Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Thirteen
As always, this is now V0.04. Thanks to reader CarrieVS who brought a niggle or two to me; hopefully now corrected!
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.
Got to make a start and more crucially a finish on this – felt pretty washed-out after burning through the blizzard over Ankh-Morpork arc and setting up coming story lines about the Hartebeeste haunting and linking this tale, chronologically, to The Price of Flight. Getting up to linking the two stories - the Going Away party for the Babayaga, Natalia. Oddly enough... needing a lot more "Russian" names. Funny how creativity can stall on simple little things!
Also re-read the last two chapters of Strandpiel 1 and discovered one obvious-in-hindsight continuity error – not sure how to sort it out, it might mean going back to Book One and a slight rewrite of the last-but-one chapter. Ah well. Striving for perfection… can I blame it on History Monks…(1)
As always the chapter took a life of its own and an episode only meant to be a secondary theme went its own sweet way and grew. The idea of Mariella, her vision obscured by a craving for breakfast bacon, and then making a rare slip-up, took off. I've trimmed this for the main tale and added the expanded version as a bonus at the end.
Bitterfontein, Rimwards Howondaland.
Bekki yawned in the very early morning cool. Getting used to the agricultural day, which prized and maximised the available daylight, was going to be a challenge. Left to herself, sometime around seven o'clock, or preferably eight, was a good time to get out of bed and greet the new day. Well, make it nine. Out of bed at five while it was still pretty much dark in the pre-dawn cold. Wash, dress, mug of rooibos tea. With, and this was crucial, the three spoons of sugar that were mandatory for a healthcare practitioner facing her day. Bekki had been grateful that there were duty housemaids up and about to do things like light lamps, provide hot water and towels for washing, and make tea. Declining the offer to help her dress, she had tried not to think about how early they had needed to get out of bed.
By six, with the first light of dawn showing pink in the sky, she was outside the huis, watching the agricultural day begin. Baas van Linden had greeted her with loud affability, and she had wondered if he was like this all the time. No indoor voice and booming geniality. Even to the black labourers he was assembling outside the tool store, and issuing equipment to. Watching them being issued things like spades and rakes and hoes… and pangas… and loading them onto a cart, she considered his amiable and friendly attitude to the blacks was a good point about him. Even if it was slightly patronising and casually racist. That he knew them all by name, and didn't bother to wear a sword or carry a whip, was another point in his favour.
He informed her they were off to one of the top terraces, maybe two miles to the west of here. Bekki adjusted: "Wes" was a local word for "Turnwise". A new vocabulary to learn:Noord, Suid, Oos, Wes. The Vondalaans she had grown up with didn't bother with this and used the accepted Morporkian words, or variations on a theme. Hubwards, Rimwards, Widdershins, Turnwise. Something to do with an older religion that believed we lived on the outside of a globe spinning in space. People who still believed in this had come up with some pretty extravagant theories to explain why we didn't sort of fall off. Apparently, the world orbited the sun, which Bekki found incredible. Anyone knew the sun orbited the world. Or did it? She sighed. Six in the morning... far too early for this.
She contemplated vocabulary items for the cardinal directions. Vondalaans didn't seem to have universally accepted or agreed terms. But then, Sto Kerrig and Phlaanders had apparently clung to the old model of a Roundworld for longer than most parts of the Disc. Her people, she gathered, were a conservative people and slow to change.
Strandvaarts, Naafvaarts, Draaigewys, Antiklokgewys. Although Deosil and Widdersinnen got a look in too. (2)
Considering herself disregarded, Bekki observed the morning unfolding around her. She observed the group of black labourers, men and boys ranging from teens to fifties. Some in sandals, with others, possibly the luckier or more relatively affluent, in better protective boots. Their clothing was basic: variations on a theme of shorts, some in shirts, others in tunics; many had blankets wrapped around upper bodies as a ward against the cold. Generally, their clothing was shabby but serviceable and as clean as they could make it.
Their attitude was submissive and deferential around Baas van Linden and another white foreman who was quiet and watchful. Bekki realised she didn't know his name yet, which held for a lot of people around the Lensen plaas.
She straightened the set of her black bush-hat, the one with the very slight but unmistakeable point in the crown, and just listened. The men were largely silent, but two or three of the younger ones were having a quiet conversation. Idly, Bekki listened. She wondered if the native language, Xhosa, was spoken here, and reminded herself that at least three of the servants at home were from Smith-Rhodesia, which was a long way from here, as far away as you could get while staying in the same country, and there the language was called Shosa.
While trying not to give the impression she was taking interest, Bekki allowed her mind to attune to the rhythms of the language they were speaking, and found large parts of it were beginning to make sense in her head, if she compensated for different accentation and a different rhythm and bounce. And there were words, sometimes whole phrases, she couldn't get at all. That was fine; she was surprised as to how well she was doing.
She did wonder why she was bothering, after a while. It was largely what you might call Universal Boy Talk among young men in their later teens. Apparently one of the maids at the huis, Jona, had a reputation for being free with her favours, and the boys were speculating on who she might favour next. Bekki tried to picture who Jona was, and failed. Just in case she had to bring certain preparations out of the Special Box, if a young woman were to come to her with a pressing concern. It was best to be prepared. She listened on, hearing young men talking about young women in the way they did when they thought nobody else was listening. There was also a maid at the huis who was considered beautiful, but unattainable; two of the boys were teasing a third and telling him he had no chance whatsoever, didn't you know Sanna's the sort who won't even look at a field-hand? She's got ambitions, she'll only go with anyone who works for the Mevrou's household, not in her fields...
Bekki listened on for a while, getting used to Xhosa as it was spoken here. She wondered if she ought to introduce herself, talk to the people who would make up three-quarters of the population of her Steading in their own first language, the one she'd learnt from the servants at home. It would only be courteous, after all...
"Rebecka?" her mother's voice said. Bekki jumped slightly, then realised this was her Second Thoughts talking, inside her head. Her Second Thoughts always took the form of her mother. They spoke as her mother spoke and thought the way her mother thought, full of experience, a wry understanding of how things worked, and had the guile and cunning of a woman who'd been through a lot of life-threatening situations(3) and had come out largely unscathed, one mauling from an angry leopard(4) notwithstanding.
