“We avoid direct confrontation with the possibilities of self because they turn us towards the past. Potential reflects backwards – and our birth is the temporal facsimile of our death. Although the former finds its completion in the latter, purposiveness is possible only during the passing state of unfinishedness.” – On Returning and Abandoning, Dr. Daphne Pluvinel

  Stravinsky read the documents at random, setting aside and pulling closer yellowed papers, as he had done for hours each day. The current grouping was composed of dubious reports discussing post-War militant movements and political agitations, as well as the extreme measures undertaken by the incipient government. The contents undermined any semblance of a coherent image he had managed to assemble previously. His phone made a muffled noise from under a disorderly stack to his left. It continued to ring neglected until he realized, uncovered it and stood.

  “Stravinsky,” he said, parting the window drapes and seeing two confused Juniors next to a taxi below. “I’m sure. You’re at the right address. Second floor, right by the stairs.”

  When the call ended, he switched off the shaky standing lamp in the corner and got the overhead light on instead. He collected everything on the coffee table into a bag and stashed them into the cabinet under the kitchen sink. He pulled the sliding door to the bedroom shut and dashed to welcome them in. Rivash and Lowry were on the last steps, both still in their work attire and evidently unimpressed by his accommodation so far.

  Rivash greeted him with a small nod. “I didn’t expect the Senior Investigator to live in such a quiet building.” His smile only thinned when he stepped inside. His eyes moved over the walls, the couch, the low table with nothing left on it. Lowry followed him in and did the same. “From the outside it looks like a desolate pensioner’s resort. But this is barebones.”

  “Sorry for having to leave earlier,” Stravinsky said, leading them to the living room. “Did you manage the tasks I gave you?”

  “Yeah,” answered Lowry. “Port people finally got back to me. The shipment was bound for a southside warehouse. Place looks legitimate on paper, but the PD there suspects it’s a hub for small-timers smuggling cigarettes and electronics. No history involving arcane contraband or anything like that.” She scratched her cheek and reached into her bag. “It’s all in my report, but I think it’s a dead end.”

  Stravinsky left her report on the table. “What about our swamp-spawn?” he asked Rivash.

  “We tried the experiment you suggested. Getting the peat there was a chore, but Tarash said the pups went mad over it. Ignored food, toys, everything else. Is that significant?”

  “And the Bureau Lab report?”

  Rivash placed it next to Lowry’s report. “Dormant and deteriorated sample, but still invocation-ready. It was refined, no doubt about it. They matched it to the guy Robinson offed.”

  Stravinsky flipped the first few pages, his eyes moving quickly across the neat rows of Bureau text. “The peat explains it,” he said. “At first, it seemed strange they would settle there. They had other options. The outskirts of the Port are full of wetlands and abandoned areas. All good places for scavengers. There are forests upland as well. Both seemed better places for their frames. Yet they went further south, deeper into the wetlands. It didn’t register until we understood their purpose.”

  “That still doesn’t add up,” said Lowry. “There were no other spirits there for them to feed on. They had to cross a road to find one on Robinson’s farm.”

  Rivash nodded. “Lowry’s right. Barely anything for them to eat there.”

  “It’s not about food,” Stravinsky replied. “The peat smells like daimonic spirits. It was inevitable considering their instincts. Even their origin is the same: decaying organic matter. When the arcofauna caught that scent, they followed it and settled there. When they dug up the remains on the cattle farm, it was because it smelled familiar to them. But fresher and more potent.”

  The Junior Investigators exchanged unsure looks. Stravinsky saw that he had failed to get across to them. City kids. Not their fault. “Listen,” he said. “Academy courses don’t mention texture and scent. Bureau policy doesn’t stress it either. It’s an aethyric world.”

  “Daimons smell peaty,” muttered Lowry under her breath. “Adds up.”

  Rivash cleared his throat after a moment. “What about the location of the warehouse? Why would they ship them south?”

  “Get the cylinder by my coat. On the chair, behind you.” Rivash returned with a blueprint tube, handling it like a narrow log. Stravinsky unscrewed the top and slid out two rolled maps. He unrolled the first one with care, flattening it with his palms as the thin paper gave off crisp sounds. “These were my first two stops after leaving you today. Municipal Planning Office, then the City Archive.”

