Strandpiel 33
Yet again, V0.02, first revision... subject to further revision and slaying of typos
Begun in February-March 2022. Completed, after a hiatus in which real life intruded, in October.
Deciding – it's a sort of general rule, but not hard and fast – to stay out of references to big unresolved topical issues. I do have readers in both Russia and the Ukraine, after all. Can't help wondering how my "Russian" characters might react and how many exasperated face-palms, at the very least, would be happening right now. (Vision of Olga, Irena and Nadezhda and some of the others watching Roundworld footage via HEX, and getting annoyed). Also, the nearest I've ever been to introducing a "Ukrainian" character was Air Watch pilot Tatiana Grigorenko, and that was by default – it was pointed out her name is more Ukrainian than Russian. Best noted this is happening in the real Roundworld, but to step back from any overt or partisan mentions.
Back from a sometimes eventful holiday, then too much work, then sick leave with an attack of "ugggh", and back into it… the lunacy in the Ukraine continues but we will not dwell on it… had a few ideas for referring to it in a Discworld context but this may be a bit too raw for general fictions. (The notion was of realities leaking and for some of the Air Witches to have bad dreams about flying missions in unimaginably big potent aircraft of a type they'd only get to see in dreams… Irena and Nadezhda waking up from nightmares, and wondering what sort of terrible alternate reality was leaking in from somewhere. Got into an update of "Price of Flight", which I know is next on the "to-do" list.)
Also annoyed that after downloading an update, Microsoft seems to have disabled my ability to edit and store Word documents on my own bloody computer, where I want them, and is insisting I use this bloody one-drive thing for online editing and storage. Trying to find a way around this but it is absolutely sodding annoying and makes me feel like I'm surrendering my autonomy. If I have to work online, what if the bloody internet/broadband crashes? EDIT – it has. Frequently. Adding to delays in completing and publishing. I like to write off-line, with occasional forays into the Web for research – finding out if there is anything remotely like a braai/barbecue culture in Russia, for instance (there is: nomadic Cossacks have something like, out of necessity) and getting the right vocab for this to put into the spoken words of Yelena G. And if people in the USA can hop between "soda" and "pop" to describe fizzy carbonated drinks, what is the South African version… still, on with the tale.
Ankh-Morpork, the Assassins' Guild School:
Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons glared at the wall on the other side of her study desk. There was little here to occupy her attention; the cork pinboard where she was allowed to individualise her personal space (provided the chosen pictures were decent, in good taste and not unstylishly gory) was largely empty. There was a single iconograph of Famke with her two sisters and her grandparents, taken in Howondaland. Most girls in Two Raven had something similar and an inviolable, unspoken, rule was that family iconographs were off-limits for humour, snarky comment or off-colour remarks.
However, a key to Famke's personality is that while the other girls were getting to an age where they posted dreamy shots of hunky sportsmen or good-looking minstrels and singers, or in the case of Miranda Hartley, iconographs of her favourite pony, Famke's only other sign of individuality was a speculative diagram of how the latest repeating multiple crossbow used by the Air Watch might work. It was an exploded diagram with numbered parts and a technical explanation as to how the weapon might rain six lethal crossbow bolts per second when correctly centred to hit a target fifty yards away. This sort of thing was of great interest to her. (1)
She looked from her grandparents back to the prep on the desk. For some reason she was finding this to be hard going.
Famke took a deep breath and tried to slam down the inner wail of "It's not fair!" that was welling up. She returned to Miss Garianova's set homework. It concerned use of the aspect form in spoken and written Rodinian and how this related to use of perfective and imperfective verbs across all three accepted tense-forms.
There are three tenses in Rodinian: the past, the present and the future. In addition to this, Rodinian verbs have a second property called aspect.
She frowned. Normally she'd get this, sometimes after a bit of thought, but for some reason it was hard going today.
"I can see you tomorrow" is clearly written in the present tense, but it relates to an event taking place in the future. Therefore the tenses and the meanings blur...
Famke frowned, as a memory surfaced, of her mother letting something slip. Bekki had grimaced and had said something about spill-words. Famke had a hazy appreciation of this concept.
Mum had been looking speculatively at Beccs and her drippy-but-decent BF, and Beccs had asked what was on Mum's mind. Then Mum had something like Oh, nothing. I was wondering about how any grandchildren I get might turn out...
She had gone a little bit red about the cheekbones and Beccs had looked at Ampie and they'd both clearly decided not to make a thing about it. Famke had realised this was a mum thing and mums were entitled to daydream too. It probably came with the mum-licence.
She wrote again, jotting it down.
This is what big sisters are for, to take the flak on things like this. And it says Ampie is completely accepted in the family if Mum can even think like that. And Beccs says not to even hint that Mum's turning into Ouma Agnetha as she gets older. But this one's worse: my mother used the past tense "was" to signify an event that might take place in the future...
Famke suddenly realised a point to the teaching: Miss Garianova wasn't just teaching Rodinian. She was getting them to think about the subtleties of all languages, to go to the next deeper level and think more about how they were assembled. It wasn't just rote-learning of one language. Famke wondered how a concept like that might be assembled in Rodinian and realised she couldn't even basically approximate it. Not yet, anyway. Conditional tense? Subjunctive?
Then the "It's not fair!" welled up again.
This Octeday afternoon, Famke had realised exactly what it meant to be confined to the Guild, except for approved lessons and religious observance. She was coming to the realisation that Downey's seemingly-light punishment was not so light after all.
The day had meant the worst of both worlds. She had left the Guild, under tight and close escort, to go to Kirk as it was accepted that this was allowed. The School authorities had no problem with her being allowed to make her peace with her Gods. It was, in every applicable sense, good for her soul.
She had therefore endured three tedious, unspeakable, boring, hours in Kirk. Only to be reminded afterwards that being confined to the Guild meant she had to go straight back there. And not to the regular Octeday-afternoon braai her mother hosted for Guild staff and pupils.
Mum had said nothing, but the look on her face had said Do not embarrass me by asking. You are confined to the Guild except for religious worship. Coming home for an afternoon braai is not religious worship. Even for Boers.
Just to make sure, Mum had detailed two of the older girls to escort Famke back, along the short walk from Gods Street to Filigree Street. Both had been apologetic, but also firm in making sure she was delivered back to Miss Glynnie in Raven House, to sign in as present in School.
Famke scowled again. It was Spring. Braai season was beginning. You couldn't do the braai in winter, as everybody knew. And Downey had decreed that for three weeks, her punishment for erring was that the privilege of visits Home had been revoked.
"It's not fair!" welled up again. Then Famke gritted her teeth and scowled. "It's not fair" was for little kids. She'd broken the Rules. She'd been found out. She had to tough it out. Present an "Am I bothered?" face to the world.
"We're in the shit too, Kay." Connie Muthelezi reminded her. Thora Brittasdottir, further down the Dorm and seated in the higher chair that helped her reach the standard-issue study desk, added her support. Famke grinned. Her friends were under the same punishment too. It helped. It was good to have friends.
Connie, who was doing the optional Saturday morning class in Vondalaans, then asked Famke for her help in unpicking a tricky exercise.
"What, you want me to get another black mark on my BOSS file for helping the Zulu war effort?" Famke joked.
"Well, your aunt should be worried." Connie joked back. "She's the one who's actually teaching Zulus to speak your language!"
"Auntie Heidi? BOSS are probably up to Volume Seven on her "politically unreliable" file!"
Famke stood up, glad of the distraction.
Three floors below them in the Raven House office, Miss Ethylene Glynnie, their Housemistress, was spending her Octeday afternoon doing something she loved and found great pleasure in. She was not alone.
"I believe the marginal text is in the handwriting of Wotua Doinov. When I cross-reference it to these other known samples." said Yelena Garianova, taking care with the old documents as she held them in white-gloved fingers.
"So my intuition was correct, then." Ethylene Glynnie said, as she leaned in close. "It's more difficult to tell with Rodinian. The Cyrillic script, handwritten, makes it problematic for me."
"You should resume your studies in the language." Yelena replied. "Although I appreciate your job leaves little spare time for such things. If I can fit in regular time for private tuition, I would be pleased."
Ethylene considered this.
