2022-01-16 - The Second Oldest Profession

Olympia National Park has rangers, goes the saying in Gray Harbor. Firefly Forest ranges itself.

It doesn't, obviously. It's just that a lot of the things that happen in Firefly Forest happen without requesting the permission of park rangers, land owners, or anyone else. Everyone who's been in town for a while knows to avoid the hell out of the old lumber mill, no matter how much it's marked as a site of historical interest. There may be a rumour going around that it is in fact less haunted after Storm Cimaron this summer -- but who's idiot enough to go test that properly? Who's volunteering to be dipped in bacon grease and tossed into the shark tank?

The vast majority of Gray Harbor residents have no idea that there is such a thing as the Veil, or the shine. And yet even they know that there are places in the woods to avoid. That the stories of ghosts and monsters aren't just stories. And local history does prove them right: There was a mass murderer lining the bay with shoals of bodies back in nineteen hundred whatever, and there was a culling of the Addington family tree just a few years back, and pass the marshmallows and tell the one about the Slenderman again, Bob.

The chosen few who do have the shine -- the Art, the Song, the Glimmer, the Fire, whatever term strikes their fancy -- do know (or learn) quickly that there are things in the woods. It's just that there are also things in the street, at the library, at the Safeway, and under the floor boards. On the grand scale of survival, it doesn't really matter if your face is eaten by a grue or by a gremlin.

People have all kinds of reasons to go to the woods. Today's obvious reason is a bit of a kerfuffle between park rangers, a couple of superiors from the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, and local hunters: A white elk has been seen in a dell off the Chehalis -- it has no name on the map but at least one local hunter will tell you that the dell is known locally as Dead Squaw Creek. Hunters want to take home an unusual trophy; rangers and wildlife conversationists want to protect it; and then there's the whole issue of the First Nations folks in the region: Does anyone even know whether the Yakama or the Quinault consider albinoid animals to be sacred?

According to some, it's the kind of weird little clusterfuck that has Veil written all over it. To others, just an excuse for a nice wintery walk in the woods, maybe spot an unusual animal, maybe get to tell some prick with a hunting rifle to go back to shooting fish in a barrel.

Whatever someone's reason might be, to be in the woods near Dead Squaw Creek today, one is not alone. The dell is secluded -- sitting in the foothills of the Olympic Mountains (for which the Olympia National Forest is named, quelle surprise), it is sheltered, and has only one easily accessible entrance point. It's obvious, from wheel tracks and foot prints in the snow, that a number of people have entered, in spite of park rangers putting up a sign asking people not to.

One might argue that to some people, a sign like that is a written invitation.

And to those who shine, it might be -- but so is the sensation, the slight vibration in the air, that something is off about all of this. Off enough, perhaps, to lure people out here to see for themselves, to investigate, to identify the threat before it is too late to act upon it.

Sometimes Itzhak gets a bug in his ear, a tiny singing humming droning thing, attached via a microscopic silk thread to... Whatever the Other Side wants him to see.

He tries to ignore it until he finds himself closing shop too early, cursing and flinging things around because today is not the day and tomorrow ain't looking great either. Then he's in his big glitter-orange shop truck (named Marigold but don't laugh), and then he's hiking up to the sign that politely asks him to not go beyond it.

Such signs are absolutely not for him. He's the gantzeh makher and he'll decide which signs have the right to tell him what to do. So Itzhak spares the sign only an irritated glance before he's tromping on past it.

Why yes, the most North Western Pacific native tribes do think albino creatures are special. They are spirits and should not be messed with.

Isi heard the rumor of the sighting at work and so after donning a nice bright orange vest and putting a leash on her dog Elsa, she goes into the forest. She has a vague sense of the direction and so goes for it, letting Elsa's nose do most of the leading.

The dog is a smart pupper and upon seeing another person, hi Itzhak, she starts to bark and excited greeting.

PEOPLE SMELLS WALK

BEST DAY EVER.

Who can resist the allure of possibly seeing a white elk? Something like that is a once in a life time experience, and Monroe isn't about to pass it up. Of course, that means bringing along his mini-me, Alfie, who's excited to get to go out and explore the forest, a bit. The pair are decked out in worn winter gear that's seen better days as far as the fashion of it, but still holds up well, and Monroe's even been sensible enough to tie back his hair in a silk scarf before sliding a cap over it. They lack safety vests, but the faded red of Monroe's coat and the bright orange of Alfie's make sure they at least aren't likely to be mistaken for deer.

Monroe even has his messenger bag, painted with summer flowers and trees, which currently holds hot cocoa, water and home made energy bars enough for an afternoon on the trail. Around his neck, a black camera bag that's a bit scuffed and battered, also painted here and there with flowers.

The sign isn't even noticed by Monroe as Alfie gets excited and rushes ahead of him to see Isi's dog, drawing up short at Monroe's loud, "Oi! What did I say about not getting separated?" The Received Pronunciation accent seems a little out of place with Monroe's vocabulary. He hurries to catch up with his little brother, who's stopped a safe distance from Isi and Elsa, hands behind his back, looking, well, excited. Dog, after all.

