The woman makes an angry, hissing sound between her yellow teeth and runs the long fingers of her left hand quickly through her tangled white hair, slicking it back against her scalp, pulling a few strands loose and they lie like pearly threads on the shoulder of her black raincoat.
“You think you got it all figured out, don’t you?” she growls. “Put some fancy letters after your name and you don’t need to listen to anybody or anything, ain’t that right? Can’t nobody tell you no different, cause you’ve seen it all, from top to bottom, pole to pole—”
“Calm down, please,” Lacey says, glancing towards the other passengers again, wishing one of them would look up so she could get their attention. “If you don’t, I’m going to have to call the conductor. Don’t make me do that.”
“Goddamn stuck-up dyke,” the woman snarls and she spits on the floor, turns her head and stares furiously out the window with her bulging blue eyes. “You think I’m crazy. Jesus, you just wait till you come out the other side and then let’s see what the hell you think sane looks like.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Lacey says, standing, reaching for the satchel with her laptop. “Maybe I should just move to another seat.”
“You do that, Miss Morrow. Won’t be no skin off my nose. But you better take this with you,” and the woman’s left hand disappears inside her raincoat, reappears with a large, slightly crumpled manila envelope, and she holds it out to Lacey. “They told me you’d figure it out, so don’t ask me no more questions. I’ve already said too goddamn much as it is.”
Lacey sets her satchel down beside the cardboard box and stares at the envelope for a moment, yellow-brown paper and what looks like a grease stain at one corner.
“Well, go on ahead. It ain’t got teeth. It ain’t gonna bite you,” the white-haired woman sneers, not taking her eyes off the window, the farms and houses and “Maybe if you take it,” she says, “the crazy woman will leave you alone.”
Lacey snatches the envelope, hastily gathers her things, the satchel and the box, and moves quickly up the centre aisle towards the front of the car. The priest and the girl don’t even look up as she passes them. Maybe they don’t see me at all, she thinks. Maybe they haven’t heard a thing. The door to the next car is stuck and she’s wrestling with the handle when the train lurches, sways suddenly to one side, and she almost drops the box, imagines the fossil inside shattering into a hundred pieces.
Stupid girl, stupid silly girl.
And she forces herself to be still, then, presses her forehead against the cool, aluminium door. She takes a deep breath of air that doesn’t smell like dead fish, that only smells like diesel fumes and disinfectant, perfectly ordinary train smells, comforting familiarity, and the cadence of the rails is the most reassuring sound in the world.
Go on ahead. It ain’t got teeth. It ain’t gonna bite you, the whitehaired woman said, nothing at all but a crazy lady that someone ought to be watching out for, not letting her ride about on trains harassing people. Lacey looks down at the grease-stained envelope in her hand, held tenuously between her right thumb and forefinger.
“Do you need me to help you with that?” and it’s only the priest, scowling up at her from his newspaper; he sighs a loud, irritated sigh and points at the exit. “Would you like me to get the door for you?”
“Yes,” she says. “Thank you, Father. I’d really appreciate it. My hands are full.”
Lacey glances anxiously past him towards the back of the car, and there’s no sign of the white-haired woman now, but the door at the other end is standing wide open.
“There,” the priest says and she smiles and thanks him again.
“No problem,” he says, and as she steps into the short, connecting corridor, he continues speaking in low, conspiratorial tones, “But don’t wait too long to have a look at what’s in that envelope she gave you. There may not be much time left.” Then the door slides shut again and Lacey turns and runs to the crowded refuge of the next car.
