The Myst Reader by Robyn Miller Page B

head what that higher level might be.”
    “And that’s precisely why there is no English equivalent for this.”
    “Yes, but … what does it
mean?
”
    “This word—this particular D’ni word—is to do with the circulation of the air. With wind patterns and humidity.”
    Atrus stared at her now, his brow knitted. “But … but surely such a word would be a label?”
    “No. Not this word. This word does more than simply describe.”
    “Then …” But he clearly could not see what she was driving at. He looked to her, his pale eyes pleading for an explanation.
    Anna laughed. “You must just accept that there is such a level, Atrus.”
    “But you said …”
    “I know what I said, and I still mean it. You must question everything and find the truth in it. But this once you must simply accept what I’m telling you. There is something beyond labels and ideas. Something which is a synthesis of the two. Something the D’ni discovered many, many years ago, and learned to put into words. One day you will understand more clearly, but for now …”
    She could see Atrus was unhappy with that. He had been taught to question everything. To look with his own eyes, and quantify, and check. He had been taught never to accept things simply because he had been told they were true. And now … well, now she was asking him to break the habit of his thought.
    I should not have had him draw that word
, she thought, wondering at the instinct which had made her do it.
He is not yet ready for the Garo-hevtee
. Yet generally she trusted her instincts. Generally they were proved right.
    As he looked away, she could see how he was still struggling with the notion of how an idea could also be a label, how something so general could yet be specific and descriptive, and part of her wanted to put him out of his misery and tell him. But he wasn’t ready yet.
    Anna stood and stretched, then looked about her at the orderliness of the cleft. Sometimes, in her imaginings, she thought of the cleft and of her grandson’s mind in much the same vein, as if the one were a metaphor for the other. Yet at that moment she understood the inadequacy of the comparison, for just as one day he would outgrow this tiny living space and venture out into the world, so his thoughts and speculations were certain one day to outgrow her careful nurturing of them.
    Looking at him, she knew he was destined to be greater than herself. Wiser, more formidable of mind. Yet the thought did not scare her or make her envious. If anything, it made her sad, for she got great pleasure from teaching him, and to think of losing that …
    Anna sighed, then, picking her way carefully across the cleft, mounted the steps. It was time to make supper.

     
    A FULL MONTH PASSED AND AS THE MOON came round to full once more, Atrus made his way idly up the slope, whistling to himself—one of the songs Anna had taught him as a child: a D’ni song that had the simplest of tunes. And as he whistled, he heard Anna’s voice in his head, softly singing the refrain.
    As he came to the end of it he looked up, and stopped dead, staring openmouthed at the sight that met his eyes.
    Ahead of him, the whole of the upper slope was wreathed in a thick cloud of brilliantly white vapor, as if a thick curtain had suddenly been dropped over the volcano’s edge. The mist slowly roiled, like the steam on the surface of a cooking pot, neither advancing nor retreating, yet turning in upon itself constantly.
    It was so strange, so unlike anything Atrus had ever seen, that he stepped back, suddenly afraid. And as he did, a man stepped from within that glistening whiteness, seeming for a moment almost to be a part of it; a tall, unearthly figure with a large forehead and a strong, straight nose, over the bridge of which were strapped a pair of glasses identical to Atrus’s own. A white cloak flapped out behind the stranger, giving him the appearance of some great mythical king.
    Rooted to the spot, Atrus