For Whom the Sun Sings Page 2

A sudden panic gripped him. He ducked down and tried his best to be silent.

  “Andrius, is that you? What are you doing over there?”

  A precocious little girl Andrius’s age stopped a few feet away awaiting a response. Andrius’s eyes went up to his pitcher, then back to the girl.

  “Milda, stop saying my name!” he hissed. In one quick, deft motion, Andrius reached up and snatched his pitcher from the window’s ledge and bounded away as fast as he could manage.

  “Who’s there?” he heard the midwife call from the window, but Andrius wasn’t slowing down. His water sloshed around in his pitcher as he ran. His cane continued to scratch his backside.

  He hated the cane.

  The children of Andrius’s age group met for lessons at Eighteenth Brick, which was a long way from his home. It was at the end of Brick so that the children might not disturb the adults who were busy working for the village in the afternoon. Brick was the shortest of the three roads, and there were rumors of building a new house soon: Nineteenth Brick.

  But for the moment, Nineteenth Brick was nothing more than open sky, full of the sun’s song and the mountain’s rejoicing. There wasn’t even a brick yet.

  Milda finally caught up with Andrius at Sixteenth Brick. Children were already gathered around the spreading fir tree that served as their shelter for lessons. He could hear them clearly.

  “Andrius, I know you can hear me,” Milda challenged from behind.

  “I can,” he replied as she came up alongside. She walked straight and with confidence unusual for an eleven-year-old girl. Her hair was loose around her neck and onto her back.

  “You have those magic ears,” she said.

  “I don’t have magic ears. I just hear better than everybody else.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Always.”

  “What were you doing at Gimdymo Namai? We aren’t supposed to hang around there. It’s sacred.”

  “No one knew I was there until you opened your big mouth.”

  Milda scoffed.

  “You’re mean, Andrius. It’s no wonder why you don’t have any friends. And you’re the one who opened his big mouth, if you remember.”

  “I have friends,” Andrius returned defensively. Milda tapped her cane rhythmically, childishly in front of her as she walked. She smacked it against Seventeenth Brick as they passed it.

  “Oh yeah? Like who?”

  “People you don’t know about.”

  Milda giggled. “I don’t think so, Andrius. You don’t have any friends because you’re mean and you’re weird and you talk about weird things that nobody cares about. Maybe I’ll tell on you for creeping around Gimdymo Namai.”

  Andrius’s eyes went wide.

  “No! Don’t do that, please.”

  “We’ll see,” she sang.

  “Milda?” came a voice from up ahead. “Milda, come sit with us.”

  Milda obliged her friends and passed Andrius without so much as a goodbye. He kept his eyes on her as she went. He lifted his pitcher to his lips, taking a long drink of water. He felt sick to his stomach.

  The instructor clapped his hands ahead, underneath the fir tree.

  “Come along, children, come along. One at a time now, say your names so I know who’s here, and we’ll begin.”

  The grass crunched under Andrius’s bare feet as he reached the group of children speaking their names.

  “Berena.”

  “Viktoras.”

  “Ugna.”

  “Milda.”

  Andrius set his pitcher on the ground at the back of the group and removed his cane from the back of his pants. He sat down and said his name.

  “Andrius.”

  The other children piped up until all nine of them had spoken. No one was missing today, not that anyone usually was. That would have been unthinkable, unless they were really, really sick.

  The instructor, met with respectful silence, began.

  “In preparation for the Day of Remembrance, we have been spending more time than usual on the subject of our beloved founder’s life. We have discussed his childhood, early inspirations, his education, his training, and of course his philosophy, statesmanship, and his victory over the sudden onslaught of the disease. Today—” The instructor broke off and held up a hand. “Viktoras, I can hear you whispering. Perhaps you would like to teach lessons today.”

  Viktoras halted mid-whisper and bowed his head. “I apologize for misconduct, Teacher.”

  “Would you like to run our lessons today?”