* * *
Her twenty-fifth birthday, the stormy day in early July when Lacey Morrow found the Innsmouth fossil, working late and alone in the basement of the Pratt Museum. Almost everyone else gone home already, but nothing unusual about that. Lacey pouring over the contents of Cabinet 34, drawers of Devonian fishes collected from Blossburg, Pennsylvania and Chaleur Bay, Quebec, slabs of shale and sandstone the dusky colour of charcoal, the colour of cinnamon; ancient lungfish and the last of the jawless ostracoderms, lobe-finned Eusthenopteron and the boxy, armour plates of the antiarch Bothriolepis. Relics of an age come and gone hundreds of millions of years before the dinosaurs, a time when the earliest forests lined the shores of lakes and rivers teeming with strange and monstrous fish, and vertebrates had begun to take their first clumsy steps onto dry land. And that transition her sole, consuming obsession since Lacey was an undergraduate, that alchemy of flesh and bone—fins to feet, gills to lungs—the puzzles that filled her days and nights, that filled her dreams. Her last girlfriend walking out because she’d finally had enough of Lacey’s all-night kitchen dissections, the meticulously mutilated sea bass and cod, eels and small sharks sliced up and left lying about until she found time to finish her notes and sketches. Dead things in plastic bags crammed into the freezer and the ice cubes starting to taste more like bad sushi, their Hitchcock Road apartment stinking of formalin and fish markets.
“If I grow fucking scales maybe I’ll give you a call sometime,” Julie growled, hauling her boxes of clothes and CDs from their front porch to the back of her banged-up little Honda. “If I ever meet up with a goddamn mermaid, I’ll be sure to give her your number.”
Lacey watched her drive away, feeling less than she knew she ought to feel, wishing she would cry because any normal person would cry, would at least be angry with herself or with Julie. But the tears never came, nor the anger, and after that she figured it was better to leave romantic entanglements for some later stage in her life, some faraway day when she could spare a spark of passion for anything except her studies. She kept a picture of Julie in a pewter frame beside her bed, though, so she could still pretend, from time to time, when she felt alone, when she awoke in the middle of the night and there was nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the wind blowing cold through the streets of Amherst.
But that August afternoon she wasn’t lonely, not with the tall rows of battleship-grey steel cabinets and their stony treasures stacked neatly around her, all the company she needed and no thoughts but the precise numbers from her digital callipers—the heights and widths of pelvic girdles and scapulocoracoids, relative lengths of pectoral fins and radials. Finishing up with a perfectly preserved porolepiform that she suspected might be a new species, and Lacey noticed the box pushed all the way to the very back of the drawer, half-hidden under a cardboard tray of shale and bone fragments. Something overlooked, even though she’d thought she knew the contents of those cabinets like the back of her hand and any further surprises would only be in the details.
“Well, hello there,” she said to the box, carefully slipping it from its hiding place beneath the tray. “How’d I ever miss you, hmmm?” It wasn’t a small box—only a couple of inches deep, but easily a foot and a half square, sagging just a bit at the centre from having supported the weight of the tray for who knows how many years. There was writing on one corner of the lid, spidery fountain-pen ink faded as brown as dead leaves: from Naval dredgings, USS Cormorant (April, 1928), Lat. 42° 40″ N., Long. 70° 43″ W, NE. of old Innsmouth Harbour, Essex Co., Mass. ?Devonian. But there was no catalogue or field number, no identification either, and then Lacey opened the box and stared amazed at the thing inside.
“Jesus,” she whispered, swallowing a metallic taste like foil or a freshly filled tooth, adrenaline-silver aftertaste, and her first impression was that the thing was a hand, the articulated skeleton of a human hand lying palm-side up in the box, its fingers slightly curled and clutching at the ceiling or the bright fluorescent light
s overhead. She set the box down on one of the larger Chaleur Bay slabs, stared at the tips of her own trembling fingers and the petrified bones resting in a bed of excelsior. They were dark, the waxy black of baker’s chocolate, and shiny from a thick coating of varnish or shellac.
No, not human, but certainly the forelimb of something, something big, at least a third again larger than her own hand, and “Jesus,” she whispered again. Lacey lifted the fossil from the excelsior, gently because there was no telling how stable it was, how many decades since anyone had even bothered to open the box. She counted almost all the elements of the manus—carpals and metacarpals, phalanges— and the lower part of the forearm, sturdy radius and ulna ending abruptly in a ragged break, the dull glint of gypsum or quartz flakes showing from the exposed interior of the fossil. There was bony webbing or spines preserved between the fingers, and the three that were complete ended in short, sharp ungual claws; a small patch of what appeared to be scales or dermal ossicles on the palm just below the fifth metacarpal, oval disks with deeply concave centres unlike anything she could remember ever having seen before. Here and there, small bits of greenish-grey limestone still clung to the bones, but most of the hard matrix had been scraped away.