"What does it read?" she asked. "I can pick out a few words, like "history", perhaps."
Yelena smiled slightly.
"Just next to this rather confusing piece of musical notation." she said. "The one even you find difficult to make sense of. The one looking as if it's just random sounds an orchestra might struggle to play. It reads Черт их удлинить! Те вмешивающиеся в историю, которые делают все сложно!"
Yelena quickly noted the phrase in phonetic Morporkian, on a new sheet of paper, cross-referencing it to the manuscript.
Chert ikh udlinit! te vmeshivayushchies ve historia, kotorye delayut vse slozno!
"Damn those bloody History Monks who make everything so difficult." she said, roughly translating.
"Ah." Ethylene said, as comprehension grew. "Given the piece in question, this seals it. We have provenance, I think."
"I am pleased for you." Yelena replied. "And it is a privilege to be allowed to hold and view the legacy of Rodinia's national composer. Musical scores and working notes in his own hand."
They shook hands.
"Of course, the legend of Mellius and Gretalina is difficult for any creative artist." Ethylene remarked. "Two lovers, born two hundred years apart on two different continents, who never actually met in person. " (2)
"Therefore, the fabled History Monks." Yelena agreed. "The legend refers to a mysterious Brother Laurence who brought them together against the opposition of their families."
Ethylene frowned down at the score.
"Doinov may have been experimenting with taking the story literally." she remarked. "But I can see now, I think. There would be practical difficulties with the strings coming in two hundred years before the horn section with the woodwind instruments contraposing the theme after eight decades of rests. That is a lot of notation paper expended on nothing at all, for one thing. It would only work in this form if the usual conventions of tempo and timing could be somehow altered. But that requires a fundamental re-ordering of the passage of Time. I don't think musical notation has evolved to that point, yet."
"The finale, where the brass section represents the small bollard. And your percussionists having to be creative with ironing boards." Yelena agreed.
"True." Ethylene agreed, her mind beginning to consider how an ironing board could be adapted as a percussion instrument. Wotua Doinov's marginal notes were useful here, too.
Ethylene looked up and motioned silence. Yelena, who was used to this, followed her gaze to the office door.
"Yes, Deirdre?" Ethylene Glynnie said, to apparent nothing. "Come in, by the way."
A knock, which managed to convey a sense of "I know this is just a formality, but...", heralded the Head of House, who was on gatekeeping duties. The Guild took the view that, for instance, male students should be discouraged from entering female Houses unless there was demonstrable good reason. This was held to be prudent. An informal guard was kept by House prefects.
"There are two students to see you, Miss." Deirdre Penstruther said. She was trying not to be nervous about Miss Glynnie having identified her from the closed side of a thick oak-panelled door. It took some getting used to. "One from Scorpion House and one from Viper House... errr..."
"Show them in, Deirdre."
The two students were carrying large boxes that looked oddly like the ones that Igors used to transport body parts. Yelena and Ethylene registered a faint but unmistakable smell of hot food. Yelena was reminded that she'd not eaten since breakfast, the compelling invitation to assist with original Doinov manuscripts having overtaken any interest in lunch. She noted her stomach was sending up a few little prompts to her senses of smell and taste. And they were writing back.
Miss Glynnie received her visitors.
"Mr du Pris, I believe. And Miss de Vos. How may I help you?"
"Doctor Smith-Rhodes sent us, ma'am." Ampie said, politely. He indicated the food containers. "Es you know, she hosts an Octeday braai – that is, a barbecue – for students. We have come from there."
"We can tell." Miss Glynnie replied. "And by the look of it, you've brought the barbecue with you?"
"Yes, ma'am." Anna de Vos said, politely. "Hotboxes, powered by common magics to retain heat end freshness. Well. Mainly hotboxes."
"Devised by Professor Stibbons?" Ethylene remarked. She smiled slightly. "So not likely to explode nor to do anything other than keep food fresh."
She looked at the two students.
"Did Doctor Smith-Rhodes give you any indication as to why she is sending me a gift of food?"
"Ja, Miss." Ampie said. "She suggested the young ladies of Two Raven might appreciate a treat. But she is aware this is entirely at your discretion es Housemistress end you have a right to decline."
Ethylene Glynne smiled again.
"And if I said no, it would be a shocking waste of very good food." she observed.
She nodded speculatively at what she guessed was the coldbox.
"There is melktert, ma'am." Ampie said, helpfully. "Doctor Smith-Rhodes did mention that you appreciated thet es a dinner guest."
Ethylene Glynnie smiled again.
"And are there any of those pastries, the ones you call koeksisters?"(3) she inquired.
"There are koeksisters, ma'am." Anna confirmed. "With cinnamon sugar end honey syrup. It is perhaps best these are eaten es soon as possible, es they do not keep."
Miss Glynnie smiled broadly.
"Deirdre?" she said, to the Head of House. "How many second year girls are in the building at present?"
"Nine, miss." Deirdre replied. "The rest are on leave with families or else out in the City, three are currently confined to the Guild as a punishment for misdemeanours."
"Thank you, Deirdre. Could you go and fetch me Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons and her co-conspirators? Bring them to the office and stress they are not in any further trouble, but I would appreciate a word. Thank you."
"Milk tart." Yelena reflected. "I know Johanna Smith-Rhodes employs a very good cook."
"Pronounced es melk tert", ma'am." Anna de Vos said, helpfully. "You have been a guest of Doctor Smith-Rhodes?"
"Da. She is a generous host. I am not of your people, but I can see your people and mine have some recognisable shared things. For instance, out on the Steppe and moving with the horse-herds, we have the kabitsya. Which is, perhaps, our form of the briy."
She explained the kabitsya, trying not to look too speculatively at the food boxes.
"Ah. That is more like what we would call the potjiekos, ma'am." Ampie said, helpfully. "But the food you call pokhodny sounds very much like braaivleiss. Meat cooked on a grill."
"End greshka, es you describe it, is pretty much the same thing es mealiepap." Anna agreed.
Miss Glynnie motioned for silence.
"Our naughty girls are on the way." she said. "Famke has a distinguishing habit of clomping her feet on bare stone stairs. I should speak to her about that. I suspect she likes making noise."
"She is a drummer. ma'am." Ampie said.
Miss Glynnie grinned. She waited for a second or two.
"Come in." she said, just before the knock on the door.
Deirdre ushered the younger pupils in. Famke, Connie and Thora tried to look deferential. Miss Glynnie adjusted her face to severe.
"Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." she said, making it official. "Your mother is keen for these three weeks to be instructive and appropriate punishment to you. Therefore the privilege of being able to spend Octeday afternoon at a social barbecue is denied to you for three weeks, and you may only leave the Guild on sanctioned and escorted trips."
She nodded to Yelena, who took her cue.
"There will be an early evening performance of Doinov's music for the ballet "Пруд с утками", on Wednesday." she said. "The music only, that is, and not the ballet. I have been offered tickets for a scholastic party and I propose to take my Rodinian Culture class. Miss Glynnie will be looking after leftover tickets which she proposes to offer to Music students. I also have tickets for a performance of Chekout's "Ореховый сад" which is on Friday evening. Again, my Rodinian students get first preference, but there will be enough left over for general distribution, on a first-come, first served, basis."
"Sanctioned and escorted trips, for approved educational purposes." Miss Glynnie said. "I have no objection to Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons going on both trips. Miss Brittasdottir is also a member of the School Orchestra. She may attend the Wednesday event."
She assessed Connie. There had been a note to be cautious about offering her Seven-A and percussion. The possibility was there that sending a Black Howondalandian to percussion lessons might be considered racially insensitive. ("A lazy assumption about Jungle War Drums, and all that. If the Times ever gets to hear about this, we're in trouble.")
"You're studying woodwind instruments, and I understand you're being steered towards the oboe and the bassoon? Very well, Miss Muthelezi. You can also go to the Disharmonia Hall, in the care of Miss Garianova, on Wednesday. I'm not unreasonable."
She looked around the room. "Miss Garianova, Mr duPris is also in the school orchestra. Our principal trumpet-player."
"He should attend." Yelena agreed.
"Good. We're agreed." Ethylene stood up.
