Nightshade Tea: An Hour That Does Not Count

I am nothing if not thoughtful - Kin Kajuu

Nightshade Tea: An Hour That Does Not Count

By Kin Kajuu — Pollinator. Columnist. Problem.

I have been informed — by a creature whose name I will withhold purely as a courtesy he has not earned — that dusk "doesn't count."

Doesn't count as what, I inquired. Night, he said. As though night were a border one crosses with the correct paperwork. As though the canopy simply switches itself off for forty minutes each evening while everyone stands very still and waits for darkness to arrive and make things official.

I have been reporting on the night since before this individual had cognitive ability, or teeth, or — I suspect — a name he was confident in. I do not require his permission to begin. I do not require anyone's permission to begin. This is, I believe, widely understood, except apparently by him, and now, regrettably, by you, because I have had to explain it.

Moving on. There is, as promised, news.

THE ARRIVAL

The Velts arrived at dusk.

Dusk is neither day nor night. It belongs to both and to neither, and creatures who arrive during it are making a statement whether they intend to or not. The statement, in this case, appeared to be: we will not be rushed, and we will not be late, and we will arrive at the one hour that requires everyone — day-dwellers and night-dwellers alike — to be present and awake and looking. I find this either extremely clever or a refusal to commit to a side. Possibly both. I have decided not to decide, which is its own kind of decision, and frankly more decisive than most creatures manage.

I positioned myself at a prudent observational distance, by which I mean close enough to hear everything and far enough away to deny it later. A surprising number of creatures had independently selected nearby perches for reasons having absolutely nothing to do with the arrival. One could scarcely move for all the creatures not watching.

The Velts, for those who have somehow spent the past fortnight asleep in a hollow log, are coatis. Diurnal creatures. Daylight creatures. Creatures who have elected to join a society that begins most of its important conversations after sunset. This alone would have been enough to attract attention. Add a departure from another canopy, a claimed branch, and several contradictory rumors, and one has the ingredients for a season.

Lady Aldara Velt arrives with no apologies.

Lady Aldara Velt arrived first, which I understand is customary among coatis, (though I will not be drawn further on coati customs, coati anything, or any resemblance — structural, facial, or otherwise — that has been suggested to me this week by a young opossum who will not be making such suggestions again. I corrected him. At length. He understands now. I trust we are all clear.)

Now, Lady Aldara Velt is a creature who understands the value of denying an audience what it expects.

The canopy had prepared itself for drama. A triumphant entrance. A wounded entrance. A defensive entrance. Some visible acknowledgment that half the branches in society had spent days discussing her.

Instead she arrived as though she had every right to be there.

No explanations.

No apologies.

No visible concern.

A calculated bet, if you ask me. Creatures are rarely more unsettled than when denied the reaction they had already prepared for.

Aldara's composure was, I will say, considerable. She crossed the branch the way creatures cross branches when they have already decided how the evening will go and are simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. Several onlookers attempted to look as though they had not been watching for an hour. None of them succeeded. I, of course, had been watching in a purely professional capacity, which is different.

Behind her came the three daughters.

Iara Velt arrived enchanted. By Everything. Genuinely. Visibly. She looked at the branch, at the mist, at a fairly ordinary beetle that wandered past at an inopportune moment, with an expression I can only describe as someone encountering the thing they have been imagining for years and finding it both smaller and larger than expected, simultaneously, which I am told is possible and which I am beginning to believe. Whether this enchantment is charming or a liability, I cannot yet say. Time, as it does, will tell. It usually does, eventually, whether anyone asks it to or not.

Branca Velt was impeccably turned out. I want to be fair to her, because fairness is among my many exemplary qualities, so: impeccable. The posture was correct. The pacing was correct. The introductions were correct. Had she arrived carrying a checklist entitled How To Enter A New Canopy Respectably, I would not have been surprised.

Which is perhaps why the kerchief attracted such immediate attention.

Society, as ever, can forgive almost anything except the absence of something to discuss.

Some considered it daring. Some considered it misguided. One creature described it as "aspirational," which I have spent several hours attempting to understand.

I will simply say this: the kerchief was a choice. I do not know what it was responding to. I do not believe anyone does, possibly including Branca. But it was worn with complete conviction, and conviction, in social matters, is often mistaken for correctness until much later.

Branca Velt is poised - but for what - with the kerchief?

Teca Velt was present.

That is the full report on Teca Velt. She was there. She observed the proceedings with an expression that suggested she had already formed several conclusions and had decided, for the moment, that none of them were worth the oxygen it would take to say them. I respect this. I also find it, if I am honest, faintly alarming, in the way that creatures who are silent are often more alarming than creatures who make a lot of noise, because at least the noisy ones are predictable, and I have built an entire career on predictable creatures saying things. So, Teca Velt was existing at the event. This may sound unremarkable until I explain that nobody seemed capable of agreeing on anything further. Every creature who spoke with her emerged with a different assessment. By midnight I had heard her described as shy, bold, observant, aloof, charming, severe, and possibly bored.

I suspect at least six of those reports are incorrect.

While all this was unfolding, I noticed a familiar figure standing at the edge of the gathering.

Cipó is here again - what secrets are he and the Velts keeping?

Cipó.

The tayra has been spotted near the Velt branch before, as readers may recall. This sighting was less surprising than the first, though no less interesting. One does not spend part of one's life among a family and cease to be associated with them merely because years have passed. Their conversation appeared cordial. Beyond that, I shall refrain from speculation until I have better speculation.

BITE OF THE NIGHT

A twilight beetle — caught mid-flight during the Velt arrival, by accident, by me, with my mouth, while looking at something else entirely.
Texture: brisk. Slightly alarmed.
Flavor: green, mineral, faintly of the moment just before something happens.
Rating: ✦✦✦½ out of 5.
Not what I was expecting. Arrivals rarely are.

NIBBLE NOTE
A heron, three branches down, has not moved in eleven hours. I checked. Twice. He may be meditating. He may be dead. The canopy has decided, collectively and without discussion, not to find out, and I respect this decision more than I can say.

How unusual it is for a frog to have a such a large entourage, whatever could be his reason for joining us?

NIGHT NOTES

A tree frog has arrived in the canopy.

The frog itself is unremarkable — green, damp, the usual configuration. What is remarkable is the entourage, which numbers — and I counted, because counting is also among my many qualities — considerably more than a tree frog has ever required for any purpose I am aware of, and I am aware of most purposes.

Nobody has said what the purpose is. Nobody has been asked. I am asking now, in print, which is the only way I know how to ask anything: a tree frog has arrived with an entourage befitting someone of substantially greater consequence than a tree frog, and I would like to know why, and I expect to know why, and until I know why I will simply be noting, here, regularly, that I do not know why.

The parrots remain quiet. Three weeks now. I mentioned this last time. I am mentioning it again. I will continue mentioning it until either they laugh or I am proven correct about something, whichever comes first, and I suspect I know which.

Lady Skirrit was seen near the east-facing branch cluster again this evening, at the edge of things, not speaking to anyone, watching the arrival with the particular stillness of someone doing arithmetic. I do not know what she was calculating. I rarely do, with her. This has never stopped either of us.

What could Lady Skirrit possibly be counting and calculating?

NEXT WEEK…

The season begins properly. Branches will be claimed. Introductions will be made. Someone — I do not yet know who, though I have a guess, and my guesses are good — will say something gracious to me, and I will print it, because that is my job, and because graciousness, printed, has a way of becoming something else entirely.

You didn't hear it from me. (You absolutely did.)

— Kin Kajuu, Pollinator. Columnist. Problem.