. “Is Master El going to untie you too?”
“If it is His will.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you are of this world.”
I stood there wondering what to do when someone said, “It wouldn’t matter if I cut her loose, she still wouldn’t leave.”
At the sound of the voice the woman gasped. I turned to see a tall, thick-lipped, redheaded man walking toward us. “. . . Would you, dear?”
The woman bowed as far as her constraints allowed. “Please forgive me, Master. This Earthman spoke to me.”
“You’re forgiven, KaEl.” He turned to me. “KaEl asked to be tied to the tree. Isn’t that true, KaEl?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Why would she do that?” I asked.
“She feared that in a moment of weakness her carnal self would rebel and she might run away, so she wisely asked for help. But I don’t think she really needs it. She’s been very obedient.”
“Thank you, Master.”
He turned to face her. “How goes your purification?”
“The flesh is weak, Master. But the spirit is willing.”
I looked back and forth between the two of them. Part of me wanted to bolt, the other part wasn’t willing to abandon the young woman. “Why is she tied to the tree?” I asked.
“I just told you,” the man said curtly.
I rephrased my question. “Why is she standing here?”
“She’s learning to overcome the carnal nature within. She’s on the last twelve hours of her five-day purification and submission.”
“Submission?”
“Each member of our society must purge the world from their heart by undergoing the purification and submission ritual. It’s a privilege. She forgoes eart
hly food for five days and drinks only blessed, holy water mixed with frankincense. During this time she cannot speak to anyone but her Master. Unfortunately, you interfered with her sanctification.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry, I can absolve her of her commission. Our religion is not without mercy.”
“Religion? This is a church?”
“Not a church. The church. We are the church of the AhnEl.”
I looked at him quizzically. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“You have now.”
“What kind of church are you?”
A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “We are a pearl of great price—a rarity of rarities. A church of truth.”
“What kind of truths?”
“The word is not plural. There is one truth, simple and unified, and millions of extrapolations, subterfuges and delusions.”
“Tell me about this . . . truth.”
He crossed his arms, his gaze leveling on me. “Are you prepared to receive it? I have neither the time nor inclination to cast pearls before swine.”
His arrogance surprised me. “Try me,” I said.
“If you have ears to hear, you may ask me anything.”
“Does your church believe in the Bible?”
“Do we believe in the Bible, or do we believe the Bible? Be specific.”
“Do you believe the Bible to be the word of God?”
He grinned. “Now that’s a question. The answer closest to your intent is yes. Of course we do. Not that it’s His word. It’s not. He didn’t write it. But we do know that it’s a record of His teachings and history. But, unlike the rest of the Bible-blind world, we actually understand the book.”
Again, I was taken aback by his arrogance. “You don’t believe that anyone, besides you, understands the Bible.”
“I’m quite certain of it,” he said. “For centuries, before Gutenberg came along, the clergy hid the Bible from the people. Today, the people shroud it in mystery and hide it from themselves.
“You see, the Bible must be understood in context. The Bible is true, at least it was in its earliest, unadulterated renditions. It’s common knowledge, or should be, that through time there have been tens of thousands of alterations to the Bible. In fact, there have been more words changed in the book than there are words. But, that aside, even assuming that it was all truth and preserved as such, it would still only be true within the realm of its authors’ experiences, since all writing is tainted by the context of the writer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Allow me to explain it this way. If an aborigine should find a radio and hear a voice coming from it, he might say that there is a spirit in the strange box. He isn’t being deceitful, he’s just explaining his experience from what he understands. Even if he were to break the radio open and examine its parts, he still couldn’t possibly understand what he sees—the circuit boards and transistors that make the sound possible. His explanation doesn’t make him a liar, it’s the best he can do given his cultural and educational limitations. The interpreters of the Bible are the same as this poor aborigine.”
After a moment I said, “That makes sense.”
The man smiled, pleased with my answer. “KaEl, could it be that we have found an Earthman who is more interested in truth than patching up the holes in his own leaking belief system?” He took a few steps toward me. “What is your name?”
“Alan.”
“I am Master El. You may call me El. Why are you wandering the world, Alan?”
I didn’t want to tell him. “I’m just walking.”
He examined my pack. “Where are you walking to?”
“Key West, Florida.”
“Where did you begin your journey?”
“Seattle.”
“You’ve walked the whole distance?”
I nodded.
“Then you are a man with stories. I would like to hear them. A man who has walked all day must be hungry. Come dine with me.”
For a moment I said nothing, hesitant to go anywhere with a religious nut who would tie someone to a tree. “I have food,” I said.
“I’m sure you do, but, if you’re eating from your pack, I guarantee I can do better. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll provide you with a hot meal and you can tell me of your travels. Agreed?” He put out his hand.
I just looked at him.