  The map stretched over the edges of the low table; its surface packed with topographic detail. Rivash and Lowry leaned in, both wide-eyed, their curiosity renewed. Stravinsky pointed to a green patch above the gray mass. “Here. That’s where the animals were found.” His finger slid down and to the edge of the table. “And here: the warehouse in the south. Most of the current population lives in a few districts linked directly to the Eisenring. Behind that, either abandoned or never settled sectors stretching toward Mt. Geren.” He tapped the inhabited areas again. “These date back to the thirties. First big wave of migration to Eisenstadt. Mostly Naranaha from abroad and Vanaha from the eastern republics. I asked SI Kotko about gang and syndicate activity here. She said only two groups with the necessary resources remain, both relics: the Vanahan Vratya and the Naramese Tetsu-gumi. Old, ossified criminal institutions and not known for their involvement with arcana. They keep to themselves these days, apparently profitable enough to hold their ground. The warehouse,” he pointed as accurately as the scale of the map would allow, “is between their claimed territories, but the Tetsu-gumi control the sparsely populated areas facing East.”

  Stravinsky unrolled and spread the second map across the first. This one was faded, nearly colorless, and difficult to follow. The scale was comparable, but most of the terrain and cartographic symbols were foreign to the Junior Investigators. “Same place, but at the end of the nineteenth century. One of the final and bloodiest periods of the War.” He circled a green area next to Mt. Geren with his finger. “Front lines, where at least four armies fought to secure a little harbor town we now call Port. Even before that, the region was disputed by the Kalzanaha Principalities and Hridanaha Dominion. It’s a historical conflict zone; the ground must be saturated.”

  Rivash made a disapproving face and crossed his arms. “They wanted the animals to scavenge the unrecovered dead,” he said quietly.

  Stravinsky nodded. “Yes, I think so. Official accounting and recovery efforts managed to deal with most of them, or at least the skeletal remains. There are probably hundreds of thousands of dead there, buried and decaying for almost a century. Spiritual extraction’s been done before, but by uncoordinated individuals and to limited success. It’s dirty and ineffective work, for a human.” He began to roll up the two maps. “Seems even the Tetsu-gumi – if it was them – found the whole thing foul. Hence the color pattern you noticed. It’s a superstitious attempt to make the animals appear as psychopomps, not scavengers. I wouldn’t have thought of that without seeing the Kenotaph on the Eisenmark.”

  Lowry seemed more excited than outraged. “You mentioned the Archive and the Planning Office. Where else did you go?”

  “The PD overseeing the area, to see if they had anything new on the Tetsu-gumi,” said Stravinsky and returned the maps to the tube. “Took some convincing, but they cued me in about several operations on secondary locations scheduled for early tomorrow morning.”

  “Good timing,” said Lowry.

  “That’s why I asked you both to drop by. We need to gather the pieces before heading out. Everything I’ve heard and seen so far points towards the Tetsu-gumi. If they were going to let the animals roam free, it has to be from a safehouse facing those fields. I bet they have a facility to collect and purify the spirits there.”

  Lowry and Rivash sat straighter. The weight of it, their first investigation in the AAD approaching a satisfiable conclusion, lifted their moods and voices. Rivash gave a small grin. “Then we should get some sleep. Be ready for survey as soon as the teams are done. When are we going?”

  Stravinsky spent a silent moment gathering the new material. “The necessary paperwork wouldn’t go through for you in time. I’m going to check it out alone. They barely agreed to bring me on as an advisor or potential arcane threats. They don’t expect to encounter any arcana on scene.”

  They sulked silently for a moment, shifting in the shabby seats. “Okay…” sighed Lowry. “It was a rapid development. I understand.” She and Rivash rose without complaint. Stravinsky walked them to the door. The hallway and stairwell were dark by now. The best the lights could do was make them dim.

  “Worst case, I find nothing and we go check out the other locations later. Together.”

  Lowry shrugged. “If they don’t pocket it. Fingers crossed.”

