The Myst Reader (134 page)

RO’EH RO’DAN STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE
high platform and looked outward. Beneath him the land of Terahnee stretched away into the distance, swathed in the late afternoon mist. From this height it seemed eternal and unchanged, but he knew better. There was not a household down there that had not been touched.

“The bricks alone will stand on that day, / And the blind shall be given eyes.”

He said the words softly, almost in a whisper. Ro’Addarren, his chief adviser, had read them to him only that morning from the ancient book, and now the old man was dead.

“So they were true, after all,” he said, and almost laughed, remembering how excited they all had been when they had heard of the tragedy that had struck D’ni, and how they had thought that
that
was what had been prophesied. Well, now they knew.

But knowing did not help them any.

From far below there came a hammering. He turned, staring down into the depths, and saw the great host at the Valley Gate and knew, without needing to be told, that this was the rabble of new slaves they had brought in from the Ages.

“So be it,” he said, no longer caring about his own personal fate. What did it matter if he died? He was king of nothing now.

But others would not let him succumb to fate. As he stood there, two of his ancient counselors ventured out onto the platform, clearly afraid of the great drop. Their eyes went from Ro’Eh Ro’Dan to the platform’s edge constantly, while they themselves stayed close to the top of the steps.

“You must come, my lord,” one of them said, beckoning to him as if to a child.

“Your boat is awaiting you,” the other added. “If we leave now …”

He sighed, then walked across to them. It was no use arguing. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe once this rabble was dispersed they could rebuild. From what he’d heard many of the slaves were still alive, and they, certainly, would need organizing.

“All right,” he said, letting them usher him down the steps and through his room, out onto the narrow bridge. He was halfway across when some instinct told him to stop and turn, and as he looked back, he saw himself, in memory, greeting the stranger.

I liked him
, he realized.
I really rather liked him.

“Master!” the old men said, trying to hurry him along. “Master, we must be gone from here!”

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the memory, but still he could see them both, cloaked against the coolness of the early morning, and smiled. It made no sense to like the man after all that had happened, and yet he did.

I see you, Atrus.
Then, conscious of the old men fussing all about him, he hurried on toward the waiting boat.

ATRUS STEPPED FROM THE RUINS, THE HEAVY
pack on his back, and, adjusting his lenses, turned to look as Oma and Esel stepped out behind him. They, too, carried the big-framed backpacks. Behind them came the slave-child, Uta, and finally Master Tergahn.

As Atrus turned back, Tamon hurried up. “Atrus! Something’s happening! There are great plumes of smoke in the distance!”

They hurried across to the chairlift. From its upper platform a clear view of Terahnee could be had.

Atrus scanned the distance, then looked back. Tergahn was watching him. “You must listen to me, Atrus,” the old man said. “You did not before and look what happened. We must pull our people out and destroy the Books. Yes, and seal up the Temple, too, for if the relyimah find the Temple they will link through and destroy us all.”

Atrus nodded. “I hear you, Master Tergahn. But I must take this one chance to make amends.” He looked to Tamon. “Master Tamon, if you do not hear from us in two days, you will do as Master Tergahn says. You will dismantle the chairlift and return to D’ni, destroying the Linking Books. Then you will seal the Great Temple.”

“But Atrus …”

“No arguments, Master Tamon. Tergahn is right. We do not know how the relyimah will act, and we cannot risk our people. Two days is sufficient to do what I must do. If I fail, I shall have failed by then, and D’ni will be in danger. Indeed, it might be well to post lookouts.”

Tamon frowned, clearly dismayed by this turn of events. Even so, he bowed his head obediently. “I shall do as you say.”

“Good.” Atrus reached out, taking his old friend’s hands. “I hope it will not come to that.”

“And I,” Tamon said. “Good luck, Atrus, and hurry back.”

Atrus smiled. “I shall do my best, Master Tamon.” Then, signaling to Esel and Oma and young Uta to join him on the chair, he climbed aboard, his eyes going outward to the tall dark plumes that climbed the distant sky.

DESCENDING THE GREAT LADDER OF TIME, WE SEE
       FOUR FACES. THE FACES OF FOUR WOMEN.
           AGED AND DEAD THE FIRST TWO ARE.
  THE THIRD, A DREAMER. THE LAST, A TEACHER
.

—
FROM
THE
VISIONS
OF
JO’IRIMAH
,
CANTO 157

T
HE SUN WAS JUST SETTING AS HERSHA
and his party made their way up the long, sloping ramp and onto the great mound of Gehallah.

There the relyimah were gathered, over twenty thousand strong, the uniformity of their dress and their shaven heads emphasized by the utter silence in which they stood.

A canopy of golden silk had been placed at the center of that massive amphitheater, and in the last rays of the sun four banners—purest black—hung limply. Beneath that canopy a smaller group was gathered. It was toward them that Hersha now headed, Eedrah and Atrus behind him, the others—Oma, Esel, Uta, and two other relyimah—several paces back.

“Hersha,” one of them said, as the old man stepped up onto the platform, a greeting that was quickly taken up by the others there.

“Friends,” Hersha said. “I have come at your summons.”

“And brought others with you, I see,” another of them said, stepping out from where he had been standing at the back.

Hersha looked about him for clarification, clearly not recognizing the man who had spoken.