"Your next task. Famke, and you will thank your mother for this when you see her next."
She nodded towards the food containers. Famke and the others had noted the smells in the air, and were trying not to show curiosity.
"We aren't going to eat this indoors, and especially not in here." she decided. "Stale food smells will linger. It's a pleasant afternoon."
She smiled, benevolently. "Up on the roof, you will all know from edificeering lessons about the chimney-stack formation called the Seven Sisters. There is a large flat area there where we can eat in the open air. Your task is to get all this up there without losing any. Take some blankets up to sit on, and tell the other girls in Two Raven – all the other girls in Two Raven who are in-house – they're welcome to join us. My authorisation, when the roof guards inquire."
She smiled.
"A picnic on an Octeday afternoon is always pleasant. A break from routine. There should be enough for everybody."
She nodded to the Head of House.
"Deirdre, please look after the office for me? I'll have a selection sent down to you. Only, eat it at the desk outside? Thank you."
Famke tried not to look astounded. Anna de Vos patted her shoulder.
"It's like this." she said, in Morporkian for everybody's benefit. "Your mother knows you cennot go to the braai. But she did not see any reason why the braai cennot come to you. Efter all, you are not leaving the Guild, Miss Glynnie hes given permission, end no rules are being broken."
"Exactly." Ethylene Glynnie agreed. "Now why are you still standing here? The roof is several floors up. Come up with a plan for getting everything up there."
Famke overcame her surprise and grinned. She reflected this was just like mum. All over.
"Thora, why are you getting your hood out?"(4) she asked. "I'm not edificeering this. Miss hasn't said we can't use the indoor stairs and then out through the skylights. Easiest way, nothing gets spilt, and we can pick up blankets and everybody else on the way up."
"Including Sandra Venturi?" Connie asked.
Famke decided to be generous.
"Yes. Including Sandra. If she wants. And besides, can Miss Garianova edificeer? It's not fair on her if she can't."
Miss Glynnie nodded approval.
A little after that, a Rooftop Braai was held. With melktert for dessert.
Bitterfontein, RH, April
It had not taken long before one of Bekki's other little secrets was out in the open. She'd expected that: it was getting harder to keep her face impassive when listening to native Howondalandians speaking their own common language around her, not letting on that she was understanding more and more of what they were saying to each other when they thought the white people nearby were too dumb or lazy to understand. She used those first couple of months just to listen, to improve her own knowledge of the Shosha language she'd first learnt from the servants at home. Or in this region, Xhosa. It was a different dialect from the form spoken in Smith-Rhodesia and the neighbouring Transvaal. She listened, and learnt, and built up a picture from the unguarded talk around her.
On this morning, Bekki had awoken from sleep in the pre-dawn gloom with a feeling something in the air was different, not quite right. She had tried to surface from the diffuse fog of dreams she couldn't quite remember, and had been aware of what she knew were eyes looking at her from across the room. She focused, wondering if this was a trick of the very early light that was seeping in, or else just a dream that was carrying over into the first moments of wakefulness.
Then she had realised it was the matryoschka dolls she had inherited from the old Witch, Natalya. The eyes of the outermost doll appeared to be glowing red, from up there on the shelf where they stood.
She looked up at the dolls. No, it wasn't anger. It was more like a warning of some sort.
"What are you trying to tell me?" she asked, then remembered and repeated it in the best Rodinian she could manage.
The eyes glowed a stronger vivid red for an instant, then faded into orange and went out. She got out of bed and took the dolls down, cradling them. Now she sensed nothing, just inertness.
She frowned, sensing a warning of some sort, advice to be aware and to watch where she walked. As nothing else seemed likely to happen, she replaced the dolls and got on with the business of washing and dressing. After a while, Jona the maid knocked on the door, and seemed surprised to find Miss Rebecka was already up.
After a while and the obligatory morning mug of redbush tea with three sugars, taken while administering the regular morning therapy to Mevrou Hendricka, she would go out to watch the plaas getting ready for its day.
"You seem a little worried this morning, Rebecka." Hendricka had observed.
"It's probably nothing, mevrou." Bekki had replied. "I just can't help feeling something is a little bit wrong."
She wondered if she ought to mention the glowing red eyes.
Hendricka looked up at her with an expression of intelligent sympathy.
Bekki noted in a detached sort of a way, that Martha, Hendricka's personal maid, had gone a little bit more tensed and watchful. She wondered if this was significant, reflecting that Godsmother Irena and Mr Vimes had both observed that body language was important in police work. Watch for reactions, Godsmother Irena had advised her. Especially in the person you're not actually speaking to, the one who does not think he is being observed. Or, as Mr Vimes had said Who's worried?
Pushing this aside for a moment, Bekki had continued preparing for the business of relieving pain and discomfort. Martha had necessarily become part of the Secret here.
Hendricka nodded. She smiled.
"You are a healthcare practitioner." she said, meaning Witch. "Your feeling that something is not quite right, or maybe even outright wrong, should be respected, I think."
Bekki tried not to look at Martha, who seemed even more uneasy. She reminded herself that the black people in the area, and indeed some of the white people, were already using the w-word to describe her. Black Howondalandians were intimidated by the idea of muti, witchcraft, and had a lot of hair-raisingly colourful beliefs about what it could do. This spread to a sort of wary respect of the suspected umthakathwe, or the isangoma, or else locally the igqwirha. Practitioners of ubuthakathi and ubugqwirha, anyway.
"I'll keep my eyes open." Hendricka remarked. "I'm sure you will too. Mention your feeling to Mariella, when you see her? Dankie."
The way her cover had become blown had been wholly unexpected. She'd managed to keep a poker face while the boys talked among themselves about which of the girls would be more amenable than the others and who would be most understanding and approachable.(5) Her grasp of the demotic had improved, too.
It had been an unremarkable early morning. Black labourers were arriving from Turfloop township in small groups and were being marshalled into working gangs by the bluff and amiable Baas van Linden. The Baas had unlocked a tool store and was unconcernedly handing out pangas to a working group who would shortly be going off to bring an area of land into full use. It was a further slope that had been allowed to go fallow for a couple of years, and therefore a lot of Howondalandian undergrowth needed to be cleared. Mev'Mariella wants it clearing for vines, van Linden had said, and we do not want to dissappoint Mev'Mariella, do we, now?
She had watched, disregarded in the background, marvelling at the casual and matter-of-fact way in which the big heavy machetes were being distributed to perhaps twenty black workers by a single unarmed white man. She let her mind play on the ever-present fear among her people of there are more of them than there are of us. What happens if they rebel and slaughter us all in our beds? Her mother had said that among White Howondalandian women with too much time on their hands, this was usually accompanied by a not-quite-hysterical fear of The Fate Worse Than Death.
Bekki had finally worked this one out, aged about fifteen and after a little pastoral chat with Nanny Ogg. Nanny had grinned a big dirty grin.
"At my age, it'd be interestin' to have a lad take an interest." she had said, thoughtfully. "Backhanded compliment."
Actually, Mrs Ogg. One of Bekki's spirit guides had been nearby, her long-deceased many-times grandmother, Johanna Livinia Smith-Rhodes. While you can't completely rule it out, my experience is that I was a prisoner of the Zulus for two years.In all that time. Nothing. They explained I was too thin, too pale, the unsightly skin blemishes were off-putting and besides, that red hair made me most unattractive and unsightly. The Paramount King said Zulu women are beautiful and we are not. Therefore, no point.
Bekki shook her head. Apparently the Zulu King had also said to Johanna Livinia that it's more fun with a woman who's actually glad to see you. Her ancestor had been treated less like a prisoner of war and more as a honoured guest during her detention, and had sat out the rest of the First Zulu War in perfect safety.
She and Nanny Ogg had agreed that women with too much time on their hands can get a bit fixated and preoccupied, and Johanna Livinia had explained more about the fear-inducing idea of fate worse than death.
"They wish." Nanny Ogg had said.
I'm dead. There could be worse fates, Mrs Ogg. Justnow it's hard to think of any.
