“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.