seems like there's a show every night
The festival is a dizzying mixture of overly loud music and the endless, wildly colored canvases of kiosks, rows and rows of vendors for food, souvenirs, and band merchandise. It's all wildly overpriced, the only reasonable buys made available by some of the smaller, lesser-known artists just trying to get their stuff out there. So far, Mabel has bought two funnel cakes, a corndog, and a pair of earrings shaped like vinyl records. So cute and retro! She can't wait to show Pacifica.
Her large assembly of friends gathered at the gate near the start of the day but have since splintered into separate groups with the eventual plan to meet up for lunch, as decided at the kids' meeting. Mabel is excited to be with everyone at the festival, but she also wants to get some good time in with just her and Brendan.
Currently, her favorite thing to do is walk as close to Brendan as possible. But her second favorite thing to do is play Spot the Supernatural.
"That guy with the white hair," she says, careful not to point at the gentleman.
Brendan assesses the man standing at the t-shirt booth. "Maybe? I don't know, I think he's just old."
"Ooh, ooh!" Mabel zeroes in on a tall woman with jet black hair and snowy skin. "What about her? She's gotta be a vampire or something."
"Good eye," Brendan says. "That's Mirabel, she's actually a dhampir. She's cool."
"Should we say hi?"
"Yeah, why not," Brendan says with a shrug.
They approach Mirabel, and she sees them out of the corner of her eye and turns. She looks like she's probably in her twenties, and has a pretty, heart-shaped face and half-lidded dark eyes.
"Yo, Cager," she says giving him a lazy half-wave. Her voice is a laid-back drawl that immediately reminds Mabel of Wendy. "Heads up, your dad was just over here looking for you."
"Shoot, really?" Brendan's eyes dart around, suddenly anxious. "Did he say why?'
"Nah. Probably because of the Conclave, though, right? Aren't you old enough to go now?"
"Sort of. I mean, I don't really want to…" Brendan hedges.
"Who does?" Mirabel says. "It gets lamer every time. I don't even know what they're mad about this year."
"They'll find something," Brendan mutters. "Look, if you see my dad again, maybe don't tell him you saw me?"
"I'll take it to the grave," Mirabel says with a sleepy, secretive smile. Her teeth look sharp.
After Mirabel moves on, Mabel is bursting with questions. "What's this super-cool Conclave everyone's talking about? Also, Mirabel seems awesome—will she try to eat me?"
Brendan rolls his eyes. "It's not cool. It's a big, boring meeting. All the non-human groups—or at least the reasonable ones—get together every year, mostly to complain about each other. Sometimes they do it here, during the festival, since everyone's around anyway. Mirabel is awesome, and she won't try to eat you. Dhampirs don't need to drink blood."
"What about regular-pirs? The ones I met seemed nice."
"You met some vampires?"
"Last summer, just for a minute." Mabel frowns. "Well, they said they were vampires… They were at the sewing shop."
Brendan shakes his head. "Yeah, sorry… If they were at a store during the day, they were lying."
Mabel gasps in affront. "And I believed them when they complimented my stitching!"
"I guess they could have been dhampirs, but I've never seen one say they were the other. They get all touchy about it and you always have to be super specific. Anyway, vampires need blood, but it doesn't have to be human. Most of them just eat a rare steak or something." Brendan looks slightly green. "Don't ever go to a midnight barbeque with a bunch of vampires. Man, it's gross."
"Huh. I guess all those vampire stories are just made up," Mabel says brightly.
Brendan shrugs uncomfortably. "I mean, there's some messed-up people out there. But, uh, they aren't invited to the Conclave. I— I mean, most of us just… want to be normal."
Something in his eyes makes it seem personal, and his shoulders are hunched. They've entered an aisle of tents that's a little less crowded than those closer to the main stage; Mabel steps into the shadows between two vendors stands, allowing them a little privacy.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
"Nothing!" he says with a tone that belies his answer. When she tilts her head sympathetically, he sighs. "I just… I don't like being associated with those kinds of creeps. They think they're better because they're different, or are just idiots who want to be werewolves constantly, like movie werewolves, and it's like… We get to be normal ninety-nine percent of the time, so stop rocking the boat. Crap like that is why we have to hide, because humans like you can't trust us."
Mabel is a beacon of optimism, and she knows this about herself. But even she must say, "Well, it's not like us humans are all great… Some of us are big jerks named Greg."
"Yeah. I know," Brendan mutters. After a moment, he groans and puts a hand over his eyes. "Man, I sound like my dad. That's, like, his whole dumb spiel." He sighs and drops his hand. "Wait, who's Greg?"
