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“Giver,” Jonas suggested, “you and I don’t need to care about the rest of them.”
The Giver looked at him with a questioning smile. Jonas hung his head. Of course they needed to care. It was the meaning of everything.
“And in any case, Jonas,” the Giver sighed, “I wouldn’t make it. I’m very weakened now. Do you know that I no longer see colours?”
Jonas’s heart broke. He reached for the Giver’s hand.
“You have the colours,” the Giver told him. “And you have the courage. I will help you to have the strength.”
“A year ago,” Jonas reminded him, “when I had just become a Twelve, when I began to see the first colour, you told me that the beginning had been different for you. But that I wouldn’t understand.”
The Giver brightened. “That’s true. And do you know, Jonas, that with all your knowledge now, with all your memories, with all you’ve learned – still you won’t understand? Because I’ve been a little selfish. I haven’t given any of it to you. I wanted to keep it for myself to the last.”
“Keep what?”
“When I was just a boy, younger than you, it began to come to me. But it wasn’t the seeing-beyond for me. It was different. For me, it was hearing-beyond.”
Jonas frowned, trying to figure that out. “What did you hear?” he asked.
“Music,” the Giver said, smiling. “I began to hear something truly remarkable, and it is called music. I’ll give you some before I go.”
Jonas shook his head emphatically. “No, Giver,” he said. “I want you to keep that, to have with you, when I’m gone.”
Jonas went home the next morning, cheerfully greeted his parents, and lied easily about what a busy, pleasant night he had had.
His father smiled and lied easily, too, about his busy and pleasant day the day before.
Throughout the school day, as he did his lessons, Jonas went over the plan in his head. It seemed startlingly simple. Jonas and the Giver had gone over it and over it, late into the night hours.
For the next two weeks, as the time for the December Ceremony approached, the Giver would transfer every memory of courage and strength that he could to Jonas. He would need those to help him find the Elsewhere that they were both sure existed. They knew it would be a very difficult journey.
Then, in the middle of the night before the Ceremony, Jonas would secretly leave his dwelling. This was probably the most dangerous part, because it was a violation of a major rule for any citizen not on official business to leave a dwelling at night.
“I’ll leave at midnight,” Jonas said. “The Food Collectors will be finished picking up the evening-meal remains by then, and the Path-Maintenance Crews don’t start their work that early. So there won’t be anyone to see me, unless of course someone is out on emergency business.”
“I don’t know what you should do if you are seen, Jonas,” the Giver had said. “I have memories, of course, of all kinds of escapes. People fleeing from terrible things throughout history. But every situation is individual. There is no memory of one like this.”
“I’ll be careful,” Jonas said. “No one will see me.”
“As Receiver-in-training, you’re held in very high respect already. So I think you wouldn’t be questioned very forcefully.”
“I’d just say I was on some important errand for the Receiver. I’d say it was all your fault that I was out after hours,” Jonas teased.
They both laughed a little nervously. But Jonas was certain that he could slip away, unseen, from his house, carrying an extra set of clothing. Silently he would take his bicycle to the riverbank and leave it there hidden in bushes with the clothing folded beside it.
Then he would make his way through the darkness, on foot, silently, to the Annexe.
“There’s no night-time attendant,” the Giver explained. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. You simply slip into the room. I’ll be waiting for you.”
His parents would discover, when they woke, that he was gone. They would also find a cheerful note from Jonas on his bed, telling them that he was going for an early morning ride along the river; that he would be back for the Ceremony.
His parents would be irritated but not alarmed. They would think him inconsiderate and they would plan to chastise him, later.
They would wait, with mounting anger, for him; finally they would be forced to go, taking Lily to the Ceremony without him.
“They won’t say anything to anyone, though,” Jonas said, quite certain. “They won’t call attention to my rudeness because it would reflect on their parenting. And anyway, everyone is so involved in the Ceremony that they probably won’t notice that I’m not there. Now that I’m a Twelve and in training, I don’t have to sit with my age group any more. So Asher will think I’m with my parents, or with you …”
“And your parents will assume you’re with Asher, or with me …”
Jonas shrugged. “It will take everyone a while to realise that I’m not there at all.”
“And you and I will be long on our way by then.”
In the early morning, the Giver would order a vehicle and driver from the Speaker. He visited the other communities frequently, meeting with their Elders; his responsibilities extended over all the surrounding areas. So this would not be an unusual undertaking.
Ordinarily the Giver did not attend the December Ceremony. Last year he had been present because of the occasion of Jonas’s selection, in which he was so involved. But his life was usually quite separate from that of the community. No one would comment on his absence, or on the fact that he had chosen this day to be away.
When the driver and vehicle arrived, the Giver would send the driver on some brief errand. During his absence, the Giver would help Jonas hide in the storage area of the vehicle. He would have with him a bundle of food which the Giver would save from his own meals during the next two weeks.
The Ceremony would begin, with all the community there, and by then Jonas and the Giver would be on their way.
By midday Jonas’s absence would become apparent, and would be a cause for serious concern. The Ceremony would not be disrupted – such a disruption would be unthinkable. But searchers would be sent out into the community.
