Alexandra – The Making of an Air Witch
Chapter 3 V0.01
Damn, I only meant Lexi's story to be at most a couple of pages of a chapter of Strandpiel, as with Yulia Vizhinsky's. But it became apparent it would grow. So I had to bud it off and transplant the cutting to a tale of its own. This is it.
Now read on…
At Pokrovsky Barracks, Blondograd.
Stiff, bruised and battered, Alexandra had been flown home to Blondograd by Serafima Dospanova. The local Witches had interceded and said to the Hetmans that it might be for the best if the girl was returned to her parents, where the local woman who was monitoring her Witchcraft (at least for the moment) could take charge of her. Iliana had pointed out, in a quiet private discussion with the Cossack leaders, that any renewed bad feeling with the Stepkin clan might be more serious next time, with actual dead bodies. The girl can direct some real power. We saw it. And don't tell me them Stepkins ain't given her cause. Best get her away from here, for now.
Serafima had agreed. The Stepkin family had taken the judgement on their childrens' conduct with a sort of silent sullen resentment and had allowed Grigori Mumorov, Alexandra's uncle and head of the Mumorov clan here, to select the eight horses from their herd that would settle the feud. Grigori had been sensible enough to take only two breeding mares and six geldings. As Serafima had pointed out to the Stepkins, he could have insisted on eight of their best mares, so that any foals they had in due course would have augmented his herd and be lost to that of the Stepkins, so be thankful he's being reasonable, and not letting greed rule his mind here.(1)
"This is not exile, nor is it expulsion from the Host." Ataman Dimitri had said, to Alexandra. "You will be welcome among us again. It's just that…"
The leader of the Baikal Cossacks had smiled through his beard and taken her hand.
"I have been persuaded by the Witches that you should go into their care. There is a lady called Barbara, in Blondograd, who is guiding you?"
He had watched them go with some relief. It was clear the girl was a fighter, yes. A born Cossack, like her father. Ivan Mumorov's girl. It runs in families. She had certainly scattered four attackers and sent them running from her. Some of the marks on the damn-fool Stepkin girls had clearly been with fists and boots. But, as the witches had told him, she'd used other weapons too. They'd all felt the freak wind that ripped through the stanitsa at ground level. The wind that had picked up Peter Stepkin, slammed him ten feet up into the side of a barn, and then let him slide gently to earth, as if lowering him, letting him know dropping him could still be an option…
No, the witches were right. Anyone with a Witch-talent like that needed supervision a Cossack host couldn't easily provide.
"Go with my blessing, Alexandra Violavna Mumorovka. And my respect. Remember me to your father and tell him that when he retires from the Army, there's a place for him here." If that shrew of a woman he married can bear it, that is. The Ataman left this thought unspoken.
And here in Pokrovsky Barracks, Serafima realised, she was dealing with the other fall-out.
She had delivered Alexandra to her family and had begun explaining her physical condition to her father, when she was interrupted by Alexandra's mother. She recognised that normal motherly concern was in there. But she watched the fluttering fussy little woman alternately hugging and berating her daughter, in a strident high-pitched shrieky voice.
"Who did this to you? Who? And haven't I striven to bring you up to be ladylike? Graceful? Feminine? And you get into a common brawl? Where does it hurt? Badly? Show me! And I'm so disappointed in you, Alexandra!"
Her father shook his head, allowing Viola to lead her daughter away, and took a deep breath.
"Your brother Grigori Petrovich sends greetings." Serafima said, when she could make herself heard. She passed over a letter.
"Four of them." Ivan said, scowling. "All of them Stepkins. And only one of Alexandra. Yet she fought them."
"The feud is settled, Ivan Petrovich." Serafima said, quickly. "The council of the Hetmans made judgement. Your brother Grigori was sensible and moderate in selecting the horses surrendered as penalty. He said he'd hold them in trust for Alexandra, as by rights, she won them, and the injury was against her."
Ivan took a deep breath.
"So my daughter gets the foundation of her own herd." he observed. "And a reputation as a fighter. Good outcome. I'm not happy with the Stepkins, however. That family is trouble."
"Blessings be on this house."
They turned to look.
"Let meself in." Barbara Borodinska said, coming into the salon(2). She and Serafima exchanged the witch-bow.
"Word to you, Ivan." she said. "My son-in-law got to hear about what happened to the girl out by the Lake. He said as how you've got Trooper Stepkin in the guardroom cell for disorderly conduct, and, in the circumstances, it might be wiser to have Major Korsevsky hear the case, rather nor you?"
