2022-06-07 - Totem Poles

Gray Harbor Marina. It's kind of difficult to tell where the official marina ends and private piers begin, and the only people who really care are tourist yachters trying to find out what berth they rented. A lot of these piers were built by somebody's grandfather for the boat for duck hunting, and a lot of the boats on them are used for that purpose still; just because Rennie Island has been used for toxic waste dumping from the paper mill for decades doesn't mean the ducks there aren't fat.

Near the marina proper is where you find a lot of related activities; kayakers, water ski rentals, water scooters, tackle shops -- all the other things that you can do in water besides live on it. Those shops make a substantial income for Gray Harbor's tax coffers too -- and help keep the tourists coming in.

To Ravn Abildgaard they're where he meets casually with a fair number of people -- because that's what he does, on the by and by, he connects people. To a very large part of Gray Harbor's population Ravn is That Guy -- the guy from the community centre, you know, the one with the gloves, he knows everybody, talk to him if you need to find out who can help with the thing. He likes it that way.

He strolls along the pier, shoulder bag over one shoulder as is his habit these days, stopping here and there for a quick chat with some mill worker giving his kayak a fresh coat of paint, the hot dog vendor, and then onwards to exchange a few words with the old men on the bench beneath the old maple. It's just another sunny summer afternoon -- spring, technically, but whatever, if the sky is blue and the temperature is t-shirt friendly, it's summer.

And he is wearing a t-shirt, after all. It reads, Dear Karma, I Have A List Of People You Missed.

These days, Jules has been frequenting the marina a whole lot more than usual. It’s not just her extracurricular activities that bring her down to the water. With summer in the offing, her familiar face can be spotted at one of the tour companies specializing in kayaking adventures in and around Gray Harbor.

She’s just come back from one such guided tour this afternoon. The tourists have already departed, likely off to find food and libations after a few hours on the water. Jules isn’t yet off to do the same; instead, she’s at work unloading the touring van with a coworker, shifting kayaks back to their racks and hanging up life jackets. The shop’s rolling garage door stands open, and a radio blares whatever the summer’s latest hits happen to be.

With her hair up and out of the way in a ponytail, dressed in shorts and an athletic tank-top, and a lanyard with keys around her neck while sunglasses perch on her nose, Jules looks every inch the tour guide. She’s just closing the back hatch of the van when Ravn happens by.

“I hope I’m not on your list,” Jules calls out.

Watch Ravn blink. Watch him glance at Jules and visibly wonder what she's on about -- and only then remember the print on his t-shirt. He's new to this whole snarky t-shirt thing -- and Ariadne is rightfully priding herself in enabling yet a questionable habit.

Once the penny does drop, though, he raises a gloved hand and wanders over. "Need a hand or did I manage to time it just right that I get credit for offering but don't actually have to do any work?"

“The latter,” Jules answers with a grin. “Bingo. Just finishing up.” She locks the van with the key on the lanyard, jangling it in her hand for a minute. “I’m about done, just have to go out this back.” The key, dropped from her palm with a swing. “One sec, don’t go anywhere.”

She turns and scoots into the garage. The athletic wear shows off her shoulder tattoo, red and black peeking out from behind the high-necked tank top. She’s back just a minute later, now with a backpack slung over one shoulder as she drinks from a water bottle. “So what’re you up to today?”

"I have nowhere in particular I need to be right now," Ravn returns, smiling. "I was wandering towards my berth and thinking about maybe picking up some food on the way. They tell me the hot dog guy on the marina actually does decent junk food so maybe I'll give that a shot. I have horribly unhealthy eating habits, as I'm positive Irving has commented on several times."

He glances towards the stand. It's a small throng of tourists around it. "I suppose there's also just finding a quiet place and a beer from the tackle shop -- they sell basic ship's supplies because who wants to go to Safeway when you can pay double price here on the marina?"

“Mmm, hotdogs and beer.” With that, Jules invites herself along. “I’m starving, and I won’t judge you for what you eat. As much as it may surprise you, Una doesn’t talk about your eating habits, at least not with me.
I think as long as you keep eating her cookies, she’ll be happy.”

Another drink; Jules has nearly emptied her water bottle by now. “I’ll trade you—I’ll go get hot dogs if you get the beer.” She saw the way Ravn eyed that line. “What do you want on yours?”

"Nothing too spicy. I'm a white European boy, I die if a jalapeño looks at me hard. Apart from that? Anything." Ravn chuckles and nods. "Meet you by that bench over there? I'll go -- what's your poison? Proper beer, or that fermented syrup Ariadne insists on?"

“Got it.” The description of Ariadne’s alcoholic beverage of choice has Jules looking skeptical. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds gross. Something fairly light, please. A warm summer day kind of beer, nothing too heavy.” So fermented syrup is right out. “See you in a few,” she says, and with that goes off to brave the line at the hotdog stand.

Not so very long after, Jules finds her way to the appointed bench with two hotdogs. Both are generously appointed with sautéed onions and mustard. “Hope this is okay,” she says while presenting Ravn with his dog.

