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The Destination // for Greta
April 5th, 2020
The air is still too cold for Anne's liking, but it ain't so bad in the sun. Walking helps, enough that she can stand to have her hands outside her pockets. Not much of a victory, but it's one she'll take.
She don't have a fucking clue where she's going, but she walks with purpose anyway, eyes forward, steps even. If she looks lost, lingers too long to stare at anything, people try to talk to her. It's been months and she still stands out. She's made little effort to blend, but it ain't just her clothes and she knows it. It is in everything, all around her: she don't belong here, never did, never will. There is nowhere she can go where she won't be lost and vulnerable, where she won't need help from all these prying strangers. There is nothing for her to do here. It ain't enough anymore to follow Jack around, not when her purpose has become so uncertain. Jack don't see it that way; she knows that. But there are days she can't just stand at his side and watch. She needs to keep looking, even with nothing to find.
It surprises her some when she realizes she has followed a known path, in the end. She supposes it shouldn't. She'd expected to just walk until she decided to turn back, but there was no promise she'd find her same steps again. So she followed a path she remembers. One she's taken before. And she realizes there is one place, at least, that doesn't amount to strange terrain; one place where she doesn't feel lost, at least not in the same way.
Greta is outside her house, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her garden. Anne stands there a moment, close enough to make her presence known, but not sure how to start. She isn't expected. She has some dim sense that ain't polite. But Greta's never seemed to mind before.
Words are not forthcoming, so she ends up clearing her throat, softly so as not to startle, and lets her footsteps crunch a little heavier as she draws near.
The air is still too cold for Anne's liking, but it ain't so bad in the sun. Walking helps, enough that she can stand to have her hands outside her pockets. Not much of a victory, but it's one she'll take.
She don't have a fucking clue where she's going, but she walks with purpose anyway, eyes forward, steps even. If she looks lost, lingers too long to stare at anything, people try to talk to her. It's been months and she still stands out. She's made little effort to blend, but it ain't just her clothes and she knows it. It is in everything, all around her: she don't belong here, never did, never will. There is nowhere she can go where she won't be lost and vulnerable, where she won't need help from all these prying strangers. There is nothing for her to do here. It ain't enough anymore to follow Jack around, not when her purpose has become so uncertain. Jack don't see it that way; she knows that. But there are days she can't just stand at his side and watch. She needs to keep looking, even with nothing to find.
It surprises her some when she realizes she has followed a known path, in the end. She supposes it shouldn't. She'd expected to just walk until she decided to turn back, but there was no promise she'd find her same steps again. So she followed a path she remembers. One she's taken before. And she realizes there is one place, at least, that doesn't amount to strange terrain; one place where she doesn't feel lost, at least not in the same way.
Greta is outside her house, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her garden. Anne stands there a moment, close enough to make her presence known, but not sure how to start. She isn't expected. She has some dim sense that ain't polite. But Greta's never seemed to mind before.
Words are not forthcoming, so she ends up clearing her throat, softly so as not to startle, and lets her footsteps crunch a little heavier as she draws near.
no subject
She can't imagine a reason why Saoirse wouldn't want Anne to know, though. Perhaps the opportunity to share just never arose. Still, the thought of just blurting it all out behind Saoirse's back doesn't sit well with her.
But neither does stonewalling Anne, who is plainly curious. Greta nibbles her lower lip for a moment, debating with herself, then ventures, "Well, she's... different to most children. A bit like how Sweeney's different to most men." At least there's that common thread, leaving her less concerned by the prospect of Anne's disbelief as Saoirse's disappointment.
no subject
The comparison to Sweeney catches her by surprise at first, though it isn't hard to follow. Something to do with magic, if Anne had to guess, since that's practically commonplace here. It seems Greta doesn't want to cut right to the center of it, and Anne is curious, but not keen to push. After a moment's consideration, she goes back to her work.
"Irish?" she ventures with a fleeting, wry smirk, then ducks her head back down, adding, "Don't have to tell me, if you don't want. Not my business."
no subject
At any rate, it irks Greta to think that Anne might have no explanation at all for why she's allowing her young daughter to hurl herself into the sea in the middle of bloody April. She might give Saoirse more free rein than the average Darrow parent, but she's not negligent.
