2022-01-01 - Cocoa in the Snow

Meet Jeniffer. She's an enterprising little blond kid with bright grey eyes and a 'uniquely' spelled name that her mother believes will some day help her to stand out. She's got platinum blonde little curls with bright blue ribbons in, and an adorable little Christmas sweater over her dress and thick woolen stockings. She's positively angelic, right off a post card. And she's selling cocoa and cookies from her little booth in the driveway of an Oak Avenue house and quietly confiding to anyone who buys that she's saving up to go to Los Angeles, shave her head, and become a lesbian industrial sculptor. She's ten years old and doesn't know exactly what that means, but anything is better than being her mum's pretty little doll, and also, please call her Solange X Maledicta, and not Jeniffer.

Ravn Abildgaard is trying very hard to keep a straight face as he is getting this entire lecture and a mug of cocoa in return for a few coins. He's not unsympathetic, though -- and what a hypocrite he would be if he was. So all he's going to do is tell the girl, "You should wait until you're a bit older, Solange X Maledicta. When you're eighteen, no one can tell you what to do. If you want to run away, dye your hair green and live on the street, you can. Trust me."

The jogger drawing near along the sidewalk isn’t setting a fast pace. It’s Jules, looking a little worse for wear, and not just from the exercise. It is New Year’s Day, after all. She puffs along, heading back towards Number 5, and looks relieved to slow even further and come to a stop at the cocoa stand. “Or just shave your head altogether,” she suggests while catching her breath. “Hey.”

"I dyed mine black and wore bright parrot earrings," Ravn agrees and raises a gloved hand in a friendly greeting.

Solange X Maledicta looks up at him with adorable grey eyes. "You must have looked very stupid, Mister Appleguard." Give the kid credit for honesty.

"I probably did," he agrees. "It got me some quite interesting proposals from a certain demographic of gentlemen in the Copenhagen nightlife too, but then, it's never too late to make new friends."

Jules puts her hands on her knees, bent over in recovery pose. “Man, you make me look weak,” she notes, black ponytail hanging over her shoulder. The edges of a tattoo are visible on her right shoulder, rising from beneath the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing. “The farthest I ran away was to here. And I don’t think it counts as running away when everyone knows where you are and you’re gonna go to college.”

"But you got a tattoo," the Dane notes with a chuckle. "I've never had the courage for that. I have wanted to, but I pass out hard even from having blood drawn."

"That's silly," says Solange X Maledicta, formerly known as Jeniffer. "It's just a pin prick. My dad says only little kids are scared of needles."

Ravn grimaces lightly and rubs at his wrist; there's a piece of skin visible between glove and sleeve, and there are obvious splotches of blue. "Well, maybe some day your dad and I can talk about neuropathy and sensitivity to skin stimuli."

"I don't think so," the child informs him solemnly. "My dad says all you immigrants need to leave. Also Mrs Vásquez in school and I think that's stupid because she is very nice. Do you want to buy a cup of cocoa, miss?"

“It didn’t hurt that much.” Jules straightens, tugging that side of her top to let them both get a look at the full tattoo: a salmon curved into a circle, in the style common to the indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest. “You should tell your dad he’s a bigot,” she suggests brightly. “My wallet’s at home, but maybe Mister Appleguard here will spot me?”

"Oh, I believe I can do that," Ravn says with a smile; he wouldn't carry his wallet in a pair of track pants either. He slips the girl another dollar bill and looks at Jules' tattoo with genuine admiration. "I like those designs. They are a lot more -- how to put it, they have more weight than many contemporary things. I tend to like things that show you the culture they originated in -- as long as that culture isn't Hollywood."

Quelle surprise, the man's a historian. And at least Solange X Maledicta, she who will some day be known as Don't Call Me Fucking Jeniffer, does not try to short-change Jules on the cocoa. Her father may be a bigot but -- well, maybe she's too young to know what one is. "My dad says a lot of things," she tells the woman. "And my mum tells him to shut up a lot."

