We Leave Together, стр. 53

Jona hands the orange back to the girl with the freckles, and she has orange all over her face, and everyone has orange on their face and no one is working.

And another girl cuts into another orange, and the children pass the oranges around.

Then, Lady Joni has run out into the grove, and she’s screaming, too, and all the girls are listening now. They climb down the ladders, hanging their heads. They don’t look well. Lady Sabachthani tells the chef to take all the girls into the kitchen for a good whipping.

Jona comes down, and then his mother has him by the lapel of his little white suit—all stained with orange juice. She drags him up to his bedroom, and locks him in. She tells her son, curtly, that he is never, ever to share food with anyone.

Jona spends three days in his bedroom, with only his mother visiting him. She tells her son that he is different, and he can’t share food with anyone else.

When he’s finally released, she tells everyone that her son recovered from the illness. The girl with the club foot and freckles had died. The rest of the girls were sick and under Lady Joni’s personal care.

Jona looked down at where he had been so happy picking oranges, and the orange trees were gone. Lady Joni had them torn away for making her son sick.

“But I wasn’t sick, Ma,” said Jona.

“Hush,” she said, “Don’t call your mother a liar. You were sick. You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

And Jona didn’t understand.

***

The boy at night, waiting for the world to wake up, used up candles that his father had bought on the black market—candles were rationed—and burned black-market coal. Coal was also rationed. The boy read books, but he hated them. He played with blocks, building night cities full of people that never slept, and books became the large foundations of castles, or the high city walls with paper flags in the wind. Boys and girls wandered in the dark, and shared songs and dancing and the best games. And down this avenue the parents waltzed in grand balls.

Tiny cities spread across his floor in the flickering light. At the end of the night, the boy tipped over the largest palace—where his mother and his father lived—and the tumbling towers—a different architecture each evening—ruined all the buildings below like a volcano.

Then, Jona kicked his way through the streets, humming lullabyes to everyone because now was time for bed, but not for him.

He had other games, too, but they were normal enough. Imaginary monsters must be vanquished. Balls must be thrown and bounced. Pranks will be played upon the sleepers. Jona spent entirely too much time by himself, for a boy, when no one watched him in the long night hours.

***

Jona’s name was not Jona, yet. His father had named him Tintaba. His mother called him Little Taba. His father called him Young Lord Joni. The children in the house called him Taba. The staff in the house called him Lord Tintaba Joni.

The visitors that came for his father called Jona “Lord Tintaba Joni”. Three men, each wearing a king’s man’s uniform and each far beyond their fighting years. One man used his sword like a cane. He held the pommel and leaned into it. His knee wouldn’t bend. This limping man hailed the boy. “Lord Tintaba Joni, lord of these lands, please give the king your precious time.”

Jona frowned. He walked right up to the man with the sword like a cane. “Who are you?” he said.

The three men did their best to bow to the young lord. The gesture took them effort. One man made sounds as if he was lifting a heavy load. The one with the sword for a cane had to balance precariously on the tip of the sword’s pommel on the ground. The third was merely very stiff, and struggled to force his stiff body low enough to qualify for a bow.

“Lord Joni,” said the stiff one, “We are the King’s Guards, and we have come looking for your father. Can you direct us to him?”

“I don’t know where he is,” said Lord Tintaba Jona, “What do you need him for?”

“We wish to discuss very dull, boring, unexciting things, my Lord,” said the man with the sword like a cane, “If you’d like we can talk about them with you. You seem like a mature young man, who can handle boring, dull, unexciting conversations.”

“I’ll go see if I can find my father,” said Jona, “Wait here.”

“Gladly, my Lord,” said the tall, stiff man.

Jona ran up the stairs to the top floor. His father liked the top floor—even though it was the hottest floor in the summer—and pushed papers around a desk near the south wall.

Jona knocked. His father’s voice called out for a few more moments.

Jona leaned against the wall across from the door. “Father, some men are here to see you. They’re dressed the same.”

“Oh? How many are there?” asked Lord Joni.

“Three,” said Jona, “And they’re wearing the same clothes.”

“They’re king’s men, Lord Joni. They are here to arrest me.” The old Lord opened the door.

“What does that mean, father?” said Jona. He stood up from the wall. He looked up at his father.

Lord Joni smiled. One hand clutched the doorknob. The other hand, hanging at his side, trembled. The man was pale. “They’re going to take me to speak with the king, Lord Joni, and I will be going away for a while. Please, don’t worry,” he said.

“I’m not worried, father,” said Jona, “They’re old.”

“Old, you say? Undoubtedly any young king’s men would be assigned to the army for now. Did you know there’s a war on?”

“Of course, father.”

“Do you know what that means, Lord Joni?”

“It means that there are only women and old men everywhere. All the men are off in the woods or at sea because the king says so.”

“All except me and few others like me,” said Lord