2020-08-31 - A Hummingspider Is Its Own Reward

It is no longer August's month, which doesn't mean a whole lot to anyone but him. He's married now, which was always going to be a thing, and is much more of a thing after the three or so weeks he and Eleanor spent correcting everyone on whether or not the wedding was still on. Look, behold the ring of gold, titanium, and spalted maple on his ring finger, which matches one Eleanor is wearing! It happened.

He knows that won't change people's memories of a supposed breakup. The Art doesn't bend to his will quite that easily, and anyways, the Veil itself is pretty obviously involved in that mess. He's going to have to remain ever vigilant on that front. And so this first of September finds him in the allotments, sitting on the bench next to the barrel pond, freshly returned from said wedding and planning out the 'town reception' on his tablet.

The shop is typically busy this time of year, people coming and going, wanting advice on how to over-winter their more precious and delicate plants. ("Bring them inside." "But they're not in pots." "Pot them, then bring them inside." This is where Thoma tends to intervene and tell him to go do something else. August isn't a people person.) They're also looking for things to grow in winter (he's better at answering this one) and more than a few want to make appointments to trim their trees before the winter storms do it for them. People mill around, poking at things, chatting, eyeing the allotments thoughtfully and putting down their names in case one opens up. August could easily be mistaken for one of the allotment owners or a customer, which was the idea; Cy informed him he wouldn't be allowed to work until at least the third. So here he is, passive-aggressively not working.

In deference to the warm, late-summer day he's in dark gray cargo shorts, urban hiking shoes, and a black, white, and red plaid camp shirt.

The man who wanders into the shop does not look like he needs advice on how to feed, trim and walk a ficus. If anything, the way he glances at the various plants, flowers, and garden implements offers the impression to a professional that he's one of those people who would have somebody else taking care of his lawn, if he had one. As people have occasionally noted on before, Ravn Abildgaard doesn't have the whole 'act normal' down pat -- close, but no cigar. The black blazer certainly does not fit into a potential gardening scenario.

The good thing -- from Ravn's point of view -- about this situation is that while August Røn is passive-aggressively not working, he is standing around. People who stand around can be walked up to and sort of casually paused next to, and then one can run a gloved fingertip across some green leaf or other and say, "Looking good for the season, isn't it? Whatever it is. It could at least tell me its name, work with me a little. Congratulations on your wedding, too."

August glances up from his tablet, smiles to see Ravn and hear those congratulations. "Thank you," he says, dipping his head. A town busy body eyes them from behind the cover of a Japanese maple, expression one of deep skepticism. The wedding didn't happen in Gray Harbor, so maybe it didn't even happen!

August doesn't notice her. He lowers his tablet, eyes the ginkgo Ravn is toying with. "Ginkgo biloba," he says. "Requires some work, but worth the effort. He runs a hand along a spray of fan-shaped leaves. "This batch is really nice, hardy as hell. Not," he glances up at Ravn, "ideal for a pot on a boat though."

"Isn't that a food supplement?" Somebody really is not on his home ground here, and at least the Dane has the decency to not try to pretend otherwise. "But you're right. My garden largely grows kelp and seaweed, and not even the edible sort. I just saw you standing here looking like you're pointedly not working in the way I used to be pointedly not teaching and eh. Thought I'd come over and offer congratulations. I mean, with half the town still obsessing about those ridiculous rumours and whatnot."

He glances at the woman pretending to be a particularly rotund specimen of maple and shakes his head. "If that one walks past us I'm planting a cactus in her purse."

"It is," August confirms. "Like a lot of things we eat, happens to also be a lovely plant." He nods at a cluster of reddish leaved trees, "Cherry," now a set which have dark purple leaves, "plum," and some with rich, green leaves, "apple. Gorgeous in the spring, fruit in summer and fall."

He makes an 'eh' sort of face about the kelp and seaweed. "Plenty you can do in pots, if you want. Air plants and succulents, definitely." He shifts towards a table of both; the Tillandsia are presented in a variety of interesting substrates and settings, while the succulents (pebble plants, string-of-pearls, aloe) are in small plastic pots. "Just want to shelter them in winter, maybe get them a light source."

August's gaze shifts to the woman, who flushes, glares at Ravn, and hustles away. He sighs. "I should tell you not to, except I'd kind of appreciate it. Ellie would too." He manages a small, wry smile, nods at the path through the allotments. "Little more private over this way."

Ravn decides to take that as an invitation and trails along with one final glower back at the woman; for a moment he calls upon his new spirit animal -- cordially known as Gordon Ramsay -- and sends her a glare that attempts to convey two minutes' worth of creative swearing in a thick Scottish accent before ceding, "One might argue that it'd be cruel to an innocent cactus, of course."

The copper blond does pause to glance up at the apple tree. "That's what my name means, did you know? Apple orchard -- literally, a garden of apples. We did have a garden with an orchard where I grew up. I used to play there -- I'm not an inner city boy. I just never had a knack for these things." He falls into stride behind the other man again. "Is there any particular reason that you've been chased out of your own shop today?"

August tilts his head, turning Ravn's name over in his mind. "So 'gaard' is garden?" He's probably applying this to a lot of other names, now, appropriate or not. He nods approval. "Good name, I like it. Even if no one around here bothers to say it right." He bobs his eyebrows. "I told Ellie she didn't need to change her last name, but I think she's determined."

A grunt for the inevitable fate of a cactus so-used. "True. She'd just trash it." The path through the allotments is roughly diagonal to their arrangement, with the barrel pond and bench in the center. Fancy guppies flare orange and red, flickering in and out of view among the lilly pads, rocks, and small logs. Ahead of them, just beyond the boundary of the collection of gardens, is a small, private, glass greenhouse. That seems to be his destination, though he's in no hurry.

"Shoulder's still on the mend, and the whole memory thing is an issue. Maybe after the reception party." He points at Ravn. "Which you're invited to, by the way. It'll be,"he indicates the patio area with it's milling customers, "here." Not, he seems to be saying, in the casino, or anywhere too toney.

"Garden or orchard -- in medieval language, anything grew in a garden or gaard. Apple garden, cabbage garden, herb garden -- hell, the Swedish still call their archipelagos skärgårds -- literally, reef gardens," Ravn says and laughs softly at the idea of Eleanor indeed trying to learn those particular Scandinavian sounds. "I guess that means she really means it."

He pauses to glance into the pond curiously; garden centres, in his experience, usually have goldfish or koi, not guppies -- but why not? Guppies are pretty little fish. The Dane's eyebrows go up a little at the invitation, though, and he says, "Oh? Then I suppose I need to ask a few questions about how those things work in the US -- should I go buy a suit?" A small smile plays on his lips a moment; less than a month in town -- a man could certainly be made to feel less welcome.