"Hell yes." Ravn grins lopsidedly and offers over in return, a pale ale from whatever microbrewery in town gets to advertise at the tackle shop this weekend. It looks, well, pale, and not too strong -- because while a yachter may like the idea of a cold beer, a drunk yachter trying to navigate his way out of the marina means way too much insurance coverage.

Trading one for the other, the Dane glances back at the kayaks. "So that's what you do? Take tourists out, try to keep them from drowning, show them some of the sights around the nature preserve off Hoquiam? I imagine there are worse summer jobs to have, at least you're outdoors."

Jules looks satisfied with the trade. “Cheers,” she says before that first sip. Then she digs in. Fortunately, there’s a pile of napkins just there on the bench between them. Hotdogs will never not be a messy affair— unless you’re Ravn, perhaps, with a knack for always keeping gloved fingers clean.

“Yep,” she answers after she’s swallowed and wiped her mouth free of mustard. “I pretty much did the same thing up at Lake Quinault, plus hiking trips. I was going to do it again the same again this summer, but honestly, not making the commute is nice. Especially if I want to be able to hang out around here with people, instead of camping out up there for most of the week. I went ahead and stopped working at the hatchery, while I’m at it. Same reasons, and I can get enough hours here to make up for it. I’ll figure it out again after the summer, but then I’ll be back in classes full time, not just doing the one I’m doing for fun.”

Ravn must be cheating, somehow; he never gets a stain on those gloves and it really is quite humanly impossible to eat a hot dog and not touch the mustard. He never makes a fuss about it -- and he never stains those black gloves, either. A habit, deeply ingrained, a power use so subtle that he does not even think about it.

"I guess there are a lot worse summer jobs, even if it rains a lot," he repeats, thoughtfully. "It does in my home country as well. Same climate. The water is a little warmer back home because we're shallow sea while you've got glacial melt here. Not much difference otherwise."

The folklorist glances back at Jules and arches one eyebrow. "What are you studying? I don't think I've ever gotten around to ask."

“Mm, yeah. Less rain in the summers these days,” Jules comments with a bit of a frown. “Climate change. I’d be happier with more, to be honest.”

She’s making fast work of her hotdog, hungry from physical exertion. There’s only another couple bites left when she answers, “I’m working on my AA in Forestry. I thought that would be a good path if I want to work somewhere like The Department of Fish and Wildlife. Not just dealing with forests, you know, but the ecosystem as a whole.”

"Makes sense." Ravn nods and then smiles a little. "Makes even more sense to recruit people who have spent a lot of time in the nature that they're trying to protect."

He glances up at the sky and the brilliant sun that shines down from it. "Climate change is going to drown my country. We're sea floor, barely keeping our feet dry. Once the sea levels rise a few metres -- we're going to be short of something to stand on. Weather's already unstable as hell. One summer, we get no rain at all -- '18 was one long drought. Harvest ruined. '19? Drowned, same. Winters are too hot, summers drown or burn."

He looks back down and then takes another small bite of hot dog because when did this man ever anything quickly. "It frightens me. There's jack all I can do about it, and it frightens me. All I can do is not do -- no unnecessary flights, no unnecessary power, no unnecessary garbage. But not doing is not enough, you know?"

Jules grimaces as Ravn describes the situation. She listens as she polishes off the last of her hotdog, setting the empty carton aside for the moment to be thrown away later. “There’s honestly not a lot any single individual can do,” she states. “Besides organize to fight back at the macro level or trying to better the situation right where you are. I remember you telling me about climate change in Denmark back when we visited Taholah, and I mentioned how the tribe is applying for government aid to relocate.” She turns to Ravn with a crooked smile. “Whatever nightmares may come through the Veil, it’s nothing compared to what we do to ourselves. I think the Veil just reflects our own society—good and bad.”

"In many ways it does seem to do exactly that. What you put in is what you get out? And I guess that as a species, we have a lot of less than pleasant traits." Ravn nods thoughtfully and sips his beer. "Still, that also means there's a lot of good in there, because a lot of people are good."

He glances out at the Bay and then back to Jules, contemplating before finally deciding to jump to it. "When you take tourists out there, does it make a difference to them that they have an indigenous guide? I don't mean the selfies-with-a-native stuff -- I don't need to ask you about that. I mean, do any of them ask about the Quinault, and your relationship with the area? I had this talk with Hastings last night -- on the Orient Express of all bloody places -- about how you can change your nationality, of course, but you can't immerse yourself deep enough in a foreign culture that you truly go native. At best, you can adopt yourself in, but there's a level of understanding you'll never have."

The question, and then the context from which the question comes, has Jules raising her eyebrows. “Well,” she begins after a long pause, “they don’t always know I’m indigenous. They can’t always tell just by looking, and I don’t always volunteer that information. Sometimes I do, because yeah, I think it matters to have a native guide. It matters to me that they know we’re still here and still connected to our land. I tell them more often than not as part of the tour, and yeah, they’re often curious about how we live now, what this place means to us. But sometimes I just want to be out on the water and not field those kinds of questions. Depends on the day.”