"Sorry." is Alfie's not at all contrite reply.

How did Aidan end up here? Honestly, he's not entirely sure. He hasn't even heard about the elk. More like Itzhak's boat, maybe, but less consciously; it isn't until he finds himself in the forest instead of the diner that the draw of it suddenly becomes obvious, like background static suddenly resolving into speech. If it were, what it would be saying is: come and see.

See what, he isn't sure, but it's pushed at the back of his mind all day, until he finds himself following those tracks in the snow right past the 'please do not' sign that he doesn't even seem to notice, wrapping the big fluffy lavender faux-fur coat more tightly around himself against the cold as he goes. He's got gloves on, and a long rainbow scarf, not to mention the perfectly serviceable sweater (navy, patterned with sheep) and dark red jeans under there, but the air today is biting through it all.

The visible signs of people there before him are joined by the audible signs of people there with him, and he glances up from them to the others around, flashing them a quick, bright grin. Some people he recognizes, some he doesn't -- that's about par, with all the turnover in this town. Also? Dog! "Hey," he greets the others at large, though only Elsa gets that I-want-to-pet-you look. Thankfully.

This is not Garrett's jurisdiction, strictly speaking, what with Firefly Forest not actually being a National Park. But, he's local, and an interested party, and maybe someone showing up in uniform can make some people be less stupid? Only time will tell.

And so Garrett does tromp in, later than the rest in the green pants and heavy green coat over the tell-tale gray shirt of a national park forest ranger. Absent is the accessory belt because, again, off duty, and he pauses as he sees how many people have beat him here.

"Hey," he greets everybody and nobody in particular, offering a wave before gravitating, perhaps unconsciously, towards the only familiar face; Isi. "Guessing you all aren't here for the winter jamboree?"

There's a couple of gents from the Fish and Wildlife Service arguing with a couple of local hunters in a copse near the signs politely asking people to not enter, and the entrance to the dell. The argument is not particularly quiet, and anyone with any kind of interest can easily tell the crux of the matter: The Fish and Wildlife Service guys are under orders to try to keep people out of that little dell with the ominous name -- and the hunters are arguing that they have every damn right to go in there, given that elk is not a protected species.

Next to them, a teenage girl -- familiar to some as Vicky Barrett of wildlife, animal. and nature protection fame -- is handing out very quickly printed fliers to anyone not quick enough to escape, detailing how albino animals are sacred to the First Nations people of the region. She's quite eagerly lecturing an older fellow with a sheep dog that Dead Squaw Creek is in fact a horribly racist name for the place. 'Squaw' is a derogatory term -- and no doubt the valley got its name because some trapper abused and killed some unfortunate native woman. Vicky Barrett has no sources for this claim but she's never been one to let source validation get in the way of a good crusade.

The sheep dog quickly bores. It should be on a leash but it's not -- and then it's gone, bounding away into the dell with excited leaps, passing Itzhak and Alfie and anyone else who's in its way with gleeful enthusiasm.

To no one's surprise whatsoever, Elsa the German Shepherd wants to pursue -- and so does a few other dogs, because it's a nice winter day for a walk in the woods, and why not bring your hunting dog when you're hoping to track an elk?

Maybe they feel it too, the dogs -- a strange pull, as if something in there, beyond the copse, nestled between the cliffs in the dell, something is about to happen. It's not an unfamiliar feeling to people who have lived near a thin spot for some time; like the other shoe is about to drop, only when it does, something is probably going to happen.

'Something' near a thin spot is rarely a free box of donuts.

It's easy enough to slip past the Fish and Wildlife Service guys (even more so when one wears an actual park ranger uniform or walks right behind someone who does). A look can't hurt. Right?

Right. And the sudden crack of thunder from a clear sky, accompanied by lightning striking -- something -- in there is certainly enticing for a closer look. More so, perhaps, because no one else seems to notice. In the little throng of rangers and curious locals at the copse, only the ones with some kind of Art, Song, Fire, Shine, whatever seem to notice.

One of those few is Vicky Barrett. And like the sheep dog before her, she seems to suddenly decide that the only way to find out what's going on here is to make a dash for it. She takes off in hot pursuit, dashing in between the trees and leaving a cloud of poorly printed fliers gently drifting towards the ground to land like rather awkward petals on the snow.

When Alfie starts running towards Elsa the dog, of course, wants to go meet the little boy. So she yanks on the leash but Elsa is a BIG German Shepard and so Isi yanks back and tells her to SIT, stay. Then up to Alfie (And Aiden, because she sees that want-to-pet gaze), "If you come slowly and show her the back of your hand to sniff then you can -" Fuck, what?!

Elsa has been told to sit and so she is a good doggie who does what she has been trained in, but her eyes are turned away from Alfie pets and towards where the sheep-dog went.

