Deep Roots

by Ruthanna Emrys

  Spector flinched at the reminder. The cult leader wasn’t a pleasant memory for either of us. I waited while he bent over clasped hands, knuckles rubbing against temple until some decision was released. “I can’t intervene directly. But my bosses are smarter than you might think. They know to trust our hunches, and there are ways we can ask around. Delicately. If I find the right sort of pattern, the city might agree to let the Bureau in.”

  “We don’t want ‘the Bureau,’” said Charlie. “We want you.”

  “I’m sorry. The Bureau’s resources are what I’ve got. And once I start asking, the Bureau is what you’ll get. If something really is wrong, it won’t just be me looking into it.” Left unspoken, that many of his colleagues were threats in their own right.

  Also unspoken: the worry in Spector’s eyes. He wanted to help. He might refrain, if I insisted. Standing by went against his nature, but he’d do it to soothe my fears and his own shame over their cause.

  On our own, the confluence barely knew where to begin the search. Frances’s leads were too tenuous to grasp. She didn’t know the names of Freddy’s new friends, she didn’t know where they lived, she hadn’t even been able to describe their faces. The task rose before me, daunting as our genealogy search, and with no one left we could beg for help.

  I wanted to refuse Spector’s offer. But Freddy, and Spector himself, deserved better.

  * * *

  Sometime after Spector left, Caleb found me alone at the table. “Well. Is he going to help us, or does he have some entirely reasonable excuse for sitting on his hands?”

  “You hate asking.”

  He shrugged. “It makes it all the more frustrating when we don’t get it. And yes, I know I’m the one who suggested going to him. Doesn’t mean it makes me happy.”

  I sighed. “He may be able to help. He’s finding out.” I should have said more, but Caleb’s bitterness would only exacerbate my own worries. “I need air. Do you want to come with me?” He nodded, and pushed his chair back. In truth it wasn’t air that I needed but water: rain, mist, a thousand forms and none of them at hand now.

  When I imagined my metamorphosis, I imagined diving into the ocean: a sudden shock of cold and silence and salt. I imagined my gills flaring to pull in oxygen, and the welcome simplicity of becoming fully part of something older and stronger, something that could bear me up without effort or notice. New York was a bright mirror to that inhuman power. It was loud and hot and my every sense breathed in people as gills would draw oxygen from water. I wanted to flee. I feared drowning. And yet, the city reflected my nature as well as the sea. I could not demand to be recognized as human and deny this connection—much as I might want to.

  “I’d been thinking,” I told Caleb as we made our way through the crowd, “about observing Summer Tide this year.”

  He glared, and I could see that he wanted to pick up the thread of his objections to Spector. He let it lie, though, and I wondered what he guessed. “Of all our traditions, don’t you think that one deserves to be put to rest? It was a lonely holiday even when we had the whole town alive around us. Why seek more loneliness now?”

  “There’s a reason I put it off. But it’s different now, when we can return to the elders in the evening.” For the Winter Tide, I’d needed to learn control over cloud and rain, and find the courage to share my past with Charlie—hard, but the rewards had been worth the fear. Summer Tide didn’t call for any magic at all, but it would be even harder to observe.

  He shook his head. “I remember the last one before the raid. All I wanted was a whole day without adults telling me what to do. I ran straight to that spot in the bog with the striped tadpoles; I was afraid you’d claim it first. I didn’t think once about the value of community and family, or any of the things you’re supposed to meditate on in your solitary wanderings.

  “You know, I felt so mature for finding a place by the ravine to sit and think, instead of going to play in the bog. But I thought more about how serious and grown-up I was than about any of those things, too. Now I think I might like to spend the day alone and know it was only temporary. But I can’t imagine trying that here, with so many strangers around. Even if none of them spoke to me, it would be because they didn’t care, not because they chose the silence.”

  We walked a long time, speaking occasionally but for the most part choosing silence. I hoped the city would jar something loose, provide a serendipitous clue that would let us find Freddy without aid, but in the end we only exhausted ourselves.

  That night I slept heavily in spite of my fears. I half-woke when Neko rose; I rolled over and clutched my pillow. Somewhere deep, I felt myself gnawing at the problem of the search. I let sleep reclaim me.

