Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  “Where did you get that?” I ask.

  “None of your business.”

  Graves pulls out a single coin and hands it over. The lift operator nods curtly, then carefully places a bookmark in his book and gently closes it.

  The lift lurches and drops. Our speed soon picks up, a cool breeze rushing past my face. I lean over the rail and stare into the blackness. The sound of rope whirring through the winches is all I can hear.

  I can’t help a huge grin from appearing on my face. My God, I wish Megan and Susan were here. Just to show them how much more is out there. How much more than our stupid little arguments. My pathetic pride that couldn’t just . . . accept the fact she needed to spend some time alone. No, I had to let my ego react. Turning what should have been something simple into the end of our relationship.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but I gradually become aware of the ground rising up to meet us. The operator pulls a lever, and the lift slows abruptly, forcing us to brace ourselves against the edges. Then the lift hits the ground with a none-too-gentle thump.

  Graves and I step out. We’re standing next to a vast lake, so dark it’s like liquid midnight. Waves lap against the shores.

  “This way,” says the operator, leading us around the shore toward a towering arch in the spire wall that opens out onto the sea. We mount a wooden dock, passing beneath the arch, and venturing outside again I can smell salt water and seaweed battling with a sickly sweet incense.

  The lift operator leads us to a pier that branches off from the dock. Tethered just beyond it are floating platforms, a hundred feet square, covered with people and shelters and brightly colored cloths.

  “The barge clans,” says the lift operator. “Good luck. And watch your purse. They’ll have it off you before you know it.”

  He turns and walks back the way we came.

  “Right!” Graves claps his hands together. “Time to negotiate. Follow me and keep your mouth shut. If you utter even a single sound you will throw my negotiations into chaos. Bartering for a price as I’m about to do is a very delicate procedure, requiring the utmost cunning, guile, and of course my stunning good looks.”

  I stare at Graves, wondering if he’s trying to make a joke.

  He isn’t.

  “Can I offer you anything? Wine, perhaps? It’s the finest red from the south island pinnacles. Very rare.”

  “Thank you, yes,” says Graves.

  I’m standing just inside of what I’m told is the Matriarch of the Barge Clan’s cabin. Every surface of the room, be it wooden chairs or wrought-iron tables, is covered with ornaments, trinkets of every kind imaginable. It reminds me of those junk shops Megan used to drag me into, where she’d spend ages just picking things up and studying them. She never even bought anything, something that used to drive me crazy.

  But I get the feeling the items here are worth a bit more than the bric-a-brac she used to look at. Small jewels are tossed carelessly next to porcelain dolls. Bolts of red-and-purple silk are piled high in a corner. Against the far wall is a massive canopied bed. Some kind of thin material hangs down the sides and sparkles with the slightest touch of the lantern’s light.

  “Here you go,” says the Matriarch, handing over a crystal glass to Graves.

  “Thank you.”

  “Does your . . . companion want a glass?”

  Graves glances over his shoulder at me. “No. He’s a terrible drunk. Gets very emotional. Starts crying. Best to leave him be.”

  “As you wish. Now, tell me. What can the humble barge clans do for you?” asks the Matriarch, settling herself down in a cushion-filled chair. She uses the hand that isn’t holding her glass of wine to rearrange the pillows into a more comfortable position.

  Graves looks around for somewhere to sit, but there is only the one chair in the room. I watch with amusement as he attempts to gracefully fold his legs beneath him and sit on the floor. He eventually manages to flop down onto one of the larger cushions without spilling too much of his wine. “There’s time for that later,” he says. “Let’s talk about you. You really are incredibly good-looking for someone of your age.”

  I wince and look away.

  “There’s a silence,” says Graves. “Why is there a silence?” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Harry, did you do something?”

  I look at him in amazement. He turns back to the Matriarch. “Did he do something? Yes? No?”

  The Matriarch doesn’t reply, just stares at Graves over the top of her glass.

  “What?” asks Graves.