In the present, Bekki had reflected that the Lensens were thought of as good baases, and had genuine respect from their black employees. She knew this was not universal in Rimwards Howondaland. Her aunt and uncle ran a good plaas and treated everybody with respect and dignity. Other white employers did not bother with this so much. She'd heard the unguarded talk among the blacks about other places and other baases. Therefore, Baas van Linden could distribute heavy agricultural tools without a qualm. Especially the sort that doubled for weapons.
But something was wrong… Bekki tried to work out what the off-note, the sourness, was.
She watched the gathering labourers. There seemed to be two groups of them, two main clusters, each composed of six or seven men. Each group appeared to be keeping a wary eye on one of its members, who seemed to be sullen and angry and moody. And each of the two groups seemed intent on keeping its malcontent as far apart from the other angry man as possible.
She didn't have too much experience of patrolling the streets as a Watchwoman. Every Air Witch had to walk a street beat now and again, at ostrich-level(6), to keep her skills up. Mr Vimes insisted on it, and Olga supported him. For Bekki, that was a secondary, but necessary, duty alongside her work in the Pegasus Service and the Air Watch, and the Watch always made sure to partner a Pegasus Service pilot alongside a very experienced old hand. However, she knew enough to sense that this was like a tense situation outside a pub where a fight was about to happen, where concerned friends were diligently keeping the potential fighters apart to prevent trouble, especially if it were to happen in plain sight of the Law. She frowned, wondering if she ought to alert somebody, maybe have a quiet word with Baas van Linden, who appeared not to have noticed.
For now, she faded into the foreground(7) and listened. The argument alternated low and menacing with near incoherent shouting; it was hard for her to follow, but she gathered something had been happening at Turfloop which had caused disagreement that was coming to a head. The arguing men appeared to be a younger man in his late twenties, opposing an older male in his thirties. They were both dressed in the usual nondescript garb of knee-length shorts, one set ragged at the cuffs as if it had begin as longer trousers, and the other looking a bit neater and tailored. They also wore serviceable shirts, and all-purpose sandals rather than boots. Just typical black employee working dress.
And one sounded angry, the other more sneering. The sneering man appeared to be provoking the angrier man.
"Miss Rebecka? Miss Rebecka?"
Bekki came back to the real world, contriving to give the impression of having been in plain sight all along. She greeted Dertien, her orderly. He looked agitated and was almost hopping in place, indecisive.
"Miss Rebecka, there is going to be trouble…" he said.
She was about to ask what sort of trouble, and more crucially, why, when Dertein made a decision and began to run, in the direction of the surgery.
She sighed and watched the two struggling groups. Baas van Linden made a loud warning comment about leaving it in the township, do you hear? She noted other white men employed by the plaas had been drawn to the commotion. Old man Timmerman, the wheelwright and general carpenter, in his blue apron, and a man she recognised as Mr van Glasblaser, who was senior foreman in the bottling shop and glassworks. Both in their fifties or sixties. She wondered how useful they'd be in breaking up a fight between men less than half their ages, and shook her head. Although this was Rimwards Howondaland, if the black man was crazy with anger, he might not care about apartheid…
She frowned again, having almost got the reason for the argument. Sneery Man – she gathered his name was Sipho, or Siphale, or something similar - had done something Angry Younger Man, possibly a Thabo, had not liked. It had involved female relatives of Angry Young Man… Bekki paused, then recalled what Godsmother Irena, an experienced Watchwoman, had sardonically said was a major cause of fights and disagreements between men in Ankh-Morpork.
And just as Bekki realised the Reason, Thabo, or possibly Thabuswe, broke loose from the men trying to restrain him and roared with anger, lifting his panga high. The men holding Sipho, or possibly Siphale, let go and scattered for cover as a strong and berserk young man ran at them with a panga raised. It was clear from his expression that he wanted blood.
Bekki watched as Sipho tried to doge out of the way, making an effort to defend himself by raising his own panga to ward off the blows being aimed at him.
Bekki registered Baas van Linden looking dumbfounded and for the moment just standing there. She listened to her Second Thoughts, in her mother's voice, remarking that these were evidently unskilled sword fighters, complete amateurs, as one is not properly defending himself nor is the other doing anything other than making wild windmilling blows, and I hope I taught you better than that, Rebecka.
"Hearing you, mum." Bekki said. A memory of her mother teaching her to fight effectively with a machete came back to her. She patted her left hip. Then realised she didn't go armed here. Her weapons were in the huis.
She winced as the older man grunted and went down under the flurry of blows, wondering why he wasn't screaming. He'd taken two wild slashes, one across the chest and stomach, a second across the legs…
In a fight, people do not realise how badly they may have been injured. Feeling pain comes afterwards. her mother's voice said.
"Got it, mum." Bekki murmured.
Suddenly the world was red and Bekki was a Witch. She stepped forward, wondering why she was walking into a fight and not running away from it. She was angry at the mad male stupidity of it all and the un-necessary wounds, that she just knew she was going to have to patch up.
And she stepped between the fighters, stopping in front of the maddened man who was raising a blood-dripping panga high. Bekki had the absurd thought that this was the absolute worst nightmare for any White Howondalandian woman, to be confronted by an insanely angry black man raising a blood-dripping sword.
She glared at him anyway and folded her arms, staring him in the face.
"Oku kuya kuyeka! Oku kuyakuyeka NGOKU!"
Bekki built fluently on this, berating the man for fighting, for bringing an argument to the peace of Mevrou Hendricka's plaas, and for making work for her because now I'm going to have to treat the injuries of the other idiot, and "WHY ARE YOU STILL HOLDING THAT PANGA?"
Bekki took a step forward and challenged him. She glared at him, realising it was perfectly possible for a black man to go a sort of terrified ashen grey. Her arms still folded, she said, in a quieter voice
"Why are you still holding that weapon?"
The panga, still held in an upraised right hand, suddenly loosened in his grip and clanged to the ground. The sword-arm drooped.
Bekki nodded her acknowledgement as Baas van Linden ran in, giving her a single wondering look, then grabbed the man by the arms, throwing him down and telling him to lie there on his front and not to move a gods-damned inch, boy, do you hear?
She wondered why every black man in the yard was retreating from her, watching where she walked and where she moved, seeking not to catch her eye. They were silent. She spotted Dertein, her orderly, running awkwardly towards her carrying her medical bag. She realised he'd known too that something bad was going to happen.
She knelt next to the injured man, registering that there was a lot of blood and some nasty-looking wounds, and the unpleasant breath-smell of stale alcohol, then addressed the yard again.
"I will do what I can." she said. "This is my job. I want the rest of you to calm down, be silent and do as you are told. And I am not asking you this. I am telling you this."
She beckoned Dertein to kneel beside her.
"I'll need two pairs of hands." She said. "two lots of fingers. Follow my instructions."
She opened her bag.
Dertein frowned.
"Miss Rebecka." he said. "I speak Morporkian and Vondalaans. Many of us do. But you are the first white person I have met who speaks Xhosa."
"Long story." she said.
She addressed the patient, who was now starting to feel it. His eyes were wide and white and he was no longer inclined to be sarcastic or sneery. He too appeared frightened of Bekki.
"Listen carefully." she said, in Xhosa. "I apologise for my speaking of your language not being perfect, and perhaps full of words I learnt in a different place among different people. Know this well. Whatever stupid thing you did to provoke this fight, and I know your actions were responsible, I am not here to pass judgement. I am here to heal. And while I will try to avoid and ease pain, some of the things I am going to do will at least sting. Lie still and I will do my best. Got that?"
She was engaged in cleaning, assessing and restoring when other people showed up. She heard Mevrou Hendricka's voice. It was loud and chilly. It was the voice of ultimate authority.
"What has been happening here? I wish to know." she said. "And you are going to tell me the whole of the truth, with no lies or evasions."
Interrogation began behind her. Bekki got on with delivering Healthcare. After a while a third person dropped to a crouching position next to her. "None of that blood's yours, is it?" Aunt Mariella asked. Bekki shook her head. Her aunt grinned. Then she scowled at the man who was being healed. He tried to look away.
"You know, this job's expensive in terms of changes of clothes." her aunt remarked. "This idiot's bled a bit, a lot of it's leaked all over you, and you're kneeling in a puddle of blood."
