2020-09-12 - Welcoming Committee

Coffee. Lifeblood of doctors everywhere. It's the number one thing that gets someone through Medical School, Interning, and Residency, as well as every day that follows. Well that and the desire to practice medicine, but, whatever. Jonah Moore is a surgeon and new in town, so one of his priorities is, of course, to check out the caffeine offerings. Espresso Yourself is definitely the most promising candidate from the handful of options in the small town.

The stylish man walks in wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up in deference to the heat, and tailored tan slacks with polished black shoes and belt. His five o'clock shadow seems as artfully curated as his clothing and hair style. Nothing out of place, perfectly put together, clearly not a local. The chime of the bell over the door turns eyes his way, and the murmuring begins.

Fall is not yet threatening to turn into the drizzle of winter, but no one who grew up in a coastal climate will doubt that in not too many hours, that thunderstorm painting the sky purple and lead outside will lead to pouring rain -- probably quite a lot of it. Maybe that's why Ravn Abildgaard has traded in his usual black blazer for a leather coat over his turtleneck. No one who knows the tall copper blond will be surprised that this too is black; it needs to match the jeans, boots and turtleneck, after all.

He cuts a striking figure as he enters the shop -- or rather, he might have if he was not the sort of human being who appears to go through life completely unawares of why anyone might indeed dub them Bennie's prettyboy. The Dane wanders counter-wards, eventually noting that for once it's not him everyone's gawping at. He smiles at that. Even his personal nemesis barrista gets that smile as he asks for an almond roast. He means a hazel roast. This is the closest they get to a truce.

Jonah enters the line at the counter behind the Dane, studying him for perhaps longer than is comfortable, were Ravn facing the other way to notice. He leans forward, slightly, to ask quietly, "You were in the pet shop, weren't you?" before he straightens to scan the menu and order a triple espresso shot. He gives Della, the day manager and Ravn's nemesis, a warm smile and hands over cash for his purchase.

Ravn stiffens just a moment and then slowly nods. "I wasn't sure whether you'd remember it."

The cup his gloved hands ends up curling around contains no whipped cream, brown sugar, vanilla powder, pumpkins, syrups, chopped nuts, cherries, cucumbers, or whatever else Americans may put in their coffee. Just, well, hazel roast. He shoots Della a thankful look which results in a muttered observation about Swedes who can't tell almonds from hazelnuts. There's a story there, no doubt.

Then he glances at the other man as he in turn pays for his espresso. "You must have a metric buttload of questions."

"Kind of hard to forget something that bizarre, isn't it?" Jonah notes with a wry expression. There's a tone of conspiracy in his voice. Those who shine can sense it in others who do. He seems about as bright in the Gift as Ravn himself, not a matchstick, but certainly not a lighthouse either. A lantern perhaps. "I've seen a few strange things in my life, but that might take the cake."

As he accepts his cup from Della he gestures towards an empty table with a sweep of his hand in invitation. "Only a few thousand, I'm sure you can manage that many? I hear you're famous, a chef is it? Is that why you're so skilled with a fire extinguisher?"

The supposed celebrity chef winces as he follows the other man towards the indicated table and settles at it, back to the wall. "I'm not. I mean, I'm really not -- I'm not trying to be modest here. I'm not Swedish and I'm not a chef. I'm a folklorist, and I'm Danish, as it happens. Besides, it seems like you're the one who's drawing the eyes of the crowd today, not that I am in any way complaining about that."

A gloved hand releases the coffee mug in an offer of a handshake. "Ravn Abildgaard. I don't usually attack people or things with fire extinguishers, but those little bastards literally kill."

"A folklorist? Are you a professor then? A writer?" Jonah asks with mild curiosity in his expression. He shakes the hand firmly. "Jonah Moore. I'm a surgeon. Just transferred to Addington Memorial from Manhattan, which I am guessing is why I'm being stared at. Unfamiliar faces seem to be of great interest in this town. I just arrived yesterday."

He sips his espresso and raises his brows as he looks at the Dane over the rim. "How on Earth did the town get it so wrong?" he asks, in regards to his job and nationality.

"I put my pursuit of a professorate on hold to travel," Ravn murmurs and gives the other man a look that contains more than a trace of sympathy. "Good lord. And the first thing you saw was -- house elves out of Harry Potter, getting splattered all over a shop floor. At least the town started me pretty easy."

He shakes his head lightly at the inquiry. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. It happened some weeks back. People started to realise that other people got their story wrong. Suddenly, locals were asking me to sign autographs and tell them how to bast a turkey. I got off easy -- there are some who have been hit really bloody awfully hard. A friend of mine owns a chocolate shop -- he's fighting off rumours that his kitchen is one big cockroach infestation, might lead to his business getting shut down. There's a girl -- she's, what, twenty, twenty-two, and her story has given her thirteen children and two husbands, simultaneously. It goes on like that, it's bloody insane. Don't be surprised if people declare that you're a gangster from Philadelphia tomorrow."

"House Elves? My brain went more to gremlins," Jonah notes, with a quirk of his lips. Then he pauses and sets a forearm on the table, the other hand still holding his espresso. "You said those things were dangerous? What have they done?"

