Giver Trilogy 01 - The Giver Page 9

  Jonas glanced around at the astonishing array of volumes. From time to time, now, he could see their colors. With their hours together, his and The Giver’s, consumed by conversation and by the transmission of memories, Jonas had not yet opened any of the books. But he read the titles here and there, and knew that they contained all of the knowledge of centuries, and that one day they would belong to him.

  “So if I have a spouse, and maybe children, I will have to hide the books from them?”

  The Giver nodded. “I wasn’t permitted to share the books with my spouse, that’s correct. And there are other difficulties, too. You remember the rule that says the new Receiver can’t talk about his training?”

  Jonas nodded. Of course he remembered. It had turned out, by far, to be the most frustrating of the rules he was required to obey.

  “When you become the official Receiver, when we’re finished here, you’ll be given a whole new set of rules. Those are the rules that I obey. And it won’t surprise you that I am forbidden to talk about my work to anyone except the new Receiver. That’s you, of course.

  “So there will be a whole part of your life which you won’t be able to share with a family. It’s hard, Jonas. It was hard for me.

  “You do understand, don’t you, that this is my life? The memories?”

  Jonas nodded again, but he was puzzled. Didn’t life consist of the things you did each day? There wasn’t anything else, really. “I’ve seen you taking walks,” he said.

  The Giver sighed. “I walk. I eat at mealtime. And when I am called by the Committee of Elders, I appear before them, to give them counsel and advice.”

  “Do you advise them often?” Jonas was a little frightened at the thought that one day he would be the one to advise the ruling body.

  But The Giver said no. “Rarely. Only when they are faced with something that they have not experienced before. Then they call upon me to use the memories and advise them. But it very seldom happens. Sometimes I wish they’d ask for my wisdom more often—there are so many things I could tell them; things I wish they would change. But they don’t want change. Life here is so orderly, so predictable—so painless. It’s what they’ve chosen.”

  “I don’t know why they even need a Receiver, then, if they never call upon him,” Jonas commented.

  “They need me. And you,” The Giver said, but didn’t explain. “They were reminded of that ten years ago.”

  “What happened ten years ago?” Jonas asked. “Oh, I know. You tried to train a successor and it failed. Why? Why did that remind them?”

  The Giver smiled grimly. “When the new Receiver failed, the memories that she had received were released. They didn’t come back to me. They went…”

  He paused, and seemed to be struggling with the concept. “I don’t know, exactly. They went to the place where memories once existed before Receivers were created. Someplace out there—” He gestured vaguely with his arm. “And then the people had access to them. Apparently that’s the way it was, once. Everyone had access to memories.

  “It was chaos,” he said. “They really suffered for a while. Finally it subsided as the memories were assimilated. But it certainly made them aware of how they need a Receiver to contain all that pain. And knowledge.”

  “But you have to suffer like that all the time,” Jonas pointed out.

  The Giver nodded. “And you will. It’s my life. It will be yours.”

  Jonas thought about it, about what it would be like for him. “Along with walking and eating and—” He looked around the walls of books. “Reading? That’s it?”

  The Giver shook his head. “Those are simply the things that I do. My life is here.”

  “In this room?”

  The Giver shook his head. He put his hands to his own face, to his chest. “No. Here, in my being. Where the memories are.”

  “My Instructors in science and technology have taught us about how the brain works,” Jonas told him eagerly. “It’s full of electrical impulses. It’s like a computer. If you stimulate one part of the brain with an electrode, it—” He stopped talking. He could see an odd look on The Giver’s face.

  “They know nothing,” The Giver said bitterly.

  Jonas was shocked. Since the first day in the Annex room, they had together disregarded the rules about rudeness, and Jonas felt comfortable with that now. But this was different, and far beyond rude. This was a terrible accusation. What if someone had heard?

  He glanced quickly at the wall speaker, terrified that the Committee might be listening as they could at any time. But, as always during their sessions together, the switch had been turned to OFF.

