The Myst Reader (20 page)

The old man stared a moment, then turned his head and spat over the edge of the boat.

“It is the mist. It is where the sea ends.”

Atrus frowned. “But surely there’s something out there, beyond the mist?”

But Tarkuk merely looked away.

Atrus looked back. Now that they were closer, he could see that the mist was like a solid barrier, forming a curving wall about the island.

Strange
, he thought.
It’s as if it all really does end there.

As they came farther around the curve of the island, other boats came into sight, anchored a mile or so out from the land—seven of them in all, forming a huge elliptic on the open water, gently rocking in the warm, pleasant breeze.

They joined the others, lowering the sail, anchoring at what was clearly Tarkuk’s position in that flattened circle.

Each in his place
, Atrus thought, conscious of how docile, how amenable these people were.

The old man turned back, a coil of fine-meshed net between his hands. “Would you like to fish, Master?”

“No. I’ll watch, thanks.”

With a nod to his son, Tarkuk turned and, with a strange, looping motion, cast his net out onto the surface of the sea, keeping only the knotted end of a guide string in his hand. Slowly the net drifted to the right, forming a great figure eight in the water. As the string grew taut, he began to haul it in. As he did, Birili cast his own net from the other side of the boat, his stance, his movements so like his father’s that Atrus gave a little laugh of recognition.

The old man had hauled the net over to the side of the boat. Now he leaned over and, with a quick little movement of the wrist, began to loop the net up out of the water and onto the deck.

Atrus sat forward, his eyes wide. The dull brown mesh of the net glistened now with shimmering, wriggling silver. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny silver fish, none longer than his hand, now filled the net. As Tarkuk threw the last coil of the net onto the deck, so Birili, on the other side of the boat, began to draw his in.

So simple, Atrus thought, watching Tarkuk take one of the big rectangular woven baskets from near the bow and, crouching, begin to pluck fish from the net and throw them into it.

Careful not to get in his way and mindful of the gentle sway of the boat, Atrus stepped across and, kneeling, looked into the basket. It was like looking into a chest of silver—only this silver was alive.

Reaching out, he closed his hand about one of the wriggling shapes and tried to pick it up, and found he was holding nothing. The fish had slipped from his grasp.

Atrus raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed, frowning at the unfamiliar smell, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. He had not known they would be so slippery, so slick with oil.

Tarkuk had stopped and was watching him, a deep curiosity in his eyes. Atrus met those eyes and smiled, but the old man was not to be reached so easily. He made a small motion at the corner of his mouth, then looked down, getting on with his work again.

He looked to Tarkuk. “It looks like there are enough fish here in this boat to feed the whole village!”

“You think so?” The old man shrugged. “Once you’ve lopped off the head and taken the bones and skin into consideration, there’s not much meat on a single fish. It would take several dozen of them to make a half-decent meal. Besides, we use them for other things, too. For their fat, mainly. We make oil from it, for our lamps.”

Atrus nodded. “And your clothes?”

“Those are made of linen.”

“Linen?”

“There is a plant. It grows on the island. We harvest it and dry it and then weave it into cloth.”

He had seen it but not known what it was. And in his head, Atrus put another piece of the puzzle into place. Fish that had an oily fat for fuel. A plant that could be woven into clothes. Such things, when written in, would allow human life to thrive in a place like this.

He felt a tinge of admiration for Gehn. It was simple, certainly, but clever. Very clever.

“Can we go out farther?”

“Farther?” The old man seemed puzzled by the question.

“Yes…out there, where the mist is.”

Tarkuk stared at him, his face hard, his whole manner suddenly very different. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see it,” Atrus said, for the first time slightly irritated by the old man’s response.

Birili, he noted, had stopped hauling in his net and had turned to stare at him.

“The currents are too strong out there,” Tarkuk said, as if that settled the matter.

“Nonsense,” Atrus said, knowing suddenly what it was. They were afraid of the mist. They had a superstitious fear of it.