Ivan Mumorov considered this.
"He's right. Thank you. Might be best if other officers dealt with any disciplinaries concerning Stepkins right now. Although they're usually good soldiers and I have no intention to deal with them differently, just because. If you put that out, I'd be grateful."
Barbara grinned.
"Function of the Divisional Witch." she explained. "Informal channel of communication. I gets to say all the things other people can't, 'cos of rank and propriety and all that bly'at. All the way down from General Smirnoff himself."
Serafima grinned back. She was from a mildly military command that was staffed by Witches. Cossacks were a structured mildly military people. Formal military structures were bound by Rules, Regulations, Protocols and Standing Orders. But a Witch could say what the Hells she liked, even to the General Officer Commanding. She understood this completely. Most importantly, Serafima reflected, so did General Smirnoff.
"Now let's rescue our girl from her mother, shall we?"
Serafima sighed.
"I'm going to be late again." she said, resignedly.
"Nichevo." Barbara responded. "Olga Anastacia knows the realities. Reckon she'll cover for you with Vetinari."
Serafima tried not to wince. Lord Vetinari had expressed an understanding of the concept of Witch Business, said he understood why she was late back from the Blondograd Run, and had then asked about the young lady who was developing significant magical ability. I believe she can command a gale force wind to blow, if she so wishes? Still, as you say, Witch Business. I'm sure you and Captain Romanoff are capable of managing the situation. Capital.
"'Sides, the girl's family. Part Dospanov. Reckon that means you feel obligated, and you'll go that bit further for her." Barbara remarked. "Also, you quite like her. Adopted little sister sort of thing. That matters too."
"Pravda." Serafima agreed.
"'Course, the problem is that Viola ain't a Cossack, she only married one." Barbara remarked. "So loads of the way we think is foreign to her. Good woman at bottom, but she needs a quiet word every so often."
Together, they went to soothe Viola Mumorovka, to explain what had happened, and to rescue Alexandra.
Alexandra recuperated from her knocks and bruises, and everyday life resumed. She was happy to be back at school again when the new term resumed, and pleased that the story of her exploit had spread. It gave her Respect and attention among her peers. Even Oleg Stepkin, son of one of her father's troopers, approached her, with both hands open and empty, and apologised for the behaviour of members of his extended family, and please understand we're not all as contemptible as that. She accepted this graciously and took his hand. It was a lesson: not everybody in a difficult clan was going to be a waste of space. Stepkins with the go in them to join the Regiment tended to be better people, anyway. Or else the Regiment made them so.
The problem was at home. Relations between Papa and Mama had strained after the fight, and Mama was going through one of her moody monosyllabic sulks with him. Papa was clear and adamant: he was not going to rebuke or punish Alexandra for getting into a fight. Do you not understand even now, Viola, that our daughter is a Cossack? And a fight between Cossack women is never just ineffectual scratching and slapping? She fought for her life, Viola, her life, and she came out the winner! I'm damned if I'm going to punish her for doing something I'm proud of, do you hear?
Alexandra stayed out of this. She was still learning Swords from the Master-At-Arms, a combination of the Cossack Way and the military way, and Mr Dzerzhinsky was pleased with her progress, speculating it would not be long before her Host awarded her a set of Swords that would be hers for life. She still went out flying by night, in a clandestine and secret way, alongside Barbara Borodinska, learning the strange Turnwise way of flight on a broomstick, and also absorbing lessons in what it is to be a Witch. Sometimes a whisper on the wind accompanied them.
It was clean up here in the night air, Alexandra decided. She was flying further and longer now with Barbara, as she built experience in the air. It also helped, she realised, if there was no school in the morning. And tonight they were flying out over Blondograd, looking down on their city from above. It was impressive, even in the dark. The onion domes of the Kremlin and the Cathedral of Saint Cyril looked as if they were illuminated, even by night, looming over the vast empty expanse of Victory Square. After some thought, Alexandra decided the beaten metal of the domes was catching and reflecting the moonlight. Probably. At Barbara's urgent prompting, they steered well clear of the domed and imposing Pedagogical University and College of Wizardry, as "that place can really bugger up your broomstick".
They sped off to the Turnwise-by-Hubwards.
Alexandra considered the ground underneath her.
"I've never been here before." she said. "Mama said there is nothing of interest out here. Mama said nobody we know, or would want to know, lives here. Lots of people must live here?"
