Archive of Our Own ^beta

The welcome was frightening.  Was that the wrong word? Jonas wondered.  It did not seem to be the right word for this feeling.  After all, he had spent months on the long, cold journey, by bike and foot and finally by sled.  Now he was being welcomed into a village where there were lights, and warmth, and newchildren and the old living together.  The people brought him something warm to drink and offered to take Gabe from his numb arms.  He should not have felt frightened.

But he did.

It had been a lonely trip, with only Gabriel's voice and the threatening rumble of planes to keep him company.  Now the tangle of greetings in unfamiliar accents made him feel strange and stupid, even though the voices were filled with excitement, comfort, even gentleness.

"Welcome to Village!"

"What is your name?"

"What is his name?"

"Let me bring you something to drink."

"We'll assign you a living space."

"You look like you could use some food."

"I'll take the baby for you."

"You will no longer be hungry."

"When you are ready, you can tell us your coming story."

"We are honored to have you among us."

It was too much:  the heat, the light, the hands reaching out for him.  The chair they brought for him was soft; the food smelled so rich that his stomach revolted.  The only words he focused on were the baby, and he shook his head.  "No," he said, because he could not give up Gabe, but his exhaustion was closing in on him like a heavy blanket, and he could only thrust the newchild into the nearest pair of waiting arms before everything went dark.

* * *

He woke in a bed.  He could tell that it was a bed, although the coverings were slightly softer and thicker than those he had been used to.  They had a peculiar smell, too, as if they had not been stored in the neat packages that clean tunics and linens were normally delivered in.

Jonas turned to the side and blinked several times.  He could tell that he was in a dwelling, a large one.  There were windows, but the sunlight was so weak that a small lamp on the table by the bed flickered with something fascinating—something familiar—something he thought he remembered from one of the Giver's memories.  Signs, most without words, hung on the walls.  Everything in this dwelling was awash in color.  The first one he had learned, red, was the color of the covering on his pillow.

He turned to the other side and then sat up abruptly, pushing the coverings away.  Gabe was not in the room.

His head was still spinning, but he needed to find Gabriel.  Jonas stood up and hurried to the door, only to discover two things:  he was naked, except for a thin tunic that did not cover his back, and a woman carrying a glass of water was coming into the room just as he tried to exit.  "Good afternoon!" she said brightly, putting out a hand to steady his shoulder.  "I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology," Jonas replied automatically.

The woman looked at him for a moment, then smiled.  "Welcome.  I'm glad you're awake.  How are you feeling?"

Jonas considered for a moment.  "Tired," he replied.  "Disoriented.  Hungry.  And tired."  He flushed, realizing that he had already said that.  "I apologize for my lack of precision of language."

"It's no wonder," the woman said, turning him back toward the bed.  Jonas wanted to protest, both at her touch and his nakedness, but he truly was tired and disoriented, so he allowed her to guide him.  "I've brought you some water, and I will get you some food.  What would you like?"

It was Jonas' turn to study her.  She had curly dark hair and a wide face, still draped in a smile that was both patient and expectant.  She didn't seem to realize the source of his confusion.  "I'm not sure," he said at last.  "Morning meal?"

"It's midday," she said gently.  "I could bring you some soup, or some deer if you're able to eat it."

Jonas knew deer.  The Giver had shown him some in the memories, and then on the trip he and Gabe had seen many of them.  He had never considered trying to eat them; it had been all he could do to catch the fish.  But he knew what soup was.  "I would like soup.  Thank you," he said.

"One minute," the woman said, so efficiently that he almost felt as if he were back in the Annex being greeted by the Attendant.  But instead of going to the wall and using an intercom, the woman left the room and finally returned with a bowl of steaming soup, a spoon, and a piece of what smelled like bread but was oddly misshapen.

She moved the table closer to his bed so that she could place the food on it and sat down at the foot of the bed while he ate.  Jonas was uncomfortable with her nearness, but he was too hungry to care, and he did not wish to appear rude.  He took a bite of the strangely shaped food and was relieved to discover that it was indeed bread.  "Thank you," he said again.

"You're welcome," she said.  She waited until he had eaten a spoonful of the soup, and then said, "My name is Theda.  What's your name?"

"Jonas.  Where is Gabriel?"

"The baby?" Theda asked.  When he nodded, she explained, "He's being kept in another part of the Childhood Place, the rooms for young children.  Actually, Jonas, you should be in Boys' Lodge, but you were so exhausted the night you arrived, we thought it best to bring you right here.  How are you feeling?"