By the time his bicycle and clothing were found, the Giver would be returning. Jonas, by then, would be on his own, making his journey Elsewhere.
The Giver, on his return, would find the community in a state of confusion and panic. Confronted by a situation which they had never faced before, and having no memories from which to find either solace or wisdom, they would not know what to do and would seek his advice.
He would go to the Auditorium where the people would be gathered, still. He would stride to the stage and command their attention.
He would make the solemn announcement that Jonas had been lost in the river. He would immediately begin the Ceremony of Loss.
“Jonas, Jonas,” they would say loudly, as they had once said the name of Caleb. The Giver would lead the chant. Together they would let Jonas’s presence in their lives fade away as they said his name in unison more slowly, softer and softer, until he was disappearing from them, until he was no more than an occasional murmur and then, by the end of the long day, gone forever, not to be mentioned again.
Their attention would turn to the overwhelming task of bearing the memories themselves. The Giver would help them.
“Yes, I understand that they’ll need you,” Jonas had said at the end of the lengthy discussion and planning. “But I’ll need you, too. Please come with me.” He knew the answer even as he made the final plea.
“My work will be finished,” the Giver had replied gently, “when I have helped the community to change and become whole.
“I’m grateful to you, Jonas, because without you I would never have figured out a way to bring about the change. But your role now is to escape. And my role is to stay.”
“But don’t you want to be with me, Giver?” Jonas asked sadly.
The Giver hugged him. “I love you, Jonas,” he said. “But I have another place to go. When my work here is finished, I want to be with my daughter.”
Jonas had been staring glumly at the floor. Now he looked up, startled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Giver! You told me that you’d had a spouse. But I never knew about your daughter.”
The Giver smiled, and nodded. For the first time in their long months together, Jonas saw him look truly happy.
“Her name was Rosemary,” the Giver said.
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IT WOULD WORK. They could make it work, Jonas told himself again and again throughout the day.
But that evening everything changed. All of it – all the things they had thought through so meticulously – fell apart.
That night, Jonas was forced to flee. He left the dwelling shortly after the sky became dark and the community still. It was terribly dangerous because some of the work crews were still about, but he moved stealthily and silently, staying in the shadows, making his way past the darkened dwellings and the empty Central Plaza, towards the river. Beyond the Plaza he could see the House of the Old, with the Annexe behind it, outlined against the night sky. But he could not stop there. There was no time. Every minute counted now, and every minute must take him farther from the community.
Now he was on the bridge, hunched over on the bicycle, pedalling steadily. He could see the dark, churning water far below.
He felt, surprisingly, no fear, nor any regret at leaving the community behind. But he felt a very deep sadness that he had left his closest friend behind. He knew that in the danger of his escape he must be absolutely silent; but with his heart and mind, he called back and hoped that with his capacity for hearing-beyond, the Giver would know that Jonas had said goodbye.
It had happened at the evening meal. The family unit was eating together as always: Lily chattering away, Mother and Father making their customary comments (and lies, Jonas knew) about the day. Nearby, Gabriel played happily on the floor, babbling his baby talk, looking with glee now and then towards Jonas, obviously delighted to have him back after the unexpected night away from the dwelling.
Father glanced down towards the toddler. “Enjoy it, little guy,” he said. “This is your last night as visitor.”
“What do you mean?” Jonas asked him.
Father sighed with disappointment. “Well, you know he wasn’t here when you got home this morning because we had him stay overnight at the Nurturing Centre. It seemed like a good opportunity, with you gone, to give it a try. He’d been sleeping so soundly.”
“Didn’t it go well?” Mother asked sympathetically.
Father gave a rueful laugh. “That’s an understatement. It was a disaster. He cried all night, apparently. The night crew couldn’t handle it. They were really frazzled by the time I got to work.”
“Gabe, you naughty thing,” Lily said, with a scolding little cluck towards the grinning toddler on the floor.
“So,” Father went on, “we obviously had to make the decision. Even I voted for Gabriel’s release when we had the meeting this afternoon.”
Jonas put down his fork and stared at his father. “Release?” he asked.
Father nodded. “We certainly gave it our best try, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did,” Mother agreed emphatically.
Lily nodded in agreement, too.
Jonas worked at keeping his voice absolutely calm. “When?” he asked. “When will he be released?”
“First thing tomorrow morning. We have to start our preparations for the Naming Ceremony, so we thought we’d get this taken care of right away.
“It’s bye-bye to you, Gabe, in the morning,” Father had said, in his sweet, sing-song voice.
Jonas reached the opposite side of the river, stopped briefly, and looked back. The community where his entire life had been lived lay behind him now, sleeping. At dawn, the orderly, disciplined life he had always known would continue again, without him. The life where nothing was ever unexpected. Or inconvenient. Or unusual. The life without colour, pain or past.
He pushed firmly again at the pedal with his foot and continued riding along the road. It was not safe to spend time looking back. He thought of the rules he had broken so far: enough that if he were caught, now, he would be condemned.
