The stone, once polished and beautiful, was webbed with tiny cracks, worn with age.
A prison, Atrus thought, recognizing it for what it really was.
The stone here was not the lavatic black used elsewhere in the house, but a dull metallic gray carved with intricate patterns, like lacework, great bulbous pillars holding up the massive arch of the roof. He had seen that same stone in some of the most ancient structures in the city and realized that this was probably the oldest part of the house.
How old? He wondered. Ten? Twenty thousand years? Or older yet? It was hard to tell. The D’ni had built for eternity, not knowing that their days were numbered.
Finally, in the northern corner of the chamber, beneath a massive arch, stood the locked doorway that led out of his prison, bloodred stone pillars standing like sentries to either side.
Remembering what his father had said about the D’ni love of secret passages, of doors in solid walls and tunnels through the rock, he began a search.
Slowly, patiently, he went from arch to arch, searching each of the massive alcoves carefully, his fingers covering every inch of stone, as high as he could reach right down to the floor.
It took the best part of two hours, and though he found no secret doors or passages, it was still well worth the effort. In the floor of one of the more shadowy recesses, half embedded in the unfinished stone, he found a D’ni stonecutter. It was a big old machine, like a massive crouching spider, and its power source was long exhausted, yet one of the cutting blades was as good as new.
At first Atrus thought he might have to leave it there, it was so firmly wedged into the rock, but after half an hour rocking it back and fort, he freed it from the stone.
He lifted the heavy cutter, feeling its weight, then nodded to himself. The door was solid metal and he would get nowhere trying to break through it, not even with this, but if he could chip away at the rock to either side, then maybe he wouldn’t need to.
Knowing there was no sense in delaying, he set to work at once. Taking off his top, he wrapped the cloth about the main body of the cutter, then went across and, kneeling in the deep shadow beside the door, began to attack the stone, low down and to his left.
He could not properly see what he was doing, but after ten minutes he stopped and, setting the cutter aside, checked with his fingers.
It wasn’t much of a notch, considering—in fact, he had barely chipped away more than a few flakes of the iron-tough stone—but at the top of that tiny, uneven depression the stone had split.
He traced the crack with his forefinger, then grinned. It was more than a foot long.
Atrus turned, looking toward the desk. There was a lamp there and fire-marbles. Hurrying across, he brought them back and, placing the lamp to one side so that it threw its light over the door, set to work again, aiming each blow at that split, aiming to widen it and crack the stone.
The first few blows did nothing. Then, with a sharp cracking noise, the split widened dramatically.
Atrus smiled and lifted the cutter again, meaning to extend the fissure, but even as he did, the heard the rock above him creak and groan.
He looked up. In the light from the lantern he could see that the roof directly above him was badly cracked. Even as he looked, tiny splinters of rock began to fall, as those cracks widened.
Snatching up the lantern, Atrus scampered backward. And not a second too soon. With a great sigh, the two pillars collapsed inwardly and a huge section of the roof caved in with a great crash.
Atrus lay on his back, some dozen paces off, staring back at the great pile of rock that had fallen, the dust in the air making him cough violently. As the dust slowly settled, he saw that the door was totally blocked. He edged back, then got to his feet, sneezing and rubbing at his eyes. Now he’d done it! Now he was trapped here for sure!
He coughed again, trying to clear his throat, then moved farther away, his eyes watering now.
Trapped, yes, but at least there was one advantage to it. If he could not get out, then Gehn could not get in.
Atrus turned, looking to the Age Five book, and blinked, reassessing the situation.
So just what did Gehn want? And why, if this was a prison, had he provided him with the means to escape—the book? Why give him pen and ink? And why provide him with a Linking Book from the Fifth Age back to this chamber?
A trap, he thought again. But now he wasn’t quite so sure. Maybe his father had given him the book simply so he wouldn’t starve.
