The Myst Reader (8 page)

Expressionless, she handed him the bowl. “Drink that, then come. I’ll make you breakfast. I think it’s time I told you a story.”

ATRUS HAD BEEN SITTING ON THE LEDGE
beside the kitchen window, the empty bowl beside him as he listened, fascinated, to his grandmother’s tale.

He had heard all kinds of tales from her across the years, but this was different; different because, unlike the others, there were no great deeds of heroism, no man to match the hour. Yet, finishing her tale, Anna’s voice shook with emotion.

“… and so, when Veovis finally returned, the fate of the D’ni was sealed. Within a day the great work of millennia was undone and the great caverns of the D’ni emptied of life. And all because of Ti’ana’s misjudgment.”

Atrus was silent a while, then he looked up at Anna. “So you blame Ti’ana, then?”

She nodded.

“But she couldn’t have known, surely? Besides, she did what she thought best.”

“To salve her own conscience, maybe. But was it best for the D’ni? There were others who wanted Veovis put to death after the first revolt. If their voices had been listened to … if only Ti’ana had not spoken so eloquently to the Great Council …”

Anna fell silent again, her head lowered.

Atrus frowned, then shook his head. “I didn’t know …”

“No …” Anna stared a moment longer at her hands, then looked to him and smiled. “Nor does it really matter now. All that is in the past. The D’ni are no more. Only the tales remain.”

He took the still-glowing marble from his pocket and held it out to her. “I found it on the floor of the volcano.”

At the sight of the marble her whole countenance changed. “
Where
did you say you found it?”

“In the volcano,” he said, his voice less certain than before. “Near where the battery had fallen.”

She stared back at him. “In the tunnel?”

“Yes.”

Slowly Anna reached out and took the fire marble from his hand, holding it up, she dropped it suddenly into the bowl of water at her side. Instantly it was extinguished.

“You must not go there again, Atrus. It’s very dangerous down there.”

“But grandmother …”

She stared at him, her normally gentle face harder than he had ever seen it. “You must not go there again, Atrus. You’re not ready yet. Promise me, Atrus, please.”

“I promise.”

“Good,” she said, more softly, reaching out to rest her hand upon his shoulder.

EACH AFTERNOON, AS THE SUN BEGAN TO
descend and the shadows spread across the foot of the cleft, Anna and Atrus would sit in the cool shade on the low stone ledge beside the pool and talk.

Today, Atrus had brought his journal out and sat there, the ink pot beside him on the ledge, copying out the word Anna had drawn on a loose sheet. For a while he was silent, concentrating, his keen eyes flicking from Anna’s drawing to his own, checking he had the complex figure right. Then he looked up.

“Grandmother?”

Anna, who was sitting back with her head against the cool stone wall, her eyes closed, answered him quietly. “Yes, Atrus?”

“I still don’t understand. You say there’s no English equivalent to this word. But I can’t see why that should be. Surely they had the same things as us?”

She opened her eyes and sat forward, stretching out her bare, brown toes, then, placing her hands on her knees, she looked at him.

“Words aren’t just words, Atrus. Words are … well, let me see if I can explain it simply. At the simplest level a word can be a label. Tree. Sand. Rock. When we use such words, we know roughly what is meant by them. We can see them in our mind’s eye. Oh, what precise
kind
of tree, or sand or rock, for that we need further words—words which, in their turn, are also labels. A large tree. Or, maybe, a palm tree. Red sand. Or, maybe, fine sand. Jagged rocks. Or, maybe, limestone rocks. The first word alters our sense of that second word in a fairly precise manner. At another level, words can represent ideas. Love. Intelligence. Loyalty. These, as I’m sure you see at once, aren’t quite so simple. We can’t simply add an extra word to clarify what we mean, particularly when the ideas aren’t simple ones. To get to the real meaning of such concepts we need to define them in several ways. Love, for instance, might be mixed with pride and hope, or, perhaps, with jealousy and fear. Intelligence, likewise, might refer to the unthinking, instinctive intelligence of an ant, or the deeper, more emotionally rooted intelligence of a man. And even within men, intelligence takes on many separate forms—it can be slow and deep, or quick and sparkling. And loyalty … loyalty can be the blind loyalty of a soldier to his commander, or the stubborn loyalty of a wife to a man who has wronged her. Or …”

She saw he was smiling. “What is it?”

He handed her the loose sheet back. “I think I see. At least, I think I know what you were going to say.”

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, certainly, 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.”