Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Eighteen
Every so often this will overlap The Price of Flight where the events of that story will be revisited, but from a different direction.
We are now on V0.03. First revision, corrections and of course bloody typos.
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. In this chapter, we return to Ankh-Morpork and to Howondaland and the focus moves away from the Air Watch (pretty much).
Story notes will be added at the end for anyone wanting insight into how these stories get constructed.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork
Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons had found an empty bottle of a very appealing shape in the kitchen. Dorothea the cook, who loved and indulged her, had been sympathetic when Ruth had described the shape of bottle she wanted. Something, Ruth had said, that looked a little like a fat woman with the same general sort of shape to it.
"A little like me, you mean?" Dorothea had said, amused.
"I wasn't going to say that." Ruth replied, politely. She had been brought up to be polite. But she reflected, with an artist's eye, that Dorothea, broad in hip, shoulder and bosom with just a little discernable waist, was the ideal model for what she had in mind.
Various empty bottles were produced and discussed. Eventually, Ruth settled on a bottle that had once contained Twister Boote's Finest Malt Vinegar. It had exactly the right shape, with fat well-rounded shoulders and a relatively small neck. It stood perhaps a foot high, and had been a kitchen fixture for over a year before finally being emptied. Even after being carefully washed and rinsed, the tang of vinegar was still in the air. Ruth also selected four smaller bottles in decreasing order of size. After diligently cleaning them off and removing the labels, she kissed Dorothea by way of thanks, and retreated to her room with the booty to consider the technical aspects of creation.
She reminded herself this was a practice run, to see if the idea was feasible, and she ought not to expect perfection first time out. There were a lot of little problems to resolve, for one thing.
She also thought of Dorothea, and the absurd thought came to her about, maybe, doing a Howondalandian version. Maybe later, she thought. If I can get the iconographs Mummy took of the original set. Try to copy those first.
She reached for a pack of modelling clay(1) and considered the practicalities. After a while she got to work.
Bitterfontein, the Turnwise Caarp, Rimwards Howondaland - at the end of January/the beginning of February:
Bekki rode out with Aunt Mariella in the early part of the afternoon, to see more of the local country and to get more of an idea as to how things fitted together in Bitterfontein. Aunt Mariella had said she understood a Witch's Steading covered just about everything in a given area, and is it the case that in Lancre, where you have many Witches, you agree where the boundaries are between Steadings and only cross into another Witch's Steading to do work in emergencies, or by invitation?
Bekki, cautiously, agreed this was so.
"Different here." Aunt Mariella remarked. "With you being the only Witch. So I reckon your Steading is going to be everywhere you can physically get to."
Mariella looked at her, part stern and part concerned. But all Aunt.
"Olga Romanoff was saying." she said. "Young Witches in their first steadings tend to over-do it. Push themselves too far too fast just to be able to prove to older witches that they can do it. Apparently even Tiffany Aching herself pretty nearly burnt out, trying to run two Steadings at once."
"I heard." Bekki said.
Mariella gave her the sternly concerned look again.
"I got what Olga asked for." Mariella continued. "Keep an eye on you, and wind you in if you try to do too much. She does call round every so often, you understand. Usually at mealtimes. Often with her two little meal-tickets."
"Her two… oh, Valla and Vassily?"
Mariella grinned.
"Hendricka adores them. Grandchildren by proxy, you see."
Bekki grinned back.
"And you get to be Auntie to them. You can't tell me that's a hardship."
"Truth." Mariella agreed. She changed the subject, quickly.
"Viani's General Stores." she said, indicating the large building and collection of sheds and barns coming up on their right as they rode along the dusty road.
Bekki assessed the place. A large nameboard advertised Viani's Algemene Handelspos and General Stores in both accepted local languages. There didn't seem to be much activity going on and the place was even dustier than the road, and somewhat shabby. (2)
"The last outpost of white civilization on this road." Aunt Mariella said, off-handedly. "Franco Viani. Brindisian immigrant. Clever guy, in his way. Pretended ignorance as to how things are done here, and manages to get away with murder. Well. Not literal murder."
Bekki had a sudden suspicion. The name sounded vaguely familiar from somewhere. She tried to place it.
"Did he work in Ankh-Morpork for a while?" she asked. Mariella nodded assent.
"Ja. Ran a business. Then he thought about it, and emigrated. Set up shop here."
Bekki considered. She didn't speak more than a few words of Brindisian. But some concepts stuck.
"Dilletante?" she asked. "Errr... mi taglio la gola mia?" (3)
Mariella considered this. She appeared to be reassembling the syllables in her head and performing the linguistic equivalent of counting on her fingers. Then she grinned.
