For Whom the Sun Sings Page 9

  The crowd wanted to hear an explanation, and so did the Prophet.

  Something rose up from deep inside of Andrius, or perhaps something came upon him from the outside. However it happened, he had a flash of understanding. Andrius knew.

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with magic ears, Prophet.”

  “Well, then how did you hear?”

  Andrius closed his eyes and thought hard. He was reaching for something in the void. It was right at the edge of his grasp.

  “It’s . . . a different kind of hearing. Like when the sun sings or the mountains call their names. I . . . It’s hard to describe.”

  The Prophet urged him on with such kindness and impartation, all in a word. “Try.”

  Andrius rubbed at his forehead. Then, it struck him.

  “You know if you put your hands over your ears you can’t hear? It is a different sort of hearing. When I put my hands over my eyes . . .” He did. “I can’t do the other kind of hearing. It’s another sense.”

  Not even the birds sang into the depths of the ensuing silence. They all waited, listening for what Andrius or the Prophet might say.

  But the Prophet didn’t say anything, and the stillness started to grate on Andrius. He had to speak. He had to do something. He was fairly sure that everyone else was missing out on something that he had. They were all . . . blind.

  The words tumbled out of him.

  “I’ll teach you how to learn this new hearing!”

  He had meant it to the Prophet, but he was so nervous that he nearly shouted it. The village erupted with applause, understanding that Andrius would instruct them all in the ways of this new sense.

  The Prophet smiled. “Very good, Andrius.” Then, to his attendants, “Bring me below.”

  There was a lot of tapping about with canes then, until they struck a hollow sound in the roof. A female attendant, the same one Andrius had seen assisting Ona’s delivery, pulled up on a ring in the floor and a flat trapdoor opened up. The medic went down first, and then others began helping the Prophet down into the hole.

  “Tadas,” the Prophet said to the Regent of Brick, “take over the proceedings. We must not neglect the Day of Remembrance.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Valdas.”

  “Petras,” he said to the Regent of Stone, “I heard you cry out. Are you injured?”

  “Not more than I can abide, Valdas.”

  “Come with me and have your wounds taken care of.”

  Andrius was reaching down to retrieve his fallen pitcher just as the Prophet’s head was about to disappear down the hidden stairway. The great man stopped to give one more order.

  “Bring the boy.”

  It felt like a dream stepping into Gimdymo Namai. The air tasted different as he breathed it in. The atmosphere was cool and pleasant. Shelves lined the walls stacked with what was likely every book in the village. Andrius could just picture the Prophet sitting in this upper room, running his deft fingers over the lines and lines of upraised dots that made up the words of the books. The Prophet was very wise. Andrius was willing to bet that he spent much of his time reading.

  The Prophet sat in an exquisite stuffed leather chair in the corner while several people attended to his leg. Solveiga, his assistant, was holding a towel against the bleeding, another was crushing a pile of herbs to make a poultice, and another had brought a wash basin and was shouting for water.

  Andrius looked down at the pitcher in his hand. A lot of it had spilled out when he dropped it to run at the Regent of Wood, but there was still a good amount left.

  Gingerly, he stepped through the frenzied group and tipped his pitcher into the basin, and water splashed into it.

  “Thank you,” the woman with the washbasin said hurriedly. “Who is that?”

  “Andrius,” he said weakly.

  The Prophet’s rich, golden voice spoke out, riding atop of every other less important sound.

  “He saves me again, Ilona,” the Prophet said. “Are you being taken care of, Petras?”

  The Regent of Stone was laid out on a plush leather sofa. Andrius had never seen such furniture. It looked amazingly comfortable.

  “Yes, Valdas. He’s sewing it now.”

  A woman came up the stairs from the lower level with a tray of chilled fruits from the spring house and salted meat. Jehena was in the corner biting her nails, but when another attendant came through with a skin of wine, she eagerly agreed to that rather than her fingers.

  “The rest of your wives have been called, Prophet,” someone said.