  Someone pounded on the door, jarring me awake. From the light outside it was mid-morning. I pulled a shawl over my nightshirt, and found Charlie in the hall.

  “Sorry to wake you up—it’s Caleb. He won’t come out of the bath, and the other guests are getting upset. He won’t talk to me.”

  The line stretched down the hall, muttering and glaring. Propriety already seemed broken; I excused my way through the small mob, knocked symbolically, and went in. Thankfully no one else had yet dared that barrier.

  Caleb hunched in tepid water, scrubbing his arms and crying in silent gasps. The back of his neck was red and raw. I dropped to my knees on the damp floor and grabbed his hand before the sponge could do more damage. He struggled briefly, then collapsed shaking, curled around his knees.

  “Caleb, what’s wrong? Caleb, it’s okay.” Through the confluence, pulse and breath surged in a flood. I forced my own to slow. I held him until, still shaking, he slapped the side of his neck and shoved it against me.

  I took his shoulders; he twitched beneath my touch. Where he hadn’t scrubbed himself raw, I saw that walking in the sun had burned his fair skin—the sort of flaking and peeling that most of Innsmouth once bore half the summer, inevitable despite constant applications of aloe and beeswax salve. How I’d avoided it so far I had no idea, but I didn’t expect my luck to last.

  “You’ve got a sunburn,” I said inanely.

  “The ocean is right here,” he whispered. “It’s right here, we’re nowhere near the desert. Please, Aphra. It’s not right. I can’t make it go away—” He pulled out of the whisper into a single sob, turned, and flung his sopping arms around me.

  “Shhh … shhh…” I rocked him, wishing I had salt. He’d been six, when we came to the camps. Too young to recall the ordinary pains of ordinary life. “We’ve always burned easily, Caleb—not only in the desert. Out here it heals quickly, I promise. I promise…”

  At last, the rigidity drained from his muscles. I became aware, again, of muttering in the hall. I handed him a towel. “Come on. Men of the air need their time in the water too.”

  “Oh, no. Could they hear me?”

  “I don’t think so.” He’d been near silent in his distress. “But we’re not making friends among our neighbors.”

  “We never have.” But he pulled his shirt over his head, shuddering as it brushed his neck.

  Audrey met us in the hall, flashing a smile that neatly disrupted any complaints Caleb might otherwise have received. She pulled us toward the stairs. “Mr. Spector’s here. He doesn’t look happy.”

  * * *

  Ron Spector—January 1949:

  The trick with strong drink is moderation. Then, when you truly need it, alcohol numbs quickly and easily. The flask has been sitting in my jump bag for a year and a half untouched, and its scotch tastes of rubber and metal.

  Wooden bunk, plain mattress, thin sheets, and a scratchy wool blanket. Miskatonic students doubtless bring their own linens. I’ve slept on worse. To be fair, so have some of the students; enough here on the G.I. Bill who’re grateful just to sleep safely, regardless of what luxury they were raised in.

  Blessed art thou, oh Lord, who has sustained us and brought us to this season. Blessed art thou, creator of the fruit of the vine.

/>   As I mumble the prayers, Charlie Day walks into our shared bunkroom. Forestalling my apology, he reaches for the flask, eyes locked on it like a man climbing from a trench. He swigs, closes his eyes. I’m surprised to find myself grateful for the company.

  “Thank you,” he says. “Best thing I can think of after the day we’ve had.”

  “I’m sorry. Barlow’s a bastard.” George Barlow’s more complicated than that, but I’m not inclined to be charitable right now. This afternoon he accused Day of being a Russian spy, tied him to a chair, and threatened him with some sort of magical interrogation I’m only half-convinced was a bluff. And then I had to dine with him. He still claims Day must be a traitor, even knowing he’s one of my irregulars. They’d be regular, of course, if only they’d take the job.

  “Barlow.” Day sits heavily on the mattress. He’s shaking. “Human politics. God. Gods. How are we supposed to deal with this?”

  “Ah.” Not Barlow, but Trumbull, or the thing that passes for her. I shouldn’t have left them alone with that thing. “She didn’t try anything, did she?”