Isi now has a pamphlet in her hand and STARES at Vicky- "Is your white fucking ass trying to tell me about my own culture?" Her feelings about littering are going to be put to one side as she single- handed crinkles the flier and throws it in the girl's face.

Garrett gets a shrug. "I heard a rumor there was something going on up here so Elsa and I," giving the dog's name, "came."

Itzhak mutters, "Shit," as lightning pops, then, "hey, Aidan. The rest of youse guys," he glances sharply yet tiredly at the others who he doesn't know but whose Song he can hear, "stay behind me, yeah? Vicky, sweetheart, not now, go home."

He knows her because she came to the garage to make sure he was disposing of tires and oil correctly. Itzhak hadn't taken it well. There may have been yelling. There may also have been a 'gift card' for the Griz (actually a piece of cardboard folded around a tenner) anonymously donated to her family's mailbox the next day.

Of course she doesn't listen to him now any more than she did then. "Shit!" And what, is he not gonna go after her? He's after her before her fliers can litter the forest floor.

Dogs! So many good dogs! They're all good dogs! Garrett is slightly distracted at first. Because, you know. Dogs. Isi and her snap at Vicky pull him back to reality, though, and he holds his tongue, giving the girl a look that seems to do 'tread lightly'.

"Hopefully there's not much to see," he says to Isi. "Just some hunters being discouraged... from..." He trails off, blinking a few times. "You see that?" he asks Isi, nodding towards the lightning. No time to wait for an answer, though, because shit! People are running off into the woods chasing dogs and/or lightning strikes and even if this isn't his jurisdiction, Garrett is absolutely not doing nothing while folks dash off into the woods.

Without a word, he's taking off towards the trees.

"Sorry, he's... easily excited." Monroe smiles at Isi apologetically as he catches up, putting a hand on Alfie's head and pressing down, ever so gently. "Don't go rushing off like that, we'll get separated and then I'll never find you." it's said softly, but there's real worry in his tone.

"Sorry." is the reply from Alfie, more impatient than apologetic, still. Alfie's own accent, less British than Monroe's, is out to play in that one word. He offers out a hand to Elsa, only for his head to whip up at the sound. As does his older sibling's, the pair staring off in the direction it came from with similar expressions.

"... We're going to go chase a little girl through the woods and end up on the ten o'clock news, aren't we?" Monroe asks no one in particular, sounding resigned.

"If we could like... not though," Isi with a wry comment.

If Vicky Barrett had stayed still long enough to hear Isi's indignant outburst she might actually have felt a little sheepish. Vicky, after all, is so white that she could be used for a phosphorescent night light, and she was just caught trying to lecture an indigenous woman on the meaning of the term 'squaw'. Not a good look for the crusading teen, well intentioned as she may be; maybe it's a good thing she was in such a hurry to take off.

Her sneakers pound the path down through the copse, towards the little river that cuts through the dell, emerging from a cave mouth at the far end. It's not far -- no further, at least, than the girl runs only for a short time before she stops. Vicky Barrett is a girl with a mission but she is not stupid. If the park rangers have secured the entrance to the dell, there are not supposed to be people here.

They might be hunters, come for the white elk. She takes a deep breath. No one shoots a white elk on her watch. Or any other elk.

That moment of hesitation is what allows the others -- humans and dogs alike -- to catch up as she tries to catch her breath, leaning against a tall maple amidst the spruces and the firs. This is conifer country but exceptions do occur, and this one -- is tall and beautiful, enough that if one was to agree to meet somewhere in the woods, 'meet me by the big old maple' might actually be a thing.

Maybe it is a thing for the gentleman who stands there, back towards Vicky and her pursuers. A handsome man in his fifties, maybe sixties -- long silver beard, almost Santa Claus-reminiscent, in a tailored winter coat with dark fur trim. He rests one hand on a walking stick, and everything about his three-piece suit indicates that he is a man of wealth and taste -- definitely not someone you'd expect to meet in a secluded wooden dell, having snuck past the rangers and the hunters and the dogs, somehow.

"I know you," Vicky blurts out. "You're the guy from the boardwalk."

"Goodness," says the man and turns around, surprised. His voice is a deep and pleasant baritone, and his accent is definitely not American (though what it is exactly is a little difficult to pinpoint; it's probably not British either, thought it might have a hint of Wales, or of Dublin, perhaps). "If it isn't the little lady with the papers. What was it again, protesting deep sea trawls? What are you doing here? You turn around and go home now, there's a good lass."

"I know this guy," the girl repeats. "I was handing out fliers at the boardwalk the other day and this guy is walking around with some other guy, and they're kind of looking weird at other people who do the thing."

She looks back at the people who followed her. "You know. The thing. The magic thing. Like us."

Itzhak is none too slow to get between Vicky and the handsome old fellow. You'd think she was his own niece, the way he bristles. "The Song," he mutters, the thing, you know, the magic thing like us. "Who the hell are you, pal, huh? What's going on?" No respect for age.