"Better," Jonas said, taking another spoonful of the soup, which was rich and delicious.  Then he realized how imprecise that was, and he corrected himself, "Much better than I was the night I arrived, thank you."

"You had a very long journey," Theda said.  "Thaddeus will be interested to hear about it when he gets here."

"Who is Thaddeus?"

"My brother.  He's on his way.  I sent a message to him while I was in the kitchen, telling him that you were awake."

Jonas was curious about Thaddeus, but his hunger was stronger.  He was done with the bowl of soup by the time the man came to the door, and Theda excused herself to get him more water.

The man looked much like Theda, which surprised Jonas.  It wasn't just their eyes, although they both had dark eyes.  Most people in Jonas' community had dark eyes, too.  No, it was other things—their hair, although Thaddeus' was shorter, and their faces, which had the same tone.  Jonas did not know the name for it, but he was sure it was a color he had seen before.

The man smiled as he came to Jonas's bedside.  He held out his hand, but dropped it to his side after Jonas simply stared at it for a few seconds.  "Welcome," he said.  "I am Thaddeus, the Leader of Village."

"Thank you.  My name is Jonas."

Thaddeus nodded.  "Theda told me.  How are you feeling, Jonas?"

"Tired," Jonas said again.  "And I want to see Gabe."

"We can arrange that, in a little bit," Thaddeus said.  "First I'd like to hear about how you came to Village.  Usually there is a telling on the night new ones are welcomed, but you seemed so exhausted when you arrived …"

Jonas waited—patiently, he thought—for Thaddeus to finish his thought, but he did not.  He waited another moment, and then, when he was sure that it would not be rude, he started to explain:  the community where he and Gabe had been born, the lives they had lived there, the secrets that he had finally understood, the reason they had fled.  When he got to that part, Thaddeus nodded.

"Yes," he said.  "I have heard of this in other communities.  Some of them have different names for it.  One man—he came here to escape execution, that was what they called it.  In other places, they simply refer to it as 'the way of life.' "

Jonas clutched the bed coverings as he thought about that.  The word execution sounded cold, almost sterile.  But the way of life seemed more frightening than released.  He wondered if the people in that community knew what "the way" was before they were faced with it, or if they had grown up in ignorance, as he had.  He wondered which was better.

He studied Thaddeus' dark eyes and unkempt hair as he thought about the other people in this village.  Perhaps he would meet others who had lived in such places, and he could ask them about their coming stories.  Thaddeus had looked unsurprised, even calm, throughout Jonas', but then he had probably heard much worse before.

Jonas glanced again at the wordless posters on the wall before he changed the subject to ask, "What month is it?"

"February."

February.  That meant that two months had passed since they had left the community.  Two months longer than Gabriel would have lived if they had stayed.  "Can I see Gabe now?" Jonas asked.

"Yes," Thaddeus said.  "I will have Theda bring him.  He's in another part of the Childhood Place now, and he can live there with other children his age.  We need to decide what living space to assign you, Jonas.  How old are you?"

"My Ceremony of Twelve was last December."

Thaddeus nodded again.  "If you're thirteen, you're old enough to live in Boys' Lodge with the other adolescent boys.  You would have company."

"No," Jonas said, in what he hoped was a gracious way.  "I need to stay with Gabe."

Thaddeus' brow knit.  "I'm sorry, Jonas.  Children and adolescents can't live together at the Childhood Place."

"Can we live in Boys' Lodge?"

Thaddeus shook his head.  "Gabe is too young."

"Can I be assigned my own dwelling?" Jonas suggested.

"We do have living spaces available," Thaddeus said.  "But will you be able to take care of yourself and Gabe?  Can you cook and clean?"

None of that was familiar to Jonas.  Meals had always arrived at the doorstep; Laborers took care of the dwellings.  He hesitated, then was forced to shake his head.  "No," he said, because to claim otherwise would be a lie.

Thaddeus studied him for a moment, then said, "I think I might have a solution.  There is a man who lives alone in Village.  He is blind, and although he doesn't need help to get around, he might be glad of the company.  Shall I ask if you and Gabe can live with him?"

Jonas knew about blindness, though he had never seen a blind person himself.  Blind or deaf people did not stay in the community; they were sent Elsewhere—released, he knew now.  He didn't like the idea of living with a stranger—he wanted Gabe, only Gabe—but he didn't know what else to do.  He no longer had the memories that the Giver had always depended on for his wisdom.  "Yes," he said finally.

Thaddeus was leaving the room to ask Theda to bring Gabe and send a message to the blind man before Jonas thought to ask, "What is his name?"

