The Tree of Azathoth, page 8
I was no longer wearing my leathers and Stetson, which bothered me as someone had to have changed me in my sleep. Instead, I had been put into beige pants, a cotton button-down shirt, and a tie loose around my neck. A fedora was to the side of my head on the arm of the couch. I was now dressed like the other Booth and felt a peculiar need to monologue—not that I’d ever had much difficulty being compelled to do so.
“Jackie, is that you?” I asked, unsure if I was still dreaming or not.
The woman, Jackie Howard or at least a version of her, stopped playing her saxophone and turned to a sheet music stand where she placed her instrument.
“Oh, sorry, did I wake you up? I was practicing ‘Harlem Nocturne’ and I think I’ve almost got it.”
“Uh huh,” I said, sitting up.
“Are you okay?” Jackie asked.
“You mean for a dead man?” I asked, unsure how to feel about this Jackie Howard.
I’d adopted Jackie almost twenty years ago when she was a young ghoul-human hybrid whose adoptive father had been murdered. The villages of Scrapyard had allowed her to be taken by slavers in hopes of getting rid of her. I’d watched her grow up into a woman, have a child of her own, and then the slow but inexorable transformation into a pure-blooded member of their race.
The clawing fear I’d had for my own children had been something I’d had decades to prepare for with Jackie and I’d thought I’d been reasonably accepting of it. Yet, when the call of dark and chthonic Earth had lured Jackie away from me, it had still been heartbreaking. To see her now, more human than she’d ever looked even as a child, was a confusing and painful experience that I could not bring myself to enjoy.
“Are you dead?” Jackie asked. “You look pretty alive to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, staring forward. “I just had a dream of the end of the world, the memories of a dead man, and a Color murdering an entire city. Three horrifying impossible things.”
“You aren’t trying hard enough,” Jackie replied. “I try and do as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
I stared at her, noting her Alice in Wonderland quote. “Everyone seems unusually literate here in the City.”
“You included, John,” Jackie said, arcing her head to one of the bookshelves.
Detective John Henry Booth seemed to have possessed a good-sized personal library with at least fifty or sixty volumes. It was a treasure trove in the Wasteland but a man’s nightly entertainment here. There was The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, I, The Jury, and several other titles I didn’t recognize. Looking at them, I could remember the plots even though I’d never read any of them. Another gift from the other man who shared my face.
Perhaps that was the secret of all Booths across reality. We envisioned ourselves on classic lines of fiction to cope with a world that fundamentally lacked narrative. In real life, there was no point to anything one did and then you died. However, the ability to see narratives and points to reality was perhaps humanity’s most blessed erroneous gift. It might even be a fundamental part of the structure of this pocket universe I’d found myself in.
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Jackie said.
“Pardon?” I asked, looking up.
“That look of overthinking things,” Jackie said, smirking. “You’ve always had it.”
“I suppose your John had it,” I replied.
“Are you from the Wasteland?” Jackie asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“New Arkham?” Jackie asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“We met in Scrapyard?” Jackie asked.
I nodded.
“Then you could be my John,” Jackie said, surprising me. “The Dreamlands is the nexus between all realities and the ghouls are seasoned travelers of it. Whenever a reality is about to collapse, they’re always the first ones to flee. Sort of like dolphins.”
“Dolphins.” I stared at her.
“Oh sorry,” Jackie replied. “It’s a reference to a very funny book about the end of the world. It happens because a bunch of aliens want to build an interstellar bypass and don’t care that it will kill billions.”
“Sounds like a real laugh riot,” I said, dryly.
“It is!” Jackie said, pausing. “I mean, probably a bit soon with our world having been destroyed and all but—”
I interrupted her. “You’re looking…well.”
“You mean not like a hairless, naked, bipedal dogman?” Jackie asked.
“That too,” I replied.
Ghouls were a strange mix of man, canine, and some rubbery skinned creature that had no earthly antecedent. They were the inspiration for the Fair Folk, werewolves, ghouls obviously, and half a dozen other supernatural races mankind told stories regarding around the campfire but never really approached the truth of until the Rising drove many to the surface.
When I’d last seen Jackie, she’d already begun the transformation and more resembled a beast than a person despite retaining all of her higher intellect. Still, having been raised among humans, or whatever the hell you’d call me, it was something she was ashamed of. Her son had also begun the transformation, though he’d still had many more years to pretend at being a human. Baby John, a name he’d grown to hate for obvious reasons as a teenager, had still gone with her in hopes of finding a refuge from the end of the world.
“You’ll find most of the people here use glamours,” Jackie replied.
“Glamours,” I replied. “You mean illusions.”
Jackie shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s an illusion if you can touch, taste, and smell it. Illusions in the Dreamlands are more like an additional layer of reality. You can choose to live as a mortal by casting the right spell here. It costs most of my paycheck, but I get to live as a red-blooded woman.”
“And this is popular?” I asked, surprised. I would have thought ghouls and other demihumans would have enjoyed living as they were.
“More than you’d imagine,” Jackie said, frowning. “Mind you, it’s not really a choice. The City demands it.”
