Winter Tide

by Ruthanna Emrys

  Grandfather offered another necklet to Caleb and then—acknowledgment a miracle of another sort—smaller pieces to Audrey and Charlie and Dawson and Neko. Dawson handed hers back to Caleb, and smiled brilliantly as he clasped it around her neck.

  I knelt to examine the more ordinary treasure. There’s something diverting about boxes full of gold, in spite of the small number of problems against which they’re useful. Judging from the others’ reactions, it was one of humanity’s shared peculiarities. Perhaps it’s that their use is easier and more pleasant than so many other methods of solving problems.

  “So,” I told Dawson. “Turning Innsmouth back into a town is going to take a lot of work. And we’ll need to hire people to do much of it.”

  “Or,” said Spector, “as I mentioned a few days ago, I could use a secretary.”

  Dawson looked between us, then out over the ocean. The day was calm, with the sun showing through thin clouds. A few patches of snow tipped the dunes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m kind of fond of Massachusetts.”

  “Outreach to Aeonist communities is one of my responsibilities,” Spector said. “It would help to have someone here who knew the place.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  I suspected she would take her time; it was a pleasure to have options, when such luxury could be found.

  “Charlie had an idea,” I told Ngalthr. Charlie looked at me, startled; his insight probably wasn’t the part of that conversation he remembered best. “Over the centuries, some of our people have taken lovers from out of town who left, and whose mist-blooded children never returned to the water. Some of their descendants must be out there, now; if we could find them they might help us strengthen Innsmouth.”

  “And sire or bear children more likely to come into the water? Yes, I see that.”

  “Anything you might know about who left, or where to find their descendants, would make it a lot easier to invite them home.”

  “Yes.” Ngalthr hummed to himself, deep in his chest. “Our historians will have information that may be of use. More might be found in the journals now at Miskatonic. We must decide what to do about those.”

  “About that. Trumbull—the Yith, I mean, who called itself that—suggested before it left that it was growing less pleased with Miskatonic’s archival services.”

  “Is that what they’re doing there? I always did wonder. So it offered to remove our collections—to where?”

  “To Innsmouth. If we build a library to their specifications, of course.”

  He gave a bubbling laugh. “Of course. An ideal outcome … assuming it held to that judgment when it returned home, and the rest of its people agreed.”

  “Assuming.” I looked out over the ocean, back at the dunes hiding ruins we hoped to rebuild. “I’m reluctant to depend on the Great Race’s benevolence, just now. But I can’t think of any other options.”

  He knelt and sifted coins between webbed fingers. “Miskatonic will not sell, not to us nor any agent of ours. But it’s possible they could be bribed. You might offer to endow a reading room, for example. With conditions.”

  “My family knows lawyers who do that sort of thing,” said Audrey. “I could help find someone.”

  I thought about it. I disliked Miskatonic: their arrogance, their treatment of Trumbull, the highhanded way that most of the students interacted with everyone around them. If the people of air must hold our books, my preference would be to share them with the Hall School. To remain dependent on Miskatonic’s approval, no matter if it came more easily, would gall. But even were Mary to chivvy her team out of the library tomorrow, I saw no practical way to free our collection.

  Of course, within bounds, generous donors might set conditions as they pleased.

  “You’ve got an idea,” said Audrey.

  “I was just thinking—if we did this, we needn’t just demand access for readers from Innsmouth. We could make it open to Hall students as well.”

  “Entrance to the library whenever we asked?” A smile spread on her face. “That’d be a sweet thing. Big donation, though.”

  I gave the boxes a significant look.

  “This is no great portion of the water’s treasure,” agreed Ngalthr. “There is much we cannot do, but where gold is concerned you need only ask for what is required.”

  I thought about it: a hole forced through Miskatonic’s bulwarks. A place on their campus where they could not bar the wrong kind of people. Such an incursion might grow, if cultivated over time. Perhaps we might endow a professorship as well.

  I started to smile.

  Audrey eyed the boxes thoughtfully, but her own smile faded. “I almost died, but I took the risk willingly when I started studying. And Sally … I don’t know if she thought about it, but she would have risked her life to get at this stuff. But the other people on campus, in town, that Barlow’s ritual could have hurt—I hate to say it, but the more people who can read those books, the more easily a few idiots could ruin things for everyone.”

  I wanted to deny it. It was a truism that magic wasn’t for power, that there were easier ways to hurt and kill. But whatever magic was for, Barlow’s people had misused it, and easily. As had the Yith, in their own way, and Ephraim, and probably his “wolf,” too.

  “We could keep some of the books restricted,” I said reluctantly. “Caleb and I can figure out which ones really are dangerous—and you can warn us if we aren’t being imaginative enough.” It wouldn’t stop Barlow’s people from making up their own mistakes—but it wouldn’t help their kind along, either.

  Even letting outsiders at the foundational works was a risk, I supposed. But then again, those were the works that taught us what not to do, and how to go on safely. And more, they were a cautious window between us and men of the air—a risk that might help them see us as people rather than monsters or faceless traitors. Safety beyond gold, if it worked. I hoped it would be worth it.