"Wait, you shouldn't-!" and then Alfie's off like a bolt of lightning, himself, chasing after Vicky, or Itzhak, or Garrett... listen, there's a bridge and Alfie's gonna fall off it while lecturing everyone else about not jumping off bridges. The kid is fast, small, and hard to catch when he's in a mood, and that mood is now. There's a girl running into danger, and Alfie, despite having a non-binary older sibling for a guardian, still has a lot of that crap drilled into his head from his parents and school about how girls should be protected.

"... Dammit! Take your eyes off 'em for a bloody second... Alfie!" His voice rises, a note of fear creeping into it as he calls after his only remaining family, breaking into a run. Monroe is after his brother, not quite as fast, but Monroe has the benefit of much longer legs... though Alfie does a lot more running, of the pair, and in a forest, the extra height can be as much a hindrance as a help...

But catch up, Monroe does... because Alfie has stopped behind Vicki, grabbing at her arm. "We shouldn't be down here. We should go back!"

"You're... Alfie... so grounded." Monroe manages, taking deep breaths of cold air.

Garrett is only a few steps behind Itzhak. He doesn't recognize the man at all, but he can read a room and, well, there's surely no harm in putting one's self between the young girl and the old man of mysterious origin. He stays quiet, letting Itzhak talk. And then Itzhak does talk, and Garrett maybe slightly regrets that particular choice.

"Nobody is supposed to be down here," he informs the older gent in his London accent, sparing a quick glance towards Vicky and Alfie that clearly reads 'that goes for you, too'.

"My name, good sir, is Haggleford. Carnelian Haggleford, at your service." The gentleman Santa -- a lesser term will not suffice -- appears entirely unbothered by the way Itzhak gets all but up in his face. He holds his walking stick in one hand, nonchalantly, and looks warm and snug in his furlined, tailored winter coat. Everything about this man screams, I am a man in control of my situation. He is someone who belongs in a high end mansion -- not out in the woods in the middle of nowhere.

"And what's going on, I believe, is that a number of people are hunting a specter moose. Which is entirely ridiculous, I say -- those things are only supposed to appear in Maine." The man shrugs, as if to berate the hunters and thrill seekers of Gray Harbor for getting both state and creature wrong."

"It's an elk," Vicky Barrett supplies. "A sacred elk."

"Young lady," returns Mr Haggleford. "I rather do believe I know what a specter moose looks like, thank you very much."

Then he looks at Garrett and more so at Garrett's park ranger attire, before lighting up in a brilliant smile at the man. "My good sir, how about I conclude my business and remove myself from your little patch of land here? No one wants trouble, and as you can probably see, I am not a hunter."

The walking stick probably isn't a concealed hunting rifle. The man continues to smile; it's the kind of smile that sells used cars and men's deodorant, or, given the quality of his suit, perhaps luxury cars and high end cologne. "Unless of course you insist that I depart immediately, in which case I regret to say, then I can't quite take my specter moose with me, can I now?"

"It's an elk," Vicky mutters. She may have wanted to say more (when does Vicky Barrett not want to say more?) but lightning from a clear blue sky cuts her off. Thunder rolls, echoing back and forth between the mountain walls surrounding the dell, deafening, ominous.

"Oh, very good," says Mr Haggleford and looks at a gold watch chained to his vest. "All on schedule, I do like it. I believe that leaves -- a few minutes, officer. Where were we?"

"Okay, Haggleford," Itzhak sneers, because Haggleford is exactly the kind of guy who makes him want to slash a few tires out of sheer inadequacy, "why don't you get the fuck oudda here before you get hurt? Vicky, for Christ's sake go home!"

There's another kid around here isn't there? Itzhak's sure he saw another kid, but that's when thunder rolls across the forest like an enormous marble pastry pin.

Itzhak looks up, against his better judgement. "...spectral moose? The hell is that." Pay no mind to the way his hands fold into big knobbly fists, ink on each knuckle: S T A Y and D O W N.

"I couldn't just let her run off..." Alfie's voice has a note of whining in it, now. He doesn't want to be grounded. Again, Alfie tugs on Vicky's sleeve, more insistently now. "We shouldn't be down here." he tells her, his voice more urgent now, trying to lead the girl further back.

Monroe also steps between Vicky and Alfie, and Haggleford, too. "What leaves in a few minutes?" Monroe asks, his accent more pronounced, and perhaps a bit less polished as he becomes agitated, green eyes narrowing. "It's not your elk, that's why people are here. It doesn't belong to anyone, it's its own being, and should be allowed to live its life protected from harm."

Monroe has yet to realise what they just did. Some day, they will look back at this date and say, well, there's being nice and there's asking for it; and they definitely just asked to be signed up for every future Vicky Barrett crusade ever. She will drop fliers in their mailbox. She will find Monroe on Friendzone and tag them in every clean energy / pet rescue / save the whales / shelter fund raising drive / campaign against microplast / vegan recipe thread / discrimination issue / nature conservation effort and Supernatural fan fiction post on the internet from now on (she really likes Misha Collins, never mind that the actor is twice her age; he writes cool stuff on Twitter and fronts a charity, the definition of Cool Old Dude). She will bring Monroe sustainable, vegan lentil and hazelnut cookies with politically woke brand names. She will expect Monroe to eat them. She will expect him to like them.

