The Myst Reader

by Rand; Robyn Miller; David Wingrove

She walked over to him, counting each step, then made a quick calculation in her head.

  “It’s eighty paces in diameter, so that’s close on eight hundred square feet,” she said. “I’d say that’s much too big to have been made.”

  “Unless you had a whole tribe working at it.”

  “Yes, but it looks natural. It looks…well, I imagine that from above it would look like a giant drop of water had fallen from the sky.”

  “Or that sieve of mine.” He narrowed his eyes and crouched a moment, studying the pattern of stones by his feet, then shook his head again. “Vibrations,” he said quietly. “Vibrations deep in the earth.”

  “Volcanic?”

  “No.” He looked up at his daughter. “No, this was no quake. Quakes crack stone, or shatter it, or deposit it. They don’t grade it and sort it.”

  “You’re looking tired,” she said after a moment. “Do you want to rest a while?”

  She did not usually comment on how he looked, yet there was an edge of concern in her voice. Of late he had tired easily. He seemed to have lost much of the vigor he had had of old.

  He did not answer her. Not that she expected him to. He was never one for small talk.

  Anna looked about her once more. “How long do you think it’s been here?”

  “It’s sheltered here,” he said after a moment, his eyes taking in every detail of his surroundings. “There’s not much sand drift. But judging by what there is, I’d say it’s been here quite a while. Fifty years, perhaps?”

  Anna nodded. Normally she would have taken samples, yet it was not the rocks themselves but the way they were laid out that was different here.

  She went over to her father. “I think we should go back. We could come here tomorrow, early.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Let’s do that. I could do with a long, cool soak.”

  “And strawberries and cream, too, no doubt?”

  “Yes, and a large glass of brandy to finish with!”

  They both laughed.

  “I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

  §

  The lodge had been named by her father in a moment of good humor, not after the hunting lodge in which he had spent his own childhood, back in Europe, but because it was lodged into a shelf between the rock wall and the shelf below. A narrow stone bridge—hand-cut by her father some fifteen years ago, when Anna was barely three—linked it to the rest of the rocky outcrop, traversing a broad chasm that in places was close to sixty feet deep.

  The outer walls of the Lodge were also of hand-cut stone, their polished surfaces laid flush. A small, beautifully carved wooden door, set deep within the white stone at the end of the narrow bridge, opened onto a long, low-ceilinged room that had been hewn from the rock.

  Four additional rooms led off from that long room: three to the right, which they used as living quarters, and another, their laboratory and workshop, to the left.

  Following him inside, she helped him down onto the great sofa at the end of the room, then ducked under the narrow stone lintel into the galley-kitchen at the front.

  A moment later she returned, a stone tumbler of cold water held out to him.

  “No, Anna. That’s too extravagant!”

  “Drink it,” she said insistently. “I’ll make a special journey to the pool tonight.”

  He hesitated, then, with a frown of self-disapproval, slowly gulped it down.

  Anna, watching him, saw suddenly how pained he was, how close to exhaustion, and wondered how long he had struggled on like this without saying anything to her.

  “You’ll rest tomorrow,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “I can continue with the survey on my own.”

  She could see he didn’t like the idea; nonetheless, he nodded.

  “And the report?”

  “If the report’s late, it’s late,” she said tetchily.

  He turned his head, looking at her. “I gave my word.”

  “You’re ill. He’ll understand. People are ill.”

  “Yes, and people starve. It’s a hard world, Anna.”

  “Maybe so. But we’ll survive. And you are ill. Look at you. You need rest.”

  He sighed. “Okay. But a day. That’s all.”

  “Good. Now let’s get you to your bed. I’ll wake you later for supper.”

  §

  It was dark when she heard him wake. She had been sitting there, watching the slow, inexorable movement of the stars through the tiny square of window.

  Turning, she looked through to where he lay, a shadow among the shadows of the inner room.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “A little better. Not so tired anyway.”

  Anna stood, walked over to where the pitcher rested in its carved niche, beside the marble slab on which she prepared all their meals, and poured him a second tumbler of cold water. She had climbed down to the pool at the bottom of the chasm earlier, while he slept, and brought two pitchers back, strapped to her back, their tops stoppered to prevent them from leaking as she climbed the tricky rock face. It would last them several days if they were careful.

  He sipped eagerly as she held the tumbler to his lips, then sank back onto his pallet bed.

  “I was dreaming,” he said.

  “Were you?”

  “Of mother. I was thinking how much you’ve come to look like her.”

  She did not answer him. Six years had passed, but still the subject was too raw in her memory to speak of.

  “I was thinking I might stay here tomorrow,” she said, after a moment. “Finish those experiments you began last week.”

  “Uhuh?”

  “I thought…well, I thought I could be on hand then, if you needed me.”

  “I’ll be okay. It’s only tiredness.”

  “I know, but…”

  “If you want to stay, stay.”

  “And the experiments?”