"Do not be in a hurry to advertise that you speak their language." her Second Thoughts said. "They speak as freely as they do among themselves because they believe, with some truth, that white people are too lazy, too superior, and too stupid, to take the time and effort to learn. This is a massive gift to you justnow. Pretend you do not understand a word and look carefully blank. They may be talking the usual male-hormone talk about which women are prepared to put out and which will not. Talking with their penises and thinking with their testicles. But did you notice that even when they think nobody is listening, they still refer to Hendricka Lensen with great respect? Even liking? You can infer from this that they are loyal employees. Besides. Carefully used, understanding their language will give you more credibility as a Witch. Even if you do not declare – yet – that you can speak it. You have an advantage, Rebecka. Use it."
"Bekki?"
She turned round to her right. She simply hadn't noticed that Aunt Mariella had approached her, silently and inobtrusively, from behind her.
"You were miles away, there." her aunt said.
Bekki smiled.
"Just thinking, Aunt Mariella. Watching. Getting a feel for how things are done here."
She noted the black labourers had perked up and were looking more alert now Mariella was here, and conversation had stopped.
"Everything ready to go, Mr van Linden, Mr Langenbuis? Thank you. I'll ride up later, take a look."
They watched the labourers mount into a second wagon to be driven up to the site, the tools they would be using loaded into the first. Bekki noted what looked like a portable oven of some sort had been loaded up, and asked. Mariella shrugged.
"They're going to the most faraway part of our plaas." she explained. Makes sense we cart them out there. No point in their coming back here for lunch, so they might as well have a meal on site. Nothing fancy, but it'll be warm and filling."
Mariella grinned.
"Costs next to nothing, relatively speaking, but not everyone does that for their workers. I want to make sure if we get vacancies here, we fill them quickly, and we can afford to choose the best. So. Little extra perks. They make the difference. Word gets out. People want to work for Lensen's."
They watched the ox-drawn carts lumbering out. The oxen plodded into movement, giving the impression that, speed-wise, this was going to be as fast as it would ever get, so don't bother trying to get us to speed up.
"They had a long trek out of the township to get here." Aunt Mariella remarked. "They can have a free ride on me, in paid time, for half an hour or so. Another perk. Anyway."
Mariella was suddenly alert and enthusiastic. "Got a job for you, if you're willing. Animal work. Coming?"
Bekki considered it was somehow symbolic her first actual work on the plaas involved pigs. As Aunt Mariella looked on, her face betraying astonishment, Bekki helped a first-time porcine mother bring what turned out to be twelve piglets into the world.
"Bekki." Aunt Mariella said, as realisation grew, "Are there always that many?"
"Oh, this is normal. Eight, ten, twelve." Bekki said. She'd seen this a lot at Highmost Pigmanhey. It was nothing new to her. Then Bekki had a horrible feeling. Just because somebody had been born on a farm, managed a farm, and had married into another plaas – it didn't follow on that they would know everything about every sort of farming. And Aunt Mariella had admitted she'd got them as a mixed batch of piglets and yearlings not long before. They'd grown into maturity, a boar and several sows. This was the first litter…
She gave her aunt a long look.
"How many were you expecting?"
The Lensen Vineyards and Distillery (Pty) Ltd.,
Wes Sandrift,
Bitterfontein,
The Turnwise Caarp,
Rimwards Howondaland.
To: Mistress Petulia Gristle (Farmer and Witch),
Highmost Pigmanhey,
Pork Scratching,
In the Kingdom of Lancre.
Dear Petulia,
I have Arrived in Howondaland and taken up Employment at the plaas, that is, the family agricultural concern, managed by my Aunt Mariella and my Uncle Horst on behalf of Horst's mother, Mrs Hendricka Lensen (widow), who remains the sole owner.
I'm sure you and other former tutors and fellow students in Lancre will want to know how I am getting on, and give my love especially to Apricity Brabble, who I miss and have pleasant memories of. I hope we can meet again soon. I know I will be visiting Lancre regularly, as Boetjie my Pegasus will require regular re-shoeing, and the only blacksmith in the World who can serve a Pegasus is Jason Ogg of Lancre Town. Olga Romanoff ensures this is done as needed, and we are requested to pay regards to Nanny Ogg whilst Jason is working on our mounts. I understand this is how Nanny keeps in touch with us all, and most importantly remains up to date on current affairs and events in our lives. I look forward to meeting her again.
Let me tell you about the plaas and how it is organised and the general Run of my duties…
…Aunt Mariella has recently branched out into keeping Pigs. Her justification is that when she managed a farming concern for several months after leaving School, she was in a place where there are very definitely no pigs, and therefore no bacon for sandwiches. Four long months without breakfast bacon, she said. She shuddered when she said this. I understand. When a thing you love is not there, you miss it. Therefore, she wishes for bacon.(5)
She has not been doing it for very long. I believe a wholly understandable desire not to run out of bacon, and to always have some to hand, has resulted in her not doing her research properly. These are the adult pigs which grew from the older piglets she bought, and this is their first breeding litter. The workmen assigned to tending them are good – honest and hard-working - but have no experience either.
Important things first: the pigs, a boar and seven sows, are a mixture of the Duroc breed and the Landrace breed, which over the course of several centuries have been adapted to Howondaland and its unique challenges. They are not quite the pigs we know from the Central Continent, but remain pigs, now habituated to this country, protected from its predators (there are no lions in Lancre!) and have been bred to withstand the diseases and ailments that decimated the first livestock brought here from the Central Continent. They have become, simply, Howondalandian pigs. Twelve piglets born today (three male, nine female) have augmented Mariella's herd. I have checked, and at least three other sows appear to be in farrow. She bought a potentially good boar, anyway. He has been busy. This could well result in an "Oh, dear!" moment.
I do not believe Aunt Mariella has quite accounted for this. Insofar as I have asked, she had a crossed-fingered hope that numbers would remain static – as one is slaughtered for bacon, a new piglet would appear and total numbers remain constant. My aunt is not stupid in these matters, not at all. She is a great organiser and manager, and farming is in her blood. It is simply that she has no experience of managing pigs, and assumed experience with other animals is transferable. However, her animal experience has been with cattle and horses, where young very rarely come in quantities greater than one. With no previous practical experience whatsoever, I do not think it occurred to her that piglets do not, as a rule, arrive singly.
