Son (The Giver, #4)

by Lois Lowry

The women listened to the wind as it roared in the chimneys, to the ripping sounds of torn thatch, and to the whimpering of frightened children. They tended the fires, stirred the soups, rocked the babies, and waited. This storm would pass. The sea would calm. It always had.

From time to time, as the years had passed, people muttered that they shouldn’t let newcomers in; the village was becoming crowded, and it was hard, sometimes, for the newcomers to learn the customs and rules. There were arguments and petitions and debates. What if my daughter wants to marry one of them? They talk with a funny accent. What if there aren’t enough jobs? Why should we have to support them while they’re learning our ways? It had been Jonas, during his time as Leader, who had gently but firmly reminded the villagers that they had all been outsiders once. They had all come here for a new life.

“So,” Herbalist said with a smile, “you can’t dance or chew meat. But if you can hear the birds sing and watch the wind in the leaves, then you still have much pleasure left.

“We can watch the dancing and remember our young years. There is pleasure in that.”

But she spent all her time watching over you. She loved you, Gabe. But love wasn’t permitted.”