Milda patted his arm, then took a step back and sat down.
“Do well, Andrius,” she shouted above the noise.
Andrius nodded, then turned and began making his way up to the knoll where he would stand and teach his lessons. He was nervous. He had learned so much. He had so much to tell.
The applause and cheers grew in intensity as he took his place. It was unending. Shouts of acclamations and “The Prophet’s own!” and “Foremost in the village!” and “Zydrunas’s pride!” carried continuously on the wind. His father Aleksandras was in the front row, bursting with joy as he meekly applauded. Andrius was relieved that he had made it through the winter.
He listened, unbelieving, to the applause, then held up a hand to stop it before realizing the uselessness of such a gesture. Instead, he raised his voice.
“Thank you!”
He was drowned out by the noise. He took a deep breath and tried again.
“Thank you! I’m here! I’m ready to start!”
This time he was heard, but his announcement only garnered more cheers. Someone near the front called out, “He isn’t afraid of the snow! He led me and a host of others through a blizzard. He saved our lives!”
Andrius tried repeatedly to calm the crowd, but it was several minutes before they were quiet enough for him to speak. By then, what little excitement he had turned to anxiousness.
With the crowd finally quiet and attentive, Andrius had no idea what to say.
“I wish the enlightenment of Zydrunas on you all,” he greeted them automatically.
The crowd parroted the traditional response back to him: “And on you as well, with all his wisdom.”
Andrius cleared his throat, then scratched his head. Innumerable blank eyes stared at him, many with eyes closed entirely.
“The Prophet, may he be exalted, told me to do something,” he began slowly. “There are books in Gimdymo Namai that you maybe have heard of. They’re called the books of emptiness, and I can read them.” The crowd was perplexed at first, then amazed. Andrius had to shout over the swell of applause before it died down. “They aren’t empty! The books aren’t empty.” The crowd, thankfully, was listening again. Andrius fixed his gaze on Daumantas, who was listening respectfully.
“They were made for people like me who can hear with their eyes. It’s called seeing.” Andrius held back tears as he quietly repeated, “They called it seeing.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “So when we talk about this new sense from now on, it has a name: sight. Seeing. It isn’t anything like hearing. That was just the best way I knew how to understand it before. Before the books.
“There’s a lot of things we got wrong. I was right about notes, sort of, but as best as I can tell, they used to be called colors! And their names were different. Skyhigh is blue. Sudaisy is yellow. When you look down at the grass”—he smiled weakly—“it’s green. They understood it all before, when these books were written. And now I can understand what they say.”
The crowd wasn’t sure how to react, but then Daumantas began clapping all alone. His response quickly spread across the crowd, followed by shouting and whistling.
The chant, “Open your eyes and look at things,” took over, and Andrius closed his. He shook his head.
“Stop it,” he whispered. Then, he raised his voice. “Please, listen to me!”
Unsure, the people let the chant die on their lips. Andrius fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other.
“I don’t think that’s going to work for you,” he said, biting his lip. “Before, when the books were written, before the disease, almost everyone could see. They took it for granted. Now I’m the only one, but it used to be backward. I’m learning a lot from these books, and I still have a long way to go—there are at least sixty books in there. But there’s one thing I can’t get around.” He paused, gathering his courage. “You’re all blind. It isn’t that you don’t understand some technique or that you don’t practice enough. Your eyes are broken. And . . . I don’t know if I can make that okay.”
Soft murmuring began stirring among the crowd. The tone was starting to change.
“I don’t know why this happened to us,” Andrius continued. “The disease starts by attacking the eyes, so maybe that’s why you’re all . . . blind. I don’t know why I’m not, and I can’t promise that I can teach you to see.”
The murmuring now turned to grumbling. Andrius’s cheeks flushed as he saw the disappointment and annoyance on the villagers’ faces. He was afraid.
“I will keep you informed as I learn more about it from these books. There’s one in particular that the Prophet wants me to read for him, but it’s hard because of how it was written. But I’ll figure it out.”
“Open your eyes and look at things!” a man shouted from deep in the crowd, standing and holding his fist in the air.
It was like a knife to Andrius’s heart. “I don’t think that’s going to help you.”
The grumbling resumed.
“You’re broken. Pretending you’re not won’t fix that.”
People stood up in disgust, beginning to leave. Andrius lost control of the meeting.
“I can’t promise you sight, but I’ll teach you everything I know!” he shouted, but the people were already on their feet milling around, grumbling, and tapping their canes to find the way back to the road.
Andrius watched them as a knot tied tightly inside of his stomach.
“They liked me,” he said to himself, sinking to the ground. “Only a few minutes ago, they liked me.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be back.”
Andrius sat up. There, standing in front of him and overflowing with pride, was the old man who had raised him as a son.
“Papa,” Andrius whispered.
Aleksandras felt his way forward, then knelt down before his son, placing an affectionate hand on the back of his neck and rustling his hair.
“Hello, my boy. You’re a special one, Andrius. I always said so. I always knew it.”
“Daiva never thought so.”