Her beer hits the spot. It’s just the kind of thing she wants to drink after a day on the water. Sipping, Jules considers the man on the bench next to her. “My turn to ask a question. If that’s okay. I noticed you tend to call people by their last names—why is that?”

Ravn laughs softly. "I'm afraid the reason for that is really rather inane. I never managed to work it out -- in English, I mean. When to call someone by their first name, when to call them by their last, when they're son, or ma'am, or sir. I got it wrong so often that when I came into town and noticed that Rosencrantz and a few others call each other by last name -- I just went Eureka! and adopted the habit. After all, it's harder to offend someone by being too formal, than the other way around."

He sips his beer and the smile turns a little lopsided. "So I guess that's one of those things. You can be an expat in another culture, you can learn the language and blend in quite well, but you'll always have an accent, and there'll always be little things that don't make a lot of sense to you."

“Oh.” The explanation has Jules showing a quizzical little smile. “I would never have classified last names as formal. It sounds very one-of-the-boys to me. Not that I kind. It’s just something you’d hear out on a football field—‘Hastings! Get over here!’” She adopts a deeper, gruffer tone before sliding back into her normal range. “But it’s a good example for your point. The little cultural things that make a difference but we can’t always pick up.”

"I try to play it by ear. If people call me Ravn to my face, then I use their first name back. When I talk about them, though? I play it safe. Can't step on anyone's toes that way." Ravn's smile lingers as he manages to finish off the hot dog (don't tell Una, no, really, her snickerdoodles are way better than a hot dog, this man has no idea what good treats are). "But yeah -- I know expats to Denmark often get confused at how informal we are. Because we're not really. Oh, sure, everyone's buddies, everyone's on a first name basis -- and then you break some unspoken rule and you're persona non grata."

He chuckles. "Hell, those rules vary enough even regionally. It's like something I heard in New York -- someone who wasn't from New York themselves said, if you're in New York and someone says you really must come over, that means they want to visit you. But if we say, you really must come out to the island some day, that means we're being polite and stay the fuck off our island."

Jules laughs at that. “I generally try to say what I mean, mean what I say, but I bet I’ve got some stuff like that that I’m not even aware of,” she reflects. “The only example that really comes to mind is potlatch etiquette— you heard of it? Not a potluck, where everyone brings food, that’s a different thing. It’s an indigenous practice from this area and up the coast about throwing elaborate feasts to show off your generosity and wealth. They banned it at one point.”

"I've heard of it," Ravn says -- and then adds, with a trace of caution, "and I'm pretty sure that what I heard is not very accurate. The way it was explained to me, it was a ceremony with the purpose of showing how wealthy you are, by giving everything away, and destroying what you couldn't give. And that's why it was banned -- it ruined people, keeping them in poverty."

He raises his hand slightly as if to ward off explosions. "Thing is, as a folklorist, I know that's bullshit at worst, half the story at best. Because no indigenous population ever benefited from wrecking productive members of the community. So there's very obviously something that's being left out -- it sounds like coloniser propaganda to justify bring civilisation to those poor, ignorant bastards."

Jules looks just a touch amused at how careful Ravn’s being not to piss her off. “The description’s pretty accurate, except for the rationale around banning it. I mean, how is it really that much different than how people throw massive weddings these days and show off how rich they are? There are frickin’ TV shows about it. But everything native got banned, more or less. Except totem poles. Because those were considered cool. Propaganda for Seattle as the Gateway to Alaska and so on. Except we didn’t even have them down here. Did you hear the story of the big totem pole in Seattle? Have you seen it?”

She’s warming to her topic, becoming more animated as she continues. “They one hundred percent stole it from a village in Alaska, cut it down when the people were away in their summer location. Figured it was abandoned and carted it down here.”

Ravn nods slowly. "The big totem poles -- I think Tlingit, when I see them -- more north. I haven't seen the one in Seattle. Can't say I'm one bit surprised, though. Denmark's been bleeding inuit art out of Greenland until about -- I don't know, the 1980s? Probably. All in the name of showing the inuit culture, educating people, and so on. If you ever go to Europe -- hell, you can probably get the same experience at the Smithsonian. Those big museums are treasure troves. I can get lost in them for days. But there's something really weird about standing in front of the literal Turquoise Gate of Babylon -- except, well, you're in Berlin."

He shakes his head. "That one did my head in. It's the literal lion gate. The actual thing, transported and rebuilt. It's beautiful, and very well preserved. But there's a part of me that can't help think that it should be in -- you know, Babylon. Which means modern day Iraq, so maybe it's a good thing it hasn't been returned yet. But it should be."

“Tlingit, Haida, exactly. People did start carving them down here because they could make money from it, so sure. And we have similar imagery and stuff, because we’re related. But the Quinault aren’t the Tlingit, aren’t even First Nations like they call themselves up in Canada. So when a tourist asks me if my tribe has a totem I kinda want to murder them. Maybe we did, way back when before we almost got wiped out, but not in the way they’re thinking.”

