Semi-Gods

Disclaimers: see pt. 1

*** 2. Trade. ***

“When I wrote this Age, there were three boys living on the rocks, and I thought, what if it was a sign? A glimpse into my own future. These boys seemed to have appeared in my life from nowhere, and they had nothing to do with the Art, just like it always happens with children.” Atrus nods with a good-natured laugh. “What would you two say if one day you have a brother?”

The weather around them doesn’t agree well with the idyllic picture Atrus has just imagined. Rain is lashing out of heavy clouds, and a fresh, strong breeze predicts a full-blown storm to be on their heads any time.

Smaller lights grouped around a tall structure with a shielded great light on top indicate the settlement around the lighthouse Atrus has mentioned as their haven on the Stoneship Age. Apart from a few visits to Everdunes, this is their first excursion together, and despite the rain, Sirrus feels excitement at the prospect of seeing new faces. That’s exactly the reason Achenar is gradually falling behind with every step that takes them closer to the village.

“Sirrus,” he calls between two violent thunderclaps. “There are people.”

“Sure there are people. There should be, in dwellings, and villages, and cities.” Sirrus brushes the wet hair out of his eyes in irritation, but suddenly he can see his brother’s point.

For years all who they have ever seen were their parents and Anna, and with her death their life has become even more solitary. The times they left Myst were rare and never lasted long, and the chances to meet any locals of an Age weren’t that great. Old Pran on Everdunes didn’t count: she was a lot like Anna, and it made her comfortably familiar. For years Sirrus awaited this moment with keen anticipation thinking that this is when life would begin for real; and now he is afraid. No doubt that’s what Achenar is thinking, too, though he tries to stand tall beside his younger sibling as is required by his seniority.

“Don’t fear, brother, I’ve smuggled in my dagger.”

Sirrus snorts and takes a step forward, making a point of going independently. Father has never taken any weapons with him; certainly in all his travels he’s found a way to protect himself with other means.

“Ten years!” exclaims Atrus somewhere behind the rainy curtain. “How much it’s grown in just ten years!”

The storm calms down in the morning, and when the boys wake up, the day is already bright and sunny. The big room they were greeted in with a dinner, so crowded yesterday, is empty; father is also gone, notes Sirrus, trying to shake himself out of a troubled sleep. Another problem he hasn’t considered: it is really difficult to sleep in a room with other people.

Achenar hops outside, yells something inarticulate and stumbles back in.

“Get up, you lazy bones, there’s something you’ll like!”

Sirrus makes vague protests at being so rudely hauled out of the room, but when he sees the thing, his sleepy grumblings are forgotten.

The Ship. The huge, monolithic shape that should have been seagoing but has become embedded in rocks so that only its extremities stick out. It is as if the flesh of the earth itself has grown around the remains of a hapless wreck, and it’s only then that Sirrus remembers his father’s words about the failure to ever set this ship afloat.

“Want to go there?” taunts Achenar, already knowing the answer.

There are boys on the ship, of course. Sirrus would think very bad of the local dwellers if there weren’t any. No boy in his sane mind would leave such a grand promise of adventure to sit there unexplored. They approach a company of skinny, sun-tanned kids with caution.

“We know you,” one of the older boys signals to them, “you came with Atrus.”

They exchange some information. What’s it like where they live? Yes, they too have a ship. No, it doesn’t float, that much they have in common. Want to play with us? How comes Achenar, all of a sudden, has a dozen sworn brothers and doesn’t remember his own blood one?

“Sure. What’s the game?”

The taller boy, obviously the leader of the gang, shows something sparkling yellow to Sirrus.

“Gold,” he explains. “If you want to stay on our ship, you have to find it and bring it back.”

And he throws the shining piece of metal into the sea.

The water is dazzlingly clear, and it seems the golden piece is easily within reach. Sirrus stares into the calm, crystalline sea and tries to estimate the real depth. The gold has landed close to the rocks, it can’t be that deep. He can do it.

“No way,” whispers Achenar, tugging at his sleeve. “It’s not worth it.”

He can do it. He brushes his brother’s hand aside.

“Let me dive,” insists Achenar, but Sirrus shakes his head and starts to take off his shirt.

Aware that the local boys watch him intently, he folds his clothes in a neat pile and stands still for a moment steadying his breath. Achenar mutters something in disapproval that sounds a lot like their father.

At least the water isn’t cold. Beams of sunlight cut the water with perfectly straight tapering cones, and the sand at the bottom is formed into little neat ripples. It doesn’t seem that far from the surface. Sirrus turns to look through the prism of water at the ones he left on board, raises a fist in salute to his brother, and begins the descend.

