The Myst Reader (2 page)

With unthinking care, Atrus climbed down into the cool shadow of the cleft, the strong scent of herbs intoxicating after the desert’s parched sterility. Down here things grew on every side. Every last square inch of space was cultivated. Between the various stone and adobe structures that clung to them, the steep walls of the cleft were a patchwork of bare red-brown and vivid emerald, while the sloping floor surrounding the tiny pool was a lush green, no space wasted even for a path. Instead, a rope bridge stretched across the cleft in a zigzag that linked the various structures not joined by the narrow steps that had been carved into the rock millennia before. Over the years, Anna had cut a number of long trough-like shelves into the solid walls of he cleft, filling them with earth and patiently irrigating them, slowly expanding their garden.

The storeroom was at the far end, near the bottom of the cleft. Traversing the final stretch of rope bridge, Atrus slowed. Here, water bubbled up from an underground spring, seeping through a tilted layer of porous rock, making the ancient steps wet and slippery. Farther down a channel had been cut into the rock, directing the meager but precious flow across the impermeable stone at the bottom of the cleft into the natural depression of the pool. Here, too, was the place where his mother was buried. At one end of it lay a small patch of delicate blue flowers, their petals like tiny stars, their stamen velvet dark.

After the searing heat of the desert sand, the coolness of the damp stone beneath his feet was delightful. Down here, almost thirty feet below the surface, the air was fresh and cool, its sweet scent refreshing after the dryness of the desert outside. There was the faintest trickling of water, the soft whine of a desert wasp. Atrus paused a moment, lifting the heavy glasses onto his brow, letting his pale eyes grow accustomed to the shadow, then went on down, ducking beneath the rock overhang before turning to face the storeroom door, which was recessed into the stone of the cleftwall.

The surface of that squat, heavy door was a marvel in itself, decorated as it was with a hundred delicate, intricate carvings; with fish and birds and animals, all of them linked by an interwoven pattern of leaves and flowers. This, like much else in the cleft, was his grandmother’s doing, for it there was a clear surface anywhere, she would want to decorate it, as if the whole of creation was her canvas.

Raising his foot, Atrus pushed until it gave, then went inside, into the dark and narrow space. Another year and he would need to crouch beneath the low stone ceiling. Now, however, he crossed the tiny room in three steps; lowering the sack from his shoulder, he slid it onto the broad stone shelf beside two others.

For a moment he stood there, staring at the single, bloodred symbol printed on the sack. Familiar though it was, it was a remarkably elaborate thing of curves and squiggles, and whether it was a word or simply a design he wasn’t sure, yet it had a beauty, an elegance, that he found entrancing. Sometimes it reminded him of the face of some strange, exotic animal, and sometimes he thought he sensed some kind of meaning in it.

Atrus turned, looking up, conscious suddenly of his grandmother waiting by he cleftwall, and chided himself for being so thoughtless. Hurrying now, stopping only to replace his glasses, he padded up the steps and across the swaying bridge, emerging in time to see her unfasten her cloak and, taking a long, pearl-handled knife from the broad leather toolbelt that encircled her waist, lean down and slit open one of the bolts of cloth she’d bought.

“That’s pretty,” he said, standing beside her, adjusting the lenses, then admiring the vivid vermilion and cobalt pattern, seeing how the light seemed to shimmer in the surface of the cloth, as in a pool.

“Yes,” she said, turning to smile at him, returning the knife to its sheath. “It’s silk.”

“Silk?”

In answer she lifted it and held it out to him. “Feel.”

He reached out, surprised by the cool, smooth feel of it.

She was still looking at him, an enigmatic smile on her lips now. “I thought I’d make a hanging for your room. Something to cheer it up.”

He looked back at her, surprised, then bent and lifted one of the remaining sacks onto his shoulder.

As he made his way down and across to the storeroom, he saw the rich pattern of the cloth in his mind and smiled. There was a faint gold thread within the cloth, he realized, recalling how it had felt: soft and smooth, like the underside of a leaf.

