2022-05-11 - The Color of Power

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood -- no, wait. It's raining. Because Pacific Northwest.

So when Jules texts Ravn about checking out her grandmother's gift, it comes along with the offer to visit the kitchen of Number 5 Oak Avenue: Una's cast-off cookies are here and they still taste great.

Jules has claimed the kitchen table in her roommates' absence (well, Della is probably hard at work in her own room), spreading out her study materials, textbook, notebook, and an old laptop that has seen better days. Finals are creeping up as summer approaches.

She probably had Ravn at 'Una's cookies' because while the folklorist is a picky eater, those are things he likes to pick at, indeed. She certainly had him at 'textbooks'.

Surprisingly, Ravn does not turn up with a trunk full of textbooks of his own. It's probably because he does not own a trunk. Also, most of his books are in fact stored in online copies on the cloud, accessible from wherever he needs them because this makes searching through large amounts of text easier, and he has not wanted to drag half a library halfway around the world with him anyhow.

He knocks on the door, sleek little black laptop under one arm. Not as soaked as one might think if he'd walked here from the marina; he probably was next door already. "Time to channel our inner nerds, yes? Although I suppose some people's inner nerds are less inner than other people's."

Jules’ textbooks are admittedly those of a more mundane nature. Today it’s The Science of Ecology.

“Welcome, nerd!” she exclaims, channeling—well, something. “Come on in.” Jules gets up to welcome Ravn into the kitchen, leaving her textbook open on the kitchen table. “Coffee?” She’s automatically assuming, already on her way to make this happen. “Cookies are on the counter. Today it’s snickerdoodle.”

"Snickerdoodles remind me of home," Ravn says, smiling a bit. "We have a recipe that's very similar -- no oil, though. They're called Jewish cookies though there's nothing Jewish about them but the good old anti-semitism: The ingredients are cheap. There was an attempt to rename them at some point but the Jewish community said something along the lines of, maybe we have more pressing problems than Christmas cookies, folks."

He's happy to settle, though, and very happy to receive libations of caffeine. There was indeed never any question. "So, what do we know about our mystery object? It is from the Pacific Northwest, possibly Quinault, probably from the coast or the Chehalis estuary area?"

"Mm. Names matter," is Jules' opinion, but then, this is a state that has lately grappled with changing high school mascot names from things like 'Tomahawks' and 'Braves'.

She transfers the cookie plate to the table. Poor cast-offs; most are some version of broken or just 'not quite right' by Una's standards. Then to the coffee, a steaming mug served black for Ravn and with a splash of milk for herself.

"It was my grandma's grandfather's," Jules says as she comes to sit back down, closing her textbook and scooting it off to the side. "He was some kind of shaman, back in the day. I'd have to ask her which side of her family he's on to get more specific about tribe because of how intermarriage worked, plus the fact that smallpox wiped out all but, like, ninety Quinault. Almost certainly coastal, though, or possibly as far up as Vancouver Island. Hold on a sec; I'll go get it."

She hops up and leaves Ravn with the snickerdoodles for a few moments while she tramps up the stairs to her room and then back again. The bentwood box she retrieves is a beautiful piece of indigenous craftsmanship. It's been restored some time between now and its making, with a touch-up on the black and red paint and new leather strings that fasten the lid. Likely oiled, too.

"This is a bird," Jules says, lightly tracing the oblong eyes on the rectangular side. Some carvings are obvious, but this one is less so.

"Names absolutely matter. White knights dictating a minority that it's being victimised is a thing too, though. If the Mosaic Community use the name themselves and think we're silly to worry about it, I'm going to go with, their supposed problem, their call." Ravn offers a small smile. "They are a lot like these, though -- except the oil. It's butter in ours. Oil isn't really part of the traditional kitchen at all."

He studies the box with interest. Possibly due to his neuropathic condition, Ravn is at least not one of those people who have to see with their hands; he's perfectly content to look without touching. "I don't read the symbolic expression of your people well enough to guess which one. I think everyone's probably seen the typical Haida take on Raven, but that's also about the only one I'd recognise. Do you know which bird it is?"

