Winter Tide Read online

  Audrey, by contrast, showed what Charlie must have been only scant years ago. Her stream ran slow and silty and rich, muddy banks not yet sliding in to choke it. The loamy, fertile scent of swamp water rose in my mind.

  I could feel the others reaching as well, more tentative but eager. In the throes of the ritual I saw no reason to resist their pull. We explored the tangle of rivers, of roots and channels shaped by the lives we had lived.

  Time passed, and at last the connection began to slip. I let go easily, certain that we could find it again when we wished.

  And came back to the study with a gasp of indrawn air. The others looked at me, and at each other, with wide eyes.

  “I recall now,” I said, a little unsteadily, “that a group of people who practice together is called a confluence. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather find a teacher who remembers that type of thing before it comes up?”

  “Not a chance,” breathed Audrey.

  We stood—except for Charlie—stretched, moved our newly familiar bodies. I found myself hyperaware of the others, coordinated as if in some well-practiced dance. Caleb touched my elbow, and his eyes were bright.

  “You’re different, the two of you,” said Audrey.

  I froze, caught between imperatives. I had warned her against touching us precisely to avoid this, and Charlie had seen my blood for months with no such recognition. I found myself impressed anew by Audrey’s perceptiveness. Newfound intimacy, and the desire to nurture her clever instincts rather than quash them, argued against the entirely logical decision I’d come to earlier.

  “We’re family,” I said at last.

  Her eyes narrowed, but her voice was mild. “What kind?” Before I could answer, she added, “I have heard the other rumors about Innsmouth.”

  Caleb bristled, and the newfound comfort drained from his stance. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  Charlie leaned forward. “I think we’ve just done something precious. And terrifying. And I don’t think it’s something we can undo.”

  So he thought I should tell her, too. I took a breath, dry with winter air and tinged with the salt of our mingled sweat. “What have you heard?”

  “Oh, you know. Dark rituals—I always assumed that someone rubbed dead tarantula on themselves and talked it up at the college.” She rubbed her pricked finger against her palm. “But that Innsmouth was destroyed because the people there made deals with some sort of water demon, and had children who were half demon. Or half mermaid, or half fish. People are more interested in not-talking about the details of demonic marriages than in the details of the kids. But your blood felt—I’m not accusing you of anything! Even if you did marry demons, they’re probably more worthwhile than most human boys. It’s just that your blood doesn’t feel like mine at all. It feels like running toward the ocean as fast as I can go.”

  I shared a glance with Caleb, but knew already that the conversational undertow had us. “No demons. And no dark deals—our people have always been like this. We’re human, just a different kind than you. The people of the water don’t age as the people of the air do. We change, as we get older, to live out our lives deep in the ocean. That’s what you felt.” I shook my head. “I’m doing this all backward. There are things you should hear.” I motioned her to sit.

  I recited the Litany, sketched for her the vastness of the cosmos and the abundance of lives and minds that strove to survive it. And knew all the while that I had bound myself to something unknown. In my ignorance, I had made Charlie and my brother—perhaps my whole family—vulnerable to any least failure of understanding or empathy or discretion on the part of a near stranger.

  Now I must make her vulnerable in turn.

  “I told you that we do not age,” I said. “But twenty years ago, when the state raided Innsmouth, they found every other way we could be harmed. Caleb and I are the only ones left that I know of—on land.”

  “But your family…?”

  “We’re in Arkham for two reasons: to try to get Innsmouth’s books back, and to let our elders know we’re alive. Will you help?”

  She took my hand. “This is what I’ve been looking for since I came to Hall. Of course I’ll help.” She paused. “Um. I hate to ask, but your friends downstairs. Do—I mean, I suppose all humans must look alike to you.”