He watched as Tarkuk and his son tersely finished gathering in their nets. Then, when the baskets were fastened and the nets furled beneath the bow seat, a stony-faced Birili hauled up the anchor, then, hoisting the sail again, held the rope taut as the canvas filled.

As they moved out between the boats, Atrus noted the startled looks on the faces of the other fishermen.

Ignoring Tarkuk’s piercing look, he went to the side and trailed his hand briefly in the water, noting how warm it was. The breeze had dropped, but the water was still choppy. Indeed, it seemed to get choppier the farther they sailed from the island.

Ahead, the wall of mist came closer and closer.

Again he let his hand trail lightly in the water, then jerked it back, surprised.

Cold…the water was freezing cold!

Atrus stared down into the water. Out here the water was dark. One could not see where it ended—
if
it ended—beneath them. He had the sudden, gut-wrenching feeling that they had sailed out over some kind of shelf and that beneath them was a mile or more of water.

Ridiculous
, he thought, then turned, looking to where Birili stood, the rope slack in his hand.

He looked to the sail, then frowned. The wind had dropped completely. By rights they ought to be slowing, but the boat was traveling faster than ever.

The currents
, he thought, beginning to understand. He turned, looking to the old man. Both he and his son had their eyes closed now, and were kneeling in the bottom of the boat, as if in prayer. As for the boat, that was sailing itself now, in the grip of something that was drawing it along at a clipping pace.

Slowly the wall of mist approached, filling the sky in front of them. It was cold now, bitterly cold, and as they raced along, the water beneath them seemed to boil and bubble. Then, suddenly, they were alongside that great wall of whiteness, flying along on the surface parallel to it.

Atrus reached across and took the old man’s arm. “Tarkuk! Listen to me! We have to do something!”

Tarkuk opened his eyes and stared at Atrus as if he didn’t recognize him. “
Do
something?”

“Yes!” Atrus yelled. He looked around, then spied the oars that lay in the bottom of the boat. “Come on! If we all row then we might pull free!”

Tarkuk shook his head slowly, but Atrus would not let him lapse back into his fear. Gripping his shoulders now, he shook him hard.

“Come on! I command you! Now row!”

Coming to himself, Tarkuk met Atrus’s eyes and bowed his head. “As my Master commands.”

Tarkuk stood unsteadily, then, raising his voice, barked orders at his son. At first Birili seemed reluctant, as if he had already consigned himself, body and soul, to the deep. Then, like a sleepwalker waking, he took up his oar and sat.

“Here,” Atrus said, sitting beside him. “Let me help.”

He had sculled his father’s boat often enough in the past to know how to row, and he knew they would get nowhere unless they all pulled together.

“Come on!” he called, encouraging them now. “Row if you want to live!”

They heaved and heaved, fighting the current, struggling to turn the boat back toward the island. For a while it seemed that the current was too strong and that all their efforts were about to end in vain, but then, suddenly, they began to pull away.

Sinews straining, they hauled their way, inch by inch across the dark surface of the water, that massive wall of whiteness receding slowly at their back, until, breathless from the effort, they relaxed, staring back the way they had come.

Atrus stretched his neck and looked up, straight into the sky. He ached. Every muscle in his body ached, yet he felt a great surge of triumph.

“Well done!” he said, looking about him and laughing. But Tarkuk and his son were looking down, silent—strangely, eerily silent.

“What is it?” he asked after a moment, touching the old man’s arm. At the touch, Tarkuk jerked away.

Atrus blinked. What was going on here? What had he missed? He had made a mistake, true, but they had survived, hadn’t they? Why, he had forced them to survive! He had made them row when they had given up.

He reached out, shaking the old man by the arm. “What is it? Answer me! I have to know!”

Tarkuk glanced at him, then dropped his eyes again. “We have cheated the Whiteness.”

“Cheated…?”
Atrus laughed, astonished. “What do you mean?”

