2022-03-28 - Off to Grandmother’s House We Go

Una's been pretty quiet in the backseat, all the way here: she's got a disposable tray of cinnamon rolls wrapped in foil on her lap, and has mostly been staring out of the window at the passing scenery, the towns smaller and smaller as they go. City-dweller as she has been for most of her life, this is a whole new world, and not entirely a comfortable one.

Jules' grandparents' house draws an even longer glance, as they pull up: Una outright studies it, though whether it's what she expected (quite possibly not; let's be honest) or not, there's no real indication of that in her expression. Her seatbelt is undone with a click, and, "So this is where you grew up? It's nice."

In Della's hands, her silvery-bronze Prius is a smooth ride: braking and acceleration gradual enough to get good mileage and avoid jolting her passengers, but not so much as to piss off other drivers; she's all for the scenic option, plus the sights Jules points out, and though technically she breaks the speed limit, it's really more of a dent. Music's mellow, too.

When she pulls over, it's on the street, not in Jules' brother's spot.

There's her jacket and the flowers to collect from the trunk, but when it comes to getting out and getting going, she takes her cue from her housemate -- like so much today, likely.

Ravn has no objections to sharing the backseat with Una. The Dane isn't particularly keen on driving, and he has no intention of commenting on anyone else's driving, either. Besides, this is the first time during his almost two years in the States that he has actually managed to enter indigenous lands (insofar, the pedant in him points out, everything here was once indigenous lands, but the Quinault Reservation is at least partially self-governed -- as far as he knows, which is not very far).

He wonders why he was expecting to see something out of movies like Thunderheart, presenting the Lakota Reservations in the worst possible light. He's glad to be disappointed. And for some reason, Buffy St Marie's Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee keeps playing on repeat in his mind.

And on some level, it reminds him of home. "My country is full of villages like this one. A few hundred people, maybe a thousand. I'd kind of gotten used to the American standards of Gray Harbor and its eighteen thousand residents is small. In Denmark, eighteen thousand is a decent sized provincial city."

In the backseat, Una might not be able to see Jules' look, but it says it all. 'Nice' is not how she would describe Taholah. "There's about eight hundred people here," she says briefly. "Maybe two thousand or so in the Q-I-N altogether. The town needs to move because of climate change." She unbuckles and gets out, standing there a minute at the passenger door to let everyone get their bearings. Then she heads for the front door, which is already opening. "Hey, Grandma. These are my friends I told you about. Una, Della, and Ravn."

Una can't see Jules' expression, and perhaps that's for the best: she's on edge already, perhaps as much because this is Jules' grandparents they're visiting (grandparents are foreign things, for Una, having had none of her own until her grandmother died) as because of the size of the town, or the fact that this is, indeed, a reservation. For Una, who has never left the United States, this is as close to 'foreign' as she's gotten-- excepting Gray Harbor itself, which was foreign enough for a while, even if it now feels quite normal.

Still. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs Black," says Una, with a warm smile for Ada. "I'm Una Irving. I've brought you some cinnamon rolls, fresh baked. I hope you like them." She's equally warm for Jules' grandfather, too, and takes a moment to pause and look at the family photos-- her expression? Just a little wistful.

"Thank you, Mrs. Black, and I'm Della," that woman murmurs in turn for the welcome, brown eyes bright: glad to be here, glad to not only see Jules' grandparents but what she's like around them. Look at Jules, getting hugs!

Her own gift isn't homemade, though a few summertime garden flowers have been tucked in with the grocery bouquet: cheerful, colorful, and mostly long-lasting. Except for the garden flowers: one never knows, with those.

She welcomes the handshake just as much, holding his hand with both of hers for just a moment and a nice-to-meet-you; she may give the photos a glance, but she doesn't step away just yet, and she certainly doesn't pull out her camera.

Della goes for the polite and predictable whatever-they're-having, aiming to help with the distribution if Mr. Black will let her. She angles for a spot on the couch nearest the quieter grandparent, too -- which leads to an audible clink at the mushrooms and a surprised, stifled smile. Not that she says anything. She glances between them, her housemates on the way to Ravn, with a flick back to see how Jules' grandmother is taking it on the side.