She's not thrilled that Monroe steps between her and the older gentleman. She's also used to it. People have done this every time Vicky looks like she might be sucking in her breath, ever since that time she emptied a barrel of paint on the shoes of a lady wearing authentic snakeskin boots, and maybe it's better this way because she got in quite a lot of trouble that time.

Carnelian Haggleford misses this entire chain of events playing out on Vicky Barrett's face. He is looking at Itzhak with that mildly patronising air of a man who has decided to be polite because really, cussing up a storm is so prole, but what he secretly wants to do is tell this other man to piss the hell off to Pissville, and when he gets there, keep right on pissin'. Only, with a British upper class accent.

"My good man," says he, patiently. "I know very well what a spectre moose is, thank you very much. It is a bull moose, Alces alces, white of colour, fifteen feet tall, weighing in at 2,500 pounds, and first described to your kind in the New York Times in the year 1899. I should know, I was there. And you, good sirs, are standing where a temporal portal is about to open, so unless you actually want to be taken to the year 1899 when the lightning strikes the spectre moose, I suggest you move."

A dog barks, further down the path. The sound of a sheep dog chasing one hell of a sheep is coming closer. The skies rumble overhead, like thunder brewing.

"Moose don't grow that big," says Vicky Barrett and stubbornly goes nowhere. Well, maybe she does take one step back. No harm in letting Itzhak Rosencrantz occupy the space between herself and the weird old guy in the suit.

"Tell that to him," says Haggleford, with a chuckle in his silvery beard.

And indeed, there he is -- a bull moose, pristine white like the first snow of winter. Definitely not an elk, and definitely far larger than the six to seven feet across the shoulders of a normal bull. He trots, with an almost annoyed expression, towards the little copse and the majestic maple -- with a cheerful sheep dog chasing him, hopping behind him, nipping at his heels and thinking that this is the best game ever.

"Right on time," says Mr Haggleford. "Though I really had hoped there would be more of you. And older."

Isi had to pause because dog needed to sniff that thing over there RIGHT JUST THEN, so when she catches up it is with her out of breath and Elsa very very happy.

Oh, a person! Elsa trots right up to Haggleford, sniffs his boots, then pees on them. Isi wines, "Sorry, still working... but you are some fucking dream thing right?" She just saw the white spirit elk and decides abruptly, "I take it back, pee again Elsa."

The dog doesn't obey and instead wants to go at the elk and yanks at the leash to do just that.

Monroe will probably like them all. He looks like a bit of a hippie, after all. Okay, maybe not the Supernatural fanfic, but the rest of it?

But all of that is forgotten when the moose steps into the copse. Monroe takes a step back, which will, of course, mean that Vicky and Alfie will probably need to step back again, lest they get bowled over by a tall, skinny enby and end up entangled in those curls. "Bloody hell." is hissed between his teeth.

Which is, of course, met by a soft, "Language." from Alfie. He doesn't like it when Monroe curses, apparently. And he can't properly see the elk, moose, whatever it is, from his vantage to understand why that (fairly mild) language is appropriate in this instance.

"So wait, you intend to go back in time with a giant moose?"

Itzhak immediately bristles; your kind and New York usually combine to form unfortunate implications. "Listen, pal--"

That's almost certainly a prelude to a punch in the teeth, but Itzhak does move. A little. Just enough to give him a really good view of the spirit elk. He stares. Looks around at Isi and Monroe to check if they see it too. The thing is almost twice as tall as he is.

The look on Haggleford's face when Elsa the German Shepherd simply sits down in front of him, lifts her tail, and pisses on his expensive boots is priceless. It's a still in time, the image that will burn itself into a retina, the kind that you take back out forty years later and go, 'oh, that time with the old guy in the woods and the spirit moose, do you remember his face when the dog . . .'

Maybe he can be forgiven for not answering Monroe's inquiry. After all, there is a German Shepherd pissing on his very expensive boots.

The white moose is a formidable sight to behold. At least twice as big as any mundane moose-coloured moose, he is white as virginal snow on a winter morning. His eyes are dark -- not the blood red or pale blue of an albino, but a deep, dark brown. His bearing, the way he keeps his large head high, is proud; he is the king of the forest, threatened by neither wolf nor man.

And certainly not by the little group of humans by the maple tree, nor by the dog that pulls on its leash to go play with him, nor the one dancing and bouncing around his hind legs. The moose can't be bothered to even acknowledge the sheep dog at his heels.

He is the king of his world.

Lightning flashes overhead. For one heartbeat, everything turns a blinding shade of white. The laws of physics take one look at the situation and collectively nope out.

Vicky Barrett rubs her eyes to regain her sight, and then says softly, "Oh no."

