For Whom the Sun Sings

by W. A. Fulkerson

  “Papa?” he asked softly, gently nudging the broken man. “Papa, are you alive?”

  The old man’s hand began to shake, then it went to Andrius’s knee.

  “Andrius,” he whispered, hiding the pain as best as he was able. A great smile spread across his lips. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Papa, it’s me. We have to go. Can you walk, Papa?”

  Aleksandras was covered in blood. Andrius had heard his bones breaking. He knew the answer, knew that his father was dying, but he had to hope.

  Aleksandras ignored his question. “I almost had it, Andrius. I believe in you. I want to go down the mountain to Markov. Sometimes—” A strange, hollow rattle choked his lungs before he spoke again. “Sometimes I almost felt like I could see.”

  Andrius bit his lip, reaching forward to stroke the old man’s bloodstained hair. “Papa, that’s impossible.”

  “I know. But I feel like the trees were there,” he pointed, “that my blood was red, that the moon—” He raised a shaking finger toward the sky, in the direction of the moon. “That the moon was right there.”

  Andrius shook his head. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me, Papa.”

  “I love you, Andrius,” he whispered, now moaning softly.

  “Papa, no. Stay here.”

  “Remember the . . . what was it? The yellow butterfly.” The broken old man flashed a bittersweet smile. “The yellow butterfly was mine. I can see one now. Hundreds of them, coming for me—oh!” He started to try to sit up.

  “Papa, no!”

  “Oh . . .” Aleksandras said. “Is this . . . I see a—I think the sun is singing, Andrius.”

  He fell back down hard. Andrius tried to soften his fall, but he was fading fast.

  “I think the sun sings for me.”

  “Papa,” Andrius said sternly, getting to his feet. “We have to go now. Right now.”

  “Hello, yellow butterfly. You are unimaginably beautiful.”

  Then a large stone smashed into Aleksandras’s face, and he was dead.

  “No!” Andrius screamed. “Why did you do that?”

  The Regents and the Prophet’s men had returned without him noticing. Petras had delivered the final blow.

  “Why did you do that?” Andrius shrieked again.

  “Hold him down,” the Prophet calmly ordered.

  “No! Let me go! Stop it! No!”

  Andrius was wrestled to the ground easily, being so much smaller and so greatly outnumbered. Each limb was pinned down, and his protests were of no consequence. He could hardly breathe; he could hardly think. He lay beside Aleksandras, now dead.

  The Prophet came and stood over Andrius, blocking out the moon.

  “Let me explain a few things to you, Andrius,” he said in his rich, alluring voice. Andrius hated the sound. “You need your commitment to be renewed. You’ve lost your way.” The Prophet held out a hand to one of his men. “Give it to me.”

  “What is that?” Andrius demanded. “What are you doing?”

  “When young men want to renew their dedication to Zydrunas, they go into the field.”

  Andrius suddenly knew what was in the Prophet’s hand. Fear gripped him as he tried to twist away, but thick hands held his head, then his eyes, and the Prophet’s hand came closer.

  “They gather some of this, Andrius. cartwheel flower. And they crush it up.”

  “No.” Andrius was weeping. It seemed as though he had cried all of his tears, and yet he found more. “No, please. Anything but that.”

  The Prophet raised his voice.

  “And they rub it in their eyes, Andrius! They do it to remember the disease and Zydrunas and their village, which is the whole world. So you will remember too.”

  “I never had the cure,” Andrius protested. “I don’t need it. It’s why I can see! My mother Janina ran when I—”

  The Prophet’s lips came to Andrius’s ear without warning, whispering harshly.

  “I know about Janina, boy. I’m the one who impregnated her. Why do you think you haven’t been killed yet? Several times you should be dead. You should have been dead by the time you were seven, but of all the women I’ve planted my seed in, only Janina gave me a son. And you will learn to follow the village’s way. I will make you. That old man was not your father.”

  He drew back and spat to the side. Then, to Andrius’s horror, he brought the fistful of crushed cartwheel flower to his face and began rubbing the toxic substance into Andrius’s eyes.

  “I am,” Valdas declared.

  Andrius screamed. His eyes burned, his heart pounded, and the last vestige of hope in him died as panic took him under the cold, dark sky to perish.

  Andrius began the day like he began every day. He opened his eyes. The habit had stayed with him, though it was now a useless gesture. The sun sang, but he could not hear it. He was blind like the rest of the village.

