2022-06-14 - Matariki

It’s Jules’ day off from working tourism, and her day on for morning art classes. She’s home around lunchtime, dressed in shorts and a dark red tank top, sandals still on her feet; she’s only just walked through the back door and opened the fridge door to start contemplating food. She hasn’t even set her bag down yet; it hangs from her shoulder, sketchbook and a set of pencils inside.

“I got it!” Jules only pauses to note the unfamiliarity of the sound after she’s made her way to the basement door, grasped its handle to pull it wide open, and taken the first step down the stairs.

And Della, she may not even have heard it at all -- but it isn't morning, she's had her coffee, there's no excuse.

"Hey, Jules -- " this from the table where she's been sitting with her coffee and laptop and one of Una's happier plants, working. But, spotting where her housemate's going, any would-be welcome-back becomes, "I'll get it, I'll get it! I just wanted to finish this one part first -- " because it's her laundry that needs cycling. Down goes the laptop, phone makes it to her pocket, and it's been warm enough that she's left her house shoes off and hurries barefoot down the stairs.

Did Jules plan to stop anytime soon?

It’s too hard to stop on the stairs, especially when there’s another person clattering down behind you, so Jules just carries on, as she goes, she asks, “Did we get a new washing machine?”

But then. No. It’s not their washing machine at all, not their house. Jules steps inside cautiously, hand held out behind her in the universal signal for hold on. “Della, do you have something to prop the door open with?” she asks quietly. They’ve encountered enough Doors by now to recognize this for what it is.

"No?" Not that Della's the owner, but she's spent quality time with the major appliances and has a certain proprietary interest... and Una wouldn't surprise them like that, would she? Why would Jules even think --

"Oh." Still on the step higher, she peers over Jules' shoulder, and blanches. "No. Be right back. You stay there." She whirls and heads up, up, up. They don't have cats yet. She wouldn't have shut the door on autopilot... would she?

Oh shit. Jules mouths it instead of saying it aloud. Shit shit shit.

She does not want to be caught trespassing on the other side of the world. So quietly, so quietly, she starts trying to sneak right back up the stairs.

One of them's sneaking. One of them is not. For someone who can slip quietly around when she chooses, Della's hurrying and that's not quiet at all, bare heels thudding on the wooden boards. And the door is open. It is. So she goes about collecting something -- how about a dry kitchen sponge? -- to wedge it that way. Because that's what they've done with Doors.

Behind Della, Jules all but tries to shove her way back into her own home, her own kitchen. She’s found out before she can complete that very swift exit, guiltily turn to look at the woman who caught them in the act. For a moment, Jules is completely frozen, eyes wide and alarmed. Speechless, too.

Then: “We’re sorry?”

Her own accent is sure to place her, too. She’s definitely not supposed to be here. Not in this house and not in this country.

Jules relaxes a tiny bit as she takes the older woman in. It’s the glow, above all else, the power emanating from her so forcefully it makes her a well of gravity. Neither Jules nor Della can compete, but at least they can recognize.

She sounds less frightened for her life as she adds, genuinely apologetic, “Our mistake.”

Della, still crouched by the door, peering down -- winds up shading her eyes. And then blinks, because that isn't doing any good.

And then blinks again, because what's Jules doing up this close?

"Hello," she calls down. "It was unintentional, believe me." Then, politely, "Do you need to borrow ours?" It's not quite the same as offering that the glowing woman can have theirs, but if she means well, it'll amount to the same thing.

And besides, the glowing woman probably isn't a vampire.

Jules turns back to double-check, saying, “It should be,” only to find that the sponge wedge has somehow been dislodged or otherwise deemed insufficient by whatever power opens and shuts these Doors.

“Oh no.”

Jules looks stricken as she turns back to face Tui. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she apologizes again, slowly starting to descend the staircase to nowhere. “This has been happening to us lately. We’ve been able to get back so far, but not always right away, so it should come back, or show up somewhere else. The Door, I mean, not your bathroom. I hope your bathroom comes back like normal. I’m really sorry.”

And Della, Della looks horrified. She had one job --

"I'm sorry," is heartfelt and to both of them. "We were only trying to get the laundry." Which is now lost and alone, by itself, possibly mildewing!

She reaches for her composure, and seeks to meet the glowing woman's gaze that much more directly. "If it helps, the laundry room 'should' come back," air quotes, "possibly after we've gone all the way to your side. I'm worried about getting stuck in the middle. May we please take refuge with you?"

Tui's expression is somehow, and somewhat, less than surprised. She presses her lips together, but then nods her (somewhat reluctant) acceptance. "Let's get my laundry hung up," she says-- hung up, because it may be the middle of winter in New Zealand, but the dryer only goes on when it absolutely has to-- "and then we'll have tea, and you'll explain to me what you mean by a Door."

There's not a lot of room in the little laundry for Tui and the two interlopers, but luckily her laundry is sheets and towels and nothing more personal: easy to pull out of the machine and into the washing basket so that Tui can lead the way into the back garden, towards the clothes line hung between house and (one of) the back shed(s).

Clearly she wants help, too, because though she grasps one corner of the sheet, once the laundry basket is set down, she waits, expectantly.

“Of course.” Jules hastens to make herself useful. At some point, she puts down her tote bag (the one that declares Destroy The Patriarchy Not The Planet) to free up both hands with full range of motion. The laundry room, at least, doesn’t seem liable to blink out of existence.

She’s hardly dressed for a New Zealand winter in her shorts and tank top, but makes no complaint as she follows Tui outdoors. “My name’s Jules,” she says by way of introduction before bending to pick up the other end of the sheet and help arrange it on the line. “And this is Della. Again, we’re really sorry to impose on you like this.”

"Yes ma'am," Della confirms, and discreetly wipes the soles of her feet against the lowest step of 'their' staircase -- ordinarily she doesn't go barefoot on those boards, but that's what she gets for being in a hurry -- before making her way into the glowing woman's territory. She's looking about, openly if not blatantly, seeing what there is to see along the way; she also peeks at the glowing woman when she can be extra-discreet, because that presence. And those tattoos! And that presence all over again.

"Happy to help." Since Jules has the rest of the sheet, Della goes for a towel, her long skirt's hem brushing the grass when she crouches; she shakes it with an audible snap, away from the other two, before hanging it up with the efficiency of someone who's done this before.

Is that a frown, abruptly, so very abruptly, when Jules introduces herself and Della? Tui doesn't answer immediately, but turns her attention wholly to the laundry: important business.

There's a basket of pegs hanging from the line all ready and waiting (spiderweb free, even, too!) and Tui silently helps herself as she (with Jules' help) gets the sheet hung, and the fitted sheet as well. Pillow-cases follow; tea-towels, too, and hand towels, and all the usual linen, though it's late in the day to be hanging laundry outside.

"My name is Tui," she answers, finally, as she shakes out another tea-towel. "I won't keep you out-of-doors long. You'll freeze. We'll find you a both a cardigan. I take it it was summer, when you climbed down your staircase."

Jules catches sight of that frown, upon introductions, and it occasions the worried downturn of her own mouth, concern making her brow crease. She can’t name why Tui looks like that, but it certainly doesn’t help her awkward anxiety about showing up in a stranger’s house.

Jules works alongside her silently, glancing at Della to try to exchange a worried look. Otherwise, she sticks to making herself useful until the older woman finally addressed them again. “Thank you,” she says quietly when the offer’s made. “It was, yeah.”

Della, by contrast, is calm; calm when she pegs things in place, careful to not stress the cloths or even crease them in a way they shouldn't be, calm and careful when she gives Jules a warm smile in return. It's okay. These things happen. They'll get through this.

Of course, given that calmness, there's that much more of a contrast when the glowing woman says her name -- when Tui says her name -- and her eyes widen on Jules', the curve of her mouth deepening in startled hilarity. Because of course.

But they aren't back inside, they aren't yet cozied up in cardigans. So, calmly: "Thank you, ma'am. Tui. We appreciate it."

