After years of working on Giver of Life, I'm happy, yet still devastated, to say this story is coming to an end in the next few weeks. With this completed, I think I may do Julia and Erik's long awaited trip to the sea shore. Kire deserves a holiday after this, what I'll eventually write about the gypsies, and Persia. Chapters 48 and 49 were so emotional for me. I hope you enjoy reading and will also review. Thanks!
Giver48
"You need to eat," Uncle Alak said as we stopped for the night, a good distance from the road. He seemed more out of breath than usual and coughed into the crook of his arm, his whole body shaking.
When he caught me staring, he turned away and looked around. I heard him clear his throat and spit into the dirt.
"So do you," I returned. "We both should." My stomach growled in response and I settled my hand over my abdomen as though I could silence the sounds of protest.
He grunted and sat on the grass before the shallow fire pit I'd dug while he rested his eyes. I worked in silence, rewarded by my ability to assist him and allow him to preserve his wavering strength.
Once we had enough walking for the day, he'd found a suitable place to stop just as the sun set in the distance, a wooded area nestled atop a hill where he said we would be able to keep watch for the night.
"You need to grow," he said firmly. He coughed again, but this time quickly recovered and took a sip of water from his canteen. "I've been done growing for many years now. My wife would say I have only to grow sideways," he said, motioning with his hands as though he was thick around the middle. His eyes twinkled when he spoke, the fondness he still felt for her evident in his playful tone.
I wondered what she would have thought of him now, his tall frame turned lean, his skin yellowed and sagging. I wondered what he'd looked like before in his youth, if I resembled him in any way.
"What was she like?" I asked suddenly.
"She was wonderful," he answered with a warm smile on his lips and wistful tone. "She deserved someone who could match her wits and kindness, but instead she had me."
I frowned at his words and looked away, wondering if she would have accepted me the same way he did.
"She always said she would stuff me like a pig," he said while he poked at the fire with a stick. "And she always kept her promises. Just as Madame Batiste filled your plate with more food than you could ever consume, my wife was the same way. She would have had you so fat you could barely move."
I smiled back at his words. Consistent meals were a rarity. Being fed enough to keep my stomach even half-full was little more than a fleeting thought. I had learned to eat slowly and savor every bite as I had no idea when the door would open and food would be offered.
We dined on bread and cheese, shared an apple and salted pork. The comb I set beside my outstretched legs and glanced at occasionally, wishing I could relive a most wonderful evening.
"How does your arm feel?" he asked as we settled in for the night.
I glanced down. "Warm," I answered, my thoughts returned to Girl and the grief I managed to keep at bay. The scar would remain, one of many I carried.
"Fevered?"
"No, just warm," I replied. Whatever herbal concoction Madame Batiste had slathered onto my arm made my flesh feel somewhat numb. "Like perhaps it has started to heal," I said hopefully.
"Good, good. How about the rest of you?" he asked as he looked me over. "You fell hard this afternoon."
"Tolerable," I answered. I had been shoved to the ground, which was much different than a mere fall.
He made a face and shook his head. "Tolerable?" he questioned. The glint in his eyes faded, replaced by remorse. "Not the word I would have used."
"I can walk still," I pointed out. "And there are not many bruises."
He met my eye and shook his head. "Not many?" he asked sadly.
I lowered my gaze, unsure of what he wanted me to say. I had hit the ground much harder in the past, been shoved down stairs and into a dirt wall.
"I'm not injured," I said defensively.
"You are not at fault." He lifted his hand as though to calm me. "My brother's heavy hand increased your pain tolerance," he said, his tone difficult to judge. "A boy your age should not have the world so heavily upon his shoulders, yet I think this has helped you survive."
I made no reply, deciding I wanted nothing from my father, not even casual mention of him. I would have done more than survive if my uncle had been my father. The thought angered me as I wanted to fall asleep and wake up a different person, an acceptable person with a family to love me.
"What is the first site you wish to see when we arrive in Paris?" he asked as he leaned back and rested his head on his rolled up pack.
"Everything," I answered a bit defiantly.