First, he had left the dwelling at night. A major transgression.
Second, he had robbed the community of food: a very serious crime, even though what he had taken was leftovers, set out on the dwelling doorsteps for collection.
Third, he had stolen his father’s bicycle. He had hesitated for a moment, standing beside the bikeport in the darkness, not wanting anything of his father’s and uncertain, as well, whether he could comfortably ride the larger bike when he was so accustomed to his own.
But it was necessary because it had the child seat attached to the back.
And he had taken Gabriel, too.
He could feel the little head nudge his back, bouncing gently against him as he rode. Gabriel was sleeping soundly, strapped into the seat. Before he had left the dwelling, he had laid his hands firmly on Gabe’s back and transmitted to him the most soothing memory he could: a slow-swinging hammock under palm trees on an island somewhere, at evening, with a rhythmic sound of languid water lapping hypnotically against a beach nearby. As the memory seeped from him into the newchild, he could feel Gabe’s sleep ease and deepen. There had been no stir at all when Jonas lifted him from the crib and placed him gently into the moulded seat.
He knew that he had the remaining hours of night before they would be aware of his escape. So he rode hard, steadily, willing himself not to tire as the minutes and miles passed. There had been no time to receive the memories he and the Giver had counted on, of strength and courage. So he relied on what he had, and hoped it would be enough.
He circled the outlying communities, their dwellings dark. Gradually the distances between communities widened, with longer stretches of empty road. His legs ached at first; then, as time passed, they became numb.
At dawn Gabriel began to stir. They were in an isolated place; fields on either side of the road were dotted with thickets of trees here and there. He saw a stream, and made his way to it across a rutted, bumpy meadow; Gabriel, wide awake now, giggled as the bicycle jolted him up and down.
Jonas unstrapped Gabe, lifted him from the bike, and watched him investigate the grass and twigs with delight. Carefully he hid the bicycle in thick bushes.
“Morning meal, Gabe!” He unwrapped some of the food and fed them both. Then he filled the cup he had brought with water from the stream and held it for Gabriel to drink. He drank thirstily himself, and sat by the stream, watching the newchild play.
He was exhausted. He knew he must sleep, resting his own muscles and preparing himself for more hours on the bicycle. It would not be safe to travel in daylight.
They would be looking for him soon.
He found a place deeply hidden in the trees, took the newchild there, and lay down, holding Gabriel in his arms. Gabe struggled cheerfully as if it were a wrestling game, the kind they had played back in the dwelling, with tickles and laughter.
“Sorry, Gabe,” Jonas told him. “I know it’s morning, and I know you’ve just woken up. But we have to sleep now.”
He cuddled the small body close to him, and rubbed the little back. He murmured to Gabriel soothingly. Then he pressed his hands firmly and transmitted a memory of deep, contented exhaustion. Gabriel’s head nodded, after a moment, and fell against Jonas’s chest.
Together the fugitives slept through the first dangerous day.
The most terrifying thing was the planes. By now, days had passed; Jonas no longer knew how many. The journey had become automatic: the sleep by days, hidden in underbrush and trees; the finding of water; the careful division of scraps of food, augmented by what he could find in the fields. And the endless, endless miles on the bicycle by night.
His leg muscles were taut now. They ached when he settled himself to sleep. But they were stronger, and he stopped now less often to rest. Sometimes he paused and lifted Gabriel down for a brief bit of exercise, running down the road or through a field together in the dark. But always, when he returned, strapped the uncomplaining toddler into the seat again and remounted, his legs were ready.
So he had enough strength of his own, and had not needed what the Giver might have provided, had there been time.
But when the planes came, he wished that he could have received the courage.
He knew they were search planes. They flew so low that they woke him with the noise of their engines, and sometimes, looking out and up fearfully from the hiding places, he could almost see the faces of the searchers.
He knew that they could not see colour, and that their flesh, as well as Gabriel’s light golden curls, would be no more than smears of grey against the colourless foliage. But he remembered from his science and technology studies at school that the search planes used heat-seeking devices which could identify body warmth and would hone in on two humans huddled in shrubbery.
So always, when he heard the aircraft sound, he reached to Gabriel and transmitted memories of snow, keeping some for himself. Together they became cold; and when the planes were gone, they would shiver, holding each other, until sleep came again.
Sometimes, urging the memories into Gabriel, Jonas felt that they were more shallow, a little weaker than they had been. It was what he had hoped, and what he and the Giver had planned: that as he moved away from the community, he would shed the memories and leave them behind for the people. But now, when he needed them, when the planes came, he tried hard to cling to what he still had, of cold, and to use it for their survival.
Usually the aircraft came by day, when they were hiding. But he was alert at night, too, on the road, always listening intently for the sound of the engines. Even Gabriel listened, and would call out, “Plane! Plane!” sometimes before Jonas had heard the terrifying noise. When the aircraft searchers came, as they did occasionally, during the night as they rode, Jonas sped to the nearest tree or bush, dropped to the ground, and made himself and Gabriel cold. But it was sometimes a frighteningly close call.
