The Myst Reader (11 page)

He looked to his father, meaning to thank him again, but Gehn was sprawled out on his back, fast asleep.

Going across, Atrus stood there a moment, staring down at his father. In sleep he could see the similarities to Anna, in the shape of Gehn’s chin and mouth particularly. Both had striking, noble faces. Both had that same mixture of strength and delicacy in their features. Yes, now that he had the chance to really look he could see that it was only the pallor of Gehn’s skin, the ash whiteness of his hair that made him seem so different. That and the dignified austerity of his manner.

Noticing that Gehn had removed only one of his boots, Atrus gently eased the other boot off and set the two side by side at the head of the bunk. Then, taking the cover from the adjacent bunk, he spread it out over his father.

He was about to move away, when something drew his attention. Reaching down, he picked up the pipe from where it had fallen. For a moment he held it up, studying the engravings that covered the silver bands about the stock, astonished by the detail of the work. Curious, he placed the spout beneath his nose and sniffed. It had a strange, sweet scent; the same as that he had noticed on his father’s breath.

With a sigh, Atrus placed the pipe beside the boots, then went back across, sitting there a while, his fingers idly sorting the fire-marbles, noting the variations of color and size. Then, putting them away, he set the pouch down on the floor beside the bunk and stretched out, his hands behind his head. He was asleep in an instant.

HE WOKE TO FIND GEHN SHAKING HIM.

“Come on, lad. We have a long journey ahead of us today. Get changed and we shall be off.”

Atrus sat up slowly, wondering where he was, surprised not to find himself on the ledge in his own room, his mattress beneath him, the smell of his grandmother’s cooking in the air.

Knuckling his eyes, he put his feet round onto the floor, struck at once by how cold it was, how damp the air.

Feeling sluggish and despondent Atrus stood, beginning to dress, the texture and smell of the new clothes—their smooth softness after the roughness of his own garments—making him feel strange. Pulling on the boots, he felt extremely odd, transformed almost, as if the change went deeper than the surface of appearance.

Atrus looked about him, as if at any moment he might wake, but he could not delude himself: he
was
awake, and he was traveling with his father, down into the depths of the earth.

That thought now thrilled him. He looked to Gehn. “Will we reach D’ni today, father?”

“No. Not today.”

Disappointed, Atrus turned back, beginning to pack away his surface clothes, but Gehn, seeing what he was doing, came across and pulled them from the pack, throwing them to the floor. “You will not need those rags now, Atrus. You are D’ni now. You shall wear only D’ni clothes henceforth.”

Atrus stared at the discarded clothes, reluctant to part with them. They were a link to the past, to Anna and the cleft. To leave them here seemed …
impossible
.

“Well, boy? What are you waiting for?”

Atrus looked up, stung by the sharpness in his father’s voice, then, remembering his promise to Anna, bowed his head obediently. Slipping his own bag into the knapsack, he packed the pouch of fire-marbles and the strange protective hat.

“Good,” Gehn said, nodding decisively as he heaved his knapsack up onto his shoulders. “We shall eat as we go along.”

Atrus blinked, wondering just what his father had in mind, but it was clear Gehn was in no mood for explanations. Buckling his own knapsack, Atrus threw it over his shoulder, then followed his father out.

THEY WENT DOWN THROUGH AN ANT’S NEST
of damp, narrow tunnels that, from time to time, would open out into small caverns before running on into the rock.

At the bottom of a particularly steep and narrow tunnel, they emerged into the largest cavern they had yet encountered. The ceiling was forty, maybe fifty feet above them, while the light from their lanterns revealed only the nearer end of the tunnel, the far end being obscured in darkness. Ahead and to their left a long pool hugged the rock, while to the right the way was made difficult by a jumbled slope of small boulders.

Stopping, Gehn removed his pack and took out what looked to Atrus like some sort of pot or caddy. Setting it down, he then took out his hat and, turning to Atrus, gestured that he should do the same.

“The way gets difficult from here,” he said. “You’ll be grateful for those boots before long.”

But Atrus wasn’t so sure. The boots might look beautiful and smell wonderful, but already both of his heels and the outside of the big toe on his right foot were beginning to rub uncomfortably.

Taking his knapsack off, he found the D’ni helmet and strapped it on, then looked to his father. Gehn shrugged on his pack, then, reaching down, picked up the “pot.”

“Come on,” he said, turning to smile at Atrus. “I think you might like this next part.”