  “Nothing?” Jonas whispered nervously. “But my instructors—”

  The Giver flicked his hand as if brushing something aside. “Oh, your instructors are well trained. They know their scientific facts. Everyone is well trained for his job.

  “It’s just that … without the memories it’s all meaningless. They gave that burden to me. And to the previous Receiver. And the one before him.”

  “And back and back and back,” Jonas said, knowing the phrase that always came.

  The Giver smiled, though his smile was oddly harsh. “That’s right. And next it will be you. A great honor.”

  “Yes, sir. They told me that at the Ceremony. The very highest honor.”

  Some afternoons The Giver sent him away without training. Jonas knew, on days when he arrived to find The Giver hunched over, rocking his body slightly back and forth, his face pale, that he would be sent away.

  “Go,” The Giver would tell him tensely. “I’m in pain today. Come back tomorrow.”

  On those days, worried and disappointed, Jonas would walk alone beside the river. The paths were empty of people except for the few Delivery Crews and Landscape Workers here and there. Small children were all at the Childcare Center after school, and the older ones busy with volunteer hours or training.

  By himself, he tested his own developing memory. He watched the landscape for glimpses of the green that he knew was embedded in the shrubbery; when it came flickering into his consciousness, he focused upon it, keeping it there, darkening it, holding it in his vision as long as possible until his head hurt and he let it fade away.

  He stared at the flat, colorless sky, bringing blue from it, and remembered sunshine until finally, for an instant, he could feel warmth.

  He stood at the foot of the bridge that spanned the river, the bridge that citizens were allowed to cross only on official business. Jonas had crossed it on school trips, visiting the outlying communities, and he knew that the land beyond the bridge was much the same, flat and well ordered, with fields for agriculture. The other communities he had seen on visits were essentially the same as his own, the only differences were slightly altered styles of dwellings, slightly different schedules in the schools.

  He wondered what lay in the far distance where he had never gone. The land didn’t end beyond those nearby communities. Were there hills Elsewhere? Were there vast wind-torn areas like the place he had seen in memory, the place where the elephant died?

  “Giver,” he asked one afternoon following a day when he had been sent away, “what causes you pain?”

  When The Giver was silent, Jonas continued. “The Chief Elder told me, at the beginning, that the receiving of memory causes terrible pain. And you described for me that the failure of the last new Receiver released painful memories to the community.

  “But I haven’t suffered, Giver. Not really.” Jonas smiled. “Oh, I remember the sunburn you gave me on the very first day. But that wasn’t so terrible. What is it that makes you suffer so much? If you gave some of it to me, maybe your pain would be less.”

  The Giver nodded. “Lie down,” he said. “It’s time, I suppose. I can’t shield you forever. You’ll have to take it all on eventually.

  “Let me think,” he went on, when Jonas was on the bed, waiting, a little fearful.

  “All right,” The Giver said after a m
oment, “I’ve decided. We’ll start with something familiar. Let’s go once again to a hill, and a sled.”

  He placed his hands on Jonas’s back.

  14

  It was much the same, this memory, though the hill seemed to be a different one, steeper, and the snow was not falling as thickly as it had before.

  It was colder, also, Jonas perceived. He could see, as he sat waiting at the top of the hill, that the snow beneath the sled was not thick and soft as it had been before, but hard, and coated with bluish ice.

  The sled moved forward, and Jonas grinned with delight, looking forward to the breathtaking slide down through the invigorating air.

  But the runners, this time, couldn’t slice through the frozen expanse as they had on the other, snow-cushioned hill. They skittered sideways and the sled gathered speed. Jonas pulled at the rope, trying to steer, but the steepness and speed took control from his hands and he was no longer enjoying the feeling of freedom but instead, terrified, was at the mercy of the wild acceleration downward over the ice.

