For Whom the Sun Sings Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR

  FOR WHOM

  THE SUN SINGS

  “For Whom the Sun Sings presents a unique perspective on the world with an unexpected twist. One of the best stories I’ve read all year!”

  —Morgan L. Busse, award-winning author of The Ravenwood Saga

  “For Whom the Sun Sings is a finely written and well-paced narrative that tells us that seeing the truth is one thing, but doing something about it is quite something else. A great read.”

  —David D. Esselstrom, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus, Dept. of English, Azusa Pacific University

  For Whom the Sun Sings

  Copyright © 2020 by W. A. Fulkerson

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA.

  www.enclavepublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-117-3 (printed hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-119-7 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-118-0 (ebook)

  Cover design by LoriAnn Weldon, www.Magpie-Designs.Weebly.com

  Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieSFoley.com

  For everyone who has ever felt like

  they are alone in knowing the truth.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Acclaim for For Whom the Sun Sings

  Half-Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Andrius started the day like he started every other day: he opened his eyes.

  It was still early and his song rang freshly inside his head. He remained under the woolen covers a moment and whispered the lyrics to himself.

  “Who can make a world for us?

  Zydrunas, Zydrunas

  The strongest heart he turned to dust,

  Zydrunas, Zydrunas

  He made a place for us to be

  Fought back the disease—”

  Andrius stopped. That part didn’t rhyme exactly, and the rhythm wasn’t too good either. It hadn’t stuck out to him when he was making it up yesterday, but now it sounded wrong. He would have to fix it before he arrived at lessons. Andrius wasn’t very good at music. It seemed like he was the only one who struggled with it.

  Take-home assignments were not his strong suit.

  Andrius snuggled deeper into the warm, scratchy blankets. It was hard to hear this early in the day because the sun wasn’t singing yet. The cows, however, were singing. They lowed softly from across the barn, asking to be milked. He hoped Daiva wouldn’t hear them from the house.

  “Andrius!” a husky voice called out, making him wince. “Are you deaf?”

  He was out of the covers in an instant, trying not to topple the pile of hay that made up his bed.

  “The cows need to be milked and you’re sleeping in,” the same voice shrilled. “Lazy cad!”

  Of course she had heard the cows lowing. Father said that Daiva had ears as sharp as her tongue. Of course, even as Daiva chastised Andrius for lying in bed, he knew that doubtlessly she was doing the same, but Andrius didn’t think about that. Instead, blinking sleep from his eyes, he walked to the milking pail and took it in his hands. He took a sip of water from his wooden pitcher, then he picked up the milking stool and made his way to the cows.

  Teats felt uncomfortable in his hands. He hated milking. He hoped the sun would sing soon so that he could at least hear.

  “Andrius? Is that you?”

  Andrius smiled as he entered the house, looking for something to eat. There was a plate on the table with five boiled eggs and a pile of bacon on top of a bowl of swelled grain.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Have you finished your chores?”

  Andrius reached into his pockets and delicately placed each egg he withdrew into the basket hanging on the wall. The chickens were laying well recently. Spring was good for eggs.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good, good. You’re a good boy, Andrius.”

  His father took a bite of one of the eggs on his own plate, which was more reasonably portioned: two eggs, one piece of bacon, and a spoonful of grain. He was a thin man and his wispy hair betrayed his age.

  Andrius kissed his whiskery cheek and sat down next to him, stomach growling.

  Suddenly the door slammed and Andrius jolted, dropping a piece of bacon.

  “Andrius!”

  The shrill sound took the slouch right out of him. He turned his head toward Daiva.

  “Hello, dear,” his father greeted her gently.

  “Aleksandras, is your name Andrius? Am I speaking to you?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Then keep your ‘dears’ to yourself.” Daiva slammed a meaty hand on the table and slid it to the teeming plates in front of Andrius. She pushed them away. “How many eggs did you collect today, Andrius?”

  “Seven.”

  “Liar.”

  “You can check. They’re in the basket.”

  Daiva frowned, then lumbered her way over to the wall. She had ratty hair that she rarely bothered to brush and speckles on her arms just like the eggs. She was much younger than her husband, but that did not make her pleasant. She had a quick temper and she never let anyone touch her. Hugs were out of the question, not that Andrius particularly wanted to hug her.

  “And I know you aren’t sitting in my seat,” she said as she touched the fresh eggs in the basket, counting them.

  There were only two stools, so of course he was in her seat. He stood up.

  “Let the boy have a seat,” Aleksandras said. “He’s been on his feet all morning.”

  “And I haven’t?” Daiva challenged as she counted the freshly collected eggs once more. “Certainly, put the boy in a seat but let your darling wife who slaves away all day long stand on her feet. Yes, I understand your point, Aleksandras.”