  “I’m trying to decide whether to have you thrown into the ocean or to stab you where you stand.”

  “I knew it!” Graves turns and points at me. “You did do something, you cretin. What did I say about interrupting my negotiations?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a finger. “Silence!”

  I sigh and turn my attention to a nearby table. It’s covered with books. I pick one up. It has an octopus-headed creature embossed on the cover.

  “Now,” says Graves. “Let’s get back to talking about how beautiful you are.”

  “Let’s not. You there.”

  I look up. The Matriarch is staring at me.

  “Uh . . . yeah?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Passage.”

  “To where?”

  “Uh . . . Roflake?”

  “What can you offer me in return?”

  I gesture at Graves. “He’s got a purse on a string around his neck.”

  She turns to Graves, who is staring at me with a hurt look on his face. She holds out her hand. He sighs and pulls out the purse, opening it up to take coins out. The Matriarch grabs the whole purse from him and hefts the weight in her hand. “This will do.”

  “That’s all I’ve got!”

  “Then it’s lucky for you that it’s the exact amount I charge.”

  “You don’t know how much is in there,” Graves points out.

  The Matriarch gives him a look. “Seriously? You’re really going to argue this?”

  “Fine! Take it all. Do you want the shirt off my back too?”

  The Matriarch reaches out and touches his shirt. Her face twists with distaste. “No need.”

  She gets to her feet. “We leave within the hour. We’re traveling toward our yearly Gathering, where all the clans meet up to pay respects to our Elders. To chart the course of the year ahead.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” says Graves, stifling a yawn. He looks around. “I’ll take this cabin.”

  The Matriarch laughs. “You can find a tent out on the deck. Now leave.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a paying customer!”

  “No. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you are someone on the run.”

  Graves opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again.

  “I thought so. No luggage. Disheveled appearance. Panicky.” She walks toward the exit. “Like I said, we leave in an hour.”

  As she passes me, she reaches out and trails her fingers across my face. Then she’s gone, leaving behind a scent of eucalyptus and citrus.

  I lock eyes with Graves.

  “Traitor!” he shouts. “Backstabber!”

  I sigh and walk away. I’m rapidly realizing this is the best way to handle Graves.

  Sigh and walk away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A lanky youth with black hair gestures for us to follow him as we emerge from the Matriarch’s cabin.

  He leads us along the edge of the barge. The thing is massive. I reckon it would take a good half hour to walk its perimeter.

  We receive curious looks from the bargers as we pass them by. Most are busy cooking lunch and brewing hot drinks. The smells go straight to my stomach. When was the last time I ate? Last night? No. All I’d had was a beer before I fell asleep on the patio. I can’t help noticing that although some of the bargers smile at us, they are predatory smiles, the smiles of the hunter to the hunted. I’ve seen that smile befor
e. On the faces of hustlers spotting a new mark.

  Fresh meat. That’s us.

  The boy stops by a canopied section of the deck right next to the rails. Red-and-yellow cushions and thick blankets are rolled neatly on the wooden planks.

  “You stay here, yes?” says the boy.

  Graves looks at the pillows with disdain. “Boy, I require a bed and a roof over my head.”

  The boy looks at me. I shake my head, as if saying, He’s not with me.

  “You joking. Very funny,” says the boy. He points at the canopy. “Roof.” He points at the blankets. “Bed.” Then he turns and leaves us standing there.

  I duck underneath the awning and grab the biggest cushions, spreading them onto the floor in the shape of a bed before Graves takes them all. I see by his glowering face that this was exactly what he was planning.

  “My God,” he complains as he yanks a cushion toward him and sits down. “I sincerely hope they at least have some alcohol to share.”

  Later that afternoon, I find myself leaning on the sun-bleached railing and staring out to sea until my eyes sting from the salty air. I rub them and lower my gaze, watching the barge slide through the water without the slightest sign of rocking. Waves swell and head toward us from all sides, then simply stop and sink back into the sea as if they hit an invisible wall. It doesn’t even feel like we’re moving.