Jules can’t speak much to the rest of it, though she nods along. Her sliver of the world is limited. “Sounds like yet another case where people have to petition museums for repatriation.”

"There's a lot of that. And it does hurt. Beautiful museums built around beautiful pieces -- but there is no way to defend the stance that everything beautiful and ancient needs to sit in the capitals of Europe. Egypt would like Queen Nefertiti's bust back too, speaking of Berlin. It's only one of the most famous busts in history." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "It's the same thing, though. Seeing everything through the glasses of western civilisation. It's going to hurt to unlearn."

Then he glances at Jules and sips his beer. "The good part? Virtual learning becomes ever easier, and you can absolutely see all those things online, without needing to go be face to face with them. Sure, it's an experience, but so are the Himalayans or Lake Champlain, and we're not moving those to the Smithsonian, are we?"

Beat. "So tell a clueless white boy about the totems -- the ones you don't have. Does that mean you think the Quinault used to have something along those lines but it's been lost, or that you had something else instead? I can't stop thinking about that mask in the box -- hang on, did you find out about the box? Because I think I may have. It's for a canoe. Shaped so that it will fit into the front end."

“Better for people to go to Egypt to see Queen Nefertiti’s bust in the right context,” Jules opines. “And bring their tourist dollars with them, while they’re at it.”

She shares a grin with this clueless white boy. “That’s totally it. I asked my grandma about it. It floats, too.” Jules rearranges her legs. “As for totems, I mean in the sense of a village connecting themselves to a spiritual fore-bearer or patron. We did have carvings, like in houses. Just not the big ones on a pole.” Another sip of beer, another moment of thought. “Honestly, if I did feel like I had a spiritual connection to a given animal, I’m not sure I’d advertise it.” Here’s where she turns over her right arm to display those scars made by the cougar’s scars and contemplates her own words. “Depends on the situation, I guess. As far as native beliefs are concerned, we’re all spiritually connected to the animals around us. But I meant personally.”

Ravn nods again. "Sure. I can have a beautiful painting of a horse on my bedroom wall, doesn't mean I think there's a horse spirit guarding that bedroom. Sometimes, the only purpose of art is to make us happy, make us reflect. It's a misconception that only industrialised cultures make things pretty just because they can. Take one look at illuminated manuscripts from the Middle Ages, and that one's shot down pretty hard. The big illuminations serve a purpose, sure. The hares chasing flying dicks around the cabbage patch that some monk doodled in the margin --does not."

“And then there’s that,” Jules agrees. “People decorate stuff because we all appreciate beauty. I think that’s true for every culture.”

She’s quiet for a moment, enjoying the view of the water. It’s pleasant here, with the breeze off the harbor and the sun overhead. “At some point,” Jules ventures then, “I’m gonna have to try to figure out what the whole point of that trip we took back into the past was. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t really wanted to think about it. It was—a lot.”

Ravn glances at the Bay -- and at the mouth of the Chehalis, somewhere over there, behind tall buildings and warehouses. "I try to not think too much about the drowning part of it. The rest, I have given some consideration to. But what it meant in more precise terms -- I can't tell you. The elder who called you his grandchild absolutely knew what was coming -- and that suggests he was not your literal grandfather as much as a representation of the Chehalis nation as it once was. An ancestral spirit of some kind. Would it be too bizarre to assume that your ancestral spirits can still be around?"

The historian looks back to Jules. "I mean, mine are. As in, I grew up regularly seeing them puttering about. We call them ghosts but on some level, they're the same thing."

“We’ll he can’t be my literal grandfather. My grandfather’s still alive.” Jules falls back on this dryness, though she says it in good humor. “The Chehalis, the Quinault— they’re so close, at the end of the day. It was forbidden to marry kin, and all the Quinault were considered kin, not just a given village, so sure, no reason he couldn’t really be my ancestor.” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “Far be it from me to nay-say it. He certainly knows a hell of a lot more than me, so I better respect it.”

Jules hesitates there, brow furrowing as she sorts through what she wants to say next. “The traditional beliefs about spirits and souls and afterlives are complicated,” she settles on eventually.

"The grandfather in the Dream may not have been your literal grandfather -- he obviously wasn't if both of your grandfathers are alive. Also, if we were back before settlement by white people really took off here -- Seattle was founded sometime around 1850. You'd need to go a couple of generations further back." Ravn nods slightly and traces the rim of his beer bottle with a fingertip, thinking. "But it doesn't rule out using the term 'grandfather' as a honorific. Maybe he was an ancestor, maybe he was a protective spirit. I suppose it doesn't really matter. The message was clear enough."

And that makes the folklorist's grey gaze wander back to Jules. "But we can't close the thin spot here, and we certainly cannot do it retroactively. We can't make white settlers not happen, either. One way or the other, the Chehalis tribe's way of life is lost. Doesn't mean we can't learn from it, though. And those spirits we saw -- Della, I, and a few others, the ones who attacked us in a Dream. Those spirits are probably still around, and I'd be surprised if a hundred and seventy years of colonisation has made them any more friendly."

