2022-04-11 - Sittin' On (a Boat by) the Dock of the Bay

What is it with these spring nights? Warm and pleasant and --

Nope. April. By the sea. In the north. Try thunderstorm in the distance where the cold weather from the Pacific meets the warm weather from inland, and you'll have fast winds, chills, and the urge to sit under something before the rain begins.

There's life on the marina, though -- people going for a walk before the inevitable rain begins to fall, as well as the few yachters whose boats are already in the water. Ravn Abildgaard is one of the latter -- sitting in the aft end of his Vagabond with a cold beer and a book. What really draws the eye to that particular small yacht, though, is the black cat sitting in the prow.

She's not a statue. She is Kitty Pryde, queen of the ocean, majestrix of the sea and the sky, ruler of all things feline, terror of all things small and squeaky -- you get it.

Della's dark boots aren't particularly squeaky, not even on concrete; that doesn't mean that the old wood of the dock doesn't creak as she passes along, half an eye for whatever residents might have left beyond the pilings but mostly looking through the forest of masts and higher, higher. Her long coat's hood's thrown back, though her shoulders have scrunched up a touch as though she might still change her mind on that. Her scarf's--

Never mind that; there's a more-than-figurehead sitting there, and the human woman pauses some steps off. Then a step or two that's less closer than it is out of the way of whoever might pass by, her head cocked. There's still no cat at the Irving house. (Unless there's a ghost who hasn't yet introduced herself.) But, look: cat. "You look familiar," is low, amused.

A familiar haunt of the summer backyards of Oak One, Three, and Five -- the black cat and her identical-but-lynx-sized counterpart, the Uncat. This is the smaller (and presumably not supernatural) half of the duo. An ear twists, and a green glance is turned towards the voice. A slow blink. You are seen, human. Unless you happen to carry half a side of tuna in there somewhere, this is the acknowledgement you warrant.

Ravn on the other hand looks up from where he is sitting. It's never quite quiet on the marina; the creaking of lines and hulls, the waves drumming lightly on wood and glass fibre, the wind, the seagulls -- but these are familiar white noise as far as he is concerned, and Della's voice is not. "Out for a walk?" the Dane looks up and raises his book in one hand; it's a greeting, of a sorts. "I can find a spare beer if you're looking for a place to sit. And for that matter, a seat upon which to have it."

Fair enough; it seems that Della, charmed into a smile, doesn't expect more. One hand enters her pocket, and then --

-- she looks over, startled, startled into a half-laugh. "Oh. Hello. I didn't expect..." she hesitates, looking back up and out, this time more assessingly, then back to the marina before walking the few steps closer to the slip proper -- but towards the side, not the prow. A cat needs her space. "Black soles all right?" Not that she must expect his to be white.

"Perfectly fine. She's built to be used, and she's fifty years old. New coat of paint every year." Ravn chuckles and gets up -- at first to see if Della needs a hand, because not everyone's comfortable walking on even a small yacht (in fact, some less so because the gangway is narrow and there's no proper ship's railing). He is ready to extend a hand if required, though he's not patronising enough to assume. "Don't mind Kitty Pryde. She's just glad to be back at sea -- as far as she's concerned, we should stay here all year round. I have tried to explain to her that the winter storms would turn a boat like this into so many blue and white toothpicks against the pier but, you know. Cat."

And as it happens, Ravn's boots are exactly the colour one would expect: Black.

Fair enough for that, too; after a tilt of her head, and removing her own, oxblood gloves -- more careful of the leather than her hands -- Della's good to go with the help of steps and, only for balance, stanchion. Not that she won't take his hand if he's standing there and all, if only for that last part over the lifelines; "Thanks. Do you dry-dock her, then?" Once aboard, she'll follow along, careful, careful.

Ravn's hands remain gloved as always, in black kid-skin. "I do -- she goes up on land in winter. She could ride it out if she was buoyed at sea, but then I'd have to sail out in a dinghy every day and check on the mooring rope and honestly? I'm not that much of a fanatic. It's bloody cold at sea in winter."

