The Myst Reader (7 page)

Anna found herself grinning, pleased, as ever, by his quickness, his perceptiveness. Atrus rarely needed to be told a thing twice, and often, as now, he was way ahead of her.

“Go on,” she said.

Atrus hesitated, tilting his head slightly, as he always did when he was thinking. Then, choosing his words carefully, he began. “Well, just as those words that describe ideas are a level above the words that are simple descriptive labels, so there’s a farther, more complex level above that. One which this D’ni word functions on.”

“Yes, and?”

“I see that, but…” He frowned, then shook his head. “What I can’t see is what could be more complex than ideas. I can’t picture in my head what that higher level might be.”

“And that’s precisely why there is no English equivalent for this.”

“Yes, but…what does it
mean?
”

“This word—this particular D’ni word—is to do with the circulation of the air. With wind patterns and humidity.”

Atrus stared at her now, his brow knitted. “But…but surely such a word would be a label?”

“No. Not this word. This word does more than simply describe.”

“Then…” But he clearly could not see what she was driving at. He looked to her, his pale eyes pleading for an explanation.

Anna laughed. “You must just accept that there is such a level, Atrus.”

“But you said…”

“I know what I said, and I still mean it. You must question everything and find the truth in it. But this once you must simply accept what I’m telling you. There is something beyond labels and ideas. Something which is a synthesis of the two. Something the D’ni discovered many, many years ago, and learned to put into words. One day you will understand more clearly, but for now…”

She could see Atrus was unhappy with that. He had been taught to question everything. To look with his own eyes, and quantify, and check. He had been taught never to accept things simply because he had been told they were true. And now…well, now she was asking him to break the habit of his thought.

I should not have had him draw that word
, she thought, wondering at the instinct which had made her do it.
He is not yet ready for the Garo-hevtee
. Yet generally she trusted her instincts. Generally they were proved right.

As he looked away, she could see how he was still struggling with the notion of how an idea could also be a label, how something so general could yet be specific and descriptive, and part of her wanted to put him out of his misery and tell him. But he wasn’t ready yet.

Anna stood and stretched, then looked about her at the orderliness of the cleft. Sometimes, in her imaginings, she thought of the cleft and of her grandson’s mind in much the same vein, as if the one were a metaphor for the other. Yet at that moment she understood the inadequacy of the comparison, for just as one day he would outgrow this tiny living space and venture out into the world, so his thoughts and speculations were certain one day to outgrow her careful nurturing of them.

Looking at him, she knew he was destined to be greater than herself. Wiser, more formidable of mind. Yet the thought did not scare her or make her envious. If anything, it made her sad, for she got great pleasure from teaching him, and to think of losing that…

Anna sighed, then, picking her way carefully across the cleft, mounted the steps. It was time to make supper.

 

§

 

A full month passed and as the moon came round to full once more, Atrus made his way idly up the slope, whistling to himself—one of the songs Anna had taught him as a child: a D’ni song that had the simplest of tunes. And as he whistled, he heard Anna’s voice in his head, softly singing the refrain.

As he came to the end of it he looked up, and stopped dead, staring openmouthed at the sight that met his eyes.

Ahead of him, the whole of the upper slope was wreathed in a thick cloud of brilliantly white vapor, as if a thick curtain had suddenly been dropped over the volcano’s edge. The mist slowly roiled, like the steam on the surface of a cooking pot, neither advancing nor retreating, yet turning in upon itself constantly.

It was so strange, so unlike anything Atrus had ever seen, that he stepped back, suddenly afraid. And as he did, a man stepped from within that glistening whiteness, seeming for a moment almost to be a part of it; a tall, unearthly figure with a large forehead and a strong, straight nose, over the bridge of which were strapped a pair of glasses identical to Atrus’s own. A white cloak flapped out behind the stranger, giving him the appearance of some great mythical king.

Rooted to the spot, Atrus watched the stranger walk down the slope toward him, his fear transformed to awe by the strength and energy, the controlled power and cold assurance of the creature who approached.