They were flying over street after street of drab, identical, multistorey tenement buildings. Some windows, even this late, were lit up. The blocks – not houses, just what looked like squared off massive grey blocks with windows – might have been seven or eight floors tall. It all felt anonymous, featureless. As if a whole circle of Hell were to have been themed around the premise of eternal drab greyness for all eternity.
"Lots of people do." Barbara replied, shrugging. "Listen, you've heard of the Shades, in Ankh-Morpork? Vorona does police work there with the Watch, when she ain't on the flyin' horse."
Barbara indicated downwards.
"Well, them's our Shades, the Blondograd sort. The Komunalkas. What, you think it's all onion domes and pretty touristy things for visitors? Every city has its Shades, and them's ours."(3)
The two Witches studied the human hives from above.
"Some decent folk live down there. A few City Witches. And just enough of people as lives there is not nice to know. In the main, full of people tryin' to get on with things as best they can." Barbara said. "People is people, everywhere. And all people need Witches. Fact of life, devyushka."
They flew on. The landscape changed as they approached the edges of the city.
"You'll have been seein' this all your life, from far away." she said. "It's background. People stops seein' it after a while. We're just goin' to get up close."
It was the Hill of the Mamayev. With the Statue. This was a memorial, a sacred place, commemorating the long-ago Siege of Blondograd, which had been protracted and terrible. But the city had never surrendered, not to the kolbasniks, the Überwaldeans.
Some sort of safe technomancy illuminated the Statue at night. At its base, it was Guarded. The Blondograd Guards Division's infantry regiments saw this as a honour. Changing of the Guard, of the soldiers in their immaculate green-and-gold uniforms and their eye-wateringly strange way of marching, was a tourist trap and brought revenue to the City coffers.
At night, the same soldiers just considered it to be bloody boring. I mean, govno, who's going to try to steal an eighty-three metre tall statue?
Ryadovoi Denis Shekhardin, a fairly new soldier, stolidly patrolled his beat at the foot of the Statue. He'd seen her from further away, a representation of Mother Rodinia, sword raised firmly in her mighty right hand, her left hand pointing directly towards bloody Überwald and the city of Bonk, her face frozen in a rictus scowl as she called upon the Rodinian nation to come to arms, march on Bonk, and hit the kolbasnik Überwaldean bastards where it hurt. (4)
Privately, he considered the woman representing Mother Rodinia looked a bit like his Auntie Pavlina after she'd eaten too much borscht and cabbage bread. You know. Sort of uncomfortable.
And why had the sculptor made her so bloody enormous? he wondered, looking up. He had to check every so often that the Statue was still there. Regulations.
Then he saw the two flying women circling the Statue. You never knew. They could be trying to steal the Statue.
"Halt!" he called, looking up. He unslung and levelled his crossbow. To make it emphatic, he unsheathed the long bayonet.
Then he realised.
"Errr…" he said, as he looked into the frowning face of the Divisional Witch. A stray thought imposed, as to how she reminded him suddenly of Auntie Pavlina.
"Nothing to see here, my lad." Barbara said, firmly. She studied the worried-looking young soldier. Denis realised he was pointing a crossbow and a bayonet at a Witch… two Witches… and the realisation dawned that this was probably not a bright idea. He politely moved it away from them, the woman and the girl who were hanging in the air, astride what looked like normal sweeping brooms.
The older witch stared at him. He realised she was reading his uniform. So was the younger one.
"Pavlovsky Guards Regiment." the girl said. He felt her eyes boring into him. "Colonel Simenov's command."
"Errr…" Denis said.
"Second batallion, fourth company." said the older Witch. "Makes it easier your uniforms are sort of colour-coded."
Then she smiled at him.
"Linament working for them leg pains?" she asked. "Good. Beats me how you can march like that without straining something. Still, there's a trick to it, I suppose, and you must work up to them high kicks, slow and gradual?"
"Errr…" Denis said.
Your commanding officer's young Lieutenant Leonovich? Sure you wouldn't want to wake him up to report Witches flyin' round the Statue, would you? Nor your Podpraporschik. I just knows he'd take you to one side and kindly explain this is not something to bother a lieutenant or a sergeant-major with at nearly one in the mornin'."
Barbara smiled benignly at him.
"So I'm just takin' my girl on a flight to see the sights, and you ain't seen us. Right? Good lad."
Denis nodded, mutely. He'd recognised the Divisional Witch, and he had a good idea as to who the girl was. Her father commanded one of the cavalry regiments, he half-remembered.