At least the Dane isn't one of those yachters who has a wardrobe for the purpose; no fisherman's Raglan and white sailor's cap to go with it. He's in the same black slacks, black turtleneck and black leather jacket as usual -- the wind breaker might have been more sensible but it died in a glory of glitter, paint, and gummy dicks, and will never again be a wind breaker as far as Ravn is concerned. He offers a smile as Della navigates safely on board and then quirks an eyebrow. "I've got an IPA that's half-way decent, and a couple of craft beers that taste like barley soup. Tempt you with one?"

"If it were real barley soup, now... but let's go with the IPA. Thanks. And, no, daily check-ins would be rough. I can imagine it, though," with a long look out to the water before she sits down in the aft. Della adds wryly, "I keep thinking I won't have to change before getting out onto the sidewalk and then, nope, it's cold."

"Yeah. Spring can't come fast enough as far as I am concerned, either. Those bright summer days and long nights of stars and not having to bundle up for a polar expedition? I'm for 'em." Ravn dives in through the two steps down and a small door into the boat's interior; it's roomy in the fashion of 'can sleep six people -- if those six people are really, really good friends'. There's a tiny kitchenette though, and in that, a tiny fridge. This is where he finds another IPA, before stepping back up and offering the bottle to his visitor.

"I'd say take any seat you like but the options are pretty much down to next to me or across from me," he adds, with a small grin. "So what prompts you to leave the eternal summerlands back home? Besides the cold one gets from stepping from one temperature to another all the time."

Della laughs quietly, tips the bottle to toast him in thanks, and sits down across the way; if he has a church key kicking around, she'll reach for that too. "I'd say it's the whole eternity of it all, but... that's just a back-formation from wanting to get out. More than just walking around the neighborhood, that is. I have wondered: when it's actually summertime, will those... 'summerlands,' yes, will they get warmer or stay the same then too. Hoping for the latter. How was it for you, last summer?"

"I didn't live there last summer, but the whole -- fairy summer -- is new anyhow. I have no idea how Irving and Brennon managed, but somehow, they've convinced that faerie circle that we need summer all winter. I guess as far as bizarre bargains go? There are worse." Ravn chuckles and then offers over a battered old zippo lighter with a coat-of-arms engraving. A quirked eyebrow; know how to open a bottle with a lighter, or want him to?

A glance back towards the general direction of Oak Avenue, uphill. "I admit, I'm curious about how it will turn out. There's another faerie circle in the backyard of Number Six, too. I feel like we should be inspecting yards, just case there are more."

"Mmm, yes. It's practically how I can date my arrival: just before Christmas, just before then." When it comes to the lighter, Della looks to demur in that I-don't-smoke sort of way, but then both her brows tilt up and she takes it anyway. "Sorry; what's with this?"

While she's at it, dryly, "That's one way of taking over the world. And getting paid -- reimbursed? -- to do it."

"Lack of a church key, lighter always at hand. Allow me." Ravn reaches over in an offer to demonstrate how the edge of the lighter can be used in the exact same way when it comes to knocking a cap off a bottle.

The folklorist throws another glance back towards the town up there; lights in windows, buildings small and large -- from old bungalows to the modern tenement houses and penthouse apartment blocks on Bayside. "And here you are, in the crazy. Takes some adjustment, I imagine. One moment you're quietly minding your own business in some nowhere town by the sea, the next you're in the middle of fairytales and horror stories. You seem to be handling it pretty well."

He offers another thoughtful smile. "I'm still -- looking up some of the things the Blacks talked about. Indigenous rites and stories." The book, abandoned on the bench, titled Paul Bunyan, Legend of the Northwest. Maybe not that one. "It's not the same, reading about it all, though. The documentation was done by white anthropologists, thinking in European or at least East Coast terms. You get the description of a ceremony but you don't get how it felt, what it means. It feels oddly like when the Japanese try to make a viking or medieval Europe anime."

She's loath to give them up, but, wryly, "As long as you show me." Wryly, because a guest is really in a position to demand more of her host. She'll watch closely, too.

