Deep Roots

by Ruthanna Emrys

Here, so close to waking, I’d expected an extension of the street’s chaos of scent and sound. Instead, after a vertiginous moment, I found the humming vibration that had tempted me earlier. It pulsed in quavering harmony—then resolved with alarming abruptness. It was a heartbeat. It was a million heartbeats, rising and falling steadily. It swept me up with the others and made no distinction between native and visitor, air and water.

  The vibration was a wakeful thing, and yet my own pulse slowed in response. My breathing evened and my nostrils, clogged with smoke and soot, cleared. I began to withdraw into my body, pulling a thread of that dreaming rhythm, ready at last to relax into ordinary and comfortable sleep. Then the thread snagged on something.

  I stilled, mind suspended between states, while I tried to work out what had so disturbed me—without attracting its attention. An off-note had entered the shared human rhythm, a dissonance that threatened the whole pattern. Further into the dreamland, I might have been able to sense it more clearly. Here, shivering between states, I could tell only that it wasn’t any of the predators I knew. When the full moon rose above Innsmouth in our native dimension, nightgaunts wheeled the dreaming skies like starlings, and shantaks cried in the distance. Their songs could freeze prey from a thousand miles away, but the wards against them were sketched in elementary textbooks. They were familiar, dangerous but natural. This asynchrony, whatever it was, didn’t belong to any of the realms I could touch.

  It seemed to come closer. I concentrated, unmoving, hoping to catch a glimpse but hoping more to remain unseen. There, amid the city’s oscillating pulse: a discordant buzzing hum that refused to resolve. It grew louder until it drowned out thought, until it overflowed the bounds of hearing and filled scent and sight and touch with its droning power. Then, at last, it began to fade.

  While I strained my senses to understand, the thing vanished. Its whole passage could not have taken ten seconds. New York’s native rhythm rushed in to fill the vacuum, covering the trail as if it had never been.

  Disquieted, I pulled back into my body and my own private dreams. I slept fitfully, waking with leaping heart whenever I felt my mind slip. And between these moments of fear, I dreamed of Trumbull standing at a chalkboard, sketching ever-wilder shapes of tooth and tentacle to explain what I’d encountered.

  CHAPTER 2

  I woke with gritty eyelids, mind still probing the fierce cadence that drowned out any hint at last night’s mystery. Within the city’s lulling heartbeat, millions of real people traveled in a swirl of hunter and prey, con artist and wary mark, and all the mundane desperation born of the press of ordinary bodies. Whatever dangers lay beneath the surface—hazards in their own right—I had no way to see them.

  The dangers I knew were bad enough. If I hadn’t feared the consequences, I’d have brought the whole confluence to stand between me and Dr. Sheldon’s curiosity. But I didn’t wish to scare him off, make him think we were reneging on our end of the agreement. And if he felt some possessive obligation toward our lost relations, as Pickman had suggested, I didn’t want to suggest any threat against them.

  So Caleb and I went alone, following Spector’s direction to the doctor’s well-trimmed Brooklyn neighborhood. Alone, we climbed the polished stairs to his waiting room.

  When I pictured the man we were about to meet, I’d imagined a twin to Irving Pickman. The man who’d sent us here was tall, bone-thin, with a long, sharp face: in every way typical of the old Morecambe County families that dominated Miskatonic. Instead a ruddy, round-featured man, thickset enough to prove he’d never gone hungry, surged past his secretary to welcome us. His handshake engulfed my long fingers.

  Dr. Sheldon settled us in his office, a place of well-cushioned chairs and mahogany furniture. He offered scotch, which Caleb accepted and I declined. I perched on the rim of my seat in an attempt to maintain a dignified posture, unnerved by his effusive hospitality.

  “Well.” He settled back on his own cushion, sipped his drink. “Ivy Pickman says you want to know about Miss Frances Laverne and her boy Freddy. He was barely a year old when she came to me. She was worried about how the boy was growing—her regular doctor thought he might have some defect that hadn’t been obvious at birth. No father in the picture, I’m afraid. Freddy was a fascinating case. I’d never seen the type, though Miss Laverne admitted that her own father’d had some of the same look. The eye sockets in particular, most unusual, and some interesting anomalies in the neck bones.”