Ravn falls behind a bit behind on his way in; not because he's busy taking pictures of Taholah -- he isn't, he hasn't even brought his camera -- but because he's busy looking at it. He can see what Jules means about climate change; if the sea levels rise even a little, it's going to be ankle deep here. Something in this makes the town feel even more like home -- which is a strange feeling, all things considered, but there are strong similarities.

Vejle, with its 180k residents, is no small village such as this -- but it is situated where a river meets the sea in the shallows, and climate change is likely to flood it all within a foreseeable future. His native village not far from, maybe 50 people, same kind of far out in the middle of nowhere feel as Taholah. Might flood as well because, let's face it, the whole damn country is old sea bed, and if the water levels rise a whole lot overall, a lot of people in Denmark are going to be living on rafts and boats.

Aaaaand that's his mind wandering off again. He pulls himself together and walks up to join the rest of the group. "Thank you for inviting us into your home," he tells Jules' grandparents. "I'm afraid I've never actually tried that kind of mushroom. Maybe if I had, everything would make a lot more sense than it did at the time."

Una is gracious, all bright smiles, for the coffee she accepts, though she demurs one of her own cinnamon rolls for now. Perched upon the edge of one of the sofas, the redhead wraps both hands around her cup and leans forward, just slightly. "Mushrooms would definitely explain a lot," she agrees, her words arriving just a few moments after Ravn's. "But we try to leave the ones in the garden alone. I'm not even sure where to start. But, specifically... some of us," and taking a lead on this is not particularly natural for Una, but she's also both intent and intense, the words just flowing out of their own accord. "We had a shared Dream experience." The capital 'D' is all-but-audible. "We were animals, at the dawn of time somewhere, and Coyote was stealing fire away from the, uh--"

She's forgotten the word, and glances around the others for backup or addition. Ravn may not have been involved, but he gets a glance too.

For her part, Jules helps pass out coffee once it's brewed, or tea for anyone who would prefer that. They're a coffee drinking household, but there's a couple kinds of teabags kicking around in the pantry. She settles on a chair at the table, leaving the comfier seating for the guests. As for mushrooms -- well, at that, she just rolls her eyes fondly. "Skookum," she supplies when Una stumbles over the word in her explanation. For the benefit of her friends, she adds, "They're one of the bogeymen. There's others too." Oh joy.

Which means Della can't very well observe them both at the same time. Her nod seconds what the others have had to say, but she's new to this too; mostly she's just nursing her coffee, but here she supplies, "We agreed to help Coyote slow down the Skookum," pronounced as Jules pronounced it, but with a certain satisfaction. "We worked together. Coyote ran and ran. But then Fire," no article there, "escaped." Her voice drops; her gaze does too, at least for a moment. "It burned."

Ravn takes mental notes. He is not familiar with the word Skookum in specific -- but no folklorist worth his salt has not heard of Coyote, the trickster. He's also not about to open his mouth and lecture an indigenous family on Coyote, the trickster. Mental notes it is. Things to look up later.

Instead, he watches the Blacks. Somewhat surreptitiously because he doesn't want them to feel he's looking at them like some kind of exhibit. What he's looking for is their reaction; whether they think this is allegorical talk, perhaps, or some kind of spiritual experience. Whether they think it's induced by drugs or herbal infusions, maybe, or -- this is the real point of interest -- whether they know about Dreams.

"And it ended up in the trees," agrees Una, leaning ever so slightly further forward, intent on her story despite her earlier faulty memory. "And I think they kept it. But at least that meant that Skookum didn't. And then we woke up." She nearly knocks over her coffee as she gestures in emphasis, and hastily drops that hand back to the mug.

She is very deliberately not looking at Della, not dwelling on what happened next. Except: "But we all had the same Dream. We were all there, together. I was Squirrel, and Jules was Raven, and Della... Della was Spider. And other people we know were there, too."

At 'Spider,' Della waves somewhat wryly, and... 'Blue Jay,' okay, that deserves a little note. A little tiny note, 'Blu J' on her watch and not her phone. Other than that, though, she's hands off. Bravely.

"I was not in that dream," Ravn replies earnestly. "But I have had other experiences like it. I'm a folklorist -- I am trying to make sense of it all. When Jules aired the possibility that I might have a chance to hear the indigenous take on it all, I jumped. I have plenty books detailing the anglocentric view. I have plenty books detailing anglocentric authors' takes on indigenous myths and legends. None of those can tell me why these dream experiences happen."