Thaddeus paused in the doorway.  "Christopher," he said.

* * *

The blind man was definitely blind.  Jonas had never seen a face like his, sketched over with old scars.  Jonas found himself staring, which was rude, and trying not to stare but staring anyway, which was even ruder.

The blind man laughed.  "It's all right, son," he said, and moved aside so that Jonas and Gabe could step into his dwelling.

Jonas set down a small crib, which the Childhood Place had sent along for Gabe, and pondered what the blind man meant.  What did all right mean?  Certainly all was not right for Gabriel, or Jonas.  Probably not for the blind man—Christopher—either.

When Jonas didn't reply, Christopher smiled.  "It's all right to look," he clarified.  "My face has looked like this for many years."

Jonas took off Gabe's dark jacket, which the Childhood Place had also provided for him, while he wondered how to reply.  "I apologize for staring," he said.  "But how did you know I was looking?  I thought you were blind."

"I am," Christopher said.  "But I could tell by your silence.  By the sound of your breath, with your mouth open.  By the shortness of your words when you tried to greet me."

Jonas had never realized that a blind person could have such a keen sense of hearing.  Did it always work that way?  Did a deaf person have an extraordinary sense of sight?  None of his schoolbooks had said anything about that.  He wondered if the Giver had ever shared a memory of deafness or blindness, but if he had, Jonas had shed it long ago.

He waited for Christopher to accept his apology, but the man merely said, "Let me show you the homeplace," and beckoned for Jonas and Gabe to follow him.  "Here is the kitchen, and next to it is a room for you and Gabe.  I hope you don't mind sharing."

Jonas glanced into the small, sparsely furnished room.  There was a chair for sitting, slightly more ornate than he was used to, and a bed for sleeping, much softer and brighter than the one he had had in his family's dwelling.  A large wooden trunk stood at the foot of the bed, and on the opposite wall was just enough space for Gabriel's crib.  The room was tiny, and it was better than anything Jonas could have hoped for.  This was better than a Childhood Place or a Boys' Lodge.  "No, sir," he said.  "We shared a room before."

Christopher nodded and showed him the rest of the dwelling—his room, an area with cushioned chairs, a fireplace.  When he was finished, Jonas thanked him and took Gabriel into the room off the kitchen to set up the crib.  He persuaded Gabe to lie down for a nap.  The trunk at the foot of the bed was empty, its lid propped open.  Inside it, he placed the clothes that Theda had sent along—socks, trousers, tunics.  He remembered that she had called the tunics shirts, instead.  The shirts were all different colors.  He knew all their names:  brown, black, and blue for himself; red, green, and yellow for Gabe.

With Gabe asleep, Jonas went back out into the dwelling and joined Christopher in the space called the kitchen.  He looked uncertainly at the instruments and foods laid out on the table.  "Can I assist you?" he asked.

"I'd appreciate that very much," Christopher said.  "I thought we'd have a stew for supper.  Do you like stew?"

"Yes," Jonas said, relieved to hear a familiar word.

"Good.  The stocktender brought me a nice piece of beef this morning.  Can you cut the beef into small chunks?"

Jonas looked again at the table.  He was able to easily identify a knife for cutting, the same type used at the evening meal.  He supposed that the pile of reddish-pink food was beef, since it was the only thing he could not identify.  But he wasn't sure how to cut it, or how big the chunks were supposed to be.  How small was small?  What shape was a chunk?

He didn't realize how long he'd been standing there until the blind man shuffled over to him.  "Would you like me to show you?"

"How—"  Jonas closed his mouth, remembering what Christopher had said about being able to hear him staring.

Christopher came to stand next to him at the table.  Deftly he moved aside a pile of vegetables and reached for the knife and the beef.  He seemed to know exactly where it was, exactly how far he had to reach past Jonas.  "You didn't reply.  And I could hear the sound of your silence."

"The sound of silence?"  That didn't make any sense to Jonas.  It seemed a very imprecise way to describe something, but then, what Christopher had done was imprecise also.

"Watch me."  Christopher arranged the beef on a wooden board, then began to make long, even cuts.  "As I said, you didn't reply.  You didn't move, so I could tell that you were still in the kitchen.  I could feel a little breeze as you moved your head back and forth.  And I remember the expressions on people's faces from long ago, when I could still see.  I could imagine that exact expression on your face."

