“I…” Zachary starts and then realizes he has absolutely no idea where to begin. The tile beneath him is cold. He slowly gets to his feet, half expecting the man to offer him a hand when he does a particularly clumsy job of it but the man’s hands stay by his sides, though the cat takes a step forward, sniffing at Zachary’s shoes.
“It is perfectly all right if you need a moment,” the man says, “but I’m afraid you will have to leave. We are closed.”
“We’re what?” Zachary asks, regaining his balance, but as he does the man’s scrutinizing gaze settles on a spot near the third button on Zachary’s open coat.
“You are not supposed to be here,” the man says, looking at the silver sword that hangs around Zachary’s neck.
“Oh…” Zachary starts. “Oh, no…this isn’t mine,” he tries to clarify but the man is already ushering him back toward the door and the elevator. “Someone gave this to me for…disguise purposes? I’m not a…whoever they are.”
“They don’t simply give those away,” the man responds coolly.
Zachary doesn’t know how to reply and now they’re back at the door again. He’s gathered that Dorian is a probably former member of the organization collecting rogue doorknobs to decorate their Manhattan town house but can’t be certain if the sword is Dorian’s own or a copy or what. He was not prepared for jewelry-based accusations in underground cathedrals currently closed for business or renovations. He was not prepared for anything that has happened this evening except maybe the cab ride.
“He called himself Dorian, he asked me to help him, I think he’s in trouble, I don’t know who the sword people are,” Zachary explains in a rush but even as he says the words they feel almost like a lie. Guardians don’t seem to work the way that Sweet Sorrows suggested, though he’s fairly certain that’s what they are.
The man says nothing and having walked Zachary politely yet forcibly back to the elevator he stops and gestures at the hexagonal button next to it with his ring-covered hand.
“I wish you and your friend the best in overcoming your current difficulties but I must insist,” he says. He indicates the button again.
Zachary pushes the button, hoping the elevator will continue to be slow in order to buy him time to explain or understand what is going on but the button does nothing. It doesn’t light up, it doesn’t make a sound. The elevator doors remain shut.
The man frowns, first at the elevator and then at Zachary’s coat. No, at the paint on his coat.
“The door you entered through, was it painted?” he asks.
“Yes?” Zachary answers.
“I gather from the state of your overcoat that door is no longer operational. Is that so?”
“It sort of disappeared,” Zachary says, not believing it himself even though he was there.
The man closes his eyes and sighs.
“I warned her this would be problematic,” he says to himself and then he asks, “What did you roll?” before Zachary can ask who he means.
“Pardon?”
“Your dice,” the man clarifies, with another elegant gesture indicating the wall behind him. “What did you roll?”
“Oh…uh…all hearts,” Zachary says, recalling the dice tumbling into the darkness and feeling light-headed. He wonders again what it means and if maybe all of anything is a bad thing to roll.
The man stares at him, scrutinizing his face more thoroughly than he had before with a quizzical expression that looks like recognition, and though it seems like he is about to ask something else he does not. Instead he says, “If you would be so kind as to come with me.”
He turns and walks back through the door. Zachary follows at his heels, feeling like he has accomplished something. At least he doesn’t have to leave as soon as he’s arrived.
Particularly considering he’s not certain where he is, exactly. It is not what he expected, this sweeping space with its crumpled chandeliers and dusty piles of books. There are more tiles, for a start. It is grander and older and quieter and darker and more intimate than he imagined it would be when he got here and he realizes now how certain he had been that he would get here somehow because Sweet Sorrows implied as much.
Not yet, he thinks, looking up at the universe spinning above him with its hands pointing in alternating directions, wondering what it is that he is meant to do now that he is here.
“I know why you are here,” the man says as they pass the swinging pendulum, as though he can hear Zachary’s thoughts.
“You do?”
“You are here because you wish to sail the Starless Sea and breathe the haunted air.”
Zachary’s feet halt beneath him at the comforting trueness of the statement combined with the confusion of not understanding what it means.
“Is this the Starless Sea?” he asks, following again as the man heads to the far side of the grand hall.
“No, this is only a Harbor,” comes the answer. “And, as I have already mentioned, it is closed.”
“Maybe you should put up a sign,” Zachary says before he can bite his tongue and the statement earns him a more withering glance than any of his math teachers could ever have managed and he mumbles an apology.
Zachary follows the man and the ginger cat who has rejoined the procession into what he can only think of as an office, though it is unlike any office he has ever seen before. The walls are all but hidden behind bookshelves and filing cabinets and card catalogues with their rows of tiny drawers and labels. The floor is covered in tile similar to the ones outside, a worn path evident from the door to the desk. A green glass lamp glows near the desk and strings of paper lanterns loop around the tops of the bookshelves. A phonograph softly plays something classical and scratched. A fireplace occupies most of the wall opposite the door, the fire burning low in its hearth covered in a silken screen so the flickering light appears russet-colored. An old-fashioned twig broom leans against the wall nearby. A sword, a large, real sword, hangs above a mantel that contains several books, an antler, another cat (live but asleep), and several glass jars of varying sizes filled with keys.