"Mm."

But after that moment of hesitation, he goes on and so does she, the book at least not escaping her notice. As for the last part, "Have an example to hand?" Della asks. "I'm not unwilling to Google, but -- " here her smile shades briefly towards mischief. "They say you get what you pay for." See above: guest, host. He isn't obliged to do anything.

Flick. It's all in the angle of the lighter against the bottle cap, and the right flick of the wrist -- bottle cap goes off and lighter goes in Ravn's pocket before the IPA back over.

Then the folklorist leans back, holding his own beer. "I suppose the easiest example is the damned horns. Vikings did not have horned helmets. Horns on helmets belong in Celtic ritual, and in early Bronze Age rites. We have found maybe one or two from the so-called Viking Age that seem to have some kind of ceremonial purpose. The idea of horned helmet stems from 19th century romantic illustrations. As does, for that matter, using the term viking -- it's a verb, to vik, to take your ship into the shallows. If it means anything at all, a viking is a person who goes vik-ing, he's a sea trader and occasional pirate."

Ravn shakes his head. "Doesn't mean Viking movies aren't fun. But I imagine that indigenous people feel similarly when modern literature and movies depict them. The things Mrs Black mentioned -- the potlatch ceremony. I don't know a whole lot about it, but I know that it's often described as some kind of competition of demonstrating status by giving away all your belongings. I'm very sure there's far more to it than that. It's a gift-giving ceremony, but no society has rites that ruin the resourceful. If anything, socities sometimes have rites that let the resourceful gain status by sharing wealth, and that's something else entirely. Something far less haha, look at the silly Indians doing silly things."

Folklorist has Opinions.

Her head's tilted, she's studying, never mind that she hasn't a lighter to practice with -- and then she just gets to drink the beer. "Thanks." And listen.

"Even if they were real, even in pirate mode, horns on helmets don't seem very practical," Della supposes. "Except maybe for inciting fear, looking like a menacing Other and all that. As you say, selling illustrations. And removable horns... would be a whole 'nother kettle. Have you been in a quote-unquote Viking Dream? And their ships, did they have fairly shallow keels too?"

"Regarding potlatches, "There's a lot to be said for the redistribution of wealth. If I remember right, and that's if Wikipedia -- I know, I know! -- is to be believed, Canada banned them for being wasteful. The government, and missionaries of course, thought they got in the way of becoming civilized. And Christian, also of course. Apparently some goods weren't given away but destroyed, which..." Della passes her beer from one hand to the other, and back. "I don't like destruction. Of the non-logs-in-the-forest variety. Especially if there are people who could have used the resources. But what was said about them wasn't necessarily what happened, or how it happened."

"And then there's sacrifice."

"I haven't been in a viking dream, oddly enough." Ravn cants his head; he's not really considered this but of course it could happen. Kind of amazing it hasn't, when he thinks about it. Then he nods. "The shallow keels are what let them run the ships up on flat beaches instead of having to find places to moor. That's what made the drake ships so dangerous in the medieval world."

He listens with interest to Della's observations before inserting, "Don't knock Wikipedia. It's a good place to start -- you get the keywords and the names to look for elsewhere. For what it's worth? Tvtropes is an integral part of my work. Don't knock it just because it's free. Just, don't stop checking sources, either."

Then the folklorist nods upon hearing that Canada outlawed the ceremony. "Really just goes to show that western academics may have documented the ceremony but they don't understand it. I thought Mrs Black's take on all of this was very interesting. It made me want to explore on the Other Side -- see if we can find allies, or it's really all only enemies over there."

"I don't like to think about the shallow keel in open water," Della admits. "But, trade-offs."

Speaking of: "That's what I do," she assures regarding Wikipedia. "When I have time. Or rather, make time. Otherwise, generally there's a floating invisible asterisk that reminds me that this isn't Word of God." Speaking of, times two: "Tvtropes. The sinkhole." Although she can't regret it too much, given the quality of her smile: not unlike the one for Jules' grandparents, but for how the latter's somehow wondering. "They were amazing, weren't they? They seemed... interwoven. I wish I could have recorded it all," beyond the hasty notes once they got back to the car. "What would allies look like, to you? And do you get the sense of particular... characters... reappearing, or is it more one and done?"