  Caleb snorted. “You don’t have a problem with fish-faces because we’re exciting and magical, but you’ve got a problem with Japs and—”

  I put up a hand. “Caleb, names have meaning even if you’re mocking them—please don’t use false ones. And Miss Winslow, you bear that in mind as well. We were in that camp for decades, and most of our people dead, when the government decided it would be a convenient place to stash some of their new batch of prisoners. If the Kotos hadn’t come when they did, if the government hadn’t been vague in their order to close the camps, we’d be there still—or dead ourselves. They’re family, and we owe them our lives. And Dawson’s the one who got us library access, so I don’t care to hear whatever you were thinking about her either.”

  She shrank back, releasing my hand. “I’m sorry. I was just curious, that’s all. They’re not studying with us, though?”

  “Neko’s never been interested. And Miss Dawson hasn’t asked. If she asked—I would teach her. If that bothers you…” Then, I supposed, I would have to learn some way to cut the connection that I’d made with Audrey. I’d heard of such things, but nothing to indicate that they were easy or pleasant.

  She wound her fingers together, then placed them firmly in her lap. “You may not claim any title, but as far as I’m concerned you’re in charge. You say who joins us and who stays away.”

  Caleb looked doubtful but didn’t argue. Charlie nodded firmly. I bowed my head, accepting the weight.

  “So—now what?” asked Audrey.

  “Now—” I checked the window and found the night grown dark. “If we want to speak with our elders, we need to learn how to call them. You won’t be able to help much, but if you want to stick around?” She nodded eagerly. “Mr. Day, if you could tell them what we talked about the other night, about how summoning works, I need to get my notes.”

  I tarried in the doorway long enough to hear that he remembered our discussion well, then went downstairs. Neko and Dawson were frying eggs with the minimal supplies in Trumbull’s kitchen.

  “Margarine and salt,” Neko told me in disgust. “No spices at all. Do you want some?”

  “Not just yet. But if you feel a sudden urge to go upstairs—don’t.”

  Dawson flipped one of the eggs and looked at me over her shoulder. “We’ll leave you your privacy, don’t worry.”

  “Not like that. You should expect a sudden urge to go upstairs. There’s no need to follow it. There’s no particular need to not follow it, either, it’s just not a requirement even if it feels like one.”

  Dawson shook her head and slid the egg onto a plate. “Dinner, that’s what I’m doing.”

  I found my notes from On the Calling of Kinds, and returned upstairs. Caleb stood to meet me.

  “Aphra, I know it’s going to be easier for them to summon us, regardless, but I’d feel more comfortable if we learned to summon them first.”

  I considered. It was true that the spell to summon men of the air was practically useless, but it was the foundation for summoning individuals, so not a complete waste. And he was right—I was not ultimately willing to offer this vulnerability without demanding it as well. “All right.”

  I wiped the previous diagram and started again. The new one required a central sigil—though a small one—drawn in blood, for which I nicked another finger. I hesitated before pressing it to the slate, but Trumbull wouldn’t need my blood to take advantage even if she cared to do so. Caleb apparently came to the same conclusion, and added his own to the spiraling sign.

  “Blood of the kind being summoned is also helpful—if they have blood—but not necessary,” I told them. “The same for individuals. We’ll do
without tonight, since we want a relatively weak summoning. We’re not calling anything that would be inclined to do us harm, or to leave as soon as it arrived. This version will let everything of the right kind in range”—and I had shortened that range as much as I could—“know that we’re interested, and then settle at random on one to call. There, that’s done.”

  I went over the chant with everyone, but raised my voice alone. I felt silly, sending out a summons for people in the same room. But absurdity, like awe and fear, is a layer of meaning we impose, one of an infinite number of possible ways to interpret the world. I let it fall away. What I felt in its place was not so intimate as our earlier meditation, but still a reaching: a growing awareness that the thing I sought existed, was near, was even now being drawn to me. The pattern came more easily than I expected: even in their silence, the others now added strength and direction to the working.

  The call swirled through the house and settled, as promised, close by. Charlie stood abruptly, and I reached automatically to steady him. He stepped into the diagram, and set his cane abruptly to catch his balance. I was about to apologize, to help him back to his chair, but paused at the expression of distracted joy on his face.

  “Mr. Day?”