The man settles himself behind a large desk covered in papers and notebooks and bottles of ink and appears much more at ease though Zachary remains nervous. Nervous and oddly more intoxicated than he felt earlier.
“Now then,” the man says as the ginger cat sits on the corner of the desk and yawns, its amber eyes trained on Zachary. “Where was your door?”
“Central Park,” Zachary says. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and it’s becoming difficult to form words. “It was destroyed by those…club people? I think the fur coat polar-bear lady is their leader? She threatened me with tea. And the guy who said his name was Dorian might be in trouble? He had me take this from their headquarters, he didn’t say why.”
Zachary removes the book from his coat and holds it out. The man takes it, frowning. He opens it and flips through a few pages and watching upside-down Zachary thinks the Arabic text looks like English but his eyes are likely playing tricks on him because his contact lenses are itching and he wonders if maybe he’s allergic to cats and the man closes the book again before he can be certain.
“This belongs down here, so thank you for that,” the man says, handing it back. “You may keep it for your friend if you like.”
Zachary looks down at the brown leather book.
“Shouldn’t someone…” he says, almost to himself, “I don’t know, rescue him?”
“Someone should, I’m sure,” the man responds. “You will not be able to depart without an escort so you will have to wait for Mirabel to return. I can arrange quarters for you in the meantime, you look as though you could use some rest. I simply require some additional information before we proceed. Name?”
“Uh…Zachary. Zachary Ezra Rawlins,” Zachary provides obediently instead of asking one of the numerous questions h
e has himself.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Rawlins,” the man says, writing Zachary’s name in one of the ledgers on the desk. He checks the time on a pocket watch and adds that to the ledger as well. “They call me the Keeper. You said your temporary entrance was in Central Park, I assume you were referring to the one in Manhattan, in New York, in the United States of America?”
“Yeah, that Central Park.”
“Very good,” the Keeper says, noting something else in the ledger. He marks another document that might be a map and then gets up from the desk and walks over to one of the chests of tiny drawers behind him. He removes something from one of the drawers and turns and hands it to Zachary: a round gold locket on a long chain. On one side there is a bee. On the other there is a heart.
“If you need to find your way back to this spot—most call it the Heart—this will point your way.”
Zachary opens the locket to reveal a compass with a single mark where north would be, its needle spinning erratically.
“Will you be needing to know the location of Mecca?” the Keeper asks.
“Oh, no, thanks, though. I’m agnostopagan.”
The Keeper cocks his head questioningly.
“Spiritual but not religious,” Zachary clarifies. He doesn’t say what he is thinking, which is that his church is held-breath story listening and late-night-concert ear-ringing rapture and perfect-boss fight-button pressing. That his religion is buried in the silence of freshly fallen snow, in a carefully crafted cocktail, in between the pages of a book somewhere after the beginning but before the ending.
He wonders what, exactly, was in that thing he drank earlier.
The Keeper nods and turns his attention to the cabinets, opening another drawer and removing something and closing it again.
“If you would come with me, Mister Rawlins,” the Keeper says, exiting the room. Zachary looks at the cat but the cat, disinterested, closes its eyes and does not follow.
The Keeper closes the office door and leads Zachary down one of the book-filled halls. This space feels more underground, like a tunnel, lit with occasional candles and lanterns, with a low rounded ceiling and turns that do not follow any obvious pattern. Zachary is thankful for his compass after the third turn through a maze of doors and books, one hall branching off into others, opening up into larger chambers, and funneling into the tunnel-like hall again. Books are packed onto shelves that curve with the rock or piled on tables and chests and chairs like a literary-centric antique store. They pass a marble bust wearing a silk top hat and another sleeping cat on an upholstered armchair tucked into an alcove. Zachary keeps expecting to encounter other people but there isn’t anyone. Maybe everyone is asleep and the Keeper is on the night shift. It must be very late by now.
They stop at a door flanked by bookshelves peppered with small glowing lanterns. The Keeper unlocks the door and gestures for Zachary to enter.
“I apologize for the state—” the Keeper stops and frowns, looking in at a room that requires no apologies.
The room is…well, the room is the most glorious hotel room Zachary could imagine, except in a cave. There is a great deal of velvet, most of it dark green, fitted over chairs and hanging in curtains over a four-poster bed that has been turned down in anticipation of its guest’s arrival. There is a large desk and multiple reading nooks. The walls and floor are stone that peeks out from between bookshelves and framed art and mismatched rugs. It is beyond cozy. A fire burns in the fireplace. The lamps by the bed are lit, as though the room had been expecting him.
“I hope this will be to your liking,” the Keeper says, though a hint of the frown remains.
“This is awesome,” Zachary replies.
