2022-05-11 - Possession Is Bad, Mkay?

Una’s oven becomes a burrow. The cookies on the counter become the budding fruit of huckleberry bushes. As Jules plunges on, the familiar recedes further, as if the spirit-infused tool takes them not only through the Veil to Gray Harbor’s shadowy counterpart, but further, deeper. Past the Gray Harbor that is and the Gray Harbor that isn’t, into a deeper time, a farther reach of this shadow realm.

Deep time. The laws of time and space bend and flex. Hurry, Ravn, or be left behind in the Veil’s shallows.

When the thing propelling Jules onwards finally allows her to stop, she’s standing by the banks of the Chehalis. All trace of modernity has vanished. No paved streets, no sidewalks, no twentieth century houses, certainly no downtown. Instead, a cluster of longhouses sit not so very far off, and there’s human movement in and among them. This is a very different village than the Gray Harbor that is to come.

The question is less one of where, but when.

The first thing Ravn Abildgaard will readily admit about the indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest is that he doesn't actually know nearly as much about them as one might think. In popular culture, the plains nations -- Lakota, Cheyenne, Blackfoot, Arapaho -- dominate. In academia, focus often slide to the pueblo cultures -- Anasazi in the past, the Zuni, Apache, Navajo peoples in the present. (Though Apache inevitably tends to mean Chiricahua or Jicarilla, because it's Geronimo or the big uprisings). In the woodlands, the Algonquin and Iroquois nations, east coast.

For indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest, it's the Haida. Further to the north than here. A lot of similarities, no doubt; to an untrained eye, the box that the Quinault figurine came in might as well have been Haida, red and black grotesque, stylised bird forms.

He's a historian. He knows better than to rely on popular culture for anything but, well, popular culture. Make a bullet list of what's fact.

Fact: We moved not in space but in time.

Fact: This is an indigenous village of longhouses.

Fact: Quinault since the figurine went here. Oak Avenue is not by the river. We did move a little.

Fact: Neither of us speak Quinault.

That last one might prove problematic.

He looks around and tries to get his bearings because there are a few issues that will need to be answered immediately: Have they been spotted? What's the reaction?

One thing, after all, to end up in a time and place you don't speak the language. Another, to end up in a time and place where Jules might pass for a displaced cousin but Ravn himself might be a stray, unarmed member of the usurpers, the colonisers.

The figurine, the shaman's tool, has done its job. Perhaps it doesn't get all the details right -- this is the Veil, after all -- but no matter. It releases Jules, though its power still pulses like a dowsing rod.

When Jules turns, her eyes are her own eyes again, no longer empty black pits.

She's herself, but also not. The surge of emotion that Mikaere sent with her has carried into this realm, so Jules doesn't react like she normally would upon realizing that she's just been subject to possession. Instead, she straightens her spine and holds her head high, smiling like she's quite pleased.

Empowerment.

"Oh, you came with me." She sounds pleasantly surprised. How nice, here's Ravn to go visit some distant Veil-cousins with her. Jules immediately starts striding towards the longhouses like she knows what she's doing. "Come on."

"Well, one of us seem to know what they're doing at least." Ravn nods and -- follows because if a PhD in his field has given him anything, it's a firm understanding that no major plot arc has no point (unless we're talking bad sitcoms in which case all bets are off). Jules could have been brought here to bring the figurine home. It seems there's more to it than that, and he's not going to make a fuss.

Just going to notice exactly where they were when they arrived. Best bet to exit safely in the same place.

“I imagine this is a Chehalis village,” Jules says conversationally as she leads the way, striding down the pebbled riverbank. “My neighbors to the south. It looks like the right river.” The Chehalis that empties into Gray Harbor, and not the Quinault River whose mouth Jules grew up on.

Maybe they’re Chehalis. Maybe they’re Quinault. Maybe it’s all the same to whatever inhabits and motivates the figurine.

“It wants us to go this way.” Towards the village, which has become aware of visitors. Shouts ring out and lift on the breeze.

"We're probably better off doing what it wants. We asked it to identify itself, to tell you who it is. It may be doing exactly that." Ravn glances back to the 'landing spot', making as good an effort as he can to remember where they arrived. He hopes he won't need to remember. But if he does? It was there, by the tall fir.

A wry smile. "And I don't speak a word of either language, to no one's surprise."