"I understand.  Thank you," Jonas said, even though he really didn't.  He watched Christopher make another row of cuts, cubing the beef, and decided he was ready to try it himself.  He held out his hand, but of course Christopher didn't see him.  He cleared his throat, then said, "Thank you.  I can cut it now."  The older man willingly gave up the knife, and Jonas tried to imitate the long, smooth cuts as he said haltingly, "It seems like you're still able to see things—no, to sense things—even though you're blind."

"Of course," Christopher said.  "When I lost my sight, I had to come up with new ways of seeing.  Sometimes I think this is better, because I can see beyond what I used to see with just my eyes."

Christopher's words jolted Jonas, and he wondered if the "seeing beyond" that Christopher mentioned was the same quality that he had.  "I—" he began, then stopped, not sure how to share his history, the long story he had told Thaddeus only two days ago.

Christopher broke in.  "If you're finished with the meat, we'll light the fire and you can cook it in the black pan."

By now Jonas knew not to ask how Christopher had been able to tell; the blind man surely must have heard the slowness of his cuts, the scrapes of the knife on the wooden board, the soft sound as Jonas wiped his hands on his shirt.  He watched carefully as the man lit the fire, hoping that next time he would remember how to do it on his own, and chopped the onions according to Christopher's directions.  "Something you said," Jonas continued finally, once the beef had been cooked in the pan and added to a large pot along with the vegetables.  "You mentioned seeing beyond.  At my Ceremony of Twelve, that was one of the things the Chief Elder said I had.  Something I could do."

Christopher cocked his head to the side, looking a little like one of the birds Jonas and Gabe had seen on their trip.  "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure now."  Jonas looked down at his shirt, a blue one that Theda had said would go "so nicely" with his eyes.  "The Giver—my friend—he told me it meant I was beginning to see colors."

Christopher nodded.  If he was surprised, his weathered face didn't show it.  "And is that what you think it means?"

"Well—"  Jonas had to think.  "I don't know.  He gave me the colors, and I was able to see them more and more.  But now?"  He looked down at the meal they had just prepared together.  "You called the pan black.  Theda called my tunic blue.  You can all see the colors, can't you?"

"I can't," Christopher reminded him.  "But I know that that pan is black because I can feel what it's made of.  I know that that metal is always black.  And most other people, those with sight, can also see the colors.  They might choose brown trousers, or notice someone's green eyes, or pick a black dog over a white one."

"Then what I see isn't beyond, is it?" Jonas asked.  "The Chief Elder said it was something different.  Something special.  But here, everyone can see beyond."

Christopher was quiet for a moment as the stew began to bubble.  He reached for a long piece of metal that Jonas had seen propped nearby and spread the wood around inside the stove.  Then he said, "I know you told Thaddeus about your coming, Jonas.  Why don't you tell me what your life was like before you left your community?"

While he tried to think how to answer the question, Jonas watched the fire.  The flames were a dozen colors.  He could pick out red and yellow and pink and blue, but what was that one?  It was like the underbelly of the fish he'd killed, the first snowflakes that fell on the hill.  If he could truly see beyond, wouldn't he know how to describe that?

Christopher latched the oven door.  "Let's sit down," he said.

Jonas followed him to the cushioned chairs.  He tried to tell his story, but he had to start and stop several times before it came easily.  Christopher waited patiently, his face relaxed.  He did not look surprised at the difficulty Jonas was having.  Nor did he hurry him.  It was a relief not to have someone watching him as he tried to put his life into words.

When he was finished, Christopher leaned forward and put his hand on Jonas's.  Jonas was so exhausted that he forgot to be surprised by the rudeness of someone outside his family unit touching him, or at Christopher's unerring sense of where he was sitting.  "You did see beyond, Jonas.  You saw something that only you and your friend the Giver could.  But here, it's different.  Here the colors simply are, so you are like everybody else."

There was nothing particularly weighty about Christopher's words; he was only repeating what Jonas had tried so hard to articulate earlier.  But Jonas shivered a bit, nonetheless.

He had been told at his Ceremony of Twelve that he was different, separate.  Now, although he was separated from his parents and sister and Asher and Fiona, he was no longer different.  He fit in, the same way he had been taught to do for the first eleven years of his life.

He just wasn't sure yet what that meant.

* * *

Gabriel woke Jonas that night.  Groggily, Jonas rolled out of the bed and went to him.  He almost welcomed the newchild's cries.  Gabe had been in a separate room in the Childhood Place.  He had cried only a few times during their long and difficult journey.  For a second, as Jonas went to soothe him, it was as if they were both back in the community, together in Jonas' room.

Then he remembered.