“Thanks.” Jules looks pleased with the response. “I drew it myself, when I first started working at the hatchery. Salmon are important to us.” She sets her shirt aright, then holds on t her hands for the cocoa. “Thanks,” she says, this time for the hot chocolate. “Sounds like your mom is a smart woman.”

"Salmon hatchery? Up in, "Ravn has to force himself to not smile, "Humptulips? I heard there is one. I heard that's pretty much all there is."

"There's also houses," says the girl, helpfully. "My dad's family lives there."

Maybe it's a warning.

“Hah. No.” That name will never not be funny. “Quinault Nation runs a couple. Thanks for the cocoa— I’m gonna go get a hot shower to warm up.” And wash off the cold sweat, but that goes without saying. Jules lifts her free hand in a wave, and off she goes.

"She's nice," Solange X Maledicta, blue-eyed and yellow-curled, and formally known as Jeniffer 'my mum can't spell' Heston, informs Ravn. The pretty little girl seems to be the kind that has filters -- she's got an entire collection of them, at home, under her bed where her parents can't force her to apply them. "My dad says brown people are lazy and greedy. My mom says my dad is an idiot."

Ravn sips his cocoa -- it's actually quite good, for store bought and re-heated -- and chuckles as he glances after Jules as she disappears towards her house. "I'm inclined to agree with her. Your father is a bigot. But it's fine -- you know you can listen to adults and make up your own mind, right?"

Apparently it's a quick shower, because Jules comes back out not much later, now bundled up in a hat, puffy jacket, and sweatpants. Her hands are empty; the cocoa's long gone. "I'd like one more please," she pronounces grandly as she reaches Jeniffer -- excuse me, Solange -- producing a dollar bill from her pocket. She glances at Ravn, asking, "You want more, too? I do owe you, now." It's undoubtedly a good thing she didn't hear the part about brown people being lazy.

"I suppose I could do another for the high school fund of Solange X Maledicta," Ravn replies, amused -- and having the grace to play along.

"I'm not going to high school," the girl informs him, patiently; it's not her fault that adults are a bit slow on the uptake. "I'm running away to Paris to become a lesbian industrial sculptor, remember?"

"That might require you to be a little older than high school," Ravn points out, and then wonders if there's any point to attempting to explain things like visas and work permits and expat life on the whole, to a ten year old with a flight of fancy and some words she probably doesn't understand. "You may also have to learn to speak French."

"No, that's all right," says Solange X Maledicta very patiently. "Anyone who's worth talking to speaks English. My dad says so."

"I thought it was LA," says Jules, contributing another couple bucks to the enterprising little lesbian industrial sculptor in training. "What does your mom say?" she adds then, because it's been established that the dad is a dick.

"No le escuches, es un idiota." The girl's answer is bright and prompt and learned by rote -- which seems to imply she's heard it a lot of times.

Isi is coming to visit Ravn. That is her full excuse to be on Oak at all. Little girl lesbian dreams are not. Jules gets eye warily. Yes, she is recognized but Isi is still processing that trauma.

Laughter bursts out of Jules, loud and bright. She may not speak Spanish, but the response doesn't need translation. "I think I like your mom," she tells the girl with a grin. "You should definitely listen to her." That smile disappears straight away when Isi appears, replaced with startled recognition. Her eyes are a bit wide as she quietly offers, "Hey."

Ravn's range of Spanish boils down to half a dozen platitudes he has taught himself from a book largely to annoy Chief de la Vega by pronouncing them wrong. He doesn't understand either -- but like Jules, gets enough of the joke to laugh softly behind one gloved hand.

Then he raises that hand in a greeting wave to Isi -- and wonders if he missed a cue somewhere, because for some reason both women are giving each other the 'are you dangerous' eye, and last time he checked, war had not broken out. No one ever tells him these things. "You two have met, then?"

"Hi," says Solange X Maledicta and looks up at Isi. "Are you going to buy a mug of cocoa, or are you also one of those no-good, lazy immigrants that take our women and our jobs?"

"Go fuck yourself." Isi, not the favorite of parents who don't want their children to swear. "Maybe you should fucking go back where you came from."

Deliberately she turns her back on the kid. "I had a gun to my head when we last met."

Just rip the bandaid off.

