2022-04-01 - Rites of Spring

Ravn Abildgaard is not a fan of April 1. He is a fan of spring, definitely. Of spring sun, absolutely. He enjoys a good prank or satire as much as the next guy. And that's the issue: Most of those Aprils Fool pranks aren't actually satiric or for that matter, funny. Most of them are just kind of mean gotchas, and the folklorist detests the decline of a tradition that was once one of very few opportunities for the common man to voice concerns about authorities without ending up riding the wooden horse or facing a law suit.

Of course, he admits to himself, he's one of maybe a few thousand people on the planet who sees things like that, and who wants to be a bad egg just spoiling good fun for everyone else. So today, the Dane has retreated to the marina, to go over the paint job on the Vagabond one last time, drink beer in the sun, and generally stay away from pranks. He's still got glitter where he doesn't want to have glitter. He's done his part.

And on the pier sits his life partner, the little black cat. Paint faster, human. We need to get my castle back in the sea.

Further down the pier, there's a man in discussion with another man; and the first man is clearly not getting the best of it. "You're playing a joke on me," accuses Mikaere, who has half a foot on the other man and bulk besides. "She was fine. All of that was working fine. It's just her mast that-- you're playing a joke on me."

They're standing alongside Mikaere's bedraggled-looking Sparkman and Stephens 34, and the news is clearly not good. Whatever the other man has to say goes unheard: unlike Mikaere, he's keeping his voice down to a rather more normal volume, as calm and even as the light swell that keeps the boats rocking back and forth at their moorings. The conversation may go in circles, but not endless ones; this other man, he's said his piece, and there's only so much argument that can be so fruitlessly undertaken.

Disgruntled, far more than dejected or despairing, the tall Kiwi begins to stride back down along the pier.

Ravn just holds up a bottle. No need to say much. Beer. Here.

He's a yachter too, after all, and knows exactly where Mikaere's at. His own Vagabond is a King's Cruiser 33, a boat not so very different from the other man's -- different country of origin but same type of small yacht that can traverse the Atlantic but is built ideally for island hopping somewhere. Large enough to be comfortable, small enough to not be a floating apartment. And any time someone owning a boat this type ends up needing to deal with repairs, there's some local craftsman whose eyes go kaching! because yacht = millionaire, surely.

Beer. Answer to all of life's little problems, in the end-- or so it often seems.

The little storm-cloud hanging above Mikaere's head is not so deep and dense that he's oblivious to the world around him, and, well: beer. No, that doesn't pass him by. He pauses, and then, look there: a tiny little smile. The beer is accepted with a grateful hand, and Mikaere lets out something between a snort and a laugh and a breath, exhaling through his nose and trying not to look too indignant. "We've gone from 'the mast needs some work and there's some patches on the hull' to 'also, your navigation is shot, and I think we better check the rest of the insides, too, because something doesn't feel right. Talk about an April Fool's joke, aye?"

"Have we got to 'my cousin over in Hoquiam has a boat for sale, just saying' yet?" Ravn looks up and can't help a lopsided smile. He knows this song and dance, oh yes. "The only reason I was spared that entire speech last year was that I rented this one. She was considered barely seaworthy and hideous as hell, and had a reputation for having being used as a drug and underage sex party boat. So people assumed I couldn't afford better, so why waste time trying to sell me something proper?"

"I'm expecting that one to pop up the next time I come down, when it turns out there's something else wrong with her. I know my girl; she's solid as a rock inside." Mikaere's own smile is wry, but some of that tension is already seeping away.

The tall Kiwi turns his attention from Ravn to the Vagabond, and gives her an appraising glance. "This her? You've done a good job, if you're not exaggerating that description. Bet you're eager to get back on the water, too."

"She was sound enough. It's a Finnish build from the seventies, and they're still the most common small yacht back home, so I know the type well. She smelled like a drug raid in a whorehouse and she'd been given a paint job in mint, pink and turquoise that had to go, but beneath that? Nothing wrong with her at all. She was said to be kind of haunted too, but I had some friends with special abilities do a -- well, scrubbing of her, to wash off residue, and now she's as good as new. Wasn't actually ghosts, just a lot of bad memories clinging to her." Ravn pats the hull; he likes that damned boat. "I'm not Mr Handy, but I can tighten a couple of screws, replace the rigging rope, and give a boat a fresh coat of paint."

That description draws a snort of laughter from Mikaere, whose visual examination of the boat is now no doubt overlaying that over what's actually there now; it clearly pleases him. "That happens," he agrees, as he glances back at Ravn. "Bad memories. It's not a bad thing to be prepared do with anything that's had more than an owner or two, just in case. The world's full of strong emotions, and that means residue."

He lifts his beer in silent toast, drinks, and only then wonders, "She yours, now, or still rented?"

Ava offered to help with the painting when the time came a while back. Well, the time came and so here she is. It's a rare sight indeed to see Ava dressed down. Especially this down! Jeans with paint already on them, sneakers, and a form fitted black t-shirt with a faded band name on it. It looks quite old. Certainly it's seen better days. Her hair is back in a pair of braids behind her shoulders, and she's wearing a bandana on top of her head to keep the paint from getting in her hair. There's a paint brush looped through her jeans, and she looks ready to go.

"Hey! Hope I'm not too late to help out?" Spotting Mikaere, he gets a wave as well. "You come to help out too?"

Ravn reaches for another beer; he always brings a sixpack because you're never alone on the marina (this is part of what he loves about living on his boat in summer). Cargo pants and t-shirt for him; both stained generously blue in places. "Rosencrantz and I did the main paint job two days back -- now it's find all the little places that need a bit more, or got skipped, or a bloody bird decided to walk on the fresh paint. You're definitely not too late. Definitely not too late for the main job either -- tall tales, horror stories of past repairs, and when we get there, that one time someone went to sleep on the aft deck with a fishing line hooked around a toe just in case, and ended up catching an eight pound trout."

