We were pilgrims two, on a pilgrimage to a place unknown to our peers and all of our kindred, somewhere far north, beyond the outskirts of present imagination. No one had ever a curiosity to venture forth into this demarcation of the unknown, and so nothing was expected as we lapsed across the border and felt an ill wind upon us. What was once a nondescript void became something slightly more alive, as if we had suddenly stepped on hallowed ground, and our robes dragged along the prickling grass below. It was a brown, blurry drear in every direction. There seemed to be nothing here at all.
There was a horribly wide plain all around us, so eerily flat that we could see for miles, and it was punctuated here and there by blotches of the fog and the sunrise on the far horizon. Because we had no map, and knew almost nothing of this place, we were quite certain to run into momentary hardships here and there, whether an encounter with a bear or a lack of food. We brought our canteens, and plenty of bread, and even our lyre and pan flute to keep us entertained by the fire at night, assuming we would have a fire. But regardless, we were hopeful for events to come.
The first day was the most grueling by far. We walked for miles and miles, but came upon nothing. Some eerie humming sounds resonated from the great distances around us, and sounded very traceably like songs. At the end of the day, we found a patch in the void that was populated by four scraggly trees, placed by each other on the vertices of what seemed to be a perfect square. In the middle was an azalea bush that bustled its way between the trunks outward. We came upon this as the sunlight grew scarce, and our energy was almost completely gone. Both of us collapsed on the ground, and slammed hard on the dead, speckling grass and the dead dirt. But our despair gave defeasance to our sleep, and soon I, unable to speak for my comrade, fell asleep quite effortlessly.
We were not in the same place when we awoke. I remember hearing the sound of birds ringing out in mad procession from the woods around us and in the distance; we were, as well, in the woods. It was a very beautiful morning, and the spotted canopy was very brilliantly green of emerald; the sunshine that poured through it was rather ambrosially golden. The air was so crisp and fresh that I felt as if I was breathing in some tropical aroma by the shore, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Zephyr smiled warmly upon my friend and I that morning; the rigors of yesterday were gone, as if completely null and void, and this brand new universe was far more effectively intriguing. So cool were my limbs as I stood up that they all cracked rather thoroughly when I yawned and stretched, and as I let my limbs down, my robe fell upon me again quite gracefully and comfortably.
I had been sleeping in a very fluffy tuft of high and healthy grass, which was indented finely with my shape. It was at the foot of those four trees we saw in the gritty wasteland before; could this whole vivid place have grown lush in the night? My friend awoke on the other side, where I believe he had fallen asleep, and we looked at each other with bewilderment as he sauntered around the corner. We looked around, wandered to gain better vantage of the sights, and eventually rendezvoused to exchange our fascinations.
“Do you think it grew in the night?” I asked him.
And he replied, “I would never have imagined, but we are in a different kind of place. Maybe life is a seasonal thing here? Or maybe it’s a weekly phenomenon?”
I said, “I think we ought to start exploring. Maybe we’ll find civilization sooner or later.”
And so, we began to walk through the wood, which discerned to be an extremely peaceful sanctuary. Everything was extremely healthy, but refined, as if to allow people such as us to walk very comfortably about. Some logs were strewn about here and there, and over a creek. Eventually, we came to a very wide and bright glade, which was almost wholly populated by grassy hills that suddenly humped very playfully over the earth. As we traversed through that, we came to the evident ultimatum of the woods, and found ourselves at a very curious place indeed.
It was a road very flawlessly infused with the ground, and the ground rose up in to the distance hills, and the hills crescendo into a density of monolithic pines before they disappear into the sky. And, as we are learned people, we knew these things were all entities apart, but in our state we felt natural to conclude that the earth, the sky, and everything in between, was very much one.
The road itself was very great, long, solid, and unspeakably refined; it swooped down from the left-bearing hillside and bent towards us, disappearing around the hill directly forward into nowhere through a corridor of overhanging trees. It was gray, and had a very solid, white line in the center. At first, my colleague and I were very afraid that it might have been some immense adder at work to feast on unknowing wanderers! As we began to step backwards, we heard a very terrible roaring sweeping in from the left.
“What do you believe it is?” I asked my friend, as we cowered back towards the woods.
“God knows,” he replied. “But we’re here to explore, and find our way; we should see what it is, and take care not to spare it our lives. Be on your feet, comrade.”
The roaring came at us; it was a man in a very strange white helmet, in a very strange white suit, on a very strange sort of white machine, who sat upon this thin machine of two wheels in a row with fervent relaxation. He came at such an incomprehensible speed that we hardly noticed that he had graduated to a screeching halt sideways in the road, facing us, and kicked a stand down to the ground with his foot as he stepped off and let the contraption go, and it settled comfortably upright as he sauntered towards us. My friend and I stood our ground fast, and waited as he very slowly approached. He wore plain white boots, tan leggings and tan cuirass, and he had white gloves and a white helmet that had a huge, black gap across the front. His eerily nondescript gloves rose to remove the helmet, and we saw that he was actually a rather handsome man, whose bountiful black hair was brushed intelligently to the side. He had a slight tan, and looked upon us with a countenance of the utmost wisdom.
