For Whom the Sun Sings Page 8

  Something sharp caught Andrius’s attention from the top of Gimdymo Namai. A huge bronze gong swung on its ropes and rang out, low and powerful across the masses. Andrius squinted up at the figure beside the hanging cymbal, trying to discern his identity.

  Barrel-chested and bowlegged, he couldn’t be mistaken. It was the Regent of Stone. The Regent drew the mallet back and stuck the gong again and again, causing the milling crowds to break into a flurry of action.

  Everyone knew that it was time to get where they were supposed to be. The proceedings would begin in a matter of minutes.

  “Thirty-fives!” a gruff voice rang out amid the waves of people moving to their places.

  “Eight-year-olds!” a much higher voice called.

  “Fifty-threes!” came another.

  “Jokubas!” an old man called out as loud as his weak voice could manage. Andrius recognized him as he passed. It was Pilypas, and he was seventy-one years old. He didn’t need to call out his age because Jokubas was the only other person in his age group. There were a few people older than Pilypas, but none of them still had an age peer, and they stood alone. These were chosen to represent their age groups every year de facto.

  As far as Andrius could tell, Jokubas and Pilypas just switched off every year.

  “Jokubas!” he called again, hobbling around, both leaning on his cane and searching around with it.

  Andrius felt oddly sorry for him as he hobbled past. He didn’t know why.

  “I’m the one who’s going to die,” Andrius muttered to himself.

  “Andrius?”

  Andrius turned around. It was his instructor. His hands were on his hips, like Daiva when she got mad.

  Of course, his instructor was much slimmer than Daiva. It would take four of him to be Daiva.

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  “It’s almost time. Go up, go up!”

  Andrius put his hand on the two-story ladder that leaned against the sleek building, placed there for the day’s ceremonies so that the various representatives from each age group could ascend to the roof and deliver their offering on behalf of their age-peers.

  The ladder was made from long, thick branches, stripped down and lashed together with leather thongs.

  “I would think you would leap at the chance to climb this ladder, Andrius,” his instructor called over the noise of the crowd. “After the way you were so eager to scurry up a tree.” The instructor shuddered, and he was a human being for a moment, albeit an odd one to Andrius. “I can’t stand it, personally. It frightens me. I’ve had to climb up four times to represent my age-peers.” His bearing changed and he regained possession of himself. “It is an honor, of course.”

  Andrius put his foot on the first rung of the ladder and started up. A ladder wasn’t as interesting as climbing a tree.

  “Yes, Teacher,” he said.

  By the time Andrius reached the top of the building, which was surprisingly spacious and hard underfoot, the gong was sounding again. The Regent of Stone struck the bronze instrument only once.

  Andrius’s instructor followed him up, then quickly ushered him out of the way. The three Regents were on the roof with Andrius and his instructor, but no one else. Those picked to represent their age-peers would only ascend the ladder when it was their turn to present. There was no sign of the Prophet yet.

  In one collective motion, every right hand in the village went over its respective heart. With one voice, the village chanted.

  “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.”

  Andrius’s lips moved without thinking. He had said the pledge so many times that it was automatic.

  That was not what stirred him. The gathered crowd was interesting, but that wasn’t it either. Where was the Prophet?

  Andrius scanned back and forth, but he could not hear him. The crowd waited silently, patiently. There was not so much as a whisper.

  The moments between the first pledge and the impartation by the Prophet were sacred silence. No one would ever think to break it.

  Finally, there he was. The main doors of Gimdymo Namai burst open and the Prophet boldly strode forth. His flowing robes danced at his sides with each assured, self-possessed step that he took.

  Then he did a curious thing. Instead of climbing up the ladder and joining them on the roof, he waded out into the crowd, deeper and deeper among the people. It was an incredible gesture. The Prophet, though rightfully above, sometimes graced the villagers with his presence.

  Andrius almost spoke aloud, but he caught himself at the last moment. If his fate wasn’t sealed already, it would be if he broke the sacred silence.

  The Prophet moved further into the forest of people, who dipped their heads and stepped back as he passed. It was like a wedge had been driven into the formerly singular mass. The Prophet left a trail of open space behind him.

  He reached the thirteen-year-olds and then he spoke for the first time. His voice was like sun and honey, the smell of cedar and the roar of a hearth fire. It could just as soon lull a man to sleep as it could call him to action. It was strong, solid, and pure.

  It was with this voice that he spoke very simply.

  “The sacred silence is broken!”

  In accordance with tradition, the rest of the village placed their hands over their mouths, then removed them and spoke with one voice.

  “Its purpose accomplished, our memories fresh. Zydrunas is great! So is his Prophet who continues his vision.”

  Andrius couldn’t take his eyes away from the man. He was rapt.

  “Children,” the Prophet began, “what is your age group?”

  “Thirteen years, Prophet.”

  The Prophet nodded, then held out his hand.

  “Let the one called Jehena step forth.”

  The smaller group parted again, and a young girl with her smooth hair in a tight and complicated braid walked toward the Prophet, gently swaying her cane in front of her. Wood struck that strange substance called metal as Jehena’s cane came against the Prophet’s. She wore the biggest, most elated smile that Andrius had ever observed.