"Ava!" greets Mikaere, toasting her with his beer bottle as well. "Not me; I'm an interloper, drinking the beer intended for hard workers, but for a good cause, I promise. I was a charity case, and Ravn was generous." His clothes aren't paint-splattered, but he's equally dressed down, right down to the jandals-- sorry: flip-flops-- on his feet, and whatever his mood was, he's now cheerfully relaxed (the beer is working).

"An eight pound trout, huh?

"That sounds like a very good way to lose a toe," The doctor notes. As a doctor might. Still, she grins and hops over closer to where the paint is, settling herself down to a crouch. "So look for missed spots and bird sabotage. Got it." Ava grins towards Mik. "Yeah, Ravn has a soft spot for charity cases. It's just the way of him. He's a big ole softy. But, you know what that's like, I get the same vibe off of you."

Ravn circles back to Mikaere's question. "She's still rented, but I got first buyer's rights. I should probably get off my arse and get the paperwork done while I can still get the original asking price -- the owner did hint that if she got in better shape he might ask for more. Which would be pretty hilarious given I'm the one who got her to look like a boat again."

Then he laughs softly and nods. "Friend of mine. Thankfully not me. Tied the line around his toe so he'd feel it if there was a nibble -- and then he dozed off. Which is all fine if you're getting a nibble from a hornfish but trout? They don't nibble. They lunge, and then they pull. He had to have stitches."

Big old softy? Maybe he didn't hear that. Maybe he really is that oblivious. Maybe it's a choice.

"What's a missing toe compared to a great story like that?" suggests Mikaere, grinning broadly. "Though it probably depends on the toe in question. I'm told they really do help with balance." Unlike Ravn, he's not the oblivious type, and makes a face-- the kind of tongue-out, bulging eyes, haka face that Kiwi rugby players demonstrate before a match-- as if to insist, without words, that no, he's a terrifying warrior, not soft at all.

It might work better if he didn't laugh.

"After all that work? You should definitely buy her before he chases a better offer, yet. There's nothing like owning a boat. I bought my girl before I ever bought a house, much to my then-girlfriend's disgust. But I knew I needed her. We just... sparked."

"I imagine that depends on how sane you are," answers Ava with a smirk. "I prefer my big toe to a story about a fish. Call me silly." Her, still dry, brush gets brustled near Mikaere's tongue as he makes that tough guy face, even as she laughs along with him. Oh yes, so terrifying. Then she's shifting off down the dock a little bit to inspect different parts of the boat for stuff that might have been missed.

"Wait? You don't own the Vagabond, Ravn? Are you serious? After all the work you've put into her? Why not?" That seems to genuinely surprise her.

"I just needed a place to stay that wasn't someone's couch. Renting this boat cheap in return for fixing her up made sense at the time. I should probably finalise the sale, though, you're right -- not like I'm getting back on that Greyhound. If I actually end up leaving some day? It'll probably be on her, anyhow." Ravn stretches his legs, flip-flops dangling dangerously over the water.

On top of one of the mooring posts Kitty Pryde sits statue still. Everything is beneath her dignity. And if one of those flying white lunches should happen to land close enough by, well, wouldn't that be a shame?

Ava's brush just makes Mikaere laugh more; so much for scary face!

"There's nothing like knowing you can just put out to sea and be gone in a moment," he agrees, gaze shifting away from Ravn and Mikaere and towards his own boat, much further down the dock. "And having your own space, too. Not that couches-- or spare rooms-- aren't useful in a pinch, and gratefully accepted. Being on land feels a bit like being hemmed in, to me. Why be here, when you can be out there."

"Your cat?"

"Make her yours before someone else does, Ravn. You'll be heartbroken if she gets bought out from under you. Then I'm gonna have to hide a murder because someone will get mad on your behalf and kill the person who did it. It'll be a whole thing. Save us all the trouble, man." Ava laughs. She's moving for the paint now, having found a spot that needs a touch up.

Her eyes drift to the cat. "Opposite, Mik. He's her human. Isn't that right, oh powerful one?"

A green look from the cat to the woman. Somebody here understands how the world works.

"Her human," Ravn confirms. "If she could open tuna cans herself, she wouldn't keep me around."

A green look to him. Whatever, human.

He sips his beer. "Honestly? I like this boat. But there are plenty other good boats in the sea. I should get around to it, but if the owner plays hard to get? I might get one slightly larger, just large enough to have an actual shower. As it is, I'll need to go back to Oak Avenue to wash my hair." A fate worse than death, obviously. "I'm with Mikaere, though -- there's something to being on the water that you can't get on dry land. A feeling of freedom which is kind of silly because of course you can't just drop the moorings and sail away into the sunset never to have a responsibility in the world again, but it feels like you can."

"Fair," allows Mikaere, with an amused grin aimed at Kitty Pryde herself. "That's what they say, isn't it? Dogs have owners, cats have staff. I'd forgotten."

He finds himself a post to lean against, his beer hanging idly from his fingers, and watches Ava work. "Well," he says, laughing. "I mean, that's almost what I did. Granted, it took a few weeks of preparation and organising funding, but the principle was there. If we hadn't gotten caught in that storm-- but of course we did, because I was supposed to be drawn here. Ma always says, you can't run forever."

You can try, though.

"Well, you can partially live on your boat, here on the docks. Like a certain jerk face is doing. Even though he has a perfectly good house with perfectly good neighbors." Ava offers that to Mikaere with absolutely no second meaning and not leaning towards Ravn at all for parts of that statement. "At least for some of the year. Obviously it gets too cold in the winter and she'll have to come out of the water."

Her eyes drift across the boats, then the guys, then finally out towards the water. "Maybe it's because I was born here, but I guess I never felt that draw to soar the seas. Maybe I was born with the need to stay in my blood?"

"More likely the latter." Ravn nods at Ava's observation. "Denmark is the country in the world with the most coastline contra land mass. You can't be an hour's drive from the beach in my country -- just a matter of which beach you're driving towards when you're driving away from another. We're the bottleneck between the Baltic and the Atlantic. It's not really a surprise that everybody has a boat or knows a guy who has a boat. It's a bit weirder, really, that we're also the country in the world with the most horses contra people."