"True. It's definitely their call." Ravn won't hear any disagreement from Jules on that one.

Jules herself is a physical person. It's a good thing that she learned about the neuropathy before her impulses around comraderie kicked in; she would've found out about Ravn's condition the hard way. Now, she handles the box carefully, turning it from side to side. "No, I don't know," she admits. She lets it rest on the table, then, and reaches for a cookie herself.

When she looks across the table, her gaze is serious. "There's some kind of ritual tool inside. But before I open it, there's something you should know. My grandma said it had power and she could tell that much, but she didn't know what it did. Does. You know Mikaere, right? He had a look at it, because, you know--" She lifts a hand and makes wiggly magic fingers by her head. Magic mental stuff. "--and he said it tried to control him."

"He's a reader, then." Ravn nods thoughtfully. "I can't do that -- pick up an item's history or the emotional residue connected to it. I think it's important to note, though. Fact: This item does have power. Fact: It is not given to be friendly."

He looks at the box, craning his next to look at its sides. "It's a curious shape -- it's not perfectly square. Going to say there's a reason for this, whether it's practical or spiritual. Similar to how Christian churches usually are constructed facing the equinoctial east because traditionally, you should face east while praying. Or similar to how shipping containers are all perfect rectangles that stack well."

Another glance towards Jules. "I can't do anything along the lines of reading objects. All I do -- and I say 'all' lightly, but still -- all I do is move things and dimensions."

"Me neither," says Jules. "I think Della can, a little, but I don't want her picking this thing up if someone who's a lot more experienced with that sort of thing almost got himself possessed. It didn't do anything to me when I picked it up, but I also wasn't trying to read it. Or maybe it wasn't awake. I don't know."

Now she lifts the lid, oh so carefully, as if whatever is inside is inclined to leap out and bite her. When nothing happens when the lid is opened but an inch, then an inch more, she pulls it back altogether. Inside, just barely fitting, is a wooden humanoid sculpture. If it bites, it's not biting yet.

"The shape of the box is interesting," she agrees while nudging it closer to Ravn with her fingertips. "I'll have to ask my grandma if she knows why it's built that way."

Ravn fingers his chin, rather than the figure (it probably appreciates that). "There are three things that strike me right away about this figure. Whether they're significant, who knows -- but let's take note. One is the wrapped handle -- this is an item made to be held, like a tool. You said it came from a shaman, so let's assume it's used in rituals. And regularly, at that, since somebody saw the need to give it a properly wrapped handle. Things that are made to sit on a shelf and look pretty don't get cased like power tools, to use a modern parallel. This is a functional item, not an artistic expression."

He cants his head. "Second, the lack of sexual characteristics. This is not a piece of art to depict a man or a woman. It is as neutral 'person' as it can possibly be. No chest worth noticing. Hips that might be a woman's wider hips, might just be shape of the wood. The crack seems to be a natural crack in the wood -- not a vulva. There are no gender markers -- no masculine or feminine hair or clothing. This figure can represent anyone who has two legs and two arms attached to a body. It's not a fertility object, and it's probably not a healing tool either -- those tend to have markers of the condition they're supposed to remedy."

He points a finger towards the opening between the figure's legs. "And finally, the shape of it means that if you wave it around quick, air is going to whoosh through those three holes. It doesn't have to have holes. It would have been easier to just make it a solid figure, instead of carving those openings for arms and legs. The effect is wanted. I'm going to go with, it represents or connects to the spirit realm because almost all cultures tend to have some kind of bird or wings or rush of air narrative about spirits. They're air, after all, we can't see or feel them."

Jules listens attentively, looking between Ravn and the item in the box as he speaks. Mostly she's eyeballing the figurine, noting the characteristics he names. "The only thing I'd noticed is the handle," she admits. "I kind of want to pick it up and whoosh it now." But she doesn't, too cautious at this particular moment.