"Oh my God I am going to punch this dude in the face if I ever meet him," mutters Jules, likely not quite quiet enough to keep it from the hearing of this sharp little girl. And mild, compared to what Isi has to say. It's the bluntness of the latter statement that gives her pause, though. "Yeah," she finally says, eyes on Isi instead of Ravn. "Right before Christmas. I don't think it counts as meeting."

"I come from that house," Solange X Maledicta, future industrial artist, patiently informs Isi's back; whatever terror this kid might be, she's certainly unflappable. And not particularly bothered by not making that sale; she's done good already.

"I might help you distract him," Ravn blithely tells Jules. "He does sound like a piece of work."

Then what Isi said registers and the Dane quirks an eyebrow. "There's too much of that going around lately; my arm still hurts after getting shot last week. What happened?"

Child gets the middle finger and Jules eyed carefully like danger might spontaneously pop from her. Isi has been balancing on a knife's edge since before Christmas' events, not that Jules would know it.

"It's why that fucking Nazi dream flipped me so badly. Went to buy a Christmas gift - won't do that again - and some fucker decided he needed a PS5 so badly it was worth holding up the store for." Isi looks away from Jules at that, staring up the street without any particular destination in mind.

"I peed my pants when he pointed that gun at me." Jules shares her embarrassment quietly, as if somehow that will make it better. She has the grace to stop staring at Isi and concentrate on her cocoa instead, then her feet. "You held up better than I did."

Technically, she peed her pants before the shotgun was leveled in her direction, but who's counting. Details get muddled when one's memory is all a haze of terror.

Ravn winces and nods. "And then people decided to shoot even more people. Yes. I have to say, I don't think I'll go home and look at the hall in quite the same way again, either. Living history is -- I kind of prefer to learn about some of it from books, not going to lie."

He glances at the kid; and maybe by some random stroke of fortune, this is when a female voice calls out from that house over there, "Jeniffer! ¡Es hora de cenar!"

"I have to go," says Solange X Maledicta. "But I will be back later. And you are not very nice." The latter is her parting salute to Isi -- take that, and be forever heartbroken.

"I don't think anyone's to blame for not holding it together when someone's pointing a bloody gun at them," the Dane murmurs quietly. "I know I sure as hell don't."

Isi was not looking at Jules' crotch during that encounter and couldn't say when the peeing happened.

She's not looking at Jules' crotch now either, just for the record. Or Ravn's. Seriously, people who look there are creepers and WHY would you look there? It's usually covered in clothing anyway.

Ahem, back to the point.

Child gets ignored as she leaves off to go back to the house... of a Mexican mother? Or worker? Who knows. This town is weird. "Yeah." And that's where Isi'd like to leave it. "Isi." Name offered up rather than be 'that woman who was held at gunpoint by PS5 guy.

Jules is all too happy to never talk about this ever again. "Jules," she says in return. Then, lightbulb. "Oh -- is this the person you were talking about?" She looks at Ravn, now a little less freaked and a little more intrigued. "The person you said was from the Yakama Nation?" She remembered.

"I said I think she is Yakama, yes." Ravn actually looks a bit sheepish. "I'm not going to insult either of you by pretending I know what I'm talking about. But yes, when I was suggesting talking to someone about your missing things, it was Isi Cameron I had in mind."

"Yakama, yes." Correct spelling and everything, good job Ravn. Isi shoves her hands into her pocket and eyes Jules. "In this town I'm not sure it's a good thing for people to be looking for me. He," a head jerk towards Ravn the folkloreist, "is a magnet for the shit that goes on around here."

Now Jules will look at Isi again. "I'm from the Quinault res." Maybe this gets Ravn off the hook. "I went back up there after the-- thing, but I swear to god, everyone and their second cousin knew what had happened and felt the need to come check in. Including my ex. Fuck that shit. Anyway." She is not lingering here, quick to move right along. "My roommate's asshole ancestor stole stuff back in the day from the local villages, and we're going to try to find it. I read more of that book, by the way." This is for Ravn. "He really is an asshole."