Aleksandras waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh, you know how she is. But I’m here, and I’m proud of you. Saying something unpopular is a good thing that I was never much good at. You’ll grow to be a fine man, my boy.” He hugged Andrius tightly. “A fine man.”
Andrius appreciated the embrace. He felt Aleksandras’s love, and it calmed his heart.
Aleksandras released him and stood up. “Come on, Andrius,” he said, holding up a basket. “Have lunch with me. It’s been a long, cold, Daiva-filled winter, and I want to catch up with my boy. The Prophet’s own!”
Andrius wiped his face. “Okay, Papa.”
“We’ll sit somewhere in the grass out there,” Aleksandras said, gesturing blindly. He lowered his voice. “And if I understand this ‘seeing’ thing correctly, I think you’d better guide us.”
He laughed then, an honest-to-goodness laugh, and Andrius had to chuckle too.
“Come along, Andrius,” the old man said, helping his son to his feet. “Let’s go talk.”
They went deeper into the meadow than anyone typically did, but Andrius felt his father’s trust, and so on they went, finally settling on the sunny side of a big tree’s roots. It was like an island in a sea of grass.
Aleksandras smacked his lips as he removed the cloth from the top of the basket and began handing Andrius boiled eggs, dried fruit, cheese, and bread.
“Mm, it smells good, doesn’t it, Andrius?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Andrius was already peeling the shell from an egg. Aleksandras took a bite of cheese and was quick to show his satisfaction.
“Mm! I got this just this morning from Bronius down the road. It certainly tastes good.”
Andrius was listening, but his eyes were on a yellow butterfly that flitted playfully through the air, riding on the breeze.
“It smells good and it tastes good,” Aleksandras pronounced. “So tell me: what does it look like?�
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The butterfly gracefully landed on a tall stalk of grass, opening and closing its wings.
“It looks good, Papa.”
“No, my boy. I know you for a poet. Describe it to me.” He held an egg in front of his face, and then slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. “Describe it to me.”
Andrius swallowed a bite, then coughed. “The shell is white. Milkoud is how I would say it before the books. You can feel its shape already. It has little brown dots all over. On the inside it’s mostly white, but the center is like hidden gold. It’s yellow. Sudaisy.”
“Yellow . . .” Aleksandras repeated. He rotated the egg in his fingers and blinked. “You know, I’m glad for what you said today. I was beginning to think I was doing it wrong.”
Andrius picked up his pitcher of water and took a drink. He would need to refill it soon.
“But there’s one thing you were wrong about, Andrius,” Aleksandras continued. “There is always a way. Maybe you can’t teach seeing, but I’m old enough to know that there isn’t a problem in the world without a solution. Maybe you have it, maybe you don’t, but nothing is”—he closed his eyes as he searched for the right words—“broken beyond repair. Somehow, somewhere everything can be fixed. Sometimes you just aren’t the one who can do it.”
Andrius thought about what Aleksandras was saying as the butterfly caught a gust of wind and lifted off again, flitting peacefully.
“What do you . . . see right now, Andrius?”
“I see a butterfly.”
“A butterfly! I’ve heard that word before. What is it?”
“It’s a bug that flies. Two big wings, two skinny things going out from his head.”
“Is it beautiful?”
“Yes,” Andrius said. “It is.”
Aleksandras lay back in the grass, content. “Does it have a color?”
“Papa, everything has a color.”
“Oh, I understand. I wasn’t sure.”
“It’s yellow.”
The old man smiled. “Yellow.”
He sat up and lifted his eyelids again, revealing white, useless eyes. The butterfly flitted right in front of his face, but he did not track the movement.
“I can almost see it.”
The butterfly floated back and landed on Aleksandras’s head, startling him. Andrius laughed.
“I guess almost isn’t quite good enough. Is he on my head?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, that’s okay. Hello, friend! Yellow butterfly, you are welcome to sit on me any time. What should we name him, Andrius?”
Andrius giggled, and for the first time in months he remembered that he was just a boy.
“You don’t name bugs, Papa.”
“No?” He feigned surprise. “Maybe not, but remember: this is my butterfly. Don’t confuse him with the others.”
“I don’t know if I’ve seen a yellow one before.”
“No? That’s because he’s mine. He’s special.” He laughed, and the butterfly flitted away. “Oh, there you go.”
Andrius looked at his father a while, then he picked himself up and sat next to where he lay.
“Maybe I will see in the next life, eh, my boy?”
“What do you mean?” Andrius was disturbed by the statement.
“Oh, you’re too young to remember.”
“No! No, Papa, in a book I read, the Iliad . . . What’s an Iliad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me either. But in this book the men say something about a next life with the gods above or in Hades to be punished.”
Aleksandras slowly sat up.
“Of that I don’t know. We really aren’t supposed to talk about it. When I was a boy, a woman in the village named Tiesa-Pranasas had a dream. Someone was talking to her in this dream, telling her that what we do in the village matters, because death isn’t the end. We go onto something else. Reward or punishment, I think, so maybe it’s like in your book. She said the dream-talker promised to tell her more.”
Andrius eagerly awaited the next part of the story, but Aleksandras had fallen silent.