He found himself coming to attention and saluting.
"I haven't seen a thing, ved'ma."
"Good lad. You'll go far."
Shortly afterwards, the two Witches were following the line of the River Musckovada, its waters glistening in the moonlight, on the way back to Pokrovsky.
"You learnt a lesson there, girl?" Barbara said. "How to get somebody to realise what's in his personal best interests? Witches has to manage situations. In this case, new boy, not long out of recruit trainin', it's all new and interestin' to him. So of course he looked up and saw us. The old hands on guard on the Mamayev never looks up. No point. So any other night we'd not have been seen. This keen young lad did. Needed to make sure this don't get back to your mum and dad."
They flew on.
There's always something about the River by night, Barbara thought. Any river by night, not just ours. It reminds you it was there thousands of years before you and, barring accidents, it'll still be there thousands of years after we're gone. Sense of perspective, sort of thing. Helps you sort things into the proper order.
She looked over to Alexandra, and smiled.
New witches comin' up. Always.
At this point in her inner discourse, something intruded. It was an odd, alien, note, something that had no right to be there.
Something's moving…
Barbara frowned. Something was coming this way. She got the impression of a mind, cold, inhuman, hostile, but intelligent… then it suddenly shut off, as if aware it had been detected. Barbara tried to put out the right sort of feelers, trying to put part of her mind near to it. Then she winced, as if she'd been slapped away.
Barbara tried to pick it up again. She caught a fleeting impression of it, down there on the riverbank, moving out towards the widdershins and Pokrovsky. Then she was blocked again. It was like… trying to pet a cat that wasn't having it. There was a suspicion of hiss. She shuddered inwardly, and then there was nothing. Whatever it was, she decided, it felt like it was searching for somewhere to call home, somewhere to move into. It was hunting, searching. Intent on finding the right place, where it was safe, where the liar would welcome it… For a few moments, the River seemed to glisten with a chilly phosphorescence. It did not look or feel wholesome. To a witch of Barbara's experience, it boded.
You gets this by the river, she thought. Could be a rusalka. Them things is a pest. Best see nobody lets their kiddies go down there unattended. Could be a vodnik. Them's worse. Ain't had one this far up the Musckovada in years, though. A devil to shift.
She looked over to Alexandra, who seemed unaffected.
If I need to go huntin' for rusalka or vodnik, should I take the girl? Or I can talk to Yarila Irenovna in the Komunalkas, ask her opinion. This sort of thing needs experience. Maybe the girl can tag on, she won't come to no harm alongside two old hands at Witchcraft, and she can observe or something. See practice.
She said nothing to Alexandra, and saw her to her home.
Anyroad, I'll know more when it shows itself. Makes its move.
Octeday morning saw the usual family ritual. Absolute best clothes on. Papa in his dress uniform. Mama checking everyone for imperfections. And then Church Parade at their garrison church, with the regimental chaplain, Father Fyodor, leading the usual long, tedious but somehow powerful service of praise to the God Epidity. Alexandra, trying to find points of interest in the monotony and the tedium, reflected on how the long unhurried progress of the rituals and the service built a sort of momentum, a power of their own. She speculated on this being a sort of magical rite, like the ones the wizards were said to perfume at the Pedagogical University, and wondered if, at bottom, Magic and Religion drew on the same sort of power. Or at least, overlapped.
Above all, she appreciated that the best part of a thousand people gathered here, the Cossack cavalrymen and their families, could create a wall of harmonious sound, a natural choir. It was quite nice to listen to and to feel a part of. Harmony. Something lacking in the Mumorov household, as the argument between her parents over Alexandra's fight out in Baikal was still simmering on. Neither of her parents were budging from their positions. Mama still wanted a daughter who would grow up into a ladylike genteel prospective wife. Papa, exasperated, had asked what would be wrong with her going fully into Cossack society, and if a good marriage with a position is important, there are men out there who will ascend from uriadnik, to sotnik, and then to Hetman? Even at eleven years old, she has a reputation, and boys her own age or a little older, who will grow with her, will come to see her differently.
Mama had not liked that at all and had reminded Papa that she was not a Cossack and her family expected bet… different… of the girl! A city girl, in city society, a good husband here, Ivan, with prospects.
The argument rumbled on over Alexandra's head. She wished it would stop. And two things worried her. The first was that she had no great wish or desire to be married to anybody. The second was that if her parents were currently agreeing on anything, it was that the next necessary step in Alexandra's future, which would defer for at least five years any argument concerning what direction her adult life was going to take, was Education.