"She's a selkie," she finally says in an undertone, glancing over at Anne. "That's why she can swim in this weather. She has her coat."
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"She can turn into a seal?" she asks, genuinely asking. Given how far Sweeney differed from her expectations, she isn't sure what assumptions she can make. The idea ought to be stranger to her, but Greta always has a way of introducing these notions so simply, like there's no argument to be made. That, and there's no reason not to trust her.
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"Yes," she confirms, plucking up an errant dandelion and tossing it to the chickens. "A baby one, no less. It's adorable." After a beat, she adds, "Her coat didn't come with her when she first arrived here, and when she got it, I thought she might just..." Greta gestures vaguely eastward; if Anne's familiar with selkie stories at all, she'll probably guess where the sentence was headed.
It's not something Greta likes voicing, though, and she clears her throat before continuing: "But she stayed. It just wears on her when she can't swim as often, so now that it's arguably nice out, it seems cruel not to let her go and play."
no subject
Don't seem right to bring it up. Not sure what she'd say in any case. Saoirse's stayed; Greta isn't looking for reassurance. Wouldn't be much sense in looking for it from her.
She makes a soft, noncommittal sound and says, "Where I come from those are just stories. Mad Sweeney, too." There's nothing dismissive or skeptical in her tone, a pensive frown being the only thing separating this from small talk. "Seems sort of funny that I've already got used to it here." And much more besides, but she only indicates that with a slight shrug as she tosses the chickens a bit more stray clover. "You said... it was a while ago now. Mentioned a witch, and a curse. They had magic where you're from, too."
It's not quite a question, but she does look at Greta inquiringly. Not sure what she's asking, more like curious in general, what it must be like to grow up with all that as a day-to-day reality. Anne can't really imagine it, and wouldn't have bothered to try not very long ago. Now, after a hesitation, she asks outright: "What's that like?"
no subject
"It wasn't so different from being here, really," she replies. "You might know people with some degree of magic, and you might leave out offerings for whatever might be living on your property just to be on the safe side. But if you were lucky, you could keep your head down and get on with things."
She pauses for a moment, mulling it over. Time here has made her complacent, she supposes: it's been ages since she had to explain how things worked back home to anyone, and ages since she's worried that she might be explaining it badly. The words come more slowly as she continues. "There were rules. Not written, necessarily, but passed down all the same. Things you could do to stay safe, or... unnoticed. Don't stray from the path, don't talk to the wolf — that sort of thing. Don't steal from a witch's garden."
Her smile has faded by now, and she snorts, soft and humorless. "But you can do everything just right and still get roped into something. Much like here."
no subject
She tilts her head, watching Greta closely from beneath the brim of her hat, her curiosity piqued again by the subtle shift in Greta's voice and manner, as of some faint resentment, a story untold. She wants to ask and she isn't sure how, isn't sure if she's welcome, if this is the right moment.
It's her own distraction that saves her making any immediate decisions; when she tosses something toward the chickens, she misses by a small margin, near enough that the excitable creature makes a clumsy leap for it, bending the wire fencing just enough that it vaults itself to freedom, flapping and scurrying its ridiculous way across the yard.
"Shit!" Anne snaps, haphazardly pushing the wire back in place before lurching to her feet.
no subject
Anne has the sense to fix the bit of fencing, first, so the others stay penned in (though one or two do watch with interest as their freed cohort sprints off). "Here," Greta says, starting to walk a wide arc around the escaped creature. "If we get her up against the house, or something, one of us should be able to make a grab at her. The dogs do this all the time," she adds with a wry smile, "so it can't be that hard."
no subject
It moves like a chicken, which is to say erratically, and Anne stumbles as she tries to head it off, narrowly succeeding in startling it back toward Greta's general direction. And at that moment, whether it's her own seriousness unraveling itself or just the ridiculous way the chicken bobs around, the absurdity catches up to Anne and she feels herself start to grin.