The Myst Reader (91 page)

As Carrad and Irras helped Esel climb into the E.V. suit, the door at the far end of the lab hissed open and Marrim hurried in.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Master Atrus,” she said, clearly relieved to see that Esel had not yet linked.

Atrus looked up from where he was working and nodded.

Marrim hastened across, moving between Carrad and Oma to slip something over Esel’s neck.

“What is it?” Esel asked quietly. He had already inserted his arms into the suit’s voluminous sleeves and so could not reach the delicate pendant.

“It’s a charm,” Marrim said. “For luck.”

Esel glanced across at Atrus, but Atrus was busy, making a final check of the apparatus they would use to analyze the samples.

“Thanks,” Esel said quietly, clearly touched by her gesture.

Marrim stood back then watched as Carrad and Irras went about their work. Satisfied, they moved back, letting Atrus take over.

“Are you all right in there, Esel?”

There was a muffled response, barely audible. The right-hand glove flexed and unflexed—the signal that all was well.

“Good,” Atrus said. He turned, looking to the others, who at once began to move the bulky suit toward the cage.

As Esel stepped out, then turned to face them, the cell fell silent. There was a tension in the room that had not been there before.

All was ready. Once again, Atrus looked to Esel and placed his left hand over the back of his right, miming the signal. Esel nodded, then nervously copied the movement.

The suit shimmered in the air, then it was gone.

One beat, two beats, and it was back.

No flames, no smoke…

Thank the Maker
, Marrim thought, seeing Esel’s head move through the clear glass of the visor.

At once they swarmed about him, gloved hands reaching through the bars to pluck things from him, divesting the suit of its various sampling devices, even as, overhead, the great machine slowly descended, a fine mist of spray beginning to rain down over the suit, cleansing it.

Only Atrus spoke, questioning Esel about what he’d seen.

“What’s it like?”

“Beautiful!” The word was clear despite the muffling effect of the helmet. But what he said next was less easy to make out.

“What’s that?” Atrus said, straining to hear.

“People,” Esel answered, that single word again quite clear. His eyes shone, a broad grin split his face. “There are
people
there!”

 

 

§

 

 

They linked through an hour later, after the analysis of the samples had confirmed what Esel had seen.

Aridanu was a lush and beautiful Age; a world of huge trees and peaceful lakes. They linked into a clearing overlooking one of those lakes, an ancient wood and stone village nestled into the fold of hills just below them. Smoke rose from a dozen chimneys. As Atrus and his party walked down, men stepped from the cabins to greet them, openhanded and smiling.

When several dozen had gathered, children milling about their feet, they made their introductions. Their spokesman, a man named Gadren, took Atrus’s hands firmly, a broad smile on his face. “We knew you would come back. When we saw the suit…” He laughed. “Why, it half frightened the children to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Atrus began, but Gadren waved his apology away. “No, no…We knew at once what it was, and you were right to take precautions. This is an old world.”

“And beautiful,” Atrus said.

“Yes…” Gadren looked about him thoughtfully, then. “You come from D’ni, I take it?”

“We do.”

“And how
are
things there?”

“We are rebuilding.”

“And are there other…
survivors?
”

“More than a thousand.”

Gadren’s face lit at the sound of that. “A thousand.” Then, more seriously. “And you want us to return, yes? To help you rebuild?”

“You are welcome. Yet the choice is yours.”

“And has anyone said no?”

Atrus hesitated. No one had actually said no. But in three instances there had been a promise to “come later”—promises that had not yet been kept.

“You must do as you see fit,” he answered finally. “If you are happy here…”

“Oh, we are happy, Atrus. Never happier. Yet happiness is not everything, is it? There is also duty, and responsibility. I love this place, true enough, but I was a Guildsman once, and I swore oaths to stand by D’ni to the end. When D’ni fell I felt the obligation had lapsed, but if it is to be rebuilt…”

“You need time to discuss this among you?” Atrus asked, looking about him at the villagers, noting how few of them were older than himself.

