Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Twelve
Boundaries and Doorways
We are now on V0.04 Still plugging away.. Yes, the typos are emerging from the shadows.
A continuing family saga charting the interlinked lives of family and friends on at least two continents, with a cast of characters both living and dead.
Advancing the story and adding a few speculations – noting in the Compleat Discworld Atlas, that the space given over to the approximate location of Discworld's "Russia" makes then a direct and immediate neighbour of the Discworld's "North America". Russia, on this world, having a land border with Canada and the USA. Admittedly "Russia/Rodinia" is in disarray and the doldrums, whilst "Aceria/The Great Outdoors" is embryonic – sustained by refugees from pointless wars or social repression elsewhere in the Central Continent and as yet, at just that turn in "American" history where States are just beginning to emerge. (think 1700 – 1900 in the USA). And then there's the bit with lumberjacks, stroppy Quirmian speakers and maple syrup, that nobody actually dislikes or has strong feeling for or against.
Incorporating further little tweaks, taking on board reservations expressed about the "opium poppy" being associated in our world with China, and that this isn't completely correct. It apparently got that association because of the Opium Wars of the 19th Century - more an old shame for the British - and the recurring late 19th-c meme of shady opium dens in Limehouse run by the Chinese... a bit of a racially biased slur about the Chinese being indolent and prone to addiction (which the later social history of heroin addiction proves wrong... Hermann Goering, for instance, was not noticably Chinese). I knew a person, wise and full of sin, who grew opium poppies, in plain sight, in her back garden in Norfolk where they went completely unremarked (she used them responsibly for pain relief). so... quantifying the opium poppy thing and to disentangle it from a sole point of origin in "Agatea".
Bitterfontein, the Turnwise Caarp, Rimwards Howondaland.
The two dogs, who had been dozing behind the desk, suddenly leapt up and became attentive. Bekki watched them. When a Ridgeback pricks up its ears and leaps into life, this is not an inobtrusive thing. You can't help but notice. Willems barked first, then Etzebeth. Bekki didn't need a lifetime of canine experience to know what the barking meant.
Mistress is home.
"Dertien? Aunt Mariella's back." she said. Her wished-upon-her Steading orderly suddenly became twice as eager-to-please. She smiled. He'd caught the very Rimwards Howondalandian spill-words: The Young Mevrou is here. Do not let the baas-lady catch you slacking.
The dogs rushed out of the door, barking happily.
Bekki heard voices getting nearer. A very familiar voice called "Etzebeth! Willems! Bly!" She heard the splashing and creaking of wheels, getting closer.
Aunt Mariella stepped inside.
"Am I meant to say "blessings upon this place", or is that just for healthcare practitioners?" she said.
Bekki smiled.
"I think anybody can say that, Aunt Mariella. It's not as if the phrase is copyright, or anything."
They quickly hugged. Bekki noted her aunt seemed tired and tensed and wondered what the reason was, getting there'd been, at the least, a difficult and possibly friend-estranging conversation with somebody recently, a difference of opinion, perhaps, or else a friend…. she focused… might not have been completely honest about something. I'm getting exasperation, irritation, maybe somebody wasn't completely open with her…
Mariella looked around her, assessing.
"You need some way of making a cup of tea." she said, practically. "Have you spoken to Ricus van Linden yet?"
"Ja. He's just been here."
Mariella nodded.
"Saw him at the huis. He was fretting about the proprieties of going into a woman's bedroom, to pick up some boxes you'd asked to be brought down here. The housegirls were not sure which was which. So I picked out the ones with your working gear in, and rounded up a handcart and a couple of men to push it."
Mariella nodded to the black labourer who was bringing in one of Bekki's travelling boxes.
"Just over there, please, next to the shelves? Thank you." she said.
Mariella smiled again.
"Apparently, according to Ricus, saying "please" and "thank you" too much spoils the blacks." she said, drily. "I've never noticed that myself, so I think we've got away with it."
She looked at the black man.
"Marius, if I say "thank you" to you, do you feel spoilt?" she asked.
The labourer grinned.
"Just the same as always, Mev'Mariella." he responded.
"Kiff." Mariella said. She looked over, and frowned. Bekki heard a distant chinking of glass.
"Dertien…" Mariella said, quickly. "It might be best, do you think, if I helped with that? Dankie."
Everybody, Bekki noticed, stopped or slowed down to watch.
Bekki watched her aunt, very carefully, take the box from him. Which had all her glass-bottled potions and preparations in it. Mariella placed it, with care, on the desk. The world breathed again.
"Anyway." Aunt Mariella said, as if nothing had happened. "We'll have to get that cabinet up on the wall."
She indicated the glass-fronted cabinet sitting on the ground.
Bekki frowned.
"Actually, I don't want to sound ungrateful." she said. "It's just that… look, let me show you what I mean."
She rummaged in the box, and brought out several stoppered boxes and phials.
"Aunt Mariella, you'll know what a lot of these are, from school." she said. "Oil of guafanesia, for use on large farm animals and horses. And this one, Essence of Agatean Poppy."
Mariella nodded.
"Well. It's called the Agatean Poppy, but the truth is, it grows everywhere. Agatea's associated with it, but don't ask me why. And these two. This is…" Bekki paused. How could she say it in front of several black labourers? Without sounding offensive, or accusatory, or racist. "Well, while I was packing them, I was talking to Mum, and…"
Mariella picked up a phial and read the label.
"Did you get this from Doctor Bellamy? She says you have to take really great care with some plant essences, when you're distilling them. It's got the Bellamy Aromatherapeutics label on it."
Mariella's eyes flickered over the black labourers for a moment. She read the inscription on the label.
"Essence of C. Sativa Ghatiana." she read, taking obvious care not to articulate the "C" part further than an initial. "For medicinal use only."
Mariella grinned.
"What are the medicinal uses?" she asked, teasing.
"As a topical preparation for certain eye problems." Bekki replied. "It eases the symptoms of glaucoma, cataracts and issues with the ocular muscles. It eases people who are fitting, or who have nervous problems, and it eases muscle pain and stiffness." (1)
"And of course, there are no other uses." Aunt Mariella said, completely straight-faced.
"None at all." Bekki replied, holding her aunt's gaze.
Mariella smiled slightly. She broke off and spoke to the labourers.
"Dertien, I believe Baas van Linden wants you to start work on digging a langdrop poefdoef? Find a spade, could you, and get started? Dankie. Marius? Can you take the handcart back to stores, if we're done here? Then come back with a spade and help Dertien. Dankie. And you, Tilde, draw a hand-drill and some screws and a screwdriver, big enough to get this cabinet mounted on the wall where Miss Rebecka wants it. Dankie."
They waited for the labourers to move off out of earshot, and Mariella studied the small phials thoughtfully.
"Your mother warned you about dakka in the Townships, then." she remarked. "And you're right to be careful. There is a problem, and it's not being racialist to say there is. Ag, there are a few white people who are addicted, too."
Mariella turned a sealed glass phial between her fingers.
"Were you planning to use any of this on Hendricka?" she asked.
"It occurred to me." Bekki said. "Heavily diluted in oil as a topical rub, external use only. She wouldn't thank me if I administered it by mouth first thing in the morning. The, errr, side-effects."
Mariella smiled. She was clearly amused.
"The problem is, meisie, to many people around here, the side-effects are the main reason for taking the stuff. And you've brought a lot of it with you. Superconcentrated dakka."
Bekki smiled. "And other things. Like the Agatean poppy oil. Papaver Somniferum. Which is a sedative and a pain-killer. In moderation."