  “No, Teacher.”

  “Then you must despise your village and disregard our First Prophet who founded it.”

  “No, Teacher. Zydrunas has my allegiance. I apologize.”

  The instructor frowned.

  “Then mind your tongue. As I was saying, today we will cover the First Prophet’s final days and death, but first, we will hear your songs. Is everyone prepared?”

  The instructor was met with enthusiastic agreement. The children loved music. Andrius’s response was less enthusiastic.

  “Viktoras, you seem so eager to speak today,” the instructor said as he took a seat. “Why don’t you begin?”

  “Thank you, Teacher,” Viktoras replied, and he stood up and sang for the class. His lyrics were clever and skillfully arranged, using rhymes that Andrius never would have thought of.

  Milda was next and her song was, of course, perfect. Much to his annoyance, Andrius knew that the melody would stick in his head. He would probably find himself humming it later.

  The best song was Berena’s. She had the high, clear-ringing voice of a summer sparrow. Her lyrics danced with the melody seamlessly, becoming one inseparable, emotional entity. She sang with passion, with delight, laughter, then pain and sorrow at a world that did not understand. The triumph and hope in her last lines reduced all of the girls and several of the boys to silent tears. The boys thought no one would notice their crying, but Andrius did. He noticed everything.

  This was the song he had to follow, being the only child left.

  As he stood and the students turned their ears toward him, he got lost in the sky. It captured his attention often, so vast and beautiful. It made him forget his worries, even if for only a moment.

  “Andrius,” the instructor began. “You do have a song, don’t you?”

  Andrius shook himself. “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Well do you plan to sing it any time soon?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Then please.”

  Andrius fidgeted. Why was it always that people only paid attention to him when he didn’t want them to? He wasn’t sure about what he had written.

  It was too late to worry over now, however. A bad song was better than none at all.

  “Who can make a world for us?

  Zydrunas, Zydrunas

  The strongest heart he turned to dust,

  Zydrunas, Zydrunas

  Friend to even bugs and bees

  He saved us from the disease—”

  Some of the kids were snickering.

  “Is that all you have?” the instructor asked, irked. “Six lines?”

  “No, Teacher.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you able to go on?”

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  The instructor waited. The snickering began again.

  “Friend to even bugs and bees,

  He saved us from the disease

  He taught us his philosophies

  To make us each revolutionaries—”

  He had to say “revolutionaries” really fast in order to fit it in time. Several children were openly laughing now. Andrius blushed and stopped singing.

  The instructor sighed.

  “Andrius, save the rest of your discordant song for later. You can sing it to me after lessons. I don’t find it necessary to waste any more of your peers’ time.”

  “Yes, Teacher.”
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  Andrius slinked back down, burning with embarrassment. He hated singing—the type of singing he had to do. He preferred the song of the ferns swaying in the wind and the sun’s cheerful lilt.

  The children continued to giggle. One of them hit him, but the instructor didn’t notice.

  “Alright, children, well done. Most of you. Don’t forget, if you are still searching for an offering to submit for the Day of Remembrance, you can always use this or another song you’ve composed for class. Especially you, Berena.”

  Andrius raised his drooping head long enough to catch Berena beaming.

  “Only one person is chosen to share their offering from each age group, as you know. I’ve been hearing of rumors spreading among you that two will be chosen this year. It isn’t true. It’s been this way forever and no one is changing it now, so be certain to pick your best work.”

  Some of the children seemed disappointed, but not Andrius. He wasn’t getting picked anyway. No one ever liked his offerings.

  “Now, we’ll set aside our writing lessons to finish up on the death of the First Prophet. It is a history you all know well, but it bears constant repeating, lest we forget to honor and revere our great founder Zydrunas.”

  Andrius let his eyes move in Berena’s direction again. She still had a smile stretched from one ear to the other.

  “Must be nice,” Andrius muttered.

  The instructor’s ears perked up and he stopped speaking.