Depositing the second sack, he went back. While he was gone, Anna had lifted the two bolts of cloth up onto the lip of the cleftwall, beside the last of the salt and flour sacks. There was also a small green cloth bag of seeds, tied at the mouth with a length of bloodred twine. Of the final sack, the one he’d thought had moved, there was no sign.

He frowned, then looked to his grandmother, but if she understood his look, she didn’t show it.

“Put the seeds in the kitchen,” she said quietly, lifting the bolt of silk onto her shoulder. “We’ll plant them tomorrow. Then come back and help me with the rest of the cloth.”

As he came back from the storeroom, he saw that Anna was waiting from him on the broad stone ledge at the far end of the garden. Even from where he stood he could see how tired she was. Crossing the rope bridge to the main house, he went quickly down the narrow steps that hugged the wall and, keeping carefully to the smooth, protruding rocks that delineated the pool’s western edge, crouched and, taking the metal ladle from its peg, leaned across and dipped it into the still, mirrorlike surface.

Standing again, he went swiftly along the edge, his toes hugging the rock, careful not to spill a drop of precious water, stopping beside the ledge on which Anna sat.

She looked up at him and smiled; a weary, loving smile.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the ladle and drinking from it, then offered it back.

“No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “You finish it.”

With a smile, she drained the ladle and handed it back.

“Well, Atrus,” she said, suddenly relaxed, as if the water had washed the tiredness from her. “What did you see?”

He hesitated, then. “I saw a brown cloth sack, and the sack moved.”

Her laughter was unexpected. Atrus frowned, then grinned as she produced the sack from within the folds of her cloak. It was strange, for it seemed not to hold anything. Not only that, but the cloth of the sack was odd—much coarser than those the traders normally used. It was as if it had been woven using only half the threads. If it had held salt, the salt would have spilled through the holes in the cloth, yet the sack held something.

“Well?” she said, amused by his reaction. “Are you going to take it?”

He stared at her, genuinely surprised. “For me?”

“Yes,” she said. “For you.”

Gingerly, he took it from her, noticing that the sack’s mouth was tied with the same red twine as the seed bag.

“What is it?”

“Look and see,” she said, taking her knife and handing it to him by the handle. “But be careful. It might bite.”

He froze, looking to her, perplexed now.

“Oh, go on,” she said, laughing softly. “I’m only teasing you, Atrus. Open it.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he slipped the blade beneath the twine and pulled. The mouth of the sack sighed open.

Putting the blade down on the rock, he lifted the glasses up onto the top of his head, then grasped the sack’s neck, slowly drawing it open, all the while peering into its dark interior.

There was something there. Something small and hunched and…

The sound made him drop the sack and jerk back, he hairs at his neck standing up with shock.

“Careful…” Anna said, bending down to pick the sack up.

Atrus watched, astonished, as she took out something small and finely furred. For a moment he didn’t understand, and then, with a shock, he saw what it was. A kitten! Anna had bought him a kitten!

He made a sound of delight, then, getting to his feet, took a step toward her, bending close to look at the tiny thing she held.

It was beautiful. Its fur was the color of the desert sand at sunset, while its eyes were great saucers of green that blinked twice then stared back at him curiously. In all it was no bigger than one of Anna’s hands.

“What is it called?” he asked.

“She’s called Pahket.”

“Pahket?” Atrus looked up at his grandmother, frowning, then reached out and gently stroked the kitten’s neck.

“That name’s an ancient one. The eldest of the traders said it was a lucky name.”

“Maybe,” Atrus said uncertainly, “but it doesn’t feel right. Look at her. She’s like a tiny flame.” He smiled as the kitten pressed against his hand and began to purr noisily.

“Then maybe you should call her that.”

“Flame?”

Anna nodded. She watched her grandson a moment, then spoke again. “There’s a small clay bowl in the kitchen…”

Atrus looked up. “The blue one?”

“Yes. Flame can use it. In fact, she could probably do with some water now, having been in that sack.”

