Deep Roots

by Ruthanna Emrys

“I know.” I wanted to believe she’d made her choice, that her place by my side was secure. But that wouldn’t be fair to her. “The Outer Ones have exactly what you want.”

  She pressed her hand to the glass. “Not exactly. I like having a body, and I’d rather take it with me everywhere. And I like being useful, wherever I go. But the things I saw in the trapezohedron, the stories Freddy told—I liked the thought of traveling safely in places that impossible. But after what they did to Mr. Spector, I don’t think I could stomach it. Everyone I talked to, I’d wonder if they really wanted to be there. It’d feel like another prison.”

  I touched the back of her hand. She was warm and solid. Since the first day she’d joined us in the camp, she’d been there to soothe me when I awoke from my nightmares.

  “You could still go. So many of their travel-mates do want to be there. Nnnnnn-gt-vvv respects our choices. He waited decades for Miss Green to be ready. I … don’t think it would be wrong of you.”

  She turned to look at me, dark eyes drooping with the hour, pupils dilated. “You think I should go.”

  “I think you should do what you need. Do all the things you couldn’t, when we were locked up together. Like I am.” I looked out into the waking city. “I want you close. But that shouldn’t hold you back.”

  “I don’t want to go away forever. I just want to see things.”

  I shouldn’t pull away from my sister out of fear she would pull back first. I put my arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know whether it has to be distant galaxies, to make you happy. If it doesn’t, I wish you’d just let us know when you want to spend a few days in Boston or something. You haven’t even given yourself that much. We can call it reconnaissance if you’d like. Look for people who fit Dr. Sheldon’s skull measurements, or find the closest hotels to the beach. If you were willing to consider playing tourist on other planets, surely you can countenance a trip to a museum a hundred miles away.”

  “You’re probably right.” She sighed. “I did some thinking yesterday, in the mine. About what I want, and what I owe my family. And what you said about family obligations. I think it’d be easier for me to meet some of Mama’s expectations, if I didn’t place all these artificial limits on what I want. Maybe if I go ahead and do what I need for myself, I’ll bump into a nice Nikkei boy who needs the same things.” A sly glance. “We can always leave the kids with you while we travel the universe.”

  “Any time you like.” I hesitated. “You were right to be upset with me. Freddy’s—” I tried to think of a good way to describe him, his idealism and rigidity and brittleness and simple youth. “He’s made me understand, in a way I didn’t before, that shared blood by itself can’t make you compatible with a mate.”

  “No kidding. You deserve better.”

  I looked around the room, taking in my family. Thinking about the ease of sharing a home with Charlie and Audrey and Neko, even though we’d never breed together. “I’ve got better. If I can convince Freddy to sire children for me, I’ll still accept it happily—but I’ll raise them with the people I love. Even if duty comes first, it doesn’t have to swallow us up.”

  She elbowed me. “Watch out. You’re turning into a libertine.”

  I laughed, but the truth was precisely the opposite. Over the past few days, I’d nearly lost the water—something I hadn’t known was possible. Freedom from the camps, studying magic, seeing the strength in my blood—I understood now that none of it was a guarantee. To put my happiness first, sometimes, rather than waiting on my metamorphosis, was to admit that the universe could still take everything.

  EPILOGUE

  September 1949

  Our work in Innsmouth went on as before, less changed than I would have hoped. Frances, at least, had joined us there. Caleb took gallant pleasure in showing her around, and she and Deedee seemed to dance through some complicated negotiation over his time and attention. Freddy visited every few weeks, and we’d exchanged awkward pleasantries. He wore Shelean’s pendant, but things seemed strained between them. Even she hadn’t brought up the possibility of breeding.