I have every confidence she will learn fast, but for now it appears I am the person on this plaas who knows most about pigs and their management, and this is down to you, Petulia, and what I learned from you.
However, eight pigs have now become twenty and twenty may in the next few months become nearly sixty. Any advice you can give would be very greatly appreciated, as this was only intended to be a sideline, to enable the plaas to be self-sufficient in bacon and have surplus to trade. There will, I think, be a considerable surplus of Pig.
Mevrou Hendricka, who is a forceful woman, may also have opinions to express with regard to the Smell. After birthing the sow, I was forced to return to the huis to bathe and change, and the maid, called Sanna, who received my clothes for cleansing, had apparently not encountered the smell of Pig at such close quarters before. Sanna is a maid who, while deferential and respectful to white people, appears to consider herself a level above other black servants here. This is Rimwards Howondaland, where Apartheid applies. I told you about Apartheid. It does not stop some black people seeking to be superior to other black people, and having ambitions and desires. Sanna has Ambition, if only to become the senior domestic servant in the Household. I think I will pay attention here, if only because usually Servants are taken for granted and treated as a more mobile part of the furniture. The dynamic between Servants is not usually a thing white employers here concern themselves with overmuch. The Mevrous, that is, the senior women of the white household, are products of this country and cannot completely escape their upbringing. My mother, who takes a kindly interest in the lives of our Servants at home, is an exception, and she admits it is because she has spent over half her life in Ankh-Morpork and this has changed her outlook in very many ways.
Anyway, I foresee that Hendricka Lensen is likely to point out, emphatically, this is not a pig farm, it is a vineyard, winery and distillery.
Any advice you could give concerning how to manage an excess of Pig will be gratefully accepted. If nothing else, I can assure Mevrou Hendricka that I am consulting an Expert in pig management, so as to rescue the situation and possibly spare embarrassment to my aunt.
Otherwise, there is another situation I will need to ask advice on, regarding strange events at a plaas near here. I would much prefer to discuss this privately, face to face, and I will try to find a reason to come to Lancre as soon as I can. You will of course recall the conversation we had regarding my moving to Howondaland and the limitations as to what can be said in written words in a letter – some conversations are best had face to face over a pot of good tea!(6)
Please advise me if there is anything you need which Lancre cannot give you, but which Howondaland can provide. I will seek to find it and deliver it to you. Please also ask Yabu and his family if they want anything from Home which I can provide?
Also, next week, I am requested to attend the Going-Away party for an old "healthcare practitioner" who was well-respected and who will be missed. This will be in Zlobenia, which is also part of Rodinia. Irena, my Godsmother, was once her Pupil. As Irena then sponsored me, she and Olga want me to be present. I am hoping my spoken Rodinian is up to it, and for a day I will be immersed in their culture and language and customs. This will be interesting, although it will be my first Going-Away. I will tell you how it went, later. Olga and Irena did, I believe, invite Nanny and Tiffany Aching, but both have regretfully had to decline; I understand lambing in the Chalk may begin early, and Nanny says she can just as easily lift a glass, from her home in Lancre, in memory to somebody she only met once. (The passing of an older Lady in the profession may bring back strong and emotional memories for Nanny?) I suspect there is a Story there, and I will ask Irena. (6a)
With love
Your former pupil and assistant healthcare practitioner,
Rebecka Smith-Rhodes.
Wednesday Afternoon, Tegg's Nose Sports Fields, New Ankh
Connie Muthelezi and Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons ran side-by-side at an easy loping pace. They'd left most of the other girls behind at various stages on the cross-country track and, without any great exertion, were a long way out in front. A chasing pack, in no great hurry to try and overtake, was a hundred or so yards behind, seemingly also motivated by the desire to get it all over and done with, but without any great need to win any prizes along the way.
Feeling distinctly unenthusiastic about it, Famke scowled that without intending to, she'd ended up exactly where she didn't want to be, which was in the lead, in distinct danger of winning the bloody race. Up front, exposed, in danger of having the PE teachers praising her, telling her she was a natural for long-distance running, you will be representing the School in your year-group, and you will be doing a lot more of this.
"I only wanted to be somewhere in the middle." she complained to Connie. "You know. In the pack. Anonymous."
"Same here." Connie replied. "But they're so… Kay, I can't run any slower than this!"
"Same here." Famke replied. "It was like watching a load of steamed puddings back there. Why can't some of them be better at this? It's not as if you and me are even out of breath or anything!"
They ran on.
"It's that new teacher. Miss N'Kima. She set half the girls' records for cross-country when she was here." Famke remarked. "Everywhere you look down the record books. Miss Sisiminwe N'Kima, Tump House."
Connie grinned.
"And look at who set the other half." she reminded Famke. "Her name's in the record books too."
Famke scowled.
"Don't remind me! Connie, you can see what's going on. She's caught nostalgia. Great big dose. She wants you and me to replay her schooldays. Must be."
Connie winced.
"Kay, unless we do something about it, we're going to be out here every Wednesday. Rain. Hail. Mud."
She looked around her to where the last stubborn snow still hung on from the previous week, pallid and grey, holes melting into it like a particularly unappealing Überwaldean cheese. The air was still cold against Connie's skin, which felt horribly clammy and goosepimpled.
"Every Wednesday." Connie repeated. "Oh hells, why can't Morporkians run better? If they weren't so bloody well useless, we'd be spared this."
"I'm trying to be Morporkian about this." Famke said, feelingly. "But my body won't have it. As far as my legs are concerned, I'm from Howondaland."
Famke loved her father. She appreciated she'd inherited a lot of Ponder Stibbons' intellect and intelligence, and she remained thankful for that. It made lessons and Prep a lot easier. She also appreciated Dad had probably been the sort of boy who got picked last for Games.
Just sometimes, like for instance right now, she wished she'd inherited his physical build. But the blind dice-throwing of genetics had given her Mum's physique. Her body was that of a physically fit Howondalandian Boer with a lot of strength, ability, stamina, and above all, endurance. If you had a body like that, PE Teachers took an interest and made it their life's work to get you representing the School, for instance. It was like when old von Übersetzer got a gifted musician. They didn't leave you alone after that.