"Chehalis is pretty close to Quinault," Jules says far too confidently, as if her grasp of the native tongue is more than a beginner's accumulation of words and phrases. "The Lower Chehalis are incorporated in the Quinault Indian Nation. There's actually some work done to merge the languages and consolidate it so we don't lose it all."

"Oo-nugwito!" she calls out, hailing the man who's stepping out to meet them there on the banks of the Chehalis-in-the-Veil. He responds cautiously with what sounds like the same word, or at least a greeting that's very close to it.

There's a question, then, and Jules seems to recognize what the man is asking. Context helps, too. "Alps," she answers, while turning to Ravn to say more quietly, "I don't actually know how to tell him where we're coming from, so 'outdoors' have to do." Then, with a gesture towards Ravn, she adds, "Tooh wit nap."

Translation: "I just said you're my husband so they don't shoot you."

"Just make sure to make eye contact so I know what you're going to do if you have to kiss me or something," Ravn murmurs. "I've got neuropathy. Surprise snuggles bad."

At least, grifter that he is, he's not going to freak at the idea of pretending to be what he's not. His hands remain visible. No weapons. Strange clothing but then, any white man's clothing likely looks weird to these people. It won't matter if it's from 2022 or 1850. It's still weird. "Do you know where the figure wants to go? Let's go there. Tempting as it is to dally, that's how people get Lost."

At some point, Jules will realize just how lucky she is to have Ravn with her. How lucky she is not to be stuck here permanently, Lost.

At some point.

Now, though, she has all the confidence in the world, convinced she knows what she's doing. Maybe that confidence helps her communicate, or at least helps it register that she's come in peace. Curling up in a ball and screaming would probably elicit a very different reaction from these denizens of the Veil.

So Jules holds up the item that's brought her, which is vibrating with anticipation. Her limited vocabulary fails her, but this is sure to get recognized. And indeed, the man who's coming out to meet them stops with a murmur. He's wearing nothing but what looks like a cross between a loin-cloth and and skirt, though a necklace of glass beads suggests that in this version of reality, these people have had some kind of contact with outside trade. He asks another question of Jules, who just shrugs and smiles winningly, though without showing her teeth. For a moment, it looks like a standstill, where neither really knows what to do. Then the man gestures in a way that indicates that they should follow and turns back towards the village. So Jules does exactly that.

Ravn is certainly not about to intervene. He falls into stride and reminds himself that at least a number of these indigenous people were matrilinear. Meaning that him following behind his wife may not look as strange to them as it would have, had they been in Seattle -- which isn't called Seattle yet. A white man following his native wife? They might get stoned out of town. Or if lucky, just laughed out.

He has nothing he needs to do here. He's curious, certainly -- how can a historian not be. But this isn't history, he reminds himself -- at best, it's an accurate reproduction. His agenda here is plain and simple. Let Jules do what she was brought here to do, learn what she was brought here to learn. Then get them both back the hell out.

Until then, shut the hell up and be a good, stupid, white husband who can't talk like civilised people can.

Their guide leads them straight into the village. Along the way, curious children come up to gabble at them excitedly. The bolder among them even reach out to touch their strange clothes, particularly Ravn’s. It seems the white man striding through this native village doesn’t inspire fear at this moment in faux-time, just curiosity.

They’re led to one of the lodges, where the man gestures for them to go inside. A frown and fierce word to the children that would naturally follow right along keeps them at the entrance, trying to peer inside.

Inside, an old man is waiting. They haven’t interrupted him at other tasks, and the house is otherwise empty when it would normally contain members of multiple families. It appears that he’s been expecting them, and when Jules steps in first, her tool in hand, there’s an exclamation of satisfaction, “Ah!”

Keep a straight face, your life might depend on it.

Nothing motivates like fear. Ravn wants to tell those kids to mind their own because every other time someone's little fingers brush against him it's like being jabbed with a cattle prod. All he can do is try to keep an eye on them so that he sees most of those little hands coming -- and refrain from smiling, inviting them closer. He looks disapproving, as much as he dares -- because upsetting parents and older siblings is probably a very bad idea. He is, after all, just one unarmed stranger. The Haida kept slaves. The Chehalis might as well.

He's sweating profusely at the time they enter the house. And breathing out in sheer relief that the throng of curious little hands stays outside.