Aunt Mariella looked at the glass-fronted cabinet again.
"However good the lock is, all somebody needs to do is smash the glass." she remarked. "Leave it with me, meisie. For now, perhaps, use the lockable drawer in the desk? And of course not to give special attention to these things. There are people working here who might not be able to resist temptation."
Mariella paused.
"And some of them are white. Trust me."
She stood up and went to the door.
"Dertien?" she called. "Leave the digging, for justnow. Go to the break station in the pressing room. Explain to the foreman you are acting on my instructions, and bring back two large mugs of tea. For myself and Miss Rebecka. Dankie."
Mariella came back to the desk and sat again. Willems the ridgeback laid his head on her thigh and started panting. She stroked his head and ear.
"Need to talk to you about something else." she said. "Ideally over tea, but while it's on the way, I can make a start. I need to consult a witch."
"I'm only a healthcare practitioner." Bekki said. "But I might know where to find you a Witch. And you're right. These things should be discussed over a cup of tea."
Mariella grinned.
"Stayed over last night at the van Jaasvelds." she said. "There are things happening there."
Samara on the River Vulga, Very Far Überwald
"We're here, Mistress." said the navigator, perched in front of the Witch.
"Khorosho."(2) she said, looking down at the almost featureless white plain below that stretched out, seemingly almost endlessly, in all directions.
Admittedly there was a suspicion of green lumpiness over on one horizon, implying a substantial forest was in there somewhere under the ever-present snow. Somewhere on the far horizon in front of her there was the uneven pointiness that suggested there may be mountains under the white. There were various greys in there breaking up the white monotone. She turned her head over to her right; from several thousand feet up, there was the suspicion of a city down there many miles away to the Rimwards, with the glint of what might be metal sheeting on an onion dome catching the weak sunlight. Thin plumes of smoke appeared to be rising and were forming a flat smoky haze, a table of thin smoke, above the presumed city. Behind her the flat plain would stretch back until the next river, probably the Musckovada, which gave way to the River Ron and the rich agricultural Ronbas region, and then to the next river after that, the Fistula, where people spoke a related-but-different language that didn't use Cyrillic. Beyond the Fistula would be the Lipsczitza, called the Lipschitz by the people who lived on its Turnwise side. And a long way beyond that, the Bonk River.
Rodinians giving way to Überwaldeans, with Fistulans sandwiched in between, keeping a wary eye on their more numerous and powerful neighbours.
The witch flew on. Below and in front of her, the snaking frozen icy sheen of a river in winter. This part of the Discworld was largely characterised by flat rolling steppes divided by the inevitable rivers, flowing from the centre of the continetal landmass to the seas. She knew what she was looking at from the flight-maps. Also, she was a Rodinian by birth and heritage. This might not be her part of the Rodinia. Her home was a long way away towards and from here, on the other side of, the Hub. But it was still Mother Rodinia. Some things you know, some things you recognised, even if you'd never been there before. The call of capital-H Home, your native land and people. Rodina'mat.
"Things going on down there, mistress." her Navigator said. "Bearing sixty, maybe five miles away."
Acknowledged." the pilot said. She angled round to follow the new course.
Ah…
She began to spot other colours than white. From this high, it was hard to spot individual movements. But there was some sort of mass down there, moving in a sort of amorphous flowing way. There were also fires. Smoke rising. She noted the sky was clear in all directions. There was cloud up there. But it was high, and on one side scattered, showing some blue. The winter sun was visible. There was also absolutely no sign of horizon-darkening black in any direction.
The witch descended as she approached. Details began to emerge. She watched with pleasurable interest as small pieces detached from the ever-changing brown-grey-black mass, moved around, and either formed their own little sub-groups or else re-merged with the mass. She saw the irregular shapes beginning to take form, with smoke emerging from many of them. A smell familiar from childhood was rising towards her. It was necessarily muted by the cold and the snow, but it was a warm, earthy, slightly sweet small.
And she descended still further, over a herd of possibly five thousand horses. She could now see the subdivisions, the gaps between the various sub-herds, with recognisably human shapes moving among them, tending to her needs.
"You'd think they'd be running out of hay, Mistress." her Navigator remarked.
"Nyet." she said. "Over there, where the wagons are parked and tents erected, there is a permanent village at the heart of things. In the summer months, much hay was collected. It is kept in these places to sustain herd in winter. There are many such villages on Steppe. We plan for our winters. Is much grass in summer. Grows high. Grows back swiftly after being cut. Barns and silos all filled. The stanitsa guards the winter hay and keeps it safe for us."
People below were now aware of the descending Witch. Some were waving up. She waved back. The distance was still too far for voices to carry.
"Also, riders carry fodder in saddlebags and on carts, those who have ridden to gather here. Rare to see so many Cossacks in one place. Usually in winter, smaller groups. But this makes our job easier."
"There is a celebration, a festival, mistress? With Bodka?"
She smiled. The Feegle – and the related Gnomes - were a direct and in some fundamental ways, a simple-minded people. A Feegle had once read the word водка off the label, assumed it was in Morporkian letters, and that the strangely shaped letter in the middle was a "D".(3) "BODKA" had stuck, ever since.
"There is always … bodka… with my people, Navigator Buggy Swires. But not for Navigator who has job to do."
She softened and smiled at him.
"But maybe I bring bottle back. Then you may have drink. After work."
"So what are they celebrating?" Buggy asked, curiously. His pilot indicated the river.
"See where ice is broken?" she said. "Where people congregate at river? There is priest there. Is Festival of Epiphany of Saint Cyril. People purify themselves for new year by bathing in river on this day. You have to break ice first." (4)
Buggy Swires digested this.
"Does this include you yourself, mistress?"
"Nyet, Buggy. Witches make their own rules. My rule is that in January on the Steppe, clothes stay on."
Buggy Swires laughed, appreciatively. Then he braced himself as the witch, having identified where she would come to earth, came in to land. People had gathered, curiously, to observe the flying woman and her companion. She landed quickly, stepped off her broomstick without fuss or drama, and made the witch bow to the big imposing man who was still towelling his hair and beard dry. He had come out of his caravan half-dressed, alerted by an observer to the incoming flight.
"Fyodor Ustinov, Ataman of the Vulga Host. I greet you." she said.
The elected leader of the Vulga Cossacks bowed back.
"Ved'ma. How may I be of service to you?" he replied, politely. He stepped back as his wife brought the standard hospitality items to her.
When the Witch had eaten the bread and was sipping the tea, he asked
"You are not the usual visitor from Ankh-Morpork? Normally one of the flying horses comes. Olga Anastacia or Irena Yannesovna, usually. I have to confess I do not know you, ved'ma."
"My name is Nadezhda Veranovna Popova." she said. "Sergeant of the Ankh-Morpork City Air Watch. Uriadnika of the Siberian Host."
She bowed her head to display the gold-cross-over-blue in the crown of her fur cap. (5)
"Then you are twice welcome, sister of the Vortex Plains."
Vodka was called for. As a Watchwoman, Nadezhda remembered to drink sparingly, as she was on duty. As she was also a Cossack, she knew not drinking at all would have been grossly impolite.
She discussed the everyday courtesies and politenesses with the Ataman, passing on the latest news she and her husband Yuri had from the Siberian Host of the Vortex Plains, hearing the latest information about the ever-fluid borders between the Cossack lands of the Vulga and their neighbours in Muntab and Klatch.
"You don't have such bad neighbours on the Vortex Plains, Nadezhda Veranovna."
Nadezhda considered this.
