“Also,” he said, “you forgot this.” A beautiful boiled egg appeared in Aleksandras’s hand, wrapped in cloth. Andrius practically leaped for joy. He took the food and kissed Aleksandras on his whiskered cheek.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Shh,” Aleksandras whispered. He tilted his head up to listen for a moment. Hearing nothing, he patted Andrius on the shoulder. “Enjoy your lessons,” he said louder. He chuckled to himself. “Is that your water pitcher sloshing around? Why do you always carry it with you?”
“I get thirsty a lot. Thanks, Father.”
Aleksandras grunted in assent and made his way back to the house holding onto the rope with one hand and his cane with the other.
Andrius took a bite out of the warm egg and sighed in satisfaction. He skipped every few steps as he went on his way along Stone Road.
The village was divided into three main sections, each with its own road snaking out from the town center. Andrius lived on Twenty-fifth Stone, which is to say that he lived twenty-five roadstones from the town center. The roadstones were conveniently placed by the side of the road at regular intervals so a person walking along might keep track of his place. The other sections were Brick, where Andrius was currently headed, and Wood, which he had no real business going to, but he was a curious boy so he explored there whenever he got the chance. No one else in his age group seemed to much like exploring, so Andrius went alone. He did most things alone.
Andrius peeled away the last segment of shell and finished off his egg. He could feel strength coming into his bones again from the nourishment. He was uncommonly skinny, but he didn’t always notice that sort of thing about himself.
He was a bit old for skipping, but his father’s smuggled breakfast put a spring in his step and he continued to do it anyway, humming his song to himself, trying to fix the broken lyric. The end was good, but those few lines were terrible. He hated music.
A lark swooped across Stone Road in front of him and he started, then laughed.
“You’re brave,” he said after the bird, who was already flying away. It whistled like nothing had happened, and Andrius listened with delight. “That’s the sort of music I like,” he said aloud. “Not all this business with words and rhyme. The birds have it right. I’m awful with words.” He had a bad habit of speaking to himself.
The lark held his attention as he traveled on, passing Tenth Stone and Ninth Stone, until it flew across the sun. Andrius blinked and turned away. He stopped to raise his wooden pitcher to his mouth, and then he dipped a hand in the water and wiped his eyes. His cane remained tucked into the back of his pants. He was already carrying his pitcher and he did not want to have his hands full.
It was beautiful where he lived. The huts and barns were nothing spectacular though the roads were nice enough. What really captivated Andrius was the mountains, the thick forests, and the rushing stream that cut through Stone and Wood. The village was situated in the valley below a crown of mountains: tall, sheer, and majestic. They were as bare of trees as the road he walked on, and they never ceased to amaze him.
No one else seemed interested in the mountains. He would tell the others to listen, to stop and pay attention to their glorious song, but they only laughed and said they couldn’t hear it. They said no one else had Andrius’s “magic” ears. Only his father would humor him, sitting beside him, trying to hear the sound of the far-off mountains.
As Andrius approached Third Stone, there were more people on the road, so the going was slower. He thought they were overly cautious as they dragged their loads, buying and selling, planting and growing and going. Andrius dodged through some villagers carrying chickens and he stepped out of the path of an old nag. The road was clearer after that. He was halfway to Second Stone when he saw it, and his heart caught in his throat.
Gimdymo Namai: the most sacred site in all of the world.
None of the modest buildings were terribly interesting in the three sections of the village, but Gimdymo Namai was different. It was wonderful.
It was built from stone, for one thing—something that no other structure could claim. It was bigger, having a set of stairs, a second level, and supposedly rooms below it, beneath the ground. It was smooth all around, as if it had been carved from a single stone instead of masoned together. Its curved walls had large wooden shutters that could open or close to let in the air, which was pleasant during the summer and a vexation during the winter. Supposedly when their ancestors had built it, Zydrunas had decreed that all the windows would be made not of wood but of a smooth material that let in heat and kept out cold. Over the years, the first-floor windows must have been broken, but on the second floor, smaller windows were still present with this material. Andrius had heard that it was called “glass,” but he wasn’t sure.
Today, the large shutters were open. A delivery must have lasted through the night. Andrius wanted so badly to listen to what went on inside those smooth walls. He held his pitcher in front of him and ran as best as he could while carrying the heavy thing and ignoring the stick that poked his backside every time he took a step.
Why did his parents always want him to bring his cane? It was stupid.
Though, to be fair, Andrius seemed to be just about the only one who felt this way. It was just another of his many unpopular opinions.
“Push, Ona, push. Take your breaths regularly now. Push, Ona.”
A rich, soothing voice carried from inside the building as Andrius ran past First Stone. The delivery was still in progress! He could hardly contain his excitement. He’d never been around when a delivery was happening before. A woman’s tired scream rang out from the sacred site.
“That’s it, Ona. You’re almost there. Keep pushing.”
Andrius stopped running, and he stilled the sloshing liquid in his pitcher. He took a drink, then ran his eyes over the area. No one was paying attention to him. He tiptoed closer to the action until he was next to the wide-open window. He could hardly believe it.
“There we are. I have his head in my hands. One more good push, Ona, and we’re through.”
The woman screamed again. She was facing away from the window where Andrius stood. It smelled funny inside. The woman was drenched in sweat and there were bloody rags on the floor.
“Wow,” Andrius whispered. He set his pitcher on the window ledge and leaned in.
The man in front of the woman was none other than the Prophet himself. Of course it would be him—he was the one who brought life into the world, but Andrius was struck by his focus, his heroism, his dedication.
There was the sound of crying suddenly, but it wasn’t the mother. The Prophet stood up cradling a newborn infant in his arms.
“Can I hold him?”
There was no rejoicing yet. The Prophet kept his demeanor, acting decisively in the face of crisis.
“Ona,” he replied to her, “you know how many the disease has taken. We must give him the cure quickly. Solveiga,” he ordered the midwife, “tie off the cord.”
The baby was wailing loudly, squirming its tiny fingers and toes. Solveiga took him in her arms and set him on a table where she quickly and expertly tied off the cord.
Then, already having wiped his hands clean, the Prophet took a pitcher into his hands and began to pour its contents onto the child’s head. Solveiga prevented the viscous liquid from entering its mouth. It continued to scream.