Atrus staggered back, astonished. Above him, the figure stopped and, lifting the thick lenses that covered his eyes, squinted down at Atrus.

“I see you have my glasses.”

Atrus stared, unable to answer. The man who stood above him was as pale as the moon, his hair as white as bleached marble, and the irises of his eyes were huge, a thin circle of pale green about them. His cheekbones were finely chiseled and yet strong, his hands both delicate and powerful. Everything about him—from the cut of his clothes to his aristocratic demeanor—spoke of an innate strength allied to an effortless elegance. He seemed old, cerainly, but in a timeless way that reminded Atrus of his grandmother.

He stared back at Atrus, as an eagle stares, then spoke again. “Well, boy? Have you no greeting for your father?”

“My…” Recognition hit Atrus like a physical blow. He shook his head. “I…”

“What’s your name?”

“Atrus…”

“Atrus…of course…” The man stretched out a hand and placed it on Atrus’s head, the contact like an electric shock. “And I am Gehn, son of Atrus.”

Atrus swallowed. He was dreaming. For certain he was dreaming. Nervously he touched his tongue against his upper lip, feeling the hard, salty shape of a grit of sand.

No. Not a dream
.

“Gehn,” Atrus said softly, echoing the word.

The stranger nodded, then removed his hand. “Good. Now go and inform your grandmother that she has a visitor.”

 

§

 

Atrus ran down the moonlit slope, calling to Anna loudly as he ran, the dust flying up behind him. As he came to the cleftwall, he almost vaulted it, forgetting to remove his sandals.

“Grandmother! Grandmother!”

Her head poked from the kitchen window, startled. “What’s happened?”

Atrus stood on the swaying bridge, breathless, gasping his answer. “A stranger’s come! He sent me on ahead!”

Anna’s mouth fell open. “Gehn…” she said, almost whispering the word. Then, collecting herself, she ducked back inside. There was the sound of a metal bowl falling against the stone floor, and then the outside door flew open. Barefoot, she hurried down the steps that hugged the wall, her haste surprising Atrus.

“Grandmother?”

But she barely seemed to heed him as she circled the narrow rim of the inner wall and began to climb the rung ladder.

Atrus turned, watching as she clambered up onto the cleftwall, even as the stranger with the ash-white hair, the man who called himself his father, strode across and stopped, barely ten feet from the cleft.

“Mother?” he asked quietly, tilting his head slightly.

“Gehn,” she said once more, hesitating. Then she stepped closer, hugging him tightly. “Where have you been, my son? Why in the Maker’s name did you not come back?”

But Atrus, watching, noticed how the warmth of her embrace was not reciprocated, how lightly the stranger’s hands touched her shoulders, how distant he was as he stepped back from her, like a great lord from one of the tales.

“I came to see the child,” he said, as if he’d not heard her. “I came to see my son.”

 

§

 

Atrus lay sprawled out on his belly on top of the cleftwall, staring across at the shadowed rectangle of the kitchen, and at the bright square of the window in which Anna and the newcomer were framed. Though the two had been talking for some while now, little of real importance had been said. Even so, there was a strange tension between them. Anna, particularly, seemed to be walking on eggshells, afraid to say too much, yet keen to know where Gehn had been and what he had done. By comparison, Gehn was relatively taciturn, ignoring her questions when it suited him not to answer them.

Just now, Gehn was sitting on the polished stone ledge, to the right of the tiny galley kitchen, beside the door, his booted feet spread wide, his long, delicate hands resting on his knees, as he looked up at Anna. He had removed his cloak. Beneath it he wore a close-cut suit of midnight blue, the jacket edged with scarlet and decorated with a pattern of repeated symbols in red and green and yellow. It was so rich, so marvelous, Atrus could barely keep his eyes from it. But there were other fantastic things to be seen, not least of which was the pipe that lay beside him on the ledge.

The bottom of the pipe was a hollowed wooden bowl, from which a shaped glass stock, trimmed with silver, led to a curved copper mouthpiece. A tiny domed cap was set into the bowl in front of the stock, while at the center of the bowl, feeding into the glass of the stock, was a thick silver spindle.