"The Swommi, maybe." she said. "But we respect each other's rights and we both drink vodka. Sometimes, together. I flew with one such in the Air Police. She could be annoying, but, mostly, a good comrade. On another border we have Hubsvensskans, who are useful people if you require flat-packed furniture items. Acerians, on the other hand."
They discussed the two sorts of Acerians for a while and agreed that people emigrating into what they thought was virgin unpopulated land, which was therefore theirs by Manifest Destiny, might turn out to be trouble when they got more numerous.
"The ones who are lumberjacks in strange clothing, and who farm trees for maple syrup – they are alright, even the Quirmian ones. Been here a long time. No problems. In Ankh-Morpork, I know one who is a schoolteacher, who knows about ice-skating and ice-hockey. The other sort of Acerian, however."
They agreed the Untied States might present a problem in years to come. Hopefully, not theirs to solve. (6)
"You did not arrive on one of the white horses, Nadezhda Veranovna?" the Ataman asked, politely. He continued getting into the layers of over-tunics, ornate jackets, belts and cross-belts that his role called for.
Nadezhda sighed.
"Nyet." she said. "The Pegasi are rare and precious. How many horses are in the world? Millions? In all the world there are only nineteen Pegasi. Vanishingly rare. They come from one small country many thousands of miles to the Turnwise of here. The only place where they are found. Their numbers grow, slowly."
"And Ankh-Morpork commands them all." the Ataman said, thoughtfully.
"Witches command them." Nadezhda corrected him. "Those Witches then choose to work for Ankh-Morpork."
"With Vetinari, do those Witches have a choice?" the Ataman responded.
"Pravda." Nadezhda said, after a pause. "I work for Ankh-Morpork, in the Air Watch. I made that free choice. It is…" she searched for positive things to say about the city. "It is a good place for family. To bring up children. My husband has good work. I have a job I enjoy. Our children go to Siber'ya in summer to learn to be Cossack. In the city, they are Ankh-Morporkian. It works."
"Everything works." the Ataman agreed. "When people are sensible."
"Da. Pravda."
"You arrived on the flying broomstick, Nadezhda Veranonvna?"
She indicated the standard-model ME109, larger, sleeker, more powerful and more imposing than the usual witch's broomstick. It was not the sort of thing a typical working witch flew. Something about it said "I was designed. I am a fighting weapon as well as a broom." As if by some sort of narrative imperative, the forward three feet of Nadezhda's broom, just before the pilot's handgrips, was painted in a bright sulphurous yellow. the rest of the staff was green. She argued it made her stand out in the air.
"It is a device, a tool. It serves. It has its strengths and its pleasures. But it is not a horse."
She sighed.
"In Air Watch, you do not choose Pegasus. Pegasus chooses you. It is not, unfortunately, my destiny. I envy the girls who are chosen. I think we all do. Nichevo."
She quickly got on to the reason for her visit.
"In the last few days over Ankh-Morpork, the weather has been challenging. Very heavy snow and blizzards are things which are not usually seen in winter there, and it presented flying difficulties for the Air Watch."
She made a little shrug.
"Not all of us are Rodinian. Two of our Pegasi needed to fly in from other places with the assistance of our Navigators. Both became endangered and there was a risk of losing them. The snow was so bad that even a Cossack pilot was in trouble, and needed to be found and guided in. The other girl, who is from Howondaland, was in real trouble and was lost for three hours. But I found her too."
"You are Siberian. It is said your people laugh at snow."
"Sometimes. But we are always aware we are not the one making the joke."
The Ataman considered this, then grinned.
"Snow, you laugh at, but treat always with respect. Also, the One who brings the snow. Morozko. Or his sister Maslenitsa."
Nadezhda considered this. Hogswatch and Midwinter were past. The kindly and benevolent Ded Moroz and his grand-daughter Sneguroschka were now their primal selves again. Morozko and Maslenitsa. Husband and wife in some tales; father and daughter in others. Morozko took a young form too, or seemingly young…
"He rides such storms." Nadezhda reminded him. "Witches know him. One witch fought him and vanquished him. But still best not to name him."
She brought the conversation round to the key points.
"Olga Anastacia Romanoff sends greetings. She is aware this day is not a pre-arranged day for a Pegasus Service visitor. But she wishes to visit later, by your leave, on personal business."
"But she sends her uriadnika first?"
"If you send a sotnik out, into unfamiliar terrain, do you not first send scouts ahead of the main force, to seek the way? To look for hazards, to check for ravines, to check rivers can be forded, that there are no marshes and the way is passable? Also that you are not straying from the objective? Well, then. I am Olga's scout. She needs to know two things: that after recent snow, it is safe to land a Pegasus, and also, that one person she seeks is in the camp. As the Festival of Purification is happening, I believe the person she seeks is also here, being polite to the priests of the day, but waiting for the night, and her time."
The Ataman grinned.
"Yes. Dunked in ice-cold water, to make me holy before Epidity. Not just once, the standard three bloody times. I had to go first. One of those things demanded of me. Glad to get the bloody nonsense out of the way, and to get warm and dry."
Nadezhda grinned. Part of the job profile for an Ataman was to be larger than life, big, bluff and hearty, and to stand an evens chance at being able to out-shout Mustrum Ridcully, to at least force a draw with him in an arm-wrestling contest, to match him drink for drink and to share off-colour songs. She wondered if there was a factory somewhere that built this sort of person, bespoke. It was an amusing thought.
He stood up.
"I will give orders, Nadezhda Veranovna. We know what it needs, a landing ground safe for the marvellous Pegasus. Please advise Lady Olga she is always welcome here – as are you – and that the landing area will be marked, so it is visible from the sky. The person she seeks is here and will be drawn to the wingèd horses. She always is."
Bitterfontein, Rimwards Howondaland.
It was somehow fitting, Bekki considered, that the very first person to come to her Steading, with a problem she needed to consult a Witch about, should be her aunt.
She discounted one of the reasons why a young married woman – well, any woman – should come to consult a Witch. Okay, Aunt Mariella was getting brick-sized hints about the absence of children in the lives of their grandmothers. And she was – Bekki did a quick mental calculation – about the same age as Mum when she had me.
Bekki discounted this. One thing any Witch learned quickly was how to identify something intangible about a woman, which is unmistakeable - when you see it. Godsmother Irena referred to it as The Glow. Something extra, which alerted you to something else in there. Godsmother Irena had then shown her how to go deeper, and spot it. They'd spent an hour together in a coffee-shop that overlooked a busy street, where Irena had shown Bekki how to unfocus slightly and to see the unique aura everybody had. Her Godsmother had said to look closely at the women passing by. No clues, devyuschka. You'll see it in some women.
It had taken most of the hour, but an unmistakably pregnant woman had walked past who had two auras. The second one was lower down, in her belly. Then she'd seen it again, like a flickering pilot light, in the belly of a woman who outwardly didn't look pregnant at all. Godsmother Irena had said this was the tell. It was a useful Witch-skill, to know this thing even before the mother did. It happened in Steading work. A lot.
Bekki had unfocused and assessed her aunt, looking for The Tell.
No, not pregnant. But something's worrying her. So listen.
Mariella explained that the previous night's tropical lightning and torrential rain had trapped her at a friend's plaas where they'd stayed overnight. Well, friends of Horst, really, But Anna's okay. She's from Wakkerstroom, originally. Married Jan, who's local.
Bekki listened to her aunt's description of the van Jaasveld family. She also got that Aunt Mariella, who was usually bluntly direct, seemed to be talking around the point she wanted to make, rather than to address it directly.