  It had been almost a year since the cartwheel flower was forced on him, and Andrius had hardly spoken a word. He felt around haltingly on his bed of straw until he touched his cane, then his pitcher of water, which he was never without. He was no longer allowed to live in Gimdymo Namai, but he had to find his way there every day. It was harder without being able to see the road.

  Andrius sighed and got out of his barnyard bed, feeling his way to the shack where Daiva had already eaten all of the breakfast food. The door still squeaked, the chickens still laid, and Daiva still hated him with an intensity he’d never understood.

  Valdas welcomed him warmly as he entered Gimdymo Namai. Andrius remained silent. A woman shrieked, there was much commotion, and Andrius was numb, only performing the duties that had been forced upon him.

  Whenever a baby was delivered, he was set on the table and Andrius poured the cure over its eyes.

  He felt nothing. Neither joy nor pain, mirth nor regret. He felt nothing. Day after day the Prophet preached Zydrunas’s philosophy to Andrius and made him work in the birthing room. There were always a lot of babies born this time of year.

  His stomach turned a little every time he picked up the ceremonial ewer and poured it over a child’s face, but this was the closest thing to emotion that he felt.

  Breathing was an inconvenience, eating, a necessary evil. Sleep was his only comfort. Every day in the blackness that surrounded him always, he groped his way home through the cold.

  “This is your life now,” the Prophet told him. “Do it well, and who knows? You may be Prophet yourself one day.”

  Valdas’s disposition toward Andrius had improved significantly. He was the only one who would willingly speak to Andrius for some months, but that was starting to change little by little.

  Still, Andrius held his tongue. He had nothing to say.

  The day began and Andrius remembered not to open his eyes. It was meaningless now. For the first time he remembered early enough to forsake his longtime reflex.

  His chores finished, he managed to forage a bowl of swelled grain from the kitchen. Daiva thundered in, shaking the house as he tried to eat in peace.

  “It was just like Aleksandras to leave me alone like this,” Daiva complained. “And they still haven’t matched me with another husband? It’s unbelievable!” She belched, and the smell offended Andrius’s nostrils. He rose and opened the squeaky door to leave.

  “Andrius, is that you?” Daiva asked suddenly. “Don’t forget your cane.”

  It was already in his hand. He never forgot it these days. Andrius took a long drink of water from his pitcher and then he began tapping his cane back and forth, back and forth, occasionally colliding with a roadstone so he knew how far he had gone.

  The porter at Gimdymo Namai let him in without questioning. He knew Andrius’s footstep now, as well as what time he arrived each day.

  The days ran together for Andrius. Standing beside his table in the birthing room, it was as if the morning had never happened at all.

  Valdas greeted him cheerfully. A screaming woman was carried in, and Valdas encouraged her to
push. He and Solveiga still delivered every child, and Andrius poured the cure over the new villagers for Valdas and Solveiga to rub into their new eyes.

  Andrius’s eyes itched today. It was a strange and unpleasant sensation. He felt the breeze coming into the room. The shutters must have been opened. He heard the sounds of a mother giving birth, but he never paid attention to that. But his eyes really itched.

  He set down his water to scratch them, but it didn’t help. It was like they itched inside, but that would hurt too much to scratch. It was aggravating.

  “He’s out!” Valdas declared. “Solveiga, tie him off. He’s wonderful. Quickly now, get him to Andrius.”

  Andrius heard them move the child to his table. He reached for the ewer that held the cure, but his eyes itched fiercely. He rubbed at them vigorously.

  “Andrius, we have no time to lose. The disease enters through the eyes. You know this.”

  He had to move, but his eyes seized in horrible itchiness once again as he reached for the ewer. Finally, intent on scratching them directly, he opened his eyes.

  And he saw.

  It wasn’t like he used to see. It was like the first lilt of the sun on a cloudy morning, though it was full day. But he saw dim shapes, outlines, shafts of light.

  And then, a tiny yellow butterfly flapped by, floating on the breeze.

  “Andrius,” the Prophet warned. “What are you doing? We only have so much time.”

  He looked around. His eyes hurt, and everything was dim and fuzzy.

  “Now!”

  He automatically went to reach for the cure, stored in the ceremonial ewer. But something stopped him once more.

  His pitcher sat next to the ewer. They were the same size, almost the same shape.

  “Andrius! Do you want this child to die?”

  “Sorry.”

  Andrius grabbed the container and held it high, and then, with his heart beating fast, he poured out the contents like he had done so many times before.

  The Prophet sighed with relief as he began rubbing the cure into the baby’s eyes.

  “Thank goodness. You took a while, Andrius.”

  “I apologize,” he said numbly.