"I don't know about you, but I'm not Aunt Mariella." Famke said. She stuck her jaw out.
"Well, I'm not your Aunt Mariella, either." Connie replied. "This skin colour's a bit of a dead giveaway."
"You know what I mean." Famke responded. "They're trying to make us be other people. Sort of. Miss N'kima's trying to make you be her, and me be my aunt. I want to tell them where to shove it and that I'm not playing. I've got an idea."
The end of every cross-country run involved leaving the soft going and completing a full four hundred yard circuit of the paved running oval. Those observing the end of this race saw a red-haired and freckled girl running alongside a black-skinned Zulu girl.
Just for a moment, Mr Bill Bradlifrudd, Head of PE, had a warm flash of nostalgia for a time, maybe sixteen years earlier, where two young students, both gifted runners, had caught everybody's imagination, and races involving them were keenly anticipated and drew big crowds. He smiled warmly at Miss N'Kima, now twenty-nine years old, now returned to the School, and helping out as a PE instructor.
"History repeats itself." he said, with satisfaction. Quite a lot of students were watching.
Sissi N'Kima shook her head. She was frowning. After a moment, Bill Bradlifrudd started to see why.
The two girls, who Miss N'Kima had identified as very good running prospects, were running side-by-side, perfectly level. Both were running just fast enough. Fast enough not to be accused of deliberately holding back or being idle. But it was clear they could go faster if they wanted.
There was an absolute lack of competition and a complete absence of any sort of jockeying for position. There was no sign whatsoever of the lead continually changing, and a total absence of two runners locked in bitter competition, each giving it everything she had, in order to win the race.
"Oh, good grief." Sissi said, realising.
"They're talking the piss." Bill Bradlifrudd said. He looked at Sissi.
"Talk to them, would you?"
She sighed.
Bill had stepped forwards and was yelling alternate threats and encouragement as only a PE teacher can. The red-haired girl, Miss Smith Rhodes-Stibbons, smiled at him and waved back, cheerfully. But neither of them showed any sign of picking up the pace or putting some backbone into it.
And a few seconds later, they crossed the finishing line. Side by side, equal first.
Sissi made a note of their finishing time – still way above average and not that far off the course record - noted the best of the chasing pack was only just coming into sight, then stepped forward to speak to them.
The two girls, standing side by side, and only barely breathing more deeply, stood looking at her in an attentive-but relaxed sort of way. She noted the looks of studied innocence, and recognised all the signs. She'd been warned about this by other people who also sought to teach Famke Cornelia Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. And, by extension, the girls she was closest to. It rubbed off on them, other teachers had said, darkly.
"What was the point of that?" Sissi said, severely. "No, don't answer. I can see you're not even out of breath. That tells me you weren't putting your backs into it. Trying to get away with doing as little as possible. Just enough to get by."
Sissi scowled at Connie.
"Listen to me. I marched with an impi. We had to get from the Ingonyamazi to the Muntabian border quickly to deploy for war. War, Miss Muthelezi. Do you think we hung back? Do you think we walked? Do you think we took a troop train or something?"
Sissi let the lesson sink in. You know how Zulu infantry move. It will be you someday.
"As for you, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. What exactly do you think you were doing there?"
"Well, miss." Famke said, her voice full of earnest innocence. "Being friends with Connie has changed my outlook on life. I'm from a White Howondalandian family, and, well, I don't believe in apartheid any more and I believe in the complete equality of Black and White Howondalandian people. So the only thing we could do was to come in equal first, you know, as a statement of racial equality…"
Sissi cut her short.
"Wait here." she said. "Don't move."
The rest of Two Raven were trickling in and catching up. Miss Nkima timed them in as they arrived, making notes on her clipboard. Famke and Connie shook hands, noting that Miss N'Kima's shoulders were shaking as if she was trying hard not to laugh.
"You are amazing, Kay." Connie said. "That was absolute total bullshit."
"You've got to say it with conviction." Famke replied, cheerfully. "Sound like you believe it."
"And do you?" Connie asked.
Famke considered this. Tests didn't always come from the teachers.
"Well." she said, "You wouldn't be my best friend if I didn't."
Miss N'Kima strode back to them.
"Follow me." she said. Famke and Connie followed. Neither was wholly surprised to be led back to the starting line for the cross-country run they'd just completed. She smiled affably at both girls.
"Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. I appreciate what you said about believing in the complete equality of black and white Howondalandians." she said. She offered her hand. Famke took it. "Even though you've been brought up in Ankh-Morpork. That's still a big adjustment. I'm pleased you've both reached that conclusion before your thirteenth birthdays."
She smiled again and let Famke's hand go.
"Since you believe in racial equality. Both of you are on the start line for the running course. You start as equals. You will therefore accept that when you run this race again, the very best of two equally matched runners will win it."
Miss N'Kima smiled again and raised her stopwatch. There was a very tiny "ouch!" as the imp inside went to "ready".
"I expect genuine competition, a clear winner, and faster times." she said. "I will be watching you and if I think you're holding back, colluding or not giving it one hundred per cent, you will run the course for a third time. Got that, both of you?"
"Yes, miss." Famke and Connie said, reluctantly.
"Good." Sissi said. "And, Miss Muthelezi? The distance between the Kraal of the Paramount Crown Princess at Ingonyamazi, to the border with Muntab, is four hundred and twenty miles. We managed it, on foot, in a force-march lasting eight days. And fought a battle three days later."
She nodded at Connie, her point having been made, then counted them down and started the clock. She watched them go, and remembered another duty Ruth N'Kweze had asked for. While you're there, Sissi, run your eye over the current crop of Zulu students and see if any of them really stand out, would you? Not just the ones graduating this summer, all of them. It's good to know these things.
Sissi N'Kima, right-hand woman to a Queen Regent, added the name of Constance Muthelezi to her list for Ruth's attention. Her best friend's a Vondalaander – well, hallway to one, anyway - and she colluded in that little demonstration just now. She goes her own way and she's strong enough to assert independence. And Ruth's interested in people who manage to make friends on the other side. In this case, not just anybody, her friends are in the Smith-Rhodes family. Ruth wants détente with the Whites and an easing of tension across the border. I'll recommend this girl to Ruth.