"They were pretty amazing," Ravn agrees and leans back with his beer. "I'd love to do proper interviews, get things on record. But I also understand why it's not an option. If it's going to happen -- it needs to come from the Quinault themselves, for themselves. It's a respect thing."

Then he studies Della's face for a few. "I don't think I've asked -- you are indigenous as well? Also trying to find -- well, roots is a wrong term, but it's also kind of right, since all of this, all of Gray Harbor and its thin area obviously predates white settlers by hundreds, if not thousands of years? I feel like the Quinault, the Yakama, the Salish -- they are the ones we should ask what allies look like."

Studied, Della keeps a thoughtful gaze on him in turn; then her expression shades somewhere between quizzical and diverted, and something less definable. "Not from around here. Not that I know of, I should say; we've a lot of... mixes meeting up with mixes. Some from the DR, other islands, a slice or two of white bread. I suppose..." She turns away to look out at the docks, or maybe it's to check for Kitty Pryde, her smile turning up at the corners. "It'd be a nice story, coming back here out of the blue and 'finding my heritage,' but I haven't even been compelled to do 23andme. Or the others. What about you," with a glance back, "do you know where all your family's from?"

Ravn laughs softly. What's so funny about that? Must be something that's amusing to him at least.

Then he nods. "I have a pretty good idea, probably better than most if I must say. My family has records dating back to the twelfth century. Which means I know for a fact I have blood from all over Europe -- primarily Denmark, Germany, Scotland, and Sweden, but, really, everywhere north of the Mediterranean and west of Greece. I am the quintessential European mutt."

Her brow hooks up: what?

But then... "For a fact," and Della draws that last part out with a look teasingly askance. "How much do you trust those records? More than Ancestry-dot-com? I have to wonder about any strays, a random Outlander perhaps," to go with the romanticized media theme, "or a man wearing the horns. Viking horns, of course."

"There's no guarantee no woman in my ancestry slept with the gardener and put the result on record as her husband's son, obviously. Barring that, though, I trust the records well enough. The gardener would have the same kind of ancestry too, after all -- it'd have been noticed if somebody's kid had an unexpected colour. To the best of my knowledge, I have no people of colour in my ancestry -- although I did once, in my capacity as a historian, point out to my mother that while Denmark was a colonial power, we held land on the Virgln Islands. Being 'coloured' at that time counted down to 1/72 African or Native American origin which would make a person entirely European of appearance but officially give them status as 'maroon' or 'mestizo'. It's technically possible somebody slept with a servant and had his kid, and then put it on record as her husband's. She nearly choked on a biscuit. Worth it."

Ravn cracks a small smile, possibly remembering the expression on his mother's face. "I get the fascination with origins. I don't quite get it when Americans who have never been to Europe identify as 'Irish' or 'German', or similar. That strikes me as a kind of internalised racism. But then, there's a community of so-called Danish Americans in California whom I do intend to go visit some day just to laugh my backside off at how hard they try to look like a provincial Danish town in 1930."

"Excellent." That's for the worth it.

For the visiting, "Do that," Della encourages. "Definitely do that." Her smile has that much more mischief before it's drawn back in again. "Are you saying Irish as opposed to Irish-American? And would it make a difference if they would have gone to Europe if they had the resources? And -- this town aside -- are the Americans you're thinking of also part of a community, a district, as opposed to being sprinkled in on their lonesome?"

"I think it confuses me that someone born in the USA would identify as European. It feels -- like American isn't good enough?" Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "Last I checked, parts of Europe suck too -- and sucked even more at the time of mass emigration here. That's literally why people emigrated -- so why identify as starving Irish potato farmer when you can be successful American? It's connected somehow to a similar European prejudice that Americans have no culture. It's bullshit all around -- everything has a culture, everyone has a culture."

