The Myst Reader (41 page)
Authors: Robyn Miller
Gehn glared at him.
The sky was growing lighter, the wind slowly dying.
“I should never have left you with her,” Gehn said, after a moment. “She spoiled you. You were a blank book, waiting to be written …”
“You would have ruined me, just as you’ve ruined everything you’ve touched. Yes, and then discarded me.”
“
No!
I
loved
you, Atrus.”
“Love? What kind of love is it that binds with ropes and locks its loved ones in a cell?”
“That was never intended to be a prison, Atrus.” Gehn swallowed. “It was only a test. All of it.”
Atrus stared back at him, silent now, the fissure behind him dark and cold, glistening with stars, the Myst book edged by that strange blue light.
Gehn studied his son a moment, taking in the situation, then took a step toward him, putting out a hand. “Please, Atrus. There is still a chance for us.”
“No, Father. Whatever linked us once has been destroyed. You burned it with those books you burned. You erased it along with those phrases in my book. Little by little you destroyed it. Don’t you see that? Well, now you’ve got the justice you deserve. You can stay here in the little haven you’ve created for yourself, in your tiny island universe, and play god with your ‘creations’.”
The word was firm and final, and as he spoke it Atrus stepped back, out over the lip of the fissure, falling, tumbling down into that great expanse of stars, his hands gripping the book, opening the cover as he fell into the darkness.
What do you see, Atrus?
I see stars Grandmother. A great ocean of stars …
S
UNLIGHT WINKED THROUGH THE TALL PINES
, casting long shadows on the lawn in front of the library. It was late now, but the boys were still out, playing in the woods that covered the south end of the island. Catherine, standing on the porch, listened a moment, hearing their distant shouts, then shaded her eyes.
“Can you see them?” Atrus asked, stepping out from the library, his pale eyes squinting in the sunlight.
She turned, the hem of her dark green dress flowing over the polished boards.
“Don’t worry so,” she said, her green eyes smiling back at him. “Anna’s with them. They’ll be in before it’s dark.”
He smiled, then came across and placed his arms about her.
“Have you finished yet?” she asked softly, wrapping her own arms about him and pulling him closer.
“No …” Atrus sighed wearily. “I’m close though.”
“Good.”
He kissed her gently, then, releasing her, went back inside, taking his seat at the desk that he’d made for himself. For a moment or two he looked out through the brightly-lit rectangle of the doorway at Catherine, drinking in the simple sight of her, then, taking his pen, he looked back at his journal and began to write:
It is strange now to conceive that I could have doubted her, even for a second, and yet in that moment when my father surprised me in the cave, I was certain beyond all doubt that she had betrayed me. Certain, yes, and at the same time heartbroken, for I had transferred to her person all of that love, all of that natural affection that my father had so unnaturally rejected. Love given freely and without hope of repayment. Yet how was I to know how kind, yes, and how cunning, too, my Catherine could be. My savior, my partner, yes, and now my wife.
Atrus paused, recalling the shock he’d felt, that moment when Catherine had revealed to him that Anna was behind it all; the feeling, the overwhelming feeling he’d had, of having stepped into one of Catherine’s dream worlds. But it had been true. Without Anna’s forethought he would have been trapped on Riven still. That was, if Gehn had let him live, after what he’d done. He dipped the pen and wrote again:
Only a remarkable woman would have done what Anna did, following us down through that labyrinth of tunnels and broken ways, into D’ni. She had known, of course, that Gehn would not keep his word. Had known what I, in my innocence, could not have guessed—that my father was not merely untrustworthy, but mad. All those years I spent on K’veer she had kept a distant eye on me, making sure I came to no harm at my father’s hands, while she awaited the moment of my realization.
Atrus looked up, remembering that moment; feeling once more the weight of his disillusion with his father. Such things, he knew now, could not be passed on like other things, they had to be experienced. A parent—a good parent, that is—had to let go at some point, to let their children make choices, for choices were part of the Maker’s scheme, as surely as all the rest. He dipped the pen then wrote again, faster now, the words spilling from him:
Anna saw me flee K’veer and sought to find me in the tunnels once again, but Gehn had got there first. Even then she would have intervened, but for the mute. Seeing them carry me back, unconscious, to K’veer, she had known she had to act. That evening she had gone to K’veer and, risking all, had entered my father’s study, meaning to confront him. But Gehn was not there. It was Catherine she met. Catherine who, after that first moment of shock and surprise, had chosen to trust and help her.
So it was that Catherine had known me even before she met me in the hut on Riven; like an Age one has first read in a descriptive book and then subsequently linked to.
I should have known at once that Myst was not Catherine’s. But how was I to know otherwise? I had thought Anna lost. Lost forever.
And how was I to know that, just as I made my preparations, so the two of them made theirs, pooling their talents—Anna’s experience and Catherine’s intuitive genius—to craft those seemingly cataclysmic events on Age Five, in such a way that after a time they would reverse themselves, making Catherine’s former home, now Gehn’s prison, stable once more.
… And the Myst book?