"I haven't done any Brindisian since school. "Gola" is like "gullet", isn't it? Means "throat"? Got you now. Franco Viani is better." she assured Bekki. "He consistently makes a tidy profit. And he doesn't cheat people. Much. We have an arrangement. I buy some things through him, he sells some of the things we make. You know. Surplus produce."
Mariella paused.
"Let's say he does odd jobs for the Lensen family. Hendricka asks him to do things now and again. So do I."
They rode on, and Aunt Mariella turned off onto the yard in front of the stores.
"We'll stop here." she decided. "Things to do, and I can introduce you."
It was a typical general stores on the inside. Everything appeared to be for sale, with the emphasis on long-lasting imperishables or semi-perishables. Bekki noted the sort of things the typical plaas was probably unable to make for itself, or else couldn't produce in sufficient amounts. Lamp-oil. Cooking oil. Candles. A rack of shelves of well-guarded beers, wines and spirits. Bekki registered the Lensen brand name on those shelves, but there were only a token two or three bottles. The emphasis appeared to be on wines, spirits and beers that weren't otherwise available locally. After a moment's thought, Bekki saw the sense of this. This part of the Turnwise Caarp was called the Winelands, after all. Stocking the local produce in local shops would be a bit pointless. Like exporting sand to Klatch. And Uncle Horst had asked her to pick up a few bottles of Ankh-Morpork beer when she was next over, the sort you can only get locally at a Hell of a price, or else not at all. It made sense: Auntie Heidi in Ankh-Morpork had asked if she could fix it with Aunt Mariella to get a couple of bottles of Lensen's brought over.
"After all, I'm just betting you don't have to pass through Customs and Excise at either end."
Being conscientious, she'd asked Godsmother Irena if there were Rules about this sort of thing. Irena had thought about this for a few seconds.
"It's a perk of the Pegasus Service, devyushka. We all do it. Just, you know, don't be blatant, don't load a drone magic carpet with crates of the stuff, and fly in towing it in behind you. That might get noticed."
She had gathered Mr Vimes and behind him, the Patrician, were fully aware and that Vetinari "saw no reason to intervene." Mr Vimes was fairly relaxed about Perks, as long as everybody was sensible, it didn't bring the Watch into too much disrepute, and that whoever was on the Sumtri run picked up a case or two of his favourite cigars every so often.
She studied the shop. The usual sorts of things, grown or made elsewhere in Rimwards Howondaland which were trucked in from other agricultural monocultures. Flour, cereals, mealies, in huge sacks. Relatively fresh fruit and veg, in season. Agricultural equipment, like spades, hoes, forks. General hardware supplies. Newspapers from the big cities, albeit a day or two old by the time they got here. Foodstuffs in tins and jars. Dried produce, like ouma rusk, biltong, droewors. Seeds, for the smallholding grower. Household sundries.
The man behind the central counter looked quintessentially Brindisian, plump, prosperous, in his fifties. He looked up from the customer he was dealing with and greeted Mrs Lensen with warmth and recognition. He appeared to be offering to break off from the customers he was treating with to come to Mariella, giving just a hint that she was more important.
Aunt Mariella shook her head.
"Ebsolutely no rush, Mr Viani." she said, in Morporkian. "Look efter Mr end Mrs Mpothu first. You cen come to me justnow, when they're done."
The short plump Brindisian grinned, somehow giving the impression that he already knew Mariella would respond like that, but forgive me, Signora Lensen, you are white and they are black, I still feel as if local custom obliges me to make the gesture. Some of my white customers might get offended and make a regrettable scene, if they have to wait while I tend to my black customers first.
Bekki had got the spill-conversation. She warmed to the proprietor.
The Mpothu family on the other side, who had tensed when white people came in, visibly relaxed to see Aunt Mariella. Who knows them by name. Mr Viani returned to treating them with the same courtesy and attention he might give to any customer, meticulously weighing flour and mealies into sacks the family had brought with them.
Bekki frowned. The store was a very large space, but divided into two by a double-counter, with a space behind for the staff and proprietor to deal with customers coming in from either side. At the moment, she and Aunt Mariella, who had come in by the front door, were at one counter. The Mpothu family, mum, dad and four well-behaved children, must have come in by some other door. And were at the other counter.
Bekki looked up. She saw the hanging sign, and tried not to wince.
Hier, diens slegs vir wit mense. By bestelling.
Service strictly for white people only. By order.
She saw the back of a similar hanging notice suspended over where the black family was, and made an educated guess as to what that said.
"This is how things are." Aunt Mariella said, guessing her thoughts.
Bekki got the spill-words:
Notice how things are, but do not comment or remark on them. For now.
Bekki sighed. She walked over to a display of candies and sweets and the child in her rejoiced.