“Might I inquire about your business here, gentlemen?” he asked us very coolly, and casually, and with a voice of humbling power and resolve.
I stepped forth timidly and replied, “My name is Marcus. He behind me is my brother, Michael, and we have come on a pilgrimage to seek out the fabled Boards of Canada.”
“The Boards?” he said. “You know where they are?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to help us?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know where they are, either. I’ve been a highway patrolman for years now, and I still haven’t found them.”
“You’re a highwayman?” I feared to inquire.
But he only laughed: “No,” he said. “A patrolman. I protect from highwaymen. I patrol this highway, the Bishop Road; it’s my duty. You must not be from anywhere around here.”
“We’re surely not,” I said. “We fell asleep amidst a horrible void yesterday night, but we awoke in the woods behind us this morning, and now we are completely disorientated.”
“I’ve met others like you before,” he said, nodding his head and surveying the highway around him. “Don’t worry, I know how to help you. He walked back to his machine rather collectedly and retrieved of a very fresh-looking sort of parchment, which was stacked like a book, but the binding was at the top in a rectangular band, and it read “Legal Pad” across the top. But on the paper were written five indoctrinations:
1. All is one.
2. Know he whom few isn’t.
3. One is all.
4. Believe in Twoism.
“What does this mean?” I asked.
The man laughed. “Here’s where I say, ‘You gotta figure that out on your own.’ Keep it with you wherever you go here, and you’ll find your way out eventually. This place is very much perplexing, and very foreign to anything you might have back in your own kinda place. So keep yourselves comfortable, and don’t hurry; you’ll be somewhere preferable soon enough.”
As he concluded, he began to walk back to his machine. But I stopped him:
“Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I am extremely curious as to what it is you’re riding. Oh, and, what is your name?”
He turned and smiled warmly as he replied, “They call me Sixtyniner. I’m the saltiest highway patrolman on the road. I began riding bikes back when I was five, and I’ve never stopped since; I got the scars to prove it, too. I don’t make mistakes anymore; I think that’s out of the equation now.”
“How glorious a person you are,” I lauded, clapping my hands together meagerly. “But why is your name a number?”
“It’s my number as patrolman,” he replied. “I’m the sixty-ninth put into duty.” And it was here that his face became grave, and he looked out upon the skyline of the canopy on the left foothill, towards the colonnades of humble clouds above. “I’ve been searching for someone for a long time. Her name is Sixtyten. She came on duty two years ago, and we lost her a year ago. We think the Dayvan Cowboys got to her.”
“The Dayvan Cowboys?” my brother and I inquired in unison.
The gallant one looked over, his helmet still nestled beneath his arm. “Yeah,” he said. “They fly around in the sky in the biggest white dayvan you’ve ever seen in your life. It’s probably a ’91 Shevvy. Covered in hundreds of windows, and in the windows you can see the scoundrels themselves, the goddamn pirates who run around the sky and take our women and coffee just for the fun of it. Oh, and you really oughta know, coffee is very important here. Make sure you’re stocked up at all times. I got a coffee machine on the back of my bike here just to make sure I don’t run out when I’m on duty.”
“That’s absolutely amazing,” I said hastily, emphasizing my sincerity. “But, and I am ashamed to inquire at this point, what of that machine you just mentioned?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Excuse me. I went rambling on again, I apologize. This is a motorcycle. It’s a standard issue 1978, and it serves us all damn well. You might see others like me some places along the road and in the diners and fishing towns; don’t hesitate to ask them for help. And getting back to the coffee, before I forget, let me pour you fellas some coffee in your canteens. You won’t need water anymore here.”
We conceded to hand him our containers as he approached the tall white object on the back of his “motor cycle.” As he approached, we found the canteens to be quite warm, and a simply intoxicating aroma originated from within. “Why, this is simply divine,” I said.
“Oirectine coffee ground,” he said. “Never buy anything else. Remember that name. Now, you fellas need anything else?”
“Not that I can tell,” I said. “Michael?”
My brother shook his head, for he was a mute.
“Very well,” Sixtyniner said as he fastened the helmet back on his head. “Live long, prosper, and watch your way. And if you see a girl on a bike like mine…” His head trailed away towards the ground, and I watched him lapse into his own imagination as he continued, “Don’t hesitate to grab her attention. Follow the road where I go hereafter. Farewell.”
These words having been said in haste, he roared off, and we were left with the pines, and the coffee, and the clouds. Our adventure begins.
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