“Demands it?” I asked. “Is the city alive?”
It wasn’t as strange a question as, well, how utterly batshit it sounded. We were in the Dreamlands after all and everything was made of thought here. I’d just spent the day talking with a living a tree so why shouldn’t the city itself be alive?
“Not as far as I now,” Jackie replied. “However, whoever is behind it has a way of making his presence known. He prefers us all to look like humans. One follows the rules or one faces the penalties.”
I nodded. “The Dreaming King.”
“One name for him,” Jackie nodded. “I understand you’re looking for him.”
“So it seems,” I replied, standing up off the couch. “I’m not sure if I didn’t make a mistake seeking this place out. It feels like I may have brought the attention of darker forces to a place that seemed previously devoid of them.”
“I wouldn’t be so confidant of that, John,” Jackie replied. “Red Hook here has all the problems of a major city and the horrors beneath. It’s like Kingsport was in the final days before the Arkham takeover.”
“Red Hook?” I asked.
Jackie nodded. “The City is made of parts of a dozen other Pre-Rising cities. I’d explain it but any explanation would sound like nonsense that only a madman would understand. It is what the City was dreamed to be.”
“That’s not nonsense,” I replied. “Which I suppose makes me the madman.”
Jackie smiled. “I’ve missed you, John.”
I looked down at the ground, unsure if I could bring myself to acknowledge her as the same one I’d known for so many years. There was something about this world that was too perfect, despite its myriad flaws, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe in it. Yet, I also couldn’t break the heart of this Jackie, false or real.
“I have missed you too, Jackie,” I said, taking a deep breath and giving her an awkward hug.
“We should probably stop this,” Jackie said. “You’re not a hugger.”
I pulled away my hand. “Yes. I agree. Do you know where Jessica is? Also, where my hat and coat are?”
“You really want that hat and coat back?” Jackie asked. “The ones that smell like the trail of Cthulhu?”
“Yes,” I said, dryly.
“Check the incinerator,” Jackie said.
I grimaced. “I was afraid of that.”
“Well, the incinerator didn’t start bellowing the wails of the damned so at least it wasn’t like some of your clothes,” Jackie replied. “As for Jessica, she’s been gone a couple of hours. You passed out and after I got you changed, she couldn’t delay any further and went into the Warrens.”
“The Warrens,” I said.
“Ghoultown,” Jackie said, gesturing over to the desk. “She’s after those missing kits.”
“Kits,” I said, surprised by her use of the word.
“Yes,” Jackie said.
“And the police aren’t interested in finding them?” I asked, surprised at that level of disinterest.
“Let’s just say the cops in this town have very particular ideas of what qualifies as a child or not,” Jackie said.
Heading over to the desk, I noted that there was a large number of black and white pictures on the desk, as well as addresses. I also saw a map spread out across the table, which included several marked locations. One peculiar element of the pictures, though, was the fact they were all of cats. Young felines of varying degrees of adorability, but most looking somewhat worn out.
I was pondering what this meant when a black American shorthair cat jumped on the desk and stared at me.
I stared back at it. “Shoo. I’m looking at these files.”
The cat, in crisp New England English, responded, “Yeah, I can tell that, jackass.”
I blinked, opened my mouth, then sighed. “Of course, the cats talk. Why the fuck not?”
“Well, you’re a monkey who talks, so I don’t see where you get off having airs,” the cat responded.
“Are you a client or another one of Booth’s associates?”
“Please, as if I’d ever have anything to do with a penny-ante affair like this,” the cat replied. “I’m here strictly as a favor to my dog.”
“Your dog,” I replied.
The cat looked back at Jackie. “Here girl, tsk-tsk-tsk. Come here, girl!”
Jackie stared at him. “Blackman, that wasn’t funny the first few hundred times you did it.”
“Isn’t she cute?” Blackman asked. “Anyway, cats, dogs, and humans all dream. So, we can all communicate here.”
“Fascinating,” I said, lying. “And your name is Blackman?”
“Observant, aren’t we?” Blackman said.
“Uh huh,” I said, staring down at the photos on the desk. “So, if I’m to understand this, a bunch of young cats have been kidnapped.”
“Indeed,” Blackman said. “Normally we cats like to take care of this sort of thing ourselves, but the killer is able to move through this world and the surrounding ones. It also crosses several territories that aren’t especially cat friendly.”
“Killer?” I asked. “It’s not a—”
“I swear if you say catnapper, I will claw your leg off,” Blackman said.
I didn’t finish that sentence. “It’s a killer, huh?”
“An eater of cats, a zoog,” Blackman said.
“A zoog,” I said.
“Ancient enemies of felines in the Dreamlands,” Jackie said, scooping up the cat and cuddling it. “They look like long-eared, tentacled possums, except they’re the size of men.”
“Can you imagine a more hideous alien thing?” Blackman said. “Aside from humans, I mean.”
I’d seen many variations on humans and even more on more surreal things. That had been in the physical world, let alone a reality where thought shaped matter. Still, I’d heard of zoogs before. Some of the stranger travelers to New Ulthar had spoken of creatures preying on young cats and giant cats preying on them. New Ulthar had a sacred law to never harm a feline and I’d never questioned it. Now I had a reason why. Don’t harm a thing that can dream because it is almost certainly going to harm you back.