They've got Massam's. Chocolate Astros. Chappies. Jellytots. Ghost pops. Fudge. Safari fruit. Amarula chocolate. (4)
She was aware of Mr Viani concluding his business with the black family. Money was handed over. The six family members each took up their share of the bags and sacks, for the long trudge back to the township.
"Nearly forgot." Mr Viani said. He looked down benevolently at the black children. None of them was much over eleven or twelve. He smiled over to Bekki, who was admiring the sweeties.
"Scusi, don't know your name yet. But I am guessing you are related to Signora Lensen?"
"We try to hide it." Aunt Mariella said, drily. "But for some reason, people keep noticing a resemblance."
"We must dress alike, or something." Bekki said, equally drily.
"Ah, most droll, most droll." the shopkeeper said. Mariella quickly introduced her.
"So pleased to meet you, Signorina Rebecka." he said, politely. "Please could you bring to the counter the large jar of mixed candies? I thank you."
She watched as the shopkeeper scooped out four small paper bags of mixed sweets, and gave one to each black child.
"You are good customers." he said. "And you've just spent a lot of rand here. A little something for the children, perhaps?"
Bekki warmed to him. She suspected he'd have done this regardless, and it wasn't a show he put on for Aunt Mariella's benefit.
"Maybe another selection for the bigger little girl?" Aunt Mariella said, drily. "I'll pay for those."
"Chocolate Astros, please, Auntie." Bekki said. "And some yummy Massams."
"Got to keep the children happy." Mariella said, as the Mpothu family left.
She frowned. "It's a good four miles to Turfloop from here. At least."
Viani sighed and spread his hands.
"At least the whole family is doing the carrying." he said. He shook his head. Then spread his arms and upraised hands again.
"What can I say? They live hard lives. They earn less, but pay the same prices. And such money as they get is the same rand as you and I earn."
Mariella nodded assent.
"I make a living." he said. "I can afford to be generous to the little children. Two ounces of sweets each. They do not get much."
Mariella smiled.
"You and me both, Franco." she said. "At least you don't need to put money from black customers into a separate segregated till. You know, it's a funny thing. Apartheid is not applied to banknotes."
Bekki had a sudden delicious thought about how the money taken from black customers might go back to white people as change. Cash from a black man's pocket, after a short stay in the till, then going into the pocket or purse of the more racially aware white people. And they'd pocket it without a second thought… she smiled.
"Well, there's such a thing as keeping the money in circulation." she said, as both looked at her.
"Speaking of money." Aunt Mariella said. "What's the damage on the Lensen account justnow? Might as well settle up while I'm here."
She produced a thick roll of banknotes from a pouch. Franco Viani beamed and produced a ledger from underneath the counter. A final figure was agreed, and a receipt was written. Aunt Mariella stowed this away. She nodded to Bekki.
"It's all sold by weight." she said, meaning the sweets and candies and snacks in the jars. "Take a bag and a scoop. Don't go mad."
She nodded at Mr Viani.
"One of Franco's brainwaves back in Ankh-Morpork. Allowing people to self-serve their own sweets and choose for themselves. Everybody always takes more than they think when they're allowed to fill their own bag. And of course it's sold by weight." (5)
Franco Viani preened, modestly.
"Again, what can I say? I arrived, a poor boy from Crocetta della Caltanissetta, in the big city of Ankh-Morpork, in the clothes I stood up in. I get job, I do well, I learn to buy and sell. I marry. Here she comes now. After a while, I own shop. Then we see advertisement in the paper. Come to sunny Rimwards Howondaland, where immigrants are welcome, have a kiff time, apply to Embassy."
"Which got us out here. Mind you it was a cold miserable pissing-down winter in Ankh-Morpork. And the emigration advert said how warm and sunny Howondaland could be. So dint take much thinkin' about, did it?" a new voice said. It was pure Dimwell. "Hello, Mariella, love. This your little sister?"
She was also short, plump, well-rounded and about fifty. Bekki, in the middle of filling a bag of sweets, noted she also limped slightly. Adding a couple more Chocolate Astros, as she was concerned that there weren't nearly enough in the bag, Bekki realised that this was the first time she'd heard somebody dispense with formal greetings like Mev'Mariella, Mrs Lensen, or Mrs Smith-Rhodes-Lensen. This person had gone straight to a democratic and cheery street Morporkian "Mariella, love."
Bekki was introduced to Mrs Elsie Viani, the former co-proprietor of a shop in Welcome Soap which had realised a long time before that at least five of the city's major schools were all in walking distance. It had therefore expanded its sweets and snacks section to cater for the pocket-money trade.
"Wait…" Bekki said. She realised why the name was familiar now. "Did you use to run a shop on Baker Street near to Ptarmigan Lane? The one that's Piggy Love's Sweet Emporium, now?"