  Dr. Sheldon’s inquiries brought reports of a few more scattered families. Three months of correspondence drew some of them to visit, and it seemed likely that more of our old houses would soon need repair. But even if every newly discovered family joined us, we’d still be too few. The empty houses filled steadily with young families who saw the town’s rumor-tainted history as mere urban legend. The problem ate at me constantly, a distraction from every other activity. In the Crowther Library, I turned pages without reading them. At home, carrots were chopped or nails pounded by habit of arm; my mind poured through scenarios for repopulating the town with undiscovered cousins, or even with people of the air who could be trusted near the beach.

  I worked with Archpriest Ngalthr, cautiously stretching the cord between mind and body as I slowly healed. But it was hard to feel whole, when I couldn’t keep my physical and mental lives aligned in everyday life.

  Frances had brought a small television in her meager carload of possessions. Our population was still far from supporting a movie theater, but her living room attracted elders—and the rest of us—with evening glimpses of the outside world. Static often drove Caleb onto her roof to adjust the antenna, an equally diverting source of entertainment.

  I didn’t like the grainy black-and-white images on Frances’s set as well as the others seemed to. But I watched anyway, for the company and for the commentary, and in hope that some solution to my ruminations would present itself. And, of course, to search for hints about what had come of our time in New York.

  From Spector, we’d heard only that negotiations were progressing—he wasn’t permitted to say more, and I suspected that the people in charge of the negotiations didn’t tell him much either. No Outer Ones appeared on the nightly news. I was just as glad. Revealing another species in our midst might distract the world from merely human conflicts, but it would more thoroughly embroil us in greater ones. The least of which was that once people knew to look for such secrets, the tenuous existence of the men of the water could not long remain hidden.

  On September 23rd, we settled around the television with a batch of Neko’s oatmeal cookies. When the picture and sound came clear, the announcer was reading from a sheet of crisp paper. His expression was somber. One hand rose to smooth hair already perfectly set.

  “—Truman’s statement continues, ‘We have evidence within recent weeks an atomic explosion occurred in the USSR. Ever since atomic energy was first released by man, the eventual development of this new force by other nations was to be expected.’”

  I sat back, staring, as the announcer went on. I tried, as he must surely be trying, not to imagine. At least they didn’t have footage. Scientists had read the explosion in the vibration of the earth itself.

  It was a scant week later when Spector knocked on my door.

  I hadn’t seen him since the belated dinner with his family. I’d liked his mother, found his siblings somewhat intimidating, and sympathized with Trumbull’s status as his suspected lover. Spector had taken advantage of his family’s presence to be friendly without talking about anything of substance. He’d run back to D.C. as soon as he could.

  He’d grown thinner, flesh strained across his bones. Evidence of an early morning shave shadowed his face; he’d not stopped at a hotel before visiting. “May I come in?”

  “Of course you can.” I sat him on the couch, got him tea and a tin of saltcakes. “Charlie’s in the study; I’ll get him.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to bother—I mean, that is—”

  He still didn’t know that I knew. “Unless you needed to talk with me privately?”

  “Need, no. Though you’re the other one most—” He caught himself again. I swallowed. This awkwardness was new, and worrisome. “Of all the people on whom Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt chose to … demonstrate … its politics, you suffered most directly. I hope you’re recovering?”

  “Yes, even
if more slowly than I’d like. Archpriest Ngalthr has seen this kind of thing before, and is consulting with other elders who’ve treated similar injuries.” I shaped my hands as if pulling something from the depths. “Thousand-year-old medical arguments bubble out of the Atlantic. But the exercises he’s given me seem to help.”

  He nodded. “If you have any tips, I’d appreciate them. Every time I move, I feel like my body’s about to slip off.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  He nodded again. “I want you to know that I listened, when you said not to be alone with them. I stayed in sight of George and his team. And then … George had turned around for a moment, and it seemed natural to walk away down a hall. I’d put Miss Harris’s shield in my pocket—stupid, but wearing it made me uncomfortable. I saw myself coming the other way, and I gave him my jacket and holster without really thinking about it. Then I heard myself talking to George. They put me on that table, and told me they needed to demonstrate why my cooperation was so urgent. And then—I don’t suppose you’ve ever been under ether?”