"Once she's back on her feet," murmurs Mikaere, glancing off towards his boat again. "That's what I'll do. But don't worry-- I won't abuse your hospitality that long."

His nod echoes Ravn's, though he's aiming his words towards Ava. "I was born in sight of the sea, and I'm not sure I've ever been more than hour or so from it, not in all my years. But it's in my blood. You're a creature of earth, I suspect, and I'm not."

His beer gets transferred from one hand to the other, amusement limned into his expression. "Horses, really?"

"You aren't abusing it. You have been nothing but a pleasure, so hush." Ava continues to touch up here and there. "I am a creature of the earth. I got my powers young, so the earth and manipulating it has been a part of my memories for as long as I can remember them. That's a big part of me. Plantlife. But, I grew up viewing the water." She gestures out over it. "But, I just never felt the need to escape into it, I guess. It would feel like I was abandoning something." The town, the earth, who knows?

"Oh, I would love a horse. It's not reasonable around town. But it's every little girl's dream growing up, isn't it?"

"That's the thing -- unless you're in one of our few large cities, it's not difficult to get to handle horses as a kid. Every damn woman in the country goes through some teenage phase where they own a horse or rent a horse or otherwise end up spending all day with the damned things. And then you have women with money who need to own a couple of expensive warmblood dressage horses much like the way their boyfriends have to own a Maserati. My fiancée was the latter kind, and I think that horse hated his life." Ravn shakes his head. "I like how everyone in the countryside has some fat pony somewhere on the premises, though."

"Still: wouldn't want to overstay my welcome," says Mikaere, easily. He's certainly the easy-going type on the whole-- which does make him an easy houseguest. (He's housetrained, too!)

"I've ridden horses," he adds, sounding thoughtful but not especially intent. "But that's never been my thing either. My cousins-- they had a farm, down south. Sheep, lots of sheep, and the land's kind of craggy, so horses often work better than anything else. But it was never my thing, not when the water was right there. Sailing, to me, feels like flying, and that's a whole different feeling."

"I had a couple of lessons as a girl, so I know the basics. But that's about it. It's a real shame." Ava looks wistfully sad about that.

"Here, give me the paint, I'm going to go on the inside and check the outer areas around the sides," she offers. There's a little shuffle past Ravn, as she scoops up the can, pouring a little into a cup for herself so she doesn't take off with all of the paint. "Back in a bit!" she calls before hurrying off to work on other parts like a good little worker bee.

"I spent exactly enough time at a couple of boarding schools to pick up who's supposed to be carrying who, and then I had my fiancée trying to get me interested but it just doesn't talk to me. I could see myself maybe working a horse -- ploughing a field or pulling a cart to get somewhere. Trotting around in a circle just seemed like an elaborate and expensive way to bump my balls a lot." Ravn glances after Ava; he'd probably have used another descriptor if she'd stayed within earshot.

Then he glances back at Mikaere. "Staying at her place, yeah? I stayed at Aidan's trailer back when I first came to town. It's not the same, though. Hospitable as people are, you're a guest in their home. Getting back on the boat will be good."

Mikaere's laughter might even be loud enough to catch Ava's attention, even from around the boat, but his words are not. "I hear you," he agrees. "They've a purpose on this earth, and that's a good thing, but beyond that..."

A nod confirms Ravn's question. "I was at the motel, but she heard that and freaked out on me, and-- well, who am I to object to staying somewhere with some actual facilities that doesn't keep being referred to as the 'murder motel'. But it's got to be temporary. She's got her things going on, and the last thing I want is to get in her way. I can kip just about anywhere, but... I'm used to my own space. Mine, specifically. How soon do you think you'll have her back in the water?"

"I'm thinking this week. She can handle the cold," Ravn says and looks at his boat, Finnish in make. "It's the storms that worry me. She can handle high seas but getting thrown against the pier by freak winds? Expensive toothpicks. Pretty sure we're past the winter storms now, though. Might be a bit cold at night as the sea isn't warm yet but that's what space heaters are for, yeah?"

"Storms are always the killer," agrees Mikaere, placidly. "Bad at sea, not so great here, either. They may not be cyclones, but there's still power in them. You've got to respect mother nature and what she can do." His beer gets set down, but only so that he can stroll a few steps down and take another good look at Vagabond. "But it looks like she's in good shape. Space heater, a good blanket, a whisky or two-- you'll be all set. No cares in the world, right?"

"Damn straight. Hell, all she needs then is friends knowing they're welcome to drag a bottle of something down here, spend a summers' night out aft under the stars, borrow a bit of sleeping space if they get too wasted to walk home." Ravn rummages around his pockets for a cigarette. "She sleeps six according to her paperwork. I'd argue that those six had better be damned good friends. But three is easy -- two in the mid-section and one up front."

He fishes out his battered old zippo with the coat-of-arms on and lights the cigarette, then leans back, legs still dangling over the edge of the pier. "I have this dream that some day, I'll meet the kind of girl who won't think it's all too small and primitive and I'm really kind of silly for wanting to stay here. No offence to our good Dr Brennon but, she sure as hell doesn't get why anyone would leave a perfectly good house on Oak Avenue in favour of living on a boat all summer -- and that's how I know that even if our good Dr Brennon was on the market for a boyfriend, we'd never get along."

"Six if they're midgets," concludes Mikaere, with the knowing nod of one who knows full well how tight those accommodations can be. "Three's definitely better. There's no finer way to spend a summer's evening-- or day-- in my opinion."

His laughter is a knowing one, and comes as his fingertips brush almost-but-not-quite over that new paint. When he turns back, it's so he can reclaim his drink, and find himself a seat of his own: all the better to converse at actual eye level. "She's definitely not that type," he agrees, making no comment on her position on the market (whether or not he has any insight, of course, is quite beside the point). "It'd take a special woman. My ex-wife-- no, she never understood. Happy enough to take a day sail, but longer than that, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and have a real shower, and sleep in a real bed. To be fair, it took some getting used to for me, too, actually living aboard. You and me, we're not exactly small men."