“Come on, Alan. You have nothing to fear. I may be sly as a serpent but I’m harmless as a dove. Come with me and I will feed you—body and, should you desire, soul.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Just a mile or so from here,” he said pointing east. “I have a vehicle.”
I thought a moment more, then my curiosity got the better of me. “All right.”
“Splendid,” he said. “Splendid.” He turned toward the woman. “We will leave you to your quest. The celestial spirit abide with you, KaEl.”
She bowed her head. “Praise be to my Master.”
I followed him about twenty yards to his car, a brand-new Range Rover with the paper dealer plate still in the window. Kyle Craig had owned a similar model. I knew enough about the vehicle to know it was worth more than a hundred thousand dollars.
“You can lay your pack on the back seat,” he said.
I started feeling hesitant again, wondering what I had gotten myself into, but still I opened the back door and set my pack inside. I climbed into the passenger’s seat.
El started his car and pulled out of the grove onto a dirt road, which we followed back for nearly two miles.
“How far have you walked today?” El asked.
“About sixteen miles.”
“Is that how far you walk every day?”
“I usually try for twenty. Sometimes more.”
“You must be in very good physical condition.”
“Walking twenty-five hundred miles will do that,” I said.
“Indeed it would.”
We drove almost ten minutes before we came to a fenced compound consisting of a large, rustic-looking red barn, an A-framed house and two log buildings. A garden and a vineyard ran the length of the front fence.
There was a guard booth near the compound’s front entrance and the gate opened at our approach. El pulled the car to the front of the barn and put it in park, leaving the vehicle idling. A muscular young man wearing the same style of yellow T-shirt as the woman at the tree ran out of the building as if he’d been waiting for El’s return.
“This is where we’ll be dining,” El said.
The man stood at attention as El handed him the car keys. “Welcome home, Master,” the man said.
“Thank you, MarkEl,” he replied.
El walked around the side of the car where I was standing. “Follow me,” he said.
I opened the back door to retrieve my backpack.
“You can leave it,” El said. “It will be safe.”
I pulled it out anyway. “I would be more comfortable having it with me.”
He looked annoyed, but said, “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”
I shut the car door and the man pulled the vehicle away, disappearing around the side of the barn. Behind us the large gates shut. I wondered if I was a prisoner. I thought about the gun my father had given me, stowed in the bottom of my pack.
“This way,” El said, motioning to an open door.
I followed him inside. Even though the building looked rustic on the outside, inside it was clean and nicely furnished in a modern European style. The high-ceilinged room was spacious and open and three of its walls were painted with murals. The largest wall depicted the moai statues of Easter Island, while the other two were of the Egyptian Pyramids and the Mayan Pyramids of Tikal. The vaulted ceiling was painted dark blue, with constellations, and the exaggerated stars had eyeballs in their centers. The floor was hardwood, with areas covered by rugs.
Most surprising to me was that the room was filled with people, may
be forty or more, all dressed in the same yellow T-shirts. They all stared at us as we entered, looking curiously at me. I felt like a stray their “master” had brought home. Near the center of the room were two long dining tables. As we entered, El said to a young man with long, dark blue hair, “DarEl, bring us something to eat.”
“Yes, Master. What would please my Master?”
“Surprise us,” he said. The young man quickly disappeared behind a white door splattered with blue and red paint. “Come,” El said to me, gesturing. Every eye in the room was still on us as I followed him to the first table.
“Sit. Please,” he said.
We sat down on a long bench lined with red vinyl cushions.
A stunningly beautiful redheaded woman walked up to us and knelt in front of El. “How may I serve my Master?”
“Bring us something to drink,” El replied. “My usual. And some tea. What will you have?” he asked me.
“Just water,” I said.
She glanced at me, then back at El. “Yes, Master.” She leaned down and kissed his feet, then stood, hurrying off behind the white door. I watched in amazement. El seemed used to such adoration.
The man with blue hair quickly returned, carrying a bowl of red hummus and a stoneware plate piled with pita bread.
“Your service is accepted, DarEl.”
The man smiled. “Thank you, Master. Praise Master.”
El motioned to the bowl. “Eat. It’s quite good. It’s hummus with red chili.” He dipped a triangular piece of bread into the bowl, scooping up a dollop of hummus. “Tell me, Alan, before you were a sojourner, what did you do?”
Just then the redheaded woman returned carrying our drinks on a tray. She set a glass of red wine on the table in front of El, followed by a teacup and a teapot. She poured the tea, then put in a spoonful of sugar, stirred it, then looked at El. “May I serve my master anything else?”
“I am satisfied, my dear. Your service is accepted.”
“Thank you,” she said. She handed me a glass of water, knelt again and kissed El’s feet, then took the tray and walked away. I waited until El looked back at me.
A Step of Faith Page 12
