For Whom the Sun Sings

by W. A. Fulkerson

The Prophet raised a hand.

  “Gentlemen, please. Andrius, they didn’t realize you had spoken with him. It was thought that he was unconscious when you found him.”

  Andrius fidgeted. The way the Regents were acting was so strange.

  “Well, he was, but the next day on my way to lessons he was sitting outside of Gimdymo Namai and he called me over.”

  The Prophet seemed sympathetic and a little sad. “I understand. He didn’t make much sense, did he?”

  Andrius looked down. “No. He used a bunch of words Milda and I had never heard before.”

  “Milda was there? From your age group?”

  Andrius nodded.

  “Berena too. Well, Berena wasn’t there with us, but she talked with him too.”

  The Regent of Stone took a seat on the luxurious couch, clearly in thought. The Prophet stroked his beard.

  “I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me, Andrius. You are a loyal servant of me and my village.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

  The Prophet sighed. “Andrius, I wish we knew what became of Drunas, or ‘Daniel,’ as you call him. We tried to help him, reintroduce him to his parents. He was a runaway from the village, you know. Living in the meadow, eating off the land like an animal . . . I had such compassion for him, but he ran away from us and we couldn’t find him again. I’m so sorry.”

  “He ran away?”

  “Took his things and left,” the Regent of Brick interjected. The Prophet looked momentarily displeased, then reassumed his typical, comforting air.

  “It is a tragedy, but he wouldn’t let us help him. Perhaps we will find him again someday, but winter will be here soon, so for your sake I don’t want you getting your hopes up. We just don’t know.”

  Andrius nodded. “Okay.”

  “All right,” the Prophet concluded warmly. “Now if you’ll excuse us for a short time, Andrius. We’re finishing up a discussion. I have a decision to make, and as you know, these men advise me.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Thank you, Andrius.”

  The Regents added their goodbyes, and Andrius opened the door and stepped through it. As it closed, he heard the Prophet’s voice distinctly say: “Touch four walls and begin.”

  Grassentree, sudaisy, dirtyshoe, milkoud, highsky, bloodnote, fuzzymum, and nightish. These were the words that Andrius had chosen to describe the different notes he was hearing with his eyes. He decided that he couldn’t keep calling it “hearing,” but since he didn’t have a better term for his extra sense, he did not immediately press the issue.

  Most of the village liked the new names. They were delighted to hear Andrius excitedly describe that flowers come in basically every kind of note except nightish. Some raised objections to this, but Andrius’s father spoke up in his defense again, saying, “If different sorts of flowers have different smells, it would make sense for them to have different eye notes too,” and, “My boy’s a poet!” The others accepted this explanation.

  He had begun sheepishly, describing that clouds, milk, and most people’s eyes were milkoud. The sun was sudaisy. Weeds were grassentree, the wildflowers that sprang up after a rain were fuzzymum, and so was fire. He grew in confidence as the crowd soaked up this new revelation. It was like a breakthrough into a whole new subject of learning.

  Not many things were bloodnote, except for blood, obviously, some types of bugs, and people’s lips, sort of. The people were amazed when he told them that when the sun stopped singing in the evenings, everything lost its note or became nightish.

  It had been his most spectacular success since his now-famous “open your eyes and look at things” speech. He was not as dismayed by the confused comments floating around as he typically was. People were trying to determine how to make notes change, which didn’t make any sense to Andrius, and he heard comments like, “I’m highsky. What note are you?” and, “Anything tall is highsky. Anything low is dirtyshoe.”

  There was still much work to be done, but the response had been wonderful, and even now as Andrius walked down Brick Road, he replayed moments of it in his mind.

  He wasn’t paying much attention in his age-group lessons these days. Either he was looking at Milda or he was thinking of new ways to describe his extra sense and how to teach it. It happily consumed him.

