The Myst Reader (30 page)

Atrus dropped his head and groaned, but Gehn seemed not to notice the pain his son was in. He turned the page and gave a tiny laugh, as if he’d found something so silly, so ludicrous, that it was worthy only of contempt.

“And this …” he said, dipping the pen into the ink pot once again, then scoring out one after another of the carefully-written symbols. “It’s no good, boy. This description … it’s superfluous!”

“Please
…
”
Atrus said, taking a step toward him. “Leave it be now. Please, father. I beg you …”

But Gehn was unstoppable. “Oh no, and this won’t do, either. This will have to go. I mean …”

Gehn looked up suddenly, the laughter fading from his face. “You understand me clearly now?”

Atrus swallowed. “Father?”

Gehn’s eyes were cold now; colder than Atrus had ever seen them. “You must understand one thing, Atrus, and that is that you
do not
understand. Not yet, anyway. And you don’t have the answers. You might
think
you have, but you’re mistaken. You can’t learn the D’ni secrets overnight. It’s simply not possible.”

Atrus fell silent under his father’s stern gaze.

Gehn sighed, then spoke again. “I misjudged you, Atrus, didn’t I? There is something of your grandmother in you … something
headstrong
… something that likes to meddle.”

Atrus opened his mouth to speak, but Gehn raised his hand. “Let me
finish!
”

Atrus swallowed deeply, then said what he’d been meaning to say all along, whether it angered Gehn or not; because he had to say it now or burst.

“You said that you had fixed the Thirty-seventh Age.”

Gehn smiled. “I did.”

Atrus shook his head.

Gehn met his eyes calmly. “Yes …?”

“I mean, it’s not the same. Oh, the lake’s the same and the village, even the appearance of the people. But it’s not the same. They didn’t know me.”

Gehn shook his head. “It’s
fixed
.”

“But my friends. Salar, Koena …”

Gehn stared at the cover of the book a while, then picked it up and turned toward the fire.

Atrus took a step toward him. “Let
me
fix it. Let me help them.”

Gehn glanced at him contemptuously, then took another step toward the flickering grate.

“Father?”

The muscle beneath Gehn’s right eye twitched. “The book is defective.”

“No!”
Atrus made to cross the room and stop him, to wrestle the book from him if necessary, but the desk was between them. Besides, it was already too late. With a tiny little movement, Gehn cast the book into the flames, then stood there, watching, as its pages slowly crackled and curled at the edges, turning black, the symbols burning up one by one, dissolving slowly into ash and nothingness.

Atrus stood there looking on, horrified. But it was too late. The bridge between the Ages was destroyed.

IN THE BLUE LIGHT OF THE LANTERN EACH
object in that quiet chamber seemed glazed in ice—each chair and cupboard, the massive wooden bed, the desk. In contrast, the shadows in the room were black, but not just any black, these were intensely black—the empty blackness of nonexistence.

To a casual eye it might have seemed that nothing there was real; that every object trapped within that cold, unfeeling glare was insubstantial—the projection of some dark, malicious deity who, on a moment’s whim, might tear the pages from the book in which all this was written and, with a god’s indifference, banish this all into the shadow.

All, that is, but for the young man seated on a chair at the center of it all, the light reflected in his sad, pale eyes.

Slowly Atrus returned to himself, then looked about him. The last few hours were a blank; where he’d been and what he’d done were a complete mystery. All he knew was that he was sitting in his room once more, the lantern lit, his journal open on the desk beside him. He looked, then read what he had written on the left-hand page.

My father is mad.

Remembering, he shuddered, unable to believe what his father had done. And yet the memory was burned into the whiteness of his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could see the pages slowly charring, each one lifted delicately by the flame, as if the fire had read each phrase before consuming it.

Unless, of course, that memory is false, and I, too, am one of my father’s “creations”
…

But he knew beyond question that that wasn’t so. The experience on the Thirty-seventh Age had proved that to him beyond all doubt. Gehn was no god. No. He was simply a man—a weak and foolish man, irresponsible and vain. Yes, and for all his bluster about making D’ni great again, he had forgotten precisely what it was that had made the D’ni extraordinary. The reason why their empire had lasted for so long. It was not their power, nor the fact that they had once ruled a million worlds, it was their restraint, their astonishing humility.

Gehn claimed that he, Atrus, knew nothing, but it wasn’t so. He had read the histories of D’ni, and had seen, in those pages, the long struggle of the D’ni elders to suppress the baser side of their nature; to instill in their people the virtues of patience, service, and humility. Yes, and for the best part of sixty thousand years they had succeeded. Until Veovis.

So where did he go from here? What were his options? Should he try to get back to Anna and the cleft? Or should he, perhaps, find a hiding place in the city?

Whatever, he had to go and see Gehn one last time, to say goodbye. And to tell him, face-to-face, just why he had to leave.

The thought of it disturbed him. He had grown a great deal this last year and was almost the physical equal of his father, yet Gehn still intimidated him.

Even so, it had to be done. He could not simply run away, with his tail between his legs. For if he did, he would be forever in his father’s shadow.

He went out, climbing the levels of that dark and twisting house, until he stood there in the library, at the foot of the steps that led up to his father’s study. Up there, on the landing, the lantern was still lit, the door still open, as he’d left them.

He went up, steeling himself against his father’s anger, against that mocking laugh that made him feel a little boy again.

But he was no “boy” anymore. He had grown beyond mere boyishness. And now Gehn must be made to recognize that fact—must be forced to acknowledge it once at least before he left his house.