“Grandfather does tend to be the most respectful term,” Jules agrees. “As far as the timing goes, the Quinault had to sign their treaty in 1855, though that doesn’t mean everyone moved right away. Lots of villages refused, especially those that weren’t Quinault, so it would’ve meant leaving their lands. This was right around the time of the war in the Puget Sound. Fucking Governor Stevens. That’s his big claim to fame: forcing tribes onto reservations.” This isn’t the history that most Washington state kids learn in school.

“Pandemics pretty much decimated the native population between the 1840s and 1850s— and when I say decimated, I mean it. The census in the ‘70s or ‘80s was something like 100 Quinault left. At some point the res consolidated further, probably in part because everyone was dead and you gotta stick together for protection, so now there’s seven tribes in the Quinault Indian Nation, and the Chehalis are one of them.” She pauses here to shoot a slightly smug look at Ravn. “How’s that for history nerding? Back to the point— given that he knew disease was coming, and there was some kind of white settlement already here, I’d place it in the 1830s or ‘40s. White migration really took off in the early ‘40s.”

Jules pauses here for a moment of thought. It’s one thing to rattle off the tribal history she’s grown up with, and another to puzzle out its connection to the present, especially a present that involves the Veil. “There were always unfriendly spirits,” she says slowly, between pulls from her beer bottle. “But from everything I’ve heard, it sounds like contact with those who don’t want to harm you have become a lot less common. Almost everyone I know seems terrified of the spirit world. It’s all about how it wants to hurt you, now, and not about how you can learn from it. I keep coming back to that when I think about it— because it’s not the way I was brought up to understand it. Maybe that’s what the message was about— about restoring some kind of balance. And it would make sense to me if the events in the mid 1800s ripped something loose so the evil spirits came flooding in and took over.”

"It wouldn't be a far fetched thought that what happens in our world mirrors the spirit world and the other way around, at least to some extent," Ravn agrees and shoots Jules a slightly impressed glance. Yep, that's knowing your history all right, and he vastly appreciates that in a person.

He glances out at the Bay, and at the forest clad hills that make up its coastline. "A lot of terrible things happened in the mid-19th century here. Enough that the things we call dolorphages will have had so much fuel, so much food, so much power -- it's no wonder the balance has never been restored here, honestly. And then the Addingtons and Baxters go do whatever it was they did, and it's like building a permanent portal to Hell out in the woods."

Ask Jules about the American Revolution, and she couldn’t care less, but this is the stuff that matters in her mind. One thing about genocide and dispossession: later generations keep the memory alive.

“Cool. Our very own entrance to Hell, just what I always wanted.” Cue sarcasm. “So the question now is: what can we do about it? Based on what happened, I don’t think the spirit in my possession stick wanted to hurt us. It needed to show us, and that was the best way it knew how to do it. So I think that means it would want to help us with whatever we have to do next. Not that I’m super eager to pick it up again.” Jules wrinkles her nose, making a face. “Not to mention all the people who will probably murder me if I try.”

Ravn hitches a shoulder slightly; not in the way of 'don't care' but 'hell if I know'. "I think our best bet -- for all of it, really -- is to keep on doing what we do. Have each other's backs. Try to be decent people. It sounds so -- well, childish, but there's something to be said for being a good neighbour. We know that altruism hurts the fuckers. That's what HOPE is about -- connecting people, helping people help themselves. The dolorphages at least prey on emotions like despair and loneliness, so we try to throw sticks in the wheels."

He upends his beer. "Changing the world one tiny thing at a time. I have no illusions that we can close the thin point, or shut out all the evil spirits. But maybe we can work towards restoring the balance, one small thing at a time. And be a pain in the arse to the evil spirits while we're at it. I'm petty enough to take quite a bit of enjoyment in that. Somebody -- or something -- wants to fuck with people here, let's return the favour."

“That’s it?” Jules sounds demonstrably disappointed. “After going through all that, you don’t think there’s more we can do? Bring the fight to them, not always just have to react. You don’t think we should at least try?”

Jules is a fighter, and an ancestor of one kind or another gave her an instruction. Of course she wants to try to honor it.

Ravn puts his bottle down and smiles a bit. "Hell yes, I do. That's what HOPE is -- everything we do there, everything I do, is for that specific purpose. Fighting back, taking their power away one fibre at a time. Any other ideas you have, that you need help with? You can count on me to hear you out, and if I don't find major faults with the plan, I'll sign on. The way I see this -- we're at war here. I agree with you on that. I agree with your ancestor on it, too. It's not a war that's fought with rifles or bayonets, but it's a war all right."

He may not consider himself to be a fighter as such but the Abildgaard line does have 850 years worth of history of being leaders of men. Speaking of cultures you have to be born into, and all that jazz.