  “Who was that? Who’s whispering?”

  The children were silent. The instructor scowled.

  “I thought we dealt with this already. This is not the introduction to lessons any longer, we were speaking of the First Prophet. Who was whispering?”

  “It was Andrius,” Milda tattled. She was sitting immediately to his left. Andrius jerked toward her.

  “And I’m the mean one?”

  “Oh Andrius, that’s surprising,” the instructor chastised. “Usually you have the good sense to at least stay quiet, which is the minimum that is required of you.”

  “I wish he had been quiet instead of singing his song!” one of the other kids interrupted, only to be met with a chorus of laughter. It was Viktoras.

  Andrius narrowed his eyes at him.

  “I agree with you,” the instructor sighed in frustration. He picked at his hair, growing agitated. “Let me put this in perspective for you, Andrius. You think that flapping your lips in the wind is all right when I am speaking of the First Prophet?”

  “No, Teacher.”

  “Was I speaking of the First Prophet?”

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  Andrius hated how the instructor made him answer simple questions. He didn’t mean to speak, it’s just that he had a bad habit of talking to himself. Andrius never succeeded in explaining this to his teacher, however. It was a frightening prospect, saying anything to his instructor other than “Yes, Teacher,” and “No, Teacher.” It probably would not have gone well anyway.

  “The disease wiped out the world, Andrius,” the instructor whispered. He was worked up now, shaking with passion. “Wiped it out!” he suddenly shouted. The children stopped snickering. Andrius let his head fall, ashamed, as the instructor quieted down, but continued speaking. “The whole planet—a place unimaginably bigger than anything you have ever experienced—was once full of people and now they’re dead. The disease killed all of them. Except for us. Because of Zydrunas. Echoing words of holiness and the Book of Emptiness! Child, don’t you think it deserves your respect and attention when someone speaks of Zydrunas?”

  A tear ran down Andrius’s cheek, and no one made a sound. He nodded, ashamed.

  “Well?”

  Andrius swiped at his tear and tried to level his voice to hide that he had cried.

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Particularly after such an embarrassing song. The least you could do is show respect by listening with those ‘magic’ ears of yours.”

  Andrius felt like he was two inches tall. His response was barely audible.

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  The instructor let the phrase hang in the air. Finally, he cleared his throat and went on teaching as before.

  Andrius pulled his knees into his chest and tried as hard as he could to keep from crying again.

  One of the old men was playing the pipes, and the bonfire popped and hissed every time Andrius dipped his fingers in his pitcher and flicked droplets of water into the flame. He smiled.

  “Papa, why does it do that?”

  His father was wrapped in a wool blanket, leaning close to the fire for warmth.

  “What’s that, Andrius?”

  “Why does the fire pop when I put water in it?”

  The old man raised his bushy eyebrows and leaned back. Some of the others around listened in, others ignored them, content to sip on their daily allotment of ale.

  “Hm,” Aleksandras said to himself. “That is a wonderful question.”

  Andrius kept his eyes on his father as he pondered, then he turned and listened to the four corners of the amphitheater.

  Each district had an amphitheater for gathering together, and Stone’s was the closest to Andrius’s house, though it wasn’t the biggest. Half of the village could fit in Wood’s amphitheater. Valdas, the Prophet, said that neighbors ought to spend time together at the end of the day, keeping one another company and warm.

  “A wonderful question,” Aleksandras repeated. “I’ve never heard anyone ask that before, Andrius. Why do you think it is?”

  “Fire is water’s enemy.” Andrius shrugged. “Maybe the fire is angry when the water mixes with it.”

  “Ha!” Aleksandras slapped his knee. “My boy is a poet! Did you hear that, Herkus? Is your boy a poet?”

  Andrius couldn’t keep back a bashful smile. He returned his eyes to his offering, which he had been working on before the fire distracted him.

