Winter Tide Read online

“That’s…” He trailed off. “You didn’t feel Russian. When we … passed each other.”

  “I should hope not,” said Trumbull. “But the spell that they supposedly seek is a lesser version of my race’s art. I object to it being used for petty ends; that is the beginning and the end of overlap in our interests.”

  “Petty?” He ran his hands over his body, rumpling his suit worse than hurry and weather had already managed.

  “The Yith apparently take a long view of history,” said Charlie.

  Spector retrieved his tea. “I can see why you were reluctant to explain.”

  I took a deep breath. “Along those lines … you were quite eager for us to leave you to your ‘private errands.’ And then, on our return, we were besieged by soldiers. What did you do?”

  His shoulders tensed, and he stared down at his cup. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to do this. Upton’s suggestion that others were looking into the body theft spell worried me, and I called in to request help following up. What I wanted was a warrant that would let me examine the asylum records in more detail, and a report on any anomalous tips from the area around that time. What I got … I’m afraid we’ve run afoul of…” He put down the cup and straightened. “Not everyone in the federal government agrees on how we should handle supernatural issues. My superiors think, as I do, that we need a better working relationship with those who already have long experience with magic. Others agree that the … the purges … of the ’20s were a mistake, but disagree on the appropriate response. The task force that you just encountered is, uh, symptomatic, of those who think we ought to build a more trustworthy understanding of magic from the ground up, without being bogged down by what they see as ancient history and superstition.”

  Trumbull cocked her head, and a slow smile spread across her face. “That’s mad.”

  “And dangerous,” I said. I didn’t feel nearly as amused—though I supposed that by her standards, we were all stumbling along, trying to reconstruct what the Yith well understood.

  “I agree.” Spector pushed himself out of the chair and paced. “In any case, they got wind of my ‘difficulties,’ and managed to talk some Bureau supervisor into letting them try their methods, since mine were working so slowly. And promptly treated the whole campus like a crime scene, as if they were dealing with some ordinary criminal who could be penned in by barricades. Come Monday, they’ll try to turn their arrest of my team into proof of my mistakes.” He paused by the wall, and reached up to straighten one of the abstract paintings. “I’m sorry, you don’t need the spillover from our internecine politics. But I’m afraid they’ve made it your business.”

  “Do you know what they intend to do,” asked Caleb, “aside from accost people at the campus gate?”

  “I don’t,” said Spector. “Officially they’re here for the same reason I am. But their roadblock is so visible that any spies or traitors still here when we arrived will be gone by tomorrow—unless they’re very confident in their ability to stay hidden. Either Barlow thinks he can convince our body snatcher to panic, or they’re looking for a chance to practice something in the field that they can’t do back in D.C., or they’ve decided that some of the ‘old-fashioned’ resources at Miskatonic are worth their time. Or all those things at once—George Barlow isn’t a man who does things for only one reason.”

  We discussed further—but in frustrating fact, this didn’t change any of our plans. We didn’t know enough to make such changes. Even though it was increasingly unclear to me what we could do about our books, other than continue to read them as they were doled out to us. Even though it made the tea turn bitter in my stomach that to get to and from Hall, even to wander the streets of Arkham, we must again risk Miskatonic’s self-appointed guards.

  “Are they going to eat dinner in the faculty spa?” I asked abruptly.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Spector. “I don’t know for sure who arranged for their presence here, but I think it may have been Dean Skinner. They called him to say they had Professor Trumbull, and apparently—I’m sorry, ma’am—he didn’t sound surprised. He said you could cool your heels for a while. Made reference to the rest of you as well. Dawson overheard, and called me right away, but it was the first she knew of the team’s presence.”

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Maybe I’ll skip dinner tonight.”

  “Eggs?” offered Neko.

  “How many do we have?” asked Caleb.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Spector. “I hope they won’t give you trouble again so soon, but I know they won’t take that risk with me. It’s still early—I’ll go into town and get something that isn’t eggs, and you can eat in tonight. If the professor doesn’t mind.”