He pauses, and thinks of something Jules said before they even left Gray Harbor. "I'm not an author. I study for my own personal interest." No camera, not even a mobile phone in sight (it's in his pocket, granted).

"I don't know what counts as the spirit world, and what doesn't," says Una, after a moment's hesitation in which she seems to be thinking through Ada's remark. "But-- I'd never heard that story before, and yet there I was, in the middle of it. And--"

Ravn's already added his two cents, and Una, now, can't seem to think of any better cents to put in, because her mouth draws together and she hesitates over her words. Finally, in a low and careful voice, "It seems there's power, in those stories. In keeping them alive, and knowing them." She's watching Ada, now, with brows knitting thoughtfully. "Though I suspect they have power of their own, too. Stories are like... viruses, I suppose. Trying to stay alive, even if it means evolving in the process."

Beat. "I mean... something like that. I don't know. I don't speak for anyone but myself."

Della's nodding -- to Una, to Jules' grandmother -- with her fingers locked together around her mug, freed only for a bite after Mrs. Black does; this is the sort of information-scribing she doesn't often deny herself, and it may show.

But Mr. Black. Mr. Black, who doesn't shine -- she hadn't either, but that's not why she's so charmed. And so she looks at Jules' grandmother, his wife.

Mr Black does not shine, but neither did most of the people whose stories, patiently recorded by Ravn's predecessors in the field, who fill the pages of a substantial collection of books, most of which are in storage in Denmark. The oral tradition, the stories of the farmers and shepherds and craftsmen of the 18th and 19th century -- it's not likely that most of those people had any shine at all, but like Mr Black, they knew that there's more to the world than what science can document.

"The fabric that separates myth from the 'normal' world is very thin in Gray Harbor," he offers to Mr Black as an explanation. "But I think we perceive that more now that we live in a world where most people think to explain everything rationally. We have hundreds of thousands of stories like these on record from the early industrial period of Europe as well. It's really not as simple as science wants to make it."

Una is pink-cheeked with pleasure for the compliment, rewarding Ada with a brilliant smile, though she doesn't interrupt the conversation to offer further thanks.

Instead, her attention is captured by Charlie, her brow wrinkling in consideration, though her little nod is likely offered without any real intention: it's just that, yes, that's right. Yes.

"I'm no scientist," Una says then, frowning. "But how do the stories sit next to each other, contradicting each other? Do you just... ignore the inconsistencies and accept that they're all metaphor? Except that they're not, because they're all part of the fabric, aren't they? I'm sorry-- this is where I get a bit lost. My brain wants to try and pin down what's true and what's not, even though I know full well reality is... kind of fluid."

This? This is a folklorist with a PhD in literally exactly this topic, shutting up. And reminding himself to shut up. Repeatedly. Ravn has a lot of opinions on oral traditions and allegories, and the fluidity of narrative. He could talk about those things for hours, if not days.

He didn't come to Taholah to hear himself talk. So he shuts up. It takes effort. There will be frantic journal scribbling, later.

"Truth is a very relative and fluid concept," he settles for. "In my country, the trickster animal spirit is Fox. Unfortunately, most of our pre-Norse legends have been lost."

Pink-- just faint, but visible-- floods Una's cheeks despite the gentleness of Ada's correction; she lifts her chin in acknowledgement, brows knitting as she considers the rest of it. "I... guess so," she allows. Her gaze flicks back towards Ravn, and his remark, too, gets a mere twitch of a nod.

"Okay. Truth is probably not applicable to this situation. Real and not-real aren't quite so... um, finite, I guess. Self-contained. They're as thin as-- well. Everything we've already said." Una's furrowed brow suggests she has more thoughts on this-- or at least, more questions but maybe she's still mulling them over in her head. Thin. Not thin. Less thin. More thin. Real. Unreal.

It's kind of a mindfuck.

This time, she glances back at Charlie. "I think the answer is that it's thinner than it was. But whether it was always thin, or how much, I don't think we can know, can we?"