After a while, she began, unhurriedly, to follow the two runners.
Thursday Morning, the Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork:
Captain Olga Romanoff had changed into different clothing for the day that lay ahead. She had considered her wardrobe with care and attention, judging what would be appropriate for the day. Her working uniform now hung up in the Commanding Officer's office, ready to be donned again on her return. She was not going on this flight to represent Ankh-Morpork or the Air Watch, at least not in any official capacity. It came under the heading of Witch Business. With an unavoidable component of Family Business.
It would also be a sombre occasion. Therefore it had to be mainly black, a concession to her vocation as Witch. But she had also earned the right to be Cossack. This was unavoidable too. On their return from the Lancre War, Olga and Irena had flown a mission to take Vetinari's greetings to the Council of the Atamans, the annual gathering of the leaders of all the Cossack Hosts. Vetinari had considered them to be exactly the right people for the task. It had been an opportunity to describe the War and their part in it, as well as to break the sad news of the death of Tatiana Grigorenko and to return her swords, with some ceremony, to her family so they could go to the next worthy bearer, who would then carry them with pride, swords with a History and which had killed in battle. (7)
The Atamans had heard the story, and after a short debate, had conferred the rank of Hetman on Olga, a Cossack who had led in battle and won her war. Irena had become a Sotnika, the next rank down. Roughly, Colonel and Major respectively.
Olga therefore wore her Cossack rank and distinctions, a Hetman of the Vulga host. She considered this to be something to wear with great pride, an earned distinction, more significant than the social ranks of Countess and Baroness which had arrived with the birth certificate, or that of Grand Duchess which would be hers on the passing of her father. She could set aside her other earned rank for the afternoon and evening, Captain of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. That wouldn't apply back in the Rodinia of her birth.
Olga therefore dressed largely in black. It was fitting. She checked the fit of her weapons belt, took a deep breath, and added the rarely-carried knout whip, a coiled menace on her hip. She felt this was pandering to expectations, and braced herself for the usual snark from Irena Politek, who would point out there would be lots of peasants present to use it on, Your Highness.
I can see one right in front of me now, Irena. Brace yourself.
Olga sighed, resignedly. She had to dress to get the balance right. Witch, Cossack and Noblewoman. All Irena had to worry about was being a Witch and a Cossack.
She let the coiled whip settle, adjusted her balance for the weight of the thing alongside her sabre, and said "Nichevo." to herself. She'd hardly used the bloody thing, ever, save for getting the basic proficiency with it. Johanna Smith-Rhodes had taught her a couple of tricks she could bluff with, but that was the extent of her knout-proficiency. She'd never, for instance, used it in anger and she would prefer not to have to carry it at all. It was just dead weight. But it was Tradition and Custom. Rodinia ran on the stuff.
She concluded final business with Nottie Garlick and Hanna von Strafenburg, who would be running the Air Watch between them for the rest of the day. Hanna had an indefinably Überwaldean look on her face, that of a Prussican noblewoman confronted with a fully armed Cossack warrior. Olga grinned. Conditioning. History. If Hanna had been in jackboots and a Stahlhelm helmet with a spike on the top, then she, Olga, might have felt the same sort of mixed feelings and misgivings. For an absurd moment, Olga was sure Hanna was wearing a monocle. (8)
They exchanged salutes. Hanna grinned. Olga grinned back. The illusion of the monocle and a suspicion of spiky helmet faded. Induced magic could take some strange directions.
"Just for a moment there…" Hanna said, thoughtfully.
"Ancestral memories." Olga said. "And we're both witches."
"Ja. My great-grandfather meeting your great-grandfather at the Battle of Tannensalon." Hanna agreed. "Which we won, of course."
"Da." Olga agreed. "But for Bagration, we had better generals." (9)
"Truth." Hanna sighed. "And by the way, Olga, if my eyesight ever fails I will remedy the defect with good glasses. Never a monocle. That comes out of the same place, for me, as parade-marching."
The third person present, who had silently felt the weight of a Family history she did not share, and who had also "seen" the pointy helmet and the monocle, smiled knowingly. Princess Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre was also a noblewoman with a long lineage. (10) But as it did not involve being involved in major wars that could rip a Continent apart, she could afford to be neutral. (11)
"Family's a bugger, isn't it?" she remarked. "Mine might not be as grand, but we go back. It doesn't half create a lot of weight over the years. At least mine are confined to Mrs Ogg's laundry room."
"Got it, Ynci." Olga said. Hanna smiled.
"Ja. Ancestors. When I return Home, they demand to know why I choose to work alongside Ivans. Hard to shut them out. They get annoying."
Olga smiled. She had occasionally encountered Romanoff ancestors. Family could be a nuisance. The social and political attitudes of several centuries ago. Inability to grasp not only that times had changed but that they bloody well should change. Again she envied her cousin Natasha, who as an Assassin had no magic(12) and was spared this sort of thing.
"We'll be back very late this evening." she said. "Thank you both for covering. I hope to be able to relieve you between eleven and midnight to take the night shift."
Hanna took Olga's hand. She did not speak, but there was mutual understanding there. Witch business. It took precedence, which was why Sam Vimes had granted a Grandmother's Funeral to every Rodinian officer of the Air Watch. (13) And to selected guests.
"Shame I never met her." Nottie said, thoughtfully. "The woman who taught you and Irena has to be special."
Olga felt a stiletto stab of grief, and mastered it.
"And we in turn taught you." she said, looking at her ex-pupil. "I regret you are not able to attend, but somebody must be here to command the Air Watch."
Nottie shrugged.
"Nichevo." she said. "You need one last time with her."
"It is an opportunity to allow Stacey Matlock to gain experience as an acting-sergeant." Hanna remarked. She paused, and hinted
"Irena has already flown on her mission. It is time."