  The Prophet laughed, a great booming guffaw that let everyone know it was going to be all right.

  “Why? I don’t want all my wives in here now. Jehena is here, Ilona and Solveiga are here. Aren’t there enough people milling around?” He laughed again, and Andrius couldn’t help but chuckle along with him.

  There was a clatter of footsteps coming up the stairs, and another attendant entered to give his news.

  “The former Regent of Wood has been carried away. The fall killed him, and his knife was found near his body.”

  “Really? It feels like it’s still stuck in me,” the Prophet joked. Everyone laughed lightly, their spirits raised at the Prophet’s unflappability.

  It wasn’t so tense then. Andrius helped himself to a piece of salted meat as it went past. He did it without thinking, and he was horrified at himself when he looked at the morsel in his hand.

  No one yelled at him, however, or even noticed. No one seemed to be counting the pieces, like Daiva always did, and other people took food from the platter as well. Maybe it was all right.

  Andrius ate the meat and it was incredible. His lips smacked with salt and just a little bit of grease.

  “All right,” the Prophet declared, clapping his hands. “Thank you all very much for your attentiveness. Your village is honored by your diligence, but you are missing out on the ceremony! I know most of us, all of us, look forward to the Day of Remembrance the whole year. Go outside and join your age-peers. Remember Zydrunas and all that his legacy means to us. I require only one to attend to my wound. Solveiga, that is you, if you please.”

  Everyone thanked the Prophet profusely, including Andrius, who made his way toward the stairway. The Prophet held up a hand and stopped them.

  “As long as I am here, however, there is the matter of judgment. Attend to it that I may make a ruling now, those of you leaving. Andrius, stay.”

  Andrius’s heart sank, overwhelmed once more by the fears that were his constant companion.

  He had forgotten about the judgment in all of the excitement. A good deed does not wipe out a bad one, as the villagers were fond of saying, and a severe peace must be kept severely.

  His stomach tied in horrid knots. Whatever the Prophet decided, it was good. Andrius was not above the village’s wellbeing.

  “Prophet, should I stay as well or should I go?” came another voice. “I am sewing the Regent of Stone’s wound.”

  “You may stay,” he said benevolently. “Andrius, come and sit by me.”

  Andrius hung his head. His impending doom was finally drawing nearer. Resigned to his fate, he crossed the room to the padded stool next to the Prophet’s grandiose chair. He didn’t know that a stool could be padded, but it was very nice. Everything in this room was more luxurious than Andrius knew was possible.

  There were footsteps on the stairs again. Solveiga continued cleaning and drying the Prophet’s wound, a great gash across his thigh, but it must not have been as bad as it looked.

  “My child,” the Prophet began, leaning to his side. “Now I’m afraid you must experience judgment firsthand. I do not relish in it, but it is necessary. A severe peace must be kept severely, after all.”

  Andrius nodded. He was shaking and trying not to. “Yes, Exalted One.”

  “Very good. This is for the good of the village, you understand.”

  Andrius sighed, then agreed.

  “And Andrius?” the Prophet asked. �
��Call me something more familiar than ‘Exalted One.’”

  Andrius wrinkled his brow. It seemed like an odd occasion to bestow such an honor upon him. He didn’t have time to respond, however, for at that moment the footsteps from the stairwell grew louder such that they were about to be joined by the witnesses against him. His instructor would come into the room and tell the Prophet all of Andrius’s shortcomings and anti-communal behavior. He did not need to look up. He could hear just fine.

  “Who appears before me,” the Prophet asked as the newcomers entered the room, “to accuse this man of wrong?”

  “I do,” one of the men replied. Andrius looked up, confused. It wasn’t his instructor, it was Daumantas, Berena’s father. With him was Herkus, looking disgruntled and enraged.

  “And who stands accused?”

  “Wrongfully,” Herkus seethed. “I do.”

  The Prophet nodded wisely. Solveiga threaded a needle to sew his wound, and when she stuck him, he did not even flinch.

  “State your names.”

  “Daumantas.”

  “Herkus.”