Bekki shrugged and carried on stitching. She and Dertien were working on the two main wounds. At the moment she was second-knuckle-deep in a gashed thigh, dealing with underlying muscles the panga had severed.
"He'll live?" Mariella asked.
Bekki nodded.
"Deep stroke to the thigh. If it had been any higher and the femoral artery had gone, we'd be looking at a corpse." she remarked. "He'd have bled out."
Mariella accepted this, studying the wound pattern.
"You know, Sipho, that little problem you have with keeping it in your trousers." she remarked, to the patient. "Was it because of his wife? Or the daughter, just coming up to marriageable age? Or maybe both?" Mariella shook her head. Bekki noted how the man's eyes got wider, that somehow the young Mevrou knew what he'd been up to. She put it down to her aunt taking great care to be well informed.
Mariella smiled, with absolutely no warmth in it. "Wellnow, looking at those two cuts, he wanted to solve the problem, get you gelded. Only he aimed too high with the first, and too low with the second."
Bekki and Mariella watched the Turfloop ladies' man blanch grey.
"He'll live." Bekki said. "Only with the muscle damage to the leg, he'll have a limp. Probably for life."
"Only a limp leg?" Mariella asked. "Shame, given the trouble he's caused."
"And some of the abdominal wall muscles were cut, but not all the way through. So no life-threatening peritonitis."
"Lucky." Mariella remarked. "After the trouble he's caused."
She shook her head and stood up.
"Come over when you're done." she said. "Hendricka's throwing people on the braai and poking them with the skewers. She wants the truth. She'll need to hear the story as you saw it."
Bekki sensed worry in her aunt.
"Fight on the plaas. Somebody nearly gets killed. Can't hide this from the police." Mariella said. "So we need to get our stories straight."
Mariella looked kindly at her niece.
"Need to talk to you. This sort of thing can get complicated."
Bekki continued to clean and stitch and repair. Finally she straightened up.
"We're done." she said.
She nodded to Dertein. "Get a stretcher. We get this idiot on it. Then you and three men take him to the surgery and we get him into one of the cubicles. For now, anyway."
She stood up, aware her hands and arms were smeared with sticky red, her clothes stiff with congealing blood. She sighed, knowing she couldn't have a bath till all this was properly dealt with. It was messy, it was uncomfortable, and on a day like this, it would start to stink.
Uncle Horst nodded to her. She nodded back.
"Messy day." she said. He patted her shoulder.
"You did well" he responded. He frowned. Hendricka and Mariella were talking to the black workers and to the white witnesses. It was clear Hendricka was very angry indeed.
"What happens now?" Bekki asked. Her uncle looked grave.
"Short-term? Depends on Ma, just now. And she's furious. You've never seen Ma angry before?"
Bekki watched. Mevrou Hendricka was glaring at the man who had started the fight and wielded the panga with intent to kill. He was kneeling now, allowed to get up this far by Baas van Linden, who was standing behind him, poised to physically intervene.
"Hand over your pass." Hendricka said, in a calm chilly voice. "You brought a township argument to my plaas. You turned up to work still drunk from last night. You broke the peace of my plaas."
She folded her arms and glared at him. Bekki was reminded of depictions of old-time stern Goddesses delivering judgement.
"You no longer have a place here." She handed the man's passcards to Aunt Mariella, who received them.
As a shudder and a low-key wail ran through the black workers, she raised her voice.
"You are dismissed. You no longer work for the Lensen family. As of now, you are trespassing on Lensen land."
"Mevrou?" Baas van Linden said. "We can't hide this. Not easily. The moment the police find out, they'll be here."
Hendricka nodded.
"Better find somewhere to put him, then, Ricus."
She glared at the man.
"I will have you detained here. Until the police arrive."
There was another wail from the workers. Hendricka glared at them for silence. Bekki, watching, understood that black Howondalandians wanted as little contact with a white-skinned police force as possible. This time they had no choice.
"Got a shed. With a lock."
"Get him in there. Lock it." Hendricka directed.
"Mevrou, we need to get the story straight." Mariella said. "It's very possible Verdraainer will show up. He's been looking for a chance for some time now. This fight between blacks on our plaas has gifted him one."
Hendricka nodded. She looked thoughtful. They watched Baas van Linden half-dragging the luckless prisoner away.
"One in detention, one in the hospital." Hendricka sighed. She shook her head. "We have no alternative. If we cover this up and attempt to carry on as if nothing has happened, word will spread. It will reach Bitterfontein and the police will come here anyway, demanding to know why we did not report a disturbance, and insinuating I run a disorderly plaas."
"We cannot hide it." Uncle Horst agreed.
Mariella squared her shoulders.
"I'll send a messenger with a report." she decided. "But first, we need to agree on what to report. Those blacks will be interviewed too."
Horst, Mariella and Hendricka looked at each other.
"I'll talk to the blacks." Horst said. He walked over, unhurriedly, greeting the workers by name. They gathered around him, obediently.
"We need to talk about this." he said, in a calm friendly voice. "So let's talk. Nobody is blaming you. You did your best to keep them apart and prevent violence. We will emphasise this to the police, when they visit. But first we need to talk about what we need to tell them..."
Mariella and Hendricka looked at each other and nodded.
"We can leave this to Horst, I think." Hendricka said.
"I agree. They're relieved it's him. And not me or you. We can leave him to it."
Both of them looked at Bekki.
"None of that blood is yours?" Hendricka asked.
Bekki shook her head.
"No, mevrou. It all came from the man Sipho. Or Siphale. My work can get a little messy."
Hendricka smiled and reached out to pat her on the shoulder. She hesitated a moment, then chose the shoulder that wasn't smeared with blood.
"And you had a feeling this morning things were not right." she said. "I should trust such feelings. Something else you learnt in Lancre?"
Bekki considered this.
"Indirectly, through Olga and Irena." she said, remembering the dolls.
Hendricka smiled.
"Healthcare Practitioner skills, then." she said. "I want everyone at the huis in fifteen minutes. To discuss this. Send word to Ricus. Rebecka, you should bathe and change clothes."
"I need to look in on my patient first. And ideally on the man Mr van Linden has locked up."
"Do that. Come to the huis when you are ready. We need to agree our statements. And ag, I do hope we get Diedrik van Klaamer. He's easy to deal with."
"Let's make a plan." Mariella agreed.
Bloodstained and aware she probably looked like a bad-tempered Goddess of War, Bekki walked unconcernedly through the throng of black labourers. She noted how they averted their eyes and looked away, moving quickly aside for her. She judged that it was best to look in on the man in detention first, and arranged her priorities. She rummaged in her pockets for a notebook and pencil, having lived for long enough in Rimwards Howondaland to be aware of one or two realities.
"Is this right, Miss Rebecka?" Baas van Linden asked, doubtfully. She sensed worry and guilt in the thicket labour manager, his build demonstrating that he'd once been a useful front-row forward. Bekki realised he felt guilty for not having intervened sooner, his surprise preventing him from rushing in and disarming the angry labourer who had a panga raised to a white woman... she frowned, as another urgent thought jostled for attention.
"This is right in every respect, Mr van Linden." she reassured him. She turned her attention to the huddled and disconsolate black man, all the aggression knocked out of him, frightened and friendless.
"Listen to me." she said, in Vondalaans, hoping he'd get the message that this was now official. "I don't know how soon it's going to be before the police get here. Quite a few hours, possibly. I will ensure you are well treated in detention here. I will provide water. If this is for a longer period than we thought, also some sustenance."
She let this sink in.
"In Ankh-Morpork, I was trained for police duties. So you will think of me as your Custody Officer. You understand the term? One who will treat you correctly and fairly in detention."
She thought back to Fred Colon's teaching on how to book a prisoner into the cells. Sergeant Colon had long hard experience of this and how to do it properly.
"Stand up. Good. Now strip off."
"Miss Rebecka?" van Linden asked. She smiled at him.
"Not.. everything. Undershorts will suffice. Mr van Linden will be my witness to this."
She studied the prisoner's body, making notes.