Problem is, Jules doesn’t know enough to offer solid suggestions or modes of attack. She’s clearly frustrated, sitting there while Ravn has the gall to smile and talk about being a do-gooder. “I don’t know,” she winds up sighing. “And I wish I did. It doesn’t seem fair, that we get whisked into Dreams, but can’t find a way to go in and lock out the ones that want to hurt us. I thought maybe that’s what the possession stick was for.” That is definitely the name that she’s sticking with for her shamanic tool. “For opening ways in and finding ways to shut others out.”

"Maybe it is." Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "Let's not rule it out?"

Then he sighs lightly. "It's frustrating as hell. I want to take that Glock Seth Monaghan gave me and go in there, and use it on those bastards. But if there's one thing I've learned so far, it's that it's not that easy. It's hard -- convincing yourself you're satisfied with fighting back. You want to do more, you want to make a visible dent."

He glances back at Jules and nods. "Maybe this is where we get with the others -- make some plans, come up with some ideas, see where they take us? We all can do things that are pretty useless on our own, but together, we may be able to make a difference. There's a couple of Veil entities I know I want a piece of."

“I don’t suppose one starts with Haggle and ends with Ford?” Jules sounds wry, though there’s an underlying sense of the grimness of it all. “I’ve heard about the dude, though I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him, if you can call it that. And yes, more heads, knock ‘em together and see if we can’t shake a decent idea loose.”

"That asshole is definitely on the list. I've only met him once, and that was enough for me to decide I really didn't like him. I've heard enough about his antics that I haven't grown any fonder. I really don't care much for people who hire goons to kill me, or abduct me, or whatever it is he does. I also got to meet his retainer in a Dream, and I wish I remembered more of it -- but with the exact kind of fucked-up humour the Veil has, I was a cat in that Dream. And you know cats. There wasn't anything to eat or fuck, so I mostly just wanted to sleep." Ravn makes a face. Cats.

A laugh bubbles up and out. “Cat with a cat-brain, sounds like, instead of how I ended up as Raven that still thought normally, more or less. Though that’s probably different since the native legends consider Raven et al people, just of another kind. Una did pelt the Skookum with her nut stash.”

Her smile fades as she considers further. “Haggleford’s goons almost killed Mikaere. Now he’s sticking around until we put Haggleford down.”

Ravn cants his head and smirks. "Sounds like now there's finally a reason to not make the asshole take a long walk off a short pier."

Jules meets that smirk with a look. The kind that is thoroughly unimpressed, sir. No words are needed.

Ravn's grin widens a little. "Well, maybe we can convince Hastings to stick around also after we toss Haggleford into the river. You know how to stop a man like Haggleford from drowning? Take your foot off his head. Or maybe I should just say, good."

“You’re welcome to try,” Jules says now, lifting her bottle to her lips again. “Something tells me he’ll sail off into the sunset sooner or later, though. New Zealand’s in his blood.”

She swigs and swallows. “But I’m sure he’d be quite happy to be the one holding Haggleford’s head under.”

"Maybe you'll be going with him when he does." Ravn nods. "Maybe not. Some people are transient, and few things last forever. Still, don't put his suitcase on the curb until he tells you he's leaving."

He looks at his hands. "Hell, I'm surprised it's not Ariadne giving you that advice. Because I'm like that -- transient. Or I was, until coming here. And if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that it's better to not rely on anyone. I learned that all my life, and now I'm here, unlearning it all, one thing at a time."

Now Jules’ brow hitches up. Surprise? Skepticism? “This is the farthest I’ve ever lived from my tiny town, and it’s 45 minutes away,” she points out. “Seattle feels foreign to me. And that’s presuming— well, it’s presuming a lot. It’s not like it’s that serious.”

Jules is more than happy to shift the conversation away from herself, noting, “You and Ariadne are adorable together. You clearly make her happy.”

"I try." Ravn nods slightly and looks at the rolling waves of the Bay and the seagulls that circle on the airstreams above it. "She certainly makes me happy. And I would love to think in terms of forever and happily ever after, but that's not how life works. Enjoy what you have, and if it's gone tomorrow, at least you have good memories. Not going to deny that she surprised me. I was pretty certain her and Irving were getting together, and then she -- well, then she told me differently."

“Hear hear. That’s a sentiment I can get down with.” Jules extends her arm to clink her bottle against Ravn’s. His shared suppositions have her offering a little laugh, while she’s at it.

“Una danced with your friend at the ball, you know,” she says, as even and noncommittal as can be.

"The way you say that tells me says a lot," Ravn muses. "Which friend do you have in mind -- and if Irving's got a good dance out of it, is it a bad thing?"

Jules deadpans, “The bisexual disaster unicorn.”

She can’t keep a straight face to save her life, and as soon as it’s out, she’s grinning ear-to-ear. “I don’t know if it’s anything, but Una sure did blush. Definitely not a bad thing.”