Atrus nodded, then reached down to retrieve his pack. As he did, the whole of the cave in front of him lit up as if a breach had suddenly been made in the roof and the sunlight had rushed in. He looked up, startled, seeing at once that the brilliant light emanated from the “pot,” a broad and powerful beam spreading to fill the far end of the cavern, revealing a sight so amazing that Atrus blinked and rubbed the backs of his hands over his eyes.

It was like a waterfall of crystal, cascading from the ceiling to the floor, its melted, flowing forms unlike anything Atrus had ever seen.

“What is it?” Atrus asked, a note of pure awe in his voice as he followed his father up onto that great pile of rocks, his eyes drawn constantly to the glistening, crystalline curtain.

“It’s called dripstone,” Gehn answered matter-of-factly, moving the beam of the torch across the frozen face of it. “Its formed by mineral deposits in the water leaking through the roof of the cavern, building up over thousands upon thousands of years. Such deposits take many forms—flowstone and dripstone, stalactites and stalagmites, shelfstone and helictites. Some are as delicate as lace, others as brutal as the rock itself.” Gehn laughed. “Never fear, Atrus. You will see many such wonders in the next few hours.”

As they came close, Atrus stopped, staring openmouthed at the sight. He would never have guessed, never in a thousand years—but Gehn was already moving on, down the slope toward the entrance to another tunnel. Taking one last look, Atrus turned, then clambered down the rock, hurrying to catch up.

GEHN HAD NOT BEEN WRONG. IN THE HOURS
that followed Atrus saw a dozen such splendors—caves filled with long, delicate columns no thicker than his arm, jutting like an inverted crystal forest from the ceiling, or huge but delicately ridged candles, endless fringes of tiny, frozen fingers dripping from them, melting into the fluid rock. At the same time, however, his boots began to chafe him badly. Discomfort became soreness, which in turn became pain, such that, after a while, Atrus could not take a single step without wincing.

When, finally, they stopped, in a long, low cave that was edged with shallow pools, the first thing he did was to remove one of his boots.

Gehn came across and knelt beside him. “Show me.”

Gingerly, he let Gehn take his foot by the ankle and study it. The skin had rubbed away in three separate places. Blood streaked his heel and between his toes.

Gehn looked up at him soberly, as if to judge his reaction. “I have some ointment in my pack. It ought to alleviate your discomfort.”

Atrus quickly applied the cream and bandaged his feet, then pulled on his boots again.

“Good,” Gehn said, pleased with him. “Then let us proceed. The path begins just ahead of us.”

Atrus stood slowly, flexing his toes within the bandages. “The path?”

“Into D’ni,” Gehn said, slipping his pack back on.

The words raised Atrus’s spirits, making him momentarily forget his injuries.

D’ni!
he thought, his mind filled with a dozen colorful images from the tales his grandmother had told him over the years.
D’ni!

ATRUS STARED UP AT THE ELABORATELY
decorated stone and metal arch that framed the entrance to the tunnel, then turned, looking to his father.

“Are we there?”

“No,” Gehn answered, “but this is where the path begins.”

Immediately beneath the great arch, the tunnel floor was smoothly paved, the floor covered in an intricate, abstract swirl of variously colored stones and metals that seemed to merge and melt and never repeat itself. The path ran arrow-straight into the tunnel, neither rising nor falling, in a manner that suggested it had been cut by the D’ni, not bored by natural forces.

Following Gehn, Atrus stepped beneath the arch, their booted feet clicking on the marbled floor, the sound echoed back and forth along the tunnel. He was limping now, trying not to put too much weight on his right foot, but he was determined not to complain.

When will we be there?
he wanted to ask, bursting with the excitement he felt at the thought of finally seeing D’ni, but he could see how Gehn was lost in his thoughts and was loath to disturb him.

Partway down the tunnel the air seemed to change, to grow warmer, stuffier, and suddenly there was an old, familiar smell in his nostrils. Sulfur! It was the sharp, eye-stinging tang of sulfur.

Gehn turned and gestured to him. “You had best put your lenses on, lad.”

Atrus did as he was told; then, feeling in his tunic pocket, he pulled out the one item of his clothing he had managed to save, the mask Anna had made for him, and tied it about his nose and mouth. Then, wincing, he hobbled after his father.

Slowly the tunnel grew brighter, warmer, the air stuffier. The tunnel ended abruptly in a sheer drop. Ahead the D’ni path ran on, smoothly, uninterrupted it seemed, on giant pillars of stone. Below it, no more than eighty feet beneath where Atrus stood, was a bubbling lake of lava, black at the edges, a fiery golden yellow at the center.