  It was cold in the air, and Andrius shivered a bit, but he didn’t mind. He was used to the cold, and it would be at least a month until the snows came, so he didn’t have to fear being caught outside during a storm.

  The sun was singing, but its song was dulled by the thick cover of clouds, which weren’t milkoud like usual, but sort of a mixture of milkoud and nightish.

  “Can notes mix with each other?” Andrius wondered aloud. It was an intriguing thought. He had never considered it before.

  “Andrius?”

  He turned around. Milda was heading in the same direction as he, bundled in warm clothes and bouncing her cane back and forth like she always did. He had been one of the last students to leave lessons, but he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts he didn’t notice who else was still around.

  “Andrius, is that you?”

  “Hi, Milda.”

  He couldn’t help a slight grin. He liked Milda.

  People passed by on all sides as he waited for her to catch up. It was a showcase day, where all of the villagers set up their wares that they had produced that others might need, so it was busier on the roads than usual—particularly near Gimdymo Namai.

  “I didn’t know you were still around,” Milda said as she reached Andrius. “What were you doing?”

  He shrugged. “Thinking.”

  “Can I have some of your water? Do you have your pitcher with you?”

  Andrius placed it in her outstretched hands and shivered as she took a drink. It really was cold today.

  “Thanks,” she said, holding out the pitcher to be taken again.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They resumed walking then, occasionally dodging passersby carrying bundles of walking canes, firewood, or extra food.

  “So did you hear me?”

  “Hm?” Andrius had been thinking again, and the noise caught him off-guard.

  “Did you hear what I said to our teacher? Since you were staying behind too.”

  “What? Oh, no. No, I was just . . . I didn’t notice.”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “No.”

  “But you must’ve been right there.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  Andrius didn’t know what to say. She kept repeating him.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “A lot of things. I heard the Regent of Stone and Brick talking the other day. I’m trying to make sense of what they said.”

  “The Regent? Our Regent?”

  “Petras III, yes.”

  He stopped to think for a moment.

  “Talk, Andrius, please! It’s like you’re not even there sometimes.”

  “Sorry,” he said, beginning to walk again. “I was just remembering. They talked about finding a new Regent of Wood. The Regent of Brick wanted Dovydas, but Petras said no.”

  “Good. He’d be terrible. What else?”

  “You know Dovydas?”

  “I don’t know him personally, but I know someone else should be Regent. Though the Prophet and his Regents know best, of course. Zydrunas has my allegiance.”

  “Zydrunas has my allegiance,” Andrius repeated from rote. “But how do you know about him? He’s in a totally different section of the world.”

  Milda smirked. “Well, some people are just better informed than others, Andrius. Pranciskus on the other hand . . . He’s in Wood too, and I think he’d make an excellent Regent. Or Marijus, he’d be good too. He’s the other blacksmith, not Dominykas.”

  Milda kept talking, but Andrius stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes went wide. Something floated lazily to the ground in fron
t of them, but Milda didn’t notice.

  “I know people in Brick too,” she continued. “Almost all of them, probably. Well, there’s too many, but I know a lot of them, anyway. Zydra and Stephinius raise the cartwheel flower. Ganytojas raises sheep.”

  “Milda . . .” Andrius interrupted.

  “I’m not done yet. Rasa makes clothes for Brick. This jacket is from her, actually. My mother and her were age-peers when—”

  “Milda.”

  “When they were children. Same lessons and everything, their whole life. It makes you wonder if we’ll be friends when we’re old. The people in our class, I mean. Some people, like Berena, I have no doubt, but—”

  “Milda.”

  There was a gravity to Andrius’s voice that finally got her to stop walking and turn around. She put her hands on her hips.

  “Andrius, are you all the way back there? It is like you’re not even there during conversations—sometimes you aren’t. At least have the decency to say something first.”

  Andrius’s eyes were fixed on the sky, filled with a nightish and milkoud layer that separated them from the sun.

  “Hold your hands out,” he said.