  “Or mishandle it. Take care, sir.”

  *

  The raid had been swift, without shots fired. Doors breached, men on the ground within minutes. Half a dozen cornered men were dragged out from side rooms and the upper floor office by a local police squad and tactical unit from Central. The Tetsu-gumi were led out into a slate black wagon with their wrists cinched and heads bowed. Their only form of resistance came as hushed and venomous muttering. Stravinsky watched them get smacked around and packed up from a cruiser at the end of the cordoned street. He put on the temporary ID tag he was given and got out. The armed officers moving along the perimeter spared it barely a glance.

  It was a minor holding or transit site at best. The ground floor was filled with crates of imported electronics and a few slot machines. The air suggested there were large amounts of cheap tobacco inside. Behind a cracked strip of plaster, the recovery team was uncovering neatly sealed stacks of Eisenmarks, dusted white from the wall. “Thought I told you to stay put.” Senior Officer Granek came down the stairs two at a time. He was tall and too thick for a Vanaha. In one hand he held a long, slightly curved blade in a lacquered sheath. The guard was simple and circular, the cord binding dark red and tight. Not an antique, but valuable.

  Granek’s eyes flicked from Stravinsky to the cash being bagged. “Sad state of affairs,” he said, pointing the hilt at the bundles. “Big, bad Tetsu-gumi, and this is what we get? Lunch money. Nothing bigger than a fiftee in there. Shame.” Granek glanced down at the sword again and allowed himself a hint of satisfaction. “Still, not a complete waste of time.”

  Stravinsky scanned the surroundings, seeing that the tactical units had pulled back. “Central are less sentimental about souvenirs. You might not want to brandish that thing outside.”

  “You lecturing me?” He snorted and laughed, then entrusted his spoils to one of the other officers. “Never mind that now. I Need you for something. Not dangerous. Just… strange. Your kind.”

  Stravinsky followed him into the basement. The noise of ongoing operations dulled behind them. The rooms below were tiny but just as packed; the corridor connecting them narrowing as they made their way through. Two officers waited at the end, pretending not to pry inside and straightening when Granek approached. “She say something to you or move?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said one while the other nodded along awkwardly.

  “Step aside then.” Granek let them pass before turning to Stravinsky. “In here. No idea who she is. Thought she was a hostage at first. Although I wouldn’t put it past the Naranaha to keep slaves. She won’t speak or respond. Just stares silent, like a mute. Freaked out even some of the boys from Central. They already informed social services. Thought you might take a look first.”

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Granek pushed the already ajar door open. The space inside was small and unlit, with a small vent high near the ceiling. A single mattress covered most of the floor. Lamp and a bucket in one corner, undressed woman in the other. She leaned against the gray wall with a thin blanket drawn over her hips. Her posture seemed arranged, not at all defensive. Her wan violet eyes were already on the doorway, unafraid and unblinking. It was her only reaction to their presence.

  “See?” said Granek in a low voice. “It’s downright bizarre.”

  Stravinsky did not answer. My kind… He crouched at a polite distance from the mattress, resting his forearms loosely on his knees. She lowered her head. “I’m Lars Stravinsky. I work with the police,” he said, calm and even. “You’re safe. No one here is going to harm you. Can you understand me?” No reply or acknowledgement. He repeated more reassuring words and simple questions. “Do you want to leave? Get dressed?”

  The voiceless Andhanaha stared. She was undefinably aged and uncontroversially beautiful. Her faience-blue skin seemed to hold its own muted sheen despite the lack of light. Sharp, symmetrical features from brow through breast to navel. No discernable scent or sentiment. Stravinsky kept his tone conversational. “Do you know where you are?” Her impassive face seemed to signal confusion, ignorant of his intentions. Stravinsky turned his head, addressing Granek. “Could you give us a moment?”

  Granek shifted in the doorway. “You’re serious?” He glanced at her and then back at him. “I don’t like it. What if she’s possessed? Or got a screw loose and lashes out? Hell, I wouldn’t blame her…”

  “If she intended to, she would have already. I’ll call if I need assistance.”

