David Wingrove & Rand Miller - Myst 01 by The Book Of Atrus

Author:The Book Of Atrus [Atrus, The Book Of]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

“Young master?”

Atrus turned onto his side, wondering for an instant where he was. Herbs. The smell of herbs. Ah, yes. The old woman’s hut. He was on the Thirty-seventh Age of Gehn, and it was morning.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, then looked to the old woman, who stood with her back half bent in the opening to the stall.

“Forgive me, young Master,” she said breathlessly, “but the Lord Gehn wants to see you at once.”

Nodding his thanks, he stood and stretched. What time was it? And how long had he slept? He seemed to sleep longer, deeper, while he was here. Maybe it had something to do with the air.

He yawned, then, knowing how his father hated to be kept waiting, went outside.

Pulling on his glasses, he studied the scene’that met his eyes.

Beneath him the slope was a tawny brown, furred like an animal’s back. Beyond it the folds of land that surrounded the lake were revealed in browns and greens-so many different shades that he caught his breath to think of such subtle variation. And the textures! He walked out slowly, onto the ridge. Tall, dark trees, their crowns explosions of jet black leaves, covered the left flank of the nearest hill, ending abruptly in a smooth covering of bright green grass. Atrus laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Master?”

Atrus turned, facing the acolyte, the smile gone from his face. He had not seen him when he’d stepped out.

“I laughed because of that hill there. It reminded me … well, of a half-shaven head. The way those trees end in a straight line …”

The priest stepped up and looked, then nodded; but there was not the slightest trace of amusement in his expression. He looked back at Atrus, then, with a bow, said, “Your father awaits you. Master.”

Atrus sighed inwardly. It was his fourth day on the island and still the man retained his distance.

He walked slowly down the slope, silent now and thoughtful, looking about him at the swell and fold of hills surrounding the lake. As the village came into sight, he stared at it a while, then looked to the acolyte.

“What is your name?”

“My name?’ The man seemed strangely intimidated by the query.

“Yes, your name. What is it?”

“My name is … One.”

“One?” Atrus gave a small laugh. “You mean, the number one?”

The man nodded, unable to meet Alms’s eyes.

“And was that always your name?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “My birth name was Koena.”

“Koena,” Atrus said, walking on, his eyes Caking in the pleasant shapes of the thatched roofs just below him now, the covered walkways, the delightful contrast of the lake’s vivid blue against the bright greens and russets of the land sloping down to it. “But One is the name my father gave you?”

Koena nodded.

A faint smile appeared at the corners of Atrus’s mouth. Of course. He should have known. He turned his head, studying the man a moment, not disliking his long, rather severe features, noting in the unforgiving daylight just how coarse the cloth of his cloak actually was, how crudely fashioned the symbols on it.

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