These boys are hardly much older than him, and they certainly wouldn’t put his life at risk, knowing who his father is. There can’t be anything too dangerous in this enterprise. He’s dived before. He can do it.

His lungs start to burn, and the piece of gold is still miles away on the bottom, as remote as it seemed from the surface. He thinks he can hear the laughter of the boys, even if he knows it’s physically impossible.

What will his father say? When will he notice, if he’s been gone since early morning and not likely to return any time soon? Or, more important, what will mother say when he and Achenar return home? Does she know a way to punish their father, too, the way she made them feel miserable when they did what they weren’t supposed to do?

He resurfaces, much to his own surprise, completely out of breath and without any gold; picks up his clothes; and leaves.

In the evening there’s another festive dinner, which lasts less than yesterday, and soon everybody is asleep more or less noisily. Sirrus fakes being asleep as well, facing the wall for better isolation. From his place he can see a part of the sky in the window, and to keep his mind off sad things, he studies the unfamiliar constellations that pass above the island in the night.

He gives a surprise start when cold droplets hit his shoulder.

“Here,” it’s Achenar, and he’s dripping wet although there’s no rain outside. “Take it.”

Sirrus clasps the piece of gold in his fist and says nothing. He’s never been lost for words, but now he doesn’t know how to explain that this way it is doesn’t mean a thing. It just doesn’t count.

***

And so comes the time they stay in an Age alone. Atrus has made a lot of fuss about it, asking for a hundredth time if they are really, really sure they’ll be all right, and when they said – for the hundredth time! – that they would, he disappeared that very instant. Achenar, who definitely looks worn out with having to give countless promises to look after his brother, lets out a long sigh of relief. Now, Channelwood lies open before them, all theirs and nobody else’s.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Achenar muses aloud looking through the labyrinth of trees, “but why father always writes his Ages as islands?”

Sirrus shrugs, he’s too busy sorting out through endless ideas flooding his mind at the moment. So many possibilities, so much to explore, and in the agreeable company of the local tree-dwellers who seem to think they’re gods or something similar.

“I know.” His fourteen years old brother has recently begun to think he knows everything. “It’s because there’s been so many imprisonments in our family.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Sirrus has to agree there’s something credible in what his brother has just said. “And there’s usually no transport to get out, beside the Linking Book. Wonder why.”

“Because there’s nowhere to get out? Because he doesn’t want to?” Achenar giggles conspiratorially. “Well, he may not want to, but it doesn’t mean we can’t find a way to travel over all this water, no?”

Sirrus immediately realizes what his brother is driving at. Indeed, the temptation is too strong. These patches of water that meander between the old grey trunks seem to lure into open spaces, much bigger than what lies under the pathways and bridges. They will build a boat – eventually.

The ape-like tree-dwellers crowd around them the moment Atrus leaves, looking up with hope. They are chirping and twittering, and Sirrus admits with regret that the boat plans will have to wait: it’s the first time they’ll have to communicate with strangers without father as an interpreter, and he can’t pass on a challenge to define, for once, his own meaning of words.

Later, when the initial thrill of being on their own has subsided, Achenar leans to him to whisper while the monkey-like creatures continue their busy activity around them.

“You still haven’t forgotten that incident on Stoneship, have you?”

Sirrus says nothing and picks up a gem from the pyramid the apes have piled before them both as a welcome gift.

***

“Sirrus…ah, you’re here.”

Achenar seems off balance and, to his brother’s immense surprise, actually blushing. Sirrus puts down the paper where he has been sketching the elements of the surrounding terrain as his father asked him to.

“What’s up?”

“Listen, do you have some of your collection here with you?”

Achenar means a rather wide assortment of small tokens Sirrus has been bringing home from various Ages they’ve visited so far. Some items in this collection are precious, some hold any value only in the collector’s mind.

“Yes, a few. Why do you ask?”

His brother casts a furtive look around, and Sirrus realizes with amusement this is what an uncertain Achenar looks like.

“Listen, brother,” he swallows hard, “these survivors on the main island over there…”

Sirrus nods. The Mechanical Age is underpopulated to the extreme; he may not know as much as his father about the principles of life in an Age, but he knows for sure nine people aren’t enough to maintain a civilization, even if two of these nine are as young as them.

“Do you remember that girl?”

There’s some entertainment to be had in watching how Achenar fidgets in search for words to discuss such a delicate issue. Sirrus takes his time torturing the sibling, not being helpful in the least.

