The Myst Reader Page 3

  And her own face?

  She tilted her head slightly to the side, examining herself again, noting this time the tiny blue beads she had tied into her braids, the colorful, finely woven band about her neck.

  The face that stared back at her was pale and tautly fleshed, almost austere; the deeply green eyes were intelligent, the mouth sensitive; yet it was in those few small, surrounding touches—the beads, the band—that her true nature was revealed: that part, at least, that loved embellishment. From childhood on, she had always been the same. Give her a blank page and she would fill it with a poem or a story or a picture. Give her a blank wall and she would always—always—decorate it.

  Give me a child …

  She snapped the tiny case shut and slipped it back onto the shelf.

  Give her a child and she would fill its head with marvels. With tales and thoughts and facts beyond imagining.

  What do you see, Anna?

  Yawning, she reached across to douse the light, then answered the silent query.

  “I see a tired old woman who needs her sleep.”

  “Maybe,” she answered after a moment, smiling, remembering the girl she’d been. Then, stepping out onto the steps that hugged the cleftwall, she quickly crossed the cleft once more, making for her bed.

  2

  THE FIRST SIGN WAS A DARKENING OF THE sky far to the east, high up, not where you would expect a sandstorm. Atrus was exploring the sun-facing slope of the volcano, searching for rare rocks and crystals to add to his collection, when he looked up and saw it—a tiny smudge of darkness against the solid blue. For a moment he wasn’t quite sure what it was. He moved his head, thinking it might be a blemish in one of the lenses, but it wasn’t that.

  Looking back, he found it was still there. Not only that, but it was growing. Even as he watched it seemed to darken.

  Atrus felt a vague unease grip him.

  The ten-year-old turned, making his way back down the slope, then hurried across the open stretch of sand between the nearest ledge and the cleft, panting from the heat. Stopping only to slip his sandals into the gap beneath the cleftwall’s lip, he clambered down the rope ladder, making the stone rungs clatter against the wall.

  That noise alerted Anna. On the far side of the shadowy cleft, the top half of the hinged door to her workroom swung open. She looked out, her eyebrows formed into a question.

  “Atrus?”

  “Something’s coming.”

  “People, you mean?”

  He shook his head. “No. Something big in the sky, high up. Something black.”

  “A sandstorm?”

  “No … the whole sky is turning black.”

  Her laugh was unexpected. “Well, well,” she said, almost as if she’d half expected whatever it was. “We’ll need to take precautions.”

  Atrus stared at his grandmother, perplexed. “Precautions?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost gaily now. “If it’s what I think it is, we’d best take advantage of it while we can. The chance is rare enough.”

  He stared at her as if she were speaking in riddles.

  “Come on,” she said, “help me now. Go fetch the seeds from the store room. And bowls. Fetch as many bowls as you can from the kitchen and set them up all around the cleftwall.”

  Still he stared at her, openmouthed.

  “Now,” she said, grinning at him. “If you could see it on the horizon then it’ll be upon us before long. We need to be prepared for it.”

  Not understanding, Atrus did as he was told, crossing the rope bridge to fetch the seeds, then crisscrossing it time and again, carefully ferrying every bowl he could find and setting them all around the cleftwall’s rim. That done, he looked to her.

  Anna was standing on the cleftwall, staring out, one hand shielding her eyes against the glare. Atrus went across and climbed up, standing next to her.

  Whatever it was, it now filled a third of the horizon, a great black veil that linked the heavens and the earth. From where he stood it seemed like a fragment of the night ripped from its appointed time.

  “What is it?” he asked. In all his ten years he had not seen its like.

  “It’s a storm, Atrus,” she said, turning to him with a smile. “That blackness is a huge rain cloud. And if we’re lucky—if we’re very, very lucky—then that rain will fall on us.”

  “Rain?”

  “Water,” she said, her smile broadening. “Water falling from the sky.”

  He looked from her to the great patch of darkness, his mouth open in astonishment. “From the sky?”

  “Yes,” she answered, raising her arms, as if to embrace the approaching darkness. “I’ve dreamed of this, Atrus. So many nights I’ve dreamed.”

