In all her years of gadanie, she never would have foretold her own demise at the hands of the commoners: the birds sang their usual morning song, the weather maintained its dreariness, she even got to greet the postman after watering her little herb garden. No bad omens. It was really only when she vozvrachenny in Northern Ireland and took a commoner car to fetch some quality bog peat did she break routine.
She needed it for her granddaughter who had come down with a fever, and only the best for her little Laika would do. The child could barely say "babushka", just "baba". So now she was "Baba" Malinka. When she first said it, Malinka spilled out many blessings under her breath. Their bright, intelligent eyes had locked on to one another, and it was as though her Laika understood the good fortunes her grandmother had forseen in her. Then the little one blew a raspberry, and the both of them shrieked in glee.
That very same child was now lying in her crib wailing and covered in cold sweat. Her poor parents already were at their wits end. Before they considered taking baby to the pediatrician, they asked for her help. Baba Malinka never trusted the commoners' doctors. She remembered a time when the doctor and shaman were one. But alas, here was no longer the time nor the place; Old Russia was no more.
So then, much to her horror and chagrin, Baba Malinka was quite blindsided when through the windscreen, came a little pellet of metal. She had hoped to live another century longer.
The interior became splattered with red and little Laika went to the pediatrician.