She's not certain, Bekki realised. Something's happened, to her, and to other people, while she was at the van Jaasveld plaas, but she isn't entirely sure what it was and it's outside her experience. That's why she's struggling a little in talking about it.
An Aunt Mariella who was unsure wasn't something Bekki had seen often. And if Aunt Mariella wasn't sure, Bekki wondered how far she could help. Then Bekki remembered she was the Witch here. The one who had to be sure of herself and to be definite. Even if she was wrong. And Witches were never wrong, Nanny Ogg had said. The rest of the world might need to buck its ideas up occasionally and get in step, but Witches are never wrong.
"So there's Old Jan, who's approaching seventy and started a family late." Bekki said, getting the information straight in her head. "Jakoba is more than twenty years younger, but might as well be the same age. Old-time marriage. He dictates, she obeys."
"One son, two daughters." Aunt Mariella agreed. "Young Jan gets to inherit. His sisters both moved out as quickly as they could. They only come back for duty visits. Young Jan did his Army service at Lawkes' Drain. Met Anna on a local leave. Brought her back here with him. No children. Old Jan and Jakoba are being unhelpful about this. Pressing."
Bekki saw the look on her aunt's face. Mariella was no stranger to being pressed by hopeful not-quite-grandparents. She gathered, from a passing acquaintance with the wine-pressing sheds, that there was pressing and then there was pressing. Some of the tools used to press the last of the liquid from the dregs and the lees could be very emphatic. (7)
Bekki got it. Four years married, no children, (Aunt Mariella hinted not for want of trying), the parents-in-law hinting Anna might not be a bargain as a daughter-in-law and there might be something wrong with her, do you think? That sort of Pressing.
Bekki waited for a lull.
"There are… err… things I got from Lancre." she said, uncertainly. "Mrs Ogg said there are situations as calls for them. Where a married couple needs a helpin' hand, she said."
"You almost sounded like Nanny Ogg there." Aunt Mariella said, amused.
Bekki shuddered. Nanny Ogg, knowing she was going to a Steading on her own, had spent a thorough and descriptive couple of hours explicitly explaining what the stuff in the special box was for. And if you runs out, Bekki, love, just drop by for refills. If you gets me some stuff from Howondaland in return, I'd be grateful. You didn't forget tuition like that, if you were a young Witch to whom Nanny Ogg had condescended to Impart Knowledge(8). It stuck, in all its horribleness.
"I'll mention that to Anna and Jan." Mariella said, seriously. "Things from the old Lancre witches tend to work. So where are we up to? Oh, thanks, Dertien, you can go back to digging now. Baas van Linden's picked a good spot, near to here, and nowhere near the water table? I'll come out and check. You know there's a spring that serves the winery a couple of hundred yards down. Put a poefdoef anywhere near where we draw water for the winery, and I'll have your hide. Dankie."
Dertien, who had arrived with the tea, returned Mariella's grin. Bekki assessed this. It was clear to her there was respect for Mariella among the workforce, an easy baas – employee relationship.
"You wouldn't have him actually whipped, would you, Aunt Mariella?" Bekki asked, teasingly, when he was out of earshot.
Her aunt grinned, taking no offence.
"Of course not." she said. "Never done it, never will do it. I think they know that. But what sort of a baas would I be if I didn't threaten to, every so often?"
Bekki got it; you had to hold the possibility open, even if everybody involved knew full well that Mev'Mariella would never cross that line. Probably never.
Mariella stopped smiling.
"Now Oude Jan, on the other hand." she said. She left Bekki to work out the unsaid.
"Old Jan has used a whip on his employees?" Bekki said.
"Not so much now." Mariella said, with distaste. "But when he was younger and more vigorous. "Dominating personality. Bad temper. Getting old now, and going stone deaf. Not much education, but he can read the Scriptures and quotes them freely."
Mariella's mouth hardened.
"Not above the occasional chastising slap to his wife. And from what I hear, to his daughters. Another reason why they only visit when they have to."
"That's horrible!" Bekki said. She was seventeen-ish. And she couldn't remember a single time either of her parents had slapped her. Or her sisters.
Bekki listened on. Mevrou Jakoba. Came out of herself a bit more when away from her husband, but not the brightest candle on the chandelier. Slordig. Well, probably not slordig(9), she does keep a clean house. But… there doesn't seem to be much going on in there over and above huisvrou, as if that's all that defines her.
"And she's married to Oude Jan." Bekki said, trying to imagine it. "She must have been… nineteen? Twenty? He'd have been nearer fifty than forty?"
Bekki tried not to shudder. She reminded herself this was not unknown in Lancre or the Chalk, and must happen in Ankh-Morpork. It wasn't exclusive to Rimwards Howondaland.
Aunt Mariella nodded.
"Ja. Late teens. Her parents had a spare daughter they wanted shot of. I'm betting she was… well, not a great catch. Homely. Not all that bright. Not… well, not the first girl a boy of her own age would look at. It's how things are done in this country, meisie. Her parents probably thought they were doing the right thing. Older man, looking for his second wife, no children from the first, established, owns his own plaas. So they married her off. Probably thought they were doing her a favour."
Bekki considered this. Aunt Mariella had been matter of fact about how these things worked: she had arrived back in Rimwards Howondaland, aged nineteen, after Education in Ankh-Morpork. Straight away, Ouma and Oupa – especially Ouma – had started working on getting their last single daughter safely married off. Ouma had seen the possibilities inherent in Horst Lensen. After some persuading, Oupa had gone along with the idea. They had met and spoken to Hendricka Lensen, who had been agreeable. (10) After meeting Mariella, Hendricka had said to her new best friend Agnetha Smith-Rhodes that "this thing will happen". Mariella had not stood a chance.
Bekki reflected that her grandparents were pretty benign, and passionately loved their extended family. She accepted this might not always be the way things worked out and that other families had issues. She wondered how many Issues she was going to see in this country.
She also bit back the uncomfortable realisation that, a couple of months shy of her seventeenth birthday, there'd be a lot of people in this country who were going to view her, Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, as of marriageable age. It was a yukky thought. (11) She took a deep breath, and focused on what was important.
"So, Old Jan is an old-time head of the family. He's a domineering dictator married to a doormat. He used his fists, or maybe his open hand – and the belt? on his children to enforce discipline. So his two daughters only visit when they have to. He's married to a doormat of a woman who has the personality of a wet streepsak. He thinks discipline in his labour force involves a sjaemboek. He mistakes knowledge and intelligence with being able to quote Holy Scripture."
Aunt Mariella nodded and smiled grimly. She continued.
"His bleck labourers work for him because there isn't an alternative for them. The best and the brightest don't go to the van Jaasveld plaas if they can get better elsewhere. So he has a reluctant unmotivated staff. Young Jan's aware of this, and he's trying, really trying, to do better. He's tied to the plaas because it's his inheritance. The wife he brought here from the Transvaal is finding it purgatory, but she can't leave either."
"Young Jan and Anna?" Bekki asked.
"He's alright, considering his upbringing." Mariella said. "He's…" she considered. "He's a bru. Fifteen-a-side, ex-Army, refreshingly normal. He's seen the way we do things here, and how this plaas has modernised over the years. In all respects. He wants to do the same for the van Jaasveld business. But they're at most breaking even, turning a slight profit on their wines. The old man is terrified of debt, and won't invest. He tries to cut costs everywhere he can and the place is going even further to ruin. They're using eighty year old equipment which is past it, and needs replacing. Keeps breaking down. Meanwhile Anna, the daughter-in-law, is just one rung above the bleck servants, as she is not properly family. She's clever, imaginative, pleasant. And she's being pickled in there. Suffocated."