  He snorts, breaking into laughter that threatens hysteria. Alcohol buzzing through my system, I feel almost as aware of his reactions as of my own. I realize I’m staring, and look away hastily. I hand back the bottle.

  “She wanted to see us closer up, find out why people keep guessing she isn’t … the person who belongs in that body. Promised to teach us things we need to know, so we let her. I got a close-up look, while she was looking at us. While it was looking.” He swallows again, looks at me with eyes not numb. “Oh god, did you see.”

  “I saw.” I couldn’t shake that moment, when I saw through a woman’s eyes, gasped with someone else’s lungs. Or the moment before. Passing the thing—the “Yith”—that wore those eyes now. “Hot and cold and jagged. I don’t believe they’re monsters. They can’t be monsters.”

  “The Yith? They steal their children’s bodies to keep living. To preserve their memories, it said. It’s all they care about.”

  “Oh.” I swallow more scotch, trying to feel human.

  “I met Aphra’s family this morning.”

  “Aren’t they all—oh.” I’ve seen the file on Aphra’s mother, seen the photos and the autopsy report. Seen the files I haven’t shown her, the bodies after the raid. I can imagine, then, what the living ones would look like.

  “I love her. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had, the best employee, the best teacher. And I don’t want to think of her growing scales and claws and diving into the water to live like … and she wants it, of course she wants it. My back hurts every day, my hair’s getting thin, and my damn knee, and she just grows stronger. Who wouldn’t want it?” He’s getting more animated and emotional, not less. It makes it hard to hide in the comfortable fog.

  I pat his back, awkwardly. His body is warm, flush with fear or magic. I should pull away: this isn’t the war. Men are cautious, in peacetime. Or whatever this is. I have to be more careful.

  He looks up, his smile drawn. Still shaking. “Just when you think you know how terrifying the world can be. There’s always something worse. Sometimes I think humans should just crawl back into our caves, leave the rest of it well enough alone.” He laughs. “Of course it gets dark in caves, too. Probably all sorts of horrible things in there. I just want—”

  He moves closer.

  Relief, then, to be ordinary and human in our own bodies. Away from impossible creatures, of all species, who would not comprehend or approve of our relief. Fear ripples beneath our drunkenness, but it’s easy to ignore.

  * * *

  As soon as Spector arrived, Tante Leah pushed on him a potato casserole and a bowl of chicken stew. He ate swiftly, unspeaking. As soon as his last bite had mollified our hostess, he urged us out onto the sidewalk. Caleb and I, Charlie, Audrey, Deedee, Trumbull, and Neko spilled out into the sticky air. Caleb hovered close to me, and kept touching his neck until Deedee offered her scarf.

  New York’s public bustle gave as perfect privacy as we might desire. Every shout on the street drowned out every other; if I focused hard and watched lips, I could make out most of what was intended for my ears. Weaker hearing might make the experience more comfortable, but would be no more conducive to eavesdropping. Spector threaded his way neatly through the morass, glancing back to ensure we kept up.

  “I’ve got bad news,” said Spector, “though you may like it better than I do.”

  “Well,” said Audrey, “that’s reassuring.”

  I watched him intently, afraid to miss some nuance. Spector so rarely hedged. At least he hadn’t yet apologized or, worse, preceded his announcement with some personal revelation. I swallowed my first instinct: say what you have to say. He’d earned my patience.

  He stopped to examine a store window full of multi-hued candles. I tried to catch the reflection of his lips. “I asked around, and we found a few connections. Laverne’s not the only person missing.”

  “That’s not good,” I blurted.

  “But does that mean you can help us after all?” asked Caleb. Something in me eased, cautiously, at the thought of Spector’s abilities brought to bear on our search.

  He nodded. “Have to, in fact—once we started asking, we found a lot more than the two or three people who’d been reported already. And the Bureau wants me on the case. Which should tell you something about the case.”

  Deedee crossed her arms. “It’s no coincidence that a Marsh cousin’s gone missing.”