  The Prophet reached a hand around her back and kissed her, and then he led her back along the path through the crowd, toward Gimdymo Namai.

  Jehena bounced as she walked. Andrius realized that she was not much older than he himself was, and the Prophet had chosen her.

  It was a tremendous honor. Andrius had never seen a Day of Remembrance begin this way.

  The Prophet put Jehena up to the ladder first and he followed behind. As they climbed, Andrius’s heart filled with eager expectation.

  It didn’t make sense; he knew that on some level. The coming of the Prophet almost certainly meant Andrius’s doom, and yet . . . The man was so majestic. When he spoke, the whole village listened. When he sang, trees were said to weep. He was entrusted with the sacred Book of Emptiness, with continuing the visionary work of Zydrunas, and with administering the cure to every new child born in the village. In a very real way, he gave life to them all.

  Andrius couldn’t help but admire him. His fear was a separate issue entirely.

  As the Prophe
t pulled himself up the last rung and stepped over onto the roof, Andrius’s heart raced. It was the closest he had ever been to him.

  He wore an amiable smile, and yet it was paternal as well. His beard was perfect, like a field of wheat stalks in the summer. He had a strong chin, broad shoulders, and a lean build.

  He was the Prophet.

  Andrius looked toward the others on the roof, wondering what their response to the great man would be.

  The Regents of Stone and Brick seemed proud. They stood up straight as the Prophet passed and gave them his greeting. The Regent of Wood, a tall, wiry man who was younger than the other two, did not seem happy. He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers neurotically.

  “The Regent of Wood is Jehena’s father,” Andrius’s instructor whispered excitedly. “He must be so proud.”

  Reaching the fore, the Prophet raised his hand and spoke over the crowd, across generations and time itself.

  “I wish the enlightenment of Zydrunas upon you all,” he declared in his thick, buttery-rich tone.

  “Gladly do we receive it and live it with our lives,” the crowd responded.

  “Today is an important day: the greatest and gravest of our celebrations. Today, as with each day, we commit ourselves to the memory and the philosophy, the hardships, the triumphs, and the ultimate vision of the greatest man who ever lived. I speak of the honorable Zydrunas, in whose stead I speak. Do you remember?”

  The village recited the pledge again, and Andrius thought somewhere in the back of his mind that this was the third time he’d said it today. He was betting he’d break thirty by the day’s end.

  As he formed the words in unison with the others, Andrius could not help but turn toward the Regent of Wood. He seemed angry. He was breathing slowly but heavily, and he kept reaching down to his leg, then pulling his hand back.

  The village finished the pledge and the Prophet spoke over them.

  “Do you remember our founder, our First and Greatest?”

  “Yes!”

  “Have you brought tokens of offering: song, speech, poetry, and any other means of honoring him and passing truth to the village to come?”

  “We have brought it, each from his age.”

  “Very good,” the Prophet declared. “You have done well.”

  Andrius wondered why the Regent of Wood was acting so strangely. Everyone else seemed content, and soon, Andrius was drawn in by the Prophet’s charisma once more, listening intently. His own fate didn’t matter in this moment. For the good of the village, by the Prophet’s word.

  “My children,” the Prophet began once more, “I come to you today bearing good news. In honor of Zydrunas, I will add to my wives today. Tatjana, Solveiga, Vilte, Estera, Justina, and Ilona will be joined by Jehena!”

  The village applauded.

  “I have said it and it is good.”

  “The Prophet has said it,” they replied.

  Something sharp caught Andrius’s attention suddenly, like the gong had earlier. He turned toward the Regent of Wood.

  He had pulled a knife from his robe, and he was lunging for the Prophet.

  “He’s got a knife!” Andrius shouted at the top of his lungs, over the Prophet, over the crowd.

  The Regent of Wood had crossed the distance, grabbing the Prophet by the shoulder with his free hand.

  “She’s too young, you filth!” The Regent spat the words through gritted teeth as he reared back with his blade.

  Andrius did not know what happened and he did not even remember moving, but before he knew it, he was crashing headfirst into the Regent’s side, just as he stabbed at the Prophet.

  Being hit so unexpectedly took the tall man down, and his knife, instead of plunging into the heart, sliced across the Prophet’s leg.

  The Prophet cried out. It was like the sky had fallen. Confusion broke over the crowd below, and Andrius found himself on top of the Regent of Wood, very close to the roof’s edge. He tried to scramble back, but the enraged father clasped him by the shirt. Jehena was crying and stomping her feet.

  “Daddy? No, Daddy, this is good! It was supposed to be good!”

  The Regent of Wood restrained Andrius despite the boy’s best attempts at escape. His fingers closed around the knife again.

  “You fool!” the Regent of Wood hissed. “You’ve ruined me!”

  The blade would end him, no doubt. The man cradled Andrius’s head in a vise-like grip and his legs held Andrius’s body. He watched the approaching knife, helpless.