"Ah, so, not picky about their wording." August sounds curious about this, and who can be surprised; he learned modern botany, not historical or ancient botany, or at least not a lot of the later two. He accepts this collapsing of terms with a nod. "Makes sense--really, what's the difference, except to talk about the specific layout or content. Useful in some contexts, but maybe not to them." Speaking of cabbage, numerous allotment gardeners have already planted theirs, ready to real the rewards of having somecolor in the dead of winter.

Another shrug, this time for the notion of needing a suit. "Only if you want. Thorne'll be in one, for sure, and I'll be in one, probably without a tie. But if you show up in jeans and a tank, no one's going to bat an eyelash." He leaves out the part where Itzhak will no doubt wear precisely this, on the off chance Itzhak ruins the joke by going for one of his three suits.

They're up to the greenhouse how, which has a locked door. August opens it using a key from what looks to be his personal keychain (rather than the bulkier, work set) and opens the door, gesturing for Ravn to head in. The interior is gently humid, and filled with an eclectic collection of plants. One corner is host to a series of mock orange shrubs; there's a cluster of potted Spanish saffron on a tiered rack; and the scarred, center work table contains numerous pots with plants in stages of germination.

On the far end of the table is the reason this greenhouse is locked: there's a cage-like structure, about two feet tall and one foot wide, that seems to be made from the ruby-red branches of several Amur chokecherry saplings. The weaving is far too intricate to have been grown or trained in anything under five years, yet the wood is growing from the pot it's seated in.

Ravn's knowledge of botany ≤ Ravn's knowledge of rocket science.

Even so he wanders over to look curiously at the cage, reminded of pictures seen on places like Buzzfeed or Atlas Obscura: Ten Strange Gardens Around the World, and what have you. He brushes a gloved fingertip over the surface of one branch. "You made this, didn't you? The hard way, or -- the other way?"

Then his mind backs up slightly. He continues to admire the other man's handiwork because one does indeed not need to be a botanist to be able to see that something is well cared for and well crafted, nor that the result of care and workmanship is something beautiful and highly unusual. "Thorne -- I think I saw him once at the bar. Dating the pawn shop lady, drives a big car?"

"A little of both." August follows Ravn to the cage. "I can grow a chokecherry just fine, but this," he runs a finger along a section of knotwork that's vaguely reminiscent of that found on rune stones, "would take decades. I nudge it here and there, a little at a time." He half-turns, looks at the mock oranges. "Fine control's harder than the big stuff. Smashing a wall's easy--just brute force. Being careful," he makes a face, "that needs concentration. Practice."

He huffs a laugh at the description of Byron. "That's him. He's marrying the pawn shop lady and drove a big fancy car." He bobs his eyebrows. "Itzhak told me Thorne dropped it off at good shop looking like it'd been through a demolition derby. Kinda dying to hear the story. He owns the Bayside apartment complex--that's the fancy one, with the ocean view and the heated pool."

Ravn raises his eyebrows and takes mental notes while continuing to look at the wooden cage, walking to the side to see it from all available angles; he's clearly fascinated by this use of the -- whatever people prefer to call it; every day, a new possibility. "Right. Well, if everyone else is happy in jeans and a shirt, I imagine I'll manage to not strangulate myself too. Me and suits -- I felt overdressed just looking at Dante Taylor. I'm sure Thorne and Taylor are lovely people but I never did feel at home anywhere you have to wear a tie. Thank you for inviting me. I know I ask odd questions but you'd be surprised how different these things are from one country to another. I'd hate to get it wrong."

He sinks down slightly to look up at the cage's top from below. "What do you plan to keep in here? Birds of some kind? Or is it more of an art project, so to speak? I'm... amazed at the things people here can do. You have no idea how overwhelming and amazing it is. I used to think that it was just me and Uri Geller, and they proved him to be a fraud."

August laughs at that description of Dante, because it's possibly the truest thing ever said. "Oh yeah, Thorne and Taylor can make anyone feel underdressed. Don't ever take them as some sort of guideline, especially not around here. Even in the US, the Pacific Northwest is considered very casual. They're just weird exceptions." A shake of his head for the notion of these being odd questions. "You're not from around here, and this place is particularly weird even for 'here'. So." He shrugs. Ravn isn't just in another country, he's in another world. Somewhat literally.

"Mmm, mostly just a project. Could use it to house something--I made something like this for a bird. Ignacio wanted it to have a fancy cage, but must of those older ones are lead paint." He grimaces, shakes his head. "So I...grew it, basically. And since it's technically feasible, it doesn't raise too many eyebrows."

Folding his arms, he rests a hip on the work table. "That's the thing. They could 'prove' me a fraud too. The Art doesn't want to be known or recognized. It hides from people who can't sense it. So when if Geller could do anything, only we would believe it." He gestures absently. "I could smash every window in this greenhouse, and they'd make up some kind of story about the foundation, or a microquake. If they're not in the know, you can't convince them." He frowns. "That's why these fake memories are so weird. People with the Art, that I could understand. But it's the ones without it who changed, and can't be convinced."

"And that's how come a woman who's been chewed to death by small cats is reported beaten to death with a blunt instrument." Ravn sticks his hands in his pockets and nods. "Aidan told me it'd be like that -- you know him, probably. Street magician, busks on Main Street. One of the first people I met in town. He said -- pretty much what you said. I didn't know what to make of it but those EMTs certainly didn't see what we were seeing. And I'm guessing they didn't report it as anything unusual to their superiors either, because I had a visit from the Chief of Police earlier today -- about something else -- and he didn't mention it. Or maybe that sort of thing just isn't unusual enough in Gray Harbor."

Three weeks in town and the Dane is already pretty cynical about dead bodies. "So you call it -- Art. I've heard all kinds of names. Most people seem to perceive it as a kind of glow? I feel it like... a pull. An awareness. I wandered in here just now because I felt it, and thought, well, why not -- worst case scenario, I'd end up adopting a petunia."

"That's why I call it the Art. It comes in a lot of forms, and people don't all sense it the same way. Just like Art. Itzhak hears it. I'd have to say I...feel it, like you do. But," August turns to a small tray, probably full of seeds waiting to geminate, "in a way, they all encourage feeling. Shaping--I'm strongest in that--it's all about the energy in molecules." He runs a hand over the soil, and it begins to shift. Like in a time lapse video, seedlings begin to pop their tiny, delicate heads out of the ground. "No way to see that without a microscope, not really." He pulls his hand back, and the growth ceases.

"But even when I was young and it was just movement and the," he taps a forehead, "mind Art, I felt those too. Felt emotions, made other people and animals feel them. Felt artillery equipment moving, felt the space of a building even if I couldn't see it, felt where things were..."