Olga took the hint, and went up to the Flight Deck to marshal those who would be flying. This necessarily took time. Six Pegasi would be setting out. This was more than had taken off together in a long time; the flying horses normally went in twos. Even then, the wingspan of a Pegasus and the width of the flight deck meant that take-offs were staggered, with the second Pegasus following on at least a length behind the first. Six, with a total of fourteen pilots and passengers, would be pushing it a bit. (14)
There was also the problem of allocating passengers to pilots in a way that suited everybody. It didn't help that eleven of them were witches of various ages and experience: nobody was in uniform; it was accepted that this was pure Witch business, where ranks would not count. She took a deep breath. And another word for "coven" is "argument". The only rank she could pull here was that, arguably, she was Senior Witch. And I bet somebody will argue. Inevitable. Olga stepped out onto the flight deck, which looked like a stewing chaos of Pegasi and people. She sighed. There was indeed a disagreement going on. She paused to listen. It was a young woman's voice, the sort that is trying to sound fair and reasonable, despite provocation. The second voice had a sort of foot-stamping petulance to it.
"Only if your mother says you can, Vassily. And then you travel pillion. Behind me. Because Tatiana is travelling in front of me, that's why. Because her mummy asked me to take her. She goes in front. No arguing!"
Nadezhda Popova shook her head.
"My fault, Olga. I asked Firebird to take Tatiana. She is a good pilot. If she can fly and land safely in snow like last week, I can trust her with my daughter in good weather."
"And Vassily is acting up because he suddenly wants to travel with Rebecka. And of course he wants to fly in front." Olga shook her head. "I'll talk to him. Who are you flying with?"
"Vasilisa has offered. She has brought the weather report form Krapovits Oblast, by the way. Weather fair, old snow on ground and in trees, no hazards on marked landing ground, four-tenths cloud."
"Khoroscho. Now excuse me a second, please, Nadezhda?"
Olga moved through the mainly-Witches who were waiting their boarding instructions. She smiled pleasantly at the three who had been ferried over from Lancre, young Rodinian girls in training there, who Nanny Ogg had agreed should be released for the day to do a necessary thing in their native country. One had promise as a potential pilot, Olga knew; the other two were likely to go straight to Steadings in Rodinia to become everyday working civilian Witches. I can talk to them later….
"Besides, Vassily Romanoff." Rebecka sounded a little bit frazzled. "I don't know much about the place we're going to, but I've spoken with your mother. You'll be seeing your grandparents later. That's one reason why you're coming. You hardly ever see them and they want to see you. How's it going to look if your grandfather just sees you sulking like this? Or your grandmother? I do know if my ouma, my grandmother, saw me sulking like that, she'd get all angry and sad and shout at me and…."
"And then your grandmother would tell me off." Olga said. "For not bringing you up better. And then, Vassily Eduardovich, I would shout at you. For being a little brat."
Olga glared at him.
"You can fly with Rebecka. She is a good pilot. Aunt Nadezhda thinks so, or she would not have allowed Tatiana to travel with her. And as Tatiana asked first, she gets to fly in front. No argument. And you will be on your best behaviour today."
Vassily hung his head and went quiet. He ran to Bekki for a hug. She pulled him in.
"Just be the really nice little boy I love to bits." Bekki said. "Horrible Vassily is hard work."
Olga smiled,
"Thank you, Rebecka. If you ever leave the Air Watch, I'm sure you could get a job as a nanny somewhere. You've got the knack."
A thought occurred to her.
"Where's Valla?"
Nadezhda smiled.
"She's with her father. Over in the Ready Room, I think. They'll be travelling with you?"
"Eddie, certainly. Although if Valla wants to fly with somebody else, I have no objections, so long as a pilot agrees. Shall we get everyone saddled up? Nadezhda, I want takeoff in staggered pairs. We form up above at angels one in standard vics, three forward, three behind. I'll lead the first…" she paused. "Who's senior pilot? Vorona? Where are you?"
"Here, Olga Anastacia."
"When all six are airborne, front vic is myself, leading. I want Yulia on my starboard, Vasilisa on my port. Space out. You lead the second vic. You get Firebird to your port, Lexi on your starboard. Keep Lexi where you can see her, and be understanding. She's only a Fledgling. Her Pegasus will know to keep station. It's instinctive. Tell her to trust…. Shashka. Also, see she gets a good Navigator with experience."
"Da, Olga Anastacia."
Olga quickly clasped hands with Serafina Dospanova, and agreed the difficult bit needed to be done now. Who flew with who as passengers.
"I have been making suggestions, Olga." said Nadezhda Popova. Olga relaxed. While she wasn't a Pegasus Service pilot and was travelling as a passenger today, Nadezhda was an experienced Sergeant. She knew how to make suggestions to people. Even when she was present as Nadezhda Popova, private citizen and witch.
Shortly after that, six Pegasi took off, in staggered flights of two, and moved to their assigned positions in the air. Olga established communicator links with her flight, and suggested a couple of circuits of the City, just for the public relations angle and to give the newspapers some good photo opportunities. Six Pegasi flying in formation was spectacular. She knew people below would be watching and possibly even marvelling.
Olga sighed. Prevarication and procrastination were not her. But she was really in no hurry to give Senior Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur the command to make Transition. She was going to see the witch who had trained her for one last time, and to say goodbye. It would be painful. Old Natalia had been a part of her life since forever. Today she would die.
Wee Mad Arthur, perched in the mane, was silent and thoughtful. They'd been flying together for a long time. He knew her moods. Right now he judged silence was best. Mistress Olga would give the word of command at three thousand. He would signal the other Feegle and call the countdown. And woe betide that scunner Wee Archie if he gets it wrong and goes oot of step.
The ascent, necessarily slow and methodical because each Pegasus was carrying a passenger load, proceeded in wide shallow spirals. Ankh-Morpork slowly receded below.
Olga judged when they were at three thousand. She switched the communicator on.
"Syren to flight. Pilots will acknowledge. Over."
She heard the acknowledgements.
"Syren to flight. Transition in ten. Navigators, attention! The next voice you will hear will be Senior Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur. He will count you down. Transition in ten. Syren out."
Wee Mad Arthur fulled himself up to the full six inches. His chest puffed out and he roared into the communicator that Olga was helpfully holding out to him.
"Now ye listen tae me! We is gauntae get this right! On my mark! Dick! Dothera! Hovera!..."
On "Yan!" any magic user looking up from underneath would have seen a massive eruption of octarine. And nothing in the sky where there had previously been six Pegasi.
To be continued.