“Well, what happened?”
“Valdas wasn’t Prophet then. He wasn’t even born yet. It was Azuolas, and he put up with it for a while. The idea spread through the village, but eventually he said that such discussion was not in keeping with the teachings of Zydrunas, so it had to be stopped.”
“Did it stop?”
“At first, no, but eventually, yes.”
“How?”
Aleksandras fished an egg out of the basket and began to peel it. “She wouldn’t stop telling her dreams, so they killed her.”
“They killed her?”
Aleksandras sighed heavily. “A severe peace must be kept severely,” he quoted.
“A severe peace must be kept severely,” Andrius repeated.
Aleksandras slapped him on the back. “But you! You are in good standing, my boy. The Prophet’s own! I’ll bet you’ll be Prophet someday with the way you’re going. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but there’s talk.”
Andrius perked up. “Really?”
“That’s the gossip, but you know how these things are. What I am sure about, however, is that the Prophet will be very pleased when he returns to Gimdymo Namai and you get to tell him that you can read the books of emptiness.”
Andrius plucked a blade of grass. The knot in his stomach untied a bit.
“There are still a lot of books to go. I’ve barely even started the one he wanted me to read.”
“Well, I think it’s your most important job, and I know you’ll do well. A mission from the Prophet, ha! That’s my boy, Andrius. I always knew you were special.”
Andrius blushed, unable to look at his father.
Aleksandras chuckled to himself and broke off a piece of bread to nosh as he lay back down in the grass. He let out a contented sigh.
“Now,” he said, “tell me about these ‘clouds.’”
It snowed again. Spring had sprung and then it reverted back to its hiding place beneath a blanket of white. The villagers took refuge in their homes, hoping for a close to the winter that wouldn’t end.
Andrius, confined to the reaches of Gimdymo Namai, sat near the middle of the sacred chamber in the basement, thinking. His heart hurt him from the inside, but he was not sure why. He was used to loneliness. This was a different sort of pain.
He looked up at the lights in the ceiling, singing over him, and determination filled his mind.
“I’ve read all the picture books and four text books,” Andrius said to himself, rising. “If I can’t read the big one now, I’ll never be able to.”
His wooden pitcher sloshed with water as he carried it toward the central stand, upon which rested the green book, the Book of Emptiness. The whole chamber seemed to point toward the spot, accenting it, lining up to it. It was the center and truest point of the secret chamber. Andrius was set on today being the day that he solved the mystery, once and for all. He knew that the writing was difficult to read, but the difference between today and his previous attempt was months of practice.
He was confident, an emotion with which he was not well acquainted.
Something caught his eye on his way to the book and he stopped, fixating on the orange and blue material. Andrius suspected now that it was called a “suitcase” or a “backpack.” It belonged to Daniel, who, it was now apparent, did not live in the basement. Andrius didn’t know where he was.
He felt a sudden temptation to rifle through Daniel’s belongings. Something inside the backpack might tell him more about the strange man who had carried it. It was almost as if the weirdly colored pack was calling to him.
Andrius shook himself and turned toward the book once again. He had a job to do.
He set his wooden pitcher on the floor, then stared at the cover of the Book of Emptiness. It was a large book, nearly the size of his chest. Andrius measured its length with his hands; it was two spans tall, one and a half wide. It was
easily the biggest book he had ever seen.
Andrius’s skin crawled suddenly and he took a deep breath. His chest tightened, almost as if he was doing something wrong, but he had been asked by the Prophet. The words of the Book of Emptiness had remained unknown to the village forever. It was time to learn from its wisdom.
Perhaps it would teach them how to see again. Andrius tensed at the thought.
He reached forward hesitantly and touched the bottom corner of the rough, green material. Another deep breath and the book was open.
Andrius squinted at the title page. The handwriting was messy, but he was better at reading now. It looked like the T’s were F’s, but Andrius was not fooled this time. He read aloud the great book’s title.
“The Record of All Things.”
It was cold, but Andrius was sweating. He could feel the weight of history on his shoulders. He felt like Achilles attacking the walls of Troy. He would do battle with the handwritten pages.
The next sheet was topped with an unfamiliar word and a number: “July 10.” Underneath, the book’s first entry began. It took a bit of squinting to separate the strong strokes of the letters, but it became clear to Andrius as he sounded out the words.
“I, Zydrunas—”
Andrius gasped and nearly fell over.
“It can’t be . . .”
He double-checked the letters. He triple-checked them. He wasn’t wrong.
“I, Zydrunas.”
Zydrunas, the great founder and philosopher and healer and warrior himself—he had written the Book of Emptiness! Andrius squealed then giggled with unsurpassable delight. This was greater than anything he had ever dared to dream for himself. The First Prophet had written a book, and Andrius would be the first to read it.
His imagination took him hostage. Perhaps the book would tell of his righteous war defending the world from the Hausen Confederacy, or it might tell how he invented the cure for the disease, or explanations of his teachings. It might explain everything.
Andrius’s eyes grew wide with understanding. The Book of Emptiness was written in letters for the eyes.
For Whom the Sun Sings Page 19