Gadren smiled. “There is no need for that. The matter was settled long ago. If D’ni calls, we will answer.” He gripped Atrus’s hands again. “We shall give what help we can.”

 

 

§

 

 

Later, when they were all sitting in Gadren’s cabin talking, someone mentioned the old man who lived alone on an island on the lake.

“An old man?” Atrus asked, interested.

“His name is Tergahn,” Gadren’s wife, Ferras, said before her husband could speak, “and he keeps bitterness for a wife.”

“He lives a hermit’s life,” Gadren said, frowning at his wife.

“Hermit indeed,” Ferras said, making a face back at her husband. “If we see the old stick once a year that’s oftener than most.”

“Is he D’ni?”

“Oh, indeed,” Gadren said. “A fine old gentleman he must have been. A Master, I’d guess, though of what Guild I wouldn’t know.”

“You didn’t know him, then?”

“Not at all. You see, he was passing our house when it all happened. The great cavern was filling up with that evil gas and there was no time for him to get back to his own district. My father, rest his soul, saw him and asked him in. He linked here with us.”

“And afterward? Did he not try to return?”

Gadron looked down. “We did not let him. He wanted to, but my father would let no one use the Linking Book. Not for a year. Then he went himself. After that, no one went.”

“And the Linking Book?”

“My father destroyed it.”

Atrus thought a moment, then stood. “I would like to meet this Tergahn and talk with him. Try to persuade him to come with us.”

“You can try,” Ferras said, ignoring her husband’s frown, “but I doubt you’ll get a word out of him. He’ll scuttle away like a squirrel and hide in the woods behind his cabin till you’re gone.”

“He’s that unsociable?”

“Oh, aye,” Gadren said with a laugh. “But if you’re keen to meet with him, I’ll row you there myself, Atrus. And on the way you can tell me what’s been happening in D’ni.”

 

 

 

§

 

 

Their destination was at the far end of the lake, over a mile from the village. The lake curved sharply here, ending in a massive wall of dark granite. The island lay beneath that daunting barrier, its wooded slopes reflected in the dark mirror of the lake.

As they rowed toward it, that mirror shimmered and distorted.

A narrow stone jetty reached out into the lake. From there a path led up among the trees. Tergahn’s cabin was near the top of the island, enclosed by the darkness of the wood. It was silent on those slopes. Silent and dark.

Standing just below the cabin, staring up into its shadowed porch, Gadren cupped his hands to his mouth and hailed the old man.

“Tergahn? Tergahn! You have a visitor.”

“I know.”

The words startled them. They turned to find the old man behind them, less than ten paces away.

Tergahn was not simply old, he looked ancient. His face was deeply lined, his eyes sunken in their orbits. Not a shred of hair was on his head, the pate of which was mottled with age, yet he held himself upright and there was something about his bearing, a sharpness in his eyes behind the lenses, that suggested he was still some distance from senility.

Atrus took a breath, then offered his hands. “Master Tergahn, I am honored to meet you. My name is Atrus.”

The old man stared at him a while, then shook his head. “No, no…you’re far too young.”

“Atrus,” he repeated, “of the Guild of Writers, son of Gehn, grandson of Master Aitrus.”

The old man’s eyes blinked at that last name. “And Ti’ana?”

“Ti’ana was my grandmother.”

Tergahn fell silent. He looked down at the ground for a long time, as if lost in his thoughts, then, finally, he looked up again. “Ahh,” he said. “Ahh.”

“Are you all right, Master Tergahn?” Gadren asked, concerned for him, but Tergahn gave an impatient gesture with his hand.

“Leave me,” he said, a hint of bad temper in his voice. “I need to talk to the boy.”

Atrus looked about, then realized that Tergahn meant him.

“Well?” Tergahn said, staring pointedly at Gadren. “Haven’t you a boat to look after?” Then, turning, pulling his cloak tighter about him, he stomped past Atrus and up the slope.