Ravn laughs; cigarette smoke fleets away on the wind coming in from the bay. "I wanted to buy a boat back home. Thought it might be something for myself and my fiancee to do together -- I did realise she'd want something more accommodating, so, fine, maybe a catamaran or at least something big enough to have a shower and a decent kitchen. She let me know in no uncertain terms that unless it had a pool out in front and a handsome steward manning the bar, I could go without her, thank you very much. So I didn't, because you know how that goes -- it's not just about the boat. It's about you spend too much time with that boat, I think you love that boat more than me, and so on."

That last remark earns a commiserating look, though. "Yeah. I figure realistically, Vagabond can accommodate three, four people if they don't mind sharing a bedroom. Two, three if everyone is as tall as me -- because whoever gets the prow spot needs to be pretty short."

From Mikaere, a slightly exaggerated wince. "On one hand, I got it," he says. "We were both so busy during the week, so sure, weekends needed to have us time, and obviously the boat was more my thing than hers. But there's me time, too, and that's where things came unravelled a bit. It's so easy to lose yourself in that, and so hard to find the right balance between 'me' and 'us'. I think she'd've preferred me to sell my girl and use the money to buy us a nicer house, on a nicer street, though to her credit she never actually said as much.

He sets his beer between his knees in order to free up his hands, taking off his flip-flops and setting them safely on the wooden pier, leaving no chance they'll fall off and be lost to the depths of Gray Harbor's... harbor. "Cozy," he agrees. "But there's nothing wrong with that, if you're all friendly enough and can deal. It's part of the charm, to my mind. Lean in to the small; embrace it. Shipboard living!"

"I think that's what made me not actually get a boat until I got here, yeah." Ravn decides that Mikaere's decision there might be worth copying and pulls his own flip-flops off as well. He sets them down on the pier next to himself, under the mooring posts upon which sits the cat statue. Come here, flying winged lunches, she is patient. "I ended up feeling that unless we got one that was large and luxurious enough, it'd just be a constant source of arguments. But if what you want is essentially a floating hotel room -- then what's the point of going sailing? You might as well go on a luxury cruise -- not that that's my kind of gig either, but at least you'd be seeing and getting seen. Which I feel is the point of those floating palaces."

He glances out towards the Casino Island. "Not that we don't get our shares of those here in summer, mind. Not quite so many pool in front and four people servant staff ones, but one step down the ladder: The expensive catamarans and yachts with separate rooms, proper bathrooms and kitchens, and whatnot. They're shit in bad weather, and the local Coast Guard blokes get this funny eye twitch at the mention of them."

"At least this town is too small for the cruise ships. Those, I really can't stand-- seeing hundreds or thousands pile off to spend a few hours walking around the city you love, then pile back on again, claiming to have 'done' Auckland. I can't speak to what it's like being on board, because I've never done it, but it's definitely not my scene either. I'll pass on those yachts, too. Half of the time they have no idea what they're doing, and it's just... evasive manoeuvre to make sure you don't get rammed. If we're honest, I'm probably a little suspicious of any boat without a sail, and even those that have one, but mostly don't use it. I'm not saying there's not a joy in being in a speed boat, bumping across the waves, but that's just a whole different thing."

Mikaere adjusts his legs so that one dangles off the edge, and the other curves in towards it, bare foot resting flush against the other thigh. His beer is reclaimed. "This place'll be filling up in another few weeks, mm? The summer crowds diving in."

"Yeah. From Puget Sound down to Olympia, or the other way. The upper middle class on boats." Ravn laughs. "Of course Gray Harbor is trying to draw them in because bloody hell, does the town need tourist money. But that doesn't mean we have to like them, you know?"

He sips his beer. "My home town of Vejle is at the bottom of a long, narrow fjord. Water's too shallow for the big cruise ships. The next city over, Fredericia, is about half the size -- situated where that fjord meets the Little Belt where the Baltic opens up into the Atlantic. Not so wide, maybe two, three kilometres on average, but deep. So the huge American cruise ships 'doing Europe' put in there, and the day trippers get bussed to the nearest other cities because no provincial Danish city can handle all of those. Cruise ship days are a nightmare -- loud American tourists of the very worst kind, everywhere. Not people like you meet on the street here who are just people, you know, who happen to have a PNW accent. I'm talking Hawaii shirt, fake-ass Ray Bans, floppy sun hats and cheap Japanese cameras, complaining about everything and calling everything 'cute but so quaint."

"That's the problem with tourist towns. Can't live without 'em, but that doesn't mean we can't hate them, anyway," agrees Mikaere.

There's a little twitch in his eye at that phrase, 'doing Europe', that suggests the tall Kiwi knows exactly the kind of tourists this story relates to, and sure enough, that's played out in actuality, and results in a shake of his head. "I know the type. The ones who come to New Zealand and exclaim about how they had no idea it would be winter and not summer, and how quaint that we won't take their dollars and have our own 'play money' dollars, and... I suppose there's something in how big this country is, and how much it focuses on itself. Maybe that makes it easy to forget the rest of the world exists in its own way. Denmark and New Zealand, we're both too small to be considered as much more than an after-thought. Half the Americans think we're just another island or two off of Australia."

Quietly, "I like to hope they learn something, though, amidst their quests for McDonalds, and exactly the same brand of clothing they can get at home."

"Or the ones who think that it's New Zealand there on the other side of Funen, it says Zealand on their map." Ravn makes a face, laughing. "It does. Because old bloody Zealand -- one of them, might be the one in the Netherlands too. I've met Chinese tourists who thought they'd gone to Australia because Zealand. And then of course there's the whole Austria slash Australia mess."

He pauses. And then blurt-snorts, "My all-time favourite, though, was a bloke from somewhere in the Midwest who genuinely thought sailing on the Baltic Ocean is dangerous due to the polar bears. And that the Lapps hunt them, in kayaks."

Mikaere chokes-- and then hoots -- with laughter, first for 'Zealand' and then, too, for the polar-bear-hunting-Lapps. "In kayaks," he says, between breaths. "Ah, fuck me. Fuck."