"I want to diplomatically suggest that colonisers generally do think they're in their God-given right, and that the mentality of the era matters," Ravn murmurs with a somewhat lopsided smile. "But while that's all well and good from a historian's perspective, I suspect it matters jack all to the people who were actually affected, and I wouldn't exactly expect either of you to feel very sorry for some thieving white dude who lived a century or more ago, either. Fill us in?"

Isi taps her toe slowly. Her relationship with her native heritage is a little more complicated but this isn't the time to go into it. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she glances between Jules and Ravn at the information. "What makes you think it's here in Gray Harbor?"

"You can take that diplomatic suggestion and shove it up your ass. That's how I feel about anyone defending the thieving white assholes who came and stole our shit and stole our land and gave us smallpox and dictated how we were supposed to live from here on out on our little parcels of land." Jules does not look impressed as she stares at Ravn. "And if you think this is all the mentality of a bygone era, then I have news for you." The questions keep her from launching into a longer tirade -- and by the sounds of it, she's on the verge of doing so. "Because the spirit of the dead asshole shoved his memoirs at me, but you're right, he could have taken things back to Seattle. That's where he left his wife and children, and that's where Una's from. My roommate."

"This is the 'matters jack all' part," Ravn points out, stoic in the face of that onslaught. "You want my help as a historian, you got it -- decided that you don't want it after all, just say so and I'll wander off to return this cocoa mug. I'm not going to pretend I can think and feel like a First Nations member because I am not one. I'm also not a 19th century settler, and while I am in fact a thief, native artefacts are not on my C.V."

"I like you." Isi declares. Poor Ravn, both women here think that the diplomacy of his statement can find a nice tall cliff and jump off of it.

"So you're looking at Ravn for history studies - why would Ravn point you at me?" A glance at Ravn then back to Jules. "I can guarantee nothing ended up on the Yakama reservation. It would've gotten handed back a couple treaties or memorandum of understandings ago."

"Then why even bring it up? If you don't want to be an apologist, then don't be one." Jules isn't wavering on this point. Nor is she going to start looking guilty anytime soon.

For Isi, there's a small, lopsided smile. "Obviously all Indians know about each other's business even when our people are separated by a mountain range or two." Nope, not apologizing.

"Because you're both First Nations people in a town that thrives on myths. If the Veil has anything to do with Una's ancestor turning into a ghost, local legends are going to crawl out of the floors to get involved. So comparing notes and knowing what you're dealing with seems like a bloody good idea." Ravn shrugs. "But don't let me stop the two of you from friend-bonding in mutual hate. Call me if you need me, I'll see you around otherwise."

He puts the cocoa mug on the little lemonade (well, cocoa) stand and turns to walk on. He lives around here, after all.

"Don't be a shithead Ravn." Isi replies but doesn't reach out to snag him. His no-touch aura is BIG. "He's right. I'v seen the Thunderbird show up and if other legends are going to start coming out. It's probably more likely our stories aren't so far off from one another. It's only half a state."

This is when Jules rolls her eyes. "Oh my god, me telling you how not to offend us should not make you this pissy." She's not about to drag Ravn back either, in her determination to not take responsibility for white fragile feelings. She does let out one hell of a sigh, though. "Yeah. I mean, Thunderbird's a thing out here too. I haven't seen any stories come to life, but this Veil-thing Ravn's told me about puts a whole lot of stuff in context. I now have zero plans to go out in the forest alone at night."

Pause. "Not that I did before-hand."

"The Veil doesn't give a shit about your hurt feelings." Ravn shrugs but does at least pause. "Worse yet? The Veil likes your hurt feelings. You get your pants in a twist over a white historian pointing out that this guy probably didn't see himself as an asshole? You just gave the Others the instruction manual, How To Break Jules, and they sure as hell will use it."

He hitches a shoulder. "And as for me, personally? White guilt, privilege guilt is a thing, and it's a thing that they have been throwing at me a lot lately. So, no, I'm not playing this game. You want what help I can provide, you're welcome to it. But I can guarantee you that none of my ancestors were around here at the time we're talking about, so I refuse to be made to feel guilty for the actions of people I had no influence over, on basis of not being born yet."