Atrus smiled, then, as if he’d done it all his infant life, picked the kitten up with one hand, cradling it against his side, and carried her across, vaulting up the steps in twos and threes before ducking inside the kitchen. A moment later he reemerged, the bowl in his other hand.

“Come on, Flame,” he said, speaking softly to the kitten as if it were a child, his thumb gently rubbing the top of its head, “let’s get you a drink.”

 

§

 

As darkness fell, Atrus sat on the narrow balcony that ran the length of the outer sleeping chamber, the dozing kitten curled beside him on the cool stone ledge as he stared up at the moon. It had been a wonderful day, but like all days it had to end. Below and to his right, he could see his grandmother, framed in the brightly lit window of the kitchen, a small oil lamp casting its soft yellow glow over her face and upper arms as she worked, preparing a tray of cakes. They, like the kitten, were a treat, to celebrate his seventh birthday in two days’ time.

The thought of it made him smile, yet into his joy seeped an element of restlessness. Happy as he was here with his grandmother, he had recently begun to feel that there was more than this. There
had
to be.

He looked past the moon, following a line of stars until he found the belt of the hunter, tracing the shape of the hunter’s bow in the night sky as his grandmother had taught him. There were so many things to know, so many things yet to learn.

And when I’ve learned them all, grandmother?

He remembered how she had laughed at that, then leaned toward him.
There’s never an end to learning, Atrus. There are more things in this universe, yes, and more universes, than we could ever hope to know.

And though he did not quite understand what she had meant by that, simply staring at the vastness of the night sky gave him some tiny inkling of the problem. Yet he was curious to know all he could—as curious as the sleeping kitten beside him was indolent.

He looked down from that vastness. All about him the cleft was dotted with tiny lights that glowed warmly in the darkness.

“Atrus?”

He turned, looking up as Anna came and crouched beside him on the narrow ledge. “Yes, grandmother?”

“You have a lot to write in your journal today.”

Atrus smiled, then stroked the kitten, petting it between the ears, and feeling it push back against his fingers.

“I wrote it earlier, while you were in the storeroom.”

“Ah…” She reached out, gently brushing the kitten’s flank with he backs of her fingers. “And how does your experiment?”

“Which one?” he asked, suddenly eager.

“Your measurements. I saw you out there earlier.”

For nearly six months now Atrus had been studying the movement of the dunes on the far side of the volcano. He had placed a series of long stakes deep into the sand along the dune’s edge, then had watched, meticulously measuring the daily movement of the dune, using the stakes as his baseline, then marking those measurements down on a chart in the back of his journal.

“I’ve almost finished,” he said, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. “Another few weeks and I’ll have my results.”

Anna smiled at that, amused and yet proud of the care he took. There was no doubting it, Atrus had a fine mind—a true explorer’s mind—and a curiosity to match.

“And have you a theory?” she asked, noting how he sat up straighter to answer her.

“They move,” he answered.

“A little or a lot?”

He smiled. “It depends.”

“Depends?”

“On what you think is a little, or what you think is a lot.”

She laughed, enjoying his answer. “A little would be, oh, several inches a year, a lot would be a mile.”

“Then it’s neither,” he answered, looking down at Flame again. The kitten was dozing now, her head tucked down, her gentle snores a soft sound in the darkness.

Anna reached out, her fingers brushing his hair back from his eyes. In some ways he was an ungainly child, yet there was something about him that was noble. The kindness, the sharp intelligence in his eyes—these things distinguished him, giving the lie to his physical awkwardness.

“It changes,” he said, his eyes meeting hers again.

“Changes?”

“The rate at which the dune travels. Sometimes it barely moves, but when there’s a storm…”

“Yes?” she asked quietly.

“It’s the wind,” he said. “It pushes the smaller grains up the windward side of the dune. From there they tumble over the crest, onto the leeward side. That’s why the dune is shaped the way it is. The larger, coarser grains don’t move so much, that’s why the windward slope is gradually curved. It’s packed densely. You walk on it as on a rock. But the leeward side…”

“Yes?” she said, encouraging him.