The Vianis smiled benignly.
"That was us, love. Did a roaring trade there what got to be more sweets and confectionary, and less and less general sales. Sold out to Percy Love when we come out here, twelve year ago."
She nodded at Mariella.
"Mariella here and her friends from school used to come in. Really nice well-behaved girls they was, too."
"So did we." Bekki said. "Well. When it became Piggy's. I was at school at Seven-Handed Seks. On Itching Crypts."
"So you know the place too."
"A good memory." Bekki said, explaining that when Percy Love took the shop over, the previous shop name still showed up behind it, where the letters had been for a long time, and the paint behind them hadn't faded, still saying "VIANI'S" in ghost letters behind "P. Love, Confectioners'" .
Franco Viani grinned. His wife grinned more broadly.
"Ah, Signora Lensen. How well I remember!"
"Mariella was about twelve." Elsie Viani said. "Not long in Ankh-Morpork. She was in the shop one day, and these older boys from her school was misbehaving."
"Stealing." Mariella said. "I was watching them. It annoyed me. They could have paid. They were not poor. Not that sort of Assassin students. I knew it was wrong."
"But you couldn't tell, love. I know the code. You don't go around telling tales." Elsie said, sympathetically.
"You had just begun singing lessons at school." Franco Viani said. "I remember you asking me about the aria you were having to learn from the opera Giano il Ladrone di Canneloni e Salami. You even sang the lines."
He drew himself up and sang. Mariella joined in.
Oh, è Giano il ladro, guarda come si riempie le tasche, il mercante non lo sa!
"That was right clever of you." Elsie said, approvingly. "I knew you was a sharp one, even then."
Bekki looked bemused, remembering only that her aunt had been directed to opera singing at school, as a means of getting somebody with no talent whatsoever for instruments through the mandatory Music training. And Aunt Mariella could certainly hold a tune. She had a strikingly good voice. Apart from that, the Brindisian meant absolutely nothing. She listened to the duet playing out. Franco Viani could also hold a sung note.
"We grow up on opera." Franco explained. "In Brindisi, it is like breathing air. Your clever aunt chose the libretto about Giano the Thief quite deliberately. And it was only a small theft, perhaps thirty pennies in value, but it is the principle of the thing, you understand, if you are a shopkeeper. I detained the boys, making them believe I had been watching all the time."
"Lord Downey himself come round to apologise." Elsie said. "A real gentleman."
She frowned.
"Had a regular order for mint fancies of all sorts." she reminisced. "Anyway, he said he'd passed the matter on to Miss Sanderson-Reeves to deal with, and she'd be having a word with the boys. Do you know, pilfering from pupils at the Assassins' School went right down after that!"
Bekki winced. Grandmother Joan. Ouch. Nobody caught out in petty theft deserved that for a first offence. She frowned and thought back. No. She'd been good, when the shop became Percy Love's. And she was pretty sure nobody from Shauna's Gang had been tempted either.
Bekki sighed and placed her full bag of mixed sweets on the counter to be weighed. She turned to Elsie Viani.
"I, err, notice you're favouring your left foot." she said. She braced herself. Inviting women over fifty to talk about their health meant she'd be in for a long listen, the sort where you had to bring a flask and a packed lunch. She listened. It was a healthcare practitioner skill. Healthcare practitioners listened. Attentively.
"I could help with that." Bekki said, diagnosing bad feet and varicose veins, the scourge of older women on their feet all day. "Perhaps some basic chiropody?"
"Mariella says you've been took on as company nurse." Elsie said. "You wouldn't mind? Franco can sort out what he has to with Mariella, I can put the kettle on, you can do my feet."
Franco Viani called an employee in to mind the shop, and they retired to the living quarters behind the premises.
"More private here." Elsie said. "Don't get me wrong, I love this country, moving out here was the best thing we ever did, but some of the things what happen here. And some of the people."
"In the shop, you don't know who might be listening." Franco agreed. "Back in Brindisi, the Doge has a Secretariat. Le Camicie di Nero."
Mariella indicated she completely understood.
Elsie frowned.
"Vetinari has his Dark Clerks." she said, thoughtfully. "But they just listens. You know where you are with Vetinari. So long as somebody's takin' notes, he lets you say what you like, pretty much. But over here…"
"Ja." Aunt Mariella agreed. "It is for our own good, naturally. I suspect there are listening ears among our servants."
Bekki, who had retrieved her working gear, was paying attention. She had asked for towels and a footbath of warm water, a necessary part of footcare, and had begun work.
"You, err, prepared the water and towels yourself, Mrs Viani? No servants?"