  His father leaned over. “You better stand up, Andrius,” he said in an undertone. Andrius was standing already.

  The floor shook as Daiva lumbered over to the table, felt for her seat, then collapsed into it. She was breathing from her mouth like she usually did. Andrius wasn’t overly fond of the noise, but he stayed quiet. Daiva reached forward and pulled the mountain of eggs, bacon, and grain toward her and she began to eat.

  She was a loud chewer, not bothering to close her mouth much of the time. Andrius’s stomach grumbled.

  “Are you still standing there?” Daiva asked halfway through her fourth egg. “Go to your lessons.”

  “I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”

  “You’re doing a poor job with the chickens.”

  “But you just counted the eggs! There were seven this morning and six yesterday.”

  “You’re flustering
them when you collect. That will make them lay less often, so I’m making up for it by saving eggs this morning. Now go to your lessons.”

  Andrius’s shoulders slumped. This was so unfair. He grumbled inwardly along with his stomach as he picked up his water pitcher and walked out the door.

  He muttered to himself once he was far enough away that no one would hear him. “I need to eat something.”

  The door clamored shut and he turned around. His father was approaching, bumbling along as fast as he was able.

  “Andrius!” he called. “Andrius, wait a moment!”

  The old man caught up to him and let go of the rope that led from the main road to where they lived on Twenty-fifth Stone.

  “Andrius,” he said again.

  “Yes, Father?”

  Aleksandras held out a hand with two long, narrow sticks.

  “You forgot your cane.”

  “Thanks, Papa.”

  Andrius took the walking stick and Aleksandras tussled his hair.

  “Did you finish your song for your lessons today?”

  “Not yet. I have something but it isn’t right. I’ll finish it as I walk.”

  His father, bent over, nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, yes you will. You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it out.” He smiled. “How are your magic ears? Ready for tonight?”

  Andrius stood his four-and-a-half-foot body a little straighter.

  “They’re sharp as ever.”

  “Herkus says he has a set of stones so smooth he’ll finally crack your winning streak.

  “The only thing he will hear crack is his heart when he realizes how much he has lost to us.”

  They laughed together then. The sun was now singing loudly overhead. He could feel its rays on his skin.

  “That’s my Andrius. You’re a smart boy. Do well at lessons. You’re always forgetting your cane.”

  Andrius held the stick in front of his face. He didn’t know what the big deal was.

  Aleksandras lowered his voice and reached into his pocket.

  “Also,” he said, “you forgot this.” A beautiful boiled egg appeared in Aleksandras’s hand, wrapped in cloth. Andrius practically leaped for joy. He took the food and kissed Aleksandras on his whiskered cheek.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Shh,” Aleksandras whispered. He tilted his head up to listen for a moment. Hearing nothing, he patted Andrius on the shoulder. “Enjoy your lessons,” he said louder. He chuckled to himself. “Is that your water pitcher sloshing around? Why do you always carry it with you?”

  “I get thirsty a lot. Thanks, Father.”

  Aleksandras grunted in assent and made his way back to the house holding onto the rope with one hand and his cane with the other.

  Andrius took a bite out of the warm egg and sighed in satisfaction. He skipped every few steps as he went on his way along Stone Road.

  The village was divided into three main sections, each with its own road snaking out from the town center. Andrius lived on Twenty-fifth Stone, which is to say that he lived twenty-five roadstones from the town center. The roadstones were conveniently placed by the side of the road at regular intervals so a person walking along might keep track of his place. The other sections were Brick, where Andrius was currently headed, and Wood, which he had no real business going to, but he was a curious boy so he explored there whenever he got the chance. No one else in his age group seemed to much like exploring, so Andrius went alone. He did most things alone.

  Andrius peeled away the last segment of shell and finished off his egg. He could feel strength coming into his bones again from the nourishment. He was uncommonly skinny, but he didn’t always notice that sort of thing about himself.

  He was a bit old for skipping, but his father’s smuggled breakfast put a spring in his step and he continued to do it anyway, humming his song to himself, trying to fix the broken lyric. The end was good, but those few lines were terrible. He hated music.

  A lark swooped across Stone Road in front of him and he started, then laughed.

  “You’re brave,” he said after the bird, who was already flying away. It whistled like nothing had happened, and Andrius listened with delight. “That’s the sort of music I like,” he said aloud. “Not all this business with words and rhyme. The birds have it right. I’m awful with words.” He had a bad habit of speaking to himself.

  The lark held his attention as he traveled on, passing Tenth Stone and Ninth Stone, until it flew across the sun. Andrius blinked and turned away. He stopped to raise his wooden pitcher to his mouth, and then he dipped a hand in the water and wiped his eyes. His cane remained tucked into the back of his pants. He was already carrying his pitcher and he did not want to have his hands full.