Mariella continued.
"And this girl gets sent out from the border, where people are starting to worry. To keep her safe. The old man makes it clear she isn't completely welcome – she isn't from their family – and they want to pull her out of school and make her work for her keep."
Bekki considered this.
"Ellie isn't particularly pretty, or clever, she's shy and withdrawn, she feels like a thick steamed pudding, and that's what people see, because that's how she presents." she said. "A thick steamed pudding. Saw girls like that at school."
Aunt Mariella nodded.
"You've got it." Mariella said. "Which is one thing I'd like to ask if you could, you know, take a look at. She's thirteen. You're almost seventeen. You might be able to get through better than I can? No rush on that."
Bekki wondered about the old man's deafness. Could it be as simple as badly clogged ears? If she could get an introduction, maybe offer to syringe his ears, so he could perhaps hear things better…
"So you've got an isolated huis out on the other end of the hills – the Sandrifts." Bekki said, trying to picture it. "Five people stuck there in each other's company with a lot of unspoken arguments going on and a dominating father figure who wants everything doing his way. He has been known to get violent. That sounds utterly horrid."
"It is." Aunt Mariella said. "He's like a throwback to the way Boers were three centuries ago. And in Sto Kerrig before that."
She drank her tea.
"Bekki, you're a healthcare practitioner." she said. "Who trained in Lancre. I want to talk to you now about the other things happening on the van Jaasveld plaas. The sort of things a healthcare practitioner trained in Lancre might know more about than, for instance, a Guild-educated Assassin."
"Okay. Go ahead." Bekki said, intrigued.
She listened to her aunt's account of the haunting and the apparition, with a growing sensation composed of equal parts of horror, fascination and concern. She made herself listen and not ask questions, knowing the time for questions would come later.
"I'm sorry to land this one in your lap." Aunt Mariella said, at the end. "There could be easier things for you, right at the start of your Steading."
Bekki shrugged.
"You do the job that's in front of you." she said. "Lesson one. Godsmother Irena made that clear right at the start. You do know the first thing I ever did as a Wi.. healthcare practitioner – was to lance Nobby Nobbs' boils?" (12)
Aunt Mariella considered this. for a moment her mouth made an "O" of horror.
"How old were you?" she asked.
Bekki shrugged.
"Eleven. Godsmother Irena believed in throwing me in at the deep end. Right from the start."
Bekki grinned and patted her aunt's hand.
"Nothing after that was ever as bad again." she said, reassuringly. Then she became serious and asked the pent-up questions.
"This only started happening after Ellie arrived at Hartebeeste?"
Mariella nodded.
"And this thing shows up after she's gone to bed and fallen asleep?"
Mariella indicated assent.
Bekki thought, furiously.
"Usually after a bad family scene, where the tension gets so thick in the air you could cut it with a sword? And last night. When that really big lightning storm happened. I'm sure there was magic discharging in the air last night. I could feel it."
"They say you can taste it, if you've got magic?" Mariella asked.
"Ja. It's like sour tin in the mouth. Metal and lemon juice. Like a sort of acid."
"And you tasted it last night."
"When I was landing Boetjie. Although I was concentrating more on getting down safely." Bekki said.
She frowned.
"Listen, Aunt Mariella. You don't have magic. But it was so strong last night that you saw this… ghost, or spirit, or entity, or whatever it is. That tells me this is strong, and it was using a lot of magic. Something was feeding it, maybe it was just filling up on the magical lightning. Almost everything I know on these things is what I've got from Dad and Grandfather Mustrum and from older wi… healthcare practitioners."
Bekki composed herself.
"This thing that tied your hair up. Did it at any time show any, you know, intelligence? Were you able to talk to it, or did it try to talk to you?"
Mariella considered this.
"It didn't speak as such." she replied. "It did appear to understand me when I said I was going to fight it. It stopped approaching me then. But nothing you could definitely say was communication."
Bekki breathed out.
"I have to tell you, Aunt Mariella. The first thought was that something from the Dungeon Dimensions has found a way in. To do that, somebody needs to have opened a doorway for them. They can only manifest in the world if somebody's given in. Surrendered their will."
"And these things are bad, are they?" Mariella asked.
"Always." Bekki said, with feeling. "I've fought them twice. Dad thinks they have a hive-mind, that they learn from every encounter with a magic-user. That's why we're only usually attacked once by them. They avoid people with experience, who've met them before."
Then Bekki felt ice-cold and shuddered.
"They come to new people. Who are just starting out. It's why new wizards and wi… healthcare practitioners… must be taught. Anyone who hasn't been discovered and who isn't being supervised by an older woman, that's potentially trouble. So what if Ellie's got witchcraft and doesn't know it?"
"Do you think that's possible?" Mariella asked.
"Or she could just be a spirit medium, like Mrs Cake in Ankh-Morpork." Bekki said. "Not full-blown wi… not full blown. Just some skills. Like Ruth, who has just enough magic for her to be interesting."
Bekki thought furiously.
"It doesn't sound like Dungeon Dimensions." she said . "It looks like a Dungeon Dimensions Thing. You know, lots of bits that don't properly fit together. Those lobster-claws you described, but also human hands and arms, all mashed up. Like somebody shook up the leftovers box to see what was in it. But they don't usually come in ones. The moment a door gets opened, they rush at it and swarm through. And they talk to you. If only to gloat."
Mariella considered this.
"So once they're in our world. They bleed and die like anything else?"
"And in their own world, Aunt Mariella. Ask Cousin Johanna. When they were menacing Ruth, we got to fight them."
Mariella grinned. Bekki knew that look. It was an Assassin, considering a client and working out a strategy. They might be things from the realms of Magic, but conventional weapons could damage them. An Assassin could fight alongside a witch here.
"So when I put two throwing knives though it and it disappeared?" Mariella asked.
Bekki considered this.
"Nothing left? No bits? No blood? There are usually things left after you kill one. Lots of mess."
"And you should know. "Mariella said. There was respect in her voice. "Nothing there. Just my two knives sticking into the back of the door. And Ellie screaming in her sleep."
"You frightened it away, probably." Bekki said. "You used steel. Iron can hurt these things. Or ward them off. But I don't think you killed it. It'll be back. It's tied to Ellie somehow, I'm sure of it."
Bekki considered.
"I'll have to talk to people." she said. "Godsmother Irena. Olga. Some of the others in the Air Watch. Find out what they know. I don't think this was Dungeon Dimensions. They should have got the message by now about Smith-Rhodes women. But you never know."
They sat in silence together. From outside there was birdsong and the scratching, chunking, noise of spades. It sounded oddly reassuring.
"There's a going-away party next week for an old witch." Bekki said. There'll be lots of older and more experienced people there. Somebody must have seen this kind of thing before. But before then, can you get me to the huis? If Anna, for instance, develops a bad shoulder or a sore foot or something? Or if Young Jan has a few fifteen-a-side bruises?"
Mariella considered this.
"I need to be invited." Bekki pointed out. "I can't just walk in. And I need to know. So I can say for instance to Olga Romanoff, or to Mrs Proust, that I've been to the place to see for myself."
"I'll get you in there." Mariella promised her.
Bekki spent the rest of the afternoon organising her workspace, making notes as to what was still needed, assigning shelf-space for the routine equipment and preparations, ensuring the problematic stuff was discreetly locked away.(13)
She even gritted her teeth and forced herself to pin up the hated "Only for blacks" and "Strictly for white people" signs in the approved places. Aunt Mariella had been thorough here, and had left a pack of drawing pins in with the office stationery.