  I’ve realized I’m not going to be able to talk to Susan tonight. Not going to be able to read her a story. Out of everything that’s happened since last night, this is the worst. I haven’t missed a day talking to her since I moved out. I promised her. Promised her a day wouldn’t go by when I didn’t call. Now she’s going to think I lied. And Megan . . . God knows what she’s going to say. The hurt, wounded part of me wants to say she’ll use it to score points with Susan, but I know that’s not true. Megan isn’t like that. I know if I could get past my stupid pride, that we could still have a good friendship. She’s told me that. But it sounded like such a cliché. I really want us to be friends, Harry. We still have a connection. One I won’t have with anyone else. Don’t ruin it with your insecurities.

  And how did I respond? I walked away without a word and haven’t talked to her properly since. That was months ago now. She used to text. Used to ask how I was doing, but even that stopped. She’s given up, and I can’t blame anyone but myself. I pushed her away. I was hurt, and I acted like a petulant kid.

  I turn and spot Graves lounging on the deck with his eyes closed. He lifts a bottle of wine to his lips and takes a deep drink. Looks like he found his booze.

  I stroll toward him.

  “Any idea how long we’ll be on the barge?” I ask.

  “You’re blocking the sun,” says Graves, eyes still shut.

  “Sorry about that.”

  He raises a hand to shield his eyes and squints at me. “You’re still blocking it.”

  “How long?”

  “Move and I’ll tell you.”

  I step aside.

  “I’ve no idea,” he says, closing his eyes again.

  “How can you just lie there?”

  “What do you want me to do? We evaded capture by Nyarlathotep. We’re on the move instead of standing still. This is forward momentum. It’s good. Just . . . try and relax.”

  “Do you think we’ll be back in our alternate by tonight?”

  Graves laughs. “I sincerely doubt it. Why?”

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “It will be the first time since I . . . since Megs and I spilt up that I haven’t said good night to Susie.”

  “Oh.” Graves appears at a loss about what to say. “Think of it as a valuable lesson to the child. She has to start coping with disappointment some time. The sooner the better.”

  I sigh. I’m doing that a lot lately. I look around in frustration. “Any idea how this thing moves?”

  “Apparently, they have a shaman who does it. An old woman who lives in a hut down the other end of the barge. Why don’t you go and bother her?”

  Somewhere, someone starts to play a cheery, fast-paced song on the flute. A moment later another person joins in with a drum.

  “Down the other end of the barge,” Graves repeats. “I’m sure she’ll be glad of the company.”

  I trudge around the huts and awnings, looking for the cabin, but I can’t see it anywhere. I ask the bargers for directions, but they won’t tell me. I get the feeling they don’t trust outsiders. I eventually ask a small girl with raven black hair and a blond streak at the front. She gently takes me by the hand and leads me to a small hut hidden behind a maze of tents and awnings.

  I knock gently on the door. There’s no answer, so I knock again, harder.

  Still nothing. I turn away from the door, and it suddenly jerks open to reveal a tiny old woman blinking owlishly at the light.

  “What is it?” she demands.

  “Ah . . . nothing,” I stammer, taken aback.

  “Nothing?” she snaps. “You knock on my door for nothing?” She leans forward into the light. “Who are you? I don’t know you. Did I smack your rear cheeks when you were born? I don’t think so.” She holds up her wrinkled hands. “These beauties never forget a birth. So. I ask again. Who are you?”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or run away. “I’m a visitor. My . . . companion and I are traveling with you.”

  “Oh? Nobody told me. You must’ve had somethin’ good to convince that old bitch to let you aboard. What you want with me?”

  “I just wanted to talk. To find out how you make this barge go.”

  “Is that right?” The old lady smooths down her wild nest of gray hair. “You want to talk to Mad Arin about her magic.” She smiles, then suddenly lashes out a hand and grabs hold of my shirt. “You’re not tryin’ to steal Mad Arin’s secrets, are you?”