  It was the first time she had said anything of her dreams, and again he stared at her as if she’d been transformed. Water from the sky. Dreams. Day turned to night. Putting his right hand against his upper arm he pinched himself hard.

  “Oh, you’re awake, Atrus,” Anna said, amused by his reaction. “And you must stay awake and watch, for you’ll see sights you may never see again.” Again she laughed. “Just watch, my boy. Just watch!”

  Slowly, very slowly it came closer, and as it approached the air seemed to grow cooler and cooler. There was the faintest breeze now, like an outrider moving ahead of the growing darkness.

  “All right,” she said, turning to him after a long silence. “Let’s get to work. We need to scatter the seeds all around the cleft. Use all the bags but one. We’ll not get this chance again. Not for many years.”

  He did as she told him, moving in a daze, conscious all the while of the blackness that now filled the whole of the horizon. From time to time he would look up fearfully, then duck his head again.

  Finished, he pocketed the tiny cloth bag then clambered up onto the cleftwall.

  Flame was sheltering beneath the stone ledge on the floor of the cleft. Seeing her there, Anna called to him. “Atrus! You’d better put Flame in your room. If she stays where she is she’ll be in danger.”

  Atrus frowned, not understanding how she could possibly be in danger. Surely the cleft was the safest place? But he did not argue, merely went and, gathering Flame under his arm, took her into the storeroom and locked her in.

  Returning to the lip of the cleftwall he saw that the storm was almost upon them. Climbing out onto the open sands, he looked to Anna, wondering what they would do, where they would hide, but his grandmother seemed unconcerned. She merely stood there, watching that immense darkness approach, undaunted by it, smiling all the while. Turning, she called to him, raising her voice against the noise of the oncoming storm.

  “Take your glasses off, Atrus, you’ll see better!”

  Again, he did as he was told, stowing the heavy lenses with their thick leather strap in the deep pocket of his cloak.

  Ahead, the storm front was like a massive, shimmering wall of black and silver, a solid thing advancing on him, filling the whole of the sky ahead of him, tearing up the desert sand as it went. Strange, searingly bright flashes seemed to dance and flicker in that darkness, accompanied by a low, threatening rumble that exploded suddenly in a great crash of sound.

  Trembling, he closed his eyes, his teeth clenched tight, his body crouched against the onslaught, and then the rain burst over him, soaking him in an instant, drumming against his head and shoulders and arms with such fierceness that for a moment he thought it would beat him to the ground. He gasped with shock, then staggered around, surprised to hear, over the rain’s fierce thundering, Anna’s laughter.

  He looked down past his feet at the earth, astonished by its transformation. A moment before he had been standing on the sand. Now his feet were embedded in a sticky, swirling mess that tugged at him as he tried to free himself.

  “Anna!” he called, turning to appeal to her, putting his arms out.

  She came across, giggling now like a young girl. The rain had plastered her hair to her head, while her clothes seemed painted to her lon
g, gaunt body like a second skin.

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” she said, putting her face up to the rain, her eyes closed in ecstasy. “Close your eyes, Atrus, and feel it on your face.”

  Once more he did as he was told, fighting down his instinct to run, letting the stinging rain beat down on his exposed cheeks and neck. After a moment his face felt numb. Then, with a sudden change he found hard to explain, he began to enjoy the sensation.

  He ducked his head down and squinted at her. Beside him, his grandmother was hopping on one leg, and slowly turning, her hands raised above her head and spread, as if in greeting to the sky. Timidly he copied her. Then, as the mood overtook him, he began to twirl about madly, the rain falling and falling and falling, the noise like the noise at the heart of a great sandstorm, so loud there was a silence in his head.

  And then, with a suddenness that made him gasp, it was gone. He turned, blinking, in time to see it drift across the cleft and climb the volcano wall, a solid curtain of falling water that left the desert floor dark and flat behind it.

  Atrus looked about him, seeing how every pot was filled to the brim—a score of trembling mirrors reflecting back the sudden, startling blue of the sky. He made to speak, to say something to Anna, then turned back, startled by the sudden hissing noise that rose from the volcano’s mouth.

  As he watched, great billows of steam rose up out of the caldera, as if the dormant giant had returned to life.