  Granek hesitated before grunting and grumbling away. The door was left slightly ajar, and he could be heard shouting at the other officers. Stravinsky rose and retrieved plastic gloves from his coat, reaching back to turn on the lamp by the mattress. The light came on harsh, filling the small room immediately. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t like it either.” He leaned closer, taking her right hand first. She did not resist, breathing shallowly. Almost sleeping.

  The fingers were long and proportionate, the nails unclean and untrimmed. He flexed the joints looking for a reaction, feeling the irregular thickening beneath the skin. Two seemed to have been broken and healed over quickly. The surface itself, however, was smooth and continuous. Likewise with the wrist and forearm. Subdermal striations; recent trauma already knitted over. The left hand told a similar story: internal fractures, quick repair, no signs of grafting. Same with the feet.

  He shifted upward, pressing along the ribcage and clavicles with measured touch. Both showed evidence of being fractured in the past months. Neither seemed to bother her. Beneath the abdomen, he felt swelling and tension. No stitches or scarring outside. Whatever she was, her torso and limbs had grown as one piece. Difficult work. The neck was full of faded bruises and small scratches, but nothing definitive. With continuing care, he cradled her head between his palms and adjusted her face toward the light. The eyes were immaculate, with clear sclera and responsive pupils. The flesh around them was untouched. No irregularities around or within the nose.

  “Can you open your mouth?” Eyes empty on him. “Mouth,” he repeated and demonstrated. She understood, and he saw pristine, unused teeth and an intact tongue. He pressed gently at the gums, then along the inside of the cheek. “They usually hide the flaws inside,” he reminded himself as her dark blue lips closed slowly. Everything was in order. Stravinsky replaced his gloves before brushing the white untidy hair back from her ears. There. A faint crescent around the lobe, not a tear or natural crease, identical on both sides. The damage was deep, and unlike the other instances, covered over intentionally and barely visible. Odd. No patchwork except here… Can it really be one of Mother’s Dolls? Sense organs were notoriously difficult to evoke cleanly in Kainomancy. Flesh and bone could be coaxed from principle into pattern. But sensation required more than shape.

  “Thank you,” he said absentmindedly and called for Granek to return. He turned to switch off the lamp. Her reaction was sudden. She reached after him, her hand enclosing around his wrist. It happened swiftly but dispassionately, as if something inside had scorned separation. There was no threat to her action, no tremor in her strength. The face tilted, meeting his innocently. “You want to get up?” he asked, but she only kept her grip on him. Not pulling or rising.

  “She speak up finally?” Granek stepped in and stopped. “What the fuck–”

  “Easy. Don’t panic,” answered Stravinsky without being able to straighten fully. “It’s an arcanid – or Doll. You’ve heard of those before? Record as evidence, not witness – but treat with care and find something to dress her up in. You can have temporary custody, but Bureau will want it later. Unscathed.”

  “Unscathed? What are you...” mumbled Granek. “She’s… I mean it’s not a real person? Right?”

  “Not legally. It’s superfluous for the intended use.”

  Granek didn’t argue and shouted for his men to hurry up. Moments later, the two officers returned. They fumbled their words and glances, observing the inert Doll keep Stravinsky in that little dark room. The eyes of the two Andhanaha caught the hallway light, reflecting it like paired shards of the same shattered, stained glass. The officers stared and shifted until Granek yelled anew. They took the Doll warily after Stravinsky unfurled her fingers. Disrobed and docile, they escorted it out and up the stairs. The initial steps were perfunctory but enlivened as the direction became clear.

  “Did you find the way down?” asked Stravinsky as if nothing strange had transpired.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Show me.”

  *

  Granek led him to the opposite end of the basement. The storage room was full of shelves containing glass jars and cylindrical containers. A few empty crates had been shoved aside, revealing a hatch set into the cold floor. There was a pump nearby, but the area was damp and moldy.

  “We didn’t expect to find this. It’s not on any blueprint but looks competently done. I’ll give the Naranaha this: they’re built for holes and ditches,” Granek said, crouching. “It was covered the whole time. No sign anyone used it to slip out.”