He stills, memories of somewhere and somewhen else derailed. "Chewed by...cats." He studies Ravn, intent. He's thinking of something in particular, it's in his eyes. First, though, "Yeah, Aidan. Good kid. Strong." He licks his lips. "Did you see the cats that did it?"

"My bubble -- if that's a suitable term for it -- is pretty small. I never really thought about it until Itzhak mentioned that I'd probably never lost my car keys in my life." He too is on first name terms with the self-declared kvetch, it seems. "And of course he's right about that. I don't drop things, and I don't usually lose things, either. I don't have any -- mind powers, at all. And I have got to say -- to someone who's new in town and not at all used to all of this, what you're doing right there is just one step short of a miracle. I'm deeply fascinated about how casual people here are about those things. Like Aidan, belittling himself because he couldn't fix someone who took an axe to the chest instantly -- I felt like I had to remind him that usually, when people take an axe to the chest they either die or spend a very long time in a hospital bed." He watches the seedlings with the obvious fascination of someone who absolutely believes that this is real magic but at the same time is telling himself, oh wow, I am seeing real magic.

When the Dane does look up again he doesn't fail to notice that intent look. "No. But Aidan was alerted to the dumpster that the body was hidden in by a cat. A stray. He says it talked to him. From where I was sitting nothing unusual happened but I have no reason to think he was lying about it -- this is Gray Harbor, talking cats would be just about the least surprising thing I've seen and heard here."

August mmmms, thoughtful, about Ravn's experiences thus far. "Use tends to make it stronger. And," he opens his hands, "being around here does, too. But I bet you noticed that already." He considers the casualness. "I think there's an angle of our experiences that makes it casual."

He hesitates, like he's trying to decide if he should say something, or how. Then, "I was in Sarajevo, during the siege. So I've seen some pretty atrocious stuff. Things people can't really comprehend happened in the last 60 years. And when you go through something like that--something unbelievable, something that it's hard to get people to understand," he focuses on just one seedling this time, gesturing with his hand, directing it almost like he's using ASL to tell it how to grow. It listens, getting bigger, unfurling its leaves. "...this doesn't feel far fetched, after that. You've already experienced the bad version of the unexplainable. This is just the good side." 'Just', he says. "And we pay for this, with the opposite." He shrugs, somewhat half-hearted. "If we seem casual, it's because when you live in hell long enough, other hells don't seem so hellish. They're just different versions of the same thing. And if that's real, the other end of the spectrum might be too. Only now, it's not heaven, or miracles." He lets his hand fall away. The seedling is now a young chocolate cosmos, a single dark brown bloom open. "Just the logical balance against people going to work under sniper fire while their kids play soccer despite mortar shells coming down."

He bites his lip. "Did Aidan say what the cat looked like?" He realizes he might be sounding like Alexander, demanding answers with no context, adds, "I saw a black cat the other day, out by the river. And I heard it speak, which probably means it was a Dream. Wondering if it was the same cat."

"I keep telling people that," Ravn murmurs and leans in to watch the miracle in progress. Sure, he knows that people here can do these things but hearing about is not seeing, and this is the first time he has seen somebody literally shape life. It's a humbling experience, but also reassuring after a fashion; power is power, and power can indeed be used for good, too. "That Gray Harbor doesn't seem like hell to me. It's obviously a very dangerous place and life here certainly seems to be -- eventful. But on some level there's a comfort in knowing that the demons are real and you're not the only person who can see them. I feel like I have been lost for a long time and now I've found my way out of the desert."

He falls quiet while the other man speaks of ex-Yugoslavia and the war there that he himself is too young to have participated in. Not too young, though, to know people who went, and some of the price they paid for doing so. "I know a couple of people back home who are still fighting in Kosovo in their minds," the Dane says at length. "The things they talk about after they've had a few are -- not pleasant. One of them lives alone on a small island because he can't stand the idea of anyone sneaking up on him. He wants to be sure that they'll need a boat to do it. Part of him is still there, waiting for snipers."

A gloved fingertip brushes across the petal of that single cosmos flower, as if to make certain that it is indeed real, and Ravn contemplates for a moment the strangeness of living in a place where demon cats, pain eaters, and other manifestations of fundamental terror are an everyday normal topic of discussion. He must be getting used to Gray Harbor indeed because the odd inquiry gets a matter-of-factly answer. "It was a skinny black stray. I saw it too, but I didn't see anything extraordinary about it -- in fact, I pointed it out to Aidan when he asked me what my cat looks like. It didn't do anything unusual that I saw from where I was sitting, but he was upset enough about it to come check on on my cat a few days later. I am happy to note that according to Aidan, my cat is very much a regular cat, even if she's black."

August smiles to hear Ravn say that. "Yeah. Knowing you've got the truth of it, that you're not alone, or crazy, or making it up. All of that's a relief." He laughs, amused yet bitter. "Honestly? It was like that in group therapy. Realizing I wasn't the only one angry as fuck at what had happened to me. Even if I couldn't tell them everything," and he couldn't, not really, because they'd never believe him, "there was enough in common that it...helped, to have people to talk to. Share it with. Who understood what it meant to--" He catches himself stops, glances at Ravn. A little awkwardly, he finishes, "To go through that shit."

It seems like a strange place to stop, though, given what Ravn just said. So instead, "I don't live in town. I can spend some time here, but, staying over night, sooner or later..." He falls quiet, like he's listening for something, shakes his head. "I can still hear it. The shells falling. Buildings coming down." A small, sad smile for these friends of Ravn's. "A lot of us, we don't leave. We just learn how to live there. Any way we can."

He sighs, shrugs all that aside. "Black stray," he echoes. "Yeah, that...could be the same one. It told me to go find the guy who dumped the cats, warn him not to do it again. Except he said it was his wife who didn't want them." Another one for the list of everyday weirdness of Gray Harbor: the skinny black stray told me to tell a guy to knock his shit off. Well, he did just make a chocolate cosmos bloom.

"I haven't experienced anything like that. I've lead a pretty sheltered life, to be honest. Never wanted for anything, spent most of it buried in books. I thought about it -- volunteering for the army, trying to do my bit to make the world a less miserable place. No point, though -- I'm asthmatic, I'd get rejected for service during the first medical exam." Ravn keeps looking at the flower, as if on some level he's still expecting it to vanish or wilt anytime now. "I got to know some of the people who had gone, through university. A lof them go to school after -- I mean, that's the bloody least the country can do after sending a man out to get shot at for nine months, offer him the education of his choice. A lot of those guys had trouble focusing and learning so I ended up tutoring some of them."