The moose continues his trot down the hill, unperturbed by dogs, people, and the large, charred impact crater on the ground wherein lies -- the moose. There's two of him now. One that died when lightning struck from a clear blue sky, who lies smouldering in the snow -- and one that just kept right on walking. Maybe that's how it works for spirit animals.

Schröedinger's Moose is dead and alive, and the living version proceeds downhill. The dead version stays where it is.

"Oh, jolly good, right on time," says Haggleford and checks his pocket watch again. If he's tempted to launch Elsa into next week with a well aimed kick he manages to not let it show; maybe he really is British because he's certainly got the stiff upper lip game down pat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, sirs, ma'am -- you're obviously not the people I came here for, seeing as that you're all still conscious. I do apologise for the mess but time is short, and I really can't stand around to bicker like farmwives around the village well. People and chickens, never where you need them to be, and all that. Good day to you!"

He starts to walk at a brisk pace -- back towards the rangers and the signs at the entrance to the little dell, all awhile murmuring to himself under his breath in the fashion of a man whose business partners just aren't ever on time, and really, standards, people. Whoever it is he intends to meet -- and what he means to happen to them -- is anyone's guess. There's certainly no visible portal to 1899 or anywhere else where the lightning struck.

Unless, of course, one counts the strange, diffuse flickering between the antlers of the downed moose. It's circular and oddly reminiscent of TV static.

Isi should probably drag her dog back, because that isn't polite and she shouldn't let the animal do that. But holy shit that is a spirit moose right out of her grandmother's stories and just holy shit.

Done peeing Elsa bounds up to go and join the other puppies around and this time Isi stops the dog with a command - eyes still glued on the dead creature. "Holy shit," had to get it out at least once. "What, what the fuck? Where are you going? What is fucking happening? " Sorry Monroe and child, Isi doesn't censor for children.

Itzhak flinches from the lightning. Are they in 1899 now? Why is there a quantum moose? He has so many questions and the man to answer them is walking away. Not for long!

A few long strides after Haggleford and he grabs him by the shoulder to spin him around in what is obviously a well-practiced move. "You ain't going nowhere until you tell me exactly what the fuck is going on!"

No, he's not watching his language either. Hey, he knew way worse as a kid.

There is a squeak of fear at the next strike of lightning, and Alfie grabs hold of Monroe.

The squeak didn't come from Alfie, though, no, it came from his older sibling, who reaches back to grab his little brother's hand. "Whatever happens here, you be ready to run." he tells Alfie softly. "You run, and you don't wait for me."

And Monroe takes another step back, pulling Alfie with him, still watching the big spirit creature, the strange man, and, well, strange men if one includes Itzhak...

"How dare you!"

The outrage is plain on the silver-bearded face of Mr Haggleford. He tears his arm loose with much gusto and indignation; how dare! He all but stands on his toes to get back up in Itzhak's face; the New Yorker has the height advantage by far. "I don't know who you think you are, my boy, but I'll have you know, I am not some harbour doxy for you to grope at your leisure! Bloody Colonials!"

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself; a man must have his dignity. He runs a silvery handkerchief across his brow and glares some more at Itzhak. If Isi and Monroe, never mind Alfie, even register to him anymore he does not let it show; Garrett and Aidan might for all intents and purposes be invisible outright. He smoothes down his coat and glares. "Who do you think you are? I am a legitimate businessman! I paid for those warm bodies!"

Something is off, down where the path leads up to the dell. Elsa notices; the sheep dog circles back because his curiosity, too, is piqued -- and whether any humans present pay heed is anyone's guess; sometimes, a dog has to do the hard work around here. Voices carry on the wind -- worried voices, shouting voices.

It's not far, and Haggleford was already moving in that direction. There are people lying on the ground up there, near the posters warning people not to enter. There are other people buzzing around, some of them park rangers, obviously trying to find out why there are people on the ground.

"Those are who I'm here for," says Haggleford and grips his silver-tipped cane with enthusiasm. "Now be a good boy -- and girls -- and whatever you all are, truly, young people these days, and help me get those bodies into the portal, will you? I'll pay you a nice shiny guinea for your effort! Each!"

What has Garrett even been doing this whole time? Isn't he supposed to be some sort of government official, being helpful? He is. Supposed to be, that is. He has mostly been lost in a thousand-yard-stare interrupted only by the occasional eye twitch. It takes a literal lightning strike to get him to come back to the here and now, and even then, it takes a few moments and a lot of blinking.

"The hell?" Two meese is not what he expected today. Especially not one dead and one trying to get TV reception between its antlers. Mega Moose are not his primary concern, though, and he takes a moment to look at everything going on, and eventually his braon informs him of what's been said so far.

"Listen, mate, you're not taking any bodies anywhere," he informs the 'legitimate businessman', moving up to stand beside Itzhak.

"Elsa?" Isi, seeing her dog go that way, goes too because.... leash. Spying the bodies has her gaping. "So the actual fuck? NO." Turning she puts herself firmly in the way and crossing her arms on her chest. Just no no no.