“I thought… her parents don’t allow her to take a step outside, danger of pirates and all that… I thought if I bring her something pretty, like one of these shiny trinkets of yours…”

“That’s called bribery, brother. What do you think father will say if he finds out?”

“And he will find out?”

“Not from me,” Sirrus raises his hands in resignation. “Whatever. Will this do?”

He gives Achenar a stone from Channelwood that has the same funny ability to change colour as the waters of that Age. They should have agreed over the interest, he realizes belatedly, since he’d like to get more of net gain than just his stone back. Perhaps a detailed story of Achenar’s adventure will be a fitting compensation.

He spends the entire day on the southern island, sorting the materials they’ll need to finish the construction of the fortress, making random sketches as ideas cross his mind, but most of the time doing nothing. He adds a few touches to Atrus’ plan of the fortress aiming to correct the one major flaw in the draft: now the citadel would be able to strike back. He doubts father will agree to implement this adjustment though.

It is difficult to tell when the day starts to fade into dusk with the overcast, almost black sky of the Mechanical Age. Sirrus wakes up abruptly when a loud noise of somebody crushing into something announces he’s not alone on the island. He peers into the twilight, groping for the lantern.

“Put the light out.” It’s Achenar, and Sirrus stretches lazily, relieved. He adjusts the flame to give a moderate warm glow and turns to his brother with a wicked smile.

“So, how did everything…”

“I said, put the light out! Or at least cover it up so that he doesn’t see it…”

Before the details sink in, Sirrus knows the “He” in Achenar’s alarmed, almost panicked order. Father hasn’t returned yet. Should they be fearful of his return, and if yes, for what transgression?

Despite Achenar’s protests he raises the lantern for a better view and studies the many scratches and cuts on his face left, most likely, by the nails on one very angry hand.

“Oh my, you’ve been fighting with girls, dear brother? Looks like a great battle to me. Did you win?”

Seeing that the sibling isn’t going to do as asked, Achenar tears the lantern out of his hand.

“Probably not, since you’re so annoyed. Did she not like you, after all, even despite the stone? Or…” Sirrus hears with surprise as his own voice drops down to a whisper. “She didn’t like what you were about to do?”

“What do you know, little rascal?” Achenar snaps back. He’s not completely right about “little”: with years Sirrus has caught up in height, and even if he still looks leaner and more delicate, months of physical labour in this Age have left their trace on him.

“I know enough. And I think,” Sirrus adds, feeling he’s about to dance on a wire. “I think I’d have done it better. Give my stone back. I may need it, as a present for the time *after*.”

They’ve fought before, and many times. They both have their own strategies, and quite elaborate at that, but the only problem is, they’ve tried them all ages ago, and one knows how the other will move even before the opponent starts to think about it. Logic would say they strike a truce before the fight begins to save time and effort, but they are too stubborn to be logical.

They smash into a stack of wooden planks, break some glass and make a narrow escape from hitting their skulls against a bundle of iron bars, which could mean an end to all fights, now and for ever. In the back of his mind Sirrus makes an erratic rehearsal of what they’ll tell father in the morning, and how the girl’s evidence will add up to it, and if there will be any evidence to speak of because he might say that it was *his* nails that have left those marks, and he wouldn’t even have to lie that much because the reason to scratch, punch and kick at his brother is the same…

“No wonder she hated you,” Sirrus says when they stop to gulp in some air. “That’s the most amateurish, sloppy and clumsy kiss I’ve ever…”

“Ever?” Achenar narrows a skeptical eye. “How comes you’re able to make comparisons?”

From aside, it still would look like a fight. The rocky ground of the island, littered with half-formed devices and spare parts, isn’t the most convenient of places, and yet Sirrus finally manages to relax between some bars and tiles, and at last the only part of him that still hurts is the back that rubs against sand and broken stones as he responds to his brother’s rhythm.

“The girl will say nothing,” he whispers into Achenar’s ear, which is conveniently within short reach. “Those boys on Stoneship, they didn’t tell anyone. They revere father too much and would hate to make him sad.”

Achenar stops, draws in a deep breath and looks down at his brother in the light of the lantern shielded secretly between two stacks of boards.

“You should have gotten that gold yourself, back then,” he says finally, concluding an old thought.

“But I didn’t. It never works out the other way. There are games where you just can’t cheat.” Sirrus pushes his brother aside and sits up with a groan. “A few years ago, I’d say having to explain to father a mess like this would be one of such games. We’ll see how well we manage now.”

***

Sometimes they ask themselves if Atrus will ever notice. Will their father ever see how they’ve changed, and moreover, in what ways?