Then he straightens up at last and leaves the poor flower be, looking at the older man. "I don't mean to sound like I'm some kind of emotionless sociopath, indifferent to people suffering and dying. I'm not. I am -- I cope with anxieties by pretty much ignoring them until they go away. In this town -- I mean, this town, in most places people bump into each other and it's, 'so how about them Mets' and here, it's 'so, there was a dead guy in my sandcastle' and it's just... normal."

The flower has, as its name suggests, a faintly chocolate smell to it. It's not so big and showy as the white and pink cosmos that people like to grow in their gardens, yet the soft, velvety appearance and rich, subtle fragrance more than make up for it.

"They thought these were extinct in the wild," August says, tone absent. "For a long time, all we had was clones of a single, sterile plant. Then back in '07 a Mexican botanist started a project, and found it growing in the wild, down in Mexico." He reaches out to touch a petal, almost petting it like he might a kitten or chick. "Kind of nice when we find something we thought we'd lost, you know?"

He pulls his hand back, nods at Ravn. "Same for me. GI Bill, we call it. Got a PhD in botany, ran off to hide in the woods as a forester." A twitch of his lips that doesn't quite become a smile, suggesting he's well aware that it probably wasn't the best solution, no matter how much it seemed to help.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he says, "Yeah, less the weather, more what horrible thing happened." He rubs at his eyes. "That guy, that Itzhak found on the beach? I know...knew him. From when I was at Olympic." He probably means this to be an example. "And now, there's this...cat situation." He lets out a long, slow breath. "Ignoring them might not help. Around here, they tend to not go away. But if you want to talk about them." He finishes that with a shrug of his shoulder. "I don't mind listening."

"I don't know that I have a lot to say about it all." Ravn carefully touches the brown flower petal again, appreciating the rarity of it now that he has been told the story of its origin. "It's not that I don't have... opinions. Just not very useful opinions. I did do some research on this Sumerian killer, or whatever we want to call him -- it's with a homicide detective now. Don't know if she'll make anything of it but I figured it was the least I could do -- try to put my PhD to use. Instead of... You know. Running away to hide. Which is exactly what I've been doing for a year or three, so I'm with you on that one. Sorry about your friend, though."

He sighs lightly. "I'm not an investigator. I'm a researcher -- in a very obscure field. I'm not convinced that Gray Harbor pulled me here to try to play detective. I think -- if anything, I'm here to just be here. You know, in case somebody needs someone to talk to, or someone to dig through their adoption papers, or check up on them. Or maybe there's no purpose at all and we're just human batteries in the Matrix, and it doesn't really matter what we do. Everyone in town keeps telling me to talk to you about it, though, so I suppose that's also a reason I let my feet drag me this way."

August makes a low sound, nods about Henry. "It might not be just about the script. Both Henry and the guy we found in the woods, they had the Art." He lets that sit for a moment, eyes solemn. Gray Harbor is a target rich environment, if that's what this killer is after. His features ease into someone less somber. "Thanks," he says, voice low. "Here's hoping she can catch the guy."

The idea that people tell Ravn to come to August for this kind of thing makes him laugh, quiet and helpless. "They do?" He shakes his head. "Funny thing is, I've only been here for, maybe, four years now." His expression turns thoughtful. "I grew up on another spot like this one, down in Portland. Not as strong. And I had the Art back then, as a kid, but not like now. Not like," he turns his hand and fans out his fingers, causing the cosmos to coil up into a spiral conformation, "this." He drops his arm, letting the flower relax. "And I didn't really...understand, what it was, as a kid." He shrugs. "Maybe that's why, though. A lot of experience, for a long time. Or maybe..."

He's quiet a bit. Then, "A lot of people aren't comfortable with uncertainty. They want there to be an answer. A why, a reason, an explanation. But this place is," he raises his hands to indicate Gray Harbor as a whole, "antithetical to that in almost every way. It's built on uncertainty. The Veil's like this tide coming in and out, changing us and the town each time it comes and goes. If there's an explanation, it might be in a language we don't understand. If there's a purpose, the math might not add up. There could be no answers, just questions."

He shifts to the chokecherry cage. "That doesn't bother me. I grew up in a briar patch. And maybe that's why--I'm comfortable here, for better, or for worse. So," he traces a finger along the structure, and a new sapling rises from the soil and snakes up into the pattern, "no, I don't think the Harbor drew you here to investigate crimes any more than it drew me here to trim trees and grow plants into art. I don't know that there's a purpose, not really, but I also don't mind that there might not be. Learning, discovering, figuring out a way to record it so we can share it with others, protecting one another through the ugly parts, that's enough for me. If," he pauses to sort his thoughts, "there is some kind of why, some sort of bigger picture, trying to find it's as good as actually finding it." He smiles, genuine now. "And what kind of degree's better at digging into the weird and uncertain than an obscure one? You learned how to look. How to think. How to ask questions. That's the important part."

"I've heard some interesting theories. Grant Baxter thinks it's all trying to communicate with us -- in the fashion of something that's so alien it regularly squashes us by accident. It's as good as anything I've got. I'm leaning towards batteries myself. That we're just being farmed. And that maybe that doesn't have to be so bad -- at least I tell myself that it doesn't have to be so bad every time I sit down with a steak. Buy free range meat, cow's had a good life. Kind of have to believe that the animals have the best lives possible being farmed, or go full on vegan, don't you?" Ravn shrugs lightly as if to say, what else can you do?

Then he rests his gloved hands on the edge of the planter, watching August work his plant magic with obvious fascination. "I don't think my home was like this. But I did see things happen there that -- others didn't. Maybe that's part of the reason I'm not freaking out more about Gray Harbor than I am, I don't know. I tried to talk to therapists about it at some point. Most of them told me that it's no wonder that the imagination of a child will dream up ghosts when you live in a building from 1592. All places like that have ghost stories. People love to tell them. And for that matter, a lot of people convince themselves they absolutely saw something when visiting."

"I do think They're farming us," August says, tone grim. "In fact that much I'm sure of. When They take us into those things, something about having us there and our reactions, it feeds Them. But the Other Side and us," he shakes his head, "I suspect that's more symbiotic. One of the ghost hunters, Ariana, floated that idea, and I like it. Similar to the origin of the chloroplast in plant cells--two things that fit together, coming into a mutual relationship. Which one came first?" He shrugs. "Be interesting to know, but it might not matter. I could buy that it wants to communicate with us, given anything we do over there changes all of over there."

He listens when interest to Ravn's deception of ghosts in the family home from...wait, when? "1592? What, did you live in some kind of..." What would Scandinavia have? "...castle?" Oh, he likes the sound of that. "Were they dangerous ghosts? Or just..." He makes a vague gesture, "Confused?"

