“There you are, my boy,” Aleksandras declared earnestly. “Now you have an audience.”
Andrius hesitated. He couldn’t tell his father what he had been thinking about. The old man’s heart would break. And yet he had to tell him something.
He settled quite by accident on something he had been wondering about earlier.
“I was just thinking, why don’t you open your eyes more, Papa? Everyone keeps them closed almost all of the time.”
Aleksandras waited a minute for the punch line. When it didn’t come, he lightly chuckled, then stifled himself for fear of offending the boy.
He scratched his chin.
“Well, the eyes are sensitive, I think. Dirt or sand can get in them, I suppose, and that would hurt. And the disease attacks through the eyes first, so keeping them open seems unwise. Besides,” he added with a laugh, “it’s hard to keep your eyes open for very long! Those little muscles are very weak.”
Andrius pulled his knees to his chest, distracted finally from his impending doom.
“I keep mine open,” he said quietly.
“You do?”
Andrius nodded.
“Except when I sleep. I keep them open all day.”
“You are a special one, Andrius. You must know something I don’t. A lot of things, I’m sure.” The old man dug his cane into the soft earth around the fire.
“Papa,” Andrius said timidly. “Would you open your eyes for me?”
Aleksandras cocked his head. “Why?”
“I want to . . . look at them and listen.”
“Look? What does that mean?”
Andrius felt embarrassed. Maybe it wasn’t a real word after all. His instructor had told him that Daniel was crazy. His name wasn’t even Daniel, it was Drunas. It was hard not to believe him though. He had been so convincing, like he wasn’t trying to convince Andrius of anything at all. He had just talked with him.
“I want to listen to them, I mean.”
Aleksandras very obviously did not understand, but he wanted to please his son.
“Very well,” he said.
His eyelids trembled. Then, amidst the twitching, his left eye opened halfway, then the other. He was concentrating quite a bit. His eyes opened to about two-thirds of their capacity and stayed there, continuing to tremble.
Andrius rose to his feet, transfixed by his father’s eyes. They were like standing at the edge of a hole, and yet it was different somehow. They were like milk and clouds. They were emptiness and hollow. They were frightening.
“Your eyes . . .” Andrius began, struggling to find the words as he touched his father’s face. “They sound different than mine.”
He kept thinking back to Daniel. Crazy or not, his eyes were . . . alive. Patterns and sky lived inside of them. Circles within circles.
Daniel had said they were just like Andrius’s eyes.
Aleksandras laughed.
“They sound different than yours? Here, let me check.”
The old man tapped his eyes and made a funny sound with his tongue. Then he gently touched Andrius’s eyelid and made another noise, from deep in his throat.
“Hm, you’re right,” he said. “They do sound different.”
He laughed again thinking he had made a good joke and one that his son would like. Usually Andrius would have chuckled along, but not tonight. All he could manage was a sad smile as his father closed his lifeless eyes.
“Hey, Aleksandras!” came a voice from the other side of the amphitheater. “Is your boy going to be challenged again tonight?”
Aleksandras patted Andrius on the shoulder and raised a cupped hand beside his mouth. “Only if someone wants to lose his chickens!”
Several bystanders laughed.
“Herkus didn’t lose any!”
“That’s because Herkus is a lying oath-breaker!” a less jovial voice declared.
Andrius looked up, searching for the source of the conversation’s sudden shift in tone.
It was Daumantas, Berena’s father. He had wavy hair and the broadest shoulders in the village. He shaped the canes that they all used. Men were afraid of him, even though he was good-humored most of the time.
The fire popped and crackled. People listened.
Daumantas took a step forward and spoke in his low, resonant voice. “Aleksandras, did Herkus ever pay you for his bet?”
Herkus spat where he was sitting.
“Oh, die in a blizzard, Daumantas. It was no fair contest, so I’m keeping my chickens.”
Aleksandras looked uncomfortable. His bony knees stuck out from under his wool blanket.