“Yes,” I said, dryly. “And Jessica is after this thing?”
“Yeah,” Jackie said, looking unhappy about it. “She should have backup going down into the tunnels. Unfortunately, we’re kind of lacking that these days.”
I thought about the dream—within a dream (?)—I’d just had shooting it out with the Marsh family. Looking through the photos, I saw a hand-drawn map of the city’s sewer system and steam tunnels. Also, some indications of natural caves beneath. It wasn’t a lot to go on and perhaps suicidal given I didn’t know this place, but I wasn’t about to leave her alone.
“I’m going to go look for her,” I replied. “Where’s my gun?”
Jackie nodded her head to the desk’s right drawer. Opening it up, I was momentarily taken back by a photograph of my son, Gabriel. He was standing there, white-haired and albino skin with mixed racial features. His demeanor was as far from my own as humanly possible, nervous and gaunt with eyes that seemed to have stared deeply into the abyss before carrying some of it out. He dressed like a college professor going to a party with a dinner jacket and black pants with a pocket watch visibly hanging out of one pocket.
There were other photos present including one of the entire detective agency: Jessica, Jackie, Mercury, August, the cat, and myself. It seemed to be a happier time, but there was a bloodstain formed into fingerprints on the edge that hinted even those times were not particularly happy. A black book of women’s names troubled me because it either indicated Detective Booth was a cheating cad or his primary customers were anxious wives. Mercury’s Gift was also present, as was a stone with a strange glyph on it that I instinctively pocketed. Several handcrafted gold and silver bullets were also things I shoved into my coat, just in case. Actual case books were underneath the desk drawer, and I made a note to read them.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Jackie asked.
“Of course, he does,” Blackman said. “He’s a Booth. They’re as predictable as rain.”
“How many have you known?” I asked the question that had been hanging in my mind for some time.
“Too many,” Blackman said, sounding briefly like the Crawling Chaos. “They die so quickly.”
Chapter Nine
* * *
I sat in the back of Jackie’s car, a smaller more compact version of Jessica’s, and spent that time reading over Detective Booth’s past cases while she drove me to the location where Jessica was last scene. I continued to duck any time I saw a glimpse of police vehicles, though it was a cramped fit as this vehicle wasn’t made for a man of my height. Blackman sat in the passenger side of the car, lording over everyone and everything as only a feline could.
The City was a very different beast at night, and I couldn’t help but be impressed by the amount of lights spreading throughout the night. Most of them were traditional glowing golden orbs of light but others were strange green flames and others twinkling colored lights held in odd crystalline torches. Apparently, this was related to the city celebrating the Winter holidays despite few having an affection for the Abrahamic faiths. The excess of light was both off-putting and striking. Electricity was something valued heavily in the few cities that had remained on Earth, so it was fascinating to see it wasted on casual use here in the Republic of Carter.
“Enjoying your reading?” Jackie asked.
“It reads like bad pulp fiction,” I said, amused. “Prostitutes, gambling, bribery, adultery, murder, and slavery. Usually, there’s the hint of the supernatural but a wife beating her husband nightly doesn’t change if she’s a Deep One or not. Nor does a priest abusing children if he’s a priest of Shub-Niggurath or not.”
“Humans are the only people who can do evil,” Jackie said, unwittingly paraphrasing me (or perhaps wittingly). I didn’t know what she and the other Book had talked about. “Everything else is just hungry or indifferent.”
“Evil is a human construct,” Blackman replied, mostly having overcome my inherent confusion at a talking cat. “Everything else in the world knows that the strong do what they want while the weak perish. It requires creatures with an inherent overvalue of their own self-importance like mankind to be offended by this simple truism.”
“Unlike cats,” Jackie said.
“Yes, we’re the most important beings in the cosmos so we can’t be wrong,” Blackman said.
Jackie rolled her eyes. “You did whatever you could around here. You ruffled a lot of feathers. Esoteric Order of Dagon, the Cult of Starry Wisdom, Church of the Yellow Sign, Knights of Arkham—”
“All of those sound silly,” I replied. “But I suppose the sillier the title, the more people take it seriously.”
“Names have power here,” Jackie muttered. “Enough that people started believing in you too.”
“That was their mistake,” I muttered.
“Depends,” Jackie replied. “If only human beings can do evil, doesn’t that mean only humans can do good?”
“One man’s good is another man’s evil,” I replied, crossing my arms.
There were some questionable choices in Detective Booth’s casebooks. Guilty people who’d been let off for murders, thefts, and other crimes simply because he hadn’t liked the people they’d been involved with. The law seemed a very fragile gossamer web over a tidal wave of inequities and injustices. On the other hand, I doubted I would have done much different. Which was a disquieting thought if Nyarlathotep was the master of this tiny universe. I was thoroughly replaceable, like a new handle for a broken hammer. Not even death was freedom from the machinations of the Great Old Ones and the Other Gods above them.