“The washroom is through the door at the rear,” the Keeper says, gesturing toward the back of the room. “The Kitchen may be accessed via the panel near the fireplace. The light level in the hall will be raised in the morning. Please do not feed the cats. This is your key.” The Keeper hands Zachary a key on another long chain. “If there is anything you require please do not hesitate to ask, you know where to find me.” He takes a pen and a small rectangular piece of paper from his robes and inscribes something. “Good night, Mister Rawlins. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He places the rectangle of paper in a small plaque by the door, gives Zachary a short bow, and disappears back down the hall.
Zachary watches him go and then turns to look at the paper in the plaque. In calligraphic script on ivory paper placed in a brass plaque it reads:
Z. Rawlins
Zachary closes the door, wondering how many names have occupied that spot before and how long it has been since the last one. After a few seconds of hesitation he locks the door.
He rests his head against the door and sighs.
This can’t be real.
Then what is it? the voice in his head asks and he doesn’t have an answer.
He shrugs off his paint-stained coat and drapes it over a chair. He makes his way to the washroom, barely taking the time to register the black-and-white tiles and the claw-foot tub before washing his hands and removing his contact lenses, watching his reflection slip out of focus in the mirror above the sink. He tosses his contacts into a bin and briefly wonders what he is going to do without corrective lenses but he has more pressing concerns.
He returns to the blur of velvet and firelight in the main room, kicking off his shoes as he walks, managing to remove his suit jacket and vest before he reaches the bed but he is asleep before he can deal with additional buttons, linen sheets and lamb’s-wool pillows swallowing him like a cloud and he welcomes it, his last thoughts before sleeping a fleeting mix of reflections on the evening that has finally ended, questions and worries about everything from his sanity to how to get paint out of his hair and then it is gone, the last wisp of thought wondering how you go to sleep if you’re already dreaming.
Once there was a man who collected keys. Old keys and new keys and broken keys. Lost keys and stolen keys and skeleton keys.
He carried them in his pockets and wore them on chains that clattered as he walked around the town.
Everyone in the town knew the key collector.
Some people thought his habit strange but the key collector was a friendly sort and had a thoughtful air and a quick smile.
If someone lost a key or broke a key they could ask the key collector and he would usually have a replacement that would suit their needs. It was often faster than having a new key made.
The key collector kept the most common shapes and sizes of keys always at hand, in case someone was in need of a key for a door or a cupboard or a chest.
The key collector was not possessive about his keys. He gave them away when they were needed.
(Though often people would have a new key made anyway and return the one they had borrowed.)
People gave him found keys or spare keys as gifts to add to his collection. When they traveled they would find keys to bring back with them, keys with unfamiliar shapes and strange teeth.
(They called the man himself the key collector but a great many people aided with the collecting.)
Eventually the key collector had too many keys to carry and began displaying them around his house. He hung them in the windows on ribbons like curtains and arranged them on bookshelves and framed them on walls. The most delicate ones he kept under glass or in boxes meant for jewels. Others were piled together with similar keys, kept in buckets or baskets.
After many years the entire house was filled near to bursting with keys. They hung on the outside as well, over the doors and the windows and draped from the eaves of the roof.
The key collector’s house was easily spotted from the road.
One day there was a knock upon his door.
The key collector opened the door to find a pretty woman in a long cloak on his doorstep. He had never
seen her before, nor had he seen embroidery of the sort that trimmed her cloak: star-shaped flowers in gold thread on dark cloth, too fine for travel though she must have traveled far. He did not see a horse or a carriage and supposed she might have left them at the inn for no one passed through this town without staying at the inn and it was not far.
“I have been told you collect keys,” the woman said to the key collector.
“I do,” said the key collector, though this was obvious. There were keys hanging above the doorway where they stood, keys on the walls behind him, keys in jars and bowls and vases on the tables.
“I am looking for something that has been locked away. I wonder if one of your keys might unlock it.”
“You are welcome to look,” the key collector said and invited the woman inside.
He considered asking the woman what manner of key she sought so he might help her look but he knew how difficult it was to describe a key. To find a key you had to understand the lock.
So the key collector let the woman search the house. He showed her every room, every cabinet and bookshelf lined with keys. The kitchen with its teacups and wineglasses filled with keys, save for the few that were used more frequently, empty and waiting for wine or for tea.
The key collector offered the woman a cup of tea but she politely refused. He left her to her searching and sat in the front parlor where she could find him if she needed and he read a book.
After many hours the woman returned to the key collector.
“It is not here,” she said. “Thank you for letting me look.”
“There are more keys in the back garden,” the key collector said, and led the woman outside.
The garden was festooned with keys, strung from ribbons in a rainbow of colors. Keys tied with bows hung from trees and bouquets of keys displayed in glazed pots and vases. Birdcages with keys hung on the tiny swings inside with no birds to be seen. Keys set into the paving stones along the garden paths. A bubbling fountain contained piles of keys beneath the water, sunken like wishes.
The Starless Sea Page 13