They’ve passed the whole five Ages he wrote for them to learn from. Dynamic forces spur change, says Sirrus when father asks him if he and his brother still bicker over trifles. Balanced systems stimulate civilizations, prompts Achenar when their mother praises another of their joined projects. Energy powers future motion, explains Sirrus when they split their duties in an Age, him taking care of the plan, and Achenar minding the security of its realization. Nature encourages mutual dependence, they now tell Atrus on the cold Rime when he jokes about the way they stick together throughout the long polar night.

“Is he blind?” Achenar asks what seems to his brother to be a rhetorical question,

Sirrus is lying on the fur cover in one of the observatory’s rooms. Above, the ceiling is made into a gigantic circular window, which offers a view of the ever-dark sky and the colorful curtains of the Northern Lights dancing across it.

“A good question to ask, now when he’s tinkering with that crystal viewer of his. Do you sense the irony of the situation?”

“If you say so. I sense danger.” Achenar isn’t amused. “He might hear. If you scream like that again…”

“What will happen? Another entry in his endless journals about a surprise discovery done in one of the Ages?” Sirrus buries his face in his palms, then presses the knuckles to his eyes until it starts to hurt. “I can’t bear it any more. Again. Achenar, it’s an island *again*.”

Sirrus sits up abruptly; the room is also circular, and there’s no light except for the glow from flickering electric charges in the sky.

“Sometimes I think all the Ages he’s written are like rooms in some enormous palace. He says Myst is his home, but he just stops there for a while, like…” he looks around the room with its wide, fur-covered bed, “like we’re now stopping in this bedroom. Our father, he has a big house.”

“And?” Achenar frowns, fascinated with the metaphor.

“And nothing. Did you like it when, as kids, we were told not to leave our rooms after we did something wrong?”

“Very figurative, brother, but don’t forget who still holds the keys to the doors.”

Sirrus doesn’t answer, rolls over to his stomach and stares at the sibling. Achenar stares back for a long while, then shakes his head in a disbelief that is mixed with admiration.

“I wish those pirate ships of the Mechanical would have been wrecks, like all others we saw before. I shouldn’t have ever allowed you to go across the sea,” he says at last, not really meaning it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have. Anyway, it is too late.”

***

The scissors make one final cut, and Sirrus steps back to appreciate the results of trimming his brother’s unruly hair into a neat and groomed appearance.

“Remember: you must look reverend if we want them to believe what we say.”

Achenar nods solemnly, not quite sure he knows what being ‘reverend’ encompasses. You don’t have to, looking like our father the way you do now, Sirrus might have elaborated; but he prefers to keep this observation to himself.

They’ll be splitting their duties again. Sirrus is ready to do all the talking if his brother just stands there, a younger mirror of Atrus and the best proof they express Atrus’ ideas and concepts. This similarity of kinship to their parent has been unnerving Sirrus for some time already and would have undermined his confidence completely if he wasn’t certain Achenar hasn’t taken after Atrus in anything other than looks.

The Narayani remember them and listen at first in respect to the old times they shared together. Sirrus tries to see himself from aside and is fascinated with the sincerity of his arguments. He didn’t expect he’d be doing that well.

They speak about the lesson Ages and how Narayan was written to be one of them. A model Age, an artificial creation planned and incarnated only to teach two young boys some basic principles of the universe. Oh, there happened to be life on that Age? All for the better, as it’d serve as a vivid example to the mentioned boys.

How much value does your life hold if all it’s ever been was only a lesson to others?

The locals exchange surprised, staggered glances, and Sirrus realizes with bitter irony that father must have omitted this part when introducing himself to this world. What are they going to do about it, he asks, when the boys for whom this Age was written have learnt their lesson? Are they going to continue to maintain their deficient Age, knowing now that it was written as deficient deliberately, to make the lesson even more obvious?

They listen and believe his words, and ponder his questions in earnest. Everyone starts to speak at once, and the place is a turmoil of confused remarks, angry shouts and baffled exclamations. Sirrus, being honest with himself, admits he hasn’t expected such an immediate response; he was anticipating arguments and doubts, and maybe being labeled a liar. Did they believe him because he really believed he was telling the truth?

“I’ve been thinking,” Achenar mutters in a low voice and looks askance at his content brother. Sirrus hardly bothers to pay attention.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Achenar repeats with grave persistence, “about the toy boats we had in the reflection pool back on Myst.”

“And?” Sirrus is annoyed at being reminded at such a moment of one long past day that seems to have no importance for the present.

“They sank the moment I dropped them into real sea.”