Her parents were agreed on sending her to the Quirm School, which would provide a good education and train her for adult life as a Young Lady of Quality. In Quirm. Which as Mama gleefully pointed out, had Society. The Quirm Academy for Young Ladies made sure its alumni were a good fit for Society, and Alexandra, as daughter of a Regimental Commander, would be welcomed among the daughters of Dukes and Lords and Knights from all over the Disc. She would make friends. Social contacts.
Alexandra considered this prospect was utterly hideous, especially as it meant being packed off to a foreign country that spoke a language she was only indifferently fluent in. Well. Two languages she was only indifferently fluent in.
Papa had been kind.
"Morporkian." he had said. In Morporkian. "Is language of world, da? All must know at least little. Even me. Will improve. You my clever girl. Will learn."
"Aussi, la belle langue." Mama had added. "La langue des gens de qualité. La langue de la noblesse, de l'aristocratie."
Alexandra noted the way Mama's eyes misted over.
"Oui, maman." she replied. "La langue des maris possible."
She was disappointed her mother completely missed the sarcasm.
And later, she returned from an afternoon spent learning the steps and movements of the flankirovna, feeling agreeably sweaty and dishevelled, and met Cousin Bella for the first time.
The world changed.
Cousin Bella was about eighteen. It was hard to tell. She was, Alexandra realised with instant distaste, beautiful, immaculately dressed, and moved with a sort of cat-like grace. Mama was captivated with her. Papa accepted her with a sort of paternal interest. He too seemed fascinated.
"Alexandra! Isn't it wonderful? Bella arrived while you were out. She's just arrived from… from…"
"Nobinovgorod." Bella said. Her voice was captivating, almost musical. It had a pleasing quality to it. You wanted to hear her speak. To hope to hear her sing.
"She's going to be staying with us! Isn't that nice?"
Alexandra took the offered hand. It was warm. It felt normal. But there was something there, something slightly wrong…
"I really hope we can be friends." Bella said. "like… sisters, maybe."
The girl was moving with absolute assurance, as if she had every right to be here, as if she belonged. She captivated. She charmed. She enchanted.
Alexandra didn't even realise, at first, that the voice in her head wasn't hers. It was saying Accept me. I now live here. Do as I say. Serve me. And all will be well.
She looked into the eyes. Old eyes. That didn't belong in the face of an eighteen year old girl. And knew something was wrong. She scowled, inwardly, and pushed the intrusive voice out. She had the satisfaction of seeing Cousin Bella flinch for a moment, and her eyes narrowed.
"Perhaps." Alexandra said. She heard the seductive inner voice, further and fainter now, becoming more insistent, wondered for a second about taking the easy path and giving in to it, Bella was so beautiful and so pleasant, wouldn't a girl of eleven just love to have her as an older sister…. And then she pushed again, with effort. The voice cut off, abruptly.
"So you are my cousin?" she asked, maintaining social courtesy. "Mama introduced you as Cousin Bella. But from whose side of the family, Mama's or Papa's? I know all my aunts and uncles and cousins in Blondograd and Baikal, and I have never met you before?"
There was a moment of uncertainty. Alexandra heard her parents both say, at the same time, in voices that sounded wooden and uncertain
"She's from my side of the family…"
This tailed off into a confused babble of "Your Uncle Georgi and Aunt Talya…" and "Don't be difficult, Alexandra Violovna!"
Close to, Alexandra noted that her cousin's exquisitely chosen perfume had distinct overtones of old stagnant water, and rotting vegetation, like decay in a swamp at the side of a river… Bella flinched again, and the smell of exquisite perfume grew stronger, almost blocking off the sensation of marsh and swamp. But not completely.
"But how can she be from both sides of the family at once?" she asked, bewildered. "And who are Uncle Georgi and Auntie Talya? I've never heard of them before."
She saw Cousin Bella smile. It was a malicious smile.
"They're really not listening to you, Alexandra Violovna." Bella advised. "Just accept I'm your cousin, I'm here to stay, and a wise little girl of eleven should accept that? Thank you so much."
Then Mama and Papa were themselves again.
"Perhaps Alexandra Violovna is tired from her exertions, and she could retire to her room?" Bella asked, sounding concerned for the health of a young relative. "I'm sure she'll come round and be accepting of me."