"Insatiable," he said with a chuckle as he closed his eyes. He reached into his pocket and tossed a small pocketknife toward me. "Here," he said. "Carve something."
I didn't argue or protest, though I had never worked with a knife before. I stared at the metal object in my grass, a weapon I had never used. "Carve what?"
"Whatever you want," he answered. "A monkey, a horse, a cloud," he suggested.
I grunted and examined the blade, attempting to envision such a hard, straight, unwavering line creating a figurine.
"A cloud? Out of wood? Impossible," I said, but my words were wasted as he had already fallen asleep.
Boredom never suited me well, but an opportunity to create artwork sent me in pursuit of a piece of wood. Already ideas buzzed through my mind of what I would design, a masterful collection of wooden figurines.
With a surplus of confidence and a handful of sticks, I returned to the fireside and quite proudly began to entertain myself with what I was certain could rival Michelangelo.
Hunched over the fire, I began taking small notches out of the wood. Slowly my design came to fruition, the features slowly becoming visible in my grasp. I carved faster, heedless to the nicks in my knuckles and splinters stabbing the sensitive pads of my fingers.
Out of gnarled wood, out of something discarded and left to rot, I would create beauty.
What I envisioned and what I was capable of creating, however, were two entirely different things. I blew bits of dust from the figurine and proudly examined my achievement.
Disappointment flooded my emotions as I looked over my lop-sided statue. Frustrated, I placed the knife and ruined art by my feet and sulked. I couldn't understand where I had failed or why the designs hadn't successfully transferred from my thought into what I held.
"What is it?" Uncle Alak questioned. He squinted at me out of his right eye. "Why are you muttering to yourself?"
"Nothing," I answered miserably. I hadn't realized I had been grumbling aloud over my ruined work.
He grunted. "What was it supposed to be?"
I crossed my arms and sat hunched over, wanting to forget my meager attempt at woodwork.
"Looks like a very nice troll," he said as he sat up and yawned.
"A troll?" I exclaimed as I snatched up the figurine and scowled. "I wasn't making a troll."
He shrugged. "Art is always up for interpretation," he replied, "You needn't be offended."
"I was making a statue of Amelie," I confessed.
My uncle made a valiant attempt at offering the most sympathetic look, but I caught him smiling when he turned away.
"I wanted to give this to her when I returned for Moon," I said defensively.
His expression softened. "You are very considerate and thoughtful," he said.
"But she won't like this, will she?" I asked as I looked at my worthless attempt at artwork.
"Very few are masters of any craft on the first attempt," he reminded me. "These things take time, Erik. I think she would be quite flattered. With a little more time and patience, the next one will be better."
I wasn't one for patience. I wanted the figurine to turn out perfect on the first attempt and to make the next one with ease. A pulse of anger threatened as I couldn't understand why I had so many shortcomings. I felt as though fate owed me a chance at beauty. If I could not be seen as acceptable, then I wanted to create something of worth and magnificence.
"But what about music?" I asked.
He smiled and nodded. "You have a very rare gift when music is involved," he explained. "Appreciate that you are able to hear music as few others can appreciate."
For a moment I sat in silence, not quite prepared to accept his compliment when I was still angered over my figurine.
"Have you carved wood?" I asked as I considered tossing the worthless piece of wood into the fire.
My uncle shrugged. "A handful of times," he replied.
I picked up the knife and another piece of wood and placed both items beside him. "Will you show me?"
He seemed pleased by my question and nodded. The twinkle in his eyes and the soft, welcoming smile drew me closer. I imagined working alongside my father, if my father had loved me. Despite the chill in the night air and the dread I felt looming, I found comfort in watching my uncle examine the piece of wood I had collected.
"You did a fine job collecting a nice, sturdy piece of wood to begin with," he praised as he placed his hand on my shoulder.
When he looked at me, I smiled and pretended he was my true father, a man who was strong yet still gentle and patient.
"These hands do not hold as much skill as they once did," he mumbled as he pinched the broken branch between his fingers and thumb like a crab's claw. I watched him closely, studied the scars from fishing hooks and the weathered appearance of his yellowed flesh. Each imperfection mapped out his life, told of hard work and honest labor.