He went to Gabe and put his hand over the bars of the crib, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles.  Automatically, he reached for a memory to share, and then he remembered this as well.  The search for Jonas and Gabriel was long over.  That meant that back in the community, the Giver would have made the announcement that Jonas had been lost—or perhaps the Speaker would have made the announcement, since everyone knew that he had left.  Which memories was the Giver helping with right now?  Which ones could Jonas be sharing with Gabe right now, if he hadn't left them behind?

But he'd had to.  There had been no choice.

Below him, Gabe sobbed as if he were in pain.  They both knew pain now—the pain of hunger, of cold.  Jonas tried to call up the memory that had carried them up the hill to the sled:  the memory of his parents and sister, of Asher and Fiona.  He was pleased to discover that it was as clear as when it had bathed him with warmth on the snowy hill.  He could share it again and again.

Jonas thought of the kindness they had received here in Village.  He thought of Theda's soup, Thaddeus' patience as he listened, this room that Christopher had provided for him and Gabe.  He thought of the colors that were still there in the dark:  the white of the coverings, the brown of Gabe's crib, the cream of the nightshirt he was wearing.

He wondered what memories Gabe would share with him, if he could.  Which ones had he kept in his curly little head?  Certainly Gabe, too, would have shed the Giver's memories that Jonas had shared with him: of boat rides and picnics, soft rainfall, sailing on a lake.  But even though dream-telling didn't begin until Three, newchildren must think and dream too.  What would Gabe remember of their flight, their trip, their welcome into Village?

"Christopher," Jonas whispered in the dark.  "Christopher has welcomed us, Gabe.  They all have."

Gabe's sobs quieted.  Jonas thought he might be going back to sleep; he could hear that, just like Christopher.  The even rhythm of Gabe's breathing, the rustle of the coverings as he shifted in the crib.

Jonas was just getting back into his bed when he heard the small voice pipe up.  "Kiss," Gabriel said.  "Kiss?"

Jonas smiled as he put his head down on the pillow.  "Yes," he agreed.  "Christopher."

* * *

Jonas soon discovered that although they could all see colors, there were still ways he was different from the other people in Village.  For one thing, they all had an assigned task or two, much as the people in his old community had.  Even Christopher, despite his blindness, walked through Village every day, speaking to everyone and noting the changes to the dwellings and fences and people and animals.  Children were expected to be in school.  Even newchildren Gabe's age went to the Childhood Place.  Adolescents went to the schoolhouse, which was run by a kindly balding man with a splotchy birthmark on his face.  But Jonas already knew much of the material in their schoolbooks, and the things he itched to learn—needed to learn, he realized—were things he could not get from a book.  He asked Christopher to show him how to chop wood, repair a shirt, build a fence.

Christopher was more than happy to teach him these things, especially since it meant that Jonas was now able to take over some of the tasks that had been difficult or even dangerous for Christopher—Jonas was particularly frightened (there it was again, the accurate word for his feelings) when Christopher brought out a long-handled axe.  But it was unsettling to know that he no longer had a special place, either here in Village or back in the community.

"It will take time," Christopher said one day when they were out fishing—Jonas discovered that it was much easier with a pole and a hook.  "You need to adjust to your life here before you start making any plans."

"But I feel—"  Jonas hesitated; it seemed to be harder and harder to find the right words for his feelings.  His language was becoming very imprecise.  "I feel inadequate," he said at last.  "I thought I knew what Assignment I would have.  That I would be the Receiver of Memory.  Now I'm not, and I don't know what to do."

"We all need time to discover what we are to do," Christopher said.  "And sometimes what we do changes.  I was once a hunter—a fine hunter, one of the best.  Then I lost my sight.  I could no longer hunt, but I can do other things."

It was true, Jonas decided.  Even in the community, sometimes Twelves applied for a change of assignment, though of course it went to a committee to study.  But some Assignments came with the promise of change.  Birthmothers, for example, became Laborers after their three births.

"You'll find something, Jonas.  Become something.  We all do," Christopher said.  "Your Chief Elder was right, you know.  You have many fine qualities.  You have good years ahead."

Compliments were not common in the community, for they drew attention to one's differences and created pride, even boastfulness.  Even after months here in Village, Jonas was still not certain how to respond to them.  "I accept your compliment," he said, which was the best response he'd devised.  "I hope you're correct."

Christopher leaned back against a tree, tipping his scarred face up to the sun.  It shone gently down on them both, exactly the same as it had in one of the first memories Jonas had experienced—one that he had no longer had, but could remember having.  "I've been thinking about your friend, the Giver," he said.

Jonas considered several possible responses.  "I have too," he said finally.

"You said that when you first met him, he asked you to call him The Giver."