"Yes, good idea." Mama said. "Alexandra, do go to your room and wash and change, will you?"
Bewildered and a little angry, Alexandra went to her room. And she's just put it into Mama's head that I'm being a jealous hostile little brat to her… who is she? Where did she come from?
She was also perplexed that her friend the Domevoy, the house-spirit, appeared to have vanished and didn't come to her call. Mystery.
A session in the Banya followed. Alexandra noted the water wasn't as hot as it could be. And was that green and black bloom on the tiles… the beginning of a growth of mould? She called for the Bannoks, the bath-house sprites who dwelt here. They usually kept the water hot and the premises clean. There was no reply. Alexandra wondered, suddenly, if they'd ever been here at all and she'd just been imagining this… then she scowled and put the intrusive thought out of her mind.
She finished quickly and then went back to her room again. Something was deeply, deeply, wrong here. In no hurry to speak to her parents nor to confront Cousin Bella again, she sat at her desk and tried to do schoolwork. Finding no solace here, she took down the library book that now had permanent place on her shelves; the kindly librarian Miss Davidova had placed it on indefinite loan to her.
A Gazeteer Of The Spirits, Supernatural Entities And The Folklore Of Far Überwald And The Rodinian Countries, By Stripfettle And Oblamov.
She wondered if somewhere in its pages, Doctor I.S. Oblamov and Professor Stripfettle could provide any clue as to what was happening here. Witch-senses were telling Alexandra that something was deeply, horribly, wrong about Cousin Bella.
She contemplated the Book, wondering where to begin when she had such few clues, except for a general sense of unease and suspicion. She also contemplated slipping out and finding Barbara. This was an option, she decided. But a feeling was growing, not quite a conviction, just a feeling, that a Witch should deal with her own problems in her own way, only going to others when all else had failed.
She also recalled Father Fyodor, in the pulpit, denouncing folk superstitions. One of them was called bibliomancy. Apparently this involved seeking to find wisdom by opening the Sacred Testament of Epidity at random, letting your eye fall on a particular text, and then using creative thinking to relate what you read to your immediate issue. Apparently the Sacred Word of Epidity was not to be mis-used or trivialised in this way.
Alexandra smiled. She then applied Bibliomancy to her own pressing problem, Cousin Bella. After all, this wasn't a Sacred Testament and she was a Witch.
She took a deep breath, focused, and allowed the thick book to fall open, inserting a finger. She noted it had opened to her about a third of the way in, in the K's.
''…this entity is associated with the people whom even this Book cannot name for fear that once Named, they will surely come calling. We represent this kindred, in the text, with the sigil {-}. As authors, we again admonish that when contemplating the {-}, to have something made of steel or iron to hand and to clasp it firmly, or at least to touch it…
Alexandra looked around the room. She found a manicure set came to hand and opened the box, wondering if the nail-scissors and tools inside were made of steel. As she reached for the scissors,, a strange urge came to her.
You know, the information on that page is completely wrong. Completely misleading. But what do fat cossetted old men in dresses, living in the ivory towers of their universities, know of real life? You would be doing future readers of this book a huge favour if you were to tear that page out entirely and destroy it.
Alexandra let her finger and thumb move along the top of the page back to the spine, and gripped it as if to rip.
Then Inner Alexandra screamed "NO!" and the spell broke. She shook her head, wondering where the urge to vandalise a book, loaned to her on trust, had come from. Then she scowled.
Do it, Alexandra! Do it! the second voice inside her head shouted, insistently. She reached for the manicure set in its pouch and touched the metal of the scissors. The alien voice cut off, abruptly.
"Get out of my head." she said. She paused, and began reading.
"And stay out of my head. Bella. This is about you, isn't it?"
Кикимора.
Opinion is divided as to the nature and the origins of the entity known as the kikimora. Some authorities believe it to be the negative counter-version of the house-spirit, the Domevoy. Where the Domevoy is benign and nurtures and gives and supports, the Kikimora, which always manifests as female, is parasitical, and takes and destroys. Where she is not greedy for the material possessions of her hosts, she will provoke discord and enmity for the pleasure it gives her, between husband and wife, between parents and children…
A Domevoy and a Kikimora cannot co-exist in the same household. The powerful will always drive out the weaker, and a Kikimora is a powerful entity…
Alexandra looked up, aware of being watched. She turned. Cousin Bella was standing in the doorway, an expression of malicious amusement on her face. The swamp-smell of old rotting vegetation hung in the air.