It takes him a few more moments to recompose himself enough to comment in any more detail. "It makes for a good story," he says. "But it's bloody depressing actually living it. And particularly-- this world? It is so full of amazing things. Things that aren't, maybe, dead center on your big cities, or even your big towns. Things that take a bit more perseverance to see. But they miss them. It's never more than skin-deep. This world? It's a good one."

"I'm honestly not even sure who to be white knighting there, the Lapps or the Inuit," Ravn agrees, laughing. "I mean, there are polar bears in Scandinavia -- on the Svalbard islands, north of Norway, which means -- hella close to the North Pole. We do not have them on the mainland, not in Scandinavia, and definitely not in the Baltics. Although I did see a house in Lappish North Sweden once that had a wolverine for a guard dog. One hell of a fence too. Imagine being the burglar there, climbing into someone's yard to see if they maybe got some nice moonshine or a snow scooter worth yoinking and then, hello nurse."

"I mean, my geography's not perfect, but I'm pretty sure there's not much more north you can get, than north of Norway," agrees Mikaere, his tone and expression both expressing the amusement he clearly still feels, even if the laughter has stopped.

"A wolverine, aye? That's one thing we're naturally very short of: predators. New Zealand, land of birds and small mammals, a few reptiles but not the snake-y ones. It'd serve that burglar right, though, which I suppose is the point."

The tall Kiwi lifts his bottle for another drink, and then rolls his shoulders back. Maybe it's not a beautiful summer's day, but it's still not so bad, being out here, by the water, shooting the breeze.

"So, between Australia, where everything wants to murderise you, and Tasmania, where everything is a marsupial and wants to murderise you -- New Zealand was allowed to exist as the demilitarised zone, huh." Ravn snickers. "Actually, do you have quolls? I have a thing for spotted quolls, but I can't remember if they're Tasmania only."

He looks up at the sky. "That part of the world, I've only seen part of the Great Barrier Reef. One of my old man's adventure trips -- so I have no idea what Australia is like, but I've spent a week on a far too fancy glass-bottom floating hotel."

"That's us," agrees Mikaere, with a laugh. "The Antipodean demilitarised zone, where surprisingly little wants to kill you-- not even the enormous, scary-looking weta. No quolls, though. I actually think-- if I'm remembering this correctly-- none of our mammals are actually native. That's probably why the possums are trying to take over. Never trust a small furry animal in an environment it isn't native to; that way leads to disaster, and has a tendency to wipe out your native birds."

A tip of his head towards the other man. "I sailed that way, through the Reef and then out into the islands and beyond. Beautiful part of the world, if diving's your thing, though getting less and less so by the year. For a country so close, though, we're dramatically different over my side of the ditch. If you end up sailing away from this place, one day, do visit."

Ravn glances in a vaguely southwards direction. "My original idea here? Head from New York across to Seattle. Then head south along the west coast until I ran out of coast -- in the Tierra del Fuego. Once all the way down there, get on the first boat out -- whether heading for McMurdo Base or New Zealand. Because it'd be either -- and I'ven't been to neither Antarctica nor New Zealand yet. Of course now I'm not exactly moving and heaven knows if I ever make it down that way but that was the plan in my head. Just work my way south -- came into town in July, figured if I kept moving it wouldn't get too cold to sleep in a bus shelter if necessary, at least not until, well, the south end of South America. Maybe pick up some Spanish on my way down."

He shakes his head. "Don't know if I'd have gone through with it, or ended up boarding a plane somewhere along that line. It's amazing how little I know about the countries on the South American west coast -- Peru, Ecuador, Chile, Colombia. Know enough to know that they might not be the safest places to be a single white guy with a backpack. That was why I headed over here in the first place when I ran out of Europe at Malta -- figured that it might not be a good idea to backpack down through Africa without knowing jack all about where I was going."

"Hellava way to see the world, though. None of the pre-packaged shit; the real deal. I liked that, making my way east from Australia. Fiji, Tahiti, Kiribati; full of tourists if you hit the main towns, sure, but keep away from them, and it's just real people, living out their lives. And for me, that sense of connection: retracing the steps of my ancestors, if not in quite the same kind of boat. But--"

Mikaere pauses, and laughs. "I'll grant you, there's places in this world where it's not particularly safe to be a white guy with a backpack, or even a brown guy with one, particularly when you don't know the language. Still. Still."

"Antarctica, though. It's not a place I'd sail, I grant you, but I'd love to see it. Something completely different again."

"Yeah, no, I don't have the skill or the kind of boat for sailing into arctic waters. But be on an ice breaker? Hell yes. Sailed up the west coast of Greenland on the mail boat -- it doubles as a ferry connecting all the island hamlets. One moment you think you're about to re-enact the Titanic and then you're politely reminded that yes, yes, this is a mail boat, it is also a class one ice breaker." Ravn laughs. "Small bump. Iceberg rammed. Iceberg moves."

"Now that," says Mikaere, sitting up in amusement, "sounds like fun. It's easy to forget that icebergs aren't actually going to take you down, these days, with the right technology in place. It's a reminder that there's a whole lot of world left for me to see." And yet he seems quite content, here, sitting on the pier with the beer; Gray Harbor keeps whom it wants to keep, after all.

"One day," is vague. "For now, I'll take just getting back on the water, in one form or another. Might take one of the fishing cruises. Might even see if there's work on one of them, once I get a feel for the area. Beats going back to a suit-and-tie job."

"I'll stick with my suit and tie job for Copenhagen U as long as they don't care what I wear." Ravn grins slightly. "Or when I work. In fact, as long as my students are happy, they're happy. The only drawback is that I have to be available for them at stupid o'clock because Denmark is nine hours ahead of us here." He glances up at the beach bar, Two if By Sea, overlooking the marina. "Used to do small jobs to pay for bus fare and food but once I realised I was probably not going to be moving on from here any time soon, I got back into tutoring. Need a more steady income for rent."