As Atrus watched, Gehn took a tiny glass sphere from a pouch in the thick leather belt he wore. Turning it upside down, Gehn shook it gently, revealing a clear liquid that moved slowly, glutinously, its surface reflecting the yellow lamplight like oil.

Resting the sphere on his knees, Gehn unscrewed the lid to the spindle and set it aside, then poured a tiny amount of the liquid into the stock and replaced the lid. Then, taking a small leather bag from his jacket pocket, he took something from inside.

Atrus gasped. It looked like the marble he had found earlier. Gehn placed it within the domed cap.

Anna turned from where she stood and looked at Gehn. “Will you be staying long?”

Gehn glanced at her, then replaced the lid of the cap. “No. I have to leave tomorrow,” he answered, his voice heavily accented.

“Ah…” There was regret in Anna’s voice; hurt in those dark, familiar eyes. “It’s just that…well, I thought you might stay with Atrus a while. Get to know him, perhaps. He’s a good boy. You’d be proud of him. And after all…”

Gehn tightened the cap and looked up at her, his face expressionless. “I intend to take him with me.”

Anna turned, facing him, shock in her face. “With you?”

Atrus, watching from the darkness, felt his pulse quicken, his mouth grow dry. His heart was thudding in his chest.

Gehn lifted the pipe, staring at it, then cupped it between his hands and pressed this thumb down on the silver spindle. There was a snapping sound and the pipe seemed to come alive, burning briefly with a fierce blue light. After a moment, that same light filled the whole of the stock, making the strange, oil-like liquid gently bubble.

In that strange, unearthly light, Gehn’s face seemed very different, the shadows inverted.

“Yes,” he answered, meeting Anna’s eyes. “Have you a problem with that?”

“But Atrus belongs
here
…”

“
Here?
” There was incredulity in Gehn’s voice. “And where is
here?
Nowhere, that is where. A hole in the ground, that’s all this is. Yes, and that’s all it will
ever
be. This is no place for a son of mine. No place at all.”

Anna fell silent, watching Gehn as he lifted the copper mouthpiece to his mouth and inhaled, the muscles in her cheek twitching oddly. Then spoke again, quieter than before, yet with a firmness Atrus recognized at once. “But he’s not ready yet. He’s too young. There’s so much he has to learn…”

Taking the pipe from his mouth, Gehn interrupted her. “Of course Atrus is ready. Why, he is exactly the age I was when I first left here. And as for his education, that is the very reason I returned, so that I could teach him.”

“You?”

Anna’s tone was incredulous, yet Gehn seemed indifferent to her criticism. “Who better? I am, at least, educated to the task. And I
am
his father.”

“Gehn set the pipe down and leaned toward Anna, frowning. “You
did
tell him about me?”

She looked away, a tightness in her face.

Gehn stood, angry now. “You mean you told him
nothing?
Kerath damn you, woman! How
could
you?”

Anna kept her voice low, conscious of Atrus outside, listening. “And what was I to say? That his father left the very hour he was born? That he didn’t even care enough to
name
him?”

“I would have called him Atrus. You know that.”

She turned back, glaring at him, suddenly, explosively angry. “Yes, but you didn’t!
I
did. Yes, and
I
raised him.
Me
, Gehn, not you. And now you want him back, as though he were a parcel you’d left with me for safekeeping! But boys aren’t parcels, Gehn! They’re living, growing things. And Atrus hasn’t finished his growing.”

“I shall decide that,” he said gruffly. “Besides, he can help me with my studies. Be my assistant.”

“Your assistant?”

“In my researches. I have need of a willing helper, and the boy seems willing enough.”

“Researches into what?”

“Into the D’ni culture.”

“The D’ni?” Anna laughed bitterly. “All that has gone. Don’t you understand that yet?”

“No,” he answered, drawing himself up, a note of pride entering his voice. “You are wrong. That is where I have been these past fourteen years. In D’no. Researching, studying, seeking out the great and mighty secrets of the D’ni culture.” He gave a single, dignified nod. “I tell you, none of it was lost. It is still all there.”