  He twitched, and his eyes flew wide. “Miss Marsh! I’m sorry—this is odd.” He looked uncertainly back at his seat. “Ought I…?”

  “It’s probably best for your knee,” I said with some reluctance. “What’s it like?”

  He made no move to sit. “Like … someone who loves me calling my name, someone I didn’t expect to see at all. You want to go to them. And my damned leg hurts. Excuse me, miss.” This to Audrey, who didn’t look offended. I swiped a break in the blood sigil holding the diagram together. He slumped and turned his head, as if seeking the person who had called, then surrendered to the chair.

  I redrew the diagram, this time with Charlie’s blood to line the sigil for my own folk. He tried the chant, halting at first but steadier as he went on.

  I felt the words immediately, but it was a moment before their pull became as Charlie had described: the wondrous certainty that someone was looking for me, and that I very much wanted to find them. The words promised love, promised reunion—and more than that. I felt my identity, my sense of self, fundamental to the structure of the world: as real and whole and vital as a star. I realized that I stood in the little triangle I’d drawn for myself moments before, and wanted only to stay there, immersed in what I still dimly knew for a comforting illusion.

  Charlie finished the chant, but the effect remained. “Miss Marsh—are you well?”

  “Mmm. Yes. I ought…”

  The door opened, and I felt a faint embarrassment as Trumbull looked us over. “Ah. I thought I felt something like that when I came in.”

  Audrey leapt to her feet. “I’m sorry, Professor! We were just—”

  “Practicing an elementary summons, yes, I know what it looks like. Reverend Orne’s version, I believe, from On the Calling of Kinds.” She knelt to examine the diagram. “Planning to contact your family, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” said Caleb, his voice rough with irritation.

  My knees buckled as she wiped away the sigil. I managed to catch myself before stumbling against anyone, and blinked away the fog of the ritual. I swallowed against the feeling of unreasoning loss.

  “A perfectly effective method,” she continued, “but the side effects can be irksome to those who wish only to have a conversation. A strong mind can resist, of course, but this version is more polite.” She sketched a slight change in the arc of chalk. “With the angle adjusted, it calls but does not flatter. Orne was always over-nervous of first impressions.”

  “Thank you.” I knelt to examine the changes more closely, and to cover my still shaky balance. “We haven’t spoken with our elders in some time, and certainly don’t wish to offend them.”

  “Yes. You ought to practice your own resistance, however; it’s not good to be susceptible to the blandishments of so common a spell.” She stood, brushing chalk dust from her skirt. “I would speak to them as well.”

  It took me a moment to follow. “Good. We need a ride to Innsmouth.”

  “Tomorrow? Classes begin on Monday, and I expect Sunday to be extremely tedious.”

  I traced the revised lines of the diagram. “I wanted longer to practice”—and perhaps to prepare myself—“but we do have it working. Tomorrow, yes. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Charlie and I walked Audrey to the bus stop. Caleb begged off, and by the time the other two had their coats on he and Dawson were engaged in some sort of verbal sparring, or perhaps a grammar lesson, in mixed R’lyehn and Russian. I glanced back at them, considering.

  The winter clouds colored pink behind the trees. The air was still pleasantly brisk by my standards, and Charlie and Audrey walked with their chins up rather than tucked into scarves. We went slowly for Charlie’s sake, in silence that I didn’t yet feel ready to fill.

  A group of young men marched past, wearing papier-mâché masks with distorted animal faces: snarling cats and long-nosed dog-things and a toothy crocodile painted in garish blue and gold. They sang something loud and boisterous, in which I made out “days of olden kings” and “draughts of strength” and “Miskatonic will go on.” They blew kisses to Audrey, who laughed and curtseyed.

  “It’s Museum Night,” she explained after they passed. “First Friday before classes start, the university museum stays open till midnight, and the boys who stuck around for break dress up and do sort of a scavenger hunt to find specific stuff in the collection.”

  I stopped in the middle of the walk. After a moment, I said, “There’s something I ought to look at in the museum. But maybe another time would be better.”

