The Myst Reader (26 page)

Finally, he took a slender black case from the inside pocket of his tunic and, opening it, took out four long glass tubes and lay them next to the shining silver instruments. That accomplished, he looked up at Gehn, his glasses glinting in the afternoon sun.

“I’m ready, father.”

Gehn lifted his chin slightly, his own glasses opaqued against the brightness. “Then let us see what has resulted, eh?”

Atrus set to work, using one of the scoops to place a small amount of earth into each of the tubes. That done, he picked up the first of the jars, uncapped it, then set it down again.

Using one of the droppers, he drew up a measure of the clear amber liquid and, taking the first of the tubes, added it to the earth, swilling the mixture around at the bottom of the tube.

Lifting it up into the light, he studied it a while, then, nodding to himself, threw the dropper aside and, taking a cork, sealed the tube.

He went through the motions again, this time taking a heaped spatula of light blue powder to add to the earth in the second tube, mixing the two together thoroughly.

Twice more he carried out the procedure, until all four tubes lay stoppered on the cloth. Pleased with himself, Atrus looked to Gehn once more.

“I think it’s worked.”

“You
think
?”

Atrus looked down. “I’m pretty sure it has. The reactions certainly correlate with what I expected, but I’d like to make absolutely sure. I’d like to test them again, back at the hut.”

Gehn nodded, then turned away, drawing his cloak about him as he went. “I shall see you there then, in a while.”

Atrus watched his father a moment, then set about packing away his equipment. He had expected more from Gehn, a smile, perhaps, or some small indication, by word or gesture, that he was pleased with what he had achieved, but as ever there was nothing.

Glancing up, he noticed that the young girl, Salar, was watching from the far side of the meadow, and smiled to himself. He was rather fond of her, in a big brotherly kind of way, but she was not the best of company. It was not as if he could really talk to her; at least not the way he had talked to Anna.

He pushed the thought away, determined not to be morose. Not today, anyway. For today, if his further tests did prove him right, he had achieved a great thing.

As he fastened the sample case, then slipped the instruments back into his belt, he allowed himself a smile.

By rights Gehn should have been inordinately proud of him for finding such an elegant solution; but Gehn was Gehn, his distance part of his intelligence. It had been a full week before Gehn had even read the brief phrase he had written for the Age Thirty-seven book. With a shrug, Atrus stood, looking about him a moment, checking he had not left anything. Then, with a brief wave and a smile to Salar, he started back.

They had built a new hut close to the old woman’s, extending it, as he’d suggested, to include a separate room where they could carry out experiments. Gehn was waiting for him there, his own equipment already set up.

“Here,” he said, gesturing to Atrus. “Give me the samples. I shall carry out my own tests.”

“Father …” He bowed, hiding his disappointment, then handed over the slender case.

But at least Gehn was taking him seriously. When he had first proposed this, Gehn had ridiculed the idea:

“Why, I have been searching for close to twenty years for such a phrase! And you say you have found one that will solve the problem?”

It was not strictly true. He had not found it in a book, he had worked it out for himself from first principles, after studying the matter for nearly eight months. But Gehn had not wanted to hear his explanation. Gehn was interested only in whether it worked or not.

And now it was his turn to watch as Gehn took a little of each sample and, placing each on a separate slide, began to examine the first of them under the big, gold-cased instrument he had brought with him from D’ni.

For a tense few minutes Gehn barely moved, only the faintest movement of his fingers on the calibrated knobs, then he removed his eye from the long tube and looked across at Atrus.

“The bacteria are different.”

“Not all of them.”

Gehn stared at him silently, as if expecting him to say something more; when he didn’t, he looked away, taking the second of the slides and fitting it into the viewing slot.

Atrus watched him, smiling now. Adding to the mix of different bacteria had been the final touch—the thing that had finally made it work. Years ago, in the cleft, he had tried a much simpler, purely chemical solution to the same kind of problem, and had failed. Here he had tried to look at the whole picture—chemical and bacteriological—and it had worked.

It wasn’t the solution to everything that was wrong—and he had been careful, when he’d first presented it to his father, not to offer any form of criticism of the Age—but it was a start. And maybe, if his father trusted him more after this, he could make further changes.

He longed to see the Age Thirty-seven book to confirm his hypotheses and discuss it with his father, but he knew how sensitive Gehn was.

He let out a long breath, remembering the long hours he had spent researching the subject. Until he had begun to study the composition of soil, he had not understood the full complexity of it. But now he saw it clearly. One had to build worlds from the bottom up, beginning with what was below the soil.

Gehn grunted, then looked across again, giving a terse nod.

“This is good. You must show me the book where you found this. It may have other things we can use.”

Atrus looked down. Maybe Gehn would forget. Maybe he’d be distracted by something else. Or, if the worst came to the worst and he insisted, the “book” could have an accident somehow.

