The Myst Reader (21 page)

Atrus stared at his father, surprised. This was the first he had heard of any of this. But Gehn spoke on, his voice booming now.

“Whatever he wants, you will give to him. Whatever he asks, you will do. Is it understood?”

“It is understood,” two hundred voices answered as one.

“Good!” Gehn said, then raised his left hand imperiously, dismissing them. He turned to Atrus.

“Come, Atrus. Inside.”

Atrus hesitated, looking back down the slope at the dispersing villagers, then, pulling his cloak about him, followed his father into the great hut.

The interior of the hut was shockingly familiar. It was just like the Worship Rooms he had seen in several of the great houses back in D’ni. Symbolic tapestries hung on three of the walls: elaborate and colorful silks which, Atrus guessed, had been taken from D’ni and brought here. There were rugs and screens and, on a low table to the right, a number of golden goblets and bowls—big, jewel-encrusted things that, once again, looked to have been taken from D’ni. Dominating the room, however, was a huge, wooden desk, like the desk in Gehn’s study.

He looked to his father. Gehn was watching him, amused.

“You want to know why I brought you here?”

Atrus hesitated, then nodded.

Gehn walked over to the desk and took his seat, then leaned across, taking a long, thin book from a pile to the side.

“The truth is, Atrus, I brought you here for a number of reasons, but mainly so that I might answer a few of those questions you are forever asking me concerning the making of an Age. I wanted to flesh out your theoretical knowledge. To that end, you will keep a notebook while you are here; in it you will write down all your observations about this Age.”

He held the book out, letting Atrus take it.

“I also wanted you to experience things for yourself, without preconceptions. I wanted you to see, with your own eyes, the awe in which we are held in the Ages.”

“Awe, father?”

“Yes, Atrus, awe. And so they should, for are we not gods? Do they not owe their lives, their very breath, to us? Would they be
here
had I not written on the whiteness of the page?”

Gehn paused, then. “I want you to stay here a while and observe this Age, to see just what is possible. It will help you with your own writing. You will stay with one of the locals—an old woman whose husband died some years back. You will be courteous to her but aloof, you understand?”

“I understand.”

Gehn sat back. “Good. Then go now. My acolyte is just outside. He will take you to where you will be staying.”

THE ACOLYTE WALKED SILENTLY BEFORE
Atrus, his ceremonial torch, its shaft carved with tiny D’ni symbols, held up before him. Curious villagers knelt and bowed their heads as they passed, a low whisper going from one to another in their wake.

When they came to the path through the village, however, the man did not go straight on toward the cave, but turned to the left, climbing a narrow set of steps between two huts that climbed up past their steeply sloping roofs. Atrus followed, coming out above the village on a path that seemed to lead nowhere. Ahead of them was only the dark, moonlit slope of the hill.

The man led on, walking slowly, solemnly, as if at the head of a great procession.

Atrus looked back toward the harbor, his eyes finding the bridge and, beyond it in the darkness, the meeting hut. Beyond that, visible only now that the lanterns had been lit inside, was a long, low tent. As Atrus watched, he saw his father walk across and duck beneath the canvas flap.

He turned back. Ahead of him, to his left, just over the hump of the hill, there was a hint of light. As they climbed, it grew, revealing the outline of a hut just over the brow of the slope. The light was from its open doorway.

As they drew nearer, a figure stepped into the light—outlined for one brief moment before it merged with the darkness.

The old woman.

As the light from the acolyte’s torch fell over the front of the hut, she was revealed. Like most of her people, she wore a simple, dark-brown smock of coarsely woven cloth. Her hair, likewise, was unsophisticated, its thick gray strands framing her deeply lined face in an unkempt halo. She was the oldest person Atrus had ever seen.

She looked away, bowing awkwardly, then stepped back, allowing him to enter the hut.

Atrus hesitated, then ducked under the low lintel, into a clean, warm space that was filled with the strong, fresh scent of herbs. Looking about him, he saw them at once, all along the right-hand wall, above two narrow shelves of pots and pans: sprig after sprig of herbs, hung on tiny wooden hooks.

The floor was covered in planed wooden boards, the low roof made of rafter and thatch. Halfway down its length, a plain blue curtain cut off his view of the rest of the hut.

“You want to eat?” the old woman asked, uncomfortable in his presence, her D’ni even more rudimentary than the acolyte’s.

Atrus shook his head. “Thank you, I’m not really hungry.”

“Ah …” Her nod seemed more from nervousness than agreement. She looked at him anxiously, her brown eyes never leaving his face. “You want to sleep?”

“I …” The truth was, he wasn’t really tired. After all, back in D’ni it was barely suppertime. Yet he could sense how awkward he was making her feel and felt awkward himself for doing so. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “If you would show me my bed.”

There was a slight movement in her face which he didn’t understand. She seemed …
regretful?
Then, with a tiny shrug, she went across and, pulling the curtain aside a little way, looked back at him, pointing to what seemed a kind of stall.

He went across and looked, then laughed; a pleasant laugh of surprise, for there, between the thin wooden walls of his sleeping stall lay a simple, straw-stuffed mattress.

“Like home,” he said quietly.

The old woman was staring at him, curious now. “Beg pardon, Master?”