  It was beautiful where he lived. The huts and barns were nothing spectacular though the roads were nice enough. What really captivated Andrius was the mountains, the thick forests, and the rushing stream that cut through Stone and Wood. The village was situated in the valley below a crown of mountains: tall, sheer, and majestic. They were as bare of trees as the road he walked on, and they never ceased to amaze him.

  No one else seemed interested in the mountains. He would tell the others to listen, to stop and pay attention to their glorious song, but they only laughed and said they couldn’t hear it. They said no one else had Andrius’s “magic” ears. Only his father would humor him, sitting beside him, trying to hear the sound of the far-off mountains.

  As Andrius approached Third Stone, there were more people on the road, so the going was slower. He thought they were overly cautious as they dragged their loads, buying and selling, planting and growing and going. Andrius dodged through some villagers carrying chickens and he stepped out of the path of an old nag. The road was clearer after that. He was halfway to Second Stone when he saw it, and his heart caught in his throat.

  Gimdymo Namai: the most sacred site in all of the world.

  None of the modest buildings were terribly interesting in the three sections of the village, but Gimdymo Namai was different. It was wonderful.

  It was built from stone, for one thing—something that no other structure could claim. It was bigger, having a set of stairs, a second level, and supposedly rooms below it, beneath the ground. It was smooth all around, as if it had been carved from a single stone instead of masoned together. Its curved walls had large wooden shutters that could open or close to let in the air, which was pleasant during the summer and a vexation during the winter. Supposedly when their ancestors had built it, Zydrunas had decreed that all the windows would be made not of wood but of a smooth material that let in heat and kept out cold. Over the years, the first-floor windows must have been broken, but on the second floor, smaller windows were still present with this material. Andrius had heard that it was called “glass,” but he wasn’t sure.

  Today, the large shutters were open. A delivery must have lasted through the night. Andrius wanted so badly to listen to what went on inside those smooth walls. He held his pitcher in front of him and ran as best as he could while carrying the heavy thing and ignoring the stick that poked his backside every time he took a step.

  Why did his parents always want him to bring his cane? It was stupid.

  Though, to be fair, Andrius seemed to be just about the only one who felt this way. It was just another of his many unpopular opinions.

  “Push, Ona, push. Take your breaths regularly now. Push, Ona.”

  A rich, soothing voice carried from inside the building as Andrius ran past First Stone. The delivery was still in progress! He could hardly contain his excitement. He’d never been around when a delivery was happening before. A woman’s tired scream rang out from the sacred site.

  “That’s it, Ona. You’re almost there. Keep pushing.”

  Andrius stopped running, and he stilled the sloshing liquid in his pitcher. He took a drink, then ran his eyes over the area. No one was paying attention to him. He tiptoed closer to the action until he was next to the
wide-open window. He could hardly believe it.

  “There we are. I have his head in my hands. One more good push, Ona, and we’re through.”

  The woman screamed again. She was facing away from the window where Andrius stood. It smelled funny inside. The woman was drenched in sweat and there were bloody rags on the floor.

  “Wow,” Andrius whispered. He set his pitcher on the window ledge and leaned in.

  The man in front of the woman was none other than the Prophet himself. Of course it would be him—he was the one who brought life into the world, but Andrius was struck by his focus, his heroism, his dedication.

  There was the sound of crying suddenly, but it wasn’t the mother. The Prophet stood up cradling a newborn infant in his arms.

  “Can I hold him?”

  There was no rejoicing yet. The Prophet kept his demeanor, acting decisively in the face of crisis.

  “Ona,” he replied to her, “you know how many the disease has taken. We must give him the cure quickly. Solveiga,” he ordered the midwife, “tie off the cord.”

  The baby was wailing loudly, squirming its tiny fingers and toes. Solveiga took him in her arms and set him on a table where she quickly and expertly tied off the cord.

  Then, already having wiped his hands clean, the Prophet took a pitcher into his hands and began to pour its contents onto the child’s head. Solveiga prevented the viscous liquid from entering its mouth. It continued to scream.

  “Shh, baby,” Ona urged her newborn. “You won’t be like the lost ones. The medicine will save you in time.”

  “The eyes are full of mystery,” the Prophet declared as he smeared the cure across the baby’s brow and into the eyes, anointing them. “The disease attacks them, rendering the whole body unto death, but you will be spared, child, for you have received the cure.”

  The baby stopped crying then, and the Prophet smiled. Relief washed over the room.

  “Hold your child, Ona.”

  Forgetting that he wasn’t invited, Andrius leaned forward further and muttered to himself.

  “That was amazing!”

  “Andrius?”