Samara on the River Vulga, Very Far Überwald
Dimitri Leonovich, aged eighteen, reckoned he would remember that night for the rest of his life. The day had been one of religious devotion and duty. He'd had to strip down to his undershorts and immerse himself into the icy cold of Mother Vulga. Not once but three times, as the ritual demanded. Father Fyodor had supervised the breaking of some uncomfortably thick ice on the river at the hallowed place where Purification happened, where permanent steps and hand-rails led down to the water. Dimitri wondered if and when Father Fyodor underwent the ritual. There had been no sign of the comfortably built priest stripping off his layers of robes and descending to the waters, where the People, both men and women, had gathered to make observance. About the only warm memory of the day returned and Dimitri smiled to himself. There had been no segregation by sex at the river.
The crowd had moved forward in anticipation as, in the growing dark of the Steppe night, the Witches had stepped forward, barely visible in the gloom. This was their time now. Father Fyodor and the other priests, who had ruled the day, had discreetly withdrawn. Epidity was giving way to other Gods. Older Gods, who had been here for as long as the Steppes and the forests and the mountains.
Dimitri had watched as seven Witches took station around the unlit bonfire. At least, he counted seven. All were of the People, but three had arrived on the marvellous flying horses from Ankh-Morpork to supplement the numbers. It was hard to tell which they were as they were blending in, wearing anonymous black clothing now, not their City uniforms.
He knew enough to know there should be eight, evenly spaced. But he had only counted seven. Maybe that was down to the thing about eight being an unlucky number. Even if the thing about a group of eight ved'mas was that the bad luck would happen to somebody else.
The seven witches, spaced around the bonfire as if there were eight there, and leaving a gap where an eighth should be, appeared to count down. Then seven fireballs were invoked into being and were thrown into the huge winter bonfire. The ones thrown by the women who were Air Witches seemed the largest, fiercest and most definite, and burnt with the whitest light.
Dimitri blinked away afterimages and noted that with the bonfire well ablaze, with moving patterns of light and deeper shadows playing around the silent, still, Witches, the night was becoming somewhat scarier and a lot more sinister.
Two of the witches moved from the fire and stood twenty yards apart. Dimitri wasn't sure, but thought one of them was Lady Olga Romanoff, the Hetman of the Air Witches. The other might have been her sotnik, Irena Yannesovna. The two were frequent visitors, renowned for their mastery of the marvellous white flying horses.
They faced each other, and extended their right arms, fingers pointing. There was a count of maybe three, and a curtain of vivid red and yellow fire erupted between them. Incredibly, neither was affected. The fire danced and burnt , its core white hot… and then She appeared. The watching Cossacks, men, women and children, made a loud noise that sounded like awe and respect as the figure of the woman appeared inside the fire and for a long moment, stood motionless, the flames appearing to greet her as a sister and a friend.
The witches Olga Anastacia and Irena Yannesavichniya bowed from the waist, in deep reverence, as the curtain of fire went out, leaving only Her, some of the light of the fire surrounding her as an aura.
She appeared to be clad in pink-red, the colour associated with Her, Zorya Vechernyaya, the Zvezda Denitsa, the Lady of Twilight and the Evening Star, herald of night. And she danced, circling the fire, dancing widdershins, silent, voiceless. Every so often she slowed or paused to look one of the People in the eye, then danced on.
And in this way she came to Dimitri Leonovich and made his night memorable. Close to, he saw she was wearing silver and gold ornaments, with a banded silver head-dress holding back long black hair. Knowing old eyes held his. She didn't speak as such, but the words of the Goddess formed inside his head.
"What? You do not think I saw you at the river edge, watching the women and the girls when they went to the water, purified themselves, and emerged? That's alright, Dimitri Leonovich. I do not judge these things, you know this is the only time in the year when young unmarried men get to see young unmarried girls wearing thin shifts which cling, do they not, after immersion? You looked upon Marisya Yelanovna, and you thought: I would get to know this girl better.
He thought the goddess laughed. Not unkindly.
That's how it is, Dimitri. And at the same time the girls get to see the young men in only their undershorts and, who knows, a girl may also think "Dimitri Leonovich is a young man who is pleasing to look at. I hope he seeks me out and speaks to me."
The Goddess playfully patted his cheek. He flinched at the warmth of Her touch, then heard Her voice again, but this time spoken, in actual words.
"Go to Marisya Yelanovna." She said. Dimitri felt a sudden hope and warmth and tried to stop his knees buckling.
Then she was gone, dancing on, selecting and speaking to others, until she passed behind the fire where there were no People.
Here she met Olga and Irena, who were ready to assist as she stripped off the red robes and quickly donned the accoutrements they were guarding for her.
"There's a word, in Morporkian." Irena said.
"Da. Olga Anastacia explained. Boffo. A good word." said Xenia Drugoymirovna Galena, Shamaness to the Vulga Cossacks.
Olga and Irena expressed admiration and appreciation. It wasn't often they got to see a Shaman who was good at it. But then, this was a Shamanka, one who channelled her Gods to the People, a Priestess.
"What colour of cold fire, this time?" Olga asked.
Xenia Galena adjusted the fit of her head-dress. She accepted the hide drum and the beating stick.
"This time, I think white. With a little cold blue and green." she said.
The Shamanka stepped out again, emerging through the curtain of hungry cold fire. Again she received the ritual bow from the Witches, who discreetly fell in behind her, unobserved. All eyes were on their shamanka as she ululated and beat the drum. Olga thought it was possibly the horse-skull head-dress that clinched it. It made Xenia look otherworldly, frightening, scary.
She also noted that Xenia was going barefoot in the snow and ice. It didn't seem to be slowing her much. In fact, steam was rising wherever her feet fell, and her progress was marked by a series of footsteps melted in the snow. It wasn't all boffo. Not by any means.
The two black-cloaked Witches followed on behind the silver-and-black dressed Shamanka. Only partly visible in the firelight, there were several thousand people out there. And they were all dead silent. Many were kneeling.
The bonfire crackled. But the other sound that carried was the beating of the hand-drum and the singing and ululation of the shamanka. There was nothing else there. The steam rising from where the snow was melting around her feet, and visible in the corona of light surrounding the shamanka, in the colours of the Hub lights, white, green and blue. The light reflecting and bouncing from the silver ornamentation she wore, from the beads and braiding, from the polished semi-precious stones.(14)
And most of all, from the polished white horse-skull, the green and blue coldfire randomly reflecting off it.
Xenia Galena paused, was silent for a moment, and then raised her head and whinnied. And several thousand horses whinnied back. This necessarily went on for quite some time.
Afterwards, there were people who would have sworn on solemn oath that the horse-goddess Ratainitsa had manifested to Her people. Or else the Horse-Goddess Devana. Opinion was divided.
The shamanka and her attendants moved round to the other side of the fire again, out if sight. Helping Xenia into a long dark cloak, they discreetly retired to her caravan home.
"Well, that went alright." Xenia remarked, as Olga, Irena and Nadezhda helped her divest of her ceremonial costume and get back into everyday clothing again.
"Impressive." Nadezhda Popova remarked.
"The people will remember." Xenia said, wrapping footcloths on. She smiled down at the youngest person present.
"If you do not already know how to do this, devotschka, then watch. It is a useful skill."
"Mamya has shown me." Tatiana Nadezhdovna Yermeka said. "But I prefer socks."
"Socks wear out." Xenia said. "Portyanki never wear out."