"Some bruising to neck and upper body. Contusions visible on right shoulder, upper back and front of throat. That was you, when you subdued him, Mr van Linden? Grazes and scrapes to lower legs. I'm assuming from being dragged? Injuries present on detained person were legitimately received during arrest. No other visible injuries. The prisoner reports no other injuries or health conditions pre-existing at time of detention and is otherwise in very good health. Report taken by WPC Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, Ankh-Morpork City Air Watch, at eight-twenty-five am on this date. Mr van Linden, will you countersign? And here, for my copy? Dankie."
She smiled.
"You can get dressed now. I'll put a healing salve on those grazes for you justnow. Mr van Linden, you can see the fight's been knocked out of him, and he'll go quietly. There's going to be absolutely no reason for the local police to add any more bruises, and this report is an insurance policy. It safeguards everybody. Especially you, Thabuswe. Now you just sit tight, and I'm sure we can at least find you a water bottle."
Something made Bekki look back.
"We'll do what we can for you." she added, in Xhosa. "At least see your family are informed."
Also, if I hadn't taken time to do that custody report, Mr Vimes would shout at me. He's heard about the police in this country too...
Baas van Linden locked up the prisoner, and shook his head.
"Where did you learn..."
"Family servants, Mr van Linden. I grew up with them and they spoke their own language among themselves. It wasn't a stretch. I'm really surprised Aunt Mariella didn't pick more up, but then she was living in at School and only with us for weekends and holidays. I heard it all the time."
She walked back to the surgery to put her medical bag away. She frowned. Raised voices. Deciding she wasn't going to have that in her plaas, she walked to the treatment cubicle where she guessed the other man, Siphale, or perhaps Sipho, was. And she didn't need to speak the language to recognise the arrogant sneering in his voice.
"Shut up." she said, curtly, in Xhosa. She glared at the man on the bunk, in the "only for blacks!" section of her surgery. "Let me tell you how it is, Siphale. You may be a big man in the township, but this is not Turfloop. This is my world. I rule it. And in my world you will treat Dertein with respect. You will say "please" and "thank you". You will not belittle him and treat him as a servant. You will give thanks you are in a hospital, and we are prepared to treat your wounds, and you will be humble!"
She scowled down.
"In fact, I'm surprised you are being so arrogant. Somebody who I suspect is a better man than you has lost his job here, after you goaded him into a fight. You have not yet been dismissed. That is the decision of the Mevrou. I will be speaking to her next. So. Be humble. And the bokgata, the police, are on their way. They will wish to interview you. Maybe even to arrest you. That means transfer to one of their cells, and believe me, if it helps the peace of my surgery, I'll even help them to transfer the stretcher to their... hurry-up cart." (8)
She watched the fear growing in his face.
"Therefore I need to medically examine you more thoroughly. For my records. Dertein, your help, please."
Bekki quickly wrote a second custody report, in case it was needed. She wondered why she was going out of her way for somebody she felt a dislike for, then sighed. She was a witch. She had to.
She returned to the huis, again noting how the black workers she encountered scuttled out of her way. Bekki put this down to the bloodstains and an uncharacteristic bout of short temper on her part. Mevrou Hendicka looked at her and sighed.
"We can wait for you to wash and change clothes." she said. "Again, I hope none of that blood is yours?"
Noting practically every senior person in the plaas was present, she excused herself to quickly clean up and change clothes. She noted Jona and Sanna both looked downcast and fearful, and reassured them that the emergency was over. She didn't have time to go into it any further, allowing Jona to sponge some congealing blood out of her hair and brush it, reflecting that the stuff gets everywhere. And how do vampires manage it? A spurting jugular doesn't just spray, it pumps... but you never hear of a vampire looking less than immaculate after feeding...
She rejoined the conferring group in the main room. She also noted that Hendricka was sanctioning glasses of klipdrift as a restorative. She took one, to be polite, and hoped nobody would notice she wasn't actually drinking it.
"Of course, it had to happen here." Mr Graham the distiller said. He shook his head. "That complicates things."
Mevrou Hendicka considered this. She took a sip of her klipdrift. Bekki noted this was serious. Hendricka usually refrained from strong drink until the evening, and then was abstemious.
Ja." She said. "If they'd had the sense to keep it in the township. The police turn up if they remember, take five minutes to investigate, make an arrest for the sake of appearances, and put it down, as they always do, to tribal unrest in the townships. But no, two fools bring their fight here. And choose to use pangas we gave them. Suddenly, it is not a matter of two or three months in the prison for affray."
"At Paarl, perhaps, or at Cape Drakenstein." Uncle Horst said, thoughtfully. "Prisons for blacks who have not committed any greatly serious offence. Reasonably well-managed and as good as it gets. But we could be looking at Pollsmoor or maybe even the Island for this."
Horst shook his head. Aunt Mariella was quiet and grim. Mevrou Hendricka invited her to express her thoughts.
"Six months would be fair." Mariella eventually said. "One month for the attempted murder of another black man. Five months for choosing to attempt the murder on a white-owned plaas, thus breaching the peace of his employers. And attempted criminal damage to a panga which is the property of his employer, as if you're not careful, chopping through hard bone can put a nick in the blade… Bekki, I'm being sarcastic…"
"Rebecka, it's not a question of fair." Uncle Horst said, kindly. "Mariella is putting herself in the position of a judge and thinking like our legislators would think. What offences they will choose to prosecute, and the relative weight of each charge. But I agree six months would be fair. Maybe even lenient. I suspect a court in Ankh-Morpork might send him to the Tanty for perhaps eighteen months for assault, grievous bodily harm and carrying a lethal weapon with intent."
Horst sighed resignedly.
"Ag. But that's Ankh-Morpork. This is Rimwards Howondaland. Different priorities."
"Indeed." Arne van Timmermann remarked. He looked curiously at Rebecka. "You walked in between them. You looked him in the eye. You disarmed him."
"He'd have killed the other man, if I hadn't." Bekki said.
"He dropped the weapon. You do know it's the talk of the whole plaas? Some of the blacks are saying you caused his arm to become weak until he could no longer hold the panga. And suddenly you speak their language. That's it, I'm afraid. You're a witch."
Mariella grinned.
"Really, Arne? What I saw was Bekki's mother. My sister. Who walked up to a man with a sword and told him that if he was looking for trouble, he'd found it. Anyone would drop a weapon and apologise if my sister Johanna stared them in the eye like that."
"Ah. Miss Rebecka's famous mother." Mr Graham said, thoughtfully. "Some things do indeed run in families. So not Witchcraft at all, then. More a case of like mother, like daughter."
"Hold that thought." Mariella said.
Bekki, for want of anything better to do, took a tentative sip of the klipdrift. She tried not to shudder, thinking that there was a very, very, faint echo of grape juice in there. Somewhere.
Mevrou Hendricka looked at her, kindly.
"You are allowed to have a mixer in there, if you wish." she said. "You are only almost seventeen. People tend to forget."
She signalled a maid. Jona took Bekki's glass.
"There is Mrs Skribelaar." Mr Graham said, thoughtfully. Everybody winced.
"Ja." Hendricka said. "Our writer-of-news. And this is front page material."
"We have to manage her, too." Mariella remarked. "We will not be able to prevent this. But I can see the front page of the Klarion now. Drama at Wes Sandrift! A maddened black worker goes berserk with a panga!"
"Ja." Said Uncle Horst. "I can see the spin. Roberta is only human and she will want to syndicate this story to national newspapers. To get her name known. And stories like this sell newspapers. Black farmhand foully attacks a member of his employer's family with panga! is only half of it. And if she doesn't, somebody like Suki van der Graaf will."
He winced.
"But he didn't…" Bekki said, accepting a refreshed glass of klippies with some sort of fruit-based soda water mixer.(9) She was unheeded.
Mariella and Horst both looked gloomy. Mevrou Hendricka looked grave.
"Just what this nation needs right now." Hendricka said. "Every white person reads the morning paper, suddenly becomes paranoid about the blacks, and acts out of suspicion and fear. Suddenly we all live in a less pleasant space."
"The fate worse than death." Mariella agreed. Bekki caught the spill-sarcasm. It was in very large letters.
"But he didn't…" Bekki repeated.
Hendricka, Mariella, Horst, Mr Timmerman, Mr van Glasblaser, Mr Graham and Baas van Linden all looked at her, very kindly.