"Bless you, love." Elsie said. "We thought about it. We got help with the shop, like young Tommy out there. But I never could get the hang of servants. I'm too common for that. And I can see people back in Morpork all sayin' I've got ideas above me station, for a girl who grew up in Dolly Sisters."
Bekki got it. She grinned. People from places like Dimwell and Dolly Sisters were more likely to be servants than employ them. It was that good old Ankh-Morporkian sense of egalitarianism again. It would surface, even when a new place and relative affluence made employing servants of your own into a possibility. She reflected that Tommy, the employee looking after the shop, was black. The Vianis seemed to find this unremarkable.
Bekki shrugged, and began work, explaining what she was doing and why. As she washed, tended and clipped, and assessed the extent of the varicose veins on the lower legs and speculated on elasticated support stockings, she listened to the conversation Mariella was having with Franco. Mariella was explaining about Phineas Macumbe and what had happened to him, and requesting that his wife should be allowed full credit for a fortnight. Anything she needed, within reason, put on the Lensen account, and I'll settle the bill.
"A bad business, Signora Lensen." Franco said, sympathetically. "Four children, I understand."
Spill words again. The children will get some sweets.
"Ja. A good family. Phineas is a good father and a decent husband. He doesn't get drunk in one of those filthy shebeens."
"And how is your idea coming along, about that, if I may ask?"
Bekki noted the pause.
"I believe we can launch it in the next month or two. Your help is appreciated. But some things take time and diplomacy. I can't just walk in, and say "this is how you will do things from now on."
Franco Viani paused.
"You could, Signora Lensen. Madame Hendricka certainly could. But as you say, people need to be persuaded. It requires friends and allies."
Bekki wondered what Aunt Mariella was planning. She also wondered what a shebeen was. I bet I'll find out… She focused on the job in hand.
"You've got a bit of an ingrowing toenail, Mrs Viani. This is what's making you limp a little, and why you get pain in your toes. I'm going to have to do a little procedure here. It may sting a little and I'm going to have to put a dressing on your foot afterwards, but it will get better. Perhaps if you're behind the counter in the shop, there should be a chair where you can sit? And I would wear sandals for a week or so, rather than enclosed shoes."
Bekki was aware she was being watched.
Franco Viani looked on with appreciation.
"They say you were a marvel with Phineas Macumbe yesterday? People saw the amount of broken wood you took from his arm and chest. News travels."
"Aunt Mariella's taking me up to the Township." Bekki said. "She wants to introduce me to people, and I hope to be able to check on Phineas."
"I think you're going to do good, love." Elsie said. "You're doing me some good!"
Mariella was concluding business with Franco Viani. A price was being agreed for some goods, and she would send carts to collect. Bekki wondered what the Lensen plaas was acrually going to do with what sounded like a ton of mixed grains. She couldn't immediately tie it to anything a vineyard, winery and a distillery normally did. More mystery.
Bekki shrugged, and sensed she ought to be concluding her own business here fairly soon. But there were feet and legs that hadn't had anything more than routine everyday care for a long time. You couldn't hurry this.
She listened to the small-talk of life in the Winelands. And began to appreciate the strategic location of Viani's General Stores. For one thing, located out here on the very edge of the Whites-Only Zone and within walking distance of two of the big Townships, slap-bang on the administrative borderline between the White Zone and the Black Zone, everybody came here. It was key. The big farming industries, like Lensen's, the smaller white farmsteads and small operators, the lone families with smallholdings rather than farms. All the white people who lived in scattered communities for miles around.
And the black people from the townships also needed to buy basic goods and services. Viani's provided. One counter for whites, another for blacks, effectively two shops in one to satisfy apartheid law. As a consequence, he knew everybody, he got all the news, he knew who was who, he had a finger on the pulse of the whole rural locality. He provided fair and respectful service to everybody, white or black, he made sure the children got a little treat if their parents spent their money with him, people trusted him, they talked to him, they passed the time of day here.
Bekki realised, as she tended to Mrs Viani's feet, she now had something of a right to tap into this interchange of local news and information. Aunt Mariella had stopped here, quite deliberately, to introduce her.
And Aunt Mariella, with a mug of imported Ankh-Morporkian tea, Tweaking's Ghatian Breakfast Tea, seemed quite relaxed and in no hurry to move on. She was asking about friends and neighbours in the white world. Bekki realised this wasn't obtrusive or nosy: people were widely scattered outside Bitterfontein town, and the business of running a plaas meant that weeks could go by before near-neighbours physically encountered each other. Of course they'd see more of Mr and Mrs Viani than they would of each other.
"Seen anything of the van Jaasvelds?" Mariella asked, placing no great significance on it. "Met up with Young Jan and Anna a week or two ago. The night of the big storm."