  “What, is this another one of your eye things? I have to be honest, Andrius; nothing has really worked for me so far. And if it did, I wouldn’t even know what was—”

  She stopped. Something cold and wet fell on her hand and dissolved. Then another, and another. They were increasing in frequency moment by moment.

  Her face disfigured into a look of horror, and Andrius’s grave assertion confirmed her greatest fears.

  “It’s snowing.”

  The whole village stopped at these two words. All of the bustle along the roads jolted to a halt, all of the noise suddenly ceased. The whispering, taunting wind snaked among them as a hundred and fifty pairs of hands let go of what they were doing and reached out into the air.

  The snow continued to fall.

  “It is!” a terrified man shouted. “It is snowing!” A woman shrieked. A child began wailing.

  “That’s impossible!” a man carrying a bundle of horse feed shouted back, sounding unconvinced of his own objection. “It’s a month too early, at least.”

  “Then what is this falling from the sky, Matas?” came the bitter reply.

  “It’s snow.”

  “No . . . no, not now.”

  “It’s snowing!”

  In an instant, the momentary stillness was gone, and there was panic. Bundles were dropped, animals carelessly let loose, and everywhere villagers shouted. Some shouted for companions, others in hopes of receiving instructions, and others simply shouted because terror had fallen upon them. Andrius saw a man running toward his cart take a misstep and fall on his face. Several others had the misfortune of being in his path, and they fell also.

  The temperature continued to drop, and a thin layer of snow and ice now appeared dusted over the ground.

  “I have to get home,” Milda declared. Andrius wanted to shout after her, to ask her if she would be all right, but the words did not come. She was right, after all. She had to get out of the storm before the road was covered. Speed was of the essence.

  “We’ll freeze to death!” a boy shouted, turning Andrius’s attention back to the town center. A murmur of agreement went up from the others nearby. A hulking villager in a woolen cap lumbered by, crashing into Andrius’s shoulder, nearly bowling him over. He didn’t apologize. He simply continued brazenly groping ahead. As it was, Andrius found himself having to evade streams of villagers travelling in all directions. It was madness.

  Another scream caught Andrius’s attention, but this one stood out from the din.

  “No! That’s mine! I’m only eleven—give that back!”

  A short distance down Stone Road, a middle-aged woman accosted Milda. She had one hand on Milda’s cane—apparently she had lost hers—and with the other hand she tried to swat the young girl away. Milda held on with both hands, screaming and crying, fully knowing that having her cane could mean the difference between life and death.

  Andrius didn’t waste his breath on a word. He took after her immediately, sprinting against the confused tide of panicked villagers, clutching his pitcher to his chest. He narrowly avoided collision when a big man shoved Elze the apothecary out of his way and she fell. A moment later the big man slipped on a patch of snow, and he fell also. The snow was falling faster, and the wind whistled tauntingly among them.

  “I’m coming, Milda,” Andrius said under his breath.

  Milda’s assailant succeeded in pulling away with her cane, leaving Milda weeping and lying on the thin layer of snow, prostrate and hopeless. The shrewish woman stole away immediately, deaf to her cries.

  Andrius slid to a stop, coming to his knees beside Milda. He put a hand on her shoulder as she wept.

  “Milda. Milda, it’s all right, I’m here!”

  Andrius shook her to try and get her up, but she wasn’t moving.

  “It’s dangerous to be in the road,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Milda, get up. I’ll help you. Come on!”

  Her crying only turned to wailing, the weeping of despair.

  “She stole it!” was all Milda could manage, the words muffled by the ground that muzzled her.

  Andrius looked up. Most of the crowd tried to stick to the sides of the road, but there, down the path was a horse-driven cart, and it was out of control. It was coming straight for them.

  “Milda, we have to move!”

  “She stole my cane!” Milda repeated, unyielding.

  Andrius looked up again. Even other villagers were diving out of the way of the wild cart that trampled everything in its path. The sound it made as it approached was like thunder.