“Aleksandras,” Daumantas demanded again. “Did Herkus settle his debt?”
“Well,” Aleksandras stammered. “It’s not that—I mean, what did we . . . Well, the agreement was that—”
Andrius closed his eyes and sighed. Herkus interrupted his father.
“Come down off your pedestal, Daumantas. I didn’t pay him and I won’t. The contest wasn’t fair.”
“Can you prove that?” he challenged.
Herkus spat again. “It wouldn’t have been successful cheating if I knew how it was done, now would it? His boy has been cheating you all for years.”
“Come around, Herkus,” a woman shouted. “You’re being a poor sport.
“Bah,” Herkus replied, taking a sip of his ale. “I won’t let my property go to that fool. Say what you like. Two chickens is too much.”
“So you willfully break your oath?” Daumantas asked gravely.
Herkus went back to his conversation. His friends seemed nervous, but they chatted with him nonetheless.
Daumantas shook his head. “Very well. Aleksandras may seek justice against you, or another may do so on his behalf.”
Herkus burped grotesquely in defiance of Daumantas’s posturing. He had consumed his own ale, as well as those of several other men who were willing to part with theirs.
Andrius returned to his place on the ground, rocking back and forth gently.
By and by the music started up again and the tension melted away. A dull roar of conversation filled the amphitheater once again.
Elze, the apothecary, came up to Andrius after a while and nudged him with her elbow.
“Andrius, is this you?”
“Yes, Elze,” he answered listlessly.
The apothecary flashed a toothy grin and pulled a handful of rocks out of her pocket. “What do you say we play, eh? No betting, just sport. My rocks and your magic ears counting them as they lay down. What do you say?”
Andrius couldn’t take it anymore. He felt something bubbling up inside of him that he tried to suppress.
“Why is this impressive to you?” Andrius snapped. The apothecary was shocked, and she took a step back, but the boy was unabated. “Honestly, I just don’t understand why anyone even finds this game amusing. Someone sets down some rocks and there they are right in front of me. And people bet against me? That I’ll forget how to count? The rocks are right there—anyone should be able to hear them! It’s a stupid game,” he concluded sullenly.
The apothecary stood in place with her mouth agape.
“Andrius,” Aleksandras chided. “Did you mean to speak that way to Elze?”
Andrius was thinking about tomorrow and the Prophet’s judgment. He was so afraid. He trembled.
“No,” he said softly, his voice cracking.
“Well, I . . . I don’t know what to say,” the apothecary replied.
“He’s very sorry, Elze,” Aleksandras assured her. “He has been quiet all night. I think he is sick. I’ll take him home. Please do not take offense. Come by my hut tomorrow and I will give you a gift to make up for the insult, which was certainly accidental. Right, Andrius?”
Andrius wiped his nose with his arm. His stomach was all twisted up.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Elze. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The apothecary tapped around her with her cane, and then she began to shuffle away
. “Well, you were. Keep your gifts, Aleksandras. I’ll accept the boy’s apology. Teach him how to speak to his betters,” she added, stopping to say one bit more. “Others in this village do not drop a slight so easily as I do.”
Andrius felt awful, but what did it matter? He was already facing judgment tomorrow. Nothing could be worse than that.
Aleksandras came over to Andrius and felt around for his shoulders. Finding them, he wrapped the boy in a fragile hug.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Andrius awoke before the sun had yet started to sing, like he always did. He wondered if today was the last chance he would ever get to wake up.
He had to face the Prophet for judgment today. A severe peace must be kept severely.
Andrius jumped out of his bed of hay, as if propelled by the thought. He sank to one knee hard and exhaled into his hands. The cows were lowing already. They wanted to be milked.
Andrius’s breathing came in fast, panicked gasps at first. Over time it slowed until it was almost regular. He removed his hands from his face, suddenly struck by the smell of the old barn again.
“If it’s my last day, I’ll live it well,” Andrius softly declared. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stepped outside.
