Zydrunas could see.
Andrius returned to the page with renewed vigor, deciphering each word as quickly and carefully as possible. He thought of nothing else. It was time-consuming but rewarding. The first page amazed and taunted him:
I, Zydrunas, write these sacred words upon these pages of lethe. The covers are the banks of the River Styx, and forgetfulness flows between them. I wish I could drink of its waters, but I am not blessed with the gifts of the simple, the blindly ignorant, the blissfully stupid. I am Prometheus, punished eternally for my selfless gift to humanity. I die each day upon this mountain, but I am unable to pass away. Only pain exists for me now.
I write these words of my fading glory, on the eve of my descent. The Italians have taken Brussels, having long since traded sides. This does not surprise me. They were always only mindless soldiers of fortune, not to be depended on.
The Romanians are in retreat and have threatened to break their alliance—more importantly, the Russians have buckled and are beginning to fracture. The dream is at an end. My final flowers are wilting. Soon the Traditionalists will have prevailed in even the formerly strongest nations for the cause. My bedrock, my home, my precious mother Lithuania will fight until the end, but even they will fall. Vilnius is under siege. It cannot hold out much longer now.
Sudden relocation has brought me here, to this dark room recessed in the mountains with a small group of my most loyal adherents, but even they are unaware of our location for safety’s sake. Upon arrival, I had to shoot the navigators. Our position is the last hope for redemption. I, nine men, and their families—whom I insisted accompany them—resist alone in this outpost, planning and awaiting news.
I am in contact remotely with eighteen spies in Europe and fourteen spread abroad. Perhaps all hope is not yet lost. The Hausen Compact will be destroyed. It must be. I come to bring light—how dare they reject my reforms. Swift vengeance is coming. The Traditionalists cannot prevail. I shall overcome. I will sweep the world under the soles of my feet.
I am Zydrunas, and my name will echo into the ages.
Andrius let go of the sides of the book and took a sip of water, but he couldn’t stop reading for long.
August 30:
One spy remains; the others are silent. Perhaps they are dead, perhaps biding their time, but my heart tells me they have failed.
Vilnius has fallen to the enemy.
August 31:
My last man in the field, the sole surviving spy, is asking to join us. He is a German of mixed descent, predominantly Latin, I think, and his name is Paul Morales. I cannot fall prey to this ruse. They have captured him and turned his loyalties.
The Hausen filth shall not learn of my location. Still, he pleads that they will find him soon, they will kill him, he must come to us. I do not believe his weeping. He is a traitor to the glorious struggle. Utopia had been within reach, and now it is lost.
Even if his desperate pleas are sincere, his death is only fitting as a sacrifice of mourning. I mourn him. They say that I do not, but I mourn him. All of them.
September 3:
I wish paper could properly contain my laughter. I am told that the victorious Neanderthals—the Hausen Confederacy and their Traditionalists—have declared me a war criminal, as if the war was already finished! They compare me with the monsters of history.
With my mirth is sadness. It is a perverse and unjust world.
September 4:
The war is over. The Hausens used spy communication to reach me. Morales has been no doubt martyred for the cause. They seek to lure me with promises of clemency, as if clemency was the thing which I sought.
I reiterated my purpose. I seek not clemency but a new world order. I seek hegemony. I seek perfection. I seek the obliteration of my detractors and those who resisted my programs of social harmony.
They speak of their God and justice, and my stomach churns with revulsion. Their small minds will never understand.
Man is god. I am preeminent among men. I will destroy them.
I cut the lines before they could infect my men with their lies. Their promises taste like gravel in my mouth.
Clemency.
September 6:
I am in agony. My soul is tortured. Greatness is a curse. Brilliance, a cruel punishment.
September 7:
They look at me. I cannot leave my quarters, but that they look at me with their simple, ignorant eyes—and these, the best men in all the world.
