The Giver, Gathering Blue, Messenger, Son. Lois Lowry

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      JONAS ENTERED THE Annexe room and realised immediately that it was a day when he would be sent away. The Giver was rigid in his chair, his face in his hands.

      “I’ll come back tomorrow, sir,” he said quickly. Then he hesitated. “Unless maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

      The Giver looked up at him, his face contorted with suffering. “Please,” he gasped, “take some of the pain.”

      Jonas helped him to his chair at the side of the bed. Then he quickly removed his tunic and lay face down. “Put your hands on me,” he directed, aware that in such anguish the Giver might need reminding.

      The hands came, and the pain came with them and through them. Jonas braced himself and entered the memory which was torturing the Giver.

      He was in a confused, noisy, foul-smelling place. It was daylight, early morning, and the air was thick with smoke that hung, yellow and brown, above the ground. Around him, everywhere, far across the expanse of what seemed to be a field, lay groaning men. A wild-eyed horse, its bridle torn and dangling, trotted frantically through the mounds of men, tossing its head, whinnying in panic. It stumbled, finally, then fell, and did not rise.

      Jonas heard a voice next to him. “Water,” the voice said in a parched, croaking whisper.

      He turned his head towards the voice and looked into the half-closed eyes of a boy who seemed not much older than himself. Dirt streaked the boy’s face and his matted blond hair. He lay sprawled, his grey uniform glistening with wet, fresh blood.

      The colours of the carnage were grotesquely bright: the crimson wetness on the rough and dusty fabric, the ripped shreds of grass, startlingly green, in the boy’s yellow hair.

      The boy stared at him. “Water,” he begged again. When he spoke, a new spurt of blood drenched the coarse cloth across his chest and sleeve.

      One of Jonas’s arms was immobilised with pain, and he could see through his own torn sleeve something that looked like ragged flesh and splintery bone. He tried his remaining arm and felt it move. Slowly he reached to his side, felt the metal container there, and removed its cap, stopping the small motion of his hand now and then to wait for the surging pain to ease. Finally, when the container was open, he extended his arm slowly across the blood-soaked earth, inch by inch, and held it to the lips of the boy. Water trickled into the imploring mouth and down the grimy chin.

      The boy sighed. His head fell back, his lower jaw dropping as if he had been surprised by something. A dull blankness slid slowly across his eyes. He was silent.

      But the noise continued all around: the cries of the wounded men, the cries begging for water and for Mother and for death. Horses lying on the ground shrieked, raised their heads, and stabbed randomly towards the sky with their hooves.

      From the distance, Jonas could hear the thud of cannons. Overwhelmed by pain, he lay there in the fearsome stench for hours, listened to the men and animals die, and learned what warfare meant.

      Finally, when he knew that he could bear it no longer and would welcome death himself, he opened his eyes and was once again on the bed.

      The Giver looked away, as if he could not bear to see what he had done to Jonas. “Forgive me,” he said.