"He dropped the weapon quickly enough. When he realised." Mr Graham said, gently. Then added "Not because of muti. And not because he might as well have been looking into the face of the acclaimed national heroine and Assassin, Johanna Smith-Rhodes."
"Although that's a consideration." Uncle Horst agreed. Mariella looked sharply at him.
"Bekki." Uncle Horst said. "Think about it. A black man. Is seen standing in front of a white woman, holding a panga high in his right hand and the blade of the panga is dripping with blood from a previous attack. A lot of people witnessed that. In this country. It is likely to hit all the newspapers. Soon the police will be here in some numbers. What do you think will happen next and what crime do you think he's going to be charged with?"
Bekki took a sip of her klippies-and-cooldrink. It really wasn't bad. Then the implications hit her.
"But he wasn't intending to hit me with it!" she said. "I wasn't his target!"
"Try telling that to a court." Mr Graham said. He shook his head, sorrowfully. "In this country. Assault and attempted murder of a white person. More. Of a white girl, not even eighteen. The courts here do not like that very much and if it gets to the newspapers, they are going to make an example of him. So it gets even more prominently reported."
"To get the message over, loud and clear, to the blacks." Uncle Horst said. "Do not even think it. And, of course, to reassure white people."
"We're looking at twenty-five years." Aunt Mariella said, grimly. "And it won't be in a reasonably well-run local prison like Paarl or the Drakenstein. He'll be out on the Island, breaking rocks. Hard labour."
"But that's not right!" Bekki objected. "That isn't just. Will I get to be able to say that in court?"
"Might help. The victim made a plea for mitigation. The court was moved, took her words into account, noted this was a noble gesture proving the racial superiority of white people and the magnanimity of the Boer spirit, and reduced the sentence to twenty-two years of hard labour." Mariella said, drily. She fell into thought. Bekki wordlessly held her glass out for a refill. It's not so bad, with a cooldrink mixed in…
"And of course, she's a Smith-Rhodes. Who know when to let up." Horst remarked.
"Don't push it, jy…"
Bekki noted her aunt bit back the "bliksem" part in the presence of Horst's mother. Family dynamics. But a wife-to-husband spill word.
"Mariella. I know you." Hendricka said. "You're going to put his family on a dole, aren't you? Even though he doesn't work for us any more?"
"If we could get the sentence down to maybe nine months." Mariella said. "That's correct. That's fair. We could support his family while he is in prison. Then we could…" Bekki caught the spill words. When your temper's died down, Hendricka, and we've had a chance to reflect, at that point we could ask if he's learnt his lesson and offer him his job back. You know. Rehabilitation of criminals.
"He was a good worker." Hendricka said, implicitly acknowledging the spill-words. Bekki speculated that a mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law who were close and worked well together could be like Witches in this. "And he has daughters of employable age. His wife may have made an error of judgement, though. I should have to consider before offering her work. The older daughter, I could accept here as a maid. To help the family out, who are largely blameless for this sorry situation, and will suffer."
She looked up at Mariella.
"And how do you propose to get the sentence reduced to one which is appropriate to the crime?" she asked.
Mariella considered.
"There is a law practice in Caarp Town." she said. "A unique one. Which offers legal support to black people accused of crimes. I should approach them. And no, Hendricka, not with plaas money. I'll pay for this myself. At least for the initial consultations."
"And the other man?" asked Mr van Glasblaser.
Hendricka considered
"Annoyingly, I do not think I can sack him." she said. "Even though he provoked the situation and his conduct is abominable, it is abominable in the township, not on my plaas. He defended himself against attack. Every man has that right. He is in his way a good worker. He has given no cause for complaint. There are no grounds. Which isn't to say he will not be given a stern reprimand."
She looked at Bekki and smiled.
"Which I believe has already been delivered by one of us. I hear you frightened him into silence?"
"I told him he is in my world, in the surgery, what standards I expect to see, and how to conduct himself as a patient." Bekki said. "He became quieter and compliant."
"I'll bet he did." Baas van Linden said, quietly.
"So now we should prepare our statements. For the police." Hendricka said. She paused, and frowned. "And for Roberta."
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork.
With a day off school, Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons was focused on artistic work. The new art materials were ranged in front of her, and she thought of the ceramics kiln that had now been installed in a place of its own, down in the boiler-room, where Simeon the handyman and the house Goblins had connected it up to the nearby heat source, to capitalise on the heat of the boiler's furnace. Mummy and Daddy had assured themselves the fire risk was minimal, and had approved.
The goblins duly assisted in moving things between the kiln and to Ruth's studio room three floors above, and two of them were helping her with the Work. Ruth allowed them to use some of her crafting tools and materials in fashioning their unggue pots, as this process fascinated her. As her sort of crafting also fascinated the goblins, they considered this sufficient payment, and a useful collaboration was happening.
In front of her, the five generations of matryoshka dolls were emerging in brilliant glowing colours, ranked from largest to smallest, glowing in largely red and gold. She was well advanced on this and the dolls she had crafted were beginning to take on character and form, their faces picked out carefully in lifelike tones and colours.
Ruth was pleased with her work. She felt that they could go back into the kiln soon, covered in an enamel glaze to enhance, preserve and safeguard the Art, then they'd be finished.
She frowned. The two goblins looked up, intent, from the neverending unggue work. Had all the painted eyes on every painted doll just flashed with red light for a second or two?
She studied her work, decided this was a quirk of morning sunlight and drying paint, then shrugged and got on with it.
To be continued… finished at last!
More to come: ideas sketched out include
A return to Howondaland and a look in on the other Ruth.
Haartebeeste again – Bekki gets an emergency callout and there is a Confrontation. Meanwhile, a holidaying family arrives in Howondaland.
Sophie Rawlinson deals with Seahorses. She is aided by Marianne the Quirmian Engineer.
(This is not an exclusive list)
(1) The workings of the R4-M multiple repeating aerial crossbow were of interest to lots of people. Technically it was a secret, but this only meant it was a challenge to the publishers of magazines like Bows And Ammo, who could call upon lots of technically-minded geeks. Who then published their speculations, with helpful exploded diagrams.
(2) Terry Pratchett's throwaway demolition of Romeo and Juliet. Elsewhere I've wondered how to expand on this joke.
(3) The classic South African pastry, not quite doughnut, not quite cake. One of a very few foodstuffs that have their own statue – a ten-foot koeksister has pride of place in Orania, South Africa.
(4) It's like this. Thora Bryttasdottir had been informed she could opt out of Edificeering if she wished, on the grounds of species. She had shaken her head and said "Thank you, Miss Band, but no." She had then proven to be surprisingly good at it, with one species-related quirk. Thora had insisted on climbing blind, in a thick full-face hood. Alice Band, pleased and curious, had asked why. Thora had then explained that while it's true that Dwarfs are not at home at heights, they have no worries about depths. And in the deep mine there was a sport very like edificeering, only in the pitch black of the deeper caverns. All she, Thora, needed to do to adjust to the human Assassin version was to completely block out the daylight and go deep-down-Dwarf. Let her other senses take over. Alice Band gave her starred A's for edificeering.
(5) Armed with the knowledge and township gossip, Bekki had been able to say to Jona, the housemaid who served her in the mornings, that if she, Jona, had any worries or concerns, come to me and we can talk about them, privately. Bekki had hoped she didn't need to spell it out, and had explained a wise old woman in Lancre had taught her a lot of things about what happens between men and women and how a healthcare practitioner might ease things. Nanny Ogg's teaching to young witches had been thorough and unforgettable in all its meticulous detail.
(6) Ostrich was a general code-word for when Air Watch personnel had to work at ground-level, as flightless birds. By extension, Code Ostrich covered the whole of the rest of the Watch.
(7) There is a sort of real-world reference for this: in Western European occultism, the sort that flourished as the nineteenth century faded into the twentieth, Aleistar Crowley claimed to be able to do this regularly and explained the principles for making yourself "invisible" are simple. Crowley, a man whose usual public persona was usually Up To Eleven and in your face, a man who was hard to ignore, claimed he had the Magickal ability to move invisibly and unseen. Whatever the truth of this, it has been recorded that people at Society gatherings would realise that Crowley had been present for a long time but nobody had noticed; he would claim he'd been there all along, but invisibly, and "prove" this by recounting incidents and conversations that had happened previously in the gathering when he had apparently not been there. In the annals of the Golden Dawn (Magickal Order founded by Crowley and others) there is a long and portentious ritual for making yourself invisible; this involves invoking the Angels and "donning the Starry Gown of Illluminated Midnight". Crowley later explained that the trick is to supress the Ego and move through people as if in a dream, but with purpose.
