"Miller, Rand and Robyn & Wingrove, David - Myst 01 - The Book of Atrus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Rand)

With unthinking care, Atrus climbed down into the cool shadow of the cleft, the strong scent of herbs .intoxicating after the deserts parched sterility. Down here things grew on every side. Every last square inch of space was cultivated. Between the various stone and adobe structures that clung to them, the steep walls of the cleft were a patchwork of bare red-brown and vivid emerald, while the sloping floor surrounding the tiny pool was a lush green, no space wasted even for a path.
14 RAND AND ROBYN MILLER
Instead, a rope bridge stretched across the cleft in a zigzag that linked the various structures not joined by the narrow steps that had been carved into the rock millennia before. Over the years, Anna had cut a number of long troughlike shelves into the solid walls of the cleft, filling them with earth and patiently irrigating them, slowly expanding their garden.
The storeroom was at the far end, near the bottom of the cleft. Traversing the final stretch of rope bridge, Atrus slowed. Here, water bubbled up from an underground spring, seeping through a tilted layer of porous rock, making the ancient steps wet and slippery. Farther down a channel had been cut into the rock, directing the meager but precious flow across the impermeable stone at the bottom of the cleft into the natural depression of the pool. Here, too, was the place where his mother was buried. At one end of it lay a small patch of delicate blue flowers, their petals like tiny stars, their stamen velvet dark.
After the searing heat of the desert sand, the coolness of the damp stone beneath his feet was delightful. Down here, almost thirty feet below the surface, the air was fresh and cool, its sweet scent refreshing after the dryness of the desert outside. There was the faintest trickling of water, the soft whine of a desert wasp, Atrus paused a moment, lifting the heavy glasses onto his brow, letting his pale eyes grow accustomed to the shadow, then went on down, ducking beneath the rock
16 RAND AND ROBYN MILLER overhang before turning to face the storeroom door, which was recessed into the stone of the cleftwall.
The surface of that squat, heavy door was a marvel in itself, decorated as it was with a hundred delicate, intricate carvings; with fish and birds and animals, all of them linked by an interwoven pattern of leaves and flowets. This, like much else in the cleft, was his grandmother s doing, for if there was a clear surface anywhere, she would want to decorate it, as if the whole of creation was her canvas.
Raising his foot, Atrus pushed until it gave, then went inside, into the dark and narrow space. Another year and he would need to crouch beneath the low stone ceiling. Now, however, he crossed the tiny room in three steps; lowering the sack from his shoulder, he slid it onto the broad stone shelf beside two others.
For a moment he stood there, staring at the single, bloodred symbol printed on the sack. Familiar though it was, it was a remarkably elaborate thing of curves and squiggles, and whether it was a word or simply a design he wasn't sure, yet it had a beauty, an elegance, that he found entrancing. Sometimes it reminded him of the face of some strange, exotic animal, and sometimes he thought he sensed some kind of meaning in it,
Atrus turned, looking up, conscious suddenly of his grandmother waiting by the cleftwall, and chided himself for being so thoughtless. Hurrying now, stopping only to replace his glasses, he padded up the steps
MYST: THE BOOK OF ATRUS 17
and across the swaying bridge, emerging in time to see her unfasten her cloak and, taking a long, pearl-handled knife from the broad leather toolbelt that encircled her waist, lean down and slit open one of the bolts of cloth she'd bought.
"That's pretty," he said, standing beside her, adjusting the lenses, then admiring the vivid vermilion and cobalt pattern, seeing how the light seemed to shimmer in the surface of the cloth, as in a pool.
"Yes," she said, turning to smile at him, returning the knife to its sheath. "It's silk."
"Silk?"
In answer she lifted it and held it out to him. "FeeL"
He reached out, surprised by the cool, smooth feel of it
She was still looking at him, an enigmatic smile on her lips now. "I thought I'd make a hanging for your room. Something to cheer it up."
He looked back at her, surprised, then bent and lifted one of the remaining sacks onto his shoulder.
As he made his way down and across to the storeroom, he saw the rich pattern of the cloth in his mind and smiled. There was a faint gold thread within the cloth, he realized, recalling how it had felt: soft and smooth, like the underside of a leaf
Depositing the second sack, he went back. While he was gone, Anna had lifted the two bolts of cloth up onto the lip of the cleftwall, beside the last of the salt
18 RAND AND ROBYN MILLER and flour sacks. There was also a small green cloth bag of seeds, tied at the mouth with a length of bloodred twine. Of the final sack, the one he'd thought had moved, there was no sign.
He frowned, then looked to his grandmother, but if she understood his look, she didn't show it.
"Put the seeds in the kitchen," she said quietly, lifting the bolt of silk onto her shoulder. "We'll plant them tomorrow. Then come back and help me with the
rest of the cloth."
As he came back from the storeroom, he saw that Anna was waiting for him on the broad stone ledge at the far end of the garden. Even from where he stood he could see how tired she was. Crossing the rope bridge to the main house, he went quickly down the narrow steps that hugged the wall and, keeping carefully to the smooth, protruding rocks that delineated the pool's western edge, crouched and, taking the
metal ladle from its peg, leaned across and dipped it
into the still, mirrorlike surface.
Standing again, he went swiftly along the edge, his
toes hugging the rock, careful not to spill a drop of
precious water, stopping beside the ledge on which
Anna sat.
She looked up at him and smiled; a weary, loving
smile.
"Thank you," she said, taking the ladle and drinking from it, then offered it back.
"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "You finish it."
*.
MYST: THE BOOK OF ATRUS 19
With a smile, she drained the ladle and handed it back.
"Well, Atrus," she said, suddenly relaxed, as if the water had washed the tiredness from her. "What did you see?"
He hesitated, then. "I saw a brown doth sack, and the sack moved."
Her laughter was unexpected. Atrus frowned, then grinned as she produced the sack from within the folds of her cloak. It was strange, for it seemed not to hold anything. Not only that, but the cloth of the sack was oddЧ much coarser than those the traders normally used. It was as if it had been woven using only half the threads. If it had held salt, the salt would have spilled through the holes in the cloth, yet the sack held something.
"Well?" she said, amused by his reaction. "Are you going to take it?"
He stared at her, genuinely surprised. "For me?"
"Yes," she said. "For you."
Gingerly, he took it from her, noticing that the sacks mouth was tied with the same red twine as the seed bag.
O
"What is it?"
"Look and see," she said, taking her knife and handing it to him by the handle. "But be careful. It might bite."
He froze, looking to her, perplexed now.