"So some kind of connection of the spirit realm," Jules returns to while she sips her coffee, hands safely cradling the mug and not dipping into the box. "When Mikaere looked at it, he said there was a lot of emotion attached to it -- frenzy, I think that's the word he used. And that it wants to be used. Or use whoever's holding it."

"So it has a purpose or an intent, and it's been used enough to have been either imbued with a spirit presence, or develop one." Ravn nods slowly. "I mean, from a scientific point of view, that's nonsense. New Age crap. From a folklore point of view it makes perfect sense -- think about how many stories of haunted objects we have, or just about how people talk about a beloved vintage car like it's grown a personality with use. Given where we are, I'm going to accept it as a possibility."

He looks up again. "In shamanistic or magical practises, nothing is ever coincidental. Whether it's this or it's 15th century alchemists writing magic circles on their floor, the details are never just there to pretty things up. That only happens when the majority of the population is literate; before that, the images have to be precise, and to tell the right story to those who cannot read, or who may not have the text at hand. The colours aren't coincidental. Black and red are common to art from this area but black is not an easy dye to make. If it was just decorative, it'd be yellow and red -- those are a lot easier to get from plants. Do we have any idea what those colours represent, and whether there is a significance to the face being painted red when the body is black?"

"Oh, geez. Uhhhh." Jules scowls as she tries to think through it. "We learned all this in school, but it's been awhile. Traditionally, there's just two main colors, black and red. The black is from charcoal or a certain kind of mud, I think, and you'd mix it with salmon eggs to make the dye. And then you sometimes have blue or green, or maybe white or yellow, usually just in small areas as an accent-color. Black represents power, I know that. Red is war. Or bravery, that kind of thing. Or blood."

She looks just thrilled at that last option. Blood.

"Blood is an obvious choice for red," the folklorist agrees. "But blood is not just injuries. It's also a life giving force. Almost all cultures have or have had a belief that blood is life -- obviously, because when we lose it, we die. It can be a symbol of renewal, of vitality."

He taps his chin. "But you know that to your people, it can mean war. So power and war, or at least aspects associated with war -- bravery, courage, strength. I want to say traditionally masculine energies but our figure here does very pointedly not have genitalia, and blood is often a feminine symbol of strength, obvious reasons. You said this thing wanted to act. It wanted to control Hastings, or at the very least, make him act with it. It has no weapons -- it's not a go out and kick the neighbouring village's ass kind of figure, then it'd be decked out like a warrior. Its head is a different colour -- if we go by power and bravery, then it's a body of power, applied by a brave mind."

Another glance at Jules. "I mean, considering where we are -- I don't think it's ridiculous to assume that it may represent someone who works with the shine. Doesn't need weapons or tools. Body isn't detailed because body doesn't matter. It's all the head."

"It's all the head," Jules repeats, musing. She's silent for a moment as she thinks through the implications of Ravn's assessment. It requires another cookie.

"I don't know much about my great-great-grandfather," she says then. "Besides the fact that my grandma says he was a shaman. It would've been right around the time this area was getting settled by white people. I mean, there were French fur traders in the area, but things changed right around the 1850s with westward expansion. So right around the time most of the natives nearly got wiped out. She said something about him having to hide it. Possibly for his own protection, given how that sort of thing was looked down on, but maybe also to protect it. Otherwise who knows where it might've ended up. With someone like Una's ancestor or in a museum. I'm guessing this guy was like us. I don't know if it always gets passed down by bloodline, but my grandma, my mom, and me, we all have some kind of tamanous." Jules opts for the native word, here.

"Things changed from the occasional bloke in a canoe named Jacques -- the man, not the canoe -- to the area filling with settlers and with their religion and their missionaries." Ravn nods. "I believe Seattle was founded in 1851, though it wasn't named Seattle yet. So whoever settled here would be a few years later, as 'civilisation' pushed on." He puts the word in air quotes because from a historian's perspective, it can be argued that civilisation was already here: Complex social structures, a written language (petroglyphs are written language, folks), permanent settlements.