  “Ha!” Aleksandras laughed again. “My boy is a bard! A poet! The fire is angry at the water because they’re enemies. Wonderful.”

  “Put a log in your mouth, Aleksandras, and spare us your sound. If your boy is a poet then mine is a mountain. Have you heard his songs?”

  “He’s a poet if he has a poet’s ear, and he does. Your boy is the one who falls over constantly, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Some of the men nearby chuckled. Andrius noticed Herkus’s cheeks flush, and it was not from the fire.

  “If only you had so much courage when speaking to your wife, Aleksandras.”

  Andrius had turned back to his work, but now he listened intently to await how his father would defend himself.

  “Well, Herkus, understand that—”

  “Do not play pretend that you have a spine when you are at the Stone Gathering, Aleksandras. We know your wife had it removed years ago. She probably made you do it yourself.”

  The men roared with laughter. Andrius’s stomach knotted. He wanted badly for his father to bite back, to leave Herkus with a retort that stopped their stupid laughter, but Aleksandras only pulled the blanket around his shoulders and stammered.

  “I didn’t mean that your son wasn’t a fine boy, Herkus. He’s bright and strong just like his father. That’s—that’s a good jest about my spine. Haha, you . . .”

  The other men scoffed at Aleksandras’s feckless response. Andrius set his offering to the side and pulled his knees to his chest.

  “Enough of this,” Herkus declared, still chuckling. He rose from his seat. “Is your boy ready to lose you all of your chickens in our wager?”

  The corner of Aleksandras’s lips curled into a smile.

  “He hasn’t lost yet.”

  “You’re crazy, Herkus!” A hairy, bearded man shouted nearby. There was a chorus of agreement.

  “Ah, ah!” Herkus raised his hands. “His magic ears fail him tonight.”

  Andrius kept his eyes on Herkus, who pulled a fist out of his pouch. He opened his hand to reveal nine rocks, smooth as the windows high up on Gimdym
o Namai.

  “I’ve polished these rocks for a fortnight. They are smoother than the skin of your backside when you were born.”

  The group of men booed and laughed at him.

  “Wait,” Herkus loudly interjected. “I have one more piece of strategy yet.”

  Andrius continued to follow Herkus with his eyes even as the man came around the fire and crouched just short of him. Herkus called to Adomas to serve as judge, and the young, beardless man came around the fire and stood between them. Everyone trusted Adomas, so he was a good choice. Herkus was confident.

  The older gentleman playing the pipes laid down his instrument, listening in.

  “River sand,” Herkus vaunted. He put his hand back into his pouch and began to scoop a pile of it onto the ground. “Maybe I should call it silt. It makes no sound when a man steps on it. Should a tiny rock be any different?”

  The men started to murmur, and a few began placing bets against the champion. Aleksandras’s confidence, however, was unwavering.

  “Do your worst, Herkus. My boy will hear.”

  Herkus smirked as he smoothed out the river silt, forming it into a rectangular bar.

  “No one can hear this. Now be quiet. I don’t want it said that the contest was unfair.”

  The amphitheater was instantly silent. Only the crackling fire scratched the surface of the crystalline silence.

  Herkus gently spread his fingers so as to hold the rocks apart from each other.

  “I’ll know if you try and cheat, boy,” Herkus muttered. “So take your defeat like a man.”

  “I think I’ll just take your chickens,” Andrius replied.

  The crowd of men hooted at the boy’s response. Harkus shouted them down, then shushed them, irritated.

  “We’re starting.”

  Then, silently and with extreme caution, Herkus took a stone with two fingers of his right hand and moved it from the palm of his left hand to the pile of sand. He breathed tentatively, reaching for another stone and gingerly pressing it into the sand. The fire continued to pop until he was done, and he leaned back in satisfaction.

  “How many stones?”

  The crowd waited with bated breath. Andrius had never lost at this game, but Herkus had done well. None of the men had heard the slightest noise when he set his stones into the sand.