"I know what you are." Alexandra said. "Kikimora."
"It will do you no good, Witch-girl." Bella said. "Your parents invited me in. This is their home, and their permission to grant. You cannot expel me. You do not have the right."
Girl and entity regarded each other in mutual hatred.
Bella smiled a cruel smile.
"I like the clothes you own. Some of them may even fit me. You will give them to me."
It almost sounded reasonable. Alexandra fought the thought out.
"I'm surprised you haven't come in and taken them." she replied. "A kikimora is a thief…"
Then Inner Alexandra prompted her. Have you noticed she's still standing in the doorway?
"You can't come in, can you?" Alexandra taunted her. "Because in my parents' home, this space is my space. My father respects my right to it. And if I say you cannot come in to my space, then you cannot!"
The kikimora's face contorted in rage. She tried to take a step forwards, but appeared to walk into an invisible wall. Alexandra folded her arms and scowled. She glanced to her right. Yes. There he was. Bella's gaze passed to the same spot and the kukimora took an unwilling step back.
I will help defend your space, Alexandra Mumorovka. the Vedogon said. You will be safe here. But I regret I cannot chase this unclean thing completely from the house. Your father has welcomed her in. Until Ivan Petrovich becomes aware of her true nature, I am powerless.
"A ghost of one who never even lived." Bella taunted him. "Am I to be afraid of a shadow?"
Alexandra noted she still stepped back from the spectral spear that was jabbed, warningly, at her.
This is the ghost of steel that was never forged. the Vedogon said, in the same even voice. Do not enter Alexandra's space.
Bella retreated. But she still, mockingly, called "You need to clean your own boots now. And press your own clothes. Your Domevoy ran away from me. And the Bannoks! Don't waste time looking for them, they ran towards the river. They've probably been taken by the rusalkas and the vodniks by now!"
Alexandra suppressed a scream of rage. Then she wept for her friends and her inability to help them. The Vedogon stood by, stolidly, silently. After a while, she dried her tears and went back to reading about her enemy.
Some say the kikimora comes from the realm of the {-}. There are many accounts of the {-}.
Alexandra considered, aware the Vedegon was offering her the strength and the composure to fight a different sort of battle, one not to be resolved with conventional weaponry. She wondered where {-} fitted into alphabetical ordering, and found it, in its own section at the end of the book.
Taking care to hold the scissors in her free hand, by the blades, she read about things you only approached in euphemisms, like The Sons and Daughters of Kroshkei, or, as people in the Turnwise phrase it, the Lords and Ladies, the Gentry, the Fair Folk.
People who have considered this and who have survived interactions with them consider that the {-} are a sort of hive-entity, akin to termites or wasps rather than ants and bees (who are useful to the world). Here, a single Queen is Mother to all, in a warped and repugnant way. But as any beekeeper tells you, there can only be one Queen in the nest at any time. The Queens will either fight each other to the death, or else a weaker Queen might leave to found a Hive of her own, drawing off a retinue who will go with her. And there are solitary bees and wasps, who either live alone or in smaller looser groups.
Professor A.D Metuschkin of Blondograd has speculated that such a weaker new-minted Queen of the {-}, faced with death at the hands of a stronger Queen, might find herself forced into our world, weak, alone, and friendless, in order to survive. She might survive for a while even in a wilderness, a swamp or a riverbank, perhaps, leading a miserable existence eating insects, reptiles and small animals. But as one of the {-}, she will be drawn to people. To light, to glamour, to minds. To colour, to variety, to human life, where she can put out glamour, enthral and enchant, and make humans her slaves and playthings. Not a hive-creature like the common wasp or hirnet; the parallel here might be the parasitical wasp, which lives as a solitary insect but which will sting, paralyse and keep a creature alive, until she can suck no more life-essence from it and it dies, a broken husk. (See "kukimora")
Of course, the kukimora might just be a native entity of swamp and riverbank, like a rusalka or a vodnik, but one that arises periodically with greater intelligence and sentience, seeking a permanent foothold in the human world…
Alexandra felt horrified inside. She had a fight now. An eleven year old girl just beginning with Witchcraft. Against a powerful and deadly enemy.
The Vedegon lifted his head from his silent contemplation.
Alexandra. You have won the first skirmish. he reminded her. Your enemy now knows there is a battle ahead. Perhaps she doubts.
Alexandra smiled and felt stronger. Then resumed her reading, looking for potential weaknesses on the part of the opponent.