Bekki noted the way Franco and Elsie looked at each other, as if wondering what to say. A moment of hesitation. She got it; some things are confidential between a customer and their trading supplier. Mariella wasn't going to get everything. But some things could be inferred from what wasn't said. Spill-words. Things carefully avoided and skirted round.
"Young Jan has dropped by, certainly." Franco said, carefully. "To pick up an order and to arrange payment of the bill."
Ah. Bekki got the spill-words. They're in trouble. He can't pay the bills and has needed to ask for credit.
"Something's going on there." Elsie said. "I've never liked the feel of that place. They've got secrets."
"Many families do, alas." Franco said. He made an expressive Brindisian shrug. "Jan, the boy, is a good boy. When he inherits I am sure he will turn the place round. We do what we can."
"The next harvest is in four months." Mariella said. "Grapes grow quickly."
Bekki got the spill-words here too. Extend their credit, if you can. The harvest and sale of the wine will cover it and keep them solvent.
"It's that old man." Elsie said, darkly. Her words were those of a tight-lipped Morporkian housewife, in folded-arms and tight-lipped conversation with peers, discussing a difficult neighbour, everybody knowing why the neighbour is considered to be difficult, but not saying it outright. Bekki had seen this a lot, middle-aged women in clustered little groups on the street, seeming both furtive and defiantly proud at the same time, passing judgement on the deficiencies of neighbours and on the world in general.
She frowned, catching the shape and the outline of spill-words, but realising that they were not spilling quite enough.
Those girls of his had a bad time there. That's why they don't visit.
Bekki recalled that Young Jan had two sisters, married and moved out, who only visited their parents when they absolutely had to. Aunt Mariella had hinted at the reasons. It had involved violence of some sort. The exact nature of the bad time was there, but deep-down, concealed, in the deep shadows. It wasn't going to reveal itself to a young Witch, not easily.
She looked over at Aunt Mariella, who was placidly drinking her tea. Her attentive face showed nothing.
Elsie Viani looked down at Bekki. Her face showed concern.
"Rebecka, love. Never go to Hartebeeste on your own. Make sure somebody's with you."
She realised Elsie Viani wasn't going to go into detail as to why. But this was prodding memories, things discussed in the ready room at the Air Station by Air Witches, who were also Watch constables, who between them had seen what policing in Ankh-Morpork could throw up concerning human nature.
And even then it had been things like "Do you remember the Mackery case over in New Brickfields? If Captain Carrot hadn't been there, I swear I'd have fireballed that man. Roasted him alive."
Bekki had wondered about the sort of crime that could provoke that sort of reaction. Godsmother Irena had shaken her head and said "You'll know why when you see it for yourself, devyushka." Mother Hen had given a furious dragon-glare at the Air Witch who had raised this case. Bekki, then around fourteen, had gathered it wasn't the sort of thing that was explicitly discussed in front of the Fledgelings.
Now she was getting the same sort of vibe concerning Oude Jan van Jaasveld. Who was part of the Hartebeeste business.
I'll ask my kuma. Godsmother Irena. Point out to her and to Mother Hen that I'm not a Fledgeling any more. What was the Mackery case and why didn't Mother Hen want it discussing in front of Fledgelings? If that memory came to mind just now when Hartebeeste came up in discussion, then it's relevant, but I don't know how, as nobody went into the details…
Bekki realised, as she applied a dressing, that she was nearly done. She listened to the conversation between Mariella and the Vianis.
"Bad business, Signora Lensen. A bad business indeed. A troubled family."
Bekki, without looking up, registered a sadly shaken head.
"It's no life there for a young girl, Mariella love. If you could somehow get that new young girl out of that house, everyone would be grateful."
Bekki caught the spill words again.
Before anything happens.
"Working on it." Aunt Mariella said. "Making plans. I'm getting Bekki down there to take a look, tell me what she thinks. Also, she's nearer to Ellie in age than I am. Might work out better."
Mariella, Franco and Elsie all looked at Bekki.
"I get it." Bekki said. "Not to go there on my own, and to try and make friends with this girl Ellie." Bekki checked her work. "Anyway, it'll be sore for maybe a week, Mrs Viani, and I'll try to come back in a few days to check up, but you will feel better for this, and be able to walk without discomfort. Wear sandals? No enclosed shoes pressing on the toes."
A short while later, they were riding along the dusty track, passing the bag of sweets backwards and forwards, and discussing the Hartebeeste Business. Bekki selected another Chocolate Astro, revelling in the taste of sweets which were not normally sold in Ankh-Morpork. She knew them from previous visits and, for now, was loving the novelty of it. An idea was forming in her mind. What if she suggested to Mr Viani that she got him a few jars of Ankh-Morporkian sweets unknown here, to see how they sold? She heard her Second Thoughts laughing appreciatively, in her mother's voice.