The folklorist looks up at Jules. "We have no idea. Biologically, I mean. I'm pretty certain I don't have any ancestors who were known to have funny powers. But we have stories from all over the world, about powers and gifts that run in families. Here in Gray Harbor, the Baxters, the Addingtons, definitely families that pass it down to the next generation. If there is an answer it's 'sometimes it's passed down, sometimes it's not', I guess."

Then his gaze falls back to the figurine. "I think you're right, though. This is a 'living' item. It's got power, it's got at least some kind of self awareness -- a purpose, an intended use. And your ancestors knew to keep it out of sight of people who might not understand it -- or worse, who might be used by it."

While Jules thinks, her fingertips go tap-tap-tap on the table. She's got a restless look about her, a frown, and the kind of expression that announces what I'm about to say is a bad idea.

"So we think we know it's not healing and it's not fertility -- and thank God, there's been enough of that around here lately -- and it's most likely something to do with spirits. Which I take to mean what we call the Veil. Is there any way to figure out more about what it's used for -- or am I just going to have to try using it and see what happens?"

That's where the bad idea, Jules part comes in.

"I think step one for that is find out what it's used for." Ravn is not averse to the idea itself. "You pick up a hammer to bake a cake, it's not going to be a very good cake. So the question has to be -- who can tell us? Do we have a museum in this area that we can ask for advice? Or are we going to take pictures and do the white man with a PhD fast ticket to somebody at the Smithsonian?"

Jules makes a face at all of this. Research. Institutional research. Her inclination is clearly hammer, cake.

"UW has an indigenous collection, I think," she says though. "We could start there. But this is all assuming that white people ever got told what stuff like this was for, beyond just ritual ceremonies. Beyond that, I'd probably ask around the First Nations tribes up in Canada. They were better about keeping knowledge alive, and they're not so different than the coastal Salish peoples. It's like we're on a continuum."

Ravn nods. "Why not do both? Start local, and if that doesn't pay off, Canada -- there will have been enough cultural exchange down the west coast that you'd have at least some cultural themes in common. If that doesn't work? Call in the big guns. We could do all three but just on the off chance that this item is in fact a rarity -- well, much as my instinct says 'it belongs in a museum', it's your call whether it actually does."

"It does not belong in a museum." Jules firmly objects to that point. "Enough of our stuff already is, and if my family kept it within the family, then that's where it should be. Or with the tribe. Not sitting in a museum on some college campus."

Ravn nods his agreement. "If the thing is alive and, well, powered up, then it's too dangerous to ship it to a museum. If it isn't -- then you can consider whether you want to share it with the world or keep it to yourself. I'm not going to lecture you -- half of my family's stuff could be in museums and, well, it isn't. You can consider sharing photographs and what story you know -- it's still valuable information."

He looks back at the figure. "I think we should make those inquiries. Describe the item, take a couple of pictures. You don't have laws in the US that forces you to hand over artefacts, right? In Denmark, if the artefact is judged to be of sufficient cultural value, the state will confiscate it and reimburse you. Given the reimbursement is quite high, most people are more than happy to hand over finds."

"No. Maybe elsewhere, but the federal government does not get that kind of sway over us." Jules is firm on this point, too. "This squarely falls under native sovereignty."

She lets out a bit of a sigh. "Okay. So more research." Jules just sounds thrilled about that. "I don't suppose you would be interested in hitting up the museums while waving your PhD around? I honestly don't know where to start. I'm probably better when it comes to contacting other tribes."

"That seems like a good way to split it. Pretty certain that me hitting the tribes would hit a lot of walls you won't, and a PhD does tend to open doors in academia." Ravn reaches for the camera he brought -- an old Canon, the kind that will last as long as the planet. "Let me see if it will photograph. I say will because, well, the Veil does tend to not be very cooperative in that regard."

It wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if the picture viewer on the DSL camera showed a stick. Or a Barbie doll. The Veil protects its secrets.

What shows up on camera screen is just a rudely shaped piece of driftwood. The Veil nopes that photography right out of existence and gives Ravn the finger. It's not even metaphorical.

Jules can't see it from here, so she just watches Ravn with her brows lifted, waiting.

Ravn hitches a shoulder and packs the camera away. "Not happening. Which also kind of proves that the thing has power and purpose. If it was just an old decorative affair, the Veil wouldn't protect it. I'm going to say that based on that alone, we know it has its own agenda, or at the very least, a purpose that it's particular to."

He smiles at it. "I can still describe you in words, though. So, if you do have awareness, and you have a problem with that? Now's a good time to object, because we will in fact take your opinion into account if you can communicate it."

Jules leans in this time so she can get a good look at the figurine in the box. It just lies there, quiescent, instead of lifting its little wooden arms and waving them about with further rude gestures.

If they concentrate, they just might feel the hum of a vibration that no piece of equipment will register.

Ravn arches his eyebrows at Jules. "Do you hear that? I want to try something. Have a cup of coffee or something, I'll be right back."

And he's off. Leaving laptop, camera behind. Probably only gone for a moment.

Exactly as long as it takes him to go next door and fetch his violin. Because vibration? Vibration can communicate to strings, and strings can communicate sounds. Words? Probably not. But mewls and growls, much like an animal without language? Abso-friggin-lutely.

Jules looks after Ravn questioningly, but the question itself can wait until he gets back. In the meantime, she gets out her phone and occupies herself with texting.

The phone is put down when Ravn returns, now with violin. Her questioning look remains. "Are you going to serenade it?"

The folklorist laughs as he takes the violin out of its case and rosins up the bow. The instrument is unremarkable -- the violiniest of violins, black, no adornments, no decorations. He shakes his head. "Strings vibrate. If I touch the bow to the string, I create sound. I control the sound with my fingers on the fretboard, and with how I move the bow. But if I keep the bow still and I don't touch the frets -- then maybe our little friend there is able to vibrate the strings and produce a note. And maybe we can get to at least very basic communication that way. After all, it'd save us -- and it -- a lot of time if we don't have to spend three months finding out what its purpose is. If it wants to be used -- well, maybe it can tell us how."

Jules apparently isn't done texting. Her phone buzzes twice -- a different kind of vibration -- and she picks it up to quickly type something back.

"What would the note mean?" Of course, at this point, Jules just needs to shut up and let Ravn do his thing. Or the object do its thing, really, since that's the point of this exercise.

Ravn rests the instrument against his chin and places the bow on the strings. He feels more than a bit silly for talking to a wooden figurine but -- well -- honestly? -- it's far from the weirdest thing this town has made him do. It's not even in the top three.

He very deliberately does not place his fingers on the frets when he draws the bow slowly across the strings; the sound is steady if not particularly musical. "This is what the violin sounds like when nothing interferes," he tells the figurine. "Now, if you have the power to set these strings in motion -- then that will produce a different note. It may not be very different, but I'm trained to hear it. Let's keep it very simple. A higher pitch means yes. A lower pitch means no. Do you understand? If you do, well, show me."

The bow goes on the strings again, drawing out a slow note. And the classically trained musician listens carefully for a change in pitch. And tells himself that seriously, trying to teach a Quinault relic to play the violin is still less bizarre than fighting sewer gremlins, or dressing up as Maid Marian and then climbing trees in high heels.

Jules still has her phone in her hands, but she isn't texting now. She's just watching and waiting, anticipatory, until there's something to tell.

Maybe the Quinault relic doesn't understand. Maybe it's just being obstinate. Maybe it's toying with them. Because the note that the violin produces when Ravn draws the bow across the strings is exactly the same pitch and frequency.