  He shrugged. “It could be. We’ve no reason to believe the others are unusual—though we wouldn’t have picked out your Mr. Laverne, if anyone had called him in. A couple dozen people have disappeared, all abruptly. Most after falling in with ‘bad crowds,’ or other odd behaviors. New York is at the southern tip of the pattern of disappearances, and the densest concentration; they trail out west into the Catskills, and up into Vermont and New Hampshire. On those outskirts, the disappearances have been correlated with … sightings.”

  “Sightings?” Audrey asked. She beckoned impatiently with her fingers. Neko shaped her lips thoughtfully around the word.

  Now Spector looked apologetic. I braced myself. He was too polite, knew us too well, to do so without cause. Charlie drifted toward his lover, then checked himself and shifted in my direction instead. I touched his elbow as Spector went on. “There are longstanding urban legends throughout New England’s rural mountains—the details are consistent, and there are some suggestive photos and artifacts in our files. The stories are about monsters from another world.”

  “Ah.” He expected shock, I thought, either out of reflex, or because of our shared experiences with unearthly dangers. I pushed away sense-memories of the ice-cold outsider that had nearly killed me, chasing the niggling memory of a story from long ago. “What kind of details?”

  “Claws like crabs, and wings like bats. They’re supposed to live deep below the mountains, and fly out on moonless nights. There are local stories going all the way back to the Abenaki and Pennacook.”

  I’d heard that description before—where? Beside the mahogany bookshelf in my parents’ living room? In temple, a priestly warning from one of our many canons?

  Audrey leaned forward, bouncing slightly on her toes, and Neko’s forehead creased in concentration. Her eyes grew unfocused. Caleb sucked on his lower lip, perhaps trying to track the same half-image I did.

  Creatures from the depths between stars, who claim territory in the hills. A phrase rose to the surface: they have no bond to earth or air or water. And an image, whether from an illustration or my own childhood imagination, of dark wings shadowing long, insectile limbs.

  “I’ve heard of them,” I said slowly, and then blinked at Trumbull, who’d said the same thing in the same breath.

  Neko released a huff of bemused surprise. “Of course you have.”

  Spector interlaced his fingers and considered us. His tension shifted, braced against his own reactions rather than ours. “Miss Mar
sh, you first.”

  “I don’t remember much—Caleb, if any of this rings a bell, join in. They’ve got claws and wings and antennae. They do live in hills, underground—I think we have some sort of territorial treaty with them. I remember the priests saying that they didn’t really care about that land—about their part of the earth—the way that we do about ours. That all worlds were the same to them. And that they wanted everyone else to be the same way.”

  While I spoke, Trumbull held very still. She gestured strangely with her hands, touching bunched fingers to thumbtips in odd rhythms: mnemonic fragments of the language she’d spoken long ago, in another body. At last she shook her head sharply. “I can’t remember much more than that—except that I seem to have picked up incredibly strong opinions about the … the Outer Ones?” She closed her eyes, and her voice turned a strange mix of harsh and dreamy. “Disgusting creatures, colonists and miners who travel a million worlds and dabble with a trillion species. They boast of all they’ve learned, but write nothing down and call their work finished when all they’ve done is talk. They see everything and learn nothing; they are an embarrassment to Nyarlathotep.” She opened her eyes, and her channeled anger twisted into amusement. “Now you know what I know.”

  On the streets of Arkham, our urgent postures and the invocation of a slandered god would have drawn dangerous attention. Here, it mattered only that we clustered by the shop window, blocking neither sidewalk nor door. The crowd surged past.

  Spector seemed equally oblivious to the crowd. His clenched hands rose and fell again. “Miss Marsh, Miss Trumbull … I don’t wish to distract from our immediate problem, but are there any other races on this planet that you’ve failed to tell me about? That I should maybe consider as possibilities next time I hear about a mysterious disappearance? That you never bothered to mention because it never came up?”

  Sometimes it was easy to forget how little access he’d had to Aeonist texts. Or how much of their content he’d considered myth, inventions that might motivate crimes but could not commit them. “Mister Spector. Such creatures have always visited this world. I’m sure some of them are here now. The universe is large and varied. I might as well demand that you name all the human races, of the air alone, who live in this city. And my education ended at twelve—even now, I’m still learning about my own kind.” He flinched. But hearing my own words, I wondered whether one of these creatures, swift and alien, could explain what I’d seen in the dreamland.