  Trumbull shrugged, but said, “Frankly, I don’t care to encounter them again today either.”

  “We could cook,” said Neko dreamily.

  I nodded with real enthusiasm. “Do you know where there’s a fish market?”

  Spector bore the transformation of nervous relief into shopping list with good grace, and departed with the promise that Trumbull’s kitchen would soon be better stocked.

  * * *

  Trumbull went upstairs to work on her notes—whether documenting the afternoon’s events, or recording what the elders had told her, I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought to have written down my own experiences for her collection, as she’d suggested.

  I suspected us all in need of private conversations, and not quite ready for them. Caleb and Neko found a checkers board and settled into a game with one of their many sets of variant rules. Charlie and I drifted to the bookshelf.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He shrugged, winced, leaned more heavily on his cane. “My shoulders hurt. My knee hurts. I feel like an idiot for being so angry about what happened.”

  “Anger … seems like a pretty reasonable reaction.”

  He pulled out a copy of Exercises in Descriptive Geometry. After a moment I took it, and held it open so that he could examine the pages with one hand. “With all that happened to you, and to your brother and Miss Koto—I can hardly complain over losing an afternoon.”

  Careful diagrams showed warped planes intersecting to produce ever-stranger shapes. “Is that really what’s angering you? The time it took?”

  He shook his head, traced one of the diagrams with a thick finger. “I think it’s the power that they have. The way they used it. I could tell”—he checked the game over his shoulder—“they were upsetting you, and her, and if anything they thought it was funny. Humans are awful people.”

  I could neither argue nor agree. “It’s a big universe,” I said instead. History was long, and life short, and if I took comfort in the fleeting existence of our momentary captors, I must remember that Charlie too, and Neko and Audrey and even Spector, were ephemeral.

  Charlie put the geometry text back, and pulled down a leatherbound edition of Plato’s Republic. “This one’s always good for a distracting argument,” he suggested.

  * * *

  Charlie was right: I’d never encountered Plato before, and he was a good distraction. If I’d never met a person of the air, it would certainly have caused me to look oddly at the first ones I did encounter. I would have to ask Trumbull if anyone had ever tried to put his ideas about “justice” into practice.

  When Spector returned I rifled through his paper sacks, and at last pulled out a bag of flour and a jar of honey.

  “Would you like to eat with us?” I asked him. The newly stocked kitchen made me feel generous. “I can’t imagine you want to break bread with those people either.”

  “Want, no.” He unpacked a box of pierogi, which hadn’t been on the list but inspired a pang of nostalgia anyway—I’d never found them on the West Coast. From the look on his face, that had been Spector’s motivation as well. He put them on the counter. “For later—I miss New York. It’ll go easier for all of us if I don’t act fazed by this afternoon. We’ll all be very polite to each other, and then I’ll
go back to the guest rooms and drink scotch. Thank god Barlow’s got his people in a hotel; I don’t have to deal with them once dinner’s over.”

  After he left we continued to sort groceries. Growing up, a winter meal would involve a great deal of salt cod and tinned sardines, and potatoes and apples from the cold cellar. Spector had found all those things, but also frozen whitefish fillets, neatly packaged chicken, and a bag of peas frozen out of their shells that could be boiled in five minutes. And dried herbs, flour, sugar, oil—even butter, usually a rarity since Mama Rei hated it and I always assumed it a costly luxury.

  Neko hefted the whitefish. “Do you want to use this, or can I?”

  I thought mournfully of holiday stew, probably too salty for anyone but Caleb—I knew Neko didn’t like it. “You go ahead. I want to make honeyed saltcakes. Caleb, do you remember how they go?”

  “Do you? I remember how to follow directions, and how to lick the spoon.”

  “I do. And how to give directions.” Cookbooks, I reminded myself, were another thing useless to Miskatonic that they’d have hidden in their stacks. I wasn’t sure I remembered a single title, though. Mother’s collection I knew by their colors, or by stains on much-used pages.