These tribes did indeed keep slaves. If Jules had known the word for that, maybe that's how she would have designated Ravn.

Jules glances at Ravn as he steps inside, aware enough of the gauntlet he's just run to ask him quietly, "You okay?" She can't keep her attention on him for too long, though, not when the elder before them is coming forward to greet them. "You are welcome," he says in stilted but recognizable English. Do they recognize how his voice is the same as the one that chanted in Una's kitchen? It's grown old, gravellier, but it's the same man.

He then reaches out with long, calloused fingers and, without warning, takes Jules' face between his hands. He turns it this way and that, examining her. She manages to hold herself still, but her eyes have gone wide. Apparently the man is satisfied with what he sees there, because he grunts a satisfied sound, then turns to Ravn with those hands lifted up. He pauses, though, before laying his palms to either side of Ravn's cheeks. There's a question in his eyes.

Ravn nods. At first to Jules, and a little thin-lipped -- he's not about to keel over, he can take it. And then, to the elder -- acceptance. I see you, it will be all right.

He wonders how the elder knows. He reminds himself that this is not history. This is a Veil Dream, created by the figurine. A waking Dream, but a Dream nonetheless -- and all rules are off.

He doesn't flinch. After all, when he knows touch is coming, it is nothing special.

The hands are gentle, and they don't linger long. He knows. "Sick," he pronounces gravely when he steps back. But also, "Strong. Shaman." There was a belief among some of these people, after all, that those otherwise incapacitated by their bodies had other, more mysterious strengths.

The elder's attention returns to Jules, and he steps up to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Granddaughter."

Whatever Jules was expecting, this isn't it. She stares at the ancestor the Veil has conjured up for her, then looks across at Ravn and asks, "Is that even possible?"

"It's the Veil," Ravn says quietly. "Anything is possible. This may be your ancestor's Dream, not ours. It may all be constructed for the occasion. It's true for now at least."

He could give a lecture on the nature of possible realities and the power of narrative. He still might -- but not here, not now, not when one of those realities and narratives are playing out right in front of his face, and the window of choosing the right actions might close any moment.

This is Jules' moment. He's just the porter. He nods politely at the elder and says softly, "I am here to find the path back."

Jules' maybe-ancestor nods with understanding, although to what precisely isn't clear. Ravn's explanation of the reality they've ventured into, or his role within it?

His attention is on Jules then, who he's claimed as kin. He takes the object that's brought them here from her hand and starts to explain. "This, door." He traces the outline to one side, then takes one exaggerated step through. "Here, tamanous." Jules is nodding; she gets that much. But then the man takes another giant step back through to the other side of the 'door' he's drawn in the air. When he does, his face scrunches up in a grimace, tongue extended, mouth open wide, eyes large to make the whites prominent. "Sickness."

He rambles off a full explanation in the language that neither of them speak, which just makes Jules shakes her head. So he proceeds to walk a few paces and lift a painted mask from a woven basket. The mask is grotesque, with large lips pursed open, a hook of a nose, pronounced cheekbones, and stringy black human hair. The man puts on the mask and mimes walking through the door again, now saying, "I come. Dzunukwa comes. Sickness comes." He lifts the mask, then, and looks at them expectantly.

Jules, for her part, turns to Ravn. "You getting this?"

Ravn frowns lightly. "I think so. To step through the door just a little -- you enter the spirit world. The tamanous, the helpers. But if you go too far, this comes -- the mask. I do not know the word -- dzunukwa. But the mask tells me what I need to know -- look at the mouth. This is a character who howls at you, or sucks your blood out. He is painted blood red. He is a flesh eater. A bad spirit, he will devour you -- in the flesh or in the spirit, it's hard to tell. But it certainly sounds like things we know."

He glances at the elder. Hopefully he understands enough English to pull the folklorist up if he's gone down the wrong way in a one-way street here.

More nodding from the old man.

"I think Dzunukwa is Tsonoqua?" Jules is looking at the man for affirmation. He just keeps nodding vigorously. "The Wild Woman of the Woods. Basket Woman. She steals and eats children. So maybe, if you go too far, she follows you out."

Old man adds to this: "White man, Dzunukwa. Here." Now he grasps Jules by the arm (fortunately, not the one that's still bandaged) and pulls her back outside, heading for the far side of the village. He warns off the children with a fierce, "Hu!" and off they scamper, out of reach, and also out of Ravn's personal space.