Ravn chuckles softly. "That's one thing about Rosencrantz. Everybody falls in love with him. Or, well, almost everybody. At least he won't hurt her. If he's not interested, he'll let her down gently, no fucking around or giving her shit about it. They're like that -- both of them. Rosencrantz and de la Vega, women go nuts about them. I'm too straight to tell why. But, Rosencrantz is a good bloke, she could find a lot worse to crush on."

“I don’t know if she does have a crush on him,” Jules says thoughtfully. She’s no longer straight-up telling on Una, picking her words with care not to wound their friend. “But if she does, then it sounds like he’s a decent guy to like. Which is good. If anyone fucks Una over, they’re gonna have a posse of pissed off people after them.”

A shrug, then. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the silver fox thing. I haven’t met Itzhak Rosencrantz so can’t comment there, but I have met Javier de la Vega a few times, and he seems okay. Maybe it’s the man with a mysterious past thing. But personally, I’m not dating anyone who’s old enough to be my dad.”

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "No real use asking a straight cis bloke what women like in another man, and why. Rosencrantz is a good friend of mine, but I never considered him that way. I have watched most women coming into town fall hard for one or the other, though. I guess some men just have that something."

He shrugs with the other shoulder too. "Either way, Rosencrantz is fun to be around. He'll tell you he's a dick and then do everything in his power to not hurt you. He'll tell you he's irresponsible and then go fight anyone who's threatening you. He's a good friend to have, even if he's convinced himself that he's a useless asshole."

“Sounds like the kind of guy I’d get along with,” Jules judges with a lopsided smile. “Anyway, it was just a dance. I guess we’ll see.”

Ravn shakes his head. "I never notice these things. If they were to hook up? I'd know about it if either of them told me. I'm about as blind to that sort of thing as a man can be. Probably the reason most people think I'm very much the death of the party, rather than the life -- I genuinely miss out on most of the things people think is fun. Never see anything like that coming until people tell me they got together three weeks ago, how could I not know? Or they tell me they had a crush on me but I was clearly not interested, haha."

Jules holds up her bottle to judge how much beer remains. Enough for this swig, and maybe one more. “Una’s shy about this kind of stuff. If he draws her out of her shell a little bit, even if it’s totally platonic, then it’s probably a good thing,” she decides. “And it’s not the worst thing in the world to have other things on your mind than who’s boning who. You see people as people, first and foremost. I like that.”

"I guess." Ravn takes that second but last swig of his bottle. "The Veil keeps casting me as a Catholic priest in Dreams. For a long time I figured it made sense -- I tend to end up the bloke people go to with their confessions and their woes. Kind of watching from the side. You know -- transient."

“Hah.” That’s for Catholic priest Ravn. “It’s just screwing with your head. You’re no monk.”

Why yes, that is an insinuation about Ravn’s love life. “You’re also a good guy who people trust with their problems.” Jules nearly elbows Ravn as she says it, stopping herself at the last minute as brain overrides instinct. “And if you were a monk,” she concludes a moment later, “well, that’s just fine, too.”

"People trust other people they know to not have a stake in their problems." Ravn nods slightly. "I'm safe to talk to about a lot of things because I'm not in the running. No one's ever needed to worry whether it was safe to talk to me about their crush on somebody or I'm competition. I'm not competition. I usually don't notice these things, and when I do, I don't compete. Have to trust that people know what they want, without trying to tell them or convince them they want something else. I tried changing myself to keep a woman happy once and she ended up dead."

He looks back out at the sea; the seagulls continue to circle because that is after all what seagulls do -- at least until they discover what they're hoping to find, and go fight each other for it. (And any tourists trying to save their fries). "I'm not some oracle, Jules. I'm just a bloke who lives on a boat with his cat and his books. A bloke who somehow has caught the eye of a wonderful woman, and I'm still trying to figure out what the hell someone like that wants with someone like me. Most of the time, I'm just winging it -- because that's all we can do in this town. Try to look confident, keep the morale up, and fight back."

“People don’t always know what they want, though. And they convince themselves of the wrong things. I’ve been guilty of both of those things in the past myself. But it’s all the more reason to be straight with others as much as you can be. Someone’s gotta do it, and you gotta learn from your mistakes.” Jules finishes off her beer, tilting the last of the liquid down her throat.

“I don’t think you’re an oracle. I do think you’re a good person to talk to. But just for the record, I was not the one to bring up relationship whatever stuff, that’s totally all you.” She points her empty bottle at Ravn accusingly, one eyebrow lifted as if she just dares him to contradict her.

"Oh, you weren't?" Ravn smirks. "Then I guess I need to start worrying because if I'm the one who said, 'You and Ariadne are adorable together' then clearly I do think I have competition."

“It’s a good thing I know you’ve got wacky nerves, otherwise I’d be throwing this at you.” Jules waggles the bottle in Ravn’s direction. “I believe you were the one who was all, blah blah, reasons to stay in Gray Harbor besides murdering Haggleford, blah blah blah.”