"Mmm." Della has a sip of beer, and eyes him. "Would it confuse you if I said I identified as Dominican? -- DR, not priesthood. That'd confuse anyone."

"In the light of our present conversation I might ask if you feel that you are more Dominican than the rest, or you find that Dominican is the culture that appeals to you the most?" Ravn chuckles. "I honestly don't know what I identify as. My passport says Danish, of course -- but like I said, I'm the quintessential mutt. I've felt more at home here in Gray Harbor than I ever did in Denmark. Maybe I should apply for Solvang residency too."

"If," if only, "I had a doting grandmother who fed my sisters and me stories with her delicious meals, after-school tales of long ago," but with that, Della lifts her shoulders and lets them fall. And, after a moment, fastens the top button of her coat, tucking in her scarf. "There's a lot to be said for picking and choosing the best parts and keeping those," she says, "if also with an eye to not forgetting the problems and complications. Or at least for remembering where people like you were welcome... Where in Denmark, even if you didn't feel at home as such, did you feel the most comfortable? In your room, at your desk? Lurking behind curtains to be a hideout tent? Out on the water?" While she's at it, "'Solvang'?"

"I haven't gone to Solvang," Ravn points out, laughing softly and then sipping his beer. "I was heading south, down the west coast, but I got stuck in this little town out of Seattle."

Then he looks thoughtful a moment. "When I felt at home it was either deep in studies -- some table at the Royal Library or Copenhagen University. Or on the street, under the stars, sleeping in a bus stop and getting run off by the police for loitering. What about you?"

"I still don't know what-slash-where 'Solvang' is," Della notes. "Is it secret code for... well, not Gray Harbor, then, but wherever?"

"The 'Royal Library,' now..." she repeats on a sigh, unless that's just for the 'library' part. "Or Oscar Wilde's gutter? I'm glad when bus stops have roofs against the rain, but I suppose it does make it hard for stars." As for hers... Della considers. "I've been lucky enough to cherish a lot of places," she says in the end. "But do they count as places when they weren't just places? As in, behind the curtains with my books and my gear was one of them, sure; but the curtains weren't just soundproofing, they were also waterfalls and groves and galaxies. There was a coffee shop in grad school, isn't there always, where the light was warm and honeyed and the buzz was quiet, and they didn't mind if I tinkered. And later, when we bought our house -- oh. I just heard from the realtor a couple days ago: it should be on the market soon. Finally."

"Solvang is in California. I never got that far." Ravn hitches a shoulder. There are worse fates than not making it to faux-Denmark and then Los Angeles. "The Royal Library is the historical library of Denmark. It contains all written material published in the country. It's a research library -- but it's not difficult to access, if that's what makes you sigh. Most stuff is walk-in. Valuable collections are on-site only but there aren't a lot of restrictions who can gain access."

He quirks an eyebrow at that last part, though. "You're buying a house, then? Here, in Gray Harbor? I shouldn't tell you not to, all things considered, but I'm surprised whenever someone does. Myself included."

"Oh, that's the faux Danish town," and Della laughs quietly. But for the library, leaning forward, "All of it. All of it? Amazing. Even the Library of Congress doesn't have it all. I'm curious how much is digitized." As a side note, "A friend of mine has a library checklist, pins on a map and reviews and everything... but I'm trying to not find reasons to buy plane tickets. I'll..." out comes the phone, if only for three words' worth before she puts it away, "mention it to her, see if she already has it."

Enough stalling. "No, not buying a house. At least, not here. A rental that might appreciate makes some sense, but then there's the management question, which is even worse long distance. I like where I'm at; Janis was right. For as long as I'm going to be here, anyway."

"Ah, you are selling your own place." Ravn nods. "I rented mine out when I headed out to travel the world. And yeah -- everything that's preserved. Including the first national laws from the 13th century so it does go pretty damned far back."

Back on subject. "You're planning to move on, then? I'm not saying you can't -- only that it's rare for people with our talents. Most of us feel like, well -- like we are where we were going all along. That's the background for the whole Hotel California thing, after all, that you can convince yourself you're moving on but you can never leave."