  “And what is the complaint or the nature of the crime? Daumantas, do you stand as accuser on your own behalf or on the behalf of another?”

  Andrius could not take his eyes off of the needle dipping in and out of the Prophet’s fresh wound. He was jabbed again and again and again by the needle, but still he did nothing to acknowledge the pain. Across the room, the Regent of Stone, who was by all accounts a sturdy and fearless man, winced each time the needle went across his own wound. Andrius was in awe of the Prophet.

  And why was he not being interrogated instead of Herkus? Was his case to be heard next? Andrius did not know what to think.

  “I stand on behalf of another, Aleksandras, who was afraid to come to judgment because Herkus, after committing his crime against the village, threatened him.”

  “Lies,” Herkus spat. “Aleksandras’s guilty conscience kept him from calling me to judgment, as well as his striking lack of a backbone. I’ve done no wrong.”

  Andrius stiffened, but the Prophet continued the proceedings.

  “Daumantas, state your case.”

  “You are aware, Prophet, of a game called Akmenys that many in the village play. One player sets rocks upon the ground, the other tries to guess how many rocks he’s placed. It is often bet on.”

  The Prophet nodded.

  “I am aware.”

  “Herkus, in the presence of many witnesses at the Stone Gathering, bet two chickens against Aleksandras that he could best his son in the game. He lost. He then refused to pay his debt, threatened Aleksandras, and days have passed without remorse.”

  “Is this everything, Daumantas?”

  The broad-shouldered man thought for a moment. “Yes, this is all.”

  “Herkus, state your case.”

  “He cheated!” Herkus practically shouted. “I prepared for weeks—smoothed the most delicate rocks and gathered the most delicate sand. It was impossible to hear. I refused to pay the debt because the boy cheated. You heard him today; he has another sense.”

  Solveiga tightened the sutures across the Prophet’s leg and then tied off the thread and cut it. Andrius hardly noticed.

  “Thank you, Solveiga,” the Prophet said, dismissing her. “Daumantas, do any of the others agree that it was cheating?”

  “No, Prophet. No one.”

  “Is this true, Herkus?”

  “It doesn’t matter! The boy used another sense. He admits to cheating!”

  The Prophet fixed his robes over his exposed leg. He sat in thought for several moments, during which time the medic working on the Regent of Stone finished as well, and excused himself.

  “Hearing by ears or by eyes, as the boy claims, is hearing in either case and was not forbidden by the rules. Furthermore, you did not have any knowledge of this additional sense at the time of your refusal to settle your bets. Herkus, I judge you guilty. Daumantas, I judge you vindicated on behalf of Aleksandras.”

  Herkus gnashed his teeth, resisting the urge to growl. He submitted, however, because the Prophet’s word was good.

  “Thank you, Prophet,” Daumantas said.

  “Thank you, Prophet,” Herkus agreed, as he was required to do.

  “Now as to punishment,” the Prophet began. He smiled and opened his arms. “My life was saved today. I am filled with thankfulness and mercy.”

  It didn’t seem like the Prophet was finished speaking, but Herkus sighed with relief. “Thank you, Prophet. Your mercy is good, and I thank you.”

  The Prophet frowned.

  “I am sorry, Herkus, but I intend to spend my mercy and thankfulness elsewhere. My village has no room for an oath-breaker.” Herkus’s countenance fell sharply, dread descending upon him. “Petras, Daumantas, take Herkus behind Gimdymo Namai, so that his screams will not be heard. Snap his neck.”

  Herkus opened his eyes—something Andrius had never known him to do. They were like milk and clouds, and hollow, like his father’s.

  “What? I will pay the debt! This is not necessary; it was a misunderstanding! I will pay four chickens to Aleksandras. Wait!”

  He was already in Petras’s and Daumantas’s strong hands.