“All right,” Gehn said, taking the slide from the viewer, then beginning to pack away the microscope, “let us clear up and get back to D’ni. I think our work is done here for a time.”

“Done?”

Gehn nodded, then clicked the lid shut on the box that held the microscope. “I think we should leave this Age alone for a week or two and see how things develop. If there are any side effects, they should show up in that time.”

“Side effects?”

But Gehn was impatient to return. “Come, Atrus. Pack your things. I want to be back within the hour.”

TWO DAYS HAD PASSED NOW SINCE THEIR
return from the Thirty-seventh Age, and in all that time Atrus had not seen hide nor hair of his father.

He knew where Gehn was, of course, for the very moment they had linked back, Gehn had rushed up the stairs to his study and locked himself in.

Atrus had thought his father might reappear at mealtimes, but he had not come down even then.

And now the darkness was falling on another day, and still he had no idea of what his father was up to.

Walking over to the desk in the corner of his room, Atrus picked up his journal and, stepping out onto the balcony, opened it at one of the earliest entries; one written when he was barely nine years old:

He sat upon the balustrade, looking out toward the great rock and the city beyond, and sighed. Looking back across the years, it was indeed a wonder that they had survived. How much of a wonder, he had not fully realized until now.

I have come a long way
, he thought,
but I have still not half the understanding that she had.

Atrus turned, meaning to go back inside and write a line or two, and saw that Rijus was standing in the middle of the room, looking across at him.

He had long ago got used to the man’s silence and to his sudden appearances in rooms, yet he found himself still curious about what the man knew, what secrets he had. Yes, and what it was like to inhabit a world of words one could not penetrate.

Walking through, he set his journal down, then looked across at the man.

“You have a message for me, Rijus?”

Rijus bowed his head, then held out the note.

At last
, he thought, knowing it was a summons.
What has the man been up to?

He unfolded it and cast his eyes quickly over the elaborate handwriting. It was terse and to the point.

“My study. Now.”

He nodded to Rijus, dismissing him, then went across and slipped the journal into the case he kept it in, locking the clasp with the key. Then, satisfied that all was secure, he hurried out.

Gehn was waiting in his study, ensconced behind his desk. There was a pile of copy books at his elbow, another five spread out along the front of his desk.

With a jolt of surprise, Atrus recognized them. They were his!

“Ah, Atrus,” Gehn said, glancing up, then continuing to write in the open book in front of him, “come and sit down across from me.”

Atrus took the seat, facing his father, watching as Gehn finished the sentence he was writing, then put the pen back into the ink pot.

Gehn looked up at him, then nodded toward the books. “As you see, I have been reading your practice books, and I have selected five which, I feel, have some small merit.”

He waited, tensed now.

“I want you to choose one.”

“Father?”

Gehn passed his hand over the five books. “At present these are but words on paper. But now I am giving you the chance to make one of these books real.”

Atrus blinked.

“Yes. I am giving you a blank book, a
Kortee’nea
. You will choose one of these five books and write it out properly into the
Kortee’nea
.”

Here it was, the moment he had dreamed of, and he was unprepared for it.

“Well?” Gehn said, frowning at him. “Which one is it to be?”

Atrus leaned forward, looking to see which books his father had selected, surprised by the choice of two of them. But his main book was there. He reached out and tapped it. “This one.”

Gehn nodded. “A good choice.” Turning in his seat, he reached down, then lifted a big, leather-bound book from the pile beside him, then held it out to Atrus.

Atrus took it, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart pounding. A book! His father had given him a book!

“You must be very careful, Atrus. Any mistakes you make in copying will be set into the Age. You must check every word, every phrase after you have copied it. Yes, and recheck it. And if you
do
make a mistake, then be sure to bring the book to me.”

He bowed his head. “Father.”

“Good. Now take your copybook and go. And Atrus?”

“Yes, father?”

“You might add that phrase you recently discovered. The phrase about the soil. It will do your Age no harm, after all.”

GEHN LAY THE BOOK FLAT ON THE DESK BEFORE
Atrus, then opened it to reveal the empty descriptive box on the right-hand page. Until he linked, it would be blank—or almost so, for there was a chaotic swirl of particles, like a snowstorm—yet as soon as he emerged into the new Age, the image would appear, as if by magic, on the page.

“Shall I go first?” Gehn asked, looking to him, “or would you like that honor?”

Though he had linked many times now—so often that it had almost become a thing of routine—this once he was afraid: afraid because
he
had made this Age.

“Well?” Gehn insisted when he did not answer.

“I’ll go,” he said, then, taking a long, calming breath, he placed his right hand on the empty page.

There was a crackle of static, as though a faint electrical current had passed through his hand. It seemed drawn into the very fabric of the page, then, with a sudden, sickening lurch, Atrus felt himself sucked into the rapidly expanding whiteness of the page.