  The Prophet continued to massage the substance into the child’s eyes as it screamed.

  “You’ve really come along, my son. Your fever made you act unruly and strange last winter, but now . . . now you have an important role and you are dedicated to it.”

  The liquid made a squishing noise as he worked it into the baby’s eyes. Andrius hated the sound.

  “I’m glad that you’ve fallen in line,” the Prophet said. Pride was evident in his voice. The liquid continued squishing until he was done, and Andrius stood silently.

  “Here you go,” Valdas declared as he handed the baby back to its mother. “The philosophy and science of Zydrunas has saved your child.”

  “Thank you,” the mother returned as she cradled her newborn son. She kissed him again and again.

  “I could do this every time,” Andrius said.

  “What?” Valdas perked his ears up. “What do you mean?”

  The impossible happened then. Andrius smiled.

  “Nothing. I have a bad habit of talking to myself.”

  Andrius set his pitcher of water back on the counter next to the cure.

  Acknowledgments

  It took me a long time to write this book. I didn’t feel worthy of it, some of the time. Finding the right tone took a while as well, but the picture of what it was supposed to be was always clear: It’s a story of hope in a dark place. A story that deals with the painful reality of what a breakthrough costs. It’s a story that I’ve always wanted to tell, and I have many people to thank for their encouragement and help along the way.

  First, I have to thank my beautiful wife Rita, who always saw the value of this particular book and encouraged me to finish it well. Rita, I’m thankful for your grace, your insight, your humility, and your love.

  Thank you to Bill Farrell, a wonderful writer and a mentor to me. If not for you, this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day—at least not for a long time. Thank you for your friendship, your advice, and for talking me down when the pressures of writing seem overwhelming. You and Pam have been such a blessing to my family.

  Kevin Miller—you already know. Among the very long list of things I have to thank you for, thanks for being one of the first to read this book, and for keeping the secret before it got signed.

  David and Mark Hoffman, thank you for your wisdom, for believing in this work I have to do, and for giving me a platform to experiment and hone my skills.

  Mike Van Meter, thank you for being an advocate. And, you know, for officiating my wedding.

  Mom, Dad, Jeff, Emily, Trevor, and all the little guys—thank you for your prayers and support. Dad, you once told me that “Everything has a cost in life, and it gets more expensive as you get older. If there’s something you really need to do in your life, start it now.” It’s why I became a writer right out of school. I can’t thank you enough.

  Zac Hays, Chris Alley, and Isaiah Leper—you guys need to write a book so we can call ourselves the Inklings. Thankful for your friendship and regular times of musing, praying, and hearing each other out.

  Rita and Robert Cartwright, Monica Hunter, Maggy Wong, Jim Cantos, Mark Thomas, Dan and Michele Franklin, Ben and Alyssa Gordon, and Micah Scott—you know.

  Thanks to Kristen Fogle and everyone at San Diego Writers, Ink for giving me a place to teach and share excitement about writing.

  Thanks to David Esselstrom, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of English at a university I didn’t even attend—your experience and insight have been invaluable to me. Every time we talk and debate, I spend a long time mulling over what you’ve said. You’ve helped me see the ars gratia Deus inside of ars gratia artis.

  I have a great debt of gratitude to someone named Tommy Edison who posted a long series of videos online about what it’s like to live everyday life as someone blind from birth (“The Tommy Edison Experience” on YouTube).

  I’m grateful to the mentors I’ve never met: David Mamet, Aaron Sorkin, Michell Ivers, Donald Maass, William Goldman, and others who have been munificent enough to share their thoughts and experiences with crafting the written word.

  Thanks to USC—fight on.

  Thanks to Foothills—fight on.

  And thanks to my late grandpa Earl, who taught me to write.

  Steve, you’re an awesome agent and I’m glad to be in business with you. Thanks for all of your hard work on this.

  And finally, I would be remiss if I did not thank the God who put the stars in the night sky and gave me eyes to see them.

  — W. A.

  About the Author

  W. A. Fulkerson is the author of ten books, including Writing With Purpose: A Step-By-Step Guide to Producing Your Best Book. He works in film as a screenwriter, having written the award-winning documentary Save My Seoul with Jubilee Media. He teaches regularly at San Diego Writers, Ink in Point Loma, CA. Fulkerson is a voracious reader across genres, but J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Isaac Asimov, Michael Crichton, T. H. White, Pablo Neruda, and John Donne are particular favorites. In his free time, he enjoys coaching wrestling, training in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and studying languages. He lives in San Diego with his wife and son.