"Just Tui," insists the bearer of that name. "We don't go in for those words here, so much: ma'am and sir. If I needed a title, I'd tell you mine. As it stands--" She lets her gaze linger on them both, one and then the other, then shakes her head. The last tea-towel is pinned to the line. "Come inside. You're guests, and we don't let guests freeze."

Not much, at least. She takes the plastic laundry basket with her, tucked against her hip, though it gets left on the battered-looking (and cushion-covered) wicker sofa in the conservatory, before she leads the way into the cozy kitchen. It's a draughty old house, with all the usual detritus of a place that was once a family home. Photos hang from the fridge, including one adorable little boy... and, okay, some more recent snaps, including a wedding photo, that may be more recognisable.

"Tea? No, but you're American. You'll want coffee, I suppose?"

“Thank you,” Jules says one more time, on her very best manners. How Della finds this suddenly funny is not reassuring, and before they go inside, Jules shoots her one more look, quizzical, accompanied by a mouthed, what?.

But oh. Oh. Jules doesn’t need Della to tell her once they enter the kitchen, following Tui. She looks around, as one does, and spies that photo on fridge. Her eyes go a little wide, yes, but she promptly looks away. She’s still polite as can be when she replies to Tui’s offer.

“Tea is perfectly fine—but may I be excused for a minute? Can I use your bathroom?” Pause. “The other bathroom?” It’s only a little desperate. Maybe she just really needs to pee.

"Thank you," Della choruses, a third below Jules', and she wipes her feet with care and a murmured apology on her way in. In between, 'Mik's Mom!!' isn't the easiest to convey, mouthed at speed when trying to be discreet. Before she even gets to the pictures, "Tea would be delightful, please. May I help?" And, risking it at last, in this kitchen with the warm wood and the light, "I can hear Mikaere in your voice." She says it the way he'd taught them, without hesitation.

Tui's watching her guests, turning around now that she's in her kitchen and standing on the other side of the old table, studying their reactions. "Of course, love," she tells Jules, indicating the door that leads further into the house. "Out that door and turn left, you can't miss it."

Della's comment earns a slower nod, an acknowledgement that suggests she's not surprised by this; not even a little. "He's the one of my children most like me," she murmurs. "Gray Harbor. It's never random. Mugs in the cabinet behind you; I'll put the kettle on."

“Thank you.” Della’s remark floats in Jules’ wake, to be addressed upon her return. She may or may not hear the reply.

She just needs an unguarded moment to process. No snooping through medicine cabinets, no texting (her phone’s in the tote bag left behind in the laundry room, anyway). Just a moment, before the toilet flushes and the tap runs.

Jules re-emerges composed. A droplet of water gleams near her hairline, missed after she’d splashed cool water on her face and patted it dry. “Sorry it’s us and not him,” she addresses Tui now, wry.

Della half-turns, tracking the directions Tui gives Jules -- and then turns back with a smile that becomes wry and... interested in turn. Most like me. "Do you have quite a mix?" she wonders, but with a little lightness to her timbre, the sort of thing that can be taken up or dropped.

By contrast, she takes no risks with the mugs -- she is interested in what kinds they are, do they match, do they have sayings, what else is there -- and makes sure there's no clinking against each other on the way to the table, before she just-as-carefully shuts the cabinet door.

And when her attentive gaze swings back to Mikaere's mother, it could be seeking her next job but, with her nod that seconds Jules' statement, it's mostly wanting to see and know.

"Nick, he's his father's son, inside and out," answers Tui, with the fondness of a mother who nonetheless has a good sense of her children for all that they are, good and bad. "Maia's more like my ma, I think, though she'd argue that to death, and maybe that's where I come in. Her father, too, to a point." Tui fills the kettle and sets it to boiling, then turns to the cupboards and fridge from milk and a package of chocolate digestives.

Half the mugs are the remnants of a matching set, simple blue stoneware, while the others are the usual hodgepodge that tends to collect over time, including a 'world's greatest nana' mug that has been nudged rather to the back. There are some fine, dainty teacups, too, though they all look rather less well used.

Tui turns as Jules returns, and her expression is all the more thoughtful for it, though she smiles abruptly, and then shakes her head. "Bless you for that, my dear-- Jules, wasn't it? But my son is taking up the path of his ancestors; an explorer, like his kauwheke," kow-FEH-keh, "and his time to return has not arrived, if it intends to. The apa," uh-puh, "have sent you instead, for reasons of their own. That's the way of it."

Jules misses the description of Tui’s other children, but her description of Mikaere, the one she does know, sets her smiling in return. It sounds so much like him, though filtered through an elder’s greater experience. “Jules, yeah,” she confirms, coming to sit at the nearest chair instead of trying to lend yet another set of hands and inevitably get in the way.

“Who are the apa?” she asks instead, curious.

As Tui talks, Della repeats the names under her breath -- Nick, Maia; Old Saint Nick, father, goddess Maia, mother's mother -- as her fingertips skim above the mugs. It should be an easy decision, she's only planning to take some from the matching set, but she's so interested, so fascinated by what the woman has to say, by the atmosphere of it all...

...in the end, she doesn't think about it, just takes what the mugs give her. On some level it might register that one tastes of Tui, one is for Jules -- is that like Mikaere, or not like him? -- while the one she keeps is... whatever seems right. But mostly she's just setting out the mugs and listening. An explorer, without yet a time to return. Reasons.

Tui's mug tastes of words and songs and stories and light. Tea in the kitchen; with sons and daughters and a husband missed-and-not-missed. With grandchildren. With friends. Over grading papers and in sunshine and rain too. Tears and laughter. Fire, coiled tight and perfectly controlled, part of her and part of everything.

Jules' has layers, crashing over each other. Big speeches and determination, a boy becoming a man becoming a politician becoming a-- becoming something more. Leaving home; coming home. Circles and swings. The salt of the air, and the open skies ahead. but also, layered atop, far more prominent now I miss him I wish I understood him, tell me, Tui, did I do something wrong? Is he okay? Is he going to come back?

By contrast, Della's mug thrums with quiet power. Nana, will you tell me a story? Will you show me how to make the plant grow? Nana, why doesn't Ma see the things I see? Why do her eyes slide past me sometimes? I'm not making it up, Nana, I'm not!

It's a pity Tui can't sense what's been left behind upon her stoneware.

"The apa," she explains, acknowledging the mugs as Della lays them out, and adding in to each of them a tea bag, and then the boiling water from the kettle, "are spiritual beings. Our ancestors. They-- set us on our path, sometimes, though we don't always see it at the time. That's the way of it, I suppose. What was this Door you came through? I've not seen one before."

And a blessing that Jules can’t sense the tangled emotions and the stories behind them either.

“Ah,” she just says, responding to what she can hear. She accepts the explanation of the apa with complete equanimity. “I see. The Doors—“

Jules hesitates and looks to Della for back-up. “We’re still learning what they are,” she says after a moment. “They just started appearing a couple weeks ago. You go through, you end up somewhere else, sometimes in another time. It’s not like a normal Opening, like the ones you can make. People are bringing things back with them when they wouldn’t normally. Mikaere has a fancy crystal tumbler now, for instance.” She too pronounces his given name with ease. “And a little girl from the past came through to our side, in the house Della and I live in. I don’t like to use the word ‘real’, because that implies that the things elsewhere aren’t real, and I think they very much are, but that being said, the Doors seem like they open onto real places. I mean places in our world. Again, not that the other one isn’t, though I don’t think we can fully claim it—“

Jules is rambling now, language failing her, and looking increasingly frustrated by those failures. She reins herself in and inadequately ends with the question, “Do you know what I mean?”

Della's listening; she must be listening; but realization of each mug only sinks in, really, when she's handed it over. When she's set out Tui's mug of fire -- does the glowing woman's tea ever get cold? -- and, for Jules, the mug that makes her eyes widen, her hand dart in a truncated motion like she'd take that mug back. Except, no. That turns into a nudge closer to Jules. Overlay it. The tea's in it anyway, now. Perhaps realization of the spoken words will come to her later, too. Or not.