Itzhak is not dissuaded from shoving Haggleford around. In fact, the schmuck's indignation fires him up. He grabs a fistful of fine shirt and yanks him close. "Where does that portal go? Huh? Where the hell is it you wanna send these people? Don't jerk me off, I'd hate to spoil ya looks!"

Garrett and Isi are backing him up, Monroe is looking after a kid, so for the moment, everything is under control.

"We don't buy warm bodies anymore. Stopped doing that in eighteen bloody thirty three, about a decade or so after we stopped using the guinea, and even the bloody Americans figured it out about thirty years later. So what 'legitimate business' is it that pays for 'warm bodies'? Are you somehow less civilized than a Colonial?" Monroe's own rather posh accent has become, if anything, more pronounced, more proper, more clipped, as if he's picking each word carefully for maximum effect. He's had a lifetime of dealing with men like this, after all, maybe even his descendants.

He's also bristling, freckled skin flushed, not from the cold, but from the growing heat inside that's just begging to be let out, the faintest flickers of energy and heat shaping around his hand.

Alfie actually lets go of his sibling's coat and takes a step back, clearly concerned about whatever's about to happen, "I-I'm gonna... go check on those people." he says softly, following after Isi. Her mouth may be foul, but she seems like she'd look out for a kid, and he doesn't want to see his sibling, or anyone else, hurt someone. Plus the language is just getting positively crude.

It is not difficult to read the face of the silver-bearded gentleman in the three-piece suit. Rarely are indignation and entitlement so firmly expressed, duelling over which gets to occupy his handsome features (and handsome they are, for a guy in his fifties, sixties, something). Carnelian Haggleford is no pushover; this man carries himself like someone who is accustomed to giving orders, to being in charge, to other people trying to please him.

And these pesky people aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing (i.e. stay the hell away and mind their own business, really, what is wrong with these nosy meddlers?).

Those nosy meddlers are blocking the path.

Haggleford opens his mouth -- and then seems to go through a couple of mental evaluations. One of these men in front of him is obviously a park ranger; presumably Garrett is in at least reasonable shape. Another looks like he gets into fights at the drop of a hat; Itzhak has Stay and Down tattooed on his knuckles, and somehow, this is not an indication of a preference for diplomatic solutions. The woman has a German Shepherd on a leash; who knows what Isi has taught that large, toothy animal? And that leaves just the slender youth -- and the air around Monroe shimmers lightly, as if thunder is coalescing in his mind and around him, ready to strike.

Maybe he is evaluating the odds; four to one. Four plus potentially angry, very large dog, that is.

Maybe he is counting the people lying on the ground at the edge of the dell. Six of them total. Maybe he is trying to decide whether they're worth the inevitable confrontation. In the end it's Monroe's face that seems to hold the strongest promise of extreme physical discomfort if one insists on pursuing this course.

"I am not going to fight you on it," the older gentleman declares with the airs of an emperor who has decided to be merciful today. "But I will have you know -- I paid good money to pick up those bodies here, and I will be filing a complaint to corporate! You'll hear of it, I'm sure!"

And on that note, he turns on his heel, setting a course towards the moose corpse with much gusto and intent; a genuine cryptozoid-using, silver-bearded, very indignant Male Karen.

"Fucking Chad," Isi says under her breath - probably just loud enough for Alfie to hear because it wouldn't be fun otherwise. This is about when she realizes Alfie is there too , "Hey, kid," he'd probably older than a kid, and picks up her pace to make sure she stays within arms reach. Let the kid learn how to swear and do bad things? sure. Let the kid get hurt? No thanks, that's not fun, not okay.

Elsa is just happy to be FROLICKING about in the forest with her PERSON and other people, even if they are men, at least one is small enough to be less threatening. (Hi Alfie.)

Said slender youth raises his chin defiantly, the energy continuing to build. Monroe much prefers to heal, but Monroe knows how to make it hurt, and will in defense of others, that much is clear. When Haggleford threatens to talk to corporate, Monroe snorts. "That's what I thought." the energy is held until Haggleford is actually gone from view, and Monroe lets it dissipate without actually using it, shaking his hand as if it was getting a little too hot for comfort.

And then Monroe is moving to check on the people currently on the ground, clearly worried about them, checking their pulses with the experienced ease of an EMT. He has the training, he's just never done much with it, so he might as well put it to use, trusting in others to watch his back for the moment.

"Nice job, kid," Itzhak says like a guy who knows a nice job when he sees one. "Keep an eye on 'em," because he's going jogging after Haggleford, boots crunching through the fresh snow.

Absolutely none of his questions have been answered. He's getting rather annoyed by it.

He follows him to the dead moose. "How'd it do that?" he asks, scowling. Acting stupider than he is, maybe that will shake some answers loose. Not that he actually knows. But the live one is trotting away and Itzhak wants to go meet that mystery too.