  He beamed at the two of us. “Rather an unexpected pleasure, to encounter the adult version of the form. I do hope you’ll let me take measurements later.”

  I tried not to grit my teeth. We needed his help. Caleb’s eyes narrowed, his lips parted, and I forced myself to conciliation: “If you like.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Marsh. No offense intended, truly. But the theoretical and practical implications are urgent. My diagnosis of the boy was quite inept, you see.” He chuckled, humility either false or strangely comfortable. “I’d never seen his like, of course, but I generalized from the closest types I knew, and I felt I ought to give Miss Laverne a realistic idea of what to expect. He looked like a coarse specimen, with little capacity to benefit from any deep education. Such types are steady physical workers at best, given a firm hand in the raising, but prone to vice and laziness. You needn’t frown so—as I said, I was quite off the mark. Freddy proved himself extremely bright early on—learned letters and figures quickly, and fast on the uptake with ideas. Miss Laverne kept bringing him in as he got older, and he’d pull books off my shelves and ask all sorts of questions.” He leaned forward. “Is that typical of your family? Do you tend towards high intelligence?”

  “We like to think so,” Caleb said blandly.

  I’d sunk back in my chair despite my best intentions, distracted by this chain of confidences. My unrestful night was beginning to tell on me: fatigue made every insult more alarming, every new drop of information more portentous. Hoping to encourage him to share more of the latter, however upsetting his attitude, I proffered more detail: “We’ve always valued education from a young age. I knew three languages well by the time I was twelve.” I regretted that last as soon as I said it, and hoped he didn’t ask me which three. I supposed I could count my shoddy Latin, though my parents certainly wouldn’t have.

  Sheldon nodded enthusiastically in the face of a theory confirmed. “That sounds like Freddy. Always eager to learn—a little brusque, like your brother here, but that’s understandable, really. I didn’t think the intellect could come from his father’s side. Miss Laverne admitted that the man was a negro, obvious enough from the boy’s skin, and they’re hardly known for intellectual pursuits.”

  Caleb stiffened, then took a slow swallow of scotch. “Actually, my fiancée is negro. And she speaks five languages—I saw her pick up the last two in about six months, at the same time.”

  “Well, there are always exceptions. I don’t suppose she’d be interested in coming in? In any case, if Freddy is any indication, I commend you on what’s likely to be a profitable match.” He smiled and put his glass down. “And an unusual one, I imagine. Your skull structure is really extraordinary—whatever lineage you come from must be relatively isolated. A small group?” He tilted his head invitingly.

  Caleb turned to me, teeth bared in a not entirely friendly grin. “He wonders if we’re inbred, sister dear.”

  “Caleb…” I said warningly.

  Sheldon held up his hands. “I don’t mean any offense. It’s as common in the highest lineages as in the low. Look at any aristocratic family, and you’ll see an astoundingly similar conformation—perhaps two noses or chins to choose from, but the skull shapes will be almost identical. Weak hearts may take them down young, but the advantages of their lines are still clear. I only meant that your bone structure is so very unusual—and in all my practice Freddy and his mother are the only examples I’ve seen. So it’s clear you keep to yourselves.”

  “We’ve tried.” I breathed in
sharply, out slowly. “Please forgive my brother. Our neighbors in Massachusetts used to accuse us of incest.” Caleb and I had spent hours debating how much or how little we could tell him—and before Caleb brought it up, I thought we’d agreed to avoid this part. Now I had little choice. “Nor was that the worst of the libels. Eventually, those lies reached the government and brought soldiers down on Innsmouth in a massive raid. I don’t care to discuss the details, but they treated us harshly. Only my brother and I survived.” No need to add: on land. Though the image of Sheldon meeting our grandfather and asking to examine his skull made me suppress a huff of amusement in spite of the tension.

  “That’s why we’re here,” I continued. “To find any distant relatives who may have survived. The Lavernes are the first lead we’ve found.”