"I have not been... over there yet, I think. Unless dreaming about being chased by the Headless Horseman counts." Ravn looks thoughtful a moment, eyes still locked on the growing sapling. "Symbiosis -- or parasites? I don't know enough biology to make that call, I think that's in your court."

Then he looks up, and shakes his head with a small smile. "No, they were just ... People who lived there. And sort of still lived there. Some of them talked. Most of them just did whatever it is they do. I'd see them sometimes and have the occasional chat. When you're a kid you don't question these things -- it's not until you grow older and start to realise that actually, that bloke with the fishing rod dresses a little funny. Not a castle, though -- we don't really have a lot of manors that would actually qualify as castles. Just a -- well, manor isn't the right word either, because it sort of implies some large land holding. A very old house that used to be very posh, but anno 1990 and up just cost a fortune in maintenance and heating? Something like that. It's been turned into a folk highschool since -- a kind of conference centre."

"Hm, so, more like an important house, but nothing especially big and fancy." Of course, despite being an American, August's idea of a large house is skewed: he grew up in a trailer, sharing it with four other people. The 'heating and maintenance' comment gets a laugh out of him. "Full of 'old world charm', huh?" Another bob of his eyebrows. "That's what we call it here. Outdated electrical is 'interesting and unique character'." He rented more than a few of those kinds of apartments in college.

He waggles a hand about symbiosis vs parasitism. "That's something worth finding out, if we can. Is it hurting us more than helping? Are we doing more damage than good, explorers destroying the wilderness they're trying to understand?" He has no answers here, so just lifts one shoulder. "Could be both, even. Unfortunately, the only way to know is to keep seeking." Which, as he's just said, could be a problem. They'll just have to keep an eye on it.

Ghosts are something August doesn't know much about, so he listens with obvious interest. "Mmmmm. Think it's a case of needing to move on? Or are they...memories of those people that the house had?" Despite his questions, he's also sympathetic to the struggle of convincing anyone of said ghosts--espeically therpaists. "I never bothered to tell my counsellors what happened in Sarajevo. I knew...I just knew, I wouldn't be able to get them to believe it. And given the shape I was in, I didn't need to be fighting them on that front." He follows that with a sympathetic wince. Hurting and not being believed are a bad combination.

So tempting to just leave that one be; not like the housing situation of his childhood matters. Yet lying -- even if it's just by omission -- to someone who's potentially a mind reader and a pretty decent bloke on the side leaves a bad taste in Ravn's mouth. He shakes his head. "It was on the big and fancy side, I suppose. And definitely full of that exact old world charm. But you know how it is when you're a child -- everything is normal. Manor house probably is the right English word after all, just without that implication of owning everything in sight. Like the Addingtons here, in a way -- if you picture them not owning half the town."

Ghosts are a field of far fewer land mines. "I think on some level they were the house's memories of the people who used to live there. Or maybe people who really loved the house sometimes just came back to check on it every now and then. I never did figure that one out." Ravn sticks his hands in his pockets, mostly to avoid the temptation of touching everything -- for all he knows, some of those plants are mimosas or other things like mimosas, prone to taking damage from unskilled hands, and his hands in particular have a habit of sometimes picking things up on their own. "I'd also argue that Sarajevo is... a little heavier on the scale, maybe. My ghosts never did anything that you'd wake up with night terrors about. Somewhere along the way I figured out that it's usually better to pretend I was just talking to myself. It's definitely part of Gray Harbor's attraction, though -- that people believe you. Even when what you're telling them is pretty far out there. I mean, we were bloody fish."

"Ah, alright. So, a mansion." August is entirely delighted to hear this. "Cavanaugh, as I understand it, grew up rich in the South. You two could trade stories about your haunted houses, I bet." Because there's no way an old plantation house isn't haunted, no sir. "I, ah," he looks rueful now, "grew up a lot more humble than that, let's say." No specifics, but then, maybe he doesn't need to give them.

Instead he mmmms, giving serious thought to the heaviness differential. "I dunno. I try not to think of things that happen to people in that kind of..." He struggles a second, holding a hand like he's trying to describe the shape of something. "Sure, it's a different level. But in its way, it's similar. Not being able to talk to people truthfully about things, even 'trivial' things, it's not good long term. And," he waves a hand at Ravn, "exactly. Here, you've got people who you can have a real conversation with about turning into a mer-person and almost being sacrificed to...whatever that was." He's not going to think about Cthulhu living in the Harbor. He's just not.

So, "Never been Across." This is the voice of a man with an idea. "Well. I'm not the person to take you over, because I'm not as good as getting back out as Itzhak or Ellie. But," he props a hand on the work table, "I could open a little window. Give you a look."

A crooked grin dances on Ravn's face. "Vic was talking about something along those lines -- giving me a look at the other side, just looking in and making sure there weren't any tentacle monsters in the marina before I leased that boat. But then the... church thing happened and she ended up in hospital next to you, and I haven't haven't had any whispers in the night to buy a Japanese school girl's uniform anyhow, so I haven't brought up it again. I would love to see what everyone's talking about. Assuming that it's safe -- I have been paying attention to the warnings about not attracting attention from over there. Dolorphages is the word I think some people use? Definitely don't want the attention of something with that kind of name."

Oh, but he does. Tell a folklorist that fairytales are real and that he can have a look at them, don't expect his grey eyes to not shine like those of a kid in a candy store. He also seems to take for granted that everyone knows who Vic is -- and maybe that's not as unreasonable as one might think in a town of eighteen thousand, because those people who have that shine, sparkle, art, whatever they call it, all do seem to be connected, whether directly or through mutuals.

Small town that it is, and Vic working at one of the two whole bars they have, August is, indeed, acquainted with her. He does, however, have to think about what she knows, because it's been a couple of weeks (of getting stranded, and tortured by Them, and having a stag party to end all stay parties, and married) since he's interacted with her. He's not totally sure he's aware of what she knows. (Aside from 'not how to make drinks', though word is she's improved in that front, so he might risk ordering a black and tan from her.) "She seemed pretty strong last I checked," he says after some thought. "Probably can get herself back out. Definitely can take care of herself, which means she could show you more over there, safely, than I could."

Attracting Their attention is ever on August's mind, especially now that he's married and has kittens to deal with. "Yeah, you really...don't want to deal with them if you can avoid it." He wrinkles his nose, eyes the plants he's been toying with. "I can manage a window," he decides. After all, if a folklorist can't help but want to see the fairy tales in person, a field researcher can't help but want to show them. "I'll have to cool it after that." He nods at the door to the greenhouse. "Good spot to do that kind of thing over in the greenbelt out back."