He worked in silence for a while, then began to hum softly to himself as he chipped away at the wood. Each notch seemed to come away effortlessly, as though even with his maimed hands he could still make whatever he desired.
Rather than jealousy, I felt a swell of pride in watching him work. Every move I studied closely, leaning forward for a better look as he created a small figurine.
Once he finished, he blew the bits of dust off and handed the small wooden statue to me. "There," he said. "Not quite the perfect sculpture of a troll." He grinned back at me and patted my knee. "What do you think?"
"This isn't a troll." I shook my head and looked over the figurine. He'd worked with great haste, the features somewhat crude but still recognizable. The edges needed smoothed down, which I was willing to do.
"Well, that was my intention," he said.
"Trolls don't have wings."
"Perhaps my interpretation does."
His words made me laugh as I studied the figurine. "What is it really?"
"An angel," he answered. His expression sobered. "Many years ago I could have made a perfect one for you, but my health and hands no longer cooperate."
"I have never had a gift made for me until today," I replied, my voice suddenly trembling as I held the small figurine in the palm of my hand. Just as with Amelie, I had nothing to give in return. Overwhelmed by generosity and ashamed of myself for falling short, I bowed my head.
In such a brief amount of time, he knew me well and would not allow me to sit and wallow. He tossed another piece of wood to me, which I barely managed to catch.
"Your turn," he said with a nod.
"But—"
"No excuses," he interrupted sternly. "You will continue with your music and become a master. Tonight, however, I want you to learn a new skill. Try again."
Without further protest, I busied myself until I had a carving of what resembled—at least to me—a horse.
"Splendid," he praised, which was much more generous than I deserved, but his approval made me smile and appreciate what I had created.
While he packed our cooking supplies, I set up our tent, finding my eyes suddenly heavy and body sapped of strength. We put out the fire and sat beneath the moonlight and twinkling stars, the air warm and humid, the wisp of smoke disappearing and red glow of the burning logs turned to gray ash. Eventually we crawled into the tent when the bug bites became intolerable.
In the darkness, my uncle's eye sockets looked hollow, his face sharp angles like the wooden figurine he'd made. I reached toward the pack beside me and felt the comb and angel figurine nestled atop the shirts Marie had given me, comforted by their presence.
A small token made me feel like a normal boy, a child deserving of a gift and attention. I reached into the pack and held the small statue to my chest, the rough edges stabbing at my palm. Pain no longer concerned me. Too often I had been beaten where physical pain became routine.
Now I dreaded being alone. For so many years, solitude was the welcomed pause between breaths, the time to rest and heal between my father's unwanted visits.
But now I wanted what I had been denied. I wanted to share a dance with a beautiful girl, to sit at a table with strangers and listen to them speak. I wanted to be looked in the eye without fear.
"Uncle?" I said suddenly.
He snorted and jerked in his sleep. "Erik? It's still dark. What is the matter?" he mumbled. I heard him gasp for air and cough violently, the sounds so harsh I expected him to pass out from exertion.
"Nothing," I answered quickly, feeling guilty for waking him. "I just wanted to tell you…thank you," I said.
"You are a wonderful young man," he said as he turned over in his half-sleep. "You have a good heart and others will notice when you give them the opportunity to know you."
His unwavering faith in me sent a shiver down my spine. Until I had met him, no one had wanted to meet me. Loneliness had consumed me more than I had realized.
"Erik, you are…" His voice trailed off and he started to snore.
I propped myself up on my elbow and tapped his shoulder, needing his praise and reassurance, craving a moment of his kindness. "Uncle?" I whispered.
He woke briefly and sighed. "Nothing," he mumbled before he fell asleep once more.
I drew my hand back and forced my eyes closed. His thought remained unfinished, but in my mind, his mumbled, barely coherent words echoed. Over the years, when there was darkness within me, I would remember his words and I would repeat them, taunt myself until rage and hatred consumed my every thought.
Erik, you are nothing…
Soon enough this would be true. I would be nothing.