As it happens, the man can in fact play. The tone lingers. Nothing happens. Ravn frowns -- and then seems to lose his patience a bit. His fingers find the frets. And then he puts on a performance of Yankee Doodle to raise every indigenous ghost in the vicinity -- though whether to applaud his excellent performance or to throw rocks is up for grabs.

Yankee Doodle because if this thing was 'alive' in 1850? Then that's exactly the piece of music any piper leading a band of redcoats into these woulds would have been playing. You, sir, have just been served a profound musical fuck you and the box you rode into town in.

Jules just watches with her brows raised. It's the first time she's heard Ravn play the violin, and he picks this?

If he's trying to get a rise out of the figurine in the box, well. congratulations. It works.

All of a sudden the strings screech discordantly, like nails on a chalkboard. A string pops. Ping.

Out of the aether, from the floorboards, from somewhere, the sound of drumming kicks in. It's immediate, pounding, headache-inducing. No build up. It suddenly is. It sets Una's pots and pans to rattling. One hits the floor with a sharp clang.

And Jules, amidst her, "What the fuck, what the fuck?" leaps out of her chair and sends off yet another text.

Ravn just grins. He has six strings. He needs only one. He changes back to the one flat note from earlier. "You can play the drums, can you? Then you can certainly also vibrate a string. Or communicate in music. Tell us who you are."

The nice thing about convalescing at 'home' after a (surprisingly brief) stint in the ICU? The 'home' in question is two doors down-- and the convalescent is hale and hearty enough to abandon his garden sunbathing at a run. Number 5 is not especially well-known to him (has he been here at all? Actually possibly not), but five comes after three comes after one, so it's not so difficult to find.

Mikaere's phone is still in his hand when he appears in the back doorway, eyes a little wide and watchfully wary. His shorts have seen better days; so has his t-shirt. So have his bare feet. No matter.

"What the hell?"

"Oh my God, Una is going to kill us."

Mikaere can likely hear the drumming from the neighboring yard, well before he actually gets to the back door. There's the sound of a male voice intoning something a pitch above the deep bass note, plus now Jules is yelling, "What are you doing? You're pissing it off!"

In short, chaos.

"Show us who you are," Ravn says calmly, and teases out that single note from his instrument again. "I don't want to anger you. I don't think you are angry. I think you are a warrior, and you are telling me this. Tell her. She is your people. She is your blood. Tell Jules who you are."

The glance he shoots Jules, over the violin, and then Mikaere, comes with a mild frown -- but at least it's not the defiant glance of someone who's about to pick a fight for the fight's own sake.

Mikaere's gaze slips from Ravn and his violin to Jules, and from them both, to the little statue. It bypasses, briefly, to consider the hanging pots, and to consider the drumming-- and the voice intoning over it. It's a lot to take in, even for someone forewarned about the efforts to communicate underway. Even so, his reaction takes only a moment to come: sensible or not, that remains to be seen.

He doesn't move from the doorway, but he does extend his thoughts towards the statue again, giving it a gentle nudge. Tell Jules who you are. Please? I'll help, if I can.

Ravn may think he knows what he's doing, but Jules has no friggin' clue. Her face is just this side of panicked as she looks between the two men in her kitchen and the object on the table, still inside its box.

As suddenly as it began, it all stops. Silence, except for the single note from the violin that lingers in the air.

They can wait. Nothing is immediately forthcoming. The statuette is just a statuette, inscrutable.

"We've certainly established that it can hear us," Ravn notes with a small smile. "Not quite in an academically approved fashion but then, academia also tends to assume that inanimate objects are, well, inanimate. We've established that when challenged, it responds -- if I want a fight, I can have one." He glances at the broken violin string. "And that it probably has no idea how expensive catgut strings are, the little fucker."

He lowers the bow. "We've also established that it can make noise if it wants to. It can make the sound of drums. It doesn't need an actual drum, or a violin string to vibrate." He places the instrument back in its case, its wounds to be licked later. "So here's where I'm going to suggest that you talk to it, Jules. In your own language. Tell it that you are the shaman of this generation. Ask it who it is. Because it hears us just fine."