  “It’s all right,” Anna said, coming over and placing her hand on his shoulder. “It’s only where the rain has seeped down into the deep vents.”

  Atrus burrowed into his grandmother’s side. Yet he was no longer afraid. Now that it had passed—now that he had survived it—he felt elated, exhilarated.

  “Well?” she asked quietly. “What did you think?”

  “Where did it come from?” he asked, watching, fascinated, as that massive dark wall receded slowly into the distance.

  “From the great ocean,” she answered. “It travels hundreds of miles to get here.”

  He nodded, but his mind was back watching that great silver-black curtain rush toward him once again and swallow him up, feeling it drum against his flesh like a thousand blunt needles.

  Atrus glanced up at his grandmother and laughed. “Why, you’re steaming, grandmother!”

  She grinned and poked him gently. “And so are you, Atrus. Come, let’s go inside, before the sun dries us out again.”

  He nodded and began to climb the cleftwall, meaning to go and free Flame from the storeroom, yet as he popped his head over the rim he stopped dead, his mouth falling open in a tiny oh of surprise.

  Below him the cleft was a giant blue-black mirror, the shadow of the steep walls dividing it in half, like a jagged shield.

  Coming alongside him, Anna crouched and, smiling, looked into his face.

  “Would you like to learn to swim, little sand worm?”

  ANNA WOKE ATRUS IN THE DARK BEFORE first light, shaking him gently then standing back, the lamp held high, its soft yellow glow filling the shelf where he lay.

  “Come,” she said simply, smiling at him as he knuckled his eyes. “I’ve something to show you.”

  Atrus sat up, suddenly alert. Something had happened. Something … He stared at her. “Was it real, Grandmother? Did it really happen? Or did I dream it?”

  “It happened,” she answered softly. Then, taking his hand, she led him out, through her own shadowed chamber and onto the narrow balcony.

  The moon was two days off full, and though it was no longer at its zenith, its light still silvered the far edge of the pool.

  Atrus stood there, breathing shallowly, transfixed by the sight, staring down into the perfect ebon mirror of the pool. Not the pool he’d known from infancy, but a bigger, more astonishing pool—a pool that filled the cleft from edge to edge. Staring into it he let a sigh escape him.

  “The stars …”

  Anna smiled and leaned past him, pointing out the shape of the hunter in the water. “And there,” she said. “Look, Atrus, there’s the marker star.”

  He stared at the brilliant pure blue star then looked up, seeing its twin there in the heavens.

  “Is this it?” he asked, after a moment, turning to look at her. “Is this what you were going to show me?”

  She shook her head. “No … Come. Follow me.”

  In the moment before he emerged from the cleft—in that instant before he saw what his grandmother had woken him to see—Atrus paused on the second top rung of the ladder and looked down.

  Below him, far below, it seemed—so far that it was almost as if he had been inverted and now hung out over space—lay the star-dusted sky. For a moment the illusion was perfect, so perfect that, had he let go of the rung, he was certain that he would have fallen forever. Then, conscious that his grandmother was waiting patiently on the other side of the lip, he pulled himself up onto the top of the cleftwall.

  And stopped, stone still, his jaw dropped, the sight that met his eyes incredible and dreamlike.

  Between the cleft and the lip of the caldera, the whole side of the volcano was carpeted in flowers. Even in the moonlight he could distinguish those bright colors. Violets and blues, dark greens and lavender, bright reds and violent oranges.

  He stared, uncomprehending. It was impossible.

  “They’re called ephemerals,” Anna said, speaking into that perfect silence. “Their seeds—hundreds of thousands of tiny seeds—lay in the dry earth for years. And then, when finally the rains come, they blossom. For a single day—for one single night—they bloom. And then …”

  She sighed. It was the saddest sound Atrus had ever heard. He looked to her, surprised by that sound. There had been such joy in her voice, such excitement.

  “What is it, grandmother?”

  She smiled wistfully then reached out, petting his head. “It’s nothing, Atrus. I was thinking of your grandfather, that’s all. Thinking how much he would have loved this.”

  Atrus jumped down, his feet welcomed by the lush, cool feel of vegetation. The earth beneath was damp and cool. He could squidge it between his toes.