"That's the best of both worlds," decrees Mikaere. "Aside from the time difference; that sounds shit. A steady income helps. I could survive going back to bar work, as if I were twenty again, but I'd rather not. I was making some pennies sharing my travels, but that's dried up now I'm here, and-- fewer people are walking into my old stuff, too. Even once I've got a visa, I'm not sure how likely a job with city hall is anyway, even if I want to go back to that kind of world. So: something different. I can be flexible."

"Getting a visa and a work permit is not difficult, assuming you don't have a record as a terrorist." Ravn hitches a shoulder and sips his beer. "The Veil wants it to work out for you, you know? I have an Interpol file -- only found out after getting into the US, so I wasn't lying on my visa application. No one's even asked. Of course, I'll grant that it's not people like me that ICE wants to get rid of -- white Europeans with a PhD and a steady income. Might not have gone quite so easily if my name was Carlos."

Mikaere's nod is a shallow one, both acknowledging and not committing to what Ravn's said. Getting a work permit likely won't be difficult; doing so, however, means taking a step that perhaps the Kiwi isn't quite ready for. Home-- wā kāinga-- is more complicated than it sometimes seems.

"What'd you do to get yourself an Interpol file?" he wonders, instead of commenting further on his own situation. "Or am I better off not knowing?"

"My fiancee died. She killed herself driving drunk at night after an argument, crashed her car into a tree. Obviously not my doing -- but her family maintains I drove her to kill herself. And I have enough hits and misses with the law on file -- never actually taken to court or been sentenced, but have been implicated a few times in burglary, theft. Enough that apparently, somebody thought they should at least put on record that it might be fishy. I'm guessing they threw it out to Interpol when I up and left Denmark in a rush with no forwarding address. I'm obviously not that hard to find now, just dial bloody Copenhagen U and ask for my number." Ravn rolls his eyes.

Another even, easy nod from Mikaere answers this explanation; no judgement, clearly, because his expression is open enough and there's not much in it. "Bit of a mess," is his conclusion. "But-- right. Clearly, not actually a risk. Well, I don't even have that kind of incident to my name, so I'll hopefully be good, even without the PhD and the pasty white skin. If I... Well. Depends on what I do, right? How much this place gets its hooks into me. My ma will never forgive me, if I stay, but a bit of distance is sometimes a useful thing."

"I don't think this place cares a whole lot what colour your skin is. Some of the locals do -- we're in a small town in the middle of Nowhere, USA, and this place's got the same kind of small town bigotry any small town does. It just doesn't take a whole lot, because the Veil actually lives by the adage of not seeing colour. It sees power, and if you're the right kind of battery, it doesn't give a fig what your labels are." Ravn hitches a shoulder again.

He draws on his cigarette. "Not going to tell you I haven't heard or seen things. People being a bit less friendly towards someone with a Spanish name or dark skin. A bit of hesitation before helping a guy out. And the usual -- the Quinault, the Yakama, look at all that land and all those government grants and they're making nothing of it, and so on. Don't think there's a place on the planet where no one human sees colour. Local Chief of Police is Mexican, though, it does make a difference."

Though not technically a tourist that so many locals find a necessary evil, Kayden is visiting the town and therefore checks the box on transitory at least. He does feel the need to support the local economy while he's in town, though. Which is why he has found himself with a Ghostwood Cider from the local bar, something nice to enjoy on a sunny spring day while he takes a break from going over past newspaper articles and the like. It's only been a few days since he's arrived, but he's managed to compile a little information about what was going on in the town a few years ago when his sister was here.

Hearing voices out along the marina, Kayden carries his drink with him down the sloped wooden ramp. His two-tone moss green and grown boat shoes provide enough sure footing as he steps and the lack of socks provides the right amount of air flow around his ankles. On top he has on a light blue Oxford and beige khakis. When he rounds the corner to notice the men talking, he pauses to get a feel for the conversation, noting a rather serious tone to their voices even if the words weren't all made out. "Good afternoon," he calls out before lifting the drink to his lips for a swallow. Recognizing Raven, the young man offers a smile of greeting, "Ravn," before turning his gaze towards the one he doesn't know. "I hope I'm not interrupting an important discussion?"

"It's natural, in humans," agrees Mikaere, with a laugh. "I'm used to it. At home, we call the white people Pākehā, and there's more than one person who has decided that's a racist slur. It's good to know that the Veil, as you call it, isn't fussy. Interestingly, my experience with it, back home, has mostly been linked to my heritage; it doesn't surprise me that white people can have the same skills, but it's still not something I'm used to seeing a lot of."

He's dressed down, flip-flops off, beer at the ready. His accent's not local: a kind of rolling, lazy one that it may be possible to identify as Australian, or South African, or New Zealandian (or at a pinch, possibly some brand of English?). The tall man glances up from his conversation, shading his eyes with the hand not holding his beer so that he can peer up at Kayden. "Afternoon to you too. No interruption-- just shooting the shit, really."

"That's because western cultures have spent a millennium streamlining anything supernatural to fit into the framework of either it's church sanctioned miracles or it's superstition." Ravn nods. "So what's left now tends to be New Age weirdness and people grasping in the dark, and some old traditions passed down through time by geeks like me who would have thought it all academical if I could not do some of those things myself. Back home, rich, bored women pay shitloads of money to get to build a shaman drum and sit in a sweat lodge. Sometimes I think, the Quinault here could be the richest region in the state if they'd go into Wellness for Bored White Women."

Without missing a beat as he continues to make his way down the ramp, Kayden turns his attention to Ravn, "I'll have to mention that bit advice to my mother. She's always looking for new wys to supplement our income from the casinos, fishing tours, and beach rentals." There's no venom in the words, just a touch of shared frustration on at least one of the topics. When he gets closer, there are aspects to Kayden's appearance that would lead most locals to notice his Quinault heritage, though he has no discernible voice patterns to lend credence to the assumptions.

When the smile for Ravn's words is turned to the man with the accent, he nods his head, "Kayden Masters. Visitor to town for a little while," he says. "You're not from around here? I'd guess Australia or New Zealand. Have you been in Gray Harbor long?"