He smiles slightly. "It's not true, of course. People disappear. Some of them get Lost or killed, no doubt -- but some of them make it out. Some of them come back later, some stay away. But it's hard enough that the joke seems apt."

"Yes," Della says briefly. She's composed: not hiding that there's complexity there, but not putting it on display, either. It does mean not following up about remote management, this time, but there's a speculative smile for the 13th and everything, so there's that.

She stretches out her long legs, pulls them back. No running off yet.

When? "At some point. Not necessarily soon, but after seeing more Dream damage -- " she pulls a grimace. "I'm not in a place to commit. What do you mean, 'Lost'?"

"Lost." Ravn ponders and then makes a vague gesture out at the darkness and the ocean beyond. "Taken. Wandering on the Other Side or in a Dream, unable to find their way back. Missing, but not dead. Sometimes they do come back. Sometimes years later. Sometimes time has passed for them, or they think they left a few days ago. It's not hard to tell where the fairytales got the idea -- you spend a night in the faerie kingdom and a hundred years pass outside, and all that. That's what it's like -- missing, Lost."

"I'll hope they got lost in one of the better Dreams, then," Della says. She's quiet. "A better Dream that isn't also a delusion, ideally."

"There was a Black Mirror episode about that... did you see it? The temptations of VR."

Ravn shakes his head. "I watch very little TV. I can't keep focus for it very well -- my mind wanders." Sure enough, it's easy to see through the open door to the below deck, there is no TV down there -- just a small transistor radio.

Then he looks up at the stars. "You're not wrong, though. There are Dreams I'd absolutely settle for sticking in. Just needs to hit high enough on a table of wish fulfilment, I figure. If they'll give you everything you ever wanted, why not stick around? I like to think that at least some of the people who are Lost made a choice to stay out there, because they found a better place."

"For what's back here, maybe."

Della looks up, too: at this different angle, not at the same stars -- not all the same stars, but perhaps there's overlap. Then, "What does tempt you?"

"Nothing so concrete that I can put a label on it," Ravn murmurs. "I want to go some day, and find the stories -- all of the stories. If it's all real somewhere -- what can a folklorist want, but to see everything? On a more personal level, I'm not sure -- I could see myself get Lost in an alternate universe version of my own life where I've got my shit sorted out. The kind of happy dream where you got the girl and the job and everything worked out just right. It might be boring after a while, but don't tell me you've never caught yourself thinking, if that one thing had been different -- "

"-- No. No, I won't say that."

After silence, "Do you know whether it's possible to go from one Dream to the next. Or whether it would mean a Dream that has its own dreams, nesting like matryoshka dolls."

Ravn smiles lightly. "There's only one rule as far as I know: That there are no rules. You can probably get caught in endless Matryoshka dolls. Or play through them -- I have a set at home where each doll represents a Russian fairytale. Bought it in St Petersburg from an old street vendor who taught me the one story on them that I did not know already."

He studies Della again; it's rare to meet a mind so inclined to treat all of this not as a horror movie or a land of opportunity, but as a project of science; add enough numbers, do enough calculations, work out all the formulas, and it will make sense. "It's possible to walk through Dreams, or at least in and out of them. And it won't surprise you one bit, I'm sure, if I tell you that it's a lot easier to walk in than out. Nor that sometimes, if you go out, something else goes with you."

"Do you -- " that lightens it for her, too. "I'd love to hear about that. Starting with the one story. And the art -- "

But there's more and Della momentarily prims her lips together, right before murmuring something about one thing at a time, she has to remember that for once. And it is science for her, though not just science; or, if it is, science has story too. "Amber," she says. "So if they are separate Dreams, and you can walk in and out from one to the other, you wouldn't have to come back here in between. Necessarily. And that makes sense." She pauses. "What kinds of somethings?"