  Sheldon’s eyes had widened. He started to raise his drink, shook his head, put it back down. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean to pry into a painful subject. Of course I’ll put you in touch with Freddy and Miss Laverne. And surely you’ll want a better understanding of your type—with proper measurements, sketches, an understanding of developmental courses, it will be far easier to find more of your cousins.”

  “I know,” I said. I ducked my head, shoulders stiff against the surrender. Caleb, his anger withered, looked at me anxiously.

  We sat rigid while Sheldon bustled with rulers and measuring tape, a gridded notepad, and various oddly shaped metal contraptions. He seemed not completely oblivious to our discomfort, and filled the silence with murmured numbers and expressions of pleasure in our bones.

  “Well, there,” he said at last. He traded the pad for a larger sheet of thin paper, and began sketching. “Thank you—I hope I’ll be able to find more of your kinfolk. At the very least, there are the Lavernes. Give me a moment to get this down, and I’ll write out a letter to assure her of your relationship.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to sound grateful. I knew gratitude was warranted, for he offered a true gift, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel it.

  He frowned. “I should warn you, though, the boy’s fallen in with poor company recently. It’s not his nature, I think—not everything comes down to caliper measurements, after all. It’s a lesser form of the trouble you’ve encountered. Your average untutored citizen, he sees someone odd-looking, and he doesn’t try to understand what that oddness truly means. It’s only natural for the boy to seek friends who can’t afford to be discerning. A real pity—I hope his better instincts tell in the long run.”

  I blinked at the unexpected nuance and wondered what he might think of the Kotos as “company.” We knew what he thought of Deedee, I supposed. “Poor company? What sort?”

  He shrugged, frowning. “His mother hasn’t been forthcoming. But I know she doesn’t approve, and her discernment—well, except for the boy’s father, clearly … a man of good character would not have vanished on her, I mean. Perhaps you’ll be able to provide Freddy an alternative.”

  He finished his thankfully rough sketching, and scribbled a note. “There you are. And their address as well. I wish you much luck.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated.

  “I’m glad to help.” He stood, shook our hands with somewhat more sedate enthusiasm. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family. The human race benefits from having many types, even—perhaps especially—the more obscure ones. Few people appreciate that we need a great range of talents and predilections—it’s a big, complicated world, after all.”

  Outside, my eyelids felt tight and gritty. I looked at the papers he’d given us: the note and the address.

  “Sister dear,” said Caleb under his breath. “He’s better than half of Miskatonic, but I’d still like to snap his neck. Void take his ‘coarse specimens.’”

  “Thank you for restraining yourself.” I rubbed my forehead where the measuring tape had pressed, and pushed away an image from my mother’s file: her corpse laid out, chalk marks showing the difference in height from the start of her metamorphosis. Halfway through her transformation, skin flaking in great patches around nascent malformed scales. Eyes blind and bulging in shrunken sockets. Caleb, mercifully, hadn’t seen the file.

  * * *

  We ought to have taken the train across Brooklyn. Unless we failed entirely the cipher of subway signs and announcements, it would be far faster. But we were both shaken, and needed urgently shed some of the anger raised by Dr. Sheldon’s casual arrogance. So instead we walked for three hours—roundabout, and losing our way twice—to find the scribbled address.

  Miss Laverne’s neighborhood was shabbier than Dr. Sheldon’s, her building more poorly kept. A thin strip of straggling grass stuttered against the front steps, setting off red brick and dirty windows. The tiny foyer smelled of garlic and melted wax. Black and white tiles, faded by grime, mosaicked the floor.

  My ankles ached, less from the length of our walk and more from the unfamiliar dance of threading the crowded sidewalks, the tension from dozens of momentary frights and flinches. Four flights of stairs spread that ache up my thighs and back and into my neck. I wanted some safe place to rest, and knew that sanctuary a long way off. Outside the door, Caleb and I caught our breaths and exchanged glances. It seemed unnecessary to speak of our shared fears, of the irrational reluctance to give them a chance to take form. I flexed my toes against well-worn soles, imagined digging them into cool sand. I knocked before I could lose my nerve, three swift raps.