Really got timed out by this with all the stuff that sort of evolved while I was writing. The Going Away party will be next episode. I have ideas sketched out, such as the place of the nested Matryoshka dolls in Rodinian Witchcraft. And the immediate aftermath in which Olga gets the flying mortar and pestle. But could a chapter be 25,000 words long? Trying to avoid this.
As always – I will be back to fine-tune, revise and rewrite as well as killing the inevitable typos.
(1) Spoiler: For those who may not have spotted the continuity glitch: In the penultimate chapter of book One, Bekki arrived in Howondaland, in very early January, with an issued Omnicon… she doesn't actually get issued it until she makes her first flight back just over a week later, and arrives in a blizzard with no means of communicating with base. That's when Olga issues her the Omnicon. A relatively small slip but I wasn't paying attention here.
(2) This terminology is open to change and revision! Just guessing here and trying to construct Afrikaans terms for the four cardinal directions of the Discworld. "Naaf" is the word for the hub of a wheel so this seems like a good starting point; more guesswork slips in with "turnwise" and "widdershins" – gave up on Widdershins and used "anticlockwise" for now as a placeholder. I wonder how the Dutch translations of Discworld do this? EDIT – discovered "deosil" ( poss Gaelic) is rendered as "sunwise" in English, "with the sun". This becomes sort of sonwys in Dutch-ish languages. "Songewys" in Afrikaans? "Widdershins" – from old Middle German "widder – sinnen" – "against the way" Help. Need a native speaker here!
(3) Johanna Smith-Rhodes reckoned that if she was doing it right, it was other peoples' lives that were being threatened. By her. Being an Assassin, she also took potential over-confidence into account. Always.
(4) Actually a were-leopard. See my tale Whys and Weres. Matron Igorina had sorted out her rather mangled left arm and all Johanna carried to remind her of the day were a few scars on her forearm. "Ag, could have been worse." she had said, laconically, before explaining to Bekki and Famke how her arm had been "chewed up a bit".
(5) refer to Mariella's culture shock when in Cenotia/Istanzia and stuck on a kibbutz for four months in a nation where pigs are not a favoured animal. It's in Gap Year Adventures.
(6) Spill-words: " if you recall, Petulia, I said there is an organisation called BOSS who will intercept and read letters sent abroad, and I can't talk directly about anything to do with Witchcraft because they will copy the letters, and add them to my security file that marks me down as a subversive influence. Of course, you know that when I say "strange events", I specifically mean "Witch Business".
(6a) Retrospective footnote, too lazy to renumber everything. My as yet unformed thought is that on their "seeing the elephant" return flight from Genua after the end of "Witches Abroad", Granny Weatherwax (mayhersoulhavemercyontheGods), Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlic were drawn by fable and story and ended up breaking their journey in the domovila of a BabaYaga. Nanny picked up some vodka-fuelled Rodinian which later became useful in relating to two teenage prospects called Olga and Irena who one day would arrive in Lancre. Granny and Natalia would compare skills in a "see what I can do?" sort of way, and Natalia would at some point nod to Magrat and remark "See you got yourself a Vasilisa, then". In Russian folklore, the successor to the Babayaga, the girl who accepts the Challenges and then outwits and bests her, is "Vasilisa the Beautiful". Vasilisa proper is yet to come for Natalia. Who has problems with Magrat. "Vasilisa the Beau..." Vasilisa the...moderately attractive in a good light.." "Vasilisa the...scrubs up okay, I suppose..." "Vasilisa the...Magrat."
(7) See The Price of Flight.
(8) Sort of induced magic at work here. The sheer weight of family history is like a localised lead weight on the rubber sheet of Reality. Witches with Family History will feel this acutely. In an abstract sort of sense, generations of Romanoffs and von Strafenburgs were squaring up in there, just for an overlong instant, as lots of shared Family History collided. Even if the current representatives of the Families had, uniquely, subverted that sort of thing by fighting on the same side, and had a good working relationship that overlapped friendship. Hanna and Olga had sensed the undercurrents. Hanna had definitively seen a Cossack warrior-woman; Olga had "seen" the jackboots, pickelhaube and monocle. This sort of thing happens to Witches.
(9) I know. Over-explaining. But somewhat spiky interactions between German and Russian go back for centuries. Tannenberg in 1914 saw a Russian army, poised to invade Prussia, conclusively defeated, mainly due to the Russian generals involved being over-promoted nobles whose petty jealousies prevented them co-ordinating effectively. The Bagration offensive of June-July 1944, loosely co-ordinated to the British/American landings in Normandy, swept the Germans completely out of Russia and saw the Red Army get to the outskirts of Warsaw within a few months, annihilating a German army on the way. The Discworld will inevitably have had its equivalents of both.
(10) Commander Sam Vimes had mixed feelings about three of the senior ranks in the Air Watch being drawn from royalty and nobility. Especially when they turned out to be highly effective officers and good at the job. Nobility that was actually competent, even outstanding, was even more of an offence to his proletarian soul than the other sort. Vimes had sighed resignedly and told himself they were bloody good Watchmen and that was what counted.
(11) It had been a long, long time since Lancre had fought in a conventional war against any other kingdom, Principality or nation-state on the Disc and even then it had been a neighbourly dispute over a borrowed lawnmower. Its only recent conflicts had been with vampires and Elves. (touches iron). International lawyers were still debating, in a desultory no-fees-involved sort of way, if the Vampire thing counted as an international conflict. Lancre was clearly a coherent nation state with a government, taxation and clearly defined borders. The Magpyr family had ruled in Escrow for quite a lot of generations. Escrow was a region of Überwald with its own language, culture and heritage and counted as a State as it ticked the boxes for government, taxation and legal jurisprudence.. The Magpyrs had possibly invaded Lancre. People of Lancrastrian nationality had taken the fight back to Escrow. As the two Heads of State had directed something alike to military force at each other, had there, therefore, been a Lancre-Escrow war?
(12) Almost none. See the tale Fresh Pair of Eyes.
(13) Vimes understood about Witch business. Every so often something happened that was like the thing with Golems downing tools and going off to observe a Holy Day. And, he thought, this time it was as near as you got to an actual grandmother's funeral. A woman of the right age was dying, she'd had the courtesy to advise everyone in advance of the exact date and time, and a substantial part of the strength of the Air Watch was invited to the funeral. Grandmother's Funeral.