That thought intrigued him. He went over to the desk and stood there, staring down at the Age five book. At the very center of its cover was a circular metal medallion, fixed to the leather by five tiny tacks. The D’ni number five—a square halved by a narrow bar—was raised in metal above the porcelain base, on which was engraved an intricate floral pattern.
Atrus opened the book and looked at the descriptive panel.
From the distant image it seemed a pleasant, peaceful place, the island heavily wooded.
Yes. But what’s the catch?
For there had to be a catch. He knew that now. If he had learned one single thing today it was that Gehn never—never—did anything without some self-serving reason.
§
It was many hours before he finally decided to venture into Gehn’s Fifth Age, deciding, before he did, that he would read it first, for if it really was a prison, he should at least know beforehand what kind of Age he was to end his days in.
For several hours he sat there, slowly leafing through the pages, noting all the flaws, all the possible contradictions that Gehn’s particular writing style threw up. More than ever, he could see his father’s limited vision on every page, like a hideous tapestry quilted together from exquisite patches of silk. The entire work was shortsighted and disjointed and yet it was also, paradoxically, quite clever. Surprisingly so.
Even so, it was one single thing which, in the end, caught Atrus’s imagination; one element which made him catch his breath and make him want to go and see.
The tree.
Atrus sat back, amazed b the elegance, the sheer economy, of the D’ni phrases that had described it, then leaned forward again, tracing each symbol with his finger, a thrill of pure aesthetic delight passing through him.
A tree. A giant tree, whose topmost branches speared the sky!
Atrus smiled at the thought, then read on, memorizing the details of the world, fixing them in his mind like the symbols on a map.
And if it was a trap?
He looked about him at the huge and gloomy chamber. Even if it was a trap, at least he would get to see the sun again. At least he would feel he wind upon his skin, the rain falling on his arms and upturned face, the sweet and gentle pleasure of birdsong.
For a moment he looked down, his face creased with pain at the memory of Salar and the old woman, recalling what had happened to their world.
Never again, he swore, picking up the Linking Book, then opening the Age Five book to its descriptive page.
Hesitating no longer, Atrus placed his hand against the image on the page. At once he felt the page expand…
§
He had linked into a dense copse of tall, bearded grass which grew beside a circular pool that bulged strangely. He had stared at it, fascinated by the apparent motion of its convex surface, then, hearing voices, had hurried from the spot quickly, making his way over a lightly wooded hill, then along a narrow dirt path that led steeply down a sheer cliff wall, dropping beneath an overhang of rock and down onto a rocky beach. An azure ocean lapped gently against the shore, washing over a line of smooth tapered rocks that edged the beach like the teeth of some great submerged creature.
There he paused, getting his breath, listening to the gentle slush and hiss of the sea.
Turning, he looked about him, searching for somewhere safe to hide the Linking Book he’d brought. Almost at once his gaze fell on the sandstone cliff beneath the overhang, the face of which was pocked with hundreds of tiny holes.
Atrus walked across and, choosing from among a number of likely candidates, picked one of the larger ones, some way up, well above what he saw was the normal tidal level. He glanced about him, then, convinced no one was watching, climbed up, using the lips of other holes as footholds. Squeezing his whole body into the narrow space, he crawled a little way along then set the Linking Book down on the dry ledge—wedging it with a loose rock so that it wouldn’t slide.
Satisfied, he backed out, then jumped down onto the sand again, wiping his hands against his sides.
He had noticed a sloping path around the edge of the enclosed bay, over to his left, and headed there now, picking his way slowly p the jumble of rock. For a moment he was in shadow, the rock ledge blocking his view of the sky, then, as the path turned slightly, there was a break in the rock and he came out into a sloping meadow.
It was surprisingly windy. A strong, gusting breeze bent the heads of the long grass stalks and tugged at his cloak. Pulling it tight about him, Atrus walked on, head down, then, noticing how the shadow ended in a jagged line just ahead of him, he looked up.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned to his right, until he was facing it, his mouth fallen open in astonishment, his head going back to try to take it all in.
