The Myst Reader (89 page)

But of this she said nothing.

“And you, Master Tamon?” she asked. “Did you blame Ti’ana?”

“Not I,” the old man said, and Catherine could see he meant it. “Oh, I thought her strange, I don’t deny. But she was honest. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see just how honest she was.”

“Then come back with us, Master Tamon,” Atrus said, leaning toward him. “Help us rebuild D’ni. It will take time, I know. A long, long time, perhaps. But time is what we D’ni have plenty of.”

Tamon stared back at him, then shrugged. “I must talk some more with my own people. Discuss things with them further. Only then…”

“I understand,” Atrus said. “Yet in your deliberations, remember this. There will be other survivors. Hopefully many. And they will make the task easier for us all. Every extra pair of hands will make a difference.”

“I see that,” Tamon said. Then, changing the subject, he turned and clapped his hands. At the signal, two young boys—barely out of their infancy—came across and, bowing, presented themselves to Atrus and Catherine.

“My grandchildren,” Tamon said, smiling proudly at them. “Arren, Heejaf…say welcome to the good people.”

The two boys bowed, and then, in perfect D’ni, bid their guests welcome and good health. Atrus grinned and clapped his hands loudly, but Catherine, watching the old man, seeing how proud he was at that moment, knew, even before he had discussed the matter with his fellow villagers, what the answer would be.

 

 

§

 

 

It was only later that they learned of the old man’s tragedy.

Nine days after the fall of D’ni, his son, Huldref, had volunteered to link back, to try to discover what had happened and whether it was safe to return. He had promised he would be back within a day with news, but Huldref had never returned. Doubtless he had succumbed to the plague that had claimed so many other victims. And Tamon and his wife had been left to grieve.

That night, however, the mood of Tamon and his people was much brighter. News that D’ni was to be rebuilt had stirred the survivors and they were eager to get back and help. Packing what they would need, they prepared to link back to their home Age—an Age many of them, far younger than old Tamon, had never set eyes upon.

“We shall return to D’ni,” Atrus said, taking Tamon’s hands, “and prepare things for your people. There are makeshift shelters and beds. Enough for all of you.”

“Then let us meet again tomorrow, Atrus, son of Gehn,” Tamon said, his old hands gripping Atrus’s tightly. “Tomorrow. In D’ni.”

But Atrus was to have one further surprise. As the disorientation of the link back to D’ni wore off and he looked about him at the harborside, he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. On the far side of the square, a whole village of tents had sprung up. And people! There were people everywhere Atrus looked, sitting on their packs outside the tents, or standing in groups, talking. Seeing him, they fell silent, looking to him expectantly.

“Gavas?” Atrus called, looking to his young helper, even as Catherine and Marrim linked through. “What is going on here?”

“Atrus?” a voice asked from behind him. “You are Atrus, I assume?”

Atrus turned to find himself facing two men, in their thirties; a small rather rotund man with disheveled hair, and a taller, dark-haired man with huge dark eyebrows and a frowning face. From their pale eyes he knew at once who they were.

The first of them—the one, he presumed, who had spoken—offered his hands.

“I am Oma,” he said, “from Bilaris. And this is my brother, Esel.”

 

 

§

 

 

“Well,” said Atrus, once they were all seated about the desks in the makeshift storehouse, “when did you get here?”

“Six hours back,” Esel answered. “Just before you last linked.”

Atrus narrowed his eyes. “You saw that?”

“We witnessed everything,” Oma said, getting in before his brother could speak again, one hand nervously combing through his lank, disheveled hair. “From the very start. We saw you…”

“We saw you, on K’veer,” Esel said. Unlike his brother, he sat very still, like a statue, his face formed into what seemed a permanent frown. Indeed, looking at the pair from where she sat at Atrus’s side, Catherine could not think of two men who looked less like brothers.

“You’ve been watching us all the time?” Atrus asked.

“Most of the time,” Oma conceded. “We weren’t sure.”

“So what made you change your mind and join us?” Atrus asked.

“Intuition,” Esel said.