(14) And six Navigators. Who were flying to a place where there would be Bodka. This slightly worried Olga.
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.
From an FB discussion on swearing:
Backpfeifengesicht (German) – a face desperately in need of a fist.
Moer-my gesig (Afrikaans) - lit. "nut my face"
Me on FB: For reasons I won't bore you with, I've been intermittently learning Afrikaans. There's a wonderful word "bliksem!" which is conversationally versatile. it can be an expression of shocked surprise, a general curse, an expression of anger, frustration or disgust, or in the form "Jou bliksem!" it denotes somebody who is generally lacking, annoying, or not pleasant to be in the vicinity of. One online dictionary defines it in this sense as " a scoundrel or a blighter, a person who makes himself objectionable for any number of reasons: slander, theft, forgetfulness, failure to pay a debt or failure to buy a round of drinks."
Now I first came to the word in this context. You never forget a word like "bliksem". So it was all the more surprising, on this forum, that a Dutch person I was speaking to innocently said it's just the word for "lightning." Which, in Dutch, it is; cognate with the German "blitzen". But in South Africa the word has this extra rafter of meaning un-known in the parent language. (But what does a Saffa say when the weather outside turns to thunder and electrical storm? Do you still say "bliksem" to denote, well, lightning, as this could be misinterpreted by whoever else is in the room? (apparently there is a word "weerlig" for lightning in this specific context). The word has moved from noun to verb: " to donner the bliksem out of... somebody or something" or simply "to bliksem something" means to give it a seriously good kicking. Or punching.
I love this language. Ek is mal oor hierdie taal.
Russian dialogue involving Famke: I see her adopting a look of great innocence and asking perhaps Olga Romanoff, just out of sheer devilment
Есть слово. "говно" Вы это часто говорите. Что это значит, пожалуйста? (Yest' slovo. "govno" Vy eto chasto govorite. Chto eto znachit, pozhaluysta?)
"This word you use a lot. govno. What does it mean, please?"
Also, playing with the idea of Famke being co-opted for the School Orchestra for its summer recital. Miss Glynnie suggested this. Her mother agrees. Famke is less than enchanted to discover it means she has to sit with the Percussion Section in its ghetto on the fringe of the orchestra, watching people doing really cool things with cymbals, kettledrums and so on, and realising her own part is minimal. In fact, she has nothing whatsoever to do until 12 minutes and 28 seconds into the piece. Which feels like a lifetime. Worst, as her mother points out, being in a classical orchestra means dressing up. An evening dress. Smart girl-appropriate shoes. Well-groomed feminine hair. A degree of appropriate makeup. She is subjected to a makeover by professionals.(15) The thought occurs to her, far too late on, that her mother and her music teacher have been Conspiring. For her own good and ongoing education, of course. (I do have a piece of music in mind, but revealing it here would be a spoiler).
Bonus bit: Mariella getting it not quite right about pigs.
Bekki considered it was somehow symbolic her first actual work on the plaas involved the pigs. The patient was a farrowing sow, something she'd seen a lot at Highmost Pigmanhey. And thanks to Petulia Gristle, she knew exactly what was needed.
She found herself lying at full length behind a struggling porcine mother, explaining to Mariella and the hired pig-hands about transverse presentation of piglets, and what needed to be done to help the cross-presenting piglet into the world. Bekki explained it should be straightforward once the one blocking the birth canal was manually represented, which involved a lot of greasing and lubrication… and a willingness not to mind getting dirty…
"Boar piglet." Bekki explained. "I can feel it's a male. Big, too. And he's being difficult. Trying to get born sideways. No wonder the mother's struggling."
Aunt Mariella looked a little bit pale. Bekki grinned at her.
"Just need to wiggle him round a bit. Encourage the front legs to pop out first… here he comes. Should be alright now."
She got up onto her knees and watched, with satisfaction, as the first of what turned out to be twelve piglets came into the world. The pig-hands expressed appreciation and wonder.
"Three boars." she remarked. "It's funny how so many words sound like "Boer", isn't it?"
"You did this all the time in Lancre, Bekki?" Mariella asked. She looked down at the piglets and frowned. "Too many piglets. Not enough teats."
"Do you have another female who's farrowed recently?" Bekki asked. "The spares can be fostered."
She smiled up at the farmhands.
"Or else, manually fed, if they're struggling. Aunt Mariella, unless you intend to breed from these shoats, they'll need to be turned into barrows. I can come back in a week or two and cut them, if that's needed."
Bekki realised she'd been using Lancre terms. She frowned, not knowing the Vondalaans words.
"A shoat is a male piglet, newborn. A barrow is what it becomes after castration. I'd castrate. You don't need surplus whole boars. They're trouble. They fight."
Mariella blinked, then smiled.
"Bekki. This is your world, isn't it? I'm impressed. I really am."
There was a pause as they watched mother and piglets. Bekki watched critically.
"She might be able to feed them all." she said. "It depends if all those teats are viable, and I haven't been able to see. Some of them are going to need manual feeding. There are going to be runts. Ones who will struggle."
Bekki was giving instruction on pig management, in some detail, then realised she was looking at well-meaning but blank faces. She stopped.
"Aunt Mariella." she said. "Exactly how long have you been keeping pigs here?"
"About ten months. They all arrived as older piglets, and… well, I've never tried it before… I reckoned from growing up around cattle, it should be the same kind of thing. Different animal. It shouldn't be that difficult…."
She tailed off.
"Is that a problem?"
Bekki sighed.
"And… the hands here?"
Bekki discovered the pig-keepers were just as inexperienced. Willing, able, they'd learnt from tending to the new piglets and helping them grow.. but still inexperienced. She sighed. This was going to be a long morning.
(15) I'm thinking of the delightful sitcom comic "PreTeena", where Teena Keene, the title character, is eleven/twelve. She is a tomboyish redhead who is not enchanted by notions of the feminine. A running gag concerns her mother trying to get her to tidy up, let's do something about your hair, at least consider the idea of wearing skirts and dresses, and why can't you be a little more like your older sister who is as girly as they come?