He looked to her, realizing his eyes were moist. “When I was a child, with my grandmother, I had a mattress similar to this.”

“Is it no good?” she asked, as if he had been speaking a foreign language.

“No, no … it’s … wonderful.” He looked to her and smiled, strangely grateful to her. Then, on impulse, remembering the pleasure his grandmother had always got from feeding him, he said, “Can I change my mind? I mean, about the food?”

“Of course!” the old woman said, a smile lighting her face for the first time. “I bring you soup and bread, yes?”

He grinned. “It sounds marvelous!”

“Then you wait, Master. I bring you some.”

Atrus watched her go, then looked about him, suddenly at ease, breathing in the pleasant scent of the herbs.

He knelt, setting his knapsack and the notebook down in a corner of the stall, then removed his cloak and stowed it in the sack. As he straightened up again, the old woman returned, carrying a wooden tray. On it was an earthenware bowl of soup, a wooden spoon, and half a small loaf of brown bread. Atrus accepted it gratefully, then sat, the tray in his lap. Smiling at her, he broke off a hunk of the bread and dipped it into the bowl.

For a while he ate in silence, enjoying that simple meal. Finished, he looked up at the old woman.

“Was it okay?” she asked, a look of deep concern on her heavily lined face.

Atrus grinned. “It was
wonderful!
The best I’ve
ever
tasted!”

The truth was, he had no idea what it had been, but what he’d said wasn’t a lie. It had been wonderful. The best soup he had
ever
tasted, Anna’s notwithstanding.

His words brought a ray of spring sunlight to the old woman’s face. “You want more?”

“
Can
I?”

It was as if, with those two little words, he had offered her all the riches of D’ni. She beamed, then hurried away, returning in a moment with a second bowl and the other half of the loaf.

“There,” she said, standing over him as he ate, grinning broadly. “You growing boy! You need your food, eh?”

ATRUS WOKE IN THE DARKNESS BEFORE
dawn, wondering for an instant where he was, the scent of herbs in that tiny, enclosed space oddly disturbing.

He sat up, listening to the silence, then stood, making his way quickly, quietly outside.

Both moons had set and the land was dark now, intensely dark, the sky almost bright by comparison, like the desert sky at night. Yet looking up he knew he was not on earth. Where was the Hunter now? Where the Dipper? Were they elsewhere in that vast, star-dusted sky, or was he somewhere else entirely? In another universe, perhaps?

The thought was one he had had more and more often these past few months. A dangerous, unspoken thought.

And yet the more I discover about Writing, the more I challenge my father’s view that we are creating the worlds we travel in.

What if they weren’t so much
making
those worlds as linking to pre-existing possibilities?

At first he had dismissed the notion as a foolish one. Of course they created these worlds. They had to be! How else would they come into being in such precise and predictable forms? Besides, it was simply not possible that an infinite supply of different worlds existed out there, waiting to be tapped. Yet the more he’d thought about it, the more he had come to question his father’s simpler explanation.

He walked down the slope until he came to a slab of rock overlooking the lake. There he bent down, squatting on his haunches, looking out across the dark bowl of the lake.

Now that the moons had almost set, it was close to impossible to distinguish where the lake ended and the land began. It was like peering into the volcano on a moonless night. You could see nothing, but you might imagine everything. That was the thing about darkness—the way it refused to remain a simple
absence
. Unlike snow, which he had seen on one of Gehn’s other Ages, the darkness took on forms—thousands of forms—for the dark was both fluid and potent.

Behind him, over the crest of the hill, the day was making an appearance. Slowly, very slowly, light bled into the bowl, etching sharp-edged shadows on the hillside facing him. Atrus watched it, fascinated, then turned, squinting against the bright arc that peeped above the curve of the hill.

Turning back, he noticed something just below him on the edge of the lake.

At first he thought it was some kind of sea creature—a seal, perhaps—but then, as it straightened up, he saw it clearly, silhouetted in the half light.

A girl. It was a girl.

As he watched, she bent down again, making a series of little bobbing motions. He frowned, puzzled. What in Kerath’s name was she doing? Then, with a little jolt, he understood. Washing! She was washing! That little mound beside her was a basket full of sodden clothes!

He laughed, and as he did, he saw her tense and look around, like a startled animal.

Gathering up her basket she scurried up the hillside, disappearing over the dark hump of the hill, her tiny figure briefly outlined against the arc of the sun. Atrus watched, astonished by her reaction, then stood. The sun was half risen now. In its light he could see the thatched roof of the hut, its long, dark shape embedded in the deeper darkness of the slope.

Atrus turned, making a slow circle, his arms outstretched as he breathed in the rich, clear air. Then, determined to make an early start, he hurried up the slope, making for the hut.

“Y
OUNG MASTER?”
Atrus turned onto his side, wondering for an instant where he was. Herbs. The smell of herbs. Ah, yes. The old woman’s hut. He was on the Thirty-seventh Age of Gehn, and it was morning.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, then looked to the old woman, who stood with her back half bent in the opening to the stall.

“Forgive me, young Master,” she said breathlessly, “but the Lord Gehn wants to see you at once.”

Nodding his thanks, he stood and stretched. What time was it? And how long had he slept? He seemed to sleep longer, deeper, while he was here. Maybe it had something to do with the air.