The tree.
It seemed to rest on a peninsula of rock, its roots like the pillars of some huge stone temple, reaching down the cliff face to pierce the rocky beach, great humps of root, like the slick backs of a dozen massive sea serpents, stretching out into the ocean.
Its trunk, likewise, was monumental. It was not by any means as tall as Atrus had imagined, yet the sheer breadth of it was enough to make him feel not simply small in its presence but insignificant.
Like Time itself, Atrus thought, letting his eyes slowly climb its branches. Then, realizing how exposed he was to watchful eyes, he hurried on, making for the rock face just ahead.
A set of steps were cut into rock, leading up through the trees. And there, in a clearing, the sunlight filtering down upon it through the treetops, was a large wooden hut.
Atrus walked up to it, his heart hammering in his chest, recognizing it at once. It was like he meeting hut—Gehn’s temple—on the Thirty-seventh Age. Almost identical, in fact.
Seeing it, Atrus knew suddenly exactly where he was on the island, picturing it in his mind as on a map.
He stepped up, into the cool interior, passing between he painted wooden poles and into a space that was furnished in the most luxurious manner imaginable, with marvelous tapestries and statuary and silver-poled banners lining the walls.
At the far side of that shadowed space was a throne—a massive thing that looked as though it had been cast from a single piece of glowing gold. Coming closer, however, Atrus saw that it wasn’t gold but a beautiful, tawny stone, the like of which he’d never seen, even in D’ni. Atrus stopped briefly to examine it, brushing his fingertips over the smooth, cool surface of the arm, wondering in which ancient book Gehn had found the formula or phrase to produce such a wondrous material.
Behind the throne was a large free-standing screen, on the pale lemon silk of which was embroidered the silhouette of a man. That silhouette, with its high, domed head and its familiar lenses, was unmistakable. It was Gehn.
Atrus nodded to himself at this evidence of Gehn’s presence. On how many other worlds had his father built such temples? In how many Ages was that man a “god?”
Knowing now what he would find—recalling all of this vividly from the Age Five book—he went over to the screen and looked around it. There was a shadowy space beyond, a narrow set of steps leading down.
He went down, into the darkness.
A low door, cut crudely from the rock, led to a long but narrow cave. From what he’d read, he knew that farther back, the walls were pocked with thousands upon thousands of tiny holes in much the same manner as the cliff face.
It’s there! he realized, peering through the half light. Gehn’s Linking Book is there!
He was about to turn away, to go back through the temple and explore the wood surrounding it, when he remembered that the cave actually led somewhere. He couldn’t recall exactly what it led to-there had been several areas in the Age Five book where Gehn’s phrasing was unclear, and this was one of them—but he had a definite recollection that it was important somehow.
He walked on. The warm stuffiness of the cave was making him sweat, yet the cave was definitely leading somewhere. He might be imagining it, but just as the air grew constantly warmer, so there seemed to be a faint, shimmering blue light in the tunnel now, enough to allow him to see a couple of feet in front of him. As he went on, the light grew, until he found himself in a second, smaller cave, filled with that same shimmering blue light.
It was hot in the second cave, unbearably hot, steam rising from a great vent in the floor, but Atrus’s eyes were drawn upward, into the roof of the cave. There, the most astonishing sight met his gaze. The flat gray rock of the ceiling was pierced at its center by a large, roughly circular hole, perhaps eight or ten feet in diameter. Within that hole, suspended above the cave, was a pool of water, its gently shimmering surface flush with the rock surrounding it. Beside it stood a metal ladder, leading up into the pool.
Atrus stared, openmouthed. It was an illusion. It had to be. Yet if that were so, what power sustained it? He frowned, willing himself to understand. He walked across and stared. The massive, natural vent glowed redly far below.