Her hands are cupped around her own mug, the mug of tea, the mug of heat; she stares into it like she'd read her fortune, confined as it is in a translucent filter; she drinks in its resonance, its depth of urgency and insecurity and trust. And she's no help at all to Jules. "Nana?" She doesn't look at Tui, at anyone. Her eyes are dilated, dark. "Do you make the plants grow?"

Tui opens the packet of biscuits and slides them closer to the middle of the table, then sits, wrapping both big hands around her mug as she lets the tea brew. Jules' explanation takes up a lot of her attention, seriousness and consideration-- her expression like and also not-like her son's-- reflected in both stance and features. "That's new," she begins to say, but stops, short.

Dark eyes turn, instead, towards Della. Power ripples and flows; perhaps they can feel it? It's no more difficult than blinking, for Tui, to determine the strengths and skills of her guests. "Ah," she says. "You're like my son. Hinengaro, yes? Powers of the mind. But you," she glances at Jules, "lean more towards tinana. Powers of the body. But neither of you are so deeply focused."

She leans back in her chair, silent a few moments longer. "And I make the plants grow, yes. Ngākau: powers of the soul. My granddaughter, too. Eight years old, and already beginning to burn. My Maia, she's never had a drop of power, nor her husband. But little Angela, she'll be powerful one day. It's a hard thing, when you can see things your parents and siblings cannot."

Jules sits back with a bit of a hiss, startled when Della speaks the words that aren’t fully hers. “Della,” she says urgently.

Tui’s calm, though, and so Jules reaches for her own mug after a moment longer. Her dark eyes shift from her housemate to Mikaere’s mother with that surge of power, the first of her responses. A little nod confirms what Tui already knows.

“That sounds rough. I don’t know if I would have liked to grow up like that.” Jules tries her tea, testing the heat. “Is she the only other member of your family with power, besides Mikaere?”

At her name, Della looks up but not over, long hair spilling over her shoulder. She shivers -- that flow, that gauging. Hinengaro. Her eyes never leave the ngākau woman.

"Angela." She tastes that name, the name not like the others. "I can only imagine." A little pause. "She wants to be believed." Not new, surely, but necessary to be said.

"It gets easier," Tui says sympathetically, reaching for a biscuit and dunking it into her tea, letting it soften but not crumble, the chocolate melting. "To touch only when you want to touch, so that you don't end up drowning in memories. It's never been Mikaere's strongest ability, but he had his moments too."

She bites at her biscuit, chewing it and swallowing before she continues. "Mikaere's the only one of my children, and so far, Angela is the only one of my grandchildren-- of course, the others are young, still. It runs in my family, though; my cousins, my nieces and nephews. Here and there. I wonder, sometimes, if I ought to have spent more time with my whānau when my elder two were young; if that made the difference. Impossible to know, of course. Angela has never been. So."

Listening, watching, Jules admits a slow nod. She follows Tui’s lead with the biscuits, the dunking and the waiting, though she waits too long and little bits crumble into the bottom of her mug.

“It’s in my family too,” she says, rescuing what she can by munching the sodden end of the digestive. “On my grandmother’s side.”

Had. "I don't even know how to do it on purpose," Della murmurs, following suit with the biscuit like biscotti, though she doesn't let the chocolate melt as long. "It's been... a few months, only." A faint smile, "I would have loved it if it had happened when I was eight, if someone I trusted believed me."

"Jules' grandmother, Mrs. Black, is amazing. She raised Jules, and her brother. But, what is 'whānau'?" Her pronunciation isn't fluid, as practiced as Mikaere's name; it's a plain copied word.

"It often runs in families," Tui confirms with a nod. She has other nods, too: for Della, several times over, mostly notably for that first remark but the others too, one by one.

"Family," is the prompt answer to that question. "Extended family. Mine, they come from a village at the tip of the South Island, where we've lived since our iwi, our... tribe, arrived on these shores in our ancestral waka, hundreds of years ago. It's a pity your Door didn't take you there, or rather, that I was here, and not there. Tonight, they will gather on the beach and sing the old songs, and wait for Matariki to rise, to ring in the new year."

She's wistful, at least a little, but sets it aside. "But perhaps then you would have arrived here even so, and been locked in, mm? Things happen as they should."

“She isn’t very powerful.” It isn’t quite a demurral, though the comparison to Tui stands. “Though others on that side of the family have been.” Jules’ mother, unnamed.

Curiosity again, this time with a quicker dunk of the biscuit in the tea. Success. “What’s Matariki? Or who? That sounds wonderful, a night on the beach. Is there one around here you could go to?”

"She's a teacher." It isn't quite contradiction, too soft-voiced for that, with a smile that's soon hidden by another nibble. Mostly Della is listening, and after a while sipping, taking in not only the information but the approach: things happening as they should. Could it be?

Tui sips at her tea, considering both women over its rim. "Power," she says, "isn't everything. Sometimes, the key is knowing how-- and when-- to use what you've got. I'm a teacher too," is added, then.

"You would know Matariki as the Pleiades-- at this time of year, it rises just below the horizon at dawn, and we use it to mark the end of the old year, and the start of the new. It's all part of our creation myth. This year," Tui smiles, unquestionably pleased, "our government has, for the first time, designated it as a public holiday, to allow us all to celebrate as we will."

She twists the wedding bands on her finger: one circle and then a second. "I could drive to Bastion Point, and join the local iwi. Or I could walk to the end of my street and climb Maungakiekie, and have my own celebrations. I could. My son has been encouraging me to."

“No, power definitely isn’t everything,”Jules easily acknowledges. A smile shows over the rim of her lifted mug. Just a little shy, she asks, “You teach at the university, right?” Mikaere’s been talking about his ma.

She’s still smiling as Tui describes the holiday. “We call them the seven sisters,” she notes in passing. But this is Tui’s story and her celebration, not Jules’, and she doesn’t jump in to interrupt. Instead, she asks after a sip, “Why don’t you?”

Pausing, Jules glances at Della to gauge her reaction. “We could always go with you, if you wanted.” Quickly added, “But only if you wanted.” She won’t be one of those people, cultural voyeurs.

Power. Knowing how. (And when.) Della's nod is definite, unreserved, but the curve of her lips tilts a little higher on one side than the other; it eases, she eases, for the Matariki-aka-Pleiades story that brings her pleasure too. "Congratulations," she says, leaning forward, for that recognition.

She looks back to her tea, not the turn of those wedding bands, and then Jules is asking what she'd ask, and even offering... well. Under the table, bare toes curl, then uncurl. "Whatever you like," she offers. "We'd also be well-behaved if you'd still like to go on your own, before our basement comes back." Before Della's laundry gets back.

Tui tips her head to the side and looks quietly amused for Jules' shy question; this turns into something even more obvious and outright for that last remark altogether, and turns into open laughter.

"My son has been telling tales on me," she concludes, with a knowing smile. "And, I rather think, plotting behind my back. Yes, I teach at the University of Auckland. And you would be welcome, indeed, to come with me. What is the date, for you?"

There are so many other things she could say: more stories about Matariki, about how some versions involve a mother and her six daughters; about how others speak of the separation of the earth mother Papatuanuku and sky father, Ranginui. But Tui is distracted, and intent, her dark eyes gleaming with mirth.

The laughter startles Jules some; it isn’t the expected reaction. Her eyebrows lift with the question she keeps to herself. “June 14th.” She pauses to sip her tea, then thinks to add, “2022.”

Another sip of tea settles her enough to add with her own hint of good humor, “You’d think he knows better than to try to plot against you.”

"Are you sure it's against?" Della lets herself tease, with an ingenuous look between housemate and hostess. "It could be on her behalf."

She does add apologetically, "If you happen to have a pair of spare flipflops, or something else that doesn't need to fit too well, I'd appreciate getting to borrow them. Or if we can stop somewhere on the way, I can ... well, if they take ApplePay." No purse, no jandals.