To be continued – important to keep the momentum going.
For more Alexandra "Lexi" Mumorovka, she crops up as a character in Strandpiel 2 and The Price of Flight.
Chapter four will come– more Bella, and Olga has to go full-on Romanoff to persuade Alexandra's mother to give up her daughter to Witch training. Watch this or some other space…
(1) Serafima and Iliana had also suggested to Grigori that when in due course one of those mares had a foal, he might think of offering the weaned colt back to the Stepkins as an unforced gift, to restore relations and to be a sort of four-hooved olive branch. It would, Serafima said, be a magnanimous and generous gift and raise his prestige in the Host. Office politics is a factor even when the office is a wide-open steppe.
(2) Actually the living room. Alexandra's mother insisted it was a salon, however.
(3) Kommunalkas, the massive apartment blocks built for workers in the Soviet Union, on the boast that every Soviet worker deserved to live in a People's Palace. Massive, overscale and impersonal, in practice they were thrown together quickly and cheaply and soon degenerated into vertical slums. It is estimated that in 1995 in St Petersburg, 200,000 people still lived in substandard accommodation left over from the Soviet era.
(4) We're looking at the Victory Statue that stands, 273 feet tall, on the Mamaev hill outside Volgagrad, formerly Stalingrad. The Mother Russia memorial statue was so enormous that it needed to be remodelled twenty years later to stop it falling over.
Information about rusalkas, vodniks and kikimoras is taken and adapted from a variety of sources dealing with Russian/Slavonic folklore.
Notes Dump:-
Reply to a review from reader David, who came in as Guest, has left prolific reviews (thank you!) but I have absolutely no way of responding directly. So it has to be here.
He wrote:
You wanted constructive criticism, you have a habit of just getting colloquialisms sightly wrong, your research and background knowledge is superlative but sometimes not applied quite accurately. You have a habit of repeating yourself in introductios and end notes.
There are a few inconsistencies in such as place names. There are a few inconsistencies in such as place names.
There is a sprinkling of wrong spellings, mostly due to typographical errors and autocorrect.
Fair comment, working on it!
in using radio procedure, ending a transmission with "over" means you want a reply, ending one with "out" means you don't want a reply. "Over and out" is just contradictory b*** created by people who haven't a clue. Otherwise grand stuff as always.
Got it, just rushing to get tales out.
Another excellent piece, lots of typos, missing words and other minor errors, predictive text and auto correct are a pain aren't they.
Love the depth of research and detail. Just a wee bit about radio procedure you need to say the station being called first, then the name of the calling station, e.g. ynci control, red baroness, over and await acknowledgement and permission to pass the message. I would have thought you'd have remembered that from military RP.
Anyway, grand stuff and keep it up. I've been working through all your tales whilst I've been in bed for two weeks now with some sort of virus and you're most entertaining. Dare I say up to the standard of the man himself.
Thank you!
Also, Ivanthemostlysane said: possibility and what would happen with Feegle popping up in Uberwald... or anywhere else not-Chalk and not-Lancre...
You have a clan going on/near the Smith-Rhodes farm in Howandaland, how long/how many generations until they stop being Scots and start being Boers?
Good points.. early days yet, but picking up on German myths and legends that fit the general idea, size and temperament of Feegle, like the Heinzelmännchen of Cologne. I'm sure there are more out there!
Also Guest: who reviewed with
Suggested grammatical improvements:
Anywhere need it- anywhere near it. – good point. Corrected.
Dertein - Dertien (this is the correct Dutch word for 13) Dank je! / Dankie!
justnow - just now – nicely spotted, but I've let the two words run together like this as "just now" is a South African thing – the words are English but also pop up in Afrikaans as a loan word. I've heard Saffas (some English-as-first-language, some with Afrikaans-as-first-language) run the two words together with a slightly different emphasis, as if there's no gap between the "just" and the "now". So… justnow.
Simples- Simple. Ah. This is a British thing. We have a long-running series of television adverts where animated Meerkats try to sell us insurance. For some reason these Meerkats have Russian and not South African accents. Don't ask me why. Anyway. The alpha Meerkat, who is selling insurance, is called Aleksandr Orlov. He has a put-upon personal assistant and dogsbody called Sergei. To get it over how simple they make insurance, their catch-phrase, delivered in a strong cod-Russian accent, is "Simples!" This one I'm keeping as homage. But thank you for spotting it!
Beki – Bekki. Sloppy error. Corrected. Thank you.