"I didn't realise that the only other valid reason for staying would be relationships." Ravn polishes off his beer. "I'm sorry. I'm not lying when I say, I don't understand these things and I don't see them coming. I'm also not really that great a conversationalist outside of the things I can give a lecture on -- and as most people will point out just about there, a lecture is not a conversation. Social skills are for people who actually get social cues."

Now Jules just throws her hands up dramatically. “Ughhhhhh. Nevermind. For the record, I try not to advertise my personal business and shove it in other people’s faces. This past week being the notable exception.”

Ravn throws the woman a searching glance. For a second or three it's quite obvious he's trying to decide whether this is the time to make a tactical retreat before things get awkward beyond repair -- or follow his natural inclination towards trying to solve problems. Life was easier when he never stayed a week in the same place and never had to worry about meeting somebody in the street again next week.

At length he simply observes, "I doubt anyone will hold the equivalent of having your drink filled with roofies against you. if they do, they're the asshole."

“Yeah, no, I get that. It’s fine. I just don’t like wild speculation, so I try not to — and try not to give people fodder for gossip. It always comes back to bite you in the ass.” Jules gets up off the bench, collecting trash to throw away. There’s recycling here on the boardwalk too, so after a first foray to the garbage to get rid of the hotdog waste, she asks, “Are you all finished with your beer?”

"The only way to avoid people talking about you ever is to avoid people." Ravn hitches a shoulder and nods. He is done with his beer, indeed. "But for the record, all I heard you say while affected by that fruit or drug or whatever it is, is that you want to burn Brennon's greenhouse. Under the circumstances, I think that was a quite reasonable sentiment."

Jules claims Ravn’s empty bottle, saying as she does so, “Well, you missed all the rest of it. Let’s just say it was not suitable conversation material for public venues and definitely not for children’s ears.” She leaves it there, briefly stepping away again to toss the bottles into the recycling receptacle.

“So far, no friends lost, no one unforgivably pissed at me, so on the whole I think I came out okay.”

"Are women's conversations among themselves ever suitable for public venues or children's ears?" Ravn offers a small smile. "Given how often women tend to fall quiet when I walk in, at least, I tend to assume you're all discussing your boyfriends and how to train them. Either way, it's Gray Harbor. Whatever happens is forgotten next week when the next weird hits. I haven't seen Brennon around town since the masquerade either but I imagine a lot of people said a lot of things they normally wouldn't have -- a lot of people ate those things. So whatever went down, well, you're not alone."

“And here I thought the women couldn’t wait to spill all the juicy details to you,” Jules teases.

She’s not inclined to remark further on the Veil fruits debacle, limiting her commentary to a grunted, “hmm.” The young woman remains standing, hands on her hips as she looks out at the marina. Even on relatively quiet summer days, there’s life here. There’s seagulls calling and fighting over scraps; a child gleefully rushes them, scattering the birds. “So what’s next for you today?” Jules asks as she watches.

A small smile flits across Ravn's lips at the idea that he might be somebody people go to with their relationship woes -- or success stories. "Until very, very recently, I was the perpetually single bloke," he points out. "People don't talk about things like that with that guy. They surmise he's single because he understands that sort of thing even less than they do, which is true, or because he's a creep -- which I at least don't think is true."

He reaches into a pocket for a cigarette, which in turn is lit with his battered old zippo with the coat-of-arms on. "I should get back to my boat and my work, I suppose. You're heading home as well?"

“You’re not a creep. I can confirm that much.” Jules favors Ravn with a smile.

At the question, her gaze flits down the way towards the docks where the locals keep their boats. “Yeah,” she says, despite the direction she’s looking. “Need to shower, change, et cetera. See what Una and Della are up to tonight. It’s funny, the changes a year can make. Before I came here, I was working, so evenings were mostly for making dinner and TV. Then I started classes, and most evenings I had that work to do. Now I’m back to evenings free, and it’s like I have all this spare time; I hardly know what to do with myself.”

"Well, whatever you end up doing, don't burn Brennon's greenhouse. She's got a policeman for a boyfriend." Ravn smiles lightly; he has only met Deacon in passing and knows next to nothing of the man so it's probably just an attempt at humour. "Come down to the marina some evening instead, watch the stars and have a cold one with Scullins, Hastings, and me instead."

“I’ve also suggested it enough in the hearing of Javier de la Vega that I would be suspect number one if a fire did break out two doors down,” Jules says dryly. “I have a clean record, and I’d like to keep it that way, thanks.” She offers Ravn a smile, stretching her arms overhead in the way of people who don’t like to sit still for too long. “Will do. Maybe the weather will even cooperate and give us a nice, clear night.”

"Yeah. Let's not do anything that can be used against us in a court of law." Ravn nods again. He's well aware of the double layers there; he can afford a lawyer that can get him out of most things, and he's a white man -- it's an entirely different picture for Jules Black. "I'll see you around -- probably in some Dream before we know it. We got bigger problems than that greenhouse."

“See you soon, one way or another.” With that, and a parting smile, Jules takes her leave, heading for the public parking lot. Her car awaits to carry her home.