  “Help me open it,” said Stravinsky.

  “Why? You want to go in?” Instead of answering, Stravinsky tested the latch. It gave quickly. His flashlight revealed metal rungs within grasp. “I don’t second it,” continued the Senior Officer. “It could be a torture chamber. Or worse. The little bastards are full of nasty surprises. Wait until I gather a team, in case there’s more of them under there.”

  “No need,” said Stravinsky. “You said no one accessed the hatch recently. And if they did, they’re long gone by now. If our own investigations are correct, there’s laboratory for illicit spiritual substances at the bottom. Nothing dangerous. There should be a way in through the other side, through the nearby fields beyond the block. That’s where you should send your men if you want to help me.”

  Granek did not appreciate his deductions. He stood stiffly and crossed his hands as Stravinsky descended into the obscure oubliette. “Wait,” he blurted unexpectedly, jaw working as if chewing on something bitter. “Wait… Here, I’ll authorize it.” He reached for his holster and pulled out his sidearm, lowering the grip into the pit.

  Boots splashed shallowly and a voice echoed. “Keep it, I’m untrained. Send your men to the other side. I’ll be there.”

  Cheap planks guided his steps as the water rose. The excavated passage widened just enough to let him walk upright. Lanterns hung from hooks in the curving walls. He passed a junction, pausing to note the shifting air. It carried something pungent like bleach or alcohol. The hollowed earth eventually gave way to brick and tile as the tunnel opened into another basement. An emergency pump, generator and ventilators were wrapped in plastic and stored in the corners. Wires led below the door in the middle. This one required effort. Rust and paint flaked as Stravinsky twisted the handle. With a grunt and push, it opened into an intact space.

  It stank. Stravinsky covered his nose and shone his flashlight over the cement floor, metallic workstations and cabinets. With his foot, he nudged a nearby brick to stop the door from closing. He went further in to see cleaning supplies, gloves and masks, in a box near the entrance. The stations were cluttered with tools, burnt incense sticks and stained cloths. Soil and debris in the basins. To his surprise, the cabinets had clean product in them. After he tested one with his hand, wormlike coils stirred within the glass and the light in his hand flickered. He returned it and moved away.

  Further in, behind a half-partition, he found four large cages. Only one was unlocked and bore signs of use. A tray lay pushed against the corner, flecked with bits of excrement. He crouched beside it and brought a hand near. The heat had dissipated, but it was not dry. His phone buzzed oddly, and Granek’s voice crackled through.

  “Yes,” said Stravinsky. “It’s down here. Tell your men to stay alert. I should be out soon. Granek?” Static turned to silence as the device died. He glanced back at the cabinet of daimons. They stirred together. The flashlight went out next. Deeper in, behind another door he had not yet seen, significant weight had hit shallow water. Stravinsky listened and stalked slowly toward the source. Human footsteps. Fumbled but fast. Running, escaping. He pushed through in the dark, metal flap banging, and recoiled as dust-gray light hit him through the skeletal plafond above. Morning had come. The ground below was a mess. With a hand over his brow, he stumbled and searched for the right way.

  New sounds drew him onward: a terse geckering, then a hiss. The animal. Stravinsky moved faster, weaving through the mess of puddles, moss, masonry and splattered wood. The hole broke into a tight stairwell that forced him down a breezy corridor. He saw droplets of fresh blood on the steps as he rushed past. A cold draft brought the smell of rainwater. The meandrous way led him to the main drainage channel. A round sluice gate to his right, gray-green expanse on the left. The fields. Once part of the city’s river management system, it was now just a gaping waterway lined with slick moss and trickling runoff. Someone moved along that catwalk above him, pulling up the access ladder after themselves and vanishing into the control room above the gate. Too fast and distant to be seen clearly.