  “You know what you’re doing, Anna. You know almost as much as I do now.”

  “Never,” she said, smiling across at him.

  The silence stretched on. After a while she could hear his soft snoring fill the darkened room.

  She moved back, into the kitchen. The moon had risen. She could see it low in the sky through the window.

  Setting the tumbler down, Anna sat on the stone ledge of the window and looked out across the desert. What if it wasn’t simple tiredness? What if he was ill?

  It was more than a hundred miles to Tadjinar. If her father was ill, there was no way they would make it there across the desert, even if she laid him on the cart. Not in the summer’s heat.

  She would have to tend him here, using what they had.

  Her head had fallen at the thought. She lifted it now. It was no good moping.

  Flowers. She would paint him some flowers and place the canvas in the doorway so he would see them when he woke in the morning.

  The idea of it galvanized her. She got up and went through to the workroom, lighting the oil lamp with her father’s tinderbox and setting it down on the stone tabletop on the far side of the room.

  Then, humming softly to herself, she took her mother’s paintbox down from the shelf and, clearing a space for herself, began.

  §

  Anna?

  “Yes, father?”

  What do you see?

  “I see…” Anna paused, the familiar litany broken momentarily as, shielding her eyes, she looked out over the dusty plain from the granite outcrop she stood upon. She had been up since before dawn, mapping the area, extending her father’s survey of this dry and forlorn land, but it was late morning now and the heat had become oppressive. She could feel it burning through the hood she wore.

  She looked down, murmuring her answer. “I see stone and dust and ashes.”

  It was how he had taught her. Question and answer, all day and every day; forcing her to look, to focus on what was in front of her. Yes, and to make those fine distinctions between things that were the basis of all knowledge. But today she
found herself stretched thin. She did not want to focus.

  Closing the notebook, she slipped the pencil back into its slot, then crouched, stowing the notebook and her father’s compass into her knapsack.

  A whole week had passed, and still he had not risen from his bed. For several nights he had been delirious, and she had knelt beside him in the wavering lamplight, a bowl of precious water at her side as she bathed his brow.

  The fever had eventually broken, but it had left them both exhausted. For a whole day she had slept and had woken full of hope, but her father seemed little better. The fever had come and gone, but it had left him hollowed, his face gaunt, his breathing ragged.

  She had tried to feed him and look after him, but in truth there seemed little she could do but wait. And when waiting became too much for her, she had come out here, to try to do something useful. But her heart was not in it.

  The Lodge was not far away, less than a mile, in fact, which was why she had chosen that location, but the walk back was tiring under the blazing desert sun. As she climbed up onto the ridge overlooking the Lodge, she found herself suddenly fearful. She had not meant to be gone so long. What if he had needed her? What if he had called out to her and she had not been there?

  She hurried down the slope, that unreasonable fear growing in her, becoming almost a certainty as she ran across the narrow bridge and ducked inside into the cool darkness.

  “Father?”

  The pallet bed was empty. She stood in the low doorway, breathing heavily, sweat beading her brow and neck and trickling down her back. She turned, looking out through the window at the desert.

  What if he’d gone out looking for her?

  She hurried through, anxious now, then stopped, hearing a noise, off to her right.

  “Father?”

  As she entered the workroom, he looked around and smiled at her. He was sitting at the long workbench that ran the full length of the room, one of his big, leather-bound notebooks open in front of him.

  “This is good, Anna,” he said without preamble. “Amanjira will be pleased. The yields are high.”

  She did not answer. Her relief at seeing him up and well robbed her of words. For a moment she had thought the very worst.

  He had the faintest smile on his lips now, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Anna wanted to go across to him and hug him, but she knew that was not his way. His love for her was distant, stern, like an eagle’s love for its chicks. It was the only way they had survived out here without her mother.

  “Anna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for the painting. How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That those flowers were my favorites.”

  She smiled, but found she could not say the words aloud. Because my mother told me.

  §

  He continued to improve the next few days, doing a little more each day, until, a week after he’d got up from his bed, he came out from the workroom and handed Anna the finished report.

  “There,” he said. “Take that to Amanjira. It’s not precisely what he asked for, but he’ll welcome it all the same.”

  She stared at the document, then back at her father. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not strong enough yet. The journey would exhaust you.”

  “Which is why I’m not going. You know the way. You can manage the cart on your own, can’t you?”

  Anna shook her head. She could, of course, but that wasn’t what she meant. “I can’t leave you. Not yet.”

  He smiled. “Of course you can. I can cook. And I don’t need much water. Two pitchers should see me through until you return.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, Anna. If Amanjira doesn’t get that report, we don’t get paid. And who’ll pay the traders then? Besides, there are things we need in Tadjinar. I’ve made a list.”

  Anna stared at him a moment, seeing how determined he was in this. “When do you want me to go?”

  “This evening, immediately after sundown. You should reach the old volcano before dawn. You could take shelter in the cleft there. Sleep until the evening.”