But the old man would say no more. Slowly Birili got to his feet and, adjusting the sail, turned the boat back toward the island.

In silence they sailed back.

As they climbed from the boat and mounted the steps, Atrus made to speak to Tarkuk again, but the old man seemed reluctant even to acknowledge him now.

Atrus shook his head, perplexed. What had happened out there? Just what exactly had he missed?

He didn’t know. But he would. He would make it his business to find out, before his father returned.

 

§

 

Atrus hurried across the bridge, conscious of the gathering clouds overhead, then ran up the slope toward his father’s tent.

Surprised by his sudden entrance, Koena got up hurriedly, making a little bowing motion, still uncertain quite how to behave toward Gehn’s son. “Young Master? Is everything all right?”

The girl was sitting on the ground nearby, staring up at Atrus.

“No,” Atrus answered, walking past Koena and sitting in his father’s chair.

“Master?” Koena came across and stood before him. “Are there more cracks?”

“No. But there is something I want an explanation for.”

“Master?”

Atrus hesitated, then. “Something happened.”

“Something?”

“Yes, when I was out on the boat. The old man said something about cheating the Whiteness.”

Loena gasped. “You have been out there?”

“Out
where?
” Atrus said, knowing where he meant, but wanting to hear it from his lips.

“To the Mist Wall.”

Atrus nodded. “We sailed the dark current. And then we rowed back.”

Koena’s mouth had fallen open. “No,” he said quietly.

“What is it?” Atrus asked. “What am I missing? What don’t I understand?”

Koena hesitated, his eyes pleading with Atrus now.

“Tell me,” Atrus insisted, “or I shall have my father wring it from you!”

The man sighed, then answered him, speaking reluctantly. “The Whiteness…it was our Master. Before your father came.”

He fell silent. There was a rumble of distant thunder.

Atrus, too, was silent for a time, taking in this new piece of information, then he looked to Koena again. “And my father knows nothing of this?”

“Nothing.”

“The old man and his son…what will happen to them?”

Koena looked down. It was clear he did not want to say another word, but Atrus needed to know.

“Please. You have to tell me. It’s very important.”

The man shrugged, then: “They will die. Just as surely as if you had left them out there.”

Atrus shook his head. Now that he understood it he felt a kind of dull anger at the superstitious nonsense that could dream up such a thing. He stood, his anger giving him strength, making him see clearly what he had to do.

“Listen,” he said, assuming the manner of his father. “Go and fetch the villagers. Tell them to gather outside my father’s hut. It is time I talked to them.”

 

§

 

The sky was darkening as Atrus mounted the steps of the meeting hut and turned to face the waiting crowd. A light rain fell. Everyone was there; every last man, woman, and child on the island, Tarkuk and Birili excepted. Atrus swallowed nervously, then, raising his hands the way he’d seen his father do, began to speak, trying to make his voice—not so powerful or deep as his father’s—boom in the same sonorous way.

“This afternoon we went out to the Mist Wall. We sailed the dark current and came back…”

There was a strong murmur of discontent at that. People looked to each other, deeply troubled.

“I have heard talk that we have somehow
cheated
the Whiteness, and it is for that reason that I have summoned you here.”

He paused, looking about him, hoping that what he was about to say next would not prove too difficult for his father.

“I understand your fears,” he went on, “but I am proof that the Power of the Whiteness is waning. For did I not sail to the Mist Wall and return? Did the Whiteness take me? No. Nor shall it. In fact, when my father, the Lord Gehn, returns, he and I shall go out beyond the Mist Wall.”

There was a gasp at that—a great gasp of disbelief and shock.

“It cannot be done,” Loena said, speaking for all gathered there.

“You disbelieve?” Atrus asked, stepping down and confronting his father’s man.

Koena fell silent, his head bowed. Overhead there was the faintest rumble of thunder. Great clouds had gathered, throwing the bowl of hills into an intense shadow.

Atrus glanced up at the ominous sky, then spoke again. “All will be well,” he said.