  Crouching, he ran his hands over the tops of the tiny blooms, feeling how soft, how delicate they were, then plucked a single, tiny flower, holding it before his face to study it.

  It had five tiny pink petals and delicate stamen the color of sandstone. He let it fall.

  For a moment he knelt there, his eyes taking it all in. Then, suddenly, a new thought struck him. Jerking around, he looked to Anna.

  “The seeds!”

  Atrus stood and, picking his way carefully about the cleftwall, stooped here and there, examining all those places where, before the storm had come, he had scattered their precious seeds.

  After a while he looked to Anna and laughed. “It worked! The seeds have germinated! Look, Nanna, look!”

  She stood there, grinning back at him. “Then we’d better harvest them, Atrus. Before the sun comes up. Before the desert takes back what it’s given us.”

  THE WORK WAS DONE. NOW THERE WAS TIME simply to explore. As the dawn’s light began to cast its long shadows over the sands, Atrus climbed the side of the volcano, Flame in tow, the ginger cat intoxicated, it seemed, by the sudden profusion of flowers. She romped and rolled about as if the years had peeled back and she was a kitten again.

  Watching her, Atrus giggled. He wore his glasses now, the sun-filter set low, the magnification high. Now was the time to indulge his curiosity, before the sun climbed too high and the heat grew too unbearable; and before, as Anna assured him they would, the blooms dried up and vanished.

  For a time he wandered idly, almost as aimless as the tiny, scrawny cat that was his constant companion. Then, without knowing it, he found himself looking for something. Or rather, not so much looking as trying to pinpoint exactly what it was he’d seen but not understood.

  He stood still, turning only his head, trying to locate just what it was he’d glimpsed. At first he saw n
othing. Then, with a little start, he saw. There! Yes, there in that shallow incline that ran down to one of the volcano’s small, inactive vents!

  Atrus went across and stood over it, nodding to himself. There was no doubt about it, the vegetation here was more lush, the flowers bigger, their leaves thicker and broader.

  And why was that?

  He bent down and, reaching in among the tiny stems, pulled one of the plants up and examined its shallow roots. Earth clung to it. He lifted it and sniffed. There was something strange, something almost metallic about that smell. Minerals. Somehow the presence of minerals—specific minerals?—had helped the plants grow larger here.

  He cleared a tiny space with one hand, then scooped up a handful of the earth and carefully spilled it into one of the pockets of his cloak. Straightening up, he looked back down the slope to where Flame was lying on her back in a patch of bright yellow flowers, pawing at the sky.

  “Come on!” he said, excited now, wanting to test his theory.

  ALMOST THREE MONTHS HAD PASSED NOW since the day of desert rains. Since then the ten-year-old had labored every evening, stood at his workspace, an oil lamp hung on a peg on the wall at his side, Flame sleeping on the floor nearby as he patiently tracked down which of the chemicals he had found in the sample was responsible for the enhanced growth.

  His workroom was in a small, freshly cut alcove at the back of Anna’s room. Working carefully, patiently, over the period of a year, he had chipped the narrow space from the rock with his own hands, using his grandmother’s stoneworking tools, careful to remove the stone a little at a time as she had taught him, checking all the while for weaknesses in the rock, for flaws in its structure that might split and bring the whole wall tumbling down on them.

  There was a ledge—a working surface he had smoothed and polished until the surface seemed like glass. Strange-looking technical instruments littered that surface now. Above it he had cut three narrow shelves where he stored his things: narrow cuplike pots made of stone and clay, tiny handwoven baskets filled with various powders and chemicals, the bleached bones of various desert animals, and, on the topmost shelf, his collection of rare rocks and crystals: polished agates like the pouting lips of strange creatures; a large chunk of zeolite, which reminded him of the whiskers of some exotic snow beast; nodules of blue azurite beside a cluster of bright yellow sulfur crystal; a long, beveled finger of icelike quartz, and, in a tiny transparent box, a single tiger’s eye. These and many others crowded the shelf, sorted into the seven systems—cubic, tetragonal, monoclinic, orthorhombic, triclinic, hexagonal, and trigonal—he had read of in his grandmother’s books.