From this vantage point, it's possible to make out the beginnings of the town that will become Gray Harbor, farther down along the river where it empties into the bay. There are only a few structures now -- it's no bigger than the village, just a cluster of rough-shewn log houses -- but more will come. "White man comes," says the elder, pointing. "Dzunukwa comes. Bad. No tamanous. Tamanous goes far away." His gesture, now, is back behind them, encompassing the forests that sprawl down the western slopes of the Olympics. "You stop it," he tells them both, pressing the ritual item back into Jules' palm. "Close the door."

"Basket woman," Ravn looks up and then nods. "I know this story. She is a people eater. An old, primeval thing. Not unlike our dolorphages. Might be the same thing."

He looks at the elder. "We cannot stop the white man from coming. Maybe we can mend some of the damage, in our time."

"She was the scariest story for me, when I was little," Jules replies, frowning. "There's a couple different people eaters in our stories, but she's the worst."

The elder looks grim. "Close the door," he repeats. "Trap Dzunukwa." He looks back at his village, then, expression far away as he regards the children who are still clustered a little ways off. He sees them; he sees their fate. "They all die."

"To close the thin spot. To cut them off from their food supply. They have to starve or leave." Ravn translates. He also frowns because he's very certain that that's not going to be quite as easily done as it is said. The Addington family, for one -- willing to sacrifice a considerable amount of their own, to stop that rift from mending.

Then the rest catches up with him and he realises they might not be thinking of the same thing. Colour drains from his face. "You are saying to trap it here? With you?"

"They die," the man repeats sadly. And they will, one way or another. Very few indigenous peoples from this area survive the encounter with white settlers and the diseases they bring.

He doesn't respond to Ravn's question. Maybe he can't. The world has started to shimmer, like heat waves rising up off pavement. Except it's also growing colder. The river has begun to ice over, whitish-blue slabs of frost creeping out the wrong way, from the center of the stream towards the shore.

Maybe there's no time. "Go!" says the elder urgently. He takes Jules by the shoulders and spins her around to face in the opposite direction, back the way they came. "Go!"

Ravn nods his understanding. He reaches -- uncharacteristically, and perhaps stressing how urgent this is -- for Jules' sleeve. "We need to get back to the spot by the river. Let's go."

Time to run. Time to please don't fight him on this. Because if there's one thing Ravn is not capable of, it's dragging anyone anywhere against their will; one quick slap, and he's not going anywhere, either.

Jules hesitates. If this is truly her ancestor, then there's so much more she wants to ask. But she doesn't resist, recognition dawning in her eyes that this Dream world is somehow in peril, and so are they.

So she runs, her ancestor's tool in her hand.

The frost nips at their heels. Black veins trace their way through the ice behind them, branching to grasp like hands.

"Here," she pants, offering the figurine she's holding by the handle. "If this opens doors, maybe it can help open the way back, too."

And Jules has just realized that she has no idea how to do that herself. The color's drained from her face.

"I think this is yours," Ravn returns, trying to breathe while he runs. This is not optimal. It is decidedly sub-optimal. "It knows its own. It doesn't like me very much."

One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Keep breathing steadily.

Or not. Stumble, coughing, seeing stars. Instead of leading Jules, cling to her arm and just move your goddamn feet, man.

Don't think.

Do.

The tall fir turns dark; black, even, as if somehow it is transparent, allowing a look into a vast, empty void. Ravn tumbles right for it, and he hopes and prays it leads to the right damned place because there is no way to tell, no way to know, and he can't fucking breathe --

He holds on to Jules' sleeve. He jumps.

"Well if you hadn't pissed it off--"

The tool stays in Jules' hand, and now it's buzzing with warning. Hurry, hurry.

Is that a big cat that bounds past them in the opposite direction? It's hard to tell; as this world dissolves, so too does their vision. But it's the scream of a mountain lion that rises behind them.

Jules has gone from being the one in tow to the one who's trying to support the other, trying to keep Ravn steady on his feet. When he jumps, so does she.

wet

cold

can't breathe

Ravn thrashes about; suddenly there's water everywhere and it's cold and dark, and he has no idea what's up and what's down. He's coughing and trying to not inhale water and failing and

shit