  Stravinsky searched for another way up or out. He approached the rusted gate and tapped his knuckles against it. Solid. Full. He went to the other side. The drop where the aqueduct had collapsed was steep, raised by the district’s stone and concrete foundation. A narrow path stretched on one side, formed by rubble and rock. Risky for a person. Stravinsky grabbed one of the rocks and returned to the ladder. He lobbed it. The metal rang, shuddered and stilled. Another throw brought a groan from the corroded hinges. Down by a finger’s width. He took a step back, attempting a jump and landing unsuccessfully. Another rock, heavier this time, rattled the mountings until they creaked and slid more. Almost within reach this time. He missed the third throw and was too exhausted to jump properly.

  The phone was still useless and his breath returned slowly. Stravinsky looked up as the footsteps resumed, accompanied by reticent talk. Two of them, at least, hiding in the control room. “Your operation’s done. Step out,” he shouted. “I’m Bureau, not police. Better you surrender to me than–” The sluice gate gave a low, grinding turn. Waste and water poured through the middle channel, foul-smelling and rapid. Stravinsky glanced back at the stairwell he had come from, then at the catwalk. Brick instead of rock this time; it struck the last rung and plunged the ladder further down.

  “Back! Go back!” warned one of the voices.

  Stravinsky was lunging up when the gate tore fully open. A surge of black sludge roared through, carrying a wall of brown water behind it. The hit toppled and hurled him into its current. He managed to turn and cover his head before the channel spat him out. The landing was soft and smooth enough. Much more came after him, creating a muddy lake in the impact zone. Gasping, coughing muck from his throat, he dragged himself toward an untouched rise nearby. The aqueduct pillar towered above him as he spat, wiped his face and collapsed. Even through the stench, he caught a strong scent resembling peat.

  Shadowed, pale-green grass. All around. Silver sky overhead, warming up from the sun behind the pillar. Behind Mt. Geren. As he heard Granek and his men making their way down toward him, he raised his hand to wave and tried to shout. He was too drained to keep up either. They would find him soon. Stravinsky tilted his head and closed his eyes. He slept and dreamt. Drifting away and going back.

  *

  Stravinsky rested the notebook against the railing, glancing up from his work to take a better look at the brackish water. The green discs of the nenuphars shrouded the depths. Shapes of insects buzzed between the silken lotuses. Occasionally, one of the unusual fish would swim beyond their gathered shade and into his hopeful sight. He observed while he could and began depicting their form as soon as they disappeared. The lines came out passionate and pressed. Far too harsh. They failed to grasp the fine, frilled finnage of the elusive creatures. Neither could he portray their diverse gossamer colors and mosaic patterns blending in with the ripples.

  Sunlight was lifting the lazy morning into a sultry day. He flipped through the previous pages in the notebook. Mountains, riverbanks, roads and shorelines. Lines of partition. Those he understood and captured with apt detail, recounting and expounding their histories or names at ease. The phantoms in this pond were of another world, apart from his usual interests. Still, they captured him with their shyness and obscurity. They remained innominate. He turned his head around, surprised he was alone. A campus guard was making his rounds, strolling toward him.

  “Excuse me,” hailed Stravinsky. “Apologies, but do you know what these things are called? I’m guessing they’re not natural.”

  The guard stopped, squinted at the pond and surmised: “Nymph-lotus?”

  “Below them, I mean. Swimming in the water.”

  “Ah, those.” The guard placed a hand on the railing and leaned over slightly, shadow spilling across the gathered leaves. “Regal wyrms, I believe. Something like that. A new addition.”

  Stravinsky wrote the name down, then slipped the notebook into his suitcase. “Created here, at the Institute?”

  “Not sure. I just remind people not to feed them anything.”

  “What do they eat?”

  The guard shrugged and excused himself. He did not get far.

  “Wait, I apologize. One last thing: can you tell me where exactly the conference is being held? I seem to have lost my way, and my colleagues.”

  “The geography thing? Back through the path I came from, then left. Through the botanical gardens. Just before the new dome they’re building.” He stepped closer, reading the nametag pinned to the lapel. “But you’ll have to hurry, Mr. Stravinsky, it’s already starting.”

  “Ilar. Ilar Stravinsky,” he said with a small smile and open palm. “Thank you for the directions.”

  They shook hands hastily and parted ways. Stravinsky ran late but found the place.

  Changes:

  Comments appreciated, questions welcome.