"That's right."

"Why is that?"

"Because they told me I was the Receiver of Memory," Jonas reminded Christopher.  He felt curious, even a little impatient.  They had discussed this before.  "He gave me the memories, and I received them."

Christopher smiled.  "Here, as you know, memories are not that way.  We can and do share all of them.  That's what keeps them alive.  But all of us are Givers in other ways, Jonas.  What have you seen the people of Village do?"

Even though he wasn't in school, it felt like an examination.  Jonas scratched the back of his neck and tried to think how to respond.  "You gave me and Gabe your home," he said.  "You welcomed us."

"That's true."

"And Theda gives to the children at the Childhood Place.  She helps take care of them every day—she even stays some nights."

"Who else?"

"Thaddeus.  He is a leader for Village.  He listens to everyone; he gives his time and experience."

"Anyone else?"

"Moran, the teacher.  He offered to show me anything I needed to learn, anything you couldn't teach me."

Christopher nodded.  "The interesting thing about all of those people," he said thoughtfully, "is that they can give again and again.  Your Giver, you said that once he gave you a memory, he no longer had it, is that right?"

"Yes."

"But here—Moran can teach a dozen children, a hundred, and still have room in his soul to teach a hundred more.  Theda will always welcome new children to the Childhood Place.  And once you are grown, Jonas, and you move into your own homeplace, I can show Gabe all the things I've shown you.  I might show someone else one day.  And you, too, will find something to give one day."

Jonas thought again of the missing memories, the ones he had left behind on the long trip to Elsewhere, to here.  He wondered what it would be like to have gifts like these people in Village did.  To be able to give something that could be given again and again.  "I wonder how the Giver is," he confessed to Christopher.  "I worry about him."

"What do you think has happened in your old community, since you and Gabe left?"

Jonas shrugged, even though he knew Christopher couldn't see him.  "I don't know.  The Giver and I talked about it, of course.  We wanted him to be able to help the community with the memories the same way he helped me.  But nothing went the way we planned it.  I don't know if he did."

"I know you don't know.  But what do you imagine?"

"I can't imagine," Jonas said.  "I've never known anyone who left the community.  I don't know what happens if someone leaves."

Christopher pulled in his fishing line, checked the hook to find that a fish had taken the worm, and re-baited it before he spoke.

"Imagination," he said.  "It can be a beautiful thing.  You can think about what might happen, or what you'd like to happen, and sometimes it's comforting."

"But it's not real."

"It need not be real," Christopher said.  "In fact, you're right; it's not real.  That's the beautiful part.  It can be anything."

Imagination.  Jonas repeated the word to himself as he felt a tug on his line and began to pull on his fishing pole, the way Christopher had shown him.  He knew what imagination was, of course.  The comfort objects, for example, had always been described as imaginary creatures:  his bear, Lily's elephant, Gabriel's hippo.  But then, he remembered from the memories, elephants were real once.  Bears were real.  How could they be both imaginary and real?  How could something be imaginary in his community and real here in this Village?

Jonas did not realize that he had pulled his fishing line in all the way and was also waving an empty hook, letting it flip through the air.

Christopher reached over and steadied Jonas' shaking pole, then pushed the bucket of worms toward him.  "Let me tell you what I imagine, Jonas, and maybe you'll understand.

"I think of my daughter.  She'd be about your age, Jonas.  Her name is Kir.  Kira now."

Jonas forgot about the worm.  He forgot about the fishing and even the imagination and he stared at Christopher, glad again that the blind man could not see his rudeness.  "I didn't know you had a daughter, Christopher.  I thought you were a childless adult."

Christopher chuckled.  "I suppose I am, Jonas.  A childless adult.  It's a fitting phrase."

"Did you have a spouse, then?"  At their first meeting, Thaddeus had told Jonas that Christopher lived alone.  No one had ever mentioned a spouse or a child.

"Yes.  Her name is Katrina."

Jonas went back to baiting his hook, focusing on how much he disliked the slimy feel of the worm between his fingers.  He waited patiently for Christopher to continue.  He was willing to wait, because he knew that the blind man would finish his story in time.

"They do not live in Village," Christopher said, answering Jonas' first question.  "I lost them both many years ago, when I was brought here.  The place where I am from is not so far away, several days' walk, but you must go through Forest.  After I arrived here, blinded and ill, I was unable to go back.

"Katrina was expecting our child when I left.  I've never seen her."

"Excuse me," Jonas said politely, "but if you've never seen your child, how do you know her name?  How do you know it's a female?"