Atrus waited, and after a moment Oma explained. “Things
felt
right. We watched what you were doing and there seemed no harm in it.”

“We talked a long while,” Esel added, “back in Bilaris, and we…”

“About that,” Atrus interrupted. “We visited your Age. There was nothing there.”

“So it seems,” Oma said, a faint smile on his lips. Again his fingers raked through his lank hair. “After D’ni fell our father thought we should take precautions. He decided that we should move from the main island. We built dwellings on the smaller islands…”

“On the far side of them,” Esel added, “where they couldn’t be seen from the main island.”

“So that’s it!” Atrus said, sitting back and steepling his hands, the mystery solved. “And your father…”

“Died twelve years ago,” Oma said, looking down.

“I’m sorry,” Atrus said.

“He was a Guildsman,” Esel said, after a moment. “A Master in the Guild of Archivists. He taught us.”

“And it was your idea to come back?” Catherine asked, speaking up for the first time.

Again the two men looked to each other.

“Our father never wanted us to,” Oma said. “Oh, he came back several times himself, but the mere sight of what had happened here would always darken his spirits. In the end he stopped coming.”

“But you came back,” Catherine prompted, “after his death.”

“Yes,” Esel answered. “Our people looked to us, you see. On Bilaris…well, there was no future on Bilaris.”

“And there’s a future here, you think?” Atrus asked.

“Yes,” the two men answered as one, then grinned—the same grin from two very different faces. And suddenly Catherine could see that they were indeed brothers.

“We want to help you,” Esel said.

“There are many craftsmen among us,” Oma added, “stonemasons and technicians.”

“That’s good,” Atrus said. “But how many of you are there?”

“The number will be no problem,” Esel said, sitting forward slightly. “We can live under canvas until more permanent quarters are available. And we can bring food from Bilaris. Fruit and fish. And fresh water.”

“Excellent,” Atrus said. He was about to say something more, but Catherine spoke again.

“Forgive me, Oma and Esel, but what exactly do you do?”

Oma looked to his brother. “We are…historians.”

“Of a kind,” Esel said quickly, a strange look of censure in his eyes.

“Of a
kind?
” Catherine asked, watching him closely.

“Of the self-taught variety,” Esel said, looking directly at her.

Again, there was that openness about him that she had seen in Tamon earlier. The loss of masks. As if, in being forced to live away from D’ni and its intense social pressures, they had all shed several layers of skin.

“Then you are among fellows,” Atrus said, “for we have all been forced back upon our own resources since D’ni fell. There is no shame in being self-taught, only in not seeking learning in the first place.”

“Well spoken,” Oma said, grinning once more. But beside him Esel just stared at Catherine, unaware that he was doing so.

 

 

§

 

 

When Tamon and his party finally arrived the next morning, they began to organize what part each would play in the coming reconstruction. It was generally agreed that the overall planning would be left in Atrus’s hands, but that Tamon, as a former member of the Guild of Stonemasons, was to be placed in charge of the actual stone-working.

There was a need, of course, to create sufficient living quarters for those returning from the Ages—for they had already outgrown their harborside site—but it was also felt that some kind of gesture was necessary: something that would symbolize the rebirth of D’ni. It was Tamon’s task to come up with a suitable scheme, something that would raise their spirits but not divert too much time and energy away from more practical measures.

By late afternoon he returned, his eyes twinkling. “The old Inkmakers Guild House,” he said, in answer to Atrus’s unspoken query. “I’ve just come back from it, and it seems relatively undamaged. Nothing structural, anyway. There are a few cracks, of course, and a few of the internal walls have come down, but otherwise it appears sound.”

“Then that’s where we begin,” Atrus said, looking about him at the gathered helpers, who numbered more than a hundred now. “But the search must go on. Until all the D’ni are home.”

There was a great murmur of agreement from all sides. Smiling, Atrus turned back to Tamon. But Tamon had turned and was staring up once more at the massive pile of ruined stone that climbed and climbed into the darkness of the cavern’s roof, and as Atrus looked, he saw the old man’s eyes fill with uncertainty and knew he would have to be a pillar of strength in the days to come.