The whole earth has been infected with a disease, and I alone am the cure. My ideas would save them, but foolishness reigns, and the cause has failed. My followers look on me pleading for direction.
I am irked by their beady, prying eyes.
September 25:
Our outpost has begun to function more like a country village than a military outpost.
September 28:
How can they forget? And these, the best men in all the world. Before they were faced with the greatest war of liberation and conquest in all of man’s storied history. Now, so soon after defeat, they are instead preoccupied with questions of crops and hunting and firewood collection.
The river that runs through this place is the River Styx, and I am in Hell.
October 19:
My weeks and hours of meditation and planning have come to fruition. I have declared myself, in scorn and mockery of the world’s idiotic, deistic superstitions, the First Prophet, and I’ve declared that another Prophet will come after me. Despite their weaknesses, these last nine men follow me without question, as do their families. They have seen what I am capable of and what caliber of being I am.
The world would not have me, though I am a builder of empire. The diseased world, the soul-sick fools, have spurned my brilliance, so I will build something here instead, secluded in these remote mountains. It will be glorious, crying out to the stars and moon and sky forever—but I will not build an empire. I will build a mausoleum.
I instructed Bronislovas and Titas to begin constructing huts. Our village will be divided into three sectors: the stony area, the wooded area, and the place where we may use the clay for bricks. Stanislovas, Valdemaras, and Nojus are building roads which will head here, to the headquarters, but really, the center of birthing for this enterprise. All roads lead to me.
The vision has settled in my mind, and I am reinvigorated with terrible and tremendous purpose.
November 1:
The work is finished. I no longer concern myself with the outside world now. They are dead to me—worse, they are diseased, and their sick minds have rejected my inspiration, a thing that will surely lead to their deaths. But this is not sufficient. As Hercules visited Tartarus and pulled himself out of its grip to once more return to the living, so I will defeat the forgetfulness of this place with a living memorial, an epitaph written in blood for the ages to read and lament.
Mourning is an art ill-lost. Ancient peoples once clothed themselves in sackcloth and ashes so that the rough fibers would give them rashes to remember the pain. The Egyptians shaved their eyebrows in mourning. Viking wives would sacrifice their lives in the immolation of the mythical ship-burnings, death itself called upon to seal the bands of mourning. We, as a planet, have forgotten these pagan rites in our insipidness. We must remember the greatness of the earth’s error.
The Greeks, as with many things, excelled in mourning, surpassing all others. Antigone went into exile for the sake of remembrance. Hecabe killed for the sake of her mourning. And Oediupus, when the sorrow of the world’s perversity and darkness overcame him, put out his eyes. In his blindness, he saw better than all of the gods collectively. Pain was his understanding. Mortification was his salvation.
Man has always left record of his deeds. Now in words, but before writing, scars recorded the past.
Who has suffered more greatly than I? The world was offered my gifts, my brilliance, and they could not see the vision. Their blindness will not be forgotten in the Stygian fields where I am now exil
ed. I shall do as Oedipus would have done, had he retained the poise necessary for such a revolutionary task.
The world will remember its blindness. May the Hausens be cursed forever for their backwardness.
Tonight, my great and terrible purpose will be accomplished among my followers who have never wavered. I have one more trial through which they must pass.
Andrius closed his eyes, then opened them. His eyes burned intensely, but he had to keep reading. A brown stain was smeared across the next page in places. Andrius puzzled over it a moment, then quickly returned to the text.
November 2:
I have done it.
November 3:
I am in pain, but records must be kept. It is the compulsion of man, and in this I am no exception.
Two nights ago, I accomplished my purpose. I assembled my nine and appointed three as overseers of our new colony. One for the region of Stone, one for Wood, and one for Brick. I then collected their belongings, all reminders of the old world order, and had them lock it all away here, in the room in which I write. Then, surrounded by our idolatries, our symbols of past oppressions, I explained what we must do.