They're asking questions for her, and so Della stays quiet for the most part, listening, fascinated. But without permitting herself her phone to take notes, and with the cinnamon bun half-finished, shortly there's the faint snap of her purse's magnetized catch undoing; the rough shussh of a zipper; the rustle of an interior bag being unfastened. She slips free a piece of evenweave cloth, needle and thread already attached, and after orienting herself, begins to stitch. Eventually, "Perhaps," offered as possibility, musing into question, "stories might also layer? Like onionskin: thin shapes, but then ever so slightly denser and denser as they reinforce each other where they overlap, changing what can be seen; changing the hand of the fabric, until their reality draws us more than... more than what we think is our everyday. Relative."

"I'm from Denmark," Ravn replies; it would be impolite to not reply though he does remind himself that he did not come here to listen to himself. But nor did he come here to look at Jules' family like zoo exhibits on the other side of some tall, cultural fence. "I study legends and myths. Oral traditions. That is what folklore is -- instructions being handed down from one generation to another. Stories teach us how the world works, how to think, how to perceive the world."

He glances at Jules. Not gonna give a speech here. "I don't know much about indigenous stories from this region. What I do know, or think I know, is that there are places where the worlds touch each other. Sometimes, things bleed through. And the western, the anglocentric world view does not have the proper words to tell this story. We have forgotten how."

"It's a little hard to think of them as interwoven," admits Una, with a little wrinkle to her nose that's not dismissive but rather laden with thought: such deep concentration. "It's-- I mean, yes. Places where the worlds touch each other. I understand that much. But it's still easier, in my head, to suggest that it's bleed through, and that it comes and goes, rather than that... that the two have been woven in to the same whole. That they belong together."

Della's words are acknowledged with a dip of her chin, though the frown remains in place, and along with it, now, a furrow of her brow.

(None of this prevents the curve of Una's smile, covered by her coffee cup but still visible in the gleam of dark eyes, answering Jules. And yet.)

"Ravn's right, though: I think we have forgotten how. We've dismissed a lot as myth and legend and thus not relevant to the world, except that, of course, it is. But it's a bit of mindfu-- it's a tricky thing, I think, retraining brains that haven't been taught to think that way. Not retraining, I guess: just training, in the first place."

Della glances up through her lashes at Ada, charmed, rewarded; she smiles a little smile and resumes her stitching, a geometric pattern that's not black and white but close. It does mean that she misses the byplay between her housemates, but not Una's rephrasing, given her quirked-up smile. She offers a supplement, then, "We haven't looked."

Jules, now, is holding back her smile as Ravn's self-restraint. When he looks her way, there's a little nod of acknowledgment. If it was her doing the swearing, even the not-quite swearing, there would be a comment forthcoming, but Ada's more forgiving with a guest than with her granddaughter. "I think," Jules begins, speaking up for the first time, "what I'd like to know is what do you do with it. Without letting it consume you." Like mom. Jules doesn't say the last part, but her grandparents certainly know what's behind it. "I always thought the stories were just stories."

History teachers, kindred spirits. Ravn has to bite back a smile because he recognises that feeling so well; you're passionate about your field and you want to share the knowledge you're passionate about. That's the whole point of teaching after all -- to get to share that passion.

"Historians made a conscious effort at the end of the 19th century, to preserve similar stories and traditions in my country," he agrees. "We will never know how much we did not manage to save in time. Norse culture was similarly only preserved in part, because their stories and myths were written down almost three hundred years after Christianity, and much was lost in oral tradition."

Una, soft-hearted Una, looks deeply troubled. Oh, it's not that she's unfamiliar with the terrible and bloody (and sickening, to be more precise) history of the people native to her home state, but it's one thing to have been taught the history (as watered down as it so often is in white-washed public school systems, even in liberal Seattle) and another to be hearing it in the context of something that now, suddenly, has a more personal connection. She sits very still, her expression a mask of discomfort and dismay, her eyes just a little wide and wary.

"That's just... it's awful," is what she blurts out, finally. "The way we just colour over everything, and homogenise it until there's nothing left. The damage we've done. It's no wonder you keep your secrets: you have to protect them, and protect yourselves. I wonder how much... that is to say, I wonder if the other side protects itself, too, by deliberately encouraging that separation. It keeps its secrets, too, and maybe it works for it that we know less and less. That we've forgotten so much. Because knowing things prepares us. Because..."

It's pretty obvious, really, the moment when she realises she's rambling, all pink-cheeked and strident in her discomfort. That pink in her cheeks darkens, and her brown eyes drop hurriedly towards her lap again.