  A woman answered the door in seconds, breathing hard. She gripped the knob as if she too had been bracing herself, and blinked rapidly.

  “Hello? Can I—” She swallowed the remainder of the sentence.

  If I hadn’t known to look, I might not have seen it. But her chin and neck were wide and strong, her light brown skin uniform enough to suggest veins buried deep below the surface. Her large eyes sat high in her face, and her waist was thick with muscle and insulating fat.

  “Cousin,” I said, the word spilling from my mouth. I held out the note. “I’m Aphra Marsh, and this is my brother Caleb. Dr. Sheldon sent this. To testify to our likely relationship, and as an introduction.”

  She tightened her grip on the door, as if it were all that held her upright. I watched her force breath and movement. She stepped aside slowly. “Frances Laverne. Of course, you know that. I’m sorry. Please come in.”

  She offered us a couch upholstered with red corduroy, worn to the quick and smelling of ashes. She brought two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table as if every motion were rehearsed. She sat at last in an overstuffed armchair. Cotton spilled through its seams where her elbows rubbed against it. She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table beside her, then pulled back and folded her hands in her lap, clenched tightly together.

  “Will you tell me where Freddy is?” she asked.

  Caleb and I looked at each other. “But we came here to meet him,” said my brother.

  “And you,” I added.

  “But you’re—” She dropped her gaze to her knotting fingers. “I haven’t seen him in a week. Grandpa told me stories about our family. How can you show up now, and not know where he’s gone? He didn’t hear—the call?”

  “The call?” I echoed. But even as I said it, I imagined her family, with the trickle of water in their blood, understanding only that they were different from other people. If that water welled to the surface in a rare few, the rest of the family would see only that they suddenly abandoned their lives, perhaps leaving some cryptic explanation. “He’d be very young for it.”

  She looked up. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes.”

  “My grandfather said you hunt the ones who leave, and make them come back to the sea.” She sounded frightened, yet strangely hopeful.

  “We have, sometimes,” said Caleb. His voice was gentler than usual. “We don’t anymore. Though there’s a home for you in Innsmouth, if you want it. We just wanted to meet you—to meet others of our family.”

&
nbsp; “Oh.” She took a cigarette, looked around anxiously, patted her pocket. Caleb pulled out a matchbook, leaned forward, and lit it for her. “Thank you. I shouldn’t—can you tell me about us? You must know more than I do.”

  “Probably a lot more.” I smiled, trying to look reassuring and not foolish or alarming. Still she flinched. It was years since I’d last seen a young person of the water other than my brother; she was the first I’d ever met whom I hadn’t known from childhood. My every expression and posture felt inadequate. To Miss Laverne, I was a monster from half-believed stories, and I didn’t know how to break through that barrier of unreality. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll add what I can. And then perhaps we can figure out how to find your son.”

  She took a deep drag, let out a long breath of smoke. Here too, she was different from us: lungs unscarred, fears and reactions shaped by her own troubles. She must have been haunting the door and the phone, waiting for news. “If that’s what you need, I’ll make that trade. But all I know is what Grandpa told us. And half of that was just boogeyman stories, to scare kids for fun or keep us in line.”

  “Boogeyman stories are important too,” I said. There was no way to explain that I hadn’t meant it as some cold exchange, her stories for her son.

  “Okay. Just remember that you asked.” She put the cigarette to her lips again, then let it dangle between her fingers. She was trying to look casual, I realized, a mask stretched thin over her fear of us and her fear for Freddy. “This is all family legend, really. The story goes that Grandpa’s own grandfather was seduced by a sort of a mermaid.” She paused, waiting for some reaction. I nodded and gestured at her to go on. “Maybe not exactly a mermaid. You know what a selkie is? She looks like a woman, but she slips on a skin and turns into a seal. If you hide the skin, supposedly, she has to stay with you till she finds it. She was something like that: a woman from the water. When she found out she was pregnant, they ran away together. It’s all a story, of course.” She watched our reactions from behind lowered eyelids. She was looking for our belief, I thought, or expecting our doubt.