"June 14th," muses Tui, with a solemn nod. "It's June 23rd, here. You're nine days early, and that means--"

Ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.

She nods again. "Just on time. Why don't you go answer... Jules. Phone's in the hall." Look at that expression: so openly innocent.

Quite conversationally, she adds, "We'll find you some gumboots, and some socks. Coats. It'll be too cold for jandals."

“Me?” Jules looks very dubious about this proposition, but far be it from her to refuse the request. Her eyes do narrow a bit as she eyes Tui, trying to read the expression on the woman she doesn’t know, before she gets up from the table to follow instructions.

Into the hall, then, where she finds the phone and picks up. It connects with a little beep. “Hello?”

"Thank you. I appreciate that." Della looks after Jules, and then she looks back at Tui, her brows going up up up. Leaning in, conspiratorial, "You aren't going to make me wait, are you?"

"Jules." It's Mikaere's voice, and he sounds-- well, not particularly surprised; a little amused, maybe. "Uh. Hi."

Tui has watched Jules go, turning her attention back to Della only once the phone's stopped ringing; she seems quietly pleased, though her reasons are not, perhaps, entirely transparent. "My son," she says, firmly. "All week, every time we've spoken, it's been 'don't spend Matariki alone, Ma, find someone to go with, Ma, I wish I could be there but just because I'm not doesn't mean you can't, Ma' and now..."

She lifts dark brows, a little smug. "I see his plan, don't you?"

“Mikaere?” The pitch of Jules’ voice rises by several degrees. Not a squeak, but definitely surprise. Definitely audible from the kitchen, though her tone modulates into one better for phone conversation thereafter. “Hi. I was gonna text you. Your mom told me to answer the phone. There’s a Door in our basement, except it closed, and now we can’t get back.”

She pauses, then, not because she’s waiting for a response, but because the mental wheels are churning. “You already know we’re here, don’t you?”

Della lifts those opulent lashes -- and there's Jules' not-squeak, that makes her grin -- and there's a moment, a visible moment where trenchant speculation's poised on her lips...

...but instead she glances downward, and swallows it down. Next, a sip of tea, and an upward smile that's different but, even so, still genuine. "Not that he could -- would? -- tell you."

Is... Mikaere laughing at Jules? He is. A little. Just a little. "Yeah," he says. "You told me last week. Don't worry... do you want spoilers? I mean, obviously, everything is going to be fine. Ma likes you."

Tui's watching Della, cataloguing that first reaction and its speculation, and then that different smile altogether. Not so knowing, her expression, this time, but it comes with a firm enough nod. "Oh no," she agrees. "Boys never tell their mothers anything. That's why we develop keen senses of extrapolation, not to mention eyes in the backs of our heads."

Her wistfulness only lasts a moment; that faraway look of a mother who misses-- and worries about-- her son, the one who didn't get to come and visit.

“How do you know,” Jules replies tartly. “You haven’t talked to her yet.” She’s starting to make her way back into the kitchen, phone at her ear, though she dallies to say, “You know, when I said I’d be okay with more international travel via Doors, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Then Jules is crossing the threshold again, coming back to the table, though she doesn’t immediately sit back down. “No spoilers please,” she requests, looking at Tui as she does so. “Except we do get back okay, right? Without having to buy plane tickets?”

"Excellent qualities, even if they show up... well, perhaps not if they show up the hard way. And girls? Your girl?"

Della gives that momentary wistfulness the peace of not asking, not commenting, a glance that's passing.

No spoilers -- she turns to Jules, suddenly urgent: "Ask him about Una? Word it however you want to; I just hope she isn't having to worry."

Tui sips at her tea, taking a moment. "Girls are a different kind of trouble, of course," she says, simply. "Well. Some of them. I don't want to imply men and women are so wholly different, in the end." Her gaze slides from Della, up and up to return to Jules as the younger woman returns, phone to her ear. Dark eyes meet dark eyes, and there's a tiny, fractional nod to go with it.

"I just know," Mikaere promises. "Are you implying that a visit to my homeland wasn't at the top of your list? I'm hurt. I'd kill to watch Matariki rise over the Waitematā with you. Yes, you get back just fine, I promise."

A little nod answers Della’s request, though Jules has more to say on her end, first. “You know what I mean. I don’t love stumbling into trespassing in other people’s homes.” His mom’s home, read between the lines. Gentler, she adds, “I’m sorry you’re not here.”

Jules checks in, then, as Della asks: “Is Una going to freak out?” Now she sits, reclaiming her chair and reaching for a biscuit. “Your mom’s here; I’ll pass over the phone.” Once he responds, that is.

"Understood."

There's a little smile for Jules' change in tone, and then Della leans, as though she could hear -- Una -- only to think better of it and sit up. Tea. Yes. She'll drink that. But also pay attention.

Tui's listening, of course-- how could she not?-- and there's a smile, there, fond and unhesitating, when Jules comments on trespassing; it's wistful, too, for that latter remark, though she holds her own comment on the subject.

"She's fine," Mikaere promises. "You'll be back in an hour or two, as far as she's concerned. She won't even know you're gone. Pass me to Ma. Don't worry about anything, okay?"

Tui very deliberately does not reach for the phone. She can wait. She can wait. (Can she?)

“She’s fine,” Jules promptly passes along, looking to Della with sustained eye contact. She’s fine, not Una’s ’fine’. “Okay.” With that, she holds the phone out for Tui to take. “Here you go.”

Once her hands are free, Jules dunks that biscuit (for the proper amount of time; she’s learning) and settles back to watch.

It's a crucial distinction, and Della's nod -- and wry smile -- acknowledges both.

She sits back with biscuit and tea and, yes, an awareness of the glowing mother -- but she doesn't stare; she doesn't shun. If Tui wants to convey something to them, she's there for it, but in the meantime she'll let her gaze drift around the kitchen, smiling at this or that in the way one does.

Tui reaches out one dark hand to take the phone, and draws it to her ear. "I mohio koe mo tenei. Kei te kite au i to mahere, inaianei, e taku tama," she says, waiting for the reply. Is it rude, to speak another language in front of her guests? It is-- but a mother does, occasionally, need to say things to her son. The reply, of course, goes unheard. "Mm," she says.

Alas, neither of the two foreigners have the gift with languages that Mikaere has. Jules just has to sit and wait, trying not to fidget, because of course she wants to know what's being said, even if it's one-sided. Her tea's been cooling while she talks on the phone, and it's time to be drunk in short order.

It's time to get drunk in short order --

-- oh, maybe not. Della trades a look with her friend: what is with this waiting, come on already, let us know!

Tui lifts one hand-- her free hand-- by way of apology, and in an indication of: I won't be long. "Na ko ia to aroha, ki taku whakaaro?" A pause, while presumably Mikaere responds. "Kao, e mohio ana ahau, kaore au e roa e korero." Another pause. "Ae, ka haere maatau. Ae Ka korero apopo."

She hangs up the phone, setting it down upon the top of the wooden table.

"It seems," she says, "you'll be here until the morning. In which case--" There's a softening about her mouth, now: a warmth that's growing now that the disappointment of not-my-son is fading. "-- yes, you should join me. If you're willing to be up before dawn, of course. Is there anything you would wish to see, otherwise, while you're in Auckland? It's a pity we don't have many hours of daylight left."

Until morning. Jules' eyebrows lift as this sinks in. "He said Una won't notice," she says in an aside to Della, processing. "That it'll only be an hour or two on our side."

One last sip, and then she sets the mug aside with the little wash of soggy crumbs in the bottom. "We can be up," Jules says, with a quick look at Della to confirm. "And honestly, having not expected to be here, I have no idea what there is to see. If you don't mind playing tour guide, I'd just say, whatever you think we should see. Or what's important to you. And it's also perfectly okay if you'd rather just stay home; please don't feel like you need to entertain us." Earnest once again, this time with a smile that crinkles her eyes. "We've got phones and Google maps."

"Thank you. That sounds delightful," Della's glad to second Jules, once her brows have come down from the hour or two business -- although her and Ariadne's trek was even shorter -- and never mind what she'll discover about her body clock vis-a-vis Auckland. They'll manage. It's just one night. (Right?)