Mikaere's nod towards Kayden acknowledges that frustration, and shares it with a ruefulness that shows in his expression, if only for a few moments. "Sell your culture for a few bucks," he agrees. "As if it didn't come from thousands of years of history and experience. Though-- that's probably true most parts of the world that aren't completely homogenised. Tourism. We've all been there."

Without pausing, the Kiwi grins, and adds, "Mikaere Hastings. New Zealand-- not bad, getting that close, though if you'd skipped the 'New Zealand' part I'd have to shank you. Only a few weeks. Waiting for my girl," a nod, then, towards the pier, and presumably one of the boats still in the water (though perhaps not for long), "to be shipshape again."

"I suspect the Quinault don't actually want to be indundated with bored Seattle housewives," Ravn muses. "Otherwise, they'd already be running that grift. Figure it comes with wanting to have, you know, dignity. Not like Mrs O'Hare and Mrs Pendergast out of some gated community suburb would be able to tell a Lakota sun dance from a Tlingit potlatch ceremony. At least not until they realise one involves chaining yourself to the ceiling with rope going through your pecs and the other doesn't."

He draws on his cigarette. "Didn't have you pegged for indigenous," he tells Kayden with a lopsided smile. "But then, it's a big country, and a lot of ethnicities. Me, I've been pegged as anything from Scandinavian over German to Turkish. So, not taking anything for given."

"Well you'd have only been half right," Kayden says to Ravn as he closes the last bit of distance to take up a position at the end of the pier to face the two men. "My mother's Quinault. My father's Scottish with just enough Welsh thrown in to be civil," he says with a soft chuckle. "He's a good man as long as it doesn't sound like you're adding an /e/ when you offer him whisky." He takes another sip from the pint glass before resting the bottom on his left hand as the right holds around the middle.

"It's nice to meet you, Mikaere." A quick gaze over the water at the boats and then Kayden's looking back "Planning to sail back? That promises to be a long trip by yourself." Something Ravn said seems to hit him, "Turkish? Interesting. That's not one I would have thought if I just saw you from across a room. I suppose people go with what they know. The few years of law school I had taught me that no one is ever as simple as the first guess would have you believe."

Ow, says Mikaere's expression: chaining yourself to the ceiling does not sound like his idea of fun. Mind, the tall Kiwi has none of the distinctive facial (or other) tattoos of his native people, so perhaps spirituality-via-pain is distinctly not his deal.

"Ah," he says, with a nod towards Kayden. "Same for me: Ma's Māori, but my dad's heritage is English. I got myself here on my own, so I figure the trip back can't be any more difficult, as long as I pick my seasons. Heading up this way over the winter was not my brightest idea."

"We're all," he adds, "more than the sum of our parts. That's true enough. And fewer and fewer of us are just one thing, too, even if the differences are minute."

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "My heritage is Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, German, Scottish, French -- all of it, really. But to the best of my knowledge, no actual Turks. I was in Spain at the time, and I guess a Danish accent sounds as odd to a Catalán ear as a Turkish one."

He puts the cigarette out and pockets the stub; no throwing it into the bay. "So what's your plans? Both of you? Stay around for a bit and then travel on? I'm not saying it can't be done. I am saying I'll be surprised if you actually end up doing it."

Mikaere's statement of getting here on his own in the winter gets a look of admiration from the half-Quinault. "Despite growing up around water, I never take much to sailing. I mean, I'm not against and I know how to swim. But...being out on a boat in the middle of the ocean where something could go wrong. You have my respect," he says and raises his pint slightly with a nod before taking another sip. "The world is becoming more blended. It's not so much a melting pot anymore but more of a Cuisinart that someone threw all the ingredients into and hit puree."

"Learning to pick out little details about someone's way of speaking is a bit part of law...and journalism. It's often what someone doesn't say that's the key to getting to what you need to know." Kayden seems to pause and think on Ravn's question. "I'm here to find out what happened to my sister. I'll be here as long as that takes," he says matter-of-factly. "It's been difficult finding too many people who've been here more than a year though. The place has history but few I've met have been around for a lot of it."

There's a quirk to Mikaere's mouth, and a tipping forward of his chin that acknowledges Kayden's words. "I don't know as much about your people as I know about my own," he says, "but my understanding is that the natives around here were not as much voyagers, the way my people were. Perhaps it's only natural."

He sets down his beer, the bottle now empty, and rolls his shoulders, stretching them out with each movement. "We'll see," is what he says, as to his plans. "I've nowhere else to be, just now, and not much to go back to, aside from the sense of home, which I am missing. Your sister's missing?"

That, of course, is for Kayden, and it draws the tall Kiwi's heavy brows into a frown. "Sorry to hear that, man."

Ravn has heard at least part of the story of missing Kayden-sister before, so he simply nods, acknowledging the problems the man has run into during his investigations; the infamous Gray Harbor stonewall. "That's unfortunately pretty par for the course here. People who have lived here long enough to know a lot -- don't talk. And the rest of us haven't lived here for a decade. You'll find that in some circles, we talk a lot. But outside of them? Live here seven generations, then we can start talking about this whole 'feeling like a local' thing. There are people here, I swear, who think that proper residents still have a picture of King George on the mantelpiece."

Kayden nods to Ravn, "You have covered it pretty well from what I can tell. Granted, I have only been at it a few days and it has been two years. I didn't expect it to be easy, or I'd have brought a lot fewer clothes," he says finding a bit of humor in the situation to keep his mind focused. Cue the phone picture. Kayden pulls out his cell phone as he replies to the Kiwi, "It's been a couple of years, so the trail's gone cold. She was here for vacation two years ago. What she was doing here, we don't know." Kayen closes the distance and holds out his phone with a picture of a dark-haired woman showing. Her name is Becka," he explains, using the present tense on purpose as if challenging the world to prove him wrong. "Ravn's been here the longest of everyone I've had chance to talk to so far. The Historical Society's records are a mess and I'm having trouble finding newspaper archives from around the time of her visit."