You're learning, meisie. They'll sell. People like novelty. And it means you'll be more than usually welcome at Viani's, doing what a witch does. Listening. Getting to know things about people.
Her Second thoughts appeared to pause, thoughtfully.
Now if I was doing this, I would take a commission. For facilitating trade. But I daresay making friends of the Vianis means you'll get paid in very useful knowledge.
Inside her head, Bekki formulated a question.
-Mum, what's the big secret about the van Jaasvelds, the one so shocking people only hint at it?
-I told you, Rebecka, I'm not your mother. I'm your Second Thoughts. I talk in her voice because it's a voice you listen to. I think in ways you don't acknowledge as Rebecka. If you like, I'm a sort of Perdita. Your shadow side, not a full blown second personality. And no, I don't properly know either. Maybe this is something adult that you don't have any direct personal experience of yet. You're still not quite seventeen, don't forget. There are lots of things you don't know yet, and you aren't at home with thinking about. Things Mother Hen takes care to shield her Fledglings from. At least for justnow.
"Looking far away, there." Aunt Mariella said. "You did a good job in there, by the way. Elsie's going to feel a lot better for your working on her feet and taking out that horrible looking ingrowing toenail. Funny how people think if they ignore these things, they'll go away."
Mariella looked thoughtful.
"They still charged me for the sweets, did you notice? Nearly a full pound, meisie."
"Pick 'em and mix 'em." Bekki said. "You think the bag can't possibly weigh that much…"
"And it does." Mariella said, drily. "No need to fiddle the weighing scale. Still, I can pay for them. If it means people who can't easily pay for treats for the kids get something extra for free now and again, that's good."
She selected a piece of Safari Fruit.
"Aunt Mariella?" Bekki asked. "What's happening at the van Jaasvelds that people hint about, but aren't willing to say outright?"
Her aunt considered this. She frowned.
"Wellnow. I get that people suspect something happened. But they hold back from talking about it, because they do not know for sure. Just rumours. And a long way in the past, now."
Mariella looked over at Bekki.
"We guard each other's privacy in this country, meisie. A man is master in his own home, and people take the point of view that you do not interfere in how he runs his plaas. And how he runs his family. Inviolable rule."
She looked thoughtful.
"Horst's father. Everybody knew old man Lensen was killing himself on the product. It was a big open secret. The Lensen plaas, managed by an incapable alcoholic who just could not manage. Leaving Hendricka to do all the work. That's how she wrecked her health, and she can barely hobble."
"And nobody helped out. Nobody said anything to Horst's father." Bekki said.
"Pretty much, yes." Mariella said. "Failing plaas. I suspect neighbours wanted it to go bust, so they could buy up the land cheaply. Friends of Hendricka's helped her out, but jislaaik, that woman is proud. Your grandparents helped turn it around, but that's a different story."
Mariella shook her head.
"I suspect your grandfather might have been doing it for me. Maybe for Horst too, so he'd have somewhere settled and secure to offer me." (6)
Mariella sighed deeply.
"My father, however, just walked straight in and read him the riot act, by all accounts. Then they provided help and support. Like I said, long story. But the point of all this is – a Boer who owns a plaas is absolute master. His plaas, his rules, his way. That's how it is in this country."
Bekki caught the hint and the spill words.
Something bad may have happened there. Something we don't talk about.
"Besides." Mariella said. "You haven't been there yet. Best for now you don't get any prejudices or biases. So that your mind's clear and uncluttered when I take you over there and you can form your own impressions. You were saying you got to talk to other witches, and they were helpful?"
Bekki sorted the recent memory out, and explained. It had been on the evening, at Krapovits, after the actual burial, when the funeral party had started. Old Natalya's body, shrouded in white, covered, and with a red belt tied at the waist, had been carried through the gates of the Domovila by the pallbearers. These, Bekki had noticed, had included Olga's father, the Grand Duke, alongside the village mayor, or headman, or whatever, from Krapovits town, and the ornately dressed Cossack officer, carrying the deceased together, in an unspoken democracy. Acknowledging the local Witch had served everybody, regardless of social status. Olga and Irena had also helped carry the coffin.
Xenia Galena, the shamaness, had glared at the ornately dressed priest of the Orthodox Potato Church, who had meekly stood back, allowing her to do some sort of opening ritual at the Domovila gate before the priest, at her nod, was permitted to co-lead the funeral party into the House of the Dead.
Bekki has found she had Yulia Viszhinsky and Serafima Dospanova falling in on either side in the funeral procession.
Yulia had given her the usual big delighted wide smile.
