The Myst Reader (118 page)

Maybe so, yet even he felt impatient at the thought. He wanted to explore this world more than any other he had ever seen, and he knew that all the others felt the same. He had seen for himself how their eyes kept going to that wondrous landscape, awed—one might almost say
stunned
—by its beauty.

They would descend tomorrow, at dawn; unarmed, yet prepared, if necessary, to fight their way back to the cliff and back to D’ni.

And the Linking Book?

He would have Master Tamon rig something up to dispose of the Book if an emergency arose. It was easily done, after all.

From above came the sound of sawing, then a call. As Atrus looked up he saw another of the great trunks lift away and then sway its slow way up the cliff face toward the platform.

Tomorrow then
, he thought, and turned, facing outward once again, seeing the rich greenness of the land there just beyond the branches, below him and to either side.
Tomorrow …

THAT EVENING THEY CAMPED IN THE CLEARING
. The day had been long and hard, but no one wanted to retire, and after supper they gathered on the platform, sitting there long into the night, staring silently out into the sable blackness, upon which was scattered a thousand tiny patches of glowing pearl, like stars upon the night’s dark ocean.

“What do you think?” Irras asked finally.

“I think I could sit here forever,” Marrim answered him, and there was a murmur of laughter at that.

“Maybe so,” Atrus said, standing and stretching, “yet we should get some rest now.”

“Five minutes,” Marrim pleaded, then, pointing, added, “Look, the moon is rising.”

And, true enough, a single, small blue-white moon was just visible above the distant horizon; the smallest of the three that this Age apparently possessed.

Atrus turned, looking across the vast, pearled darkness at that thumbnail of glowing light, entranced by the sight, then nodded. “All right. Five minutes, then.”

DAWN FOUND THEM STANDING AT THE FOOT
of the plateau, in deep shadow, the great spur of ochre rock beneath their feet.

A pleasant wood lay below them, on the far side of which was a watercourse. But Atrus did not mean to travel that way just yet. First he would send out scouts, to see what could be learned about the land and its inhabitants. For this task he chose Irras and Jenniran. He had them set their timers, then promise to be back within the half hour.

They returned with just under two minutes to spare, perspiring heavily. The land, it seemed, was prosperous and there were signs of recent activity, but they had seen not a single person.

Cautious as ever, Atrus sent out Carrad and Esel to make another sweep of the land, but when they returned half an hour later, it was only to confirm what Irras and Jenniran had reported. The land was beautiful but empty.

Taking Catherine aside, Atrus debated the matter a moment, then addressed the rest of them once more.

“If my estimates are correct, the nearest of the dwellings we saw from the plateau is a two-hour walk from here. We’ll make for that, sending out scouts along the way. We have ample food and water, so our only problem will be one of secrecy. If you must talk, speak to an ear, otherwise remain silent. And keep to the trees. But don’t bunch. Keep in a line behind me.”

He paused, then added, “Jenniran, I have a special task for you. You will be our anchor, here at the foot of the plateau. From time to time I shall send a messenger back to report on what we have found. I need you to relay those messages back to D’ni, through Master Tamon.”

Atrus turned back. “Now let us be on our way. But remember, though the land looks peaceful, we do not know the nature or customs of these people. So take care at all times.”

And with that, Atrus turned, leading the way down off the rock and onto the plain below.

AN HOUR’S WALKING BROUGHT THEM TO THE
middle of an orchard of low trees with dark red trunks whose verdant branches bore a strange purple fruit. There they rested, seated on the rich green grass that lay like a carpet between the smooth boles of the trees.

The day was hot, but it was cool enough beneath the branches. If Atrus was right, the great house they had seen from the plateau lay directly ahead, but as yet they had had no sight of it. Atrus sat there now, his measuring instruments open on the grass beside him as he wrote in his notebook.

Marrim closed her eyes and rested back on her elbows, her legs stretched out. For a time she drifted, thoughtless, her head filled with the hum of the local insects. Earlier, she had caught and studied one of them—a large, beelike insect, its “fur” bright red with a spiraling black stripe about the abdomen—and found that it lacked a sting. But so it was here. The beauty of it, combined with the warmth of the day, washed over her like the waves of a warm ocean on a summer’s day.

Oma, who had wandered away for a moment, returned to the clearing, gazing about distractedly, one of the dark, perfectly spherical fruits in his hand. Seeing Atrus he looked across and smiled.

“Oma!” Atrus bellowed. “What in the Maker’s name are you doing?”

Oma blinked, then stared at the partially eaten fruit in his hand and, horrified, dropped it as if it were a burning coal. “I’m sorry, I …” He swallowed. “I forgot, Master Atrus.”