  I shook my head. “Our healers use other techniques.”

  “I have—needed my arm sewn up once. Doctor did a great job, but for me reality just drained away, and then drained back in with my shoulder aching. Being encircled was the opposite. My body went away, but my mind was still there, out of its shell. Like being naked in a gale force wind. Maybe that’s the wrong analogy to use with you.” He smiled ruefully. He’d seen me go comfortably unclothed in a blizzard.

  “I can imagine the vulnerability. Clothing, and flesh, provide more than one kind of protection.”

  “Exactly. Maybe it feels different for those who choose it, those who go willingly through the preparation. They like to talk—dear lord, the one carrying me nattered on for the whole trip—but they didn’t like what I had to say. And still I could feel it working on me: I began to feel glad of their protection. Getting pulled back into my body hurt worse than getting shot. But I want you to know how grateful I was, how grateful I am. Thank you.”

  “What they did to you was vile. And—you’re a friend. You’ve done a lot for us, even if I haven’t always been grateful.”

  “A lot of what I’ve done has been double-edged. And I’ve asked for plenty.” His hands flexed in his lap, fingers interwoven.

  “Are you—” I took a deep breath. I wanted to believe this disclosure simply a sign of the friendship I’d acknowledged. I thought it was, in part. “You open up when you mean to apologize. You always have. What are you about to say that requires an apology?”

  Another rueful smile. “When I first met you, I couldn’t have guessed how well you’d get to know me.” He rubbed his wrists. “I really would appreciate any suggestions your archpriest might have. I want to be at home in my body again.”

  “He’ll be at the temple after moonrise. Meanwhile, does the FBI want something again? Dear gods, please tell me they don’t want us to mediate with the Outer Ones.”

  “More than that.”

  I waited. “Mr. Spector, I am not going to shake it out of you. But I can find someone who will.”

  “I’m sorry. I like you liking me, and I know you’ll be upset. Justifiably. But what I have to say will solve some of your problems. Double-edged, like I said.” He squared his shoulders, and looked a little more like himself. “The negotiations are going well, or as well as we can expect when the differences in territory and power are so great, and the other side is so hard to understand. State, and the other agencies involved, are looking to settle into a longer-term relationship. Something stable. Especially with what just happened in the USSR, they want to get as much out of this as they can. They want a base within reasonable travel of the Outer Ones’ Berkshire outpost. Somewhere relatively isolated, where people from different planes of reality can take long strolls together to work out politics, and no one will come around a corner and start screaming about monsters. And they’d rather not have to expel too many potential screamers to do it. Someplace where the government already has property, especially property they aren’t already using, would be ideal. Easy access to the world’s most experienced Outer One cultural experts would be a nice bonus.”

  I felt the shiver of desert sun, or the burn of frozen vacuum. “You’re talking about Innsmouth. They want those things wandering around our town. State agents and soldiers and diplomats in our streets every day.”

  “People who’re ready to face Outer Ones, and wouldn’t scream when they saw Archpriest Ngalthr, either. The idea is to purchase everything they can back from the developers, and use eminent domain to reclaim the houses that have already been sold to earnest young couples who like long walks on the beach. They’d offer your community a hundred-year lease on the whole lot—you could use however much you needed, but the unfilled space would house the cadre negotiating with otherworldly superpowers.”

  It solved our worst problem—at the cost of our comfort in our own homes. The dream of remaking Innsmouth as it once was would be gone. “That’s very generous. What if we refuse?”

  “I pushed hard to make the deal as generous as it is.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and didn’t make the plea I could see in his eyes.

  Another raid, I didn’t say. If we refused, they’d scarcely need soldiers to force a street’s worth of families from our homes. Audrey might pull in a few favors through her family, but they’d be outgunned. Out-lawyered, more likely, a clean and bloodless displacement. As long as we didn’t fight back.

  “I suppose I should thank you.”