"What Jules said: whatever you think we should see; or, also, we can fend for yourselves. Do you happen to have wifi? And, mm," hopeful big brown eyes, "a phone charger?" An iThing-compatible charger. Oh please.

Although -- although -- "The one thing -- and maybe this is what you had in mind anyway -- is, if it's feasible, we've got to visit the water. To say hello."

"Wifi code is 'whanau234#'," relates Tui, setting down her mug of tea. She pronounces it 'fuh-now', but spells it, to be safe: "w-h-a-n-a-u-2-3-4-hash. Though of course... this is your future. Be a little careful, mm? There's a charger in the car. Come on-- I'll find you some shoes, and something else to wear so that you don't freeze, and we'll take a tour. There's very little chance of doing anything in Auckland without seeing the water. We have two harbours; the city of sails, they call us."

She rises, full of determined purpose: a woman, now, ready and on a mission.

“Just for the Google maps,” Jules promises; she’s typing in the password into her own wifi settings, too.

And the texting.

Specifically, texting Mikaere: what did your mom say??

Then she’s rising too, willing and ready to follow Tui on this latest adventure.

Tap tap tap. "Absolutely," Della assures. And why yes, her lock screen does feature Pompeii kittens.

"And, perfect. Especially if we get to touch the water," and by her little smile Della realizes that could sound odd, and says it anyway. She does finish her tea first, though, before standing... and pushing in her chair, ready to collect mugs for the sink. Her grandparents, such as they are, wouldn't have had it any other way.

I'll tell you later, Mikaere promises by way of immediate textual reply. Promise. Though you'll have to wait for me to catch up with you. Just enjoy, ok?

Tui finds both thick socks and gumboots, not to mention woollen jumpers-- sweaters, that is-- for her guests. She bundles them into the car: a woman on a mission. If you had less than twenty-four hours in Auckland, where would you go?

It would be unwieldy for this pose to relate in great detail the tour that Tui takes her guests on-- though it goes without saying that the author could bore any and all subjects with incessant detail about the city in question.

She starts by taking a right turn out of the driveway, and then spending the better part of ten minutes waiting for someone to let her turn right (remember, of course, we drive on the left) onto the main road (Manukau Road, for those interested in details, because of course we know exactly where we are and could indeed follow on google maps).

A few blocks after that, she turns right again, this time into a park: there's a playground to the left, and a small observatory and planetarium, but Tui's more interested in the road that winds up through through open paddocks filled with sheep, towards a distant monument. Maungakiekie, Tui explains. One Tree Hill. Playground of her children, when they were young and could be sent out to explore for hours, to annoy sheep and fight dragons and be, indeed, intrepid explorers. There used to be a 'one tree', but it was chopped down in protest-- not a native tree, when it should have been-- and now they're growing new ones: a collection of pōhutukawa and tōtara, of which one will be the victor and become the One Tree.

They can't drive up to the top (not anymore, says Tui, indicating that they used to be able to), but the last bit can be walked, and she leads them up, vigorous and unbothered by the steep incline.

The view is, of course, spectacular.

"That's Rangitoto," Tui indicates, of the distant island. "One day it will erupt and destroy the city; all the hills are volcanoes, and they're all connected below the ground."

FINE, Jules texts back— knowing, too, that that means her curiosity will likely go unanswered for a whole week. She tosses in a gif of a huffy, pouting kid throwing up her hands for good measure.

She’s far more of a good sport when the tour begins. It’s easy for her keep up when they climb the hill; if anything, she’s impressed by just how fit Tui proves herself to be. The sharp intake at the summit isn’t because she’s winded, but because of the view.

“Beautiful,” Jules murmurs appreciatively. “The Pacific Northwest is like that too — active volcanos everywhere, plus the faults. Last explosion was in 1980, and there’s little earthquakes pretty frequently. It’s just a matter of time.”

The story. The story and the looking and the photos...

Uphill, it isn't as easy for Della to keep up, but she manages to conceal it -- unless someone's really looking -- by dint of determination. Her deep breath is slow, quiet, controlled. "There are early warning systems? As much as one can?" It's not that she's hiding behind her recharged phone, she's very much looking with her own eyes as well, but getting the right angles, the right shots... some of them are apt to discreetly include her companions, too.

This isn't Pompeii. It's all right. It is.

"There are," Tui confirms. "Though-- how much good will it do, if it happens?" If Rangitoto blows-- that's all of Auckland, likely gone. She's quite calm about the possibility, though she shakes her head anyway. "You live with what you need to live with, don't you? It just... is."

Their next stop takes a little more driving: One Tree Hill-- and the associated Cornwall Park-- are local, but the Auckland Domain, with its fabulous museum is a little further afield. Traffic is terrible (completely normal, Tui admits: just the way of things), but the domain itself is another beautiful park, with a wintergarden, and the rest.

It's clear that Tui loves the open spaces of her city: the expansive views, the gardens, the trees. "I wish I could take you further afield," she admits. "Whatipu, that's one of Mikaere's favourite places, and mine as well. They used to hold balls in the caves, there, but even if you forget that, it's a beautiful beach. But by the time we got there, it would be dark, and that's-- it's no good. You'll have to come back."

“Yeah,” Jules agrees, a little wry. After all, it’ll be the same for her own region too. Goodbye, Seattle.

The tour has her asking plenty of questions: what’s in the museum? Are all the flowers local? And then, when it comes to the beach:

“What’s it like?” Jules wants to know. “I took Mikaere up to one of the local beaches a couple weeks ago, and he was talking about how it’s different. Our coast is pretty cold, but they’ve saved a good deal of it as a nature preserve, so tons of wildlife still around. We have tidepools and sea stacks. Though a ball in a sea cave sounds pretty incredible. I can imagine it all strung up with lights.”

Tui’s final remark just makes Jules smile. “Maybe someday. That would be nice.”

"Mm." It's not that Della doesn't accept it, but -- "Depends on how much warning?" has some hope.

She takes the opportunity, during travel, to decompress: to look forward and out the window, to stretch her long legs, and sometimes to let her eyes shut. Which isn't to say she doesn't listen, mostly, but the back seat's a little more difficult for partaking than when around the kitchen table. Still... "Balls? As in dances? Just how much did they have to watch the tides."

'Come back.' "Maybe even in time for your roses," maybe, maybe. Not that they don't have those around Jules' region too.

"It depends on how much warning," confirms Tui. It's unlikely to be like-- for instance-- Pompeii.

She's a helpful tour guide, so happy to answer questions: the museum is a war memorial, but covers general history as well (and when her children were young, there was a big stuffed elephant named Rajah on display who required regular visits from his adoring fans) and includes many taonga -- treasures-- from around the country. The flowers come from all over; some local, some not.

And the beach: "As in dances, yes. They put a wooden floor down in the cave, I think; it's still there, but lost beneath the sand. I expect tides were an issue. It's a very remote place. Beautiful." She glances side-long at Jules, considering her, but keeps her return comments light. "Our coastlines vary, of course. We have sea stacks, and other outcroppings-- Te Piha, Lion Rock, is perhaps the most famous. Out on the Coromandel, there's Hot Water Beach, where there are hot springs beneath the sands that bubble up at low tide."

It's close to sunset as they drive onwards: around the edges of the city and along the waterfront, past the Parnell Rose Garden-- bloomless at the moment, of course-- and around the harbour. Tui points out more landmarks as they go, some major some very minor: Hobson Bay and its historic boat sheds; the mini golf course where Mikaere frightened his sister right when she was about to take a winning shot; Kelly Tarlton's Aquarium, one of the first in the world to use the conveyer-belt style movement, with curved acrylic rather than flat.

She points out Bastion Point, too, where, she explains, they'll come back for Matariki. For now, though, their final destination is Mission Bay and its sandy beach.