"He's right," Mikaere concurs from the doorway. "I mean, I'm coming in to this partway, but based on my experiences of it... it can communicate just fine if it wants to. And if it did that," his sweeping gaze is probably intended to act as a gesture, encompassing the kitchen, the violin, the pots, the everything, "then it's got no small amount of power. Though I knew that. Damn thing wanted to take me over wholesale."

He leans up against the doorframe and concludes, "But you are the shaman. Let it know you're not afraid."

"Oh great, talk to it in a language that nobody can really speak anymore." Jules is plenty freaked out, but she still manages sarcasm. It steadies her, along with the deep breath she sucks in and slowly lets out.

She looks between the two of them, Ravn followed by Mikaere, and repeats incredulously, "I'm the shaman?" She takes a step and falls back against the wall and the bench stationed against it, between the refrigerator and the door to the backyard. "I don't even know how to say that. I can say 'hi' and 'my name is Jules' but beyond that--"

"It's a start. I can't say a single word in Quinault." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Show it that you want to try."

"Think at it, while you introduce yourself," suggests Mikaere. "Not the way I would think at it, but-- it's magic. There's got to be a way for you to be understood, even so. The intent is important, yeah."

So Jules takes another deep breath and, from where she is, tentatively addresses the figurine and whatever spirit inhabits it. "Nugwito?"

In response: nothing. Not a peep. Mikaere might sense a kind of scornful amusement rising up from the bentwood box.

"Olth chuwh la-aa," Jules tries next, then glances up to translate. "I just told it to come in and sit down. Which it can't really do, but you know, the meaning behind it. Why isn't it doing anything?" Now she's starting to sound frustrated. She's trying, here.

"Don't talk to us," Ravn says quietly. "You can tell us what you said, later. Right now? We don't matter. This thing didn't give a shit about everything I said to you, about it. Because I don't matter. It only started to pay attention when I talked directly to it -- playing a tune that I was fairly certain it would recognise and hate. Talk to it, not us."

Listen to her, Mikaere attempts to command.

It's exactly the wrong thing to do-- and he probably realises this the moment he's done it. Jules' statue. Jules' task. Shut up and let her do it, Mikaere, Jesus Christ.

He exhales. "Right," he agrees, as if he didn't just try something, lalala. "Talk to it. Just talk."

"Hey! Everyone okay?" Clattering along the upstairs hallway, doors being tried and slammed shut again.

More clattering, thumpity thumpity thumpity this time -- that's not the dryer gone askew; that's Della hurrying down the stairs with no effort at all to be quiet, hair up in twin ponytails and cut-offs ragged at the hems, checking the living room -- "Jules? Was that an earthquake?!" -- and now the hallway -- "Hello?!"

Another hum resonates in the kitchen, this time brief, accompanies a pulse of recognition. Whatever Mikaere did, the spirit inhabiting the statuette recognizes it. Recognizes him, too, from an earlier encounter.

"Chuwh tuul chan?" The Quinault phrases Jules knows how to say point towards a breathy language, whistling h's and ch's among the long vowels and harder consonants. She's trying to concentrate in the way that the two men are encouraging her, so she doesn't actually respond to Della, just holds up a hand. Wait.

Ravn too raises a gloved hand -- wait.

And what a display this is. A figurine on a table, next to a laptop and a violin with a broken string. Science is clearly in progress.

Or something.

Sensibly, Mikaere does nothing more: no more intrusions, no more attempts to help. This does not belong to him.

He's so intent on Jules and what she's doing he doesn't even register Della, though from his position at the doorway he'd be able to stare right at her.

Or something.

For all the traction she'd had down the stairs, along the hallway, all of that... Della half-skids to a full stop just inside the kitchen, her calls cut off, staring, not composed.

'What the hell?'