To see them through. To make sure they do not turn back.

“You must tell me what tools you’ll need, Master Tamon,” Atrus said, speaking as if he had seen nothing. “And men. What will you need? A dozen?”

Tamon turned back, switching his attention back to the practicalities once again. “Oh, not as many as that. Eight should do it. After all, we must not neglect our other duties.”

“No,” Atrus agreed, holding Tamon’s eyes a moment, letting his own certainty register on the old man. “One step at a time, eh?” he said, and, stepping close, touched the old man’s shoulder briefly. “One step at a time.”

 

PART THREE

 

INNER AND OUTER MEET IN A FACE ON A PAGE.

 

DEEP LINES AND ANCIENT EYES. MIRRORED.

 

THE DOOR IS OPEN. THE STRANGER COMES.

 

BLACK FLIED THE CLOUD BEHIND THE NEWCOMER.

 

 

 

 

 

 

--EXTRACT FROM GEHN’S NOTEBOOK.

 

 

ATTRIBUTED TO GERAD’ GENA (UNDATED)

 

Marrim raised the visor of the protective helmet and looked across to where Atrus looked on, his own face similarly shielded.

“Well?” she asked. “Is it okay?”

Atrus stepped forward and crouched, examining the slab of stone.

The room they were in was small and enclosed—its thick stone roof distinguishing it from every other building on the harbor front—and it was hot. Very hot. The fierce orange glow from the corner forge colored everything in the room, seeming to bleed into the air and melt the edges of objects. Beneath the thick leather clothing she wore, Marrim felt extremely uncomfortable. Her neck and back were slick with sweat, but she did not complain. After all, she had volunteered for this job.

“It looks good,” Atrus answered, straightening up. “A nice straight cut. We can chip out the rest.”

She smiled. If Atrus said it was good, it was good. He didn’t mince words when it came to such matters. Either a thing was done properly or it wasn’t worth doing—that was his philosophy.

Marrim went across and pushed the forge door closed, then reached up, taking one of the medium-sized hammers from the rack on the wall. She would chip it out right now, herself, before Master Tamon returned.

“Hold,” Atrus said. “Not too eager now.”

“But…”

“There’s no rush,” Atrus went on. “It will not harm if you wait until Master Tamon comes back. Besides, he’ll want to check this for himself.”

That much was true. Old Tamon did not let a thing pass without checking it. And sometimes—just sometimes—that could be wearing on the nerves. But Marrim did not argue. She put the hammer back, then, crossing to the door, slid back the bolt and stepped outside, into the cooler air.

She pulled off her helmet, then turned. Atrus was watching her from the doorway.

“What did your father say?”

“My father?”

“About your hair.”

Five weeks back, before she had returned to Averone, she had cut her hair short. Not conscious she was doing so, Marrim reached up, her fingers brushing the fringes of her dark hair where it lay against her neck. “He…didn’t say.”

“No?” There was a tone of surprise in Atrus’s voice, but he did not pursue the matter.

Marrim glanced at him, then looked away. “I practiced, you know. Cutting stone, I mean. I took a hammer and some chisels with me when I went back…and a mask.”

“And gloves, I hope.”

She smiled. “And gloves. I’d sit on the rocks, on the far side of the island, and chip away. I’d carve shapes in the stone.”

Atrus was watching her earnestly now. “You wanted it that much, eh?”

Marrim met his eyes. “To be a stonemason? Yes. It seemed of the essence of what you D’ni are. You live in the rock. You know it better than anything else.”

“Even writing?”

She nodded. “Even that. I mean, the writing’s wonderful—astonishing, even—yet it seems almost secondary to what the D’ni really are. Or were. When I watch Master Tamon at work, I seem to glimpse something of how it must have been.”

“Yes,” he said, clearly pleased by her understanding. “It took me a long time to take in. Yet the two processes have much in common, Marrim. Both require long and patient planning. Before one makes a single cut, or writes a single word, one must know why. One must have clearly in mind not just that single part, but the whole, the
totality
of what one is setting out to achieve.”