Interested people might reflect on the Discworld correspondences and how many of the names of the Orders of Wizardry at Unseen are directly drawn from the Rituals of the Golden Dawn: there is, for instance, an Order of Brethren of Illluminated Midnight.
(8) Bekki had to think about this one. Xhosa didn't have, as far as she know, a word for "deliberately uncomfortable mode of transport used by unsympathetic cops to convey prisoners". She settled on "bokgata-wagon", using what she guessed was an uncomplimentary township word for "police".
(9) It's like the "pop or soda?" thing in the USA that identifies which state you come from. I discovered in South Africa the universal term is "cooldrink" with no apparent space between the two words, regardless of if it's fizzy or flat.
Notes Dump:
"Sawubona is an ancient isiZulu greeting which means: We see you. It is equivalent to Hello and Namaste. So when we meet and greet I would say "sawubona" [we see you] "– via cartoon strip "Madam and Eve", recommended to all students of things modern South African.
Also, reader reaction to the first Strandpiel and an observation about a character I swear to God(s) was not consciously intended….
For non British and non-Irish readers: there's a TV comedy-drama called Derry Girls, about the chaotic lives of a group of teenage girls attending a nun-run convent school in the Northern Irish city of Derry. In this case, definitively Derry. Absolutely no prefix. Certainly not Londonderry. In case of misunderstandings, just Derry. That's important.
I will solemnly affirm, in front of all the Gods, I had never seen an episode, when I built on the canonical Discworld location of the Convent School of the Spiteful Sisterhood of Seven-Handed Sek.
But regard Our Lady Immaculate College and its girls.. the central characters are, dammit, Shauna's Gang. And the character Michelle Mallon (Jamie-Lee O'Donnell), in all her brash mouthy outgoing sweary glory… I concede. She is Shauna O'Hennigan. In every respect even down to her look. She's a better Shauna than Shauna is. Look her up on YouTube. This is my Shauna.
A short, that emerged from nowhere in a discussion on the Fortean Times Forums, concerning what the Hell UFO's are actually for and what they want – not Discworld, but AMUFORA might bite.
P***_E***** said:
Paranormal researcher Nick Redfern collected more than a few Cannock Chase cases where big cats/man-beasts/dogmen were witnessed with strange lights before/during/after the encounter. These date from the 1990s and early-00s.
(See: 'Monster Diary', 'Memoirs of a Monster Hunter' and 'There's Something in the Woods")
I replied, and this wrote itself:
The grey alien at the console of the flying saucer raised big almond-shaped eyes then sighed resignedly.
"Darling," she said, to her husband. "Tiddles is scratching at the door again. We're currently hovering over the planet Litter Tray Five, so I think we should land, and let her out so she can do her business, don't you? She'll come back to the saucer when she's done, she always does."
Her husband also resignedly and reached down to scratch the big black panther behind the ear. It made a noise almost like a purr and licked his hand, then scrabbled at the exit portal again and looked appealingly at its owners.
"Better down there than in here." he agreed. Then he set co-ordinates for a landing on Litter-Tray Five. He decided that somewhere on that Dartmoor place should do it. Nicely secluded with only the occasional human, and some of those sheep creatures Tiddles could play with.
And, Gods damn, I've discovered another Smith-Rhodes Face.
I wasn't looking for one, I wasn't expecting to see one, but there was a strikingly red-haired fashion model in one of Herself's magazines. I looked at her face, and remembered that Brazilian model Cinthia Dicker (red hair, very pale skin and freckles – Northern European ancestry) had leapt out of the page at me, and shouted in my face "I am Mariella Smith-Rhodes as you visualise her. Behold!"
And she was. Almost perfectly.
But today's interesting lady also has the pale freckled striking redhead look. Her name is Helene Hammer, and she could well be a different take on Mariella. As if she and Cinthia were separated at birth.
I looked up HH online. And saw pictures of her in a plain, un-scrubbed, un-made-up way, as a thirteen or fourteen year old child model. And realised. That slightly scowly sulky look, as if she's thinking "Displease me and I will thump you one."
The hovering- on- the- verge- of- teenage Famke now has a face.
In other news: I discovered there was indeed one Russian pilot in the Royal Air Force in WW2. His name was Prince Emmanuel Galatzine, a refugee Royal in the line of Catherine the Great. He was distinguished in RAF service by holding the altitude record for a Spitfire – in a specially modified high-altitude plane he got to over 50,000 feet and had a dogfight with a Luftwaffe high-altitude plane, which had been under the illusion that the British had nothing that could match his Ju-86 for altitude. (The air combat was inconclusive as Galatzine's guns all iced up, but he managed to put a couple of holes in the German, which got home safely). At the time, the accepted ceiling for most planes was 20 – 25,000 feet.
The fact a Russian pilot held the record interests me. I may flip genders on this one for the Air Watch! (Hmmm. Lady Emmanuelle de Galatzine-Ignatieff, Witch and pilot?)
Also, found the lyrics to that great South African rugby song "O Die Bokke!" Imagine 50,000 voices at Ellis Park joining in with a chant of praise sung to the tune of The Proclaimers' "500 Miles" - a stadium full of Afrikaaner Feegle. Scottish tune, Afrikaans words. I love this!
As ek opstaan
Met my Springboktrui nog aan en my tokse en my skrumpet op my laai
Trek ek my broek aan
En ek luister na die haan wat so windgat bo my kamervenster kraai
Dan eet ek slappap
Lees die koerant hier op my deurtrap oor die Hane en die Kiwi's teen die Bok
Net voor ek terugstap
Trap ek op 'n ou nat vloerlap en ek gly en val soos Gregan op my kop
Nou droom ek ek draf op teen die Hane en die Aussies
En ek draf op teen die All Black span
En die hele bladdy land is op hulle tone
Want ek drop en ek skop saam met 14 man
Nou droom ek verder
Hoe die senuwees vererger as Habanana 'n skip pass vir my gooi
Nou hol ek lekker
En my bene voel al sterker maar die volgende oomblik sien ek rooi
Ek voel 'n steekpyn
Reg onder my broeklyn asof iets my onophoudelik wil stuit
Ek sien 'n lig skyn
Ek's by my volle bewusyn dit is Mallie my Jack Russel wat my byt
Nou wens ek ek draf op teen die Hane en die Aussies
En ek draf op teen die All Black span
En die hele blady land is op hulle tone
Want ek drop en ek skop saam met 14 man
O die Bokke (o die Bokke)
O die Bokke (o die Bokke)
Oh die Hane en die Kiwi's kan maar weet
O die Bokke (o die Bokke)
O die Bokke (o die Bokke)
Ja die Aussie's en die Iere kan vergeet
As ek opstaan
Met my Springboktrui nog aan en my tokse en my skrumpet op my laai
Trek ek my broek aan
En ek luister na die haan wat weer windgat bo my kamervenster kraai
Dan eet ek slappap
Lees die koerant hier op my deurtrap oor die Hane en die Kiwi's teen die Bok
Net voor ek terugstap
Soek ek weer die ou nat vloerlap en ek gly en val soos Gregan op my kop
Ja ek gly en val soos Gregan op my kop
Ons draf op teen die Hane en die Aussies
En ons draf op teen die All Black span
En die hele blady land is op hulle tone
Want ons drop en ons skop ons is 15 man
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
Oh die Hane en die Kiwi's kan maar weet
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
Ja die Aussie's en die Iere kan vergeet
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
Oh die Hane en die Kiwi's kan maar weet
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
O die Bokke (O die Bokke)
Ja die Aussie's en die Iere kan vergeet
Ons draf op teen die Hane en die Aussies
En ons draf op teen die All Black span
En die hele blady land is op hulle tone
Want ons drop en ons skop ons is 15 man