If there were time, Jules would want to explore that museum, and she indicates as much. It’s the history, and not the war, that interests her in particular. The cultural treasures and the stories they tell. The personal history clearly interests her too, for all that she doesn’t ask questions there, doesn’t pry.

And finally, the beach at day’s end. They may not have long, but Jules wants to get out of the car for this and set foot on the sand, listen to the crash of the waves as they roll in. This young woman from a world away looks quietly contented. It’s not her familiar coastline, and yet.

“Thank you,” she tells Tui, sincere. “This has been a wonderful day.”

Context. All that context. Della drinks it in and, yes, takes notes and photographs, discreet without hiding -- and sometimes indiscreet for visions that particularly charm her: birds, architecture, the natural landscape, the slant of light. Even traffic, if their guide is fine with it, out the window at an angle where all one can see is roof after roof of cars... and one NZ license plate. And people, now and again, not zoomed in and nosy but the flow of inhabitants in their space.

She's much like Jules, here, in voicing her appreciation for the historical parts of the museum -- but when it comes to personal stories, she gets to ask the questions Jules can't, as long as Tui seems to enjoy telling them: details about the golf course incident, how the children related growing up, what Tui liked to look at in that museum and that aquarium and that everything. What Tui teaches. What Tui thinks of the development of her city. And more about the teaching, in a way that implies she'd like to do a deeper dive when there aren't all these other things to experience.

And at the beach? Before her own very genuine thanks, while the sunset reddens the sky (and no roof tiles fall)? She gets out, too; she listens; and there, at the ocean's edge, she cups her hands and lets the water flow through them. The water. The texture of the sand. The skyline. The sky.

How often does Tui get such a captive audience these days, in a context that is outside of her working milieu? She's a natural storyteller in the way that her son is, too: it's easy to imagine her in front of a class of students, adding in snippets of story amidst the more concrete things she's aiming to teach. She enjoys answering the questions she's posed; relishes the opportunity to speak, even at length, on so many subjects.

"The pacific ocean," she says, indicating with one hand. "Oh, it's a long way from here: first the Hauraki Gulf, and then the ocean itself, past the barrier islands. But it's the same ocean that you live on, isn't it? It's all connected. It's been a pleasure. I'm pleased to know--"

She doesn't finish the thought. Maybe she doesn't need to.

There's dinner, first, eaten in a restaurant that was once a restaurant where Tui and her husband had their first date, so many years ago. Tui's got more stories to tell over dinner, and happily answers any and all questions, too.

Back at the house, she gets out sheets and blankets and pillows to make up the beds in the two spare bedrooms (and no, it is no coincidence that Jules ends up in what was clearly Mikaere's teenage bedroom, still complete with a framed rugby jersey on one wall, and a few model sailing ships atop the bookcase). The house is cold: draughty despite the heaters and hot water bottles on offer.

Jules, in contrast, keeps her phone tucked away. No texting, no photos -- just undivided attention for Tui as she shows them the sights surrounding her home.

The rein she's keeping on her curiosity loosens at dinner. Here, over fish and chips (because of course; Jules will pick the seafood every time), she asks questions as they occur and the conversation lends itself to them. How did Tui and her husband meet? Were they both born-and-raised in Auckland? What do her other children do? How old are the grandkids? Nothing too personal, nothing too focused on the son still lingering in Gray Harbor.

Of course she winds up inquisitively poking around the bedroom she's assigned, though certainly not before the door's closed and she's wished everyone a goodnight -- until the pre-dawn alarm clocks go off, anyway.

Alas, nothing turns up that she can tease Mikaere about later.

Alas! Alas for them all!

Della is just as interested in the stories over dinner; if she had her wallet, she'd be offering to share a platter, but as it is... real thanks and an offer to reimburse, and whatever their hostess recommends that's fresh and good. Something they mightn't have anywhere else (but, not directly spoken, that isn't too expensive). Or, something they mightn't have anywhere else like this (a la the fish and chips).

Only a little poking for Della, believe it or not; she's explored so much today that her priorities are hot water bottles (two! their house still borders on endless Summer!) and sleep. And no, she doesn't wake before the alarm, but at least she really tries to keep her moans to herself.

Hair: high pony. Lipstick: back at 5 Oak. Attitude: an attempt at chipper, whatever will get her to vats of black tea and eventually the back of the car where she can drowse and dream.

Seafood is, as Tui will tell Jules, an excellent choice: you can't get much better seafood (in her opinion; she owns, of course, that she's a little biased) than what's on offer in New Zealand. She makes sure an order of the drunken green lips mussels is on the table, and some fresh scallops as well, and there is to be no concern about the cost or the paying: "If you're going to get one good meal while you're here, let's make sure it's a representative one."

There are so many stories to tell, and Tui's not shy about any of them. It doesn't sound as if she wants to embarrass her son-- any of her children-- but there's a fondness in how she speaks of them, relating their childish exploits, as well as her own, without pretension.

Morning, of course, comes early. Not as early as it would be if this were midsummer, of course, but it's cold and dark and there is both tea and coffee on offer in the chilly kitchen, before they leave. Tui's quieter by morning, and bundles them all into the car with extra blankets and thermoses, for a drive through the dark.

"There's no one legend of Matariki," she says, turning left out of the driveway, down Turama Road and around the other side of the park. "There's Matariki and her six daughters. There's also the creation myth. I've always been fond of the sisters, though: each of them bringing their unique gifts to Papatūānuku, the earth mother, their grandmother. Matariki watches over her daughters, and smiles as they share of themselves. Matariki is about coming home; learning from our elders, sharing our gifts, and taking them back with us, too, to share with our own communities."

Jules looks like she'll have a hard time keeping her eyes open when she stumbles out of the guest bedroom at zero-o'clock. Story time in the car, however, has her sit up a bit more. Della can snooze in the backseat under the blankets; Jules is determined to engage.

"Do they say what the gifts are?" she asks, looking at Tui's profile in the dark of the car. "That's a really lovely thing to celebrate. We have our own story about the Pleiades -- well, there's lots of different versions across the tribes. But the one I grew up with is almost the opposite of Matariki and her daughters. Instead, it's about how seven sisters get really fed up with their husbands, who are being jerks and not sharing the meat from their hunt, so the sisters pack their things and leave. Or, you know. They're changed into stars. But the sentiment is the same: 'screw this, I'm out.'"

Here's the thing: if there are stories, Della's awake for them, for all that they too might occasionally slide in and out of dreamland. The burble of sleepy laughter after Jules' question suggests that it's her question, too. After a little while, "It's nice, too, to have the grandmother/granddaughter relationships as canon."

"Isn't it interesting," muses Tui, eyes on the road as she weaves her way through the back streets towards the harbour, "that so many cultures see them similarly: daughters or sisters. And yet they must all have evolved separately. What about them makes us think of women, I wonder." She glances up to acknowledge Della in the back seat, too. "My granddaughter likes to tease me by calling me Matariki. I suppose that makes her Tupu-ā-nuku... I quite like your story, Jules-- good for those sisters. We can't trust men who don't share. Let's see-- Matariki's daughters."

She's silent a moment. "Tupu-ā-nuku is the eldest. She spends her time assisting her grandmother to tend the plants, to make sure everyone has the food, medicine and clothing they need. She reminds us that we have our own special time and place, and that we must spend time tending our gardens, metaphorical and otherwise. Our own, and of course, those of others around us. Tupu-ā-rangi sings, filling the world with joy. From her, we learn the importance of sharing our gifts with others, and appreciating those shared with us. Waipunarangi cares for the waters. She knows that if you give to others, that kindness will come back to you in force."

That's three. "Then there are the twins: Waitī and Waitā. They care for the insects; the smallest and fastest of the creatures. They work as a team, and that reminds us to join in and support each other. And then we have Ururangi, who races ahead to get to her grandmother first. She reminds us that a good attitude is the key to success."

Canon, Jules mouths, twisting towards the backseat to give Della an amused look.

Otherwise, she listens attentively as Tui answers her question. "That's more detailed than I expected," she remarks. "I don't think we have names for the sisters. It's too bad. Do you have a favorite?"