"But in Ankh-Morpork, socks are plentiful." Nadezhda said, practically. "You are right, of course. Our young people should know how to wear portyanki. My husband demands it of our two sons. Although so long as they know how to wind a footcloth at need, I am easy about their wearing socks. And they all stink when a boy has worn them who still needs to be reminded to change them daily."
"Pravda." Xenia said, reaching for boots. She smiled at Tatiana again.
"So you and your mamya were in the crowd, watching." she said. "What did you learn, Tatiana Nadezhovna Popova?"
"Many people saw nothing but you." Tatiana replied, with five year old seriousness. "They could not stop watching you. Nobody paid attention to Auntie Olga or Auntie Irena who were with you. They were invisible." Then she frowned, and added
"My name is "Yermeka" because of my father. "Popova" is mamya's name."
Xenia smiled. She tugged a boot into place.
"It will become "Popova" when you get older, devotschka. You will still honour and love your father, but you will take your mother's name. That is pravda."
Tatiana sighed a deep resigned sigh.
"So I am to be a witch, then." she said.
The older Witches in the room smiled.
"See? You know." Auntie Irena said. "A witch always takes her mother's name. Traditional."
"My daughter Valentina also knows, deep down." Auntie Olga said. "It isn't a bad thing. Not at all."
"Valentina and her brother Vassily come here to learn about our people." Mother said. She took Tatiana's hand. "I spoke with Auntie Olga. Would you like to come out here with Valentina and Vassily to stay with Xenia for a few days?"
"I love having Olga Anastacia's children to stay." Xenia said, with a warm gentle smile. "One more would be no trial. I can show you, perhaps, how to beat the shamanka's drum."
Tatiana considered this.
"Can I wear some of the things you wore tonight? They're really pretty. And, well, the light in the pretty stones. I saw things in the way the light shone."
The adults looked at each other.
"Just a little picture. The one called Firebird. She's kind. I like her. In the light from the stones, I saw something like scissors going near her hair. But not scissors…" Tatiana frowned in perplexity. "It wasn't there for long enough."
"Maybe she was wondering about going to a hairdresser." Irena said, thoughtfully. "I'll ask her."
"The Firebird." Xenia said fastening her long black coat. She held her arms wide and smiled at Tatiana. The little girl ran to her new adopted auntie for a cuddle.
"Perhaps we have a little shamanka in the making, Nadezhda Veranovna? I promise you I will not take her to places which are not appropriate for a girl of five. Olga Anastacia, did I tell you that on a vision quest last week, I saw the Firebird and her Pegasus, in the realm of Topacxi? Interesting the little shamanka saw her too, tonight."
They discussed this for a while.
"And, Olga Anastacia, is one known to you called Kiiki Pekkisaalen?"
Olga groaned.
"Now what's she done?" she asked.
"Ah." Xenia Galena said. "You do know her, then."
After a while and a round of glasses of tea, the business about the passing of Natalia Svetlanavichya was discussed. Xenia nodded her understanding.
"A Babayaga is passing to the other world."
She paused.
"Now I understand the meaning of what was given to me in the Otherworld. Sometimes these things are not as clear as you would like."
She reflected.
In her youth, Natalia had shamanka skills. Of course a shamanka should be there to help with the rituals. I will attend, Olga Anastacia. Gladly. It will also be interesting to see the place you and Irena Yanessovna grew up in. How you were shaped."
They talked on for a while.
Nadezhda considered her daughter, who had fallen asleep.
"It's been a long day for her. School, then a flight here with the three of us. It was important for her to attend this evening and see the honouring given to the Old Gods. But, Olga, Irena, we're all working tomorrow. Tatiana has school. It might be a good idea to find the Feegle, before they find the vodka, and fly back to Ankh-Morpork?"
"Or before they find too much vodka." Olga agreed. "I'm not unreasonable."
"We've done what we needed to." Irena agreed. "I've brought the mail from the Cossacks working for Ruth N'Kweze. I've passed on her word that there's always room for more, if they agree to fight for her. People here are reassured the ones who went to Howondaland arrived okay, and they like it there. The mail and the iconographs I brought over will circulate. Ruth will get more recruits."
"Nadezhda and I spoke to the Ataman and passed on Vetinari's best wishes." Olga said. "We discussed such things as needed to be discussed, there is nothing of urgency, and I can report back to Vetinari. We are also taking Xenia Galena to Natalia's Leaving and the wake afterwards. Khoroscho."
"And I have now met the people of the Vulga Steppe." Nadezhda said. "I will tell Yuri that our daughter will also be coming here for education and that he is not to argue about this. Also, when I think he is ready, that our daughter is not only potentially a ved'ma, she has a little shamanka in there too."
She paused, reflectively.
"And we also need to find out if Rebecka the Firebird really is currently wondering about going to a hairdresser." Nadezhda added. "If she had this thought just as Tatiana received a picture, it would be very interesting."
"Something that wants to cut her hair." Xenia said, thoughtfully. "It is long and red, is it not? And women in her family like to keep it long and red. Her family was at the Gathering of Witches last summer. Her mother, the warrior. Also a sister and two cousins. And the grandmother who rules over the family. Most women in her family have long red hair. That tells me it would be unusual if one wishes to have it cut. There may be more to this, Olga Anastacia."
Olga recalled Tatiana's exact words.
Something like scissors.
"I'll call by. I'd like to see how she's getting on in Howondaland, anyway. It is her independent practice as a witch. We should call by."
Getting long. Too long, might look to edit and prune. But posting whole and entire, subject to the usual review and revision. To be continued…
(1) Apparently these are the officially admitted beneficial medical uses of cannabis preparations. Its use as an anti-depressent is still being officially investigated.
(2) An apology to Russian readers. I had it fixed in my head that the best spelling of this useful Russian word was simply "horoscho", which is the latinised spelling I've seen in so many places. I blame it on Anthony Burgess myself and the "Nadsat" slang used in "Clockwork Orange", where it comes out as "horrorshow". Anyway, the Russian spelling is "хорошо́", and that initial aspirant "x" is more than a "h", there's a sort of "k" click in there too. So… apologies… (discovered there are subtleties and complexities about using the word. So not as all-purpose as I thought. "horoschi", "otlischna", (amazing), "v'chusno" ("very tasty" as in food) "ponyal/ponyatno" ( to comprehend or understand well, "alles klaar") "mnoy nravitsya" – (to like or appreciate something well). Source: Russian teacher Fyodor – "Be fluent in Russian" on YouTube). Noting it here and stinking up the footnote to get it clear in my head as I listen and repeat.
(3) Rob Anybody had got this right, pretty much accidentally. Olga Romanoff had decided not to correct him on the B-V thing. It had been "BODKA" ever since. See The Price of Flight. It had become an Air Watch in-joke, like the "PECTOPAH" thing.
(4) This is a real Russian thing. I'm advised it's not compulsory, but in the Russian Orthodox Church on January 19th, there is a tradition of dunking yourself in icy water in sub-zero temperatures as an act of purification for the coming year. Lots of YouTube vids out there, even though the emphasis, sorry to say, appears to be on women in skimpy shifts (mandated by the religion, although optional these days) or else in bathing costumes, daring the plunge. The ritual and religious aspects appear to be skimmed over. You tubers, hey…
(5) I think this is right. Got as far as recognising there are distinctions. White cross over black – Volga; white cross over red – Don; this is an important detail and courteous to get it right. Problem is, there appear to be at least five Cossack sub-families in Siberia, so if I've chosen the wrong colours for Nadezhda – apologies.