  * * *

  The night before our return to San Francisco, Neko and I made dinner at Trumbull’s house. Skinner had rebuked her for missing her Thursday classes, but she’d otherwise managed to pick up the semester’s threads with minimal interruption. She’d also started to examine the traces her guest had left in the mathematics building.

  “… and she scribbled notes in every book in my office.”

  “The Yith are known for their marginalia,” I said. “Pick up a little Enochian, and you might discover some interesting research tips. And probably rude comments about famous mathematicians, too.”

  “That might be worth some study.” Her lips quirked. “These saltcakes are delicious. Odd, but delicious.”

  “Thank you.” I decided not to mention her guest’s opinion on the matter.

  “I could help with the translation,” offered Audrey. After much discussion, we’d decided that at the least she ought to finish out the year at Hall. It would give her time to ease her friends’ concerns, and to come up with some reasonable story for her parents. And if worse came to worst, she could study with Caleb and Dawson in Innsmouth. We’d correspond, and Charlie and I would fly out as often as we could—but I wasn’t ready to leave San Francisco yet.

  “That would help,” said Trumbull. She gave Audrey a searching look. “They don’t give me an official slot for a research assistant, you know.”

  Audrey shrugged. “It’ll be unofficial, then. It’s not as if I’ve learned much from the things I’m supposed to be doing.”

  After dinner, Charlie and Spector stepped outside to smoke—and, I presumed, to discuss their own impending returns to California and D.C. They had worn each other’s scents most mornings, of late.

  “Come up to my study?” Trumbull asked me quietly.

  I followed her up the familiar stairs. The room was starting to show her own character, new books and papers spread on the desk. She’d kept the floor slate, and pale chalk-marks suggested that she’d been working through a few equations.

  She leaned back against the
desk and rubbed her temples. “I’ve been dreaming about it. Even the memories that come when I’m awake feel a little like dreams. I’m never sure whether I can trust them.”

  “Human memories are never trustworthy,” I said. “If I had to guess, these are probably no worse.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely un-reassuring?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She sighed. “Don’t be. You’re probably right; it doesn’t help to doubt them. It’s not as if I can check. I have a favor to ask.”

  “You saved Audrey’s life,” I said. “Ask it.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve gathered that your people live a long time.”

  I nodded. “If nothing kills us.”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Fángguó?”

  It took only a moment to recall. “Yes. It hasn’t been founded yet, but we’ve heard of it from the Yith and their returned captives over the millennia. It has a lot of names—‘Fángguó’ isn’t as common as ‘Cān Zhàn,’ or ‘the Protectorate’—but it all seems to be the same place. No one knows precisely when it will rise, or how quickly it will fall. It’s believed to be in China, or some colonial extension of theirs.”

  She let out a breath I hadn’t noticed her holding. “Good. I thought it was in the future, but I could have misremembered, or misunderstood. They don’t use our calendar, you see. I had a friend, among the other captive minds, who came from there. Zoeng Saujing.” She wrote it out for me on the slate, and I imagined the two speaking through clacking pincers in cone-shaped bodies, bent over tablets to find a shared alphabet so that they could learn each other’s true names. “We were very close. I’ve written out a message. Would you deliver it?” She handed me an envelope.

  It was a small favor. And it felt like doing my part for the Archives, as well, to carry such a message across millennia. “By the time the paper crumbles, I’ll have it memorized. And I’ll find her for you.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “‘Her’? We were in very different bodies; how could we even know?”

  “Chinatown’s not far from where we live in San Francisco. Saujing sounds like a woman’s name.” Which Trumbull clearly hadn’t intended me to know for some time. “Of course, names evolve, over time. One of my great-great-great-aunts still mourns a Dunwich man by the name of Beverly.”

  She shook her head. “No, you had it right. It’s not as if you won’t meet her. I hope. Will you still deliver the message?”

  “Of course.” As gently as I could, I asked, “Your maid Emily…?”

  She shook her head. “Not interested in any apology I can offer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Even in bits and scraps, I can remember how much I loved the Archives. The purity of the conversations, people from all of history judging each other on nothing but our minds. Even little as I recall now, I wouldn’t want to give that up. But I wish I could get my … guest … in the same place for one conversation. I’d have a few choice words for her.” She handed me an envelope and a single sheet of densely written paper, eyes averted.

  She’d filled the bin beside the desk with crumpled stationary. I wondered when in the night those memories had come back, how quickly she’d risen. “If you want to add to this at any point, let me know. I have plenty of texts memorized; I’ve room for more.”

  I read the letter over later, in the safety of the guest bedroom. I didn’t show it to Neko or Audrey, or tell them what it was. It was intimate, explicit—and honest about being half of a correspondence that could never be reciprocated. It loved, it mourned, and it promised to move on. Trumbull was not one to sacrifice her possibilities here and now for the sake of a lifetime pining, and she expected the same of Saujing. I folded it and put it back in the envelope.

  “Are you looking forward to going home?” asked Neko.