A look of resolve crosses his face and he says something in the Quinault tongue, as if giving himself that extra bit of motivation. "Oh, I'm sorry. Just something my grandmother used to say. Don't let yesterday use up too much of today. I may have hit some walls, but I'm not going to give up already." He tucks the phone back into his pocket and raises the pint to his lips, draining the last of the cider. "So what do the locals or the not-so-local do on the weekends around here?" he asks, seeming to find a more light topic.

"That sounds like most small towns I've ever visited," agrees Mikaere, easily. "You aren't a local until you've a few generations of history-- and woe betide anyone who's parents moved away. I'm accepted in my ma's town as much because of my power as my position as part of the whānau. It doesn't necessarily mean they trust me." He comments on his power easily enough, though aside from that tell-tale indication that he glows-- and does so strongly-- he's never mentioned any specifics.

He leans forward so as to better look at the phone picture Kayden's offering, though unsurprisingly there's no recognition there. "I hope you find her, man," is quietly genuine. "Definitely don't give up. Find what you need to find."

And the rest? He laughs, gesturing towards the pier, the boats, the not-so-distant bar. "More of this, in my experience. This is not a clubbing and partying kind of place, unless maybe you head for the casino. There's a karoke bar, though."

"There's a couple of other bars as well. The Pourhouse's pretty good if you want to drink hard with flannel shirt wearing lumber mill workers. The beach bar will be full of tourists soon but they've got the town's best tater tots." Ravn glances up there. Then he looks back to Kayden. "Might be worth talking to my neighbour, Jules. She's Quinault -- I don't know much about the Quinault in specific, but every place in the world I've been to, the local minority groups tend to know what's up with their own. The police may not have heard of Becka but local indigenous people might well have -- they don't all talk to the police."

Kayden nods in understanding to Mikaere, "You know how that works, I can tell. My mother was...well let's just say she made no friends when she decided to marry my father. I think she has the respect she does because of her job with the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Seattle. She's Quinault to the core, always has been, but she's walking a different path from her family." Chuckling softly, "You can bet though if I'm not back to celebrate Chief Taholah Days, there will be a reckoning!" Not having expected Mikaere to have seen or recognize his sister, there's no disappointment in his expression when he tucks the phone away. "Karaoke? I did my fair share of that in college. The worst part is all the drunk frat boys who think they're the first one to sing 'My Way' to a room full of sorority sisters."

Shaking his head at that memory, he does take interest in the mention of another member of the Nation in tonw. "Jules?" he confirms with Ravn. "I'll have to come around your street then sometime. Was she the one taking pictures of your...surprise gift the other day?" He recalls a woman leaning out of a window but never got her name. "No, you're right about the police or really any government official." Following Ravn's gaze, Kayden nods and holds up his empty glass, "Good local cider too. I can deal with some tourists for good tater tots." His mouth forms into that disarming smile. "Those and fried pickles."

Mikaere seems surprised-- and also faintly amused. "Ma's an academic at the University of Auckland. Māori and Indigenous Education. So I know exactly where you're coming from. Of course, she's a Healer, and a powerful one; for that, and more than that, but still that, she'd never be considered to have abandoned her roots."

He reaches for his empty beer bottle, playing with it idly: it gets turned in his hands, rolled between his fingers. "'Tater tots and fried pickles' sounds like a ridiculously non-food kind of thing to me, but I'll have to take your word for it. I'm sorry, but selling anything as 'tator tots' seems ridiculous."

"That was Della. Right house, though -- she and Jules are both lodging with Una Irving. Not to be confused with Della the Day Manager at the coffee shop who's black and hates me, one of which is not so convenient at times." Ravn makes a face at the memory; his hair still has a faint blue tint to it that he has yet to manage to wash out. He found glitter in his shower this morning.

"I used to have a number of Roma friends back in Germany," he says, circling back. "I won't say every damn Roma in Europe knows each other because obviously they don't. But I will say that if you're looking for one specific bloke who has his reasons to stay out of sight of police and immigration authorities, go ask his cousins and his uncles. But make sure that they believe you're Gyorg's friend, because otherwise, they're going to be giving you at best a stone wall and at worst a very hard time. I don't imagine it's much different here -- you got populations that are used to being treated like shit, they don't expect you to come bearing gifts."

"And if you do come bearing gifts you had best be prepared to sample it yourself first," he finishes for Ravn with an understanding born of experience and history. "You make yourself out to be quite the traveler. I would be interested in hearing some of those stories sometime," he says to Ravn before tilting his head and giving Mikaere an incredulous look. "Do not disparage the fried foods. If you're willing to expand your horizons and try some, the first serving's on me," he says with a tone that makes it clear he cannot fathom anyone not wanting a second or third helping on a good day. "And it does sound like our mothers have a lot in common and who knows but for an ocean, they might have been friends."

His grin is genuine as he checks the time by the wristwatch he wears, a nice see-through into the gears style analog. "Una, you say," Kayden says before turning. You've known her a while?" There's a undertone of a professional quality to the question. "Says she's from Seattle." Perhaps he still isn't convinced. "I'll have to come by. Would be a good chance to meet some more people around here. I do have to check on something in a few minutes, but it was good to meet you, Mikaere, and to see you again Ravn. I'm likely to be around this weekend before the tourists flock into town."

Mikaere knows neither Della, nor Jules, nor Una, and so can have no comment on any of them. Nor on this now-infamous photograph, though given he's probably on Friendzone by now... well. He's probably seen it. These things do travel.

"Oh, there's nothing wrong with fried foods," he tells Kayden with a grin. "It's just these particular ones I'm less familiar with. I agree, on our mothers. In a different life... I'll take you up on that offer, anyway. Inevitably, we'll run into each other." He toasts, with that empty bottle.

"I've known Irving for the time she's been in town," Ravn tells the reporter. "Which is -- three, five months, something. Can't say I knew her in Seattle. Can't say I know anything about Seattle, I only spent a few days there myself." He makes to get up as well. "Ah well. Break's over -- I better go help Brennon with those finishing touches before she thinks I just dumped the whole boat painting on her in favour of drinking beer in the sun."

Tempting, though.