"I don't," Christopher said.  "But this is what I mean by imagination, Jonas.  Katrina and I talked about what it would be like to have a child.  We talked about the one-syllable name we would give a girl or a boy.  I like to think she's a girl, and that Katrina used one of the names we discussed.  I imagine that she is a talented threader, like her mother.  Or that she's brave, as I was."

"As you are," Jonas corrected.  Then he closed his mouth, realizing that he had not only interrupted, which was rude, but also given a compliment, which was unexpected.  "I apologize for my interruption," he said.

"Thank you," Christopher said.  "But there is no need to apologize.  It was a kind thing to say, Jonas."

"Thank you," Jonas said automatically as he considered Christopher's words.  He looked out at the river as he tried to voice his disagreement.  "You said that imagining your child makes you happy.  But doesn't it make you sad, too?  Knowing that she's not here, and that you might never see her?"

He was embarrassed when he realized he had used the word see, but Christopher didn't seem to notice.  "Sometimes it does, Jonas.  But it makes me more often happy than sad, and that's why I do it.  We all do it."

The idea that each person had this separate life—this imagination—startled Jonas.  For more than a year now, he had felt truly alone.  He and the Giver had been the only two with feelings and memories.  Now it struck him that in addition to the colors, everyone in Village had an imagination.  What did Moran imagine?  Thaddeus?  The stocktender, who personally brought Christopher his beef every few weeks?  The herbalist, who knew the rows and plants in her garden without even looking at them?  Most of the people in Village seemed so content that it had never occurred to Jonas that they might have their own personal happiness and sorrow.

He wondered if it would be rude to ask Christopher another question, but Christopher had never once chastised him for his rudeness.  "Do the others know about your child?" he asked.  "Your spouse?"

"Some do," Christopher said.  "When I first came here, I told the story to those who brought me and cared for me and asked how I lost my sight.  But it's been many years.  I rarely talk to anyone about my wife and daughter.  Imagination is often a private thing."

Jonas busied himself with rearranging his fishing line as he felt a tug on the string.  He assembled the facts of Christopher's story in his mind.  Christopher's wife had been expecting a child when they were separated; that child was now Jonas' age.  That meant Christopher had not seen his wife in thirteen years.  It could have been a dozen years or more since he had talked to anyone in Village about them.

He thought of what Christopher had said about giving, and felt joy when he very slowly pulled in his fishing line to discover a translucent yellow fish with a silver belly at the end of it.

* * *

Jonas liked the nights in Village.  After supper, there was no set evening ritual, so he did many different things.  Sometimes he studied his schoolbooks; sometimes he played with Gabe.  Sometimes Christopher or Thaddeus asked him to deliver messages, which helped him learn the people's names and the paths between the dwellings in Village.  Sometimes he simply listened to Christopher's stories.  Sometimes he chose—daringly—to sit and do nothing, often outside despite the cool nights, taking in all the new things around him:  the breeze on his face, the sounds of animals in the distance, the smells from the dwellings as each family chose and prepared their own dishes.

But most of all, he liked music, and it truly was remarkable.

He had not paid much attention the first time Christopher took out his instrument.  Like the axe and the fire-poker and the paddles, it seemed to be just one more tool that was unfamiliar to him.  He thought fleetingly that Christopher might teach him to use it one day.  Even when he asked, "What is that?" and Christopher replied, "It is my instrument," the word had no special significance to Jonas.  He had seen many instruments in the community:  the discipline wand for newchildren, the trays on which Laborers delivered and picked up the meals, the mechanical devices used to measure the children's height and weight and hand-eye coordination.

The first time he heard the sounds, he stared—not at Christopher, but at the instrument that was making the strange noises.  Gabe, too, came from their room to listen.  Jonas knew now that the noises were called notes and tunes and melodies, but in the beginning he only knew that they were sounds he had never heard before.  He also knew, though he wasn't sure how—because he was quite sure it had never been part of a memory, and even if it had been, he no longer had it—that this was what the Giver called music.

When Christopher finished the first set of sounds, he lowered the instrument and smiled.  "You're staring again," he said to Jonas, without a hint of chastisement in his voice.

Jonas smiled too, and he knew that Christopher would hear that smile in his voice.  "Those sounds are beautiful," he said.  "What do you call them?"

"Music," Christopher said.  "It's a song.  An old air, from my old village.  It tells the story of a man who leaves his home, and dies of grief when he later learns that it has burned to the ground."

Jonas frowned.  The grim synopsis did not seem to fit with the lovely sounds.  "What do you mean, it tells?  Do the noises speak to you?"