"I haven't the foggiest what sort of power level Vic is on. She moves stuff, and better than me -- but that really doesn't say a lot. I have seen her stare grown men into wishing themselves out of existence for looking at her backside wrong, though. I'm starting to think that if anyone can stare a dolorphage into apologising for looking at her wrong, it's Vic. She comes by the pier every so often to yell at the reporters, and I am firmly convinced that every time she does, some glossy magazine photographer decides to go home and rethink his life." Ravn glances at towards the greenhouse door, following the older man's lead. "I don't want to actually go in there, the other side. I don't have any business strolling around in a literal mine field without the first idea of how to defend myself or what even to expect. But a look in from the outside -- is very tempting."

August chuckles at this description of Vic. "Yeah, she does seem like that sort. Which, hard to blame her, really, she's got the vibe of someone who's lived a life. But," he pauses to open the door out of the greenhouse, waits outside for Ravn to exit before locking it, "really, you've got reporters on the docks?" He sighs, shakes his head. "We've got to sort out what did that, see if we can undo it."

Outside people are still milling around, ordering this and that. Late summer can be a frenetic time at the shop. A couple of people in their allotments wave a hello, August waves back. He leads Ravn around the gardens towards the rear of the property, where it abutts a small tributary of the Wikash. A simple wooden footbridge grants access to a meadow ringed by aspen, fir, and spruce; this seems to be August's goal.

As they walk, he says, "A look through a window might help...explain things." His mouth twitches in a wry smile. "Or maybe just tempt you into going. But it's worth a glance, I think. Especially since you're strong enough to do it. You should have an idea of what it might result in."

"I have no idea what I'm strong enough to do, and I certainly have no idea how to actually do it. Two facts that might actually be working to my advantage at the moment because at least I won't be tempted into doing something irresponsible and stupid." Ravn keeps pace with the older man but looks around as he walks. There is a lot of beautiful scenery to look at, and while he is indeed no inner city boy, he's also not blind to the fact that the US has a hell of a lot more nature than his native country. Land that has been farmed for at least three thousand years tend to be a little... less wild.

He does pause briefly to nod about the reporters. "It's not a big deal. We worried that some of them might be after Cavanaugh -- you know, alleged Russian spy and whatnot, but they're not. The police chief confirmed that -- just newshounds looking for celebrity pictures. I'm getting kind of used to it, even having a bit of fun with it. Not being hit nearly as hard with this whole messed-up identity business as some people have been." Like you and your wife.

"Strength is just something you have to feel out. Which," August gives Ravn an apologetic look, "isn't helpful, since of course using the power draws Them. And the doing, well, that's completely personal. For Itzhak, it's music. For me, it's..." He goes quiet in that way he tends to while he's trying to determine the right words to use. Their shoes crunching on the gravel which gives way to dirt and then wild grass is the only sound. Then, "It's like when I'm working on plants--pruning them, planting them, treating them. A conversation without words." He looks at one of his hands. "Spoken ones, anyways. And you're right--it's keeping you out of trouble, for now." Something dark and morose flits through August's expression. "That won't last. So."

He snorts at the idea of having fun with papparazzi (and at Gray Habor having papparazzi now). "Yeah, it wasn't fun. Mom was fielding a lot of concerned calls, had to reconfirm the space like three times..." He sighs, shakes his head. "Whatever. Now it's just 'he broke up with you right before the wedding but you took him back', which...is an improvment."

The footbridge is small yet sturdy. The water is in this tributary is low with the passing of summer, ready to be filled back up by the fall rain. Squirrels and birds dive clear when August leads Ravn through the brush. He stops short of entering the meadow, though, pausing them at its threshhold. "I'm not as strong as Itzhak, so it's easier for me if I have something to focus it through. I can't just," he swipes a hand like he's pushing aside a curtain, "do that, and open it. Which is true for a lot of us. Having a way to direct yourself can keep you from doing random shit." He places a hand on a cluster of salal branches, ready to ease them aside. "Ready?"

Ravn's thoughts flash back to Itzhak Rosencrantz, sat at the aft of the Vagabond, tapping out a rythm on his knee; and somewhere, up the beach, sheltered from sight up atop the rocky outcropping, quite far away, there was a 'crack' as a photographer's very expensive telelens was dropped and ruined. A focusing method of some sort seems to be a requirement, even for the very powerful. "That makes sense," he murmurs speculatively. "And this -- focusing method, whatever it might be for someone -- it explains why I never really did all that much with my ability because to me, the important thing was to stay unseen and unheard. I don't seem to have figured out what the proper focusing method for me even is."

He mentally adds another notch on the list of Gray Harbor pros versus Gray Harbor cons. The pro list has far more notches than its counterpart.

The crispy salal leaves make little sound under Ravn's feet; he is one of those people who, true to what he just said, moves very quietly through his surroundings. "I'm as ready as ready gets," he confirms while another recent memory surfaces; schooner ships and humpback whales, off the Washington coast, a waking dream induced by strong mind powers. "Which probably isn't very much but here goes."

"Like the rest, it takes some experimentation." August looks at his hands. "I learned ASL when I was recovering, because it took them a few months to get the hearing in my left ear sorted. There wasn't any guarantee it'd all come back. It did, but," he makes a gesture that's like, but not quite, a sign, "it stuck. And now it seems natural to direct it, in my mind, that way."

He mmms, smiling, and moves the salal branches aside. The motion is gentle and slow, like he's revealing to Ravn a secret entrance, some side path into the meadow rather than following the game trail they're on. Something between those branches ripples, shifts, and gives way; Ravn can feel it in the same place he can tell where everything which is his might be.

Through this small gap in the branches he sees, instead of the yarrow-filled, wild grass expanse, something else entirely. It's still a meadow, or at least meadowish, still ringed by trees. But now the trees have strange bark, and more than a few are oozing a thick, blue ichor that makes them glisten. Some have big, waxy, magnolia-like leaves, their tops night black and their undersides covered by bright red spikes. The trunks of a few writhe into contorted, coiling shapes.

The brush surrounding the meadow glimmers with bright, silvery clusters of berries in papery white sheaths. Tiny creatures with jeweled wings flit from cluster to cluster, nabbing berries and gulping them down. They're an odd cross between a hummingbird and a hairy arachanid, with a half-dozen eyes on their little heads, and big, pelican-like beaks.

Then there's the large..thing...in the middle of the meadow.

It'd be easy to mistake it for a fallen tree trunk, except it turns to look right at them. The shape is reminiscent of a bison, though it's all wood, or wood-like, covered with moss and flowers and trailing roots and vines. It has two sets of four eyes on either side of what's probably the head, red-black and shining. Tall spikes--no, they're saplings--trail along its spine, each one with a handful of dogwood-like branches bearing coppery flowers.