Monroe does not need to look at the bodies on the ground for long to put together a few facts: They're unconscious, and there is no visible reason for them to be -- and also, they reek of the whatever it is that makes magic happen. Whatever knocked them out -- whatever was in that ball of lightning that struck down the moose and seemingly split it into two -- was not natural; it's probably going to make an appearance on Nature's Most Wanted list shortly, upsetting nature deities and spirits everywhere. Paranormal criminologists are going to have a field day making a psychological profiling and sending out an interdimensional alert for reckless spell casting with the potential to risk lives.

It doesn't hurt to put people in the safety position while waiting for the inevitable paramedics but apart from that, there is not really a lot that can be done about them. The Veil is probably going to rationalise this away, later, as a case of collective wrong-mushroom-eating, or some kind of stomach flu. Heaven only knows what the First Nations people talking about spirit elks will think.

A ranger thanks Monroe for helping, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. He's one of Garrett's colleagues but the next forest over, and he's new on the job. He knows what to do about poachers and what to do about drunk kids having pot parties in the woods and shooting their fathers' guns, but giant white ghost meese weren't covered on Park Ranger 101.

The dogs don't care about much of this at all. They're happily running off into the dell to chase the moose that ran off -- and they'll probably be back in a couple of hours. Dirty, tired, having had a great time.

Haggleford heads right for the downed moose, as if he knows exactly where he's going. A man like him would not turn around and explain himself if yelled at or threatened. Someone not too bright to show off to, though? Don't tell his ego twice.

"Simple temporal mechanics," the silver-bearded man rumbles as he strides along. "The energy of the lightning strike combined with the narrative power of the spirit cryptozoid, make sure that both occupy the same space-time continuum and directing the resulting force to open a portal to I don't know why I'm even expecting some unwashed lumberjack from this place to understand anything at all. Here, hold this in the proper position."

He yanks the dead moose's head up and twists it; the air between the antlers shimmers and flickers like heatwaves or TV static. "Now I'm going to walk through here," Haggleford declares and fixes bright blue eyes on the other man's greys. "And you are going to be a really smart human boy and not try to stop me. Or you're going to be a not very smart human boy and try, and I am going to lay you flat for three weeks recovering while you pray that you never meet someone like me again. You won this round. Don't tempt your luck."

Itzhak's lip curls in a sneer that heralds trouble. He grabs the poor dead moose's head, holding it for Haggleford. Staring him down, squinting from the eye contact, he tilts the antlers for him. "Stop you? Get out of my town. Don't. Come. Back."

"Don't stand there, these people are going to need emergency medical care. Radio for ambulances, six unconscious individuals, reason unknown. They're going to need transport to the nearest hospital to get checked out by actual medical professionals instead of someone with first aid training." Monroe takes charge of the scene, assigning jobs to various people milling about, so no one's assuming 'someone else' is handling it. It's cold, these people are on the ground and they're stable but who knows how long that will last.

Someone is sent to the end of the path to lead the way back once the ambulances arrive, someone else is sent to Monroe's car with Alfie to fetch the emergency blankets he keeps in the hatchback in case of a break down or this exact sort of situation. He could probably wake one of them, but it's better to let mundane medicine handle it unless it's currently life threatening. Haggleford, Itzhak and the others are currently entirely out of his mind unless they make the mistake of coming between him and his charges.

Haggleford is the kind of man who needs the last word -- every time. Some men are capable of just packing up and going home when their work is done (or not getting done, as the case may be). Some men go through life not caring one bit what some stranger thinks of them. And some men can't quite cope with the idea that somewhere, some yokel might have given them attitude. Haggleford is obviously in the latter category.

"Don't flatter yourself, son," he sneers. "You win a battle, I fight to win the war."

He swings a leg into the static -- that really is the best description for the weird, wavering air between those giant moose horns. Once his foot, wearing a lovely, hand-sown leather shoe, makes contact, the entire man seems to fade from sight.

The static flickers, and then dies out. Itzhak is left to stand fuming next to the body of a --

-- white elk. Not a moose, and certainly not a moose twice as big or more than an ordinary moose. It's a regular elk, the kind that's native to the region, a perfectly normal animal, but for the fact that he's white. Albinoid, probably. And indisputably dead; it's charred where the lightning struck it, and the air is starting to smell like a good pot roast, mixing with the less pleasant twang of singed fur.

Calls are made. Ambulances are called; unconscious people are taken away. The scene is nothing if not chaotic -- and yet, to a select few people present, it is watching the Veil revision in action.

You go into a wooded dell to see a giant spirit moose get struck by lightning, while people drop like flies at the command of some other-world, or at least other-time sorcerer in a three-piece suit. You leave the wooden dell hearing rangers talking about freak lightning knocking people off their feet, and really, what a shame about that poor white elk, the First Nations people are going to be upset about that. A few people need to go to hospital for a checkup but mostly, it's just bumped heads and no idea what hit me, officer, everything just went dark.

Where did the other moose go? Where did Haggleford return to? What was the whole point?

Maybe some day there will be answers. It's another day in Gray Harbor, and as so often before, it's a matter of counting losses and wins. Loss: No idea what the hell just happened. Win: No one but the elk died.