  “No! No,” I splutter. “I promise.”

  Arin lets go of my shirt and smooths it carefully down again. “Good. Just checkin’. Come in, come in.”

  She bustles into her dark cabin and kicks piles of clothes out of the way. She tips a chair over, dumping the pile of books that had previously occupied it onto the floor, and looks around in bemusement. “Sorry about the mess. It’s the cleaner’s day off.” She looks over her shoulder at me, then bursts into cackling laughter. “‘Cleaner’s day off.’ Ah . . . that’s priceless, that is.”

  I stand in the center of the chaos that is Mad Arin’s room. She scuttles about, walking around or hopping over piles of old clothes. Every available surface is taken up by ornaments and curios, all totally different in their make and style: here a carved man with a stomach double the size of the rest of his appendages; here a doll made of straw that seems to twitch as I look at it. One shelf holds only jars with a cloudy liquid inside. When I look closer I see tiny faces looking back at me, as if someone had caught sprites and pickled them.

  Arin interrupts my inspection of her cabin. “So you want to know how it’s done?”

  “Sure.”

  She leans forward as if imparting a great secret. “Our ways can be traced back to the Elder Gods.”

  “The Elder Gods? The ones who . . .” I think back to what Graves had told me. “. . . who locked away the Old Ones? Cthulhu and his brothers and sisters?”

  “That’s right. The Elders were speakers of the First Language, see. The true tongue, as some call it.” Arin pauses to marshal her thoughts. “The words we use now have no true power. They’re watered down so much—it’s like piss compared to the finest wine. But if you know the true names of things, the names in the First Language, ah, there you have power. To speak something’s true name is to control it.”

  I think about this. “So you know the true name of the ocean?”

  “Smart boy. Aye, I do. I speak its origin poem, and it does as I ask.”

  “But that kind of power . . .” I shake my head. “Why do the barge clans not rule this world?”

  “Because we don’t want to? It’s hard enough getting us to take responsib
ility for our own kind, and you want to lumber us with the entire world?” She shakes her head. “No thank you. Besides, we don’t know the true words for everything. All the clans know the word to calm the oceans, the word to control the wind, but after that it’s a different story. Each clan jealously guards what words they know. I know four true words, and that’s a lot. Other clans have more, but the most I think is seven. And there will be overlap between clans. We search for them all the time, but no one has discovered a true word in over a thousand years. Maybe they’re gone forever.”

  “Is that why your people are always traveling around?”

  “In a way. You see we . . . You really want to hear this?”

  I nod.

  “Fine then. We travel around because we’re searching for what we call Idia.”

  “What’s that?”

  Arin leans back again and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Idia is our name for the first Word. It is the origin word of all creation, the very first moment in time. But more than that, Idia . . . is a . . . a feeling,” she says. “A moment of rightness. You know when sometimes—not often, mind, but sometimes—you get a feeling of . . . oneness. A feeling that everything is right with the world and your place in it. It’s that fleeting moment of complete inner peace, yes? When everything clicks and you think, This is how it should always be. Maybe you get it watching the clouds turn dark and heavy with an afternoon storm. Or you get it on a summer’s afternoon, sitting outside with a gourd of good wine. Or walking across the snow plains of the north. Just you and the whiteness and the sky, forever. Or watching your children playing among the grapevines as the sun sets behind them.” She smiles. “That is what we seek.”

  I frown. “And where do you think this Idia is?”

  “Oh, we know where it is. It’s inside us. Sometimes I think we travel so we can run away from it. So we don’t have to face it. But see, there’s the opposite side of the coin, and some of the clans seek that instead. We’re bound to stop them. That’s why we go to this Gathering. To find out who has turned to the other side.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The opposite of Idia. The word of Undoing. The Elder Gods had to create this word when they battled the Old Ones. They used it to undo the creation of some of them. It’s how they managed to get them locked away. Threatened them with undoing.”