  Sideways, spinning, the sled hit a bump in the hill and Jonas was jarred loose and thrown violently into the air. He fell with his leg twisted under him, and could hear the crack of bone. His face scraped along jagged edges of ice and when he came, at last, to a stop, he lay shocked and still, feeling nothing at first but fear.

  Then, the first wave of pain. He gasped. It was as if a hatchet lay lodged in his leg, slicing through each nerve with a hot blade. In his agony he perceived the word “fire” and felt flames licking at the torn bone and flesh. He tried to move, and could not. The pain grew.

  He screamed. There was no answer.

  Sobbing, he turned his head and vomited onto the frozen snow. Blood dripped from his face into the vomit.

  “Nooooo!” he cried, and the sound disappeared into the empty landscape, into the wind.

  Then, suddenly, he was in the Annex room again, writhing on the bed. His face was wet with tears.

  Able to move now, he rocked his own body back and forth, breathing deeply to release the remembered pain.

  He sat, and looked at his own leg, where it lay straight on the bed, unbroken. The brutal slice of pain was gone. But the leg ached horribly, still, and his face felt raw.

  “May I have relief-of-pain, please?” he begged. It was always provided in his everyday life for the bruises and wounds, for a mashed finger, a stomach ache, a skinned knee from a fall from a bike. There was always a daub of anesthetic ointment, or a pill; or in severe instances, an injection that brought complete and instantaneous deliverance.

  But The Giver said no, and looked away.

  Limping, Jonas walked home, pushing his bicycle, that evening. The sunburn pain had been so small, in comparison, and had not stayed with him. But this ache lingered.

  It was not unendurable, as the pain on the hill had been. Jonas tried to be brave. He remembered that the Chief Elder had said he was brave.

  “Is something wrong, Jonas?” his father asked at the evening meal. “You’re so quiet tonight. Aren’t you feeling well? Would you like some medication?”

  But Jonas remembered the rules. No medication for anything related to his training.

  And no discussion of his training. At the time for sharing-of-feelings, he simply said that he felt tired, that his school lessons had been unusually demanding that day.

  He went to his sleepingroom early, and from behind the closed door he could hear his parents and sister laughing as they gave Gabriel his evening bath.

  They have never known pain, he thought. The realization made him feel desperately lonely, and he rubbed his throbbing leg. He eventually slept. Again and again he dreamed of the anguish and the isolation on the forsaken hill.

  The daily training continued, and now it always included pain. The agony of the fractured leg began to seem no more than a mild discomfort as The Giver led Jonas firmly, little by little, into the deep and terrible suffering of the past. Each time, in his kindness, The Giver ended the afternoon with a color-filled memory of pleasure: a brisk sail on a blue-green lake; a meadow dotted with yellow wildflowers; an orange sunset behind mountains.

  It was not enough to assuage the pain that Jonas was beginning, now, to know.

  “Why?” Jonas asked him after he had received a torturous memory in which he had been neglected and unfed; the hunger had caused excruciating spasms in his empty, distended stomach. He lay on the bed, aching. “Why do you and I have to hold these memories?”

  “It gives us wisdom,” The Giver replied. “Without wisdom I could not fulfill my function of advising the Committee of Elders when they call upon me.”

  “But what wisdom do you get from hunger?” Jonas groaned. His stomach still hurt, though the memory had ended.

  “Some years ago,” The Giver told him, “before your birth, a lot of citizens petitioned the Committee of Elders. They wanted to increase the rate of births. They wanted each Birthmother to be assigned four births instead of three, so that the population would increase and there would be more Laborers available.”

  Jonas nodded, listening. “That makes sense.”

  “The idea was that certain family units could accommodate an additional child.”

  Jonas nodded again. “Mine could,” he pointed out. “We have Gabriel this year, and it’s fun, having a third child.”

  “The Committee of Elders sought my advice,” The Giver said. “It made sense to them, too, but it was a new idea, and they came to me for wisdom.”