  Charlie settled into a kitchen chair and read Plato, while the three of us rinsed dusty mixing bowls and squabbled over counter space. I sifted the flour, measured out honey and salt by eye, and tried to decide among the abundance of fats for shortening. Oil would probably work best, but I wasn’t sure it would taste right without a little rendered chicken fat.

  Outside, someone pounded the door knocker. I spun, clutching a wooden spoon. Neko froze in place. Caleb took a step toward the arch to the dining room, but hesitated.

  Charlie put a finger in his book. “There are probably plenty of people who want to visit Professor Trumbull. Right?”

  “Right.” I stalked to the front hall. I am a Marsh. I have every right to be here. Nevertheless I opened the door cautiously, ready to slam it shut if our company were unwelcome.

  Instead it was Audrey, who looked nonplussed at my expression. “This is the place, right? You haven’t all been replaced by mad twins?”

  I laughed and let her in. “No, this is the right place. We’re just on edge.”

  “How did you get in?” asked Caleb. “Didn’t they want to know what business a girl had alone on campus? Or do they not care about that?”

  “Who’s ‘they’? I climbed the oak by the east wall, same as always when I don’t have company or a class for an excuse. There’s another at Hall that I use to get off campus when I don’t want to beg for a note. You don’t think they let us innocent young things wander around loose, do you?”

  “Ah, you missed the soldiers then,” he said. I herded everyone back into the kitchen, where I could bury my fingers in dough while we explained the events of the afternoon. Audrey was suitably impressed and disturbed.

  “How is Mr. Price?” I asked belatedly. “And Miss Ward?”

  She sobered further. “Leroy will recover, they say. He’ll miss the start of classes, and he’ll have a scar. Sally has decided that he’s a hero instead of an idiot, but I don’t think she’s going to do anything stupid.”

  “I’m glad he’ll be okay. Chulzh’th will be glad too.”

  After a couple of hours’ bustle and carefully neutral conversation, we had a motley meal: chicken fried with rice and eggs, spiced fish, boiled potatoes with bits of apple and sage, and the saltcakes smelling of safety and home.

  I considered the wisdom of intruding on Trumbull’s studies, but she came into the dining room before I reached a decision. Many of the serving dishes probably hadn’t seen light since her arrival, and she looked them over as if observing a slightly distasteful foreign custom.

  “You needn’t have any if it bothers you,” I said in some annoyance.

  “It’s no worse a way of taking in energy than any other, I suppose.”

  The others accepted their helpings with more enthusiasm. Whatever the faults of the day, it had given us all a good appetite. Caleb bit into a saltcake and smiled, eyes closed. “These were an excellent thought.”

  “They’re good,” agreed Audrey. “I wouldn’t have expected the sweet and the salt to go together.”

  Neko tried some. She murmured half-hearted appreciation, but it was clear that she and I still had very different ideas about what constituted appropriate amounts of salt.

  “It’s a kind of record,” I said to Trumbull. “These foods, they’re all memories, even if they’re harder for a stranger to read than a diary. A honeyed saltcake, the actual thing itself, tells you more about what holidays felt like in Innsmouth than the words of any story or ritual.”

  “That I know.” She nibbled the edge of one. I could see her discomfort in the exaggerated way her lips peeled back from her teeth, in how attending to her food seemed to reduce rather than increase her pleasure in it.

  I took another bite, closed my eyes, tasted a picnic during the Rites of Dagon, eaten swiftly with a summer thunderstorm threatening.

  “Do you have holidays?” Audrey spooned out another helping of rice and cocked her head at Trumbull.

  “Of course. Although we don’t usually attend to the flicker of solar orbits. Some celebrations mark changes in the Archives; those we carry from world to world. Others observe the rhythms of this planet while we abide here. Great Equinoxes, for example—the people of the water also keep those, of course.”