Over twenty years ago. Della's lips part; her needle pauses, but then resumes with its little crossed stitches, its intricate but prearranged designs. She does glance briefly at Ravn when he speaks, even then keeping the Blacks in the periphery of her gaze, and all this continues right until... she puts her stitching down; slides forward in her seat as though she might go to Una; and then stops. Sits back. Smooths the fabric once more.

"In Gray Harbor, there is not a choice to go no further," Ravn offers quietly. "The worlds are so close there that if you do not go looking for dreams, dreams find you. To make that choice is to leave the town." He always tells people to leave. They never do.

Could he discuss the importance of secrecy in ritual? Why yes. Does he think this is the time? Absolutely not. "You have stories, then, of monsters? Of old, dark things."

Una. Una, who lives with two women of colour, and probably lives every day with a faint sense of her own white guilt, even though... even though a lot of things. She tries. She tries really hard. Della's not-quite-movement helps; so does Jules' shoulder squeeze.

You are not your ancestors, goes Una's inner monologue. You are trying to be better, and you're doing ok.

"I don't see how we can not go further," is the redhead's opinion, which involves a certain amount of effort on her part: she's trying, so very much. It echoes Ravn, though it's likely that Una has started to blurt out the words without actually listening to the Dane, at least not fully. It's after she's spoken that she nods in his direction. "I don't think we have a choice, no. But it helps to be prepared."

It takes her a moment or two longer, freshly refilled coffee or not, to breathe, and, finally, to say, "It sounds like there's a lot more going on than we could possibly understand in a single sitting. Is there anything you think we absolutely must know? Anything vital?"

Those options. Della's chin lifts; her mouth curves, wry. She's still more intent on listening, on taking it all in -- 'depending on who you are and what story you want to tell' -- but Una's question stirs her to jump in before the river flows too far. "The way you describe it, that going deeper, it's much more appealing than simply keeping oneself... keeping each other intact enough to be gnawed upon." For all that it carries no real emphasis, that last has an underlying bitter, no, acrid tinge.

"Tah-tah-kle'-ah, Owl Woman monsters." Ravn nods his agreement. "That is a Yakama legend that I was looking into lately -- because people claim to have met them, in dreams. They are the same as the Basket Women. Most cultures have stories of giants that walked the Earth first, to whom men were prey." He decides against elaborating -- because this is not the time and place to discuss the symbols inherent in giants of prehistory being allegories for the powers of nature.

"I don't want to be passive," says Una, glancing from one member of her group to the other, and then all the way around to the Blacks, too. "But I don't know that I seek trouble, either. It's more-- I want to be like a stone in the river. I'm ready for it, and maybe it will wear me smooth, but I'm not unprepared for that. I'm also not defenceless, either."

Una's coffee cup has been set down, now, all the better for her to grasp at her legs, one hand on either side of her knees. "I don't know how much you can prepare, except that you need to know that things will happen, and you need to be ready to take what comes. In my experience, which is-- ok, I'll grant you, not that extensive, but maybe more extensive than Jules' or Della's-- I mean, the point is that you don't know what's going to happen. You can't prepare the actuality. But you can prepare how you're going to react to things. How flexible you can be."

She hesitates, and then blurts on: "I don't want to tame anything. But I don't want to be prey, either."

Della's laugh is low: very much more extensive. "Is there a way, a good way," she gives it quotes as well as emphasis, "to live with the dreams without fighting? Like the rock, only more active. Something other than fight, flight or freeze." She adds, here only looking at Jules' grandmother for all that she doesn't let herself lower her voice, "It seemed like part of the issue, for mine at least, was its getting... in. Down below the thinking."

"I second Della's question," Ravn inserts. "The question for us is how to live in Gray Harbor and have this be part of our lives? Not to rule or control it, but also to not hide it and fear it. How to find a state of mind where we can exist door to door with other realities. And on some level, how to make it not about us -- because that is the greatest downfall of western civilisation's world view, that it is centred on the viewer. It took us long enough to accept that the universe might not have Earth as its absolute centre, because it is so hard for us to understand that Man is not the whole point of creation."

"How?" Una's leaning forward again, intent and intense, and her question is a little blunt.