"The Windigo, Lord of Storm, owner of board shorts!" Mabel says. This does nothing to ease Brendan's confusion, so she adds, "Just an amateur magic guy with a big ol' chip on his shoulder. We sent him back to his mom."
"Sounds like a real clown." Brendan pauses for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "…I don't get why Dad is looking for me if it's about the Conclave. We weren't even going to come this year until I said I wanted to."
That doesn't seem right to Mabel; it takes her a second to realize why. "Wait, then how'd you get a hotel room when it's so packed?"
Brendan's face goes blank. Gradually, anger steals over his features. "Hey… yeah! There's no way he booked that at the last minute. But why would he… Was he going to come without us? Then why did he act like it was all my idea?!"
Mabel is starting to feel bad about bringing this up. She turns her mouth down noncommittally and makes an 'I don't know' sound.
"I swear he's just messing with me. God!" Brendan kicks his heel against a nearby tent peg, fuming.
"At least he was cool with us hanging out?" Mabel ventures.
Brendan awkwardly averts his eyes. "No, I… I didn't really say why I wanted to go."
Mabel can't help but feel a little hurt. "Oh."
She must not be very good at hiding her disappointment, because Brendan hastens to reassure her. "It's not because of you. Remember all that stuff I said at the RV park? Trust me, the last thing you want is my family getting involved."
Mabel believes him, but at the same time, how bad could it be? It's not like his parents would even be against it—exactly the opposite, from what he's said. But she can't relate because she doesn't see the need to hide things on her end. She knows her parents would be supportive in a general way, if somewhat concerned about the same stuff that Dipper and Pacifica have to contend with. And with the sole exception of his new and extremely frustrating desire to keep the kids from having encounters with Weirdness, it's not like Grunkle Stan cares what they get up to. When he and Grunkle Ford even remember to police Dipper and Pacifica's contact, it's only because Mom and Dad asked them to.
Secret romances have always been exciting in theory. But in practice, she's finding the feeling of being a secret much less thrilling than she thought.
Brendan is still thinking, pacing a very short route in the confined space. "You know what," he says, stopping in his tracks, "if he wants me to go to the Conclave so bad, fine." There's a defiant spark in his eye that Mabel has never seen before. "Fine! Let's go."
Mabel is intrigued, but there are some other things going on. "Now? What about the festival?"
"We won't stay for the whole thing," Brendan says, already starting to walk away.
Mabel hurries after him, a little concerned about leaving the festival, but far more excited about getting to see a big meeting of supernatural people (she does feel a little guilty because she knows Dipper would want to go too, more than anything; it's just not her secret to share).
Brendan takes them out of the east gate (Mabel makes sure they get their hands stamped) and then leads her into the woods north of town, across the highway and near the lake shore. At this point, they leave the road and walk down a twisting path through the thick forest. Despite the density of the trees, the path itself is fairly wide and looks well-travelled. Mabel wonders if she and Dipper ever came across it before and ignored it, looking for locations more unknown.
The path leads to what looks like a dead end, a small hill not far from the base of the cliffs. It's covered in heavy vines, and the roar of the waterfall sounds close. Brendan approaches the vines and pushes against them until his arm suddenly sinks through, finding a hidden gap. He pushes the vines aside and gestures for her to continue, and together they push through the secret entrance and into a musty cave.
The floor is slick and muddy, and the waterfall sounds even louder despite them now being underground; Mabel wonders if this cave leads towards it. The room directs to a tunnel at the back wall, which is blocked by two large men, standing there like bouncers.
"Let me do the talking," Brendan whispers to her. He straightens up and approaches the men, his face confident enough but his posture betraying his nervousness. "Two werewolves," he says quickly. "Grand Ronde community."
"You Brendan Cager?" the man asks.
"Yeah," Brendan says.
"Your dad was waiting for you earlier. He said to tell you he's seated up front," the man says.
"Cool, thanks. I'll, uh, I'll go see him."
Mabel is apprehensive—what if they want her to prove she's a werewolf? Of course, that begs the follow up question of how Brendan would prove it, seeing as he apparently only turns into a wolf once a year during the winter. Fortunately, the men don't give her a second glance as she follows Brendan into the corridor. She can hear the rumble of many voices ahead, echoing across the stone. The hall is lit by portable work lamps, orange extension cords snaking across the floor towards what must be a generator somewhere, chugging noisily away down another passage.
Just ahead, the corridor suddenly widens, and she has the brief impression of a huge room before Brendan tugs at her arm and pulls her into a side hall, away from the voices.