  There was tremendous pressure suddenly, as someone landed on him, also pinning the Regent of Wood’s arm to the ground. An arm peeled away Andrius’s attacker, and he squirmed away as the two men struggled, joined quickly by a third.

  The Regent of Stone had intervened—Andrius’s Regent. Andrius stumbled and fell onto his backside, astounded at the chaotic scene around him.

  The instructor had rushed over to the Prophet and was holding his own shirt onto the wound to stop the bleeding. Jehena, in full tears, was leaning over the roof’s edge and screaming for the medic, who was already on his way up the ladder.

  The Regent of Stone was a large man, perhaps only surpassed by Daumantas. Yet still the Regent of Wood managed to wriggle his arm free and draw his knife in a long scrape along the bigger man’s torso. The Regent of Wood rolled, jumped to his feet, and began swinging his knife wildly.

  “Where are you? Come on. Come on!”

  The Regents of Stone and Brick stood in front of him, waiting for the right moment. The Regent of Wood twirled around suddenly, and Andrius saw their chance.

  “Now!” Andrius cried. “Rush him now!”

  The Regents of Stone and Brick collided with their third counterpart at the same time, catching him from behind and much too close to the edge. They tumbled, but the Regent of Wood went farther, having been ahead of them. His screams were chilling in the brief moment that he went off the roof and hurtled to the ground. The Regent of Brick was too far out as well, but he caught the lip of the building as he fell and hung there by his fingertips.

  There was a dull thud, and the Regent of Wood didn’t scream anymore.

  Andrius ran over to the edge just as the Regent of Brick called out to the Regent of Stone, who reached out a bloodied arm and pulled him to safety.

  All Andrius could focus on was the mess on the ground. The man must have landed directly on his head, judging from the way he was crumpled over himself. His body was leaking.

  The Regent of Wood was dead.

  “Stop that,” the Prophet was saying. His voice was calming, even in the midst of chaos. “It isn’t so bad, just a slice across my leg. Now stop for just a moment.”

  There were several more people on the roof now. Panic and shock held every heart captive, including Andrius. Most people in the crowd had no idea what was happening.

  “Wait for just a moment,” the Prophet urged his attendants once again. He moved them away from his leg and amazingly he pulled himself up. “Silence,” he said. The village went silent.

  The Prophet gathered his thoughts and his breath, and the people waited anxiously. Andrius wanted to slink back to his corner, but he dared not to move for fear of the noise he would make.

  Blood dripped from the bottom of the Prophet’s robe, and it trickled down his leg. Andrius was sure that he was the bravest, toughest man who ever lived, second only to Zydrunas.

  “A great evil was tried today,” the Prophet began. “Betrayal from a trusted advisor and friend.” Surprisingly, the Prophet shook with the most dignified tears Andrius had ever seen. It was as if he didn’t cry for the pain or the hurt in his leg, he cried for humanity, for betrayal, and the worldly instinct in man that caused him to raise a weapon against his brother.

  The Prophet’s eyes dried as quickly as they had watered, and he inclined his head, speaking with authority.

  “Who was the boy who foresaw this, who heard the danger and intervened?”

  Andrius’s voice caught in his th
roat. Luckily he did not have to speak.

  “It was Andrius! Aleksandras and Daiva’s boy—his name is Andrius,” his instructor declared. “He’s my student for this year’s lessons. My name is Adomas, his is Andrius.”

  The Prophet nodded. When he spoke to Andrius, Andrius felt like everything and nothing all at once. It was sublime paralysis.

  “Andrius, my child, is this true? Where are you?”

  He cleared his throat with a purpose, trying to sound like the Prophet, but a timid eleven-year-old voice came out instead.

  “I’m here, Exalted One. My instructor is telling the truth.”

  “You heard him cry out, didn’t you?” the instructor added from behind. He was a funny spectacle, or would have been in another circumstance. He stood at attention behind the majestic Prophet. He was shirtless, having removed it to stop the Prophet’s wound from bleeding. The garment in his hand was covered with bloodstains now.

  A brief smile ran across the Prophet’s face, and Andrius wondered why.

  “Ah, Andrius. It isn’t surprising. I know all about you.”

  This was too much. How did he know all about Andrius? There were a lot of things he would rather the Prophet didn’t know, but that wasn’t how it worked.

  “You do?”

  The Prophet nodded. “How did you do it, Andrius? How did you hear him and know of the danger?”

  Andrius’s chest tightened and he thought of Daniel. The things he had said . . .

  “Magic ears!” someone shouted from the crowd. Another enthusiastically shouted the same, and soon the village was chanting his nickname.

  He heard the Prophet shout “gong,” and the Regent of Stone let go of his bleeding side to find the cymbal’s mallet and strike the bronze cymbal. The crowd grew quiet.

  The Prophet seemed genuinely interested. He took a step forward.

  “Is that how you knew, Andrius? You hear so well that you understand better than your peers? Magic ears . . .”

  For the first time, something about that phrase didn’t sound right to Andrius. It was true—sort of. And yet he felt like his hearing was not always so special. People heard things before he ever did all the time. But still, there was something special. He closed his eyes, then opened them.