  I nodded, then explained for the rest of the table: “Earth’s orbit around the sun changes slowly, so the equinoxes and solstices move around the year. A Great Equinox is how long it takes them to come back to the same place. It’s a little longer every cycle, but the current one will take a bit under 26,000 years.”

  Charlie paused with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. “That sounds like quite the feast.”

  “I’m told it is. The next Great Equinox, at the end of this cycle, is in…” I paused to calculate, surprised to discover that I did, in fact, remember the relevant figures. “Nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three years.”

  “So the last one was before humans learned to write,” said Charlie. “Or build cities.”

  “Before men of the air learned to write,” said Trumbull. “The folk of the water and rock met that milestone considerably earlier. I actually came down to ask a favor.”

  That was enough to still my own fork. “Go on.”

  She put down the half-eaten saltcake and splayed her fingers on the table, frowning. “Several times in the past few days, I have failed to conceal my nature. That’s a danger, more so with this new power on the campus. I wish to join you in the Meditation on the Waters Within”—it took me a moment to recognize the alternate translation of the Inner Sea—“to better ground my sense of this body and its capabilities. I must restore my control, and this seems like the most efficient way to do it.”

  I shared an uncomfortable look with the others. “Practicing together has already connected us more tightly than we expected…”

  “And naturally you don’t want to bring this body into your confluence. Nor, I assure you, do I care to involve myself in human family structures. I can show you how to prevent our streams from flowing together permanently—though I’ll need a temporary connection. I must compare this body to others, to ensure that I haven’t inadvertently deformed it.”

  We agreed—it was a fair request, and the lesson she’d offered was a useful one—and after cleaning the dishes we went upstairs to the office.

  “Do you want to join us?” I asked Neko. I’d asked all the Kotos before, and they’d always refused—though they’d never hesitated, in the camps, to stand guard over my hastily whispered prayers. “This part—it’s not religious, or it doesn’t have to be.”

  “You study your way; I’ll study in mine. I want to look at that book you were reading earlier—it sounds a lot more interesting without a teacher insisting it’s the foundation of all civilization.” Charli
e handed over the Plato.

  CHAPTER 16

  Trumbull had clearly been busy—papers on the desk were shuffled, the mysterious device grown larger, and two additional diagrams hung on the walls.

  What I knew as a newly reclaimed art was for Trumbull well-practiced technology. She sketched her variant sigils swiftly, narrating as she went.

  “The thng’wy stands for the blood, but can be altered to represent any vital fluid. This line is made thinner to decrease the strength of connections, and the addition of the phwl’k ensures that our wills may overcome such connections as are created during the ritual. It cannot cut connections previously made; that is more difficult and more dangerous.” Her terms for the symbols were unfamiliar. The books I knew presented most of these sigils as parts of a whole, to be memorized spell by spell, rather than named components.

  But the end was the same as always: the bowl, the blade, salt water, and blood. For that, my experience was not wholly inadequate.

  The reunion with my family had shaken me more than expected, and Spector’s unpleasant colleagues had been worse. Now I sank into my own body and affirmed my own rhythms.

  After a time it felt natural to reach out. Tonight my connection to Charlie and Caleb and Audrey was only physical—perhaps our emotions didn’t spill over into our blood without a driving emergency, or perhaps the safeguards provided by Trumbull’s sigils made a difference. Experimentally, I sought to change the tenor of the connection. I heard whispers of emotion like voices in a distant room, the edge of something that might have been thought. It felt so faint as to verge on imagination.

  Reaching further, I found Trumbull. This too felt entirely physical: waters narrow but unblocked, banks tangled in brambles. But as I explored, I began to sense something hidden amidst the brush. Predator, my instinct whispered, but it was not even that. The whole landscape shivered, resolving in a shuddering rush as the thing broke from cover—and then the overwhelming awareness of something not at all physical and not at all human.

  It is probably impossible to describe so truly alien a mind in English. Enochian and R’lyehn have better words for strangeness, for thoughts as cold as space, for memories as deep and dense as magma, for minds that know time as intimately as a childhood home.