Briefly he looked about him at the room he’d made, pleased by his efforts, then, picking up his pen again, he began to write, setting down the final words. The ending that was not a final ending:
I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as I had planned. It continued falling into that starry expanse, of which I had only a fleeting glimpse. I have tried to speculate where it might have landed, but I must admit that such conjecture is futile. Still, questions about whose hands might one day hold my Myst book are unsettling to me. I know my apprehensions might never be allayed, and so I close, realizing that perhaps the ending has not yet been written.
TO DEB AND THE GIRLS
I
T’S AMAZING HOW LITTLE WE KNOW, AFTER
all these years, about the history of D’ni and the story surrounding Myst Island. Over the years the story is revealed piece by piece, like a large puzzle waiting to be put together. It’s only with the continuing effort of a core group of people that the pieces are uncovered and assembled to make a book like this possible.
It has been my pleasure to uncover the past events in D’ni history even as Robyn continues to bring the events surrounding Myst Island to its final chapter. Not having Robyn’s help for this translation, the burden of discovery was taken up by Chris Brandkamp, Richard Watson, and Ryan Miller working closely with David Wingrove. Our task was large and yet the results are stunning, as for the first time the public gains a glimpse into the richness and complexity of the D’ni civilization.
So it is to these four close friends (particularly David and Chris for their long hours of work) that I extend my sincerest thanks and admiration. This story reaches you because of their dedication and brilliance.
RAND MILLER
T
HE SOUNDING CAPSULE WAS EMBEDDED IN
the rock face like a giant crystal, its occupants sealed within the translucent, soundproofed cone.
The Guild Master sat facing the outstretched tip of the cone, his right hand resting delicately on the long metal shaft of the sounder, his blind eyes staring at the solid rock, listening.
Behind him, his two young assistants leaned forward in their narrow, metal and mesh seats, concentrating, their eyes shut tight as they attempted to discern the tiny variations in the returning signal.
“Na’grenis,” the old man said, the D’ni word almost growled as his left hand moved across the top sheet of the many-layered map that rested on the map table between his knees.
Brittle
.
It was the tenth time they had sent the signal out on this line, each time a little stronger, the echoes in the rock changing subtly as it penetrated deeper into the mass.
“Kenen voohee shuhteejoo,” the younger of his two assistants said tentatively.
It could be rocksalt
.
“Or chalk,” the other added uncertainly.
“Not this deep,” the old man said authoritatively, flicking back the transparent sheets until he came to one deep in the pile. Holding it open, he reached beside him and took a bright red marker from the metal rack.
“Ah,” the two assistants said as one, the carmine mark as clear an explanation as if he’d spoken.
“We’ll sound either side,” the old man said after a moment. “It might only be a pocket….”
He slipped the marker back into the rack, then reached out and took the ornately decorated shaft of the sounder, delicately moving it a fraction to the right, long experience shaping his every movement.
“Same strength,” he said. “One pulse, fifty beats, and then a second pulse.”
At once his First Assistant leaned forward, adjusting the setting on the dial in front of him.
There was a moment’s silence and then a vibration rippled along the shaft toward the tapered tip of the cone.
A single, pure, clear note sounded in the tiny chamber, like an invisible spike reaching out into the rock.
“WHAT IS HE DOING?”
Guild Master Telanis turned from the observation window to look at his guest. Master Kedri was a big, ungainly man. A member of the Guild of Legislators, he was here to observe the progress of the excavation.
“Guild Master Geran is surveying the rock. Before we drill we need to know what lies ahead of us.”
“I understand that,” Kedri said impatiently. “But what is the problem?”
Telanis stifled the irritation he felt at the man’s bad manners. After all, Kedri was technically his superior, even if, within his own craft, Telanis’s word was as law.
“I’m not sure exactly, but from the mark he made I’d say he’s located a patch of igneous material. Magma-based basaltic rocks from a fault line, perhaps, or a minor intrusion.”
“And that’s a problem?”
Telanis smiled politely. “It could be. If it’s minor we could drill straight through it, of course, and support the tunnel, but we’re still quite deep and there’s a lot of weight above us. The pressures here are immense, and while they might not crush us, they could inconvenience us and set us back weeks, if not months. We’d prefer, therefore, to be certain of what lies ahead.”
Kedri huffed. “It all seems rather a waste of time to me. The lining rock’s strong, isn’t it?”
“Oh, very strong, but that’s not the point. If the aim were merely to break through to the surface we could do that in a matter of weeks. But that’s not our brief. These tunnels are meant to be permanent—or, at least, as permanent as we can make them, rock movement willing!”
Still, Kedri seemed unsatisfied. “All this stopping and starting! A man could go mad with waiting!”
One could; and some, unsuited to the task, did. But of all the guilds of D’ni, this, Telanis knew, was the one best suited to their nature.
“We are a patient race, Master Kedri,” he said, risking the anger of the other man. “Patient and thorough. Would you have us abandon the habits of a thousand generations?”
Kedri made to answer curtly, then saw the look of challenge in Telanis’s eyes and nodded. “No. You are right, Guild Master. Forgive me. Perhaps they chose the wrong man to represent our guild.”
Perhaps
, Telanis thought, but aloud he said, “Not at all, Master Kedri. You will get used to it, I promise. And we shall do our best to keep you busy while you are here. I shall have my assistant, Aitrus, assigned to you.”
And now Kedri smiled, as if this was what he had been angling for all along. “That is most kind, Master Telanis. Most kind, indeed.”