(6) The Compleat Discworld Atlas gives the general location for the Discworld's residual and moribund "Russia", split over quite a few currently coherent nation states but – so far – not a nation in its own right as we know it on Earth. The thing is… it butts up against "The Great Outdoors", the first admission that a North America-like place exists on the DW. The Great Outdoors – in exactly the same place I put my Aceria, incidentally- is being peopled by refugees and emigrants from other parts of the Central Continent who want to get away from poverty, repressive rule and endless pointless wars. Exactly where the USA was in the 1700's – 1800's. So we have a potential Russia and a potential USA poised to butt heads with each other over a hazy and ill-defined land border.. (Canada is in there somewhere too, but everybody's OK about Canadians. Decent people).
(7) Ah, this is fun. Had a vague idea that the very last squeezes out of the press are not going to make the best quality wine and might go to a derivative product like vinegar. This is only half right. There are also seven or eight different pressing machines and techniques for wine-pressing. French or Spanish or Italian people dancing on the grapes with bare feet no longer figures. Apparently.
(8)" Seein' as how Irena, good girl, good Witch, bloody good at what she knows best, might not have had too much personal experience of what you might call The Mechanics, I don't mind fillin' in where she might not know much. When you sees Irena next, tell her from me she ain't getting' much younger and in my mind that's a shame and a waste?"
(9) Trying to find Afrikaans words for the concept of a stolid, unimaginative, downtrodden frumpy housewife. "slordig" came up, but this is a "slattern" in the sense of a lazy woman who keeps a slovenly house – not the word, really, but looking for better. "Slordig" incidentally, appears to be related to English (Br and Am) "slutty" and might be a related term… slord/slut/slattern. It all comes back to Dutch…
(10) It's all in my tale Gap Year Adventures.
(11) her Second Thoughts said "Ampie" here. Then they clarified with "Look, you don't have to marry him. But isn't it useful for you to be able to demonstrate there's a candidate there? It'll stop people trying to be helpful and match-make for you. If it helps, this is the classic "thank you for your interest but I've already got a boyfriend" line you are going to need to use. "
(12) Right at the start of Bekki's training, in Book One. She got home to jam pudding and custard for dessert.
(13) Aunt Mariella had also advised her that despite its medicinal uses, possession of Oil of Cannabis Ghatiana was strictly illegal in this great country of ours, and possession of something broadly related had earned her friend Rivka ben-Divorah an eventful residency in a prison cell.(13.1) So keep it under wraps, meisie, or , label it as concentrated eye-drops, or something.
(13.1) See Gap Year Adventures, in which two travellers entering Smith-Rhodesia are checked by Customs and Excise.
(14) Look up Siberian shamaness Olena Uutai for the general idea here. YouTube is your friend here.
The Notes Dump:-
The Laager, where odd ideas, insights, Showing My Workings, and other miscellaneous bits that take my fancy, are all penned, before such ideas as make it continue their Trek into a main story somewhere. Insights into the way my mind works that would gladden a psychiatrist.
Conversation with reader bissek about an aspect of Feegle and distillation that is there in folklore, but which I honestly hadn't even considered….
Bissek wrote:
One thing to note about distilleries - there's an old Scot/Irish tradition that the first fruits of a distillation run belong to the fairies, and failing to do so can cause madness and blindness. This is due to the fact that chemicals that are downright toxic can build up in the pipes (especially old-style stills that use lead pipes), that get flushed out in the first cup of liquid produced in a run.
Normally that offering is made by pouring it out, but now the Horst distillery has a pixie living nearby. Does that make the first glass of each run the property of Wee Archie?
My reply:
Thank you! I'd never even considered this, and it's worth incorporating. Research proceeds: I'm trying to assimilate information about pot-still distillation as practiced in South Africa (and probably elsewhere - it's likely to be pretty much universal in big distilleries, but never presume). Modern SA uses copper piping throughout to try to eliminate the obvious issues with lead - still digging to try to work out when the change to copper piping was made and if this is appropriate to the sort of technological level I'd assume the Lensen distillery is at. (Thinking this would be analagous to 1880 - 1920 on our world, more or less).
I'm seeking to work out if the lethality of those first few drops is solely due to lead piping, or if this might be flushing out any concentrated impurities/ possible lethalities in the product.
Also... would Feegle be deterred for one second by poison in the first-fruit alcohol coming off the still? How would their systems cope with toxins capable of doing serious damage to a full-grown human?
"Ach, weel. You just isnae able to see straight for a wee while, but you goes tae sleep, you has a happy dream, you wakes up, bit of a heid, y'ken, but back tae normal, nae bother."
Problem is... having ingested enough lead salts to kill a human being...
Going to have to give this a bit more thought, but great idea!
From Wikipedia:
Historically, when Cossack men fought in permanent wars far from home, the women took over the role of family leaders. Women were also called upon to physically defend their villages and towns from enemy attacks. In some cases, they raided and disarmed neighbouring villages composed of other ethnic groups. Leo Tolstoy described such Cossack female chauvinism in his novel, The Cossacks. Relations between the sexes within the stanitsas were relatively egalitarian. The American historian Thomas Barrett wrote "The history of Cossack women complicates general notions of patriarchy within Russian society".
The Japanese word for "syphilis" is baidoku, meaning "poisoned plums". There has to be a use for it here. And…. Oshiri Tantei. Just… Oshiri Tantei. That is all.
From an otherwise non-Pratchett discussion on the pronunciation of English words: I wrote
There is what author Terry Pratchett highlighted - a state where people know a word because they've seen it written down in its correct context. They can define it, they can use it correctly, they perfectly understand its meaning... but they have never, ever, heard it spoken. so they mangle it in speech. Pratchett noted this occurs a lot with words like "psychology". For example, an elderly village witch says "per-sick -o- loggy". My own was the Greek-derived name "Phoebe". Saw it in a volume of Greek mythology deemed suitable for kids. About this time a singer called Feebee Snow was in the charts. Well, that's what they said on the radio. Couldn't find her in the pop charts in the paper; they'd mis-spelt "Feebee" as "Phoebe" for some reason. And I was sure that was pronounced "Fo-eeb", it had to be, that was the only way to do it. "Pho-", pronounced "Foe", and "-ebe", pron. "eeb". Simples.
From another discussion on Nordic, or possibly Hubbic, places on the Disc, I wrote:
In Nothingfjord, Hubsvensska and the Scatterguts, special effects wizards are employed who cast spells designed to ensure there is almost-but-not-quite-enough light. The Wizards at Traumehjem Universitet explain that this is called the llaberif spell: casting it creates the desirable moody atmosphere for all things Hubbic, where, for example, central characters in a stage play are purposely moving in a lot of shadow, and creating an ambience of "Hasn't anyone discovered where the bloody light switches are in this country?"
"We haven't. That's why we're all so gloomy. Ask the policewoman over here in the crazy jumper."
"I am Xenia Drugoymirovna Galena. Xenia Galena."
Deities from Russian/Slavonic mythology.
Zorya Vechernyaya, goddess of evening and gathering dark.(Red ?) Zorya Utrennyaya (morning star) (white?) also known as Zvezda Dnieca Denitsa
Zorya Polunochnaya ("Midnight Light"). (the three servants of Baba Yaga – red, white, black)
Ratainitsa – god(dess) of horses (Ratainicza)
Rozanicka/Deva – mother goddess (Vid-Vida)
Morok – Lord of Dark
Devana – goddess of the hunt and horses
Triglav – war god, black horse
Dazhbog/Yutrbog – Sun and Moon Gods, brothers Ognebog – fire god Yarog – the falcon/eagle god
Love. Believe in God. The Shashka.