At least she mouths it, but it's definitely there.

This latest question sparks something. A reaction that registers in this reality, erupts into it. Suddenly there's a disembodied baritone voice speaking rapid-fire Quinault. Jules jumps back up to her feet, because hello, and just stares at the figurine in return.

"Slow down! I don't know what you're saying!" Jules slips back into English, voice rising with her frustration, and without thinking any further, she steps up to the table and picks up the object by its leather-wrapped handle, drawing it straight out of the bentwood box.

And the voice stops. All the gathered tension in this kitchen is about to turn into something else. The mentalists in the room will feel it more so than the others, but it's unmistakable, that rise in energy.

Good going, Jules.

"Well," Ravn notes with a small smile. "Sounds like you got somebody's attention."

And then he quickly snaps up his violin case. just in case.

There's an abrupt movement from Mikaere, who straightens from his lean (no sign of lingering injuries in that smooth movement) as the tension rises-- though this time, he doesn't attempt to respond mentally.

His eyes are on Jules; he's waiting.

"The hell?!"

Della again, out loud this time. Ravn's talking out loud, and so will she.

"What's with Antiques Roadshow? And -- " there's that spike. Her eyes go dark.

"Oh shit." Jules has time to register this much, and then her eyes go entirely black.

Black is the color of power.

It's power that surges, channeled through Jules as she stands there grasping the shaman's tool. Then she's the one speaking, Quinault tripping over her tongue with a fluency that is not her own. She's not in control of the arm that lifts and begins gesturing in the air. Like Ravn predicted, the movements are sharp and sudden, meant to make air whoosh through the holes carved between the human figure's arms and legs. She turns as she does it, accentuating the passage of air.

She's carving a hole between worlds, a window into the Veil.

This is where Ravn would likely have just about fainted if not for one thing.

One little thing. Yesterday.

He did that. And he opened one back out, too. "She's not going alone," he says quietly. "I'll go with her. I can open doors."

STOP.

It's an instinctive reaction, one that's probably already in progress when Ravn speaks-- too late for him to stop himself, if that even would be enough to do so.

Jules. Fight back. His mental tug is more like a yank. COME BACK.

And, also: Don't make her do this. You want to help her, not hurt her.

That underwater, abyssal creature -- that was a window and this is a Door.

Della's drawn to it, not out of possession but instinct --

-- and a run, a leap even, as though she'd tackle Jules slash Not-Jules and take that down.

Too bad she never played football.

Somewhere in her mind, there's a flicker of recognition, of Jules. But the spirit leading her on is irresistible, and it's so close to achieving what it wants. There in the middle of Una's kitchen, the structures through the Veil have been taken over by grass and moss and saplings, like the forest has come to reclaim it. The oven has become a burrow for rabbits, the cookies have grown into huckleberry bushes.

The door is open, but only for Jules. She's too new at this to carve an entry that will admit more than herself. All too easily, she sidesteps Della and walks right through.

And Ravn steps right after. Not because he's brave, and not because he wants to, and certainly not because he's eager to end up in some alternate reality which is probably full of horrible things that eat Danish violinists for breakfast and then spit out the bow.

He steps right after because he knows he's the only person present who has any chance of stepping back out. All that talk about having each other's backs. It's either stepping up to bat, or it's never opening his mouth again.

Thank God that no one else can see how badly his hands are shaking.

It's right as Jules steps in that Mikaere tries his last-ditch effort; he's not going through any doors, not here and now, not without proper planning and preparation, and not when Ravn is clearly so much better equipped to do so. "Shit," he says, but that's not what he's trying to do:

What he's trying to do is to transmit an emotion, trying to bypass the spirit and focus instead on Jules, on the small part of her he can reach. Empowerment.

You've got this, Jules.

This while, skidding and falling, Della slams into the... no, not the rabbit burrow. The oven. (The outside of the oven, at least.) Which is not quiet and, also, ow.

And the window-door snaps shut. Goodbye.