She must realise that, too, because she's hastily adding, "Sorry, I don't mean it like that. I can understand that you can't answer our questions like that; if it were that simple, I guess we'd all have the answers already. But, what I'm really asking is, how can you help us?"

Near-simultaneously, Della looks up. "Please."

Ravn -- man of endless amounts of academia, theories, and trivia -- simply seconds Della's position. "Please. The more perspectives we have, the better we can make good decisions." He's got plenty of opinions and views, but those are not for now. Now is the time to gain another opinion, another set of views, another perspective. And somewhere in there, from all of those different angles and takes, perhaps some day, the best path will emerge.

Or stolen, by certain asshole ancestors.

Una doesn't know if that's what her many-times great-something stole, of course, but the quick intake of breath that follows Ada's final remark, not to mention the way the blood drains from her face, may suggest something of what she's thinking.

She straightens, after a moment, and her expression shifts again, turning more neutral and composed, but it takes her a moment more to be able to shift her focus, and to ask the question that does immediately come to mind.

"Would that work for all of us?" she wonders. "Or just Jules? I suppose... I mean. I guess it's not unique to your culture? I just don't want to feel like I'm taking from you."

"There are ways to cross to the Other Side in Gray Harbor as well. And also of people coming back injured or changed, or having accomplished what they wanted to do." Ravn nods his agreement; this, at least, makes perfect sense to him with what he knows of moving through the Veil and into other, overlapping realities. "I want to hear more about the indigenous way to do this because -- to be blunt -- we're just beginning to learn and the Quinault and Salish have been here for thousands of years so maybe taking a page from that manual is a very good idea. But I do know that we can do this."

Della, with so much to learn on both sides, listens more than looks; she hasn't her phone, can't tap or type, but can stitch. She has to check her tension when ordinarily she wouldn't, but with attention, that's something that can be fixed as she goes. The pattern develops. Here and there -- looking for answers or healing, alcohol, going too far, not necessarily violence, knowing they can do this -- which boils down to quite a few times, she does look up, dark eyes intent. It's the yoga, though, that half-surprises her into a more-than-half-smile.

Jules looks quickly to Una, catching that indrawn breath. Her own eyebrows raise, a speculative look on her face. Chances are, she's thinking along the same lines, too.

Della's nodding through like us and without the Other but at the very end hurries to interject, "How do they tame...," she hesitates, then just leaves off the pronoun altogether. "Hopefully not with real rocks? and..." maybe it shouldn't matter but it matters, this is the meat of it, "What happened with the woman?"

Something softens in Una's expression, and in her stance, too, under the sunny rays of Ada's smile. Maybe she's still got worries and concerns about these new realisations of how desperately bad that ancestor of hers may have been, but for now, there's relief, too: she's managing to be respectful, and not misunderstood in her intentions.

(it is, after all, all about Una-- for her.)

Even so, that doesn't last, for Ada's story leaves the redhead uncertain, her brows knitting all over again. "But they have... so much power. And they can do so much to hurt us." It's not quite a rebuttal: more an expression of concern.

"Some are creatures like us." Ravn nods. He is on board with this; overlapping realities, things on either side are just doing what it takes to survive. "But some delight in hurting us. When a hunter kills a deer, he does not torture it to death slowly for extra pleasure. There are evil things in there." He quirks an eyebrow at Ada, because this is where the monsters live -- not in natural cycles where sometimes, man is prey rather than predator, but in the enjoyment of suffering.

Della sits back, her mouth pulling to one side, but still she listens. And then her eyes widen, her shoulders not relaxing as such but this time, the sideways pull is more of a smile. Even so, carefully, "If you don't mind... in the story, what happened to the woman who was the house po--"

She doesn't drop her needle; she clutches it tighter, pinned between her fingertips, clear shock all over her face and her thrown-back shoulders and flaring on the emotional plane. Her gaze is on Grandmother, so dilated as to be black. On that same channel returns something that isn't quite words, static shaped into a ?!!

Look at Una, wincing again, and looking away - troubled. Clearly, she's far too distracted to notice any kind of reaction coming from Della (so self-focused).

"I wish the good ones, there, would help to protect us from the evil ones." It comes with an abrupt, and frustrated, sigh.

Ravn simply nods. He cannot argue with this. Most human beings, in his experience, care little beyond their immediate circle, and many take active pleasure in hurting others. Why, indeed, would Veil entities be any different?