  “Petras,” the Prophet began, “Herkus reminded me—ensure that Aleksandras receives two of Herkus’s former chickens, plus one for the delay in payment. Ensure that Herkus’s wife and children are taken care of from the communal stores, and look for a widower for her to marry. Goodbye, Herkus,” the Prophet said in a softer tone. It was like love and acceptance met in the perfect timbre of his voice. “Thank you for your years of service to the village. Change your heart and go into oblivion unashamed.”

  Herkus began crying. It came in spurts and he sank to his knees. He did not bother to resist. His fate was a foregone conclusion.

  His sobbing echoed up into the room just like the footsteps that carried him away to his death. Andrius was left alone with the Prophet in a room full of exquisite furniture.

  Finally, the echoes died away.

  Andrius trembled. The rumors were true. Judgment from the Prophet was rare, fast, and harsh.

  “When—” Andrius’s voice caught in his throat. He coughed and tried to speak again, but he was too tight with fear.

  “What is it?” the Prophet asked, concerned. Andrius could feel his genuine care for him, but he could feel the Prophet’s care for Herkus too, and he was still dead. Viktoras would be left without a father.

  He realized that he would leave Aleksandras without a son.

  “Go on,” the Prophet crooned. “You can tell me.”

  “When do I receive my . . . judgment?” he asked. His leg was shaking and he couldn’t seem to make it stop.

  The Prophet laid a warm hand on Andrius’s back.

  “This is my judgment, Andrius.”

  “You know about my instructor?”

  “I know about him.”

  “You know about everything?”

  “I know everything, Andrius.”

  A chill went down his spine. “Oh.”

  “This is my judgment: you can ask me for whatever you wish, and it is yours.”

  Andrius clenched his eyes shut. He hated choosing his own punishment. You couldn’t pick something too lenient, or else they would choose something worse for you, but you couldn’t be too harsh on yourself either—because then they would do that—but Andrius wanted to live.

  “Maybe . . .” he stuttered. “Maybe just cut off one of my ears?”

  He held his breath. It was terrifying, but it was the most he could hope for. Perhaps the Prophet would be merciful.

  Instead, he laughed. “Andrius, you’re funny. You aren’t under judgment today.”

  Andrius looked up, shocked. “I’m not?”

  The Prophet’s smile was contagious.

  “Of course not! A man tried to kill me today and you stepped in. I want to reward you, not punish you.”

  Andrius was speechless. Relie
f washed over him, blooming through every stretch of his skin, and yet he was almost afraid to believe it.

  “Tell you what,” the Prophet suggested, “the offer stands, but for now why don’t we start with giving you a forum to teach the village this eye-hearing of yours. I will push back lessons and village work an hour so that whoever wants to attend may do so. Does this sound agreeable to you?”

  Andrius could not believe it. He nodded his head, then struggled to put his lips together long enough to form words.

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  “Thank you, Andrius. I’ll be keeping an ear out for you.”

  The rest of the Day of Remembrance passed without incident, except for the constant stream of praise that Andrius received whenever someone noticed that he was near. It was very strange, and he didn’t know what to think of it. Usually people just ignored him or, failing at that, scolded him or laughed at him. But suddenly he was some kind of hero.

  The ceremony went on. A representative from each age group climbed the ladder to the top of Gimdymo Namai and delivered their offering. Berena sang her crystalline song, piercing each villager to the heart. No one presented anything like the patterns Andrius spent so much time contemplating, but that wasn’t unusual. When it was all over, the feast was brought out and the old men swapped stories while the old women shook their heads. The younger crowd was more interested in the feast and its accompanying songs. All the while, whenever Andrius spoke up, which was not often, he was heartily patted on the back and praised.

  The day passed like a dream he had awoken from, only remembering details and pieces but not the whole and certainly not the meaning. He had spent hours meditating on this new conundrum, something he never really considered before. He was supposed to teach the village how to use their eyes to hear, but he hardly understood it himself.

  Daniel had said that people in his village could fix broken eyes, but Daniel was crazy. Andrius would have to teach them himself.

  Admittedly, he was still the slightest bit incredulous that he actually possessed a sense that others lacked. His “magic” ears were not magic at all.