  “I’m sorry. I know what you wanted to make here. I know how hard you fought for it.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I should have been angry, should have railed and argued and cursed his masters. But what he proposed felt as inevitable as the fall of humanity itself, the natural consequence of battles lost decades past. “It wouldn’t have worked, even if the state had left us alone. We’re too few. There are still people on land with our blood, but none who share our culture. To walk down the street and see only people like us—it just isn’t possible. I suppose we might as well have the soldiers, who at least won’t look like they ought to understand.”

  “I know the tension. If you’ll forgive me another confidence, you saw St. Mary’s Park. My parents grew up surrounded by people who prayed the same prayers, spoke the same language, wanted the same things for their kids. But they wanted their children to go out into the world, and fit in there. Sometimes I want what they had, and sometimes it feels like the most closed-off, insular life I can imagine. If you can find any balance here, it’ll be something worthwhile.”

  Charlie came out then, drawn by our voices, and joined Spector on the couch. Neko found us and insisted on adding to the small spread of food I’d put out. Soon Audrey would be home for the weekend, ready to tease out all the risks and possibilities she could wring from Spector’s offer. The elders would come up from the water at dusk, eager to argue or approve. And I’d have to tell Caleb.

  I was surprised to find myself picturing the Innsmouth that Spector proposed—and not finding it completely dreadful. Even while I’d yearned for the comfortable insularity of my childhood, I’d been building something more cosmopolitan. Perhaps Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt was right to say that was my true talent, where pulling together a likeminded community was not.

  And much as “the state” still felt a monolithic horror in my mind, its representatives ranged from Peters to Spector himself. Perhaps some of their young officers would turn out to have bulging eyes, or an interest in studying Enochian. I’d decided that men of the air were worth trying to save; it followed that many of them must be worth talking to. Go everywhere. Talk to everyone. Build with the materials you’re able to gather.

  This world wasn’t the one I wanted, but it was one I could work with. For however long we could keep it whole.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Winter Tide was written in a rush of creative desperation,
against an immovable deadline, while my pregnant wife slept exhausted beside me. Deep Roots was written in much shorter bursts of creative desperation, shoehorned into the cracks between unsleeping infants and the thread-hung weight of branching timelines that was 2016—and then the plummeting weight of the fixed timeline that was 2017. In the face of an uncaring universe, I hardly know what power or muse to thank for the shield of inspiration amid such events, but I thank them.

  And I thank my wife, Sarah; my children, Miriam and Cordelia and Bobby; and householdmates Jamie and Shelby and Nora, for the entirely perceptible shield of their love and support (and in the case of the adults, extensive child-wrangling).

  Lovecraft’s sandbox remains an excellent place to play, even as his fears seem more relevant than ever. I thank him for leaving it open for the monsters to join in the fun, and offer in exchange however much exercise one can get by spinning in one’s grave. Thanks are due as well to his collaborators Zealia Bishop, co-creator of the K’n-yan, and Hazel Heald, who hinted that Mi-Go brain canisters might be even creepier than they looked at first glance.

  Lila Wejksnora-Garrott, Marissa Lingen, and Anne M. Pillsworth provided terrifyingly useful beta-reading feedback on an absurdly tight deadline. Anne is also my co-blogger on Tor.com’s Lovecraft Reread series; I’m indebted to her and our posse of squamous commenters for ongoing insight into the Mythos.

  My social media fans and followers remain an excellent source of quick answers and quick thinking. Thanks in particular to John Cardoso, who suggested getting S’vlk out of the mine in a Statue of Liberty costume, and Mara Katz, who suggested trying to pass her off as a stiltwalker. Never let it be said that Twitter is merely a distraction from writerly productivity.

  My father, Bob Gordon, could easily have been one of those boys chasing a ball across Aphra’s path during the Summer Tide. He shared with me his memories of New York City in the ’40s and bemusedly answered my questions about Brooklyn neighborhoods. D. W. “Lemur” Rowlands, infrastructure geek extraordinaire, provided historical subway directions. All errors are my own.