The hummingspiders ignore them, flitting across their view in their hunt for berries. This thing, though, it fixes all eight eyes on them, and stares, unblinking.

Some philosophers and indeed, some psychologists will lecture on the nature of reality being fluid and indeed, in the eye of the beholder. Ravn's mind takes a quiet detour down the alley of university memories and lecturers talking about sensory deprivation tanks, hallucinogens, psychotropics, experiments of the 1960s, and anything else that might take his mind off the fact that reality just --

lost its marbles all over the floor

-- changed. For a while he watches in the kind of blank silence that's part deer caught in headlights, brain desperately trying to process what cannot be rationalised, and part absolute stark fascination. It's literally a different world. It's not a particularly pretty world -- no graceful schooner ships and singing pods of humpback whales here, and the idea of a hummingspider is going to haunt him for a while. But beautiful nonetheless in the manner of something utterly alien, something literally out of this world.

I wonder if this is how the first man in space felt when he looked back at the Earth. Some Russian bloke, wasn't it. Cavanaugh will know.

His mind is still looking for familiar thoughts to cling to. Rationalising. Analysing. Cataloguing.

Failing.

Eventually, he gives up and looks back at the older man. "Wow."

August is mildly curious about the hummingspiders and their berries, at least until he spots the bigger thing. "Hm," he says, wary curiosity making him still. "Haven't seen that one before."

The creature watches them watching it. A sharp hiss comes from the trees on the opposite end of the meadow, and it swings its heavy head that way, flowers and roots and vines swaying. It makes a groaning, plaintive sort of sound, begins to plod in the direction of the noise. They can just see, between the trees on the far side, a figure among the shadows. Tall and slim, only just hominid. It could be mistaken for a large plant moving too much in the breeze, if there was a breeze (nothing else moves around it), and if it wasn't also making beckoning motions at the big, lumbering thing.

August licks his lips, finally looks at Ravn. "Yeah. So." He cranes his neck, trying to get a closer look at the bushes flanking the window. "Interesting looking things. I wonder if they change type from season to season?" He half-raises a hand, like he's intended to pluck a leaf from one, seems to think better of it. "Right. We should talk about that."

Something calls out in that alien forest, high and keening, furious. The big creature and the tall thing both go still. On their side of the window, in the Real, birds panic and flee from the noise. August clears his throat. "Yeah. Don't wanna know what that is. Last look, then I button it up."

Some people respond to the unprocessable by flailing and screaming. Some by rationalising. And some, indeed, by just staring and accepting. Ravn is definitely the latter kind, as evident also by his quick adaptation to a recent aquatic experience; his is the kind of mind that responds to the implausible, the impossible, by flipping the figurative table, going 'I can't even' and distracting itself with some often insignificant detail. In the kelp forest, a deep fascination with having fins, as opposed to facing the fact that the people involved were disturbingly close to getting eaten alive or sacrificed to Cthulhu, or quite possibly, both. In this, current scenario, the hummingspiders -- what do hummingbird arachnids eat? How do they fly? Has anyone told them that like bumble bees, flight is aerodynamically impossible for them? Or is this one of those situations where it turns out that the bumble bees were right all along and the aerodynamicists had it wrong -- bumble bees fly just fine because they beat their wings fast enough that --

Ravn blinks and shakes his head, and tries to rein in his mind's attempts to escape to any mental process that can be approached in a more logical, hands-on, the laws of physics actually apply mindset. "Probably for the best... I think that thing might cause a bit of a panic in Main Street." And yet his voice carries an undertone of wistful; fantasy, however terrifying, has just been proved real.

On the other side of this spectrum is August, who's been Over There a fair bit, in too many Dreams to count. All he's doing is giving Ravn the smallest taste, a simple idea of how alien things can really get, yet his reaction reminds August that the tip of this very large iceberg was once overwhelming to him as well. And, hilariously, they still know so little.

"Definitely not. We had some sort of...people eating bat zombie monster in Downtown once. Not good." The call comes again, which sends the tall figure and the big creature into action. Once the big thing is in reach, the tall one hops onto its back, and they're off into the forest.

There's a sense the window was waning on its own, and now August encourages it along by letting go of the branches. The thrumming of the hummingspiders vanishes along with the eerie wail of whatever was having a bad afternoon. Bird sounds begin to return around them. A frog croaks along the creek somewhere.

August surveys the very normal, average meadow. There's a doe in the brush across the way, eyeing them warily; August watches her in turn. "So, there's a glance out the window. It's wilderness, over there, effectively. Even the parts that look like a city are wilderness to us." He cuts a look at Ravn. "And it's not just animals. There's a whole society, beings with a hierarchy, all of it."

"Is it... constant? I want to imagine this whole thing as fluid -- like a dream. That it could be anything, something new every time you look. But it's not, is it? There's a kind of structure, predictability?"

English gets harder when you get excited. Ravn searches for the words a little, and then forces himself to slow down. "I think -- what I am trying to ask is this. If there is a parallel world over there, is it mirrored here somehow? Somebody suggested to me that the whole identities mix-up here might be the result of something being wrong over there."

English is hard, and it does not get easier when English, too, does not have the words to describe what your eyes just told you. I wonder if any language has the words.

August shakes his head, almost laughing. "No, definitely not constant. Some parts--especially close to Downtown--are more..." He trails off, pulls a face. "I want to say they're more stable than others. Less like to just up and change. But the rest, it's shifting all the time, like there's a tide that comes in and out and shuffles it all." He scratches his beard. "Alexander called it psychomorphic. That somehow, our emotions, our thoughts, even things we just do, here, in the Real, effect over there. And I've seen things that support that." He gestures up north and east. "We were trying some experiments with mapping up over that way, and I used chalk on some trees Over There to note the route. Next time I same back, all the trees in that area had chalk." He pauses so that can sink in. "It's like I'd, redefined, what a tree was in that spot. I didn't change a tree, I changed the Veil's concept of a tree in that spot. I changed the Veil, itself."

He gestures at Ravn. "So, definitely, I can believe the reverse is true. But, to that end." He grows somber. "People like you and me, movers, we can bring things over. From the Dreams, and from Over There. It's just...not a great idea, really. The effects aren't reliable, strange shit can start happening." He sighs, a little exasperated (with himself), and adds, "Really, leaving stuff from here Over There is bad too, but for other reasons."

"What you're saying is, don't touch anything unless you have a pretty good idea of what you're doing. Quantum butterflies and hurricanes. Old Bradbury short stories." Ravn frowns. "Step on a butterfly's wing in the Jurassic Age. Come back to find that dinosaurs never died out."

