It was too late to worry over now, however. A bad song was better than none at all.
“Who can make a world for us?
Zydrunas, Zydrunas
The strongest heart he turned to dust,
Zydrunas, Zydrunas
Friend to even bugs and bees
He saved us from the disease—”
Some of the kids were snickering.
“Is that all you have?” the instructor asked, irked. “Six lines?”
“No, Teacher.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you able to go on?”
“Yes, Teacher.”
The instructor waited. The snickering began again.
“Friend to even bugs and bees,
He saved us from the disease
He taught us his philosophies
To make us each revolutionaries—”
He had to say “revolutionaries” really fast in order to fit it in time. Several children were openly laughing now. Andrius blushed and stopped singing.
The instructor sighed.
“Andrius, save the rest of your discordant song for later. You can sing it to me after lessons. I don’t find it necessary to waste any more of your peers’ time.”
“Yes, Teacher.”
Andrius slinked back down, burning with embarrassment. He hated singing—the type of singing he had to do. He preferred the song of the ferns swaying in the wind and the sun’s cheerful lilt.
The children continued to giggle. One of them hit him, but the instructor didn’t notice.
“Alright, children, well done. Most of you. Don’t forget, if you are still searching for an offering to submit for the Day of Remembrance, you can always use this or another song you’ve composed for class. Especially you, Berena.”
Andrius raised his drooping head long enough to catch Berena beaming.
“Only one person is chosen to share their offering from each age group, as you know. I’ve been hearing of rumors spreading among you that two will be chosen this year. It isn’t true. It’s been this way forever and no one is changing it now, so be certain to pick your best work.”
Some of the children seemed disappointed, but not Andrius. He wasn’t getting picked anyway. No one ever liked his offerings.
“Now, we’ll set aside our writing lessons to finish up on the death of the First Prophet. It is a history you all know well, but it bears constant repeating, lest we forget to honor and revere our great founder Zydrunas.”
Andrius let his eyes move in Berena’s direction again. She still had a smile stretched from one ear to the other.
“Must be nice,” Andrius muttered.
The instructor’s ears perked up and he stopped speaking.
“Who was that? Who’s whispering?”
The children were silent. The instructor scowled.
“I thought we dealt with this already. This is not the introduction to lessons any longer, we were speaking of the First Prophet. Who was whispering?”
“It was Andrius,” Milda tattled. She was sitting immediately to his left. Andrius jerked toward her.
“And I’m the mean one?”
“Oh Andrius, that’s surprising,” the instructor chastised. “Usually you have the good sense to at least stay quiet, which is the minimum that is required of you.”
“I wish he had been quiet instead of singing his song!” one of the other kids interrupted, only to be met with a chorus of laughter. It was Viktoras.
Andrius narrowed his eyes at him.
“I agree with you,” the instructor sighed in frustration. He picked at his hair, growing agitated. “Let me put this in perspective for you, Andrius. You think that flapping your lips in the wind is all right when I am speaking of the First Prophet?”
“No, Teacher.”
“Was I speaking of the First Prophet?”
“Yes, Teacher.”
Andrius hated how the instructor made him answer simple questions. He didn’t mean to speak, it’s just that he had a bad habit of talking to himself. Andrius never succeeded in explaining this to his teacher, however. It was a frightening prospect, saying anything to his instructor other than “Yes, Teacher,” and “No, Teacher.” It probably would not have gone well anyway.
“The disease wiped out the world, Andrius,” the instructor whispered. He was worked up now, shaking with passion. “Wiped it out!” he suddenly shouted. The children stopped snickering. Andrius let his head fall, ashamed, as the instructor quieted down, but continued speaking. “The whole planet—a place unimaginably bigger than anything you have ever experienced—was once full of people and now they’re dead. The disease killed all of them. Except for us. Because of Zydrunas. Echoing words of holiness and the Book of Emptiness! Child, don’t you think it deserves your respect and attention when someone speaks of Zydrunas?”
A tear ran down Andrius’s cheek, and no one made a sound. He nodded, ashamed.
“Well?”
Andrius swiped at his tear and tried to level his voice to hide that he had cried.
“Yes, Teacher.”
“Particularly after such an embarrassing song. The least you could do is show respect by listening with those ‘magic’ ears of yours.”
Andrius felt like he was two inches tall. His response was barely audible.
“Yes, Teacher.”
The instructor let the phrase hang in the air. Finally, he cleared his throat and went on teaching as before.
Andrius pulled his knees into his chest and tried as hard as he could to keep from crying again.
One of the old men was playing the pipes, and the bonfire popped and hissed every time Andrius dipped his fingers in his pitcher and flicked droplets of water into the flame. He smiled.
“Papa, why does it do that?”
His father was wrapped in a wool blanket, leaning close to the fire for warmth.
“What’s that, Andrius?”
“Why does the fire pop when I put water in it?”
The old man raised his bushy eyebrows and leaned back. Some of the others around listened in, others ignored them, content to sip on their daily allotment of ale.
“Hm,” Aleksandras said to himself. “That is a wonderful question.”
Andrius kept his eyes on his father as he pondered, then he turned and listened to the four corners of the amphitheater.
Each district had an amphitheater for gathering together, and Stone’s was the closest to Andrius’s house, though it wasn’t the biggest. Half of the village could fit in Wood’s amphitheater. Valdas, the Prophet, said that neighbors ought to spend time together at the end of the day, keeping one another company and warm.
“A wonderful question,” Aleksandras repeated. “I’ve never heard anyone ask that before, Andrius. Why do you think it is?”
“Fire is water’s enemy.” Andrius shrugged. “Maybe the fire is angry when the water mixes with it.”
“Ha!” Aleksandras slapped his knee. “My boy is a poet! Did you hear that, Herkus? Is your boy a poet?”
Andrius couldn’t keep back a bashful smile. He returned his eyes to his offering, which he had been working on before the fire distracted him.
“Ha!” Aleksandras laughed again. “My boy is a bard! A poet! The fire is angry at the water because they’re enemies. Wonderful.”