What? Della gives Jules poky brows in return -- never mind whose eyes might divert to the rear-view mirror -- before huddling up with the blankets again. If there's tap-tapping, it's silent.

"The insects actually get attention. I quite like that. ...And the last one, she races but doesn't trip anyone or skip out on carrying her share?" With a note of apology, "I have older sisters who'd want to be very certain she didn't get away with anything."

"In addition to your favorite, if you have one... what does Matariki do while the girls are off visiting? Is that part of the story or is that too literal?"

"It's a lovely story, isn't it? A lot of ours are like that-- full of meaning, lots of little details. I think, when I was a child, I would have chosen Ururangi. I was youngest and littlest, and the idea of being first... that would have appealed to me far more than anything else. I have to agree, though: my siblings, and my own children, I'm not sure they would be so kind as to let her get in first, however little she is. I have to imagine she was a sweeter, more loveable child than I was, or my youngest."

That's Mikaere, if they're keeping count.

"Matariki watches over them all. I imagine she picks up Ururangi when she falls, and makes sure they don't squabble. She wants to spend time with her mother too, of course. I suppose I saw myself in her for a long time, too, and now... well, I won't say I see myself as Papatūānuku, the earth mother, the grandmother. But. It can't be helped, sometimes."

Eyes on the road, she's silent a moment. "Mikaere," she says, slowly. "He's happy?"

Jules can’t help but grin at the description of Tui and her youngest, the children they weren’t. “I’m the oldest,” she remarks, “and for me I think it would’ve depended on the day and how much of a pain my little brother was being.”

Silence stretches out on her end, too, when Tui poses her question. Something tells her it’s up to Jules to answer it, not Della in the backseat.

“I think so,” she begins, deliberate with her words. “Gray Harbor is pretty wonderful in the summer, if you like the outdoors and being on the water. It’s by far the best time of year, especially for that.” This isn’t quite what Tui’s asking, though, is it? “There’s a good community,” she says next. “For people like us. I’m sure you’ve heard how it’s a pretty unique place, in that respect. It creates situations designed not to make you happy, but at the same time, it makes you band together. And can give you a sense of purpose. I think that’s part of it, for Mikaere. He had a…run-in awhile back.” It’s not hard to hear the tactful substitution. “After that, he said he wanted to see it through. That situation resolved.”

Another pause. Jules hasn’t finished, not quite. Unconsciously, she holds onto her own upper arm, thumb rubbing over the scars that the borrowed jumper hides. “People talk about it drawing you in and not letting you go—but people do leave. When he decides it’s time, nothing’s stopping him.” She isn’t stopping him.

Under her breath, "'I'm the youngest, and the littlest,'" has a Hamilton rhythm to it even as it diverges into something more wordless. In time, "The details are lovely, as well as the broader strokes." The way she watches Tui has real appreciation for what she shares, for what she's open about, for all that that opens the door to the woman's next question as wide as any Door.

Which Della doesn't barge into, but sits and listens and lets her head rest against a blanket wadded up as a pillow, a soft barrier between her and the vibrations of car and wheels and road. And, yes, her lips wind up curving in a smile for Jules, what she says and doesn't say in so many words.

Tui's smile is knowing, both for Jules' remark and for Della's, the latter smile aimed through the rear view mirror.

She's rather more intent upon the answer to her question, her expression unreadable through the darkness of this hour-before-dawn.

"A 'run-in'," she says, but lest Jules (or Della!) worry that this is news to her, she adds, "I suppose that's one way to put it. If it weren't for my students, I'd be of half a mind to go and see this Gray Harbor of yourself for myself. Where I grew up, we had a place like, but... not so very like, I think, your Gray Harbor. Not nearly so close to the other realm."

It might be it seems like she's happy enough to leave it there, flicking on her indicator to turn a corner, gliding the car around the bend with a smoothness of practice and ease. But. "I never intended to stay in Auckland, either. We rarely intend the things that happen. They just do. My son, he'll do what feels right. The path that he's on, and where it leads."

The questions are fairly bubbling up with the way Tui repeats her euphemism. Jules doesn’t ask them, though, pressing her lips together with the reminder to keep it to herself in the way that’s quickly becoming a habit.

Her questions are of another kind. “What had you planned to do? Why did you stay?”

"And what do you do," Della follows up, "when feelings lead you astray?"

Quickly: "If they ever do."

"If we can go back the non-airplane way, maybe you could come too, if you like. For a visit." Not to set the cat amongst the pigeons... or canaries.

There's a red light ahead, despite there being few other cars on the road, and Tui draws the car to a halt. Is she aware of the questions Jules is not asking? She's glanced side-long, just once, but her expression is difficult to read. "I'd planned to get my degree," she says, with a low chuckle, "and then go home again. Help my community. Instead, I met my husband, fell in love with academia-- the two were not related, mind-- and... well, things work out the way they do, don't they?"

The light turns green. Tui accelerates, slowly. "That," she adds, glancing at Della through the rear view mirror again, "is a difficult question. It's true that we make mistakes in life-- we trust our gut and our gut is wrong. Or we don't trust our gut, and our brain is wrong. I'm not going to imply that some mistakes aren't simply bad, but I'd argue that many end up leading somewhere different. Good comes out of bad. Life is complicated, mm?"

She shakes her head. "I suspect it would be a very bad idea indeed for me to come back with you, as tempting as it is. To end up in my past, likely without a way back to the future? No. If I am to visit, it will need to be the old-fashioned way."

“Oh.” Jules watches Tui as she replies to one question and then another, head inclined just so. “Life is very complicated,” she agrees before looking out the windshield again. It’s dark, yes, but streetlights provide some illumination by which to watch the passing landscape.

“That makes sense—though it’s too bad. Doors are a nice and convenient way to avoid a plane trip. I can just imagine how long that would take.” Jules makes a face at the window.

"Fell in love with academia," lends warm wistfulness to Della's quiet voice. But -- "It makes sense. Part of what we do is trying to find the good, I think."

Here's a question: "If you stood on one side of the Door and your son on the other, what about a hug? Even if you were each leaning forward, you'd be rooted." That's her thought.

"Seventeen hours," says Tui, with a surety that suggests that she's looked. Of course she's looked. "Perhaps-- I wonder, though. How often do these experiences bring that kind of blessing? I imagine this is torture indeed for my son."

And by that logic... for Tui, too.

It's a thought not worth lingering on: she turns into a car park, now, parking with quiet efficiency. Ahead of them is a wide park, wreathed in darkness and in quiet bobbing lights as others assemble. "Rug up," she advises. "It's cold out there."

“That’s long.” Jules states the obvious with yet another grimace. Her brows are still knit together as she looks at Tui again, considering her judgment. “It isn’t very fair, is it.”

With the car parked, Jules unbuckles and gets out, pulling Della’s door open for her. “Pass me a blanket?”

"Why do we get to come, and not him," Della says right after Jules, her low murmur not really a question; or, rather, not just one question.

But. 'Rug up' isn't something she follows, but given the later words' context -- Della's slow to disentangle herself from the blankets, but she does so all the same with a, "Sure thing." Woolies, then, all the woolies for herself and Jules if she wants them as well as that blanket, scarf and hat and mittens (and one more phone check, just in case: there it is in her pocket). "Do we want blankets for sitting or just to keep warm?" she asks of Tui, her voice nearly as quiet as before: it's dark, it's dark, there are people like fireflies, it's dark and there are cars but it's on the verge of holy.

She tries to keep her little-too-large shoes from squeaking. She shivers in the cold before she settles in, ready to walk. She takes a deep breath, once the car's exhaust has died down, trying to taste the air.

Tui answers neither of those comments, which is answer in and of itself, isn't it? No, it's not fair. None of it is fair. And that's equally exactly the way it was intended to be.

"To sit, I think. The ground will be cold, but I don't fancy standing for too long-- there'll be food, afterwards, to warm us again. Feasting is an important part of Matariki. Celebration of the harvest."