“I am Ymur,” the man said, hesitantly yet at the same time belligerently. “I am leader of the relyimah of Ro’Tanak.”

Hersha frowned. “I thought Rafis was their leader.”

“He was,” Ymur said humorlessly. “And now I am.”

Atrus, looking on from just beneath the platform, saw how all but Hersha found it hard to meet each other’s eyes. It was as Catherine had said; it was hard for these men, even the boldest among them, to throw off their conditioning. They could not change overnight. Yet they might break altogether under the strains of the new demands on them, and if they did, then there would almost certainly be bloodshed.

“Who are these
strangers?
” Ymur asked.

Hersha turned to one of the others, an old slave, and asked, “Have I to answer to this newcomer, Baddu?”

Baddu looked uncomfortable. “It might be best, Hersha. Eedrah we know, of course, and welcome as a friend, but the others …”

“Are friends also,” Hersha said. “They are ahrotahntee.”

There were looks of surprise at that, for all there had taken Atrus and his fellows for Masters. But Ymur was not convinced.

“Are these not the ones who went to see the Terahnee king?”

“That is so,” Hersha answered.

“Then they have no place here at this gathering.” Ymur looked about him threateningly, then raised his voice. At the sound of it many of those closest to him cowered. “Hear me, brother relyimah. No friend of the Terahnee can be a friend of ours.”

“That is not so,” Hersha began, but Ymur spoke over him.

“It is said that they made a pact.”

“That is untrue,” Hersha said.

Ymur stepped forward, confronting Hersha. “Are you calling me a liar, old man?”

Hersha dropped his gaze. “You heard wrong, that is all. No pact was made. These
are
our friends.”

“So they would have you believe!” Ymur said disdainfully. He turned his back on Hersha. “Myself, I will not hear them.”

“Just as others would not
see
you, Ymur?”

The speaker stepped from the darkness at the back of the platform, his thin cloak rustling about him.

“
Gat!
” The whispered name rippled through the thousands gathered in the growing darkness. “
Gat!
”

The ancient stopped amid those gathered at the center. He was older even than Hersha and his hair was white and long. Hersha had mentioned his name reverently many times, but Atrus had always assumed that the man was legend, buried long ago. Yet here he was, as large as life; a strong, vigorous-looking old man.

“Well, Ymur?”

And as Gat turned to face the younger man, Atrus realized with a shock that he was blind.

Ymur had hunched into himself, his head tucked down, like a beaten dog. “But they are not relyimah,” he grumbled.

“Maybe so,” the ancient said, “yet we would do well to listen to what they have to say.”

From Ymur’s expression he clearly did not like this, but he was not going to argue with Gat. He gave a grudging nod.

“Good, then light the lamps and let’s begin. There is much to be said this night.”

IN THE GLARE OF THE FLICKERING LAMPS—
real lamps, burning in cressets—Gat stepped to the front of the platform and began to speak.

“I remember my father and my mother, and I can recall quite vividly the day that I was taken from them. Blind as I am, I can still see the pain in their eyes. Terahnee did that. Terahnee and the servants of Terahnee. And I vowed that day that I would never forgive them for what they did. That I would fight them to the last—here
inside
me.”

Gat tapped his chest, then paused, his blind eyes searching about him. “Like you I have pretended to be nothing. To bleed and suffer and be silent. To exist for work and yet not to exist at all. To live without love or recognition. All this I did, not choosing to do so, but because I had no choice and found that the force of life in me was stronger than the desire for death. It is that which makes a slave. That choice, when all other choices are denied, to carry on.”

Gat leaned toward them, lowering his voice slightly, as if speaking personally to each one of them. “But now the Masters are gone, it seems. Swept away. And we are free.”

He smiled blindly. “Look about you.
Dare
to look about you. See those who have suffered with you. Meet their eyes and see the pain there that all here have endured.”

Atrus, looking about him, saw how some of the relyimah risked tiny glances at their fellows; but most looked down, ashamed, still locked in the prison of habit.

Gat, blind as he was, seemed to comprehend this, and now his voice softened. “Oh, it is hard, brothers. Perhaps the hardest thing we have ever had to do; to shake off our bonds and be ourselves, not some other man’s
thing.
But we must learn to use our eyes anew. To see each other and thus
cease
to be relyimah. It will take time. Perhaps even a long time. But we must make that journey to seeing. To
being
seen. And while we do, we must be patient. Patient, because it would be unwise to act rashly and hotbloodedly. That path can bring us only more grief, more injustice. The past is past. We must let go of the hatred and bitterness we feel. And so I counsel you, my brothers. To look and see and be calm.”

And with that Gat turned away, stepping back into the darkness.

Next to speak was Ymur. He came to the front of the platform, self-conscious and ill at ease now that he must address the multitude.

“Brothers,” he began. “Gat speaks wisely. Like us, he has suffered. Like us, he has known what it is to be nothing. I say that no man who has not suffered that can speak of it.”

As he said the words, Ymur turned, looking pointedly at Atrus and Eedrah and their party.

“And so we listen to Gat. As now you listen to Ymur, who suffered and was nothing. Who, like you, is relyimah. And I say that I, too, remember the day I was taken from my home. I remember how my father fought the P’aarli and was killed for his pains. And I, too, took a vow that day.”