"It's true," Isi replies "His ancestors have a whole other shame." One which earns Ravn a look as Isi does not elaborate on the shame that Ravn gets to deal with.

"Too bad it's not just the forest that fucks up. You can be in your bed and them bam, You're suddenly in a European country staring down a hell hound."

"And I'm saying I have a right to call the dude an asshole and not be corrected for it." Jules visibly struggles not to keep going; those further retorts, they're on the tip of her tongue. She takes a deep breath that's supposed to be cleansing. Change of subject. "I would rather not be in Europe staring down a hell hound. That sounds like the opposite of fun. I'll try to keep it in mind."

"The hell hound's just the ghost of the guy who built the place, he's harmless." Ravn shrugs. "But collaborating with the Nazi occupation forces is just one bullet point of the list of awful things my family has gotten up to, over eight hundred and fifty years. I refuse to take responsibility for the actions of others. If Solange X Maledicta's racist asshole dad was to come out and start anything, I'd gladly step up and punch him in the face for you. But it's an important historical fact that this fucking asshole ancestor of Una's likely didn't feel guilty in the slightest: That is a vital point when it comes to determining what he did with the things he stole."

He doesn't seem to have any objections to the guy being called an asshole. That was never the point.

Assholes are shitty. It's a scientific fact. Not even a metaphor in some cases.

"So what can I do to help? As long as I don't get shot at I can give it... a try. Or something. Like see if the town bought any shit or something? I can probably get ahold of those records."

Jules may have missed that point.

However: "So how is it important that asshole doesn't think he was an asshole? Serious question. Like, how would that potentially change how we figure this out? I was assuming he either kept them for himself or donated them. I haven't actually gotten that far in the book. Here's what I know so far: panning for gold was too much work, so this guy passed himself off as a local guide." This gets to Isi's question. "That would be awesome. I don't know the first thing about this town. I just got here-- so if you know how to pull records to look people up, what we know is that this guy, Albert Irving, was here in the 1860s. That house," she points, "is from the Irving family. It's where I'm living right now."

"It's important for exactly that reason," Ravn notes to Jules. "If Mr Allbutt Earwig felt terribly bad about what he did, he might try to make amends. He may have left vital clues in that book of yours, hoping that his descendants will make things right. If he was just grumpy he never managed to get enough money, he probably left it all somewhere considerably harder to find -- and may even have tried to rig the place against thieves and intruders. So if we have an idea of what his motivations were, what kind of man he was, we might be able to extrapolate some of his choices. This is why historians and archeologists try to construct not just the physical evidence of the past, but also the culture that went with it -- distasteful as it can be."

Isi reaches upwards and scratches at the back of her head. "Yeah sure. If you get me some names and dates or whatever I can do a search through the archives. After the last monh I'm on light duty anyway."

Because no one wants Isi to have a mental breakdown in the office. Last time was the ~worst~.

She pats herself down and pulls out a pen and a receipt. A number is scribbled down ant then shoves it at Jules. "If you lose it he knows it." So no excuse for not texting her with the deets.

"Well, so far he's not feeling bad at all. Maybe that changes towards the end of the book. I guess I'll find out." Once again, Jules sighs. One: she is not a fast reader. Two: Mr. Irving does not make it any easier. Jules pockets the strap of paper that Isi hands over, promising, "I'll text you as soon as I'm back inside, and then you'll have my number too." She takes a step away, then. "I guess I'll get back at it. There's still a lot of book to go. As it likes to remind me." Insert eye roll.

"Asshole ancestor can't or won't materialise in a way that I can speak with him, so I'm no use in that regard. And when it comes to actual, very local history, I'm not your man either -- probably some of the old folks around town you want, or the local archives." Ravn tugs his coat up around his ears. "What I am good at is stories and narratives. And connecting people, which is kind what I just did. Let me know if I can be of any other help -- I'll leave you to it otherwise."

"Sure." Isi says and then as Ravn begins to walk away follows after. She actually had a reason for invading the folkloreist's space. "Have a favor to ask you?" Traillllllllll after.

Goodbye is overrated Jules, so Isi doesn't offer one."