"The music," Christopher corrected.  "No, not the notes, Jonas, but the words.  There are words that go with many of the old songs.  The words tell the story, and the music shares the feelings."

Jonas knew words and stories.  He knew feelings.  Now he knew music.  But he had never thought to put them all together, that such a thing would exist.  "Can you say the words?" he asked.

"Sing," Christopher explained.  "Words with music are called singing.  Shall I teach you?"

Singing was a wonderful thing that Christopher shared with him, better even than skinning a hare or roasting meat over a fire or digging a path through the snow.  His voice matched the notes coming from his instrument, and Jonas tried to do the same.  But the best part of all was that Gabe, too, learned the notes and the words.  He seemed to know how to put them all together, even without much help from Christopher.

Jonas thought of his years in the community and how the gift of seeing beyond had come to him.  He remembered the Giver's mention of hearing beyond, and how he started to hear something called music.  He listened to Gabe and knew now that Gabe also had a gift that was similar, but different too.  He wondered if, with his capacity for hearing beyond, the Giver could hear Gabe making music.

He thought of all the previous Receivers of Memory, back and back and back.  He wondered if any of them had first felt it like this:  the ability to speak beyond.

* * *

The air was a little warmer today, Jonas thought.  He stepped through the door of their dwelling and greeted Christopher.  "I think I imagined something," he said hopefully.  "It's warmer today.  What do you think?"

Christopher laughed.  "That's not your imagination, Jonas.  It means that spring is coming."

"Spring?"

"The season after winter.  You'll see in a few weeks, Jonas.  The days will grow longer.  The snow will melt.  The grass will grow again.  More and more baby animals will be birthed, and the farmers and gatherers will have to keep the hungry rabbits away from their crops."

Jonas knew all of those people now, and most of those words.  There were a few that were still unfamiliar to him, but Christopher sounded pleased, so he decided that he felt the same.  "I'm going to walk down by the river now," he said.  "Do you need me to bring you anything?  Or carry a message?"

"No, thank you," Christopher said.  "I'll see you for supper."

Jonas nodded and left the dwelling.  He passed the school and the gardens and the Childhood Place.  Gabe was there now, playing with some of the other children and Theda, who waved when Jonas walked by.  The boys were in circle pretending to be animals; Gabe was loudly declaring his intention to be a " 'po," although Jonas wasn't sure what sort of things he would actually do while pretending to be a hippo.  He smiled and sighed at the same time.  Gabe didn't seem to have any problem imagining things.

He made his way to the river and sat down near the place where they had fished several times, looking out over the water.  It glittered with sunshine and fish and the current.  He could see several boats out on the river—not the large supply boats he had been used to, but smaller fishing boats and sailboats that adolescent boys took out just for fun.

A river was one of the few things Village and the community had in common, and even they were different.  Jonas remembered riding his bicycle by the river with Asher and Fiona, or sometimes with Lily and Mother and Father.  That river had been gray like everything else, with no bright sunshine or fast-moving rapids.  He did not miss that, but he did miss his friends and his family unit.  He thought that if he were back in the community—if he had never run—he might be with Lily now, preparing for the evening meal, or with Fiona, bicycling home from their training together.

Jonas closed his eyes against the sunshine, and suddenly, he felt as if he were there. It was almost like experiencing one of the memories from the Giver, except that Jonas was sure he had never seen these memories before. He knew that Lily would be coming home from her volunteer hours at the Nurturing Center. He knew that Fiona would have celebrated a release today, and would be wondering whether that was really something to be celebrated. He knew that Asher would be eager to get to the Recreation Area for his work, and would be thinking about what Jonas had said about the game of war. He knew that his father would be worried about another newchild, and would hope to do better than he had done with Gabriel. He knew that his mother would be worried also—about him, Jonas—and about the depth of the rules he had broken. He knew that they still thought of him, that they cared as much as they knew how to. One day, he hoped, they might learn to feel; perhaps someday they would even learn to love.

And the Giver?  Jonas wanted to believe he was with whoever needed him, the Council of Elders, an adolescent rapidly approaching the Ceremony of Twelve, perhaps even the little future Receiver, who must be a Seven now.  He could picture the Giver in the Annex with his books, his music, and his memories, no longer locked up inside of him but available to all the people, so they could share the burden and the hope.

He opened his eyes and looked out over the river again.  They made him happy, the things he had pictured.  He had no way of knowing if that was what was really happening right now in the community, but in the end, that was all right.  That wasn't what mattered.

Jonas stood up and headed back toward Christopher and Gabe and their homeplace.