The chill of the dawn wrapped around him, making his hairs stand on end, and there was moisture in the air. It was pleasant. He listened to the pigs’ occasional snorting. They hadn’t woken up yet. He curled his toes and felt the soil beneath his feet. He tasted the dew on his tongue and inhaled the sweet, pungent smell of plants and animals thriving. Then he looked to the sky.
It reminded him of his father’s eyes, but it wasn’t like milk or clouds. It was like a squirrel’s fur, or the ash that’s left after a fire.
“Maybe that’s what it is,” Andrius mumbled aloud in response to his thoughts. “It’s the ash leftover from yesterday’s sun.” It was lovely, whatever it was. Everything seemed more real to Andrius this morning: harsher, more beautiful, more tragic, and more exciting. His senses were alive and so was he.
For now.
With a deep sigh, Andrius returned his eyes to the world around him and got to work.
Today was the Day of Remembrance, so no unnecessary work was to be done. Unfortunately, most of his chores had to be done every day. That’s the way it was with raising animals.
It was difficult not to despair.
By the time Andrius wandered into the hut for breakfast, he had lost that fleeting sensation of vibrancy. The world was dull now, and it remained to him for only a short time more.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
“Andrius? Is that you, my boy?”
Aleksandras sat at the modest table, smiling. He held a knife to a loaf of bread that by the looks of it had just been made. Normally that would have excited Andrius.
“How did you know it was me?” Andrius asked lifelessly. He went through the motions of conversation for his father’s sake.
“Your step is”—Aleksandras paused, catching himself—“different than Daiva’s.”
His step didn’t shake the foundations of the house was what his father meant.
Andrius sighed as he lifted the pail of milk he had collected and set it on the table.
“Milk,” he said simply, and then he reached into his pockets to retrieve the eggs he had collected. He set his water pitcher on the ground so that he would be able to use both hands.
“Splendid!” Aleksandras declared. “Oh, Andrius,” he sang in a low voice. “In case your nose has failed you, and perhaps your magic ears too, would you like to know what I’ve got?”
Andrius placed the last of the eggs in the basket. “Bread.”
“Bread! And freshly baked. I walked to Bronius’s home just a few minutes ago. It is a special occasion, after all.”
Andrius was about to take a seat, but he noticed his father rising, so he remained standing. He placed his right hand over his heart like Aleksandras was doing, and he spoke in unison with the old man.
“Let us never forget, or may the earth swallow us up in punishment.
Let us never forget, or may the disease take us and send us the way of the whole world.
Let us never forget, lest we become like the unenlightened, the cowardly, and the perished.
We remember the Hausen War and its valiant heroes.
We remember the First Ones, who fathered this remnant in new life.
We remember the fires of purification, where they destroyed their possessions.
We remember reverence for our Prophet, and the legacy and wisdom he embodies.
We remember our duty to the village and its good.
We remember Zydrunas, his philosophy, and his great deeds.
He is our First Prophet, the embodiment of science, the slayer of the disease.
First among warriors, first among kings, our leader and our hope.
Zydrunas! We will not forget.”
Aleksandras smiled widely and took his seat once more. Andrius wondered how many times they would all say the pledge today.
“It is the Day of Remembrance,” Aleksandras declared. “Or had you forgotten?” He laughed as if he didn’t tell this same joke every year. “May it be a happy one for you, my boy, my Andrius. Today we celebrate our beloved founder Zydrunas and Valdas who keeps his legacy.”
“Yes, Papa,” Andrius agreed. The Day of Remembrance was not the only holiday celebrating Zydrunas, of course. There was a celebration at least every month, in fact, but the Day of Remembrance was the greatest. It was a special day, and typically Andrius would have been bouncing up and down with excitement.
Aleksandras went back to happily cutting his bread, whistling. Daiva was probably still in bed, as usual.
“Papa,” Andrius began, putting an arm around the old man.