The world was blind, and so we will be a people of blindness, punishing ourselves and our children with the revoking of that precious sense as a living memorial, requiem of a dream defeated.
As the nine men watched, gathered around the fire I had laid in this dark room, I must have smiled as I held my pair of scissors for all to see. Leadership leads by example, I told them. This was for our great losses and our unforgiveable sorrows, I told them. I showed no fear as I plunged the blades into my eye, opening and closing the twin knives again and again to ensure my blindness. Titas, Nojus, and Ramunas were sick on the floor, but I commanded them to rise. I pressed against my wound and held out my scissors, vowing to keep my right eye until all had done as I, so we could be certain that each had kept his vow.
They were not as zealous as I, but to their merit, each performed the deed in turn. Then, I sent them to their wives and children to complete the sacrifice, the forgotten rites of mourning.
Six of the children died, and two of the women. In all, a good rate of success for such grisly work.
My eye pains me. I will retire and return to this book soon. I do not relish the screams that are imprinted between my ears, but neither do I spurn them. The entire world should scream in such a way. My philosophy was rejected, wars fought to suppress and contain me.
Our blindness and our children’s and our children’s children’s blindness shall preserve this tragedy as it ought to be preserved. I will stroke the pain and stoke the bitterness. Oh, how I hate the Hausens with an inhuman rage!
My training in botany will serve us well for future generations of mourners who shall gather on days of remembrance to sing of my greatness and the folly of the world. There is a plant that grows in these hills, giant hogweed, that will provide me with a cure to the world’s failings. My people shall be a nation forever in darkness; I alone preserving sight unbeknownst to them in my right eye.
“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” These words are Prophetic now, surpassing the intention of their author.
All these words I inscribe and mark upon this paper of a book that will be honored and upheld as sacred forever. A thrill runs through me at the thought. Sight shall be forgotten, and this book shall be revered eternally by a people who cannot read it—a book of emptiness from a shadowed past.
I am man. I am Zydrunas, and I will rule this people forever, a one-eyed king in the land of the blind.
Andrius blinked. The writing ceased. He flipped a page, then another, and then another, frantically now. The rest of the book was blank. He had read the final entry.
Clouds blocked the sun. The air was lifeless and cold as Andrius trudged down Stone Road in the direction of the hill where he taught his seeing lessons.
He had skipped his age-group lessons today—an unthinkable thing, but he had done it three days in a row now. No consequence had yet revealed itself. He had skipped his teaching as well, until today. He was not sure if anyone would come, but he had to try.
He took a sip of water and muttered to himself. “I wouldn’t come.”
He had a bad habit of talking to himself aloud.
“Wider! Wider, Tomas. That’s it!”
Andrius lowered the pitcher from his lips and turned in the direction of the sound. It was Bronius, the baker, and a group of fifteen others seated in a circle on the damp ground. Their white, ghostly eyes were pried open with their hands.
“What do your eyes hear, Steponas?” Bronius demanded.
Andrius approached incredulously as Steponas smiled.
“My eyes hear the ground . . . and it is skyhigh.”
“Good,” Bronius nodded knowingly.
Another spoke up. “My eyes hear love in front of us. I am looking at the love . . . and its note is fuzzymum.”
“Good,” Bronius repeated. “Open your eyes and look at things!” he declared.
The others shouted back in unison. “Open your eyes and look at things!”
Andrius was nearly inside of their circle now, unable to speak for his disbelief.
“Good, men, good,” Bronius said, quieter. “It is only by ‘opening our eyes and looking at things’ that we may attain a new sense: the hearing of the eyes which saved our Prophet, and which our Prophet has.”
“Excuse me?” Andrius said, and sixteen pairs of ears perked up.
Tomas turned his head—the wrong way.
“The hill we meet on is farther down,” Andrius said.
It was silent. Andrius felt a knot forming in his stomach. “It’s Andrius. The Prophet’s own?”
“All of us belong to the Prophet, Andrius,” Bronius said.