  It was what they always did, yet in reiterating it like this it almost seemed as if he were coming with her.

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Of course I am,” he answered. “But you’re a tough one, Anna. I always said you were. Just don’t let those merchants in Jaarnindu Market cheat you.”

  She smiled at that. They were always trying to cheat them.

  “I’ll fill the pitchers, then.”

  He nodded, and without another word returned inside.

  “To Tadjinar, then,” she said quietly, looking down at the report in her hands. “Let’s hope Lord Amanjira is as welcoming as my father thinks he’ll be.”

  §

  Amanjira was in good humor. He beamed a great smile at Anna, gestured toward the low chair that rested against the wall on one side of the great room, then he returned to his desk and sat, opening her father’s report.

  As Amanjira leaned forward, his dark eyes poring over the various maps and diagrams, Anna took the chance to look about her. This was the first time she had been inside the great man’s house. Usually her father came here while she stayed at the lodging house in the old town.

  The room was luxuriously decorated in white, cream, reds, and pinks. Bright sunlight filled the room, flooding in through a big, glass-paneled door that opened out onto a balcony. There was a thick rug on the floor and silk tapestries on the wall. And on the wall behind Amanjira was a portrait of the Emperor, given to him by the Emperor himself.

  Everything there spoke of immense wealth.

  Anna looked back at the man himself. Like herself, Amanjira was a stranger in this land, a trader from the east who had settled many years ago. Now he was one of the most important men in the empire.

  Amanjira’s skin was as dark as night, so black it was almost blue, yet his features had a strangely Western cast; a well-fleshed softness that was very different from the hawkish look of these desert people.

  As if a dove had flown into a nest of falcons.

  But looks deceived sometimes. This dove had claws. Yes, and a wingspan that stretched from coast to coast of this dry and sandy land.

  Amanjira made a tiny noise—a grunt of satisfaction—then looked across at her, nodding to himself.

  “This is excellent. Your father has excelled himself, Anna.”

  She waited, wondering what he would say next; what he would give her for this information.

  “I shall instruct the steward to pay you in full, Anna. And tell your father that, if his findings prove correct, I shall reward him with a bonus.”

  She lowered her head, surprised. So far as she knew, Amanjira had never offered them a bonus before.

  “You are too kind, Lord Amanjira.”

  Anna heard him rise and come across to her. “If you wish,” he said softly, “you may stay here tonight, Anna. Share a meal, perhaps, before you return home.”

  She forced herself to look up. His dark eyes were looking at her with a surprising gentleness.

  “Forgive me,” she said, “but I must get back. My father is not well.”

  It was not entirely the truth. She wanted to stay this once and explore the alleys of the old town, but duty had to come first.

  “I understand,” he said, moving back a little, as if sensitive to the sudden defensiveness in her attitude. “Is there anything I can do for him? Potions perhaps? Or special foods? Sheep’s brain is supposed to be especially nutritious.”

  Anna laughed at the thought of her father eating sheep’s brain, then grew serious again, not wanting to hurt Amanjira’s feelings. “I thank you for your concern, Lord Amanjira, and for your kind offer of help, but we have all we need.”

  Amanjira smiled, then gave a little bow. “So be it. But if you change your mind, do not hesitate to come to me, Anna. Lord Amanjira does not forget
who his friends are.”

  Again the warmth of his sentiments surprised her. She smiled. “I shall tell him what the Lord Amanjira said.”

  “Good. Now hurry along, Anna. I am sure I have kept you far too long.”

  §

  The journey home was uneventful. Making good time, Anna arrived at the Lodge just after dawn. She had been away, in all, seven days.

  Leaving the cart in the deep shadow by the ridge, she climbed up onto the bridge and tiptoed across, meaning to surprise her father, but the Lodge was empty.

  Anna turned to the doorway and stood there, looking out over the silent desert.

  Where would he be? Where?

  She knew at once. He would be at the circle.

  Leaving the cart where it was, she headed east across the narrow valley, climbing the bare rock until she came out into the early sunlight. It made sense that he would go there at this hour, before the heat grew unbearable. If she knew him, he would be out there now, digging about, turning over rocks.

  Her father’s illness had driven the circle from her mind for a time, but coming back from Tadjinar, she had found herself intrigued by the problem.

  It seemed almost supernatural. But neither she nor her father believed in things that could not be explained. Everything had a rational reason for its existence.

  Coming up onto the ridge, Anna saw her father at once, in the sunlight on the far side of the circle, crouched down, examining something. The simple physical presence of him there reassured her. Until then she had not been sure, not absolutely sure, that he was all right.

  For a time she stood there, watching him, noting how careful, how methodical he was, enjoying the sight of it enormously, as if it were a gift. Then, conscious of the sun slowly climbing the sky, she went down and joined him.

  “Have you found anything?” she asked, standing beside him, careful not to cast her shadow over the place where he was looking.

  He glanced up, the faintest smile on his lips. “Maybe. But not an answer.”