"Irena Yannesovna detailed us." she said. "To watch you, and ensure you do not go wandering off on your own when you cross the Gate."
"Does she think I will?" Bekki asked.
Yulia had shrugged.
"You are foreign, and you know least." she said. "There are things on the other side that would notice this. Irena Yanessovna wants no problems and since she cannot at this moment guard you personally. She asked us to stay close. She wants no little headaches, she said."
"Did you feel preparations Xenia Drugomirovna had to make, so that, for instance, Domovila accepts men passing through the gate?" Serafima asked. "Opening the gate, so people may pass and come back safely. No small magic, Firebird."
Bekki got this. She felt the sense of dislocation as she passed between the posts, and entered what she knew was gnarly ground. She had a feeling of other eyes watching them, eyes which were not human. Eyes belonging to people also marking the passing of the Babayaga. Again she sensed the three riders, in red, white and black. She tried to shake off a sudden idea about how to find a short-cut that might bring her out in Lancre. you know, just to see if the notion she'd had earlier had any truth to it. The idea of exploring this place was getting compulsive...
Serafima took her arm in a friendly but definite sort of way, and Bekki came back to the present. She was three thousand miles away from anywhere she called home and didn't want to end up any further away. Not with Boetjie being on the other side of a Gateway.
The actual funeral had been fast, a respectful interring of the remains. Bekki sensed the men in the party were very ill at ease in this place, and the priest concluded the shortest service consistent with doctrine and respect, visibly eager to get out again. Without a word being said, even Grand Duke Nikolas took up a spade to help fill the grave. Each witch attending took a turn with a spade, adding a symbolic shovel full of earth.
Then it was done. Another hummocked grave, a fresh one, in a place where Bekki realised quite a few burials had taken place over the centuries.
The last witch to leave was Vasilisa Budonova. She had knelt at the fresh grave, taken a pouch from her waist, and carefully added what Bekki thought were seeds to the earth. Then she made the witch-bow, and followed the procession back out, through the gates, to the sound of the shamanka's drum. Bekki had frowned, wondering why the beat was a little uncertain, then realised Xenia Galena had passed drum and beating stick down to Tatiana, and was instructing her in keeping the time. Maybe that's symbolic too. An old lady dies and is buried. A five year old girl leads the funeral procession back into the real world. Life goes on?
In the gathering gloom of evening, fires were lit and there was no more ceremony. Food, drink, music and dance started happening. Bekki realised she should take the opportunity to find somebody she could talk to. To relate Mariella's story about Hartebeeste. To ask advice. Especially about scissors. But who? She sensed it wouldn't be right, in this place at this time, to burden Godsmother Irena, her kuma. Or Olga Romanoff. It was their time to mourn and respect their tutor's passing, for one thing. Also, Irena was with her parents, her brothers, and their families. Bekki gathered this sort of reunion would be rare. Olga, she sensed, also had thornier family issues to deal with. Her father was the man in charge here, the local feudal overlord. She guessed Olga and her parents had big issues to work out. She belonged to the ruling Family. No small thing.
She took a plate of food and ate, relieved to have something to absorb the vodka, and listened to the music. She grinned. Yulia Viszhinsky had retrieved her violin from her Pegasus' pannier and had joined the ad-hoc musical group. Well. She was a musician. Try stopping this.
She also gathered from watching Olga doing the thing with the palm of her hand and her forehead – she could see it from here – that something was happening. Especially since Irena, from her own family group, was grinning broadly.
Bekki felt the insistent tug at her tunic hem and looked down at Tatiana Yermeka, tiny and intense. She grabbed Bekki's hand and pulled.
"Mamya says come and join us, Auntie Firebird."
Bekki allowed herself to be led. Nadezhda Popova was sitting on a felled treetrunk over to one side of the clearing, and she raised a glass in welcome.
"You wanted to see me, sergeant?" Bekki said, politely.
Nadezhda frowned. She indicated the place on her sleeve where sergeant's stripes would normally go.
"Do you see me in uniform, Firebird? Do you see stripes on my arms? No? Then tonight, in this place. I am Nadezhda. Not Nadezhda Veranovna. Just Nadezhda."
She indicated Bekki should sit next to her.
Tatiana sat, cross-legged, in the grass in front of them.
"Ser… Nadezhda. The music Yulia is playing. It seems to be causing a stir?"
"Da. You could call it that. Notice how people are taking up the words? What do you understand?"
Bekki concentrated. It was a lively violin-based theme, almost a jig to dance to.
"Something about a little apple, falling from the tree and rolling?" she hazarded.
"Da. Skripka's sense of humour, which perhaps I should remark on to her, later. Well done in your understanding of Rodinian, Firebird. See Olga