Aleksandras seemed surprised but welcoming. He set the knife down straight away. “Andrius, my boy, what is it?”
“Thank you,” was all that Andrius could manage. “Just . . . thank you.”
The old man raised his bushy eyebrows.
“You’re welcome, son. It’s only some bread.”
Andrius shook his head. The weight on his chest was unbearable, overwhelming.
“Will you give me a hug?” he asked quietly.
“Why of course,” Aleksandras replied with a sweet chuckle.
Andrius closed his eyes as he felt the thin arms wrap around him. He treasured the moment until it was gone.
Andrius thought he would say more, but he was out of words. He backed toward the door and halted only long enough to pick up his water pitcher. He kept his eyes on his father.
“Goodbye, Papa.”
“Wait! Don’t you want any bread?”
Andrius stopped for a moment as his father scooped up a thick slab of the fresh bread, grabbed his cane, and tapped his way over to Andrius. He pushed the morsel into Andrius’s hands.
“There you are. Goodbye, my boy. Enjoy the festival!”
Andrius kept his eyes on his father walking back to the table, as Andrius backed out of the hut.
The door creaked as it shut.
The walk down Stone Road felt like a walk to the gallows. It was like each roadstone counted down the last precious hours of Andrius’s life: Fourth Stone, Third Stone, Second Stone . . . Everywhere he looked there were smiling faces and he like a ghost among them. No one heeded his frown or the mountains in the distance or the sun singing over them all. It was like they didn’t notice. They couldn’t.
Andrius’s emotions came in swells. He no longer felt panic quickening his heart and making his eyes dart around him in paranoia. At this moment he felt only morbid realization as he shuffled one foot in front of the other. Gimdymo Namai was only a short distance ahead of him now, beyond the crowds that eagerly gathered for the day’s celebration. Andrius couldn’t bring himself to care. It was probably inside of that very same sleek building where he would be killed for his crimes.
Maybe they would
only cut off an ear or something. That wasn’t unheard of, though less common. True, he had been late for lessons and disruptive and he didn’t fit in exactly, but it wasn’t like he had spoken against the Prophet or something.
What was he thinking? It would be just like Egidijus, who got the ultimate punishment when Andrius was little. He had been a few years older than Andrius, but their crimes were not very different.
They were going to kill him. A severe peace must be kept severely.
He felt briefly like he understood his mother then—his real mother. If it was discovered that she had an illegitimate child, her life would have been put to an end for sure. It’s no wonder she went over the barricade and into the Regions of Death.
Of course, there was even less promise there than with the Prophet’s judgment.
Unless Daniel had been telling the truth. We could fix all these people if they came down from here—down the mountain to Brezno.
Andrius was no fool, but he did wonder. He never heard anything dangerous from the edge of the forest. He wished he could talk with Daniel some more. Maybe he would be at the festival. Of course he would be at the festival. Andrius would ask after him.
He saw Milda, Berena, and a few others of his age-peers as he neared Gimdymo Namai, but he did not bother with greeting them. They belonged to a different world, one that Andrius never quite seemed to fit into.
The people were not much for decoration, and the state of the village’s center reflected this. They were, however, much for music. When Andrius began wading through the crowds, a mighty forty-piece pipe orchestra was playing a dirge in honor of Zydrunas. It was ethereal and sad, beautiful and yet with a feeling of inevitable and inescapable doom. The reed pipes rose and fell, then rushed all together like the violent river that bisected their village.
The proceedings would begin soon. Already the village had started organizing themselves by age group. From three years old and upward every villager stood with his own age-peers, regardless of marital status, health, desire, or wealth. Coming into the world is an important rite of passage, and it is the first rite that anyone ever has. They stood with their contemporaries.
The only exceptions to this very stringent rule were the Prophet, his Regents, and anyone awaiting judgment. They stood on the roof of Gimdymo Namai, facing the crowd of nearly a thousand.
For Whom the Sun Sings Page 7