Atrus paused in the doorway, surprised to find the room so dimly lit. The fire had gone out, the lantern on the table faded to the faintest glimmer. As for Gehn, there was no sign.

He turned, taking the landing lantern from its hook, then stepped inside.

Books had been scattered here, there, and everywhere, as if in some fearful rage. And the desk …

Atrus hurried across, setting the lantern down beside the other, then searched among the books stacked on the desk, but there was no sign of his own book. He turned, looking to the fire anxiously, fearing the worst, and almost tripped over his father.

Gehn lay on the floor just behind the desk, sprawled out before the guttered fire.

For a moment Atrus thought his father dead, he was so still. Then he noted a slight movement of Gehn’s right hand and knew that this wasn’t death, only its counterfeit—a kind of stupor brought on by overindulgence with his pipe.

The pipe itself lay to one side, the fire-marble glowing dimly in its chamber. Atrus crouched and picked it up, sniffing the spout then wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

He was about to leave, to turn away and go, when he noticed, just beyond his father’s outstretched hand, the notebook with the tanned leather cover he was always consulting.

For a second or two, he held back, the feeling of
wrongness
strong in him; but then the compulsion to know what was inside the book overcame him and, reaching out, he grasped the notebook then moved back into the lantern’s light.

Taking a long, calming breath, he opened it to the first page, reading what was written there:

The Book of Atrus
…

He frowned. Surely that was wrong? Surely it meant …? And then he understood. It didn’t mean him. The handwriting wasn’t his, nor was it Gehn’s. No, this was his grandfather’s book. Not Atrus,
son
of Gehn, but Atrus,
father
of Gehn.

He read on, then stopped, the last thread that had connected him to his father broken in that instant. Slowly he sat down in Gehn’s chair, nodding to himself, a bitter laughter escaping him.

There he’d been, admiring his father, exalting him almost, for his courage, his patience in finding a path through the darkness of the tunnels back to D’ni. And all the while the path had been clearly marked, here in his grandfather’s notebook. It wasn’t Gehn who had taken the risks, but Gehn’s father.

Atrus closed the book and pushed it away from him, then turned, staring at the shadowy figure stretched out on the floor beside his feet.

“Why weren’t you what I wanted you to be?” he asked quietly, pained by the great weight of disillusion he was feeling at that moment. “Why did you have to be so … so
small
a man?”

Gehn groaned and stirred slightly, but did not wake.

Atrus sat back, a long, shivering breath escaping him. For a moment longer he stared at Gehn’s prone figure, then, his eyes drawn to the lantern, he reached across and picked the notebook up again.

G
EHN WOKE WITH A POUNDING HEAD AND
so many aches that he wondered briefly if he had not perhaps blacked out and fallen. It would not be the first time. Yet it was the first time he had allowed himself such license while Atrus was on K’veer, and he cursed himself for not locking the door before succumbing to that second pipe.

He got up, groaning softly. Aches, yes, but nothing broken.

“No damage done,” he said, walking slowly to the door. Then, steadying himself against the landing wall, he looked down the steps, squinting now, his pupils tight, painful.

“Atrus? Atrus, where are you?”

But the library was empty. He went down, then out through the empty chamber, feeling a vague misgiving.

Something had happened. Something …

He stopped, remembering. The boy. He had argued with the boy.

Crossing the open space between the library and the upper cabin, he threw open the door and hurried across the unlit chamber, until he stood in the shadowy opening on the far side.

“Atrus?”
He waited a moment, then called again.
“A-trus!”

Nothing. The great mansion was empty.

Unless the boy’s asleep …

He hurried down, bursting into Atrus’s room without knocking.

“Atrus?”

The bed was empty. He turned, looking to the great carved wardrobe in the corner, then strode across and pulled it open. No. Atrus was not there, and none of his things were there either.

The thought made Gehn blink.

He hurried back to his study and searched the cluttered desk, but the notebook was not there. Reaching down to his right, he pulled out the second drawer and took out the metal box he kept there, placing it on the desk. Then, taking the key from the tiny bunch about his neck, he unlocked it.

He took the single page from the box and, folding it in half, slipped it into his pocket.

Leaving the box where it was, he went over to the door and shouted down the unlit steps. “Rijus! Rijus! Where are you, man?”

Not waiting for the mute, Gehn hurried down through the house. On the final twist of steps, he slowed, then stopped, his suspicions confirmed. The jetty was empty, the boat gone from its mooring.

Gehn slumped down onto the bare stone wall, letting his head fall forward.

“Curse the boy! Curse his ingratitude!”

Gehn lifted his head, the pounding at his temples momentarily making his vision swim. As it cleared, he saw that Rijus was standing on the turn of the steps just above him.

“The boy has gone,” Gehn said. “He took the boat. We need to follow him.”

The big mute hesitated a moment, taking in what his master had said, then came down the steps and, moving past Gehn, went over to the far side of the cavern. There, in the shadows, a number of boxes were stacked against a wall. Removing them, Rijus exposed an old, unpainted doorway. He looked about him, then stepped over and took down an old boat hook from the wall. Placing the tip of the hook under the bottom edge of the door, he heaved. The door splintered and fell away.

Gehn stood, then went across.

Inside, in the musty darkness, Rijus was removing an old canvas cover from over something. Gehn blinked, then discerned what it was. It was a boat. An old D’ni craft.

How did you know?
he wondered, looking to the mute.

Ignoring the stabbing pains in his head, Gehn stepped inside and helped Rijus haul the ancient boat out onto the jetty.

It was a strangely long and elegant craft, more a canoe than a raft, and, handling it, he realized that it was made of a durable but curiously lightweight stone.