"We're going up to the back," he says quietly. "Stay low, okay?"
They scurry up a staircase hewn into the rock and emerge behind a long row of chairs filled with people. Brendan stays in the shadows at the rear edge of the room, and they circle around the chairs; Mabel thinks they are on a balcony, judging by the way the ceiling, lined with lights, curves up into a dome that isn't too far overhead. It's hard to get a sense of how many people there are from behind the last row.
Gradually, they circle around until Brendan ducks into a small alcove in the righthand wall. It leads to a slightly higher position, a small space carved in the rock that hosts two spotlights which are focused on the dome's ceiling; she can see other spotlights in different positions above the circular balcony, all of which reflect off the dome and indirectly light the room. They crawl forward until they are at the ledge, peering down into the Conclave.
From up here, Mabel can see almost the entire assembly, save for the section of chairs that is beneath the balcony directly below her. The sight is incredible—the amphitheater below is a sea of the supernatural. Each delegation has its own section of chairs, all arranged in a loose half-circle facing a stage and podium. From where she is perched far above, it's difficult to discern the features of a lot of the crowd, but she can see a contingent of manotaurs, a small group of gnomes, and at the end of the seating is a deep pool with a party of merpeople (and she can't decide if she's more disappointed or relieved that Mermando isn't among them). These are the exceptions, however, because most of the people in the cave appear human to her eye.
"There he is!" Brendan whispers. He points down towards the bottom level, near the front by the stage. Mabel isn't entirely certain what he's pointing at from this distance, but there's a man there who looks a lot like Brendan from the back, with long, black hair. "There you go, Dad. You got what you wanted, I'm here."
Hiding in what passes for this cave's rafters isn't quite what Mabel envisioned when Brendan said they were going to the Conclave. "Shouldn't we sit with him?"
Brendan shoots her a guilty glance. "Humans, uh… aren't actually allowed in here."
"Welp." Mabel scoots back from the edge a little, trying to be less conspicuous.
"They'd just kick you out, you wouldn't go to jail or anything," Brendan is quick to assure her. "Besides, it's a dumb rule and super racist. Or, speciest…? One of those things."
Mabel doesn't know which, if either, of those labels is correct, but she does appreciate Brendan's stance. "I guess I'll just stay up here, then—spy style!"
Their hushed conversation is interrupted when the general chatter in the auditorium dies down and someone takes the stage. A pale woman with short grey hair and round eyeglasses approaches the podium with a few notes in hand.
"Lady Rogneda, she's head of the Western Vampiric Alliance and chairwoman of the Conclave," Brendan whispers.
Anticipating some variety of Eastern European accent, Mabel is immediately disappointed when Lady Rogneda begins to speak and sounds like a Californian college professor. "Thank you all for coming," she says in a crisp, dry voice. "Before we begin, let it be known that we are aware of the increasing difficulty in attending due to the rising popularity of the Woodstick Festival. The possibility of changing the date for next year's conference is on the itinerary for debate. Now, we're already starting late, so let's get right to new business. The Conclave recognizes Dr. Arthur Rothes of the PNW Wereperson Advocacy Fund."
"We're part of that," Brendan says. "They mostly help people go to college and stuff."
A large, bald man with a goatee and a slightly shabby suit takes the podium. "Thank you, Lady Rogneda," he says raspily. "Tonight, I'm speaking in my capacity as a member of the NHSC."
A rumble of concern goes up around the room. Mabel twists her head towards Brendan for an explanation.
"Non-Human Safety Council," Brendan says quickly.
A projector mounted on the ceiling activates and turns the wall behind Rothes a blank blue. "The NHSC has become aware of a threat to the secrecy of this Conclave, and possibly its safety. I will summarize the situation, present solutions, and request that the Conclave take an immediate majority vote to decide on a course of action."
Brendan makes a sound of surprise. "Immediate? Wow, something's up…"
Rothes waits for the crowd to settle. "The NHSC prioritizes the wellbeing not just of at-risk individuals, but the non-human community as a whole. This extends to any unwelcome scrutiny that may place our community in jeopardy. Over the recent months, we have been made aware of an individual who may be working against us. In fact, this person has already breached Gravity Falls itself, known to many of us as our most reliable sanctum. This is the man in question—"
With a blink, the blue wall turns into an enormous photo. The man in the picture, shown standing on a busy street corner with a device in hand, sends a jolt of instant recognition through Mabel.
"—Dr. Stanford Pines."
Mabel and Brendan turn to each other, jaws dropping in simultaneous shock.