  “And you used your memories?”

  The Giver said yes. “And the strongest memory that came was hunger. It came from many generations back. Centuries back. The population had gotten so big that hunger was everywhere. Excruciating hunger and starvation. It was followed by warfare.”

  Warfare? It was a concept Jonas did not know. But hunger was familiar to him now. Unconsciously he rubbed his own abdomen, recalling the pain of its unfulfilled needs. “So you described that to them?”

  “They don’t want to hear about pain. They just seek the advice. I simply advised them against increasing the population.”

  “But you said that that was before my birth. They hardly ever come to you for advice. Only when they—what was it you said? When they have a problem they’ve never faced before. When did it happen last?”

  “Do you remember the day when the plane flew over the community?”

  “Yes. I was scared.”

  “So were they. They prepared to shoot it down. But they sought my advice. I told them to wait.”

  “But how did you know? How did you know the pilot was lost?”

  “I didn’t. I used my wisdom, from the memories. I knew that there had been times in the past—terrible times—when people had destroyed others in haste, in fear, and had brought about their own destruction.”

  Jonas realized something. “That means,” he said slowly, “that you have memories of destruction. And you have to give them to me, too, because I have to get the wisdom.”

  The Giver nodded.

  “But it will hurt,” Jonas said. It wasn’t a question.

  “It will hurt terribly,” The Giver agreed.

  “But why can’t everyone have the memories? I think it would seem a little easier if the memories were shared. You and I wouldn’t have to bear so much by ourselves, if everybody took a part.”

  The Giver sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “But then everyone would be burdened and pained. They don’t want that. And that’s the real reason The Receiver is so vital to them, and so honored. They selected me—and you—to lift that burden from themselves.”

  “When did they decide that?” Jonas asked angrily. “It wasn’t fair. Let’s change it!”

  “How do you suggest we do that? I’ve never been able to think of a way, and I’m supposed to be the one with all the wisdom.”

  “But there are two of us now,” Jonas said eagerly. “Together we can think of something!”

  The Giver watched him with a wr
y smile.

  “Why can’t we just apply for a change of rules?” Jonas suggested.

  The Giver laughed; then Jonas, too, chuckled reluctantly.

  “The decision was made long before my time or yours,” The Giver said, “and before the previous Receiver, and—” He waited.

  “Back and back and back.” Jonas repeated the familiar phrase. Sometimes it had seemed humorous to him. Sometimes it had seemed meaningful and important.

  Now it was ominous. It meant, he knew, that nothing could be changed.

  The newchild, Gabriel, was growing, and successfully passed the tests of maturity that the Nurturers gave each month; he could sit alone, now, could reach for and grasp small play objects, and he had six teeth. During the daytime hours, Father reported, he was cheerful and seemed of normal intelligence. But he remained fretful at night, whimpering often, needing frequent attention.

  “After all this extra time I’ve put in with him,” Father said one evening after Gabriel had been bathed and was lying, for the moment, hugging his hippo placidly in the small crib that had replaced the basket, “I hope they’re not going to decide to release him.”

  “Maybe it would be for the best,” Mother suggested. “I know you don’t mind getting up with him at night. But the lack of sleep is awfully hard for me.”

  “If they release Gabriel, can we get another newchild as a visitor?” asked Lily. She was kneeling beside the crib, making funny faces at the little one, who was smiling back at her.

  Jonas’s mother rolled her eyes in dismay.

  “No,” Father said, smiling. He ruffled Lily’s hair. “It’s very rare, anyway, that a newchild’s status is as uncertain as Gabriel’s. It probably won’t happen again, for a long time.

  “Anyway,” he sighed, “they won’t make the decision for a while. Right now we’re all preparing for a release we’ll probably have to make very soon. There’s a Birthmother who’s expecting twin males next month.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mother said, shaking her head. “If they’re identical, I hope you’re not the one assigned—”