  Audrey shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind. They put cookies out, and you’re less likely than most days to get funny looks or questions about how long your kid’s been at Miskatonic, because people bring dates. Leroy took me last semester, but I think he’s doing something else tonight.”

  The museum was more self-consciously a temple than the church itself, though strangely sterile. The classical columns and marble floors had never been intended for worship—only to let visitors imagine that they trod someone else’s sacred space, long since given over for their edification. Portraits lined the entry hall: men who’d played some role in the college’s history, or purchased this memory with a substantial donation. Well-lit cases in the center showed off artifacts gathered on university-sponsored expeditions. As promised, incongruous plates of cookies lay on a folding table.

  The boys we’d seen earlier clustered around the food, masks pushed back, and argued over a sheet of paper. Another set, this one including a pair of girls, came in from some more distant part of the building and went directly to one of the display cases, where they pushed and laughed as they read the labels. Whatever they were looking for, they clearly found it, for they exclaimed happily in a ragged chorus and ran out through another archway.

  Audrey grabbed a handful of cookies and offered us each one. I took it, though I wasn’t feeling hungry, and nibbled a mouthful of oats and sweet raisins.

  “You know this place,” I told her. “Do you know where they keep local artifacts?”

  She laughed. “I’m afraid the place doesn’t have quite that much organization. It’s all set up with objects they thought would be interesting together. If you tell me what you’re looking for, though, I might have seen it.”

  I hesitated. I’d never seen the thing, only heard about it. “It’s a gold necklace. Large, probably carved with bas-reliefs. It was all they had of ours that they had before the raid.”

  She looked me over, perhaps trying to imagine what sort of jewelry would go with my appearance. “That sounds familiar. Let’s see if I know what I’m talking about.”

  She led us back into the exhibit rooms, and I saw immediately what she meant about organization. The place was a jumbled cabinet of wonders, with deta
iled landscapes of the Miskatonic sharing walls with murky and disturbing abstractions, all hanging above vases and rings and statues and arrowheads: calculated to intrigue the eye, and to prove that generations of Miskatonic explorers and artists and curators had claimed the world for their own.

  Eventually we came to a room that did have a theme: treasure. In the artificial dusk, spotlights focused on gold and silver, sapphire and emerald and polished lapis.

  Charlie looked around with the critical eye of a collector who collects something else. “Do they keep a flock of ravens on staff?” he asked. But I’d already seen what I was looking for.

  At the back of the narrow room, on a pedestal and covered by glass, lay a circlet of gold plates, each as wide as my hand. Light gleamed from the sculpted surfaces as I approached. My hand rose of its own accord to hover near the case, though I didn’t dare touch.

  Charlie leaned over my shoulder. “Oh! There are thirteen of them—it’s the Litany, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. One for each species.” Each panel was carefully wrought: the shoggoth seemed to writhe in the midst of changing form, and the ck’chk’ck’s chitin verged on iridescence. In the center, a half-changed human lay amid perfectly textured waves, new gills flaring as the water washed over her. “This is a masterwork. No wonder they tried for so long to get it back.”

  Audrey read the label: “Donated by Malcolm Clark. Necklace: Innsmouth Massachusetts, 17th century.”

  I snorted. “A lot older than that. And he sold it, after an Eliot girl stole it and ran off with him in the mid-1800s. She came back, but we never managed to retrieve the necklace.”

  Audrey laughed. “Guess that sort of thing happens everywhere. But it’s gorgeous. Is this yours too?”

  I followed her gaze. “Yes. It must be.” The statue of Hydra was carved from onyx, and doubtless here for that and the inset ruby eyes rather than its relation to the necklace. Tentacles spread mane-like around the goddess’s face and swept back along Her sides. I wanted to see the statue’s presence as a promise for tomorrow’s expedition, perhaps pray for guidance, but could not. In the library I felt that the books were still ours, even stolen. The museum sucked meaning from things that ought to be sacred, or bound it too tightly to sense. Looking at the image, I saw nothing but stone. Charlie moved to stand next to me, silent comfort.