The Dane watches the deer. The deer watches back. It's not the roe deer that it would have been back home, but the resemblance is strong and the two species clearly occupy similar niches in their respective biomes. And feel about equally threatened by a couple of people standing around in the bushes.

Virginia deer? White-tailed something?

He can't recall, and he can't recall either if the two are different deer, or just two names for the same deer. Mind still racing, hunting for handholds.

Psychomorphic.

"You're saying that in some fashion, our perception of reality creates reality, over there. That like a half-lucid dream, we shape the reality we're in, over there. And that in a manner of speaking, it works both ways. The -- person -- we just saw ride off on the -- creature -- might be dreaming about us in the same way we dream about them, and it's possible that a few weeks back, he had a dream where some hitchhiker from Denmark turned out to actually be a Swedish chef, and some bloke with a Scandinavian last name dumped his fiancee at the altar. A dream where everything got switched around a little. Everything got made a little more interesting, in the fashion of a Hollywood sitcom writer on crack cocaine. And then this -- person -- woke up and scratched his head, and then rode off on his -- creature -- and never thought about it all again, but here we are."

Ravn taps his lip with a gloved fingertip. "You realise that this would explain a lot. About why the dreams are so -- vicious, sometimes. This whole notion that they want to hurt us. Imagine what it must be like on the other side -- every time one of us goes to sleep, we rewrite their reality. If it's all connected like that, I'd hate us too."

"More like quantum butterflies and global climate change," August murmurs in aside, "but yeah." The doe has large ears, so is likely a type of mule deer; a black-tailed deer, in fact. Her jaw works as she chews a bit of something, large eyes on the two of them.

In a few months, August will get out his Aunt's hunting rifle and seek out deer like this one--bucks, though, not does--and elk. He hunts for meet to get him through the year, rather than sport, yet to the doe watching the two of them it's all the same. Right now, they're neighbors in this green belt. Come fall, they're be enemies.

August tilts his head, thinking that over. "Yes to the first part. And, maybe," his eyebrows go up, "to the rest. Did we come to have these powers because it was there? Or did we make it because we can do these things? Or is it some of both--like chloroplasts." Who'd he been discussing that with, Ravn? Someone else? "Over time, one grew stronger, and so the other did in turn. High tide, then low tide."

The doe stops watching them. They're not a threat, she's decided. August turns to face Ravn. "I mean, honestly, so would I. Or, maybe I would. Do ants hate us when we step on them while crossing a park? Or are we just another large thing they had no way to avoid, and so went on with their lives, rolling the dice?" He shrugs. Of course, it's not so simple; unlike ants, they have a higher degree of understanding and sentience, as do the creatures of the Veil. But how much higher, relatively speaking?

"So. Practice careful. Try not to use the power when you don't need to." He nods at the shop, stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Now. Plants for your boat. Or wherever you're setting yourself up in the winter." Sorry, Ravn; you're not leaving without plants.

Blissfully unaware that his ability to tell deer apart is about on par with your average red-cap-wearing truck driver's ability to tell a Danish shitmonkey from a Swedish ditto, Ravn watches the deer wander off. She is a graceful animal and at the moment, having seen what he has just seen, she is a very real animal -- a fact for which he is oddly grateful. She's got the recommended number of legs and acts like -- well, like you'd expect a deer to act. Definitely not about to suddenly become the roost for, say, a flock of hummingspiders. Grey Harbor is the kind of place where seeming firmly real definitely wins you points in the book of Ravn Abildgaard (unless you're a red-cap-wearing truck driver, in which case, please go unreal yourself).

"Grant Baxter may be right. The other side tries to communicate, with the elegance of a child smashing a toy against the ground to get its parents' attention -- and we're the toy. Or we dream each other, in which case it's no wonder they hate us as much as we hate them. We may never know. And on some level I suppose that it doesn't matter." He lets it go for now -- easier said than done when one is possessed of a mind that's chronically prone to overthinking everything. Existential dread certainly invites overthinking.

Ravn lets himself be herded back towards the shop, perhaps not entirely ungrateful to put a little more distance between himself and those flying arachnids on the other side of the Veil. "I haven't really decided yet what to do in winter," he admits. "It's still a couple of months off and to be honest, I think that on some level I wasn't planning to still be here. Which is silly, because Gray Harbor has not made any secrets of its intentions to keep people once it's caught them. So -- plants in pots that can easily be moved?"

Nodding, August says, "It may not. Or, it might, but that's why we're poking at it, rather than packing up and moving somewhere else. Some of us want to know." Maybe not aware he's doing it, he pulls his hands from his pockets and toys with his wedding ring. "Some of us want to keep people--regular people, people like us, our families, whoever--safe from it." He arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't matter which it is, curiosity or duty, we're all still here. Which is why I feel like it doesn't matter if we ever really unravel it. Supporting one another's more important than getting answers, in the end."

He laughs the laugh of the well-versed and many-times-drenched local. "A couple of months," he says, sounding...wistful? Yes, wistful. Two more months before the Dark Wet? "God I hope. Last year the rain started in mid-September." He lifts his eyebrows, makes an apologetic face. "80 days of cloud cover starting on Thanksgiving, didn't break until mid-February." This is probably his way of saying 'October? Ha! If we're lucky.'

"Got plenty of plants in pots," he assures Ravn. "For right now, air plants are a good start. A lot of them like sun, need minimal watering, and you don't really need a 'pot', just something for them to sit on. A substrate, like a log or a sconce with moss, that sort of thing. Then, for fall and winter, you can think about cabbage--they do great in the frost and wet, and get all colorful. Cyclamen and helleborus do good too."

"I'm from a country where it starts raining pretty much on October first and continues to do so until May first and then we get another rainy period from mid-June to mid-August," Ravn murmurs with the long-suffering familiarity of someone who also grew up in a northern, coastal climate -- even if on another continent. "Though if we're lucky there'll be a week or two of actual snow in February. We usually haul to the boats ashore sometime in late October while cursing ourselves out for not remembering to do it in September. Granted, our water's a little warmer because we don't have glacial melt."

No one who knows him would be surprised in the slightest that of all the flowers and plants available, all the colourful choices presenting themselves, it is the helleborus that attracts Ravn's eye. Not the gentle pink or fiery red ones, or the shades of purple; it is the black helleborus that calls out to him. Ravn likes black, enough to wear it from top to toe, and apparently, enough to buy his plants in shades of black, too. At least he's past the age where he might put on eyeliner and dye his hair black to make a statement (he absolutely did when he was eighteen, no one who's known him for a week would ever be in doubt about this).

It's a wonder he painted the Vagabond's contrast areas blue (if, granted, a dark shade of blue).