He looked up into the pool. Sunlight was filtering down through the water, the curved walls of which seemed to form a kind of well. He narrowed his eyes, trying to estimate its length, but it was difficult to tell. He knew, from his reading, that the refractive quality of water could distort such things. Besides, who knew even if this was water, for when had he ever seen water behave in such a fashion? Up there, on the far side of that unnatural barrier, however, there was something. There had to be. Or why the ladder?
Atrus stepped over the the ladder, taking hold of it determinedly.
How far is it? he wondered, pausing, his head only inches beneath that strangely quivering surface. Twenty feet? Thirty?
Raising his right hand, he tentatively immersed it in the pool.
It was extremely warm and felt like water, except that, when he withdrew his hand, the drips flew upward, merging with the pellucid surface of the pool.
Atrus closed his eyes, then pushed up, immersing his head and shoulders. For five full seconds he held himself there, then ducked down again, sputtering.
There, he told himself, opening his eyes wide and drawing a hand back through his sodden hair, grinning to himself.
He closed his eyes again and counted, taking slow, calming breaths. At twenty he thrust upward, dragging himself up the last few feet of the ladder with his hands. And then, suddenly, he was fully immersed!
Opening his eyes, he let go of the ladder and kicked, reaching up instinctively, trying to claw his way to the surface.
Slowly, very slowly it came toward him, the walls sliding past. His lungs were aching now, but he was very nearly there.
And then, suddenly, there was a shadow on the sunlit surface just above him, the outline of a human figure. He tried to hold back, putting out his arms, trying to slow his upward drift, fighting to stay where he was, but it was impossible, and in the struggle something gave.
The sudden choking pain was awful. It was like swallowing hot tar. His lungs were suddenly on fire, his mind flaring like a bonfire with the pain. He spasmed and threw his arms out, trying to grasp the edges of that strange, unnatural well, yet even as he did, the blackness leaked in again, robbing him of consciousness.
Slowly, arms out, he floated to the surface of the circular pool he had seen when he first arrived.
§
The hut was dark after the bright sunlight of the bay, and as Katran sat herself in the corner, out of the way of her two cousins who were tending to the stranger, it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the shadows.
At first they had thought he was dead. It was the strangest thing they had ever seen. They were reluctant to take him from the water. His flesh was pale and corpselike and there he been no pulse at his neck. The old man, Hrea, had advocated throwing him back into the water, but her eldest cousin, Carel, had persevered, pushing the water from out of the stranger’s chest and breathing his own air into the youth’s blue mouth until, with a choking sound and the expulsion of a plentiful amount of water, the corpse had begun to breath again.
They had wrapped the stranger in a blanket then carried him back to the hut.
That had been this morning. In the hours between the stranger had slept, at first lightly, feverishly, but then peacefully. For the last few hours Carel and his younger brother, Erlar, waited for the stranger to wake.
“How long?” she asked impatiently, the D’ni she spoke clearer, less accented than theirs.
Carel, who was standing beside the bed, looked to her across the full length of the room and shrugged, but Erlar, who was at the stove, preparing a pot of soup, smiled and said gently, “Not long now, Katran. Let him sleep a little longer. If he doesn’t come around soon, we’ll wake him.”
“Is there any…damage?”
At that Erlar looked to Carel.
“It’s hard to say,” Carel answered.
“Who is he?” she asked, posing the question that all of them had asked in their minds. “Do you think he belongs to Gehn?”
“One of his servants, you mean?” Carel sighed, then shrugged. “I don’t know. He has a pair of eye instruments like Gehn’s.”
“Eye instruments?” She sat forward slightly. “I didn’t see them.”
“No…they were in the pocket of his cloak.” Carel reached across and took them from a table beside the bed. “Here.”
She took them and studied them, remembering what she’d been told by Erlar about the stranger’s first appearance among them—unearthly white, his arms spread as if to embrace them as they knelt there looking down.
The Myst Reader Page 21