"All kinds of somethings." Ravn smiles a little wryly; overhead, the last seagull of the evening screeches, probably mad that the good roosting spots for the night are already claimed. "That's what's out there -- everything. Of course, if it's something cute and harmless, it's not a problem. If it's essentially Cthulhu, it's pretty bad. A lot of things that feed on people are attracted to doors -- that's where food happens. If you decide to learn this skill, you do need to be careful. I'm only dipping my toe into it in recent times, and I have no doubt that it's something that can potentially go very, very bad."

No Russian fairytales now, then. Poor Ivanova will have to air out the celestial duvets some other time. Snow will have to make itself happen.

"Doors." Della glances up: seagull, food. It can't have her beer; she has a sip of what's left, surely not just to show it. "You say that, Ravn, 'decide to learn,' as though it's that straightforward. How are you learning? Or dipping. I'd certainly like to be able to get out when I chose."

Ravn ponders. Then he looks back at Della. "I can try to show you. Not a door but a window -- nothing we can pass through, because I'm not that good at it yet, and I don't know how to handle it when it goes wrong. But I can look into whatever reality we are touching, and so can you. Most of these things are -- sometimes you feel them out because it makes sense to you, or you learn about them from someone else. Sometimes there's nothing particular to see. Sometimes it's an entirely different world."

He nods, as if to himself. "Just have to be clear -- it's not a doorway. You can't reach through. And nothing on the other side can, either."

Again that forward lean; again those bright eyes that really, really want to lead to a yes.

Only, sitting straighter, "Does it take much out of you? You talked about the risks, before. Not the window-not-door, which sounds like a good idea, but doing this sort of thing at all." Della eyes him, trying not to lean.

Ravn shakes his head. "That's kind of what I find the most disturbing, actually. It doesn't and I wish it would because that would be a constant reminder to not get frivolous about it. I feel like there are things on the other side daring me to just go ahead, look, piece of cake, whatcha scared of, white boy?"

He raises his hand and points at the water below the railing. "Look down. Let's see what's down there."

The water clears; light shines through as if from below, turning the murky water of the evening a bright shade of emerald. Tropical fish dart back and forth, flashing beautiful colours; like butterflies in a summer field they dart about, in and out between -- chimneys? Far below, far deeper than this harbour can possibly be, red tiled rooftops lie below schools of colourful fish, silent because chimneys really don't work very well under water.

"Hmm." Della doesn't quite laugh, but it's lurking. A frown might be too, even deeper.

And then she's turning, kneeling on the seat to look over -- and then catching her breath. "Lovely," she says, craning. "Best screensaver -- convenient that it's light there so we can see -- could they look back at us? If it weren't looking up from inside the water, that is? That looks like chimneys. Can you see enough?" He is tall, but --

"There's no telling whether they can see us right back," Ravn murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like somebody or something watches me back. Sometimes I don't. Now? I think those fish don't care a lot -- but I also don't think that chimneys belong under water. Some kind of flooded city?"

Flooded cities happen. There's a couple of famous historical examples in his own country's history for that matter -- entire cities taken by the ocean. Maybe he's about to talk about that -- when suddenly, the colourful fish dart away. Every single one.

"That's probably not a good sign," Ravn murmurs instead.

"No-o." It doesn't stop Della from craning; this is -- or is supposed to be -- a window, after all. "Atlantis, hopefully not Venice. Shark? Something toothier?"

A human net?

Ravn may not feel an immediate urge to close the window because that's what it is -- a window, a looking-glass. Not a door, not a portal, not an opening. He's still wary. "It doesn't look like Venice. Or Greek, for that matter."

It doesn't. Little white houses with red tiled roofs. Kind of non-descript. Empty. Abandoned. It's a dead city. And something down there -- moves.

Not in the street. The street moves -- a slow, rippling movement. A few tiles fall off a roof. As if the houses are built on something, very, very big.

"Oh, no. Just what it made me think of -- " New to all of this, Della's not wary. And then she blinks.

"How -- "

"Did you see that?!"

"How could -- "

The city below sinks -- not in the fashion of earth crumbling, but like a very large something slowly sinking from view. And as the city is built on its back, it seems, the city sinks along.

