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 realised 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 honoured. 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 wry 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—”
“I am. I’m next on the list. I’ll have to select the one to be nurtured, and the one to be released. It’s usually not hard, though. Usually it’s just a matter of birthweight. We release the smaller of the two.”
Jonas, listening, thought suddenly about the bridge and how, standing there, he had wondered what lay Elsewhere. Was there someone there, waiting, who would receive the tiny released twin? Would it grow up Elsewhere, not knowing, ever, that in this community lived a being who looked exactly the same?
For a moment he felt a tiny, fluttering hope that he knew was quite foolish. He hoped that it would be Larissa, waiting. Larissa, the old woman he had bathed. He remembered her sparkling eyes, her soft voice, her low chuckle. Fiona had told him recently that Larissa had been released at a wonderful ceremony.
But he knew that the Old were not given children to raise. Larissa’s life Elsewhere would be quiet and serene as befitted the Old; she would not welcome the responsibility of nurturing a newchild who needed feeding and care, and would likely cry at night.
“Mother? Father?” he said, the idea coming to him unexpectedly. “Why don’t we put Gabriel’s crib in my room tonight? I know how to feed and comfort him, and it would let you and Father get some sleep.”
Father looked doubtful. “You sleep so soundly, Jonas. What if his restlessness didn’t wake you?”
It was Lily who answered that. “If no one goes to tend Gabriel,” she pointed out, “he gets very loud. He’d wake all of us, if Jonas slept through it.”
Father laughed. “You’re right, Lily-billy. All right, Jonas, let’s try it, just for tonight. I’ll take the night off and we’ll let Mother get some sleep, too.”
Gabriel slept soundly for the earliest part of the night. Jonas, in his bed, lay awake for a while; from time to time he raised himself on one elbow, looking over at the crib. The newchild was on his stomach, his arms relaxed beside his head, his eyes closed, and his breathing regular and undisturbed. Finally Jonas slept too.
Then, as the middle hours of the night approached, the noise of Gabe’s restlessness woke Jonas. The newchild was turning under his cover, flailing his arms, and beginning to whimper.
Jonas rose and went to him. Gently he patted Gabriel’s back. Sometimes that was all it took to lull him back to sleep. But the newchild still squirmed fretfully under his hand.
Still patting rhythmically, Jonas began to remember the wonderful sail that the Giver had given him not long before: a bright, breezy day on a clear turquoise lake, and above him the white sail of the boat billowing as he moved along in the brisk wind.
He was not aware of giving the memory; but suddenly he realised that it was becoming dimmer, that it was sliding through his hand into the being of the newchild. Gabriel became quiet. Startled, Jonas pulled back what was left of the memory with a burst of will. He removed his hand from the little back and stood quietly beside the crib.
To himself, he called the memory of the sail forward again. It was still there, but the sky was less blue, the gentle motion of the boat slower, the water of the lake more murky and clouded. He kept it for a while, soothing his own nervousness at what had occurred, then let it go and returned to his bed.
Once more, towards dawn, the newchild woke and cried out. Again Jonas went to him. This time he quite deliberately placed his hand firmly on Gabriel’s back, and released the rest of the calming day on the lake. Again Gabriel slept.
But now Jonas lay awake, thinking. He no longer had any more than a wisp of the memory, and he felt a small lack where it had been. He could ask the Giver for