  “Milda!” Andrius shouted. “Don’t you hear that? We’ll be killed!”

  He tried to pick her up, but she was like a rag doll, and Andrius wasn’t strong. He tried to push her, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “Milda!”

  The horse was only a stone’s throw away and coming right for them. Andrius’s heart was pounding as he stood up and grabbed Milda’s mittened hands. They slipped away from him as he tugged. He grabbed them again, and again he lost his grip.

  The cart’s approach was the sound of the earth coming to an end. He took Milda’s hands one last time, squeezing as hard as he could. “Milda! Hold onto my hands!”

  Just before the crazed horse reached them, Milda’s hands tightened around Andrius’s, and he pulled with all his might. The horse’s iron hooves were bearing down upon her, but just as their paths intersected, the wild horse took a staggering leap, and Andrius’s pull yanked her away a mere instant before the cart’s great wheels could crush her.

  She screamed and Andrius fell on his back, watching helplessly as another villager was knocked to the ground by the runaway animal wreaking havoc.

  Milda was shaking. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  Andrius gently helped Milda to her feet, and she began crying bitterly once more.

  “Are you upset about the cane? We don’t need a cane.”

  “Are you crazy?” she shouted, swatting his hand away.

  He felt a wave of revulsion at having to assert himself, but there was no other way. Andrius took a deep breath and her hand, stopping only to retrieve his fallen pitcher.

  “Most people seem to think so,” he muttered in reply.

  They trudged in silence then. Wet flecks of speeding ice pelted them the whole way.

  By the time he was at Gimdymo Namai’s doorstep, Andrius was chilled to the bone. His numbed fingers sent sharp pangs through his hand as he knocked on the great doors.

  No reply.

  Then, as he raised his hand and knocked again, he heard muffled voices inside.

  “Don’t open that door! There’s enough of us as it is.”

  “Poor soul must be freezing.”

  “There is only so much food stored here . . .”
>
  “Keep it shut!”

  “Back!” a familiar voice shouted. “I keep the doors, not you. Had your ideas been in my head before you arrived at this sacred door, you would now be languishing in the snow to die beside this man.”

  The door opened.

  Andrius looked at the doorman and a small crowd of villagers huddled together for warmth.

  “He’s probably half-dead by now anyway,” one of the rabble called, unaware that Andrius now stood directly before him. “It started snowing an hour ago.”

  “Who are you?” the doorman inquired.

  “Andrius,” he replied. He couldn’t resist adding, “The Prophet’s own.”

  The people began murmuring in shock and chiding those who had been most vocal about keeping suppliants out. The doorman snapped his fingers.

  “Servants! Andrius is here. The Prophet will need to be told.”

  “Is it true that you have a fifth sense?” a young woman leaned forward, whispering.

  “Didn’t the blizzard scare you, boy?” Daumantas, the cane-maker, asked.

  “Not really,” Andrius admitted. “My friend lost her cane—”

  The people gasped.

  “And so I led her home before coming here.”

  “Amazing,” the cane-maker said.

  Footsteps stole Andrius’s attention before he could be taken in by the fresh round of questioning all around him. The Prophet himself was descending the marble stairs, aided by his exquisite cane made of metal.

  “Andrius!” He chuckled. “Forgive my nervous laughter. You continue to impress—and relieve—us.”

  He patted a few shoulders before arriving at Andrius. “Is that you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Andrius!” He gripped Andrius’s shoulders firmly. “I am delighted to hear you safe.” He took one hand off the boy and gestured around. “I’m told that we’ve drawn a little crowd.”

  The people chuckled.

  “Hope fervently for the end of this storm and a warm aftermath,” the Prophet instructed them, growing serious. “If this persists, we may not have enough provisions for all of you.”

  “We were just at the showcase,” the young woman lamented, “and it is so early for this season. I fear my presence here might harm the great Prophet.”