“We know that your meeting is held down the road,” Tomas chimed in.
“Oh,” Andrius replied, looking down. He scratched his head, then examined the group. “Then what are you doing out here?”
“We started our own group, Andrius. Your teachings have begun to stray from the truth.”
“What do you mean? I’m the one who even told you about sight.”
Bronius held up a hand.
“Eye-hearing.”
“Sight!” Andrius insisted. “What do you mean I’ve ‘strayed from the truth’?”
“We liked the ‘open your eyes and look at things’ bit and the ‘get a new sense’ bit, but lately we don’t like what you’re saying, so we have our own group now.”
Andrius tried to speak, but he could only breathe faster and faster as he looked at the dead eyes around him.
“But you’re blind!” he finally shouted.
Steponas raised his finger. “See? That. That is part of what we don’t like. We don’t need you now.”
Bronius nodded solemnly. “We study the ancient art of eye-hearing on our own now. Each day we grow closer to a new sense. I am their guide.”
“It’s called seeing,” Andrius protested. “And how can you guide them if you’re blind?”
Bronius smiled and raised his arms haughtily.
“I have attained it. I can see.”
Andrius burned with anger. He saw a rock on the ground, picked it up, and tossed it at Bronius’s chest. The baker startled badly as the rock struck him, and he yelled in surprise, falling backward over his heels.
“Agh! What was that? What is happening? Help me up! Help me!”
Andrius took a step back. Each of Bronius’s fifteen acolytes scrambled to their feet and hunched over with arms outstretched, grasping and groping around the field for their “guide.” Mykolas found him at one point, but he first grabbed Bronius’s foot instead of his hand. After harsh correction, he grabbed his hand and began pulling him up when another bumped into them, knocking the trio over and sending them tumbling down a small hill.
“You’re all blind,” Andrius whispered, shaking his head. “It won’t work!” he shouted. “Come to my lessons. I’ll tell you
what I’ve learned.”
“Snow and blizzard take your lessons,” Bronius cursed. “We don’t need them. Be gone from our peaceful meeting, troublemaker.”
Andrius stood there a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away, onward toward his hill down the road. His stomach hurt and he felt like the most foolish person in the world, but he was also enraged.
“How could they be so . . . so stupid?” he muttered through gritted teeth. “And I taught them that. ‘Open your eyes and look at things . . .’ I didn’t know any better, but they should.”
When Andrius arrived at his teaching hill, there was a crowd, but it was much diminished. Fifty men, women, and children chatted as they sat patiently waiting for the lessons to start.
Fear began to jab at the edges of Andrius’s mind. He was afraid, and he was tired of feeling nervous all the time.
He saw Milda on the edge of the crowd and unconsciously made his way toward her. He could not enjoy her beauty in that moment. He was growing more and more afraid.
“Milda?” he said.
Milda quickly rose to her feet, turning her ears and not her eyes at Andrius. “Andrius! We didn’t know if you would come. Are you all right? Did the fever return?”
Andrius shook his head. “Nothing is like it seems, Milda.”
Her smile turned to a frown. “What?”
Andrius mumbled softly.
“What?” Milda asked louder. “Andrius, I can’t hear you when you speak so quiet.”
“I said can I have a hug?”
Andrius looked up at her, breathing hard, blinking through red and swollen eyes that she could not see.
She hesitated. “A hug?”
He nodded. “I need one. Before I go talk. I’m scared.”
Milda looked simply confused. She hesitated, then stiffly raised her arms. “Okay . . .”
Andrius rushed into the embrace and held her tightly. He was shaking.
“Andrius!” she chided sharply, embarrassed. “What are you doing?”
She pushed him away, and he wiped his nose, staring at the ground.
“Thank you,” he said.
“What in the—? Books of Emptiness, Andrius, why are you acting so weird? Andrius?”
For Whom the Sun Sings Page 20