  “Oh yes,” I said. Apologetically, to Audrey: “I’ll miss you and Caleb and Dawson, and I’ll come out as often as I can. But I miss Mama Rei and Anna and Kevin. And the store. And the hills and the fog, and being able to see the mountains from the beach.” And I missed what was, still, a place of healing for me. I wanted very much to see Innsmouth reborn, and the walls of Miskatonic cracked open. And I would. But I still needed more of what San Francisco had to offer.

  “I miss them too,” said Neko. “But I was thinking. You’re looking for these mist-blooded people, to try and bring them back to Innsmouth. Someone’s going to have to travel to meet them. I could help.”

  “Is that what you want?” I asked. “Even after everything that’s happened, you still want to keep traveling?”

  “I kind of hope my next trip will involve fewer desperate midnight raids. And better food that we haven’t cooked ourselves. But yes, it’s what I want.”

  I hesitated, but chose bluntness. “Traveling who knows where, looking like you do. It won’t be easy.”

  She propped her elbows on the windowsill. The night was clear, and the waxing moon gave enough light for people other than me to see by. “Barbed wire keeps you in one place. I’m not going to do that to myself, even to stay safe. I won’t go alone—you’ll need someone who can show off more of what Innsmouth has to offer, in any case. But I can help.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You can.”

  My family had grown, and I wanted to keep them all safe. But it wasn’t my place to deny them the rain.

  * * *

  Spector saw us off at the airport. Charlie sat and read while we waited for the plane, carefully not looking up. Neko pressed her nose to the glass, watching the great mechanical birds wander their paved nests. Before the camps, this would have been impossible: the cross-country trip requiring days by train. Now a government check or Innsmouth gold could purchase a flight. The Yith, at home, were supposed to have flying machines available for any who cared to see distant lands and the tops of clouds; I wondered whether Trumbull could say how they compared to ours.

  Spector took a drag on his cigarette. The air was thick with smoke and the plane would be the same; I breathed shallowly and reached through the confluence for hints of other, easier breaths. “I don’t know whether to apologize for bringing you out here,” he said.

  I looked at him in surprise. “Don’t. It’s been a hard month, but we’ve gotten a lot that we needed from it. Or … is there something I should know?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was hoping you’d get some use out of the trip; I suppose I just hadn’t bargained on how much.” He pressed the stub into an ashtray; his fingers twitched as if seeking something else to hold. He glanced at me sideways and lit another cigarette. “I wanted to remind them that I could be useful—and that you could too. I didn’t consider Barlow, though. He doesn’t agree on either count, but when I left he was caught up in a different project entirely.” He lowered his voice. “I’m more worried than I was before about what a body snatcher could do—on either side. Seeing the trick in action has that effect, I guess. It’s dangerous, and I hope Miss Harris manages to draw them off. If she does, though, they won’t forget that you had something to do with that. They weren’t there with us. They won’t understand what happened, and they’ll want to keep an eye on you.”

  I laughed bitterly, and suffered through the coughing that followed. “Somehow I don’t think we can avoid that, no matter what happens.” I thought of Ephraim’s journal, and swallowed. “Fear is going to have its way, regardless. In some ways, it doesn’t matter who has an ability like that, or even if anyone does. Once people are on guard for it … they’ll find what they’re looking for.”

  “I see that. The past few days I’ve caught myself watching people, trying to see whether anyone walks like an inhuman monster. Or a Russian, or a fugitive Nazi. Like someone who isn’t used to their body.” He shook his head. “Witch hunts. Always a good distraction from real problems.”

  “And we both know where they’ll look, when they want to find witches.”

  He sighed. “Some of these people, I don’t
think they see a middle ground between perfect loyalty to us, and perfect loyalty to someone else. You’ve got people speaking up for you—that’s the best I can offer. That, and trying to find more chances for you to prove yourself.” Before I could respond, he added, “And yes, I know that’s a mixed blessing.”

  I suspected he knew that from experience. Clearly he still needed to prove himself, and his loyalty, regularly. It seemed unlikely that either of us would ever be allowed to stop.

  EPILOGUE

  In San Francisco, the nightmares changed.

  I hadn’t slept easy for twenty years, and had resigned myself to mixing these latest troubles with my more practiced unconscious ruminations. Perhaps I would see the camp guards wielding Ngalthr’s ritual knife on my mother as she died, or flee from burning desert prison into cold vacuum.

  Instead, all my older fears were pushed aside. As soon as I closed my eyes, I found myself sitting alone on an empty beach. Dunes rose beside me, high as mountains, and the ocean lay still and waveless to my other side. I walked between them until I was exhausted, but I knew with absolute certainty that I would never see another living creature. I’d find no end to the solitude: there was no place to flee or seek, and no one looking for me on either side of that boundary line.

  No meditation could make these visions lucid, or even let me recognize them as imaginary while I dwelt in them. And though my studies told me that the human mind only dreams sporadically throughout the night, these lasted the full span of my supposed rest.

  When I confessed the dreams to Charlie—and they felt very much like a dreadful transgression—he listened solemnly, saying nothing until I had finished. He walked over to the workroom’s bookshelf, ran his hand across the familiar titles.