“Forgot!”
Atrus leaned toward him. “If you’re sick, you look after yourself, you understand?”

“But Master Atrus …”

Atrus turned his back. “All right,” he said, “we’d best press on. Irras … scout ahead.”

As Irras hurried away, they rose silently and, slipping on their packs, made their way slowly after Atrus, spread out like shadows beneath the trees.

They had not gone far when Irras returned.

“There’s a path,” he said. “It runs straight.”

“Toward the house?” Atrus asked.

Irras shook his head. “It crosses our way.”

“All right. Let’s go and see.”

It was a broad, well-tended path of loosely chipped white stone, raised up just above the level of the ground to either side. Small culverts, containing the narrow irrigation channels that were everywhere in this land, ran beneath it at regular intervals, while on its far side was a great field of tall, exotic-looking plants with flame-tipped flowers, and beyond that a tree-capped ridge, its foliage dense and dark. As for the path itself, just as Irras had said, it ran straight to left and right. Yet the house, if Atrus’s calculations were correct, lay directly ahead.

“Maybe it curves,” Esel suggested.

“It doesn’t look as though it curves,” Irras answered him.

“No,” Atrus agreed. “Yet maybe we should follow it a while. Perhaps it meets another path, farther along.”

Carrad made to climb up onto the path, but Atrus called him back. “No, Carrad. We keep to the trees.”

Chastened, Carrad did as he was told.

Turning to the right they began to walk. At first they were silent, but after a while, reassured by the peacefulness of the day, the beauty of the land through which they moved, Atrus began to talk.

“It makes you wonder,” he said, pausing to turn and look about him.

Catherine came alongside him. “Wonder what?”

“What kind of people they are who tend this land.”

“A generous people,” she said, without hesitation.

Atrus looked to her. The rest of the party had stopped and were looking about them at the surrounding fields, fanning themselves in the afternoon heat. “You think so?”

“I do. Just look at how rich this land is. There’s so much here. They can afford to be generous.”

Atrus smiled. But Catherine went on. “Where there’s little to go round, each man—and woman—must fight for their share. But when there’s so much …”

“It isn’t always so,” Atrus said. “When I lived with my grandmother, we had little or nothing, yet I would not say we were ungenerous.”

Catherine laughed. “That’s different. What if there had been three or four families living in the cleft, each needing to rake a living from the little that was there? What then?”

“Maybe,” he said, without any real conviction. “But I feel you’re right.”

They walked on, lost in the day’s beauty, each with their own thoughts about the wonders that lay on every side. Half a mile farther on, the path gently climbed, crossing a small, delicately arched bridge. Beneath its single span flowed a stream; a broad blue channel that meandered gently through the fields to their right, finally losing itself among the trees far to the left.

Indeed, they were so taken by their surroundings that it was a moment or two before anyone saw the boat that was moored on the far side of the bridge.

“Atrus!” Oma hissed. “Look!”

The boat was long and broad, its prow elegantly curved, a great awning of yellow silk overhanging the deck, below which rested a number of elegant-looking couches. Beneath that awning, one hand resting lightly on the supporting pole, stood a tall young man dressed in a flowing robe of lavender edged with black. His hair was midnight black and cut in a strange yet elegant fashion, and his eyes were a deep sea green. But the strangest thing of all about him was that, though he looked directly at them, he seemed not to have seen them at all.

“Do I see you?”

Atrus stopped dead. The words, spoken in a clear yet heavily accented D’ni, had come from the stranger, yet still the man did not seem to look at them.

Was he blind? Marrim wondered, seeing the lack of movement in those eyes. Or were those green eyes lenses of some kind?

Atrus took another step toward him. “Where
are
we?”

The young man did not seem to hear him. “Do I
see
you?” he repeated.

Atrus turned, looking to the others, puzzled by the young man’s behavior, then turned back, stepping closer, stopping no more than four or five paces from where the young man stood in the boat.

“We are from D’ni,” Atrus said, speaking slowly and precisely. “We have come from D’ni.”

There was a movement in the young man’s eyes—a movement that wasn’t quite a movement, more a reassessment. A look of understanding slowly entered those orbs that, until a moment before, had seemed sightless.

“From Ro’D’ni?”

Atrus hesitated, then nodded.

“Then come,” he said, the D’ni words clear despite the strange accent. “You must be hungry after your long journey.”

The young man looked about him, taking each of them in one at a time, his eyes resting slightly longer on the figure of Marrim, the eyes narrowing slightly as he noted her boyish hair.

Then, putting out both hands to Atrus, he introduced himself.

“Forgive me. My name is Hadre Ro’Jethhe, son of Jethhe Ro’Jethhe. Welcome … welcome to Terahnee.”