It sinks deep enough to start to fade from view -- and at the same time, the something is far enough away that one begins to make out the shape. A turtle -- a ridiculously large sea turtle, a dark shade in the deep, moving lazily with its flippers. And so very large.

"I'm losing it," Ravn murmurs and his voice does sound a little strained at that. "But I think we can see -- why that city died. Imagine how long that turtle must have laid still on a beach somewhere, for people to think it a mountain to build on. Imagine how big that beach must be."

"Oh. Oh." And then Della is silent.

Only later, reluctance all through her low voice, "Let it go." Whether he does willingly or unwillingly, she watches just as long as there's anything to see, and longer, just in case. And longer, for the starlight and that of the piers on the water. Musingly, maybe a little dreamily, "...No elephants in sight. No Discworld. But it's easy to imagine continents on its shell, not just," 'just,' "districts. Or terraces, with irrigation running between the plates."

Ravn nods and moves his hand in front of himself as if he was closing a curtain.

The sea turns its previous inky shade; it is dark, and there is not much to see but moonlight reflected in the ripples. Overhead, that last seagull has found its spot for the night atop the mast.

"It's like this a lot," Ravn says softly. "I look but I don't understand. There's no point -- it's just realities, overlapping. Each with its own laws and rules. Some of them are very pretty. Some are dark and frightening. Most of them are just vaguely related to where you are -- such as this, we are on the water so we look into water."

"Mmm." Della folds her arms, careful of the bottle, and rests her chin on them. "Correspondences." She's still looking out. "I'm sure I've read a story... a hallway of doors, and one looks just so beautiful, and then someone walks through and snap. Back to the flytrap. This is dark, but it's good," modulo a certain amount of cold. "Was it always this dark?" Well, not always, but before.

"I think the light from below may be playing with us. Now that it's gone, it feels darker than it was." Ravn nods and glances back towards the shore and the city lights. "If you're uncomfortable, though, I can walk you back to Oak Avenue. I don't want you to come on board for a beer and end up feeling unsafe walking home."

It makes sense; she nods before swiveling back around, enough to sit and look out again: shore-ward likewise, now, instead of out and away. Considering. She finishes off her beer. "I'm not frightened," Della winds up saying, "and I don't want you to feel obliged for not having kicked me out earlier. But I'd appreciate the company. At least partway." She glances back. "You're good at that: offering, 'may I,' that sort of thing. Raised that way?" Or did he, day after day, decide?

While she's at it, "Any trash, recycling I can take back?"

Ravn hitches a shoulder and puts his own bottle down. "I don't know, to be honest? It's not something I think about a whole lot. Gray Harbor is not a particularly unsafe place compared to a lot of other places, but anyone who reads newspapers knows that it's safer to be a tall white bloke than just about anything else. And I am a tall white bloke -- one who's useless in a fight, but some random mugger doesn't know that."

He smiles. "I don't mind the walk, it's not far and I can pick up some books at Number Three that I needed to go and get in the morning anyhow. I work nights so to me, the day is just beginning."

"Well, then." Della's own smile is quick, and she stands, stretches -- and aims to snag her host's bottle to take back with her own. "Remind me what you do again? Teaching something something? It's still early enough that nobody should be asleep at Number Five, but I do like to get back these days before anyone might. Unexpected hospital trips, and all that."

"I tutor university students online for Copenhagen U," Ravn replies with a smile as he stands -- and surrenders his bottle. "It's a program for veterans with PTSD. It's not teaching as such -- or rather, it's teaching them how to study. How to keep focus, how to find the resources they need. Some of them study within my field so it becomes a little more, but it doesn't really matter what Bachelor's they're trying to get."

"How to study, how to keep focus: makes me think of ADD." Della says -- and, to underscore her so-amazing bottle-raiding, holds them up to her head like Viking horns! in triumph! before slipping each into her coat's deep pockets, swapping out her gloves. "Sounds useful."

"Actually..." surely prefaces a question, but there's a not-far walk for that.