The explanation of the stories gone wrong gets the briefest flash of amusement in his expression before it sobers at some of the tougher ones. "That has to be rough. I can imagine at best it's frustrating, at worst...?" He sips his coffee and doesn't seem too afraid of the rumor mill himself. "Anything they'd say about me would likely be wrong, since I've only been here about..." he glances at the expensive watch on his wrist. People still wear watches in the age of cell phones? "...twenty-two hours."

When one man looks at his watch, others who usually wear one will do the same -- and Ravn is one of those. He glances at his own before replying, "I'm coming up on a month in town myself. I had been here a week when that chef rumour started."

He shrugs out of his coat; it's anything but cold and it's certainly not about to rain indoors. He folds it on the chair next to himself and then curls his hands around the coffee mug again. "I think you need to take a step back -- not so much those gremlins. Sure, let's call them that. Maggi -- that's the blond woman you saw -- calls them trash monsters. Gremlins works. They're not the disease, they're just a symptom. This town has something absolutely bloody strange going on. One in ten people you'll meet here has some kind of ... gift, ability, light, whatever they like to call it. And things happen. Most of those things are not good things. Pretty much every single one of these gifted people will tell you that the smart thing to do is walk right out that door now and go back where you came from, anywhere else that isn't here. And in their next breath they'll tell you that they know you won't because that's how it works."

The Dane offers the other man a small, crooked smile. "And well -- they're right. I didn't consider leaving for a moment. It's the Hotel California. But I have to agree, leaving would be the sane choice because this thing in Gray Harbor is bloody vicious. Gremlins are just -- one manifestation. Don't hesitate to picture me wearing a tinfoil hat about now if you like."

Jonah chuckles. His voice is almost soft, lending him a boyishness that his hairstyle seems to contribute to. "If I hadn't been somewhere similar once, I'd think you were crazy. Maybe not as, ah, up front about its strangeness as this place may be, but I've been, ah, aware of the strange things since I was a child." He taps a fingertip in a rhythm against the side of the cup, glancing around the shop curiously. "One in ten people? That's astounding. And they're drawn here by it? What about the rest of the town, those who don't shine? What do they think of the weird happenings?"

"There's been quite a few times the last month where I thought I was crazy." Ravn sips his hazelnut roast; Della has indeed not poisoned it (though it probably contains several grains of sugar, out of pure spite). "It calls, yes. You'll be amazed at how many people here are from far away -- Europe, England, you name it."

He glances back at the other people -- the local folks who are still in some cases stealing glances. Some of them at the chef; more at the new face; and a few at both because those are a couple of good looking specimens and grandma may be old but she ain't blind, honey. "They forget. Literally, they forget. I could walk over to that table there now and flash my passport. It says, quite clearly, that I'm not bloody Swedish. Ask them ten minutes later, they'll swear I showed them a photo of some co-star from my new show, whatever fits the narrative. Reality repairs itself for them. This memory thing even works on us -- again, I get off pretty easy because most of the affected people aren't anyone I know, so I don't know what changed for them, either. You'll probably end up in a similar situation on that account."

"Interesting. The town protects itself, then, almost like it's its own entity. I confess I find that fascinating. I'm sure I'll find it less so once it decides to play with me." Jonah looks into his cup for a long moment and then back up at Ravn. "When I was young, my family went camping every summer on Lake Michigan, on South Manitou Island. It was strange, like this place feels strange, but my parents couldn't sense it like I could. I haven't been back there in over twenty years."

"It does. Or rather, the -- thing, whatever it is -- protects its reality here. That's the second thing everyone's going to tell you. There are things here, that feed on this -- gift. To me, it's an awareness. To most it seems to be a light in people. One man I know describes it as music around them. But whatever form it takes, it's apparently cornflakes to our captors. Every time you use it there is a chance that you end up on the buffet. They'll pull you into some crazy parallel world or alternate reality." Ravn pauses, a bit in the fashion of someone whose ears finally caught up with his mouth and he's hearing himself talk. Good lord.

"They'll make you do -- something. Some kind of story. For my first time, I got to play the part of Ichabod Crane in the story of the Headless Horseman. The second time it happened to me, I was -- a merman." He rubs his temple with gloved fingers. "There's usually a way out but you need to find it. If you get hurt in there, the hurt is real. Saw a bloke take a broadsword to the arm and when we woke up, he was clutching that wound still. I woke up from the fish dream covered in kelp burns like I'd been rolling in poison ivy."

Jonah's eyes widen at the talk of the experienced dreams. "Well, that's definitely much more than I've had happen to me, I admit." He stands with another check of his watch. "I should be going though, I have some more hiring paperwork to sign at the hospital. It was nice to meet you more properly, Mister Abilgaard. I'm sure we'll meet again." He gives the man a brief smile, before raising his paper cup in a toast to him, then heading for the door.

Ravn looks after the other man and shakes his head slightly. Is this how the rest of Gray Harbor saw him, a month ago? A wide-eyed newcomer who thought he was the only man on the planet who saw and did things that were a little unusual? Listening to the mad warnings and stories until it became clear from the look on his face that even if you believe it, even if you actually believe it, the human mind can process only so much madness in one sitting?

Fresh meat for the grinder.

He makes a note to keep an eye out for the new guy. And reminisces that a month ago, a few folks probably made a similar promise to themselves about him, and that might just be why he's still in one piece.