The air smells like the sea, and there it is: in the distance, the headland visible even through the dark. There's Rangitoto, outlined against the sky, the conjoined island of Motutapu just behind and to one side of it. People gather, murmuring quietly, as Tui leads the way to a quiet spot where they can lay out their blankets and settle in. "It won't be long," she promises. "Not so many people come out, here, when they could be safe in their beds, in the warm, on a public holiday Friday."

A few people stop to greet Tui-- most with a hongi, that traditional touch of the nose; others with a handshake and a smile. Most are Māori, but not all.

Jules happily gears up in the cold weather attire, long hair settling over the maroon scarf she winds around her neck. She follows after Tui with her blanket, awake further in the cold of the night air and the atmosphere of communal anticipation. She's quiet and smiling, watching the people around them both before they've found their spot and after. A quick flap spreads out her blanket, and Jules settles down on it with her knees drawn up, holding them loosely with her arms.

"Do more people come out for it in other areas?" Jules asks quietly, once Tui joins them.

Such acceptance.

"Thank you," Della says, and not just for the explanation.

Her head lifts higher for the sight of it, the sight of the site; when people greet Tui, she offers them little smiles from her follower's place; and then she's looking up again when footing allows, for the stars. Even when she sits, it's to seek to steal part of Jules' blanket and lean against her friend, though she'll gladly share her own over the top as well. She doesn't herself ask another question, but her head turns to Tui once more.

"People celebrate in different ways," Tui explains, simply. "Some come out at dawn, and some have daytime events. Matariki's less a day than-- a time. But yes, in the villages, the maraes, there tend to be more people; whole communities. We're dispersed, of course, in cities."

She's quite comfortable, sitting on the ground, perched neatly in a cross-legged position, with her attention focused forward. It doesn't mean she can't-- won't-- talk, but her eyes are on the horizon, now, and the stars visible just above the distant water line. She inclines her head forward, a silent acknowledgement: Matariki rises.

As the sky begins to light, and Matariki appears, part-wreathed in clouds, an elder steps forward, wearing a feathered cloak. "Kahu Huruhuru," Tui murmurs, by way of explanation. "Birds are messengers to the spirits, so wearing their feathers is powerful mana. He represents iwi Ngāti Whatūa Ōrākei, the local tribe. He'll deliver the karakia and the karanga, as Tama nui te rā rises."

'Karakia', she explains, are ritual incantations-- prayers-- while the 'karanga' is a ceremonial call to the spirits.

At this point, Jules goes quiet too, beyond quiet affirming noises when Tui shares further. She reaches out for Della, linking arms beneath the blanket they've cast over them.

She's smiling throughout, delighted.

Della reorients a little to look down Tui's path, linking with Jules, her free hand planting itself to support her. Her low sigh is long, all but silent, and she refills her lungs slowly with this new air.

Tui's quietly pleased with the reactions of her guests. They're good guests; they can stay. They won't, of course.

She translates as the speaker continues, murmuring the words quietly, though clearly for the benefit of her guests as well as others around them: not all the faces in the crowd are Māori, and many are leaning in to hear, now.

Woven from above, woven from below
Interlacing our fundamental virtues to be in balance with the celestial and humane realms
To Puanga and Matariki, bringing forth aspirations of kindness and generosity
May your divine countenance be imbued inherently, manifesting itself throughout the community
So that goodwill is declared, may it be strong and enduring
an enduring gift established on the pillar of peace
resounding through times of hardship and times of abundance
resounding are the fires of ancestral connection, from times immemorial that ascend forth
May the gifts shared from one another be upheld
May these gifts be affirmed
May these gifts sustain life and vitality, may it be enduring
Proceed forth with hope, bringing balance to our lives
Bringing people together as one!

"We're remembering our loved ones who are gone," she adds, quietly. "And acknowledging those who remain, both new and old."

Jules listens intently, head tilted towards Della but eyes on Tui. Her nod comes at the very end, when Tui closes with her addendum. "This is beautiful," she says, pitched low in turn out of respect for the ceremony. Her smile remains, expression at rest.

The words. The original; Tui's translation; the interplay. Della isn't smiling; she's leaning forward, just a little, focused.

(There's a moment or two where her gaze does drift, then discreetly searches, spotting the others that are likewise listening and learning from Tui; she almost smiles, then. Almost.)

Together.

'Gone.' 'Remain.' She doesn't seek to clarify, just now. She does meet Tui's gaze, and nod. She's in no hurry to get up, to feast, to go; she takes her cue from the glowing woman, living in the moment that becomes the next and the next.

The ceremonies don't last long. It's enough to watch Matariki disappear into the dawn light, as the sun rises. Tui closes her eyes, afterwards, taking a moment to herself, face turned as if to soak in those thin, soft rays.

At length, her eyes open again, and she turns to glance at her guests, nodding once: confirmation and decision, perhaps, all at once. "It's lovely, isn't it? Now-- come."

She draws herself up. It's feast time, but there's something else, too, sitting atop the rise of the hill, wreathed in dawn light.

A door. A Door?

No one else seems to have noticed it.

Jules has no inclination to break the silence or the spell it casts on those who watch and wait. She remains observant, eyes open, but looks away from Tui in respect for her privacy, even in this public space and communal gathering.

The nod catches her attention, the shift she sees from the corner of her eye. Then her gaze lifts to the hillcrest and what sits there waiting. Jules gets up, bringing the blanket she's sharing with Della with her to neatly fold it and set it down.

No argument. No just a little longer or can't we have food first? or even a resigned, oh, I guess it's time.

It's time.

But. But but but but but but but and can't she take a picture and --

She doesn't even try. Instead, when she's caught the direction of Jules' gaze, once she's folded the second blanket to add to the first, Della starts disrobing: the hat, the scarf, the mittens -- especially the mittens -- and sweater and shoes, everything of Tui's that she can and still be decent (if possibly crazy-looking to locals) in public. She shakes out her hair.

Shivering, she finds Tui, and offers her hands; the shivering recedes, just for these moments, with her murmured, "Thank you." With her nod towards the Door that she thinks, hopes, the glowing woman can see too. With the questions in her dark eyes that she doesn't speak, may not even know how.

The questions, and the answers. The moment.

Tui's gaze falls towards the pile of clothes and blankets, and then lifts, fixing itself briefly upon that Door-- the one that she can see and that, perhaps, no one else can. Her nod is slow. Her expression is... unreadable. Wistful? Just plain impassive? Those are secrets she's not telling, not today.

Della's hands are taken within her own, squeezed with intent. "And you," she says, drawing her chin up and smiling. Whatever she's feeling, there's no sign of it now. "Haere rā," she murmurs.

She offers the same for Jules, too, actively reaching for her hands. Assuming they're taken, her words are soft: "Titiro i muri i toku tamaiti, tēnā. Hanga hari ia."

And then she inclines her head back towards the Door.

Go.

Jules follows suit, shedding the scarf first, then hat and mittens. The sweater and the boots stay on, at least for now, as they say their goodbyes.

She doesn't ask for a translation when it's her turn to hold hands with Tui. She just smiles, letting the warmth fill her face. "Oxnani," she replies. "Siqwil."

Jules steps just a little closer, then, with every intent of placing a light kiss on each of Tui's cheeks. A quick squeeze of the hands, and then she moves to the Door. Before stepping through, she takes off the rest of the winter clothes, folding the sweater and gently laying it on the grass and stepping out of her boots. Barefoot and bare-shouldered, in her summer tanktop that shows off her tattoo, Jules takes one last look out at the view, takes a deep breath to fill her lungs with that salt air, and lifts her hand in farewell.

One swift turn, a step forward, and through the Door she goes.

Della's looking and looking, not gawking but drinking it all in. Those seconds Jules changes in, she's using them: to look, to breathe, to taste that salt air once more.

Her farewell is a quick smile; she walks backwards, taking it with her.

Let's hope Mikaere was right about the laundry.

Back in their own home, it’s only a matter of seconds before Jules whips out her phone to start texting.

You’re not gonna believe where I just was…