“Come,” he said, stepping up into the shadows of the porch. “Come, Atrus, son of Gehn. We need to talk.”

 

 

§

 

 

The interior of the cabin was small and dark, a bulging knapsack sat beside the open door, its drawstring tied.

At the center of the room was a table with a single chair. Standing on the far side of that table, Tergahn put his arm out, indicating that Atrus should be seated.

There were shelves of books on the walls, and prints. Things that must have been there before Tergahn came.

Declining the offer of the chair, Atrus stood there, facing Tergahn across the table.

“Forgive me, Master Tergahn, but I sensed just now, when I mentioned my grandfather’s name, that you knew him.”

“I knew
of
him. He was a good man and an excellent Guildsman.” Tergahn stared at Atrus intently a moment. “Indeed, you’re very like him now that I come to look.”

Atrus took a long breath. “We came here…”

“To ask us to return?” Tergahn nodded. “Yes, yes, I understand all that. And I’m ready.”

“Ready?” For once Atrus could not keep the surprise from his voice. “But surely you’ll want time to pack?”

“I have already packed,” Tergahn answered, indicating the bag beside the door. “When I heard the boat coming and saw you on it, I knew.”

“You
knew?
”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been waiting a long time now. Seventy years in this cursed place. But I knew you would come eventually. Or someone like you.”

“And all this?” Atrus, gesturing toward the books, the various objects scattered on shelves about the room.

“Forget them,” Tergahn answered. “They were never mine. Now come, Atrus. I will not wait another hour in this place.”

 

 

§

 

 

The final searches took much longer than the earlier ones. As Atrus had foreseen, the majority of them proved to be dangerous, unstable Ages, and the E.V. suit found much further use. But there were successes. One Book in particular—an old, rather decrepit volume for which Atrus had held very little hope—yielded up a colony of three hundred men, women, and children. This and a second, much smaller, group—from a Book that had been partly damaged in the Fall—swelled the population of New D’ni to just over eighteen hundred souls. On the evening of that final search, eight weeks after they had linked into Sedona, Atrus threw a feast to celebrate.

That evening was one of the high points of their venture, and there was much talk of—and many toasts to—the rebirth of D’ni. Yet in the more sober atmosphere of the next morning, all there realized the scale of the task confronting them.

When a great empire falls, it is not easy trying to lift the lifeless carcass back onto its feet. Even if many more had survived, it would have been difficult; as it was, there were not enough of them to fill a single district, let alone a great city such as D’ni. At final count there were 618 adult males, and of them a mere 17 had been Guildsmen.

Atrus, making his final reckoning before beginning the next phase of the reconstruction, knew that one thing and one thing only could carry them through: hard work.

Each night he fell into his bed, exhausted. Day after day he felt this way, like a machine that cannot rest unless it is switched off completely. Each night he would sleep the sleep of the dead, and each morning he would rise to take on his burden once again. And little by little things got done.

But never enough. Never a tenth of what he wanted to achieve.

One morning Atrus wandered out to see how Master Tamon was faring. Tamon had cleared most of the fallen masonry from the site, exposing the interior of the ancient Guild House, and now he was about to begin the most delicate phase of the operation: lifting an internal wall that had come down in what had been the dining hall. The fallen wall has smashed through the mosaic floor in several places, revealing the hypocaust beneath it. Master Tamon’s problem was how to clear away the massive chunks of fallen wall without the damaged floor collapsing beneath his team as they worked.

After much consideration, he had decided that this was a simple mining problem—an exercise in shoring up and chipping out—and therefore he had called in “Young Jenniran,” a sprightly ninety-year-old who had been a cadet in the Guild of miners when D’ni fell. When Atrus arrived, the two men were standing, their heads together, on one side of the site, a sheet of hand-drawn diagrams held between them as they debated the matter.

“Ah, Atrus!” Tamon exclaimed. “Perhaps you can help us resolve something.”

“Is there another problem?”

“Not so much a problem,” Jenniran said, “as a small difference of opinion.”