Lacey sat down on a wooden stool near Cabinet 34, her dizzy head too full of questions and astonishment, heart racing, the giddy, breathless excitement of discovery, and she forced herself to shut her eyes for a moment. Gathering shreds of calm from the darkness behind her lids, counting backwards from thirty until her pulse began to return to normal; she opened her eyes again and turned the fossil over to examine the other side. The bone surface on the back of the hand was not so well preserved, weathered as though that side had been exposed to the forces of erosion for some time before it was collected, the smooth, cortical layer cracked and worn completely away in places. There was a lot more of the greenish limestone matrix on that side, too, and a small snail’s shell embedded in the rock near the base of the middle finger.
“What are you?” she asked the fossil, as if it might tell her, as simple as that, and everything else forgotten now, all her fine coelacanths and rhipidistians, for this newest miracle. Lacey turned it over again, examining the palm-side more closely, the pebbly configuration of wrist bones, quickly identifying the ulnare, what she thought must be the intermedium, and when she finally glanced at her watch it was almost six-thirty. At least an hour since she opened the box and she’d have to hurry to make her seven o’clock lecture. She returned the hand to the excelsior, paused a moment for one last, lingering glimpse of the thing before putting the lid back on. Overhead, high above the exhibits halls and the slate-tiled roof of the Pratt Museum, a thunderclap boomed and echoed across the valley, and Lacey tried to remember if shed left her umbrella in her apartment.
1:49 P.M.
Sitting next to a woman who smells like wintergreen candy and mothballs, the steady clackclackclack of razorwheels against the rails, and Lacey’s been staring at the photograph from the manila envelope for almost five minutes now. A movie still, she thinks, the glossy black-and-white photograph creased and dog-eared at one corner, and it shows an old man with a white moustache standing with two Indians beside a rocky outcrop. Someplace warm, someplace tropical because there are palmetto fronds at one edge of the photograph. It isn’t hot on the train, but Lacey’s sweating anyway, her palms gone slick and clammy, tiny beads like nectar standing out on her forehead and upper lip. The old man in the photograph is holding something cradled in both hands, clutching it like a holy relic, a grail, the prize at the end of a life-long search.
...’cause you’ve seen it all, from top to bottom and pole to pole...
The man in the photograph is holding the Innsmouth fossil. Or he’s holding a replica so perfect that it must have been cast from the original and it really doesn’t make much difference, either way. She turns the picture over and there’s a label stuck to the back— Copyright © 1954 Universal-International—typed with a typewriter that drops its “N’s”.
There was a letter in the envelope, as well. A faded photocopy of a letter, careless, sprawling handwriting that she can only just decipher:
Mr. Zacharias R. Gilman, Esq.
7 High Street
Ipswich, Mass.
15 January 1952
Mr. William Alland
Universal Studios
Los Angeles, Cal.
Dear Mr. Alland,
Sir, I have seen your fine horror picture “It Came From Outer Space” six times as of this writing and must say that I am in all ways impressed with your work. You have a true artist’s eye for the uncanny and deserve to be proud of your endeavours. I am enclosing some newspaper clippings, which may be of some small interest to a mind such as yours, regarding certain peculiar things that have gone on hereabouts for years. Old people here talk about the “plagues” of 1846 but they will tell you it wasn’t really no plague that set old Innsmouth on the road to ruin, if you’ve a mind to listen. They will tell you lots of things, Mr. Alland and I lie awake at night thinking about what might still go on out there at the reef. But you read the newspaper clippings for yourself, sir, and make of it what you will. I believe you might fashion a frightful film from these incidents. I will be at this address through May, should you wish to reply.
Respectfully, your avid admirer,
Zacharias Gilman
“Do you like old monster movies?” the wintergreen and mothball woman asks her and Lacey shakes her head no.
“Well, that photograph, that’s a scene from—”
“I don’t watch television,” she says.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean made-for-TV movies. I meant real movies, the kind you see in theatres.”
“I don’t go to theatres, either.”
“Oh,” the woman says, sounding disappointed, and in a moment she turns away again and stares out the window at the autumn morning rushing by outside.
10:40 A.M.
“Well, I like it,” Dr. Morgan says, finally. “It looks good on paper.” He chews absently at the stem of his cheap pipe and puffs pungent, grey smoke clouds that smell like roasting apples. “And a binomen should look good. It should sound good, rolling off the tongue. Damn it, Lacey, it should almost taste good.”
More than three months since she found the Innsmouth fossil tucked away in Cabinet 34, and Lacey sits with Dr. Jasper Morgan in his tiny, third-floor office; all the familiar, musty comforts of that small room with its high ceilings and ornate, moulded plaster walls hidden behind solid oak shelves stuffed with dustwashed books and fossils and all the careful clutter of an academic’s life. A geologic map of Massachusetts framed and hanging slightly askew. Rheumy hiss and clank from the radiator below the window and if the glass wasn’t steamed over, she could see across the rooftops of Amherst, south to the low, autumn-stained hills beyond the town, the weathered slopes of the Holyoke Range rising blue-grey in the hazy distance.
Three months that hardly seem like three full weeks to her, days and nights, dreams and waking all become a blur of questions and hardly any answers, the fossil become her secret, shared only with Dr. Morgan, and Dr. Hanisak over in the zoology department. Hers and hers alone until she could at least begin to get her bearings and a preliminary report on the specimen could be written. When she was ready and her paper had been accepted by the journal Nature, Dr. Morgan arranged for the press conference at Yale, where she would sit in the shadow of Rudolph Zallinger’s mural and Othniel Marsh’s dinosaurs and reveal the Innsmouth fossil to the whole, wide world.
“I had to call it something,” she replies. “Seemed a shame not to have some fun with it. I have a feeling that I’m never going to find anything like this again.”
“Exactly,” and Jasper Morgan leans back in his creaky, wooden chair, takes the pipe from his mouth and stares intently into the smouldering bowl. Like a gypsy with her polished crystal ball, old man with his glowing cinders, and “‘Words,’” he says in the tone of voice he reserves for
quoting anyone he holds in higher esteem than himself, “‘are in themselves among the most interesting objects of study, and the names of animals and plants are worthy of more consideration than biologists are inclined to give them.’ Unfortunately, no one seems to care very much about the aesthetics these days, no one but rusty old farts like me.”
He slides the manuscript back across his desk to Lacey, seventeen double-spaced pages held together with a green plastic paper clip; she nods once, reading over the text again silently to herself. Her eyes drift across his wispy, red pencil marks: a missing comma here, there a spelling or date she should double-check.
“That’s not true,” Lacey says.
“What’s not true?”
“That no one but you cares any more.”
“No? Well, maybe not. But, please, allow me the conceit.”
“Dr. Hanisak still thinks the name’s too fanciful. She said I should have called it something more descriptive. She suggested Eocarpus.”
“Of course she did. Hanisak has all the imagination of a stripped wing nut,” and the palaeontologist slips his pipe back between his ivory-yellow teeth.
“Grendelonyx innsmouthensis,” Lacey whispers, and it does taste good, the syllables smooth as good brandy.
“See? There you are. ‘Grendel’s claw from Innsmouth,’” Jasper Morgan mutters around his pipe. “What the hell could be more descriptive than that?”
Across campus, the steeple chimes begin to ring the hour—nine, ten, ten and three-quarters—later than Lacey had realised and she frowns at her watch, not ready to leave the sanctuary of the office and his company.
“Shit. I’ll miss my train if I don’t hurry,” she says.
“Wish I were going with you. Wish I could be there to see their faces.”
“I know, but I’ll be fine. I’ll call as soon as I get to New Haven,” and she puts the manuscript back inside its folder and returns it to the battered black leather satchel that also holds her iBook and the CD with all the slides for the presentation, the photographs and cladograms, her character matrix and painstaking line drawings. Then Dr. Morgan smiles and shakes her hand, like they’ve only just met this morning, like it hasn’t been years, and he sees her to the door. She carries the satchel in one hand and the sturdy cardboard box in the other. Last night she transferred the fossil from its original box to this one, replaced the excelsior with cotton and foam-rubber padding. Her future in this box, her box of wonders, and “Knock em dead, kiddo,” he says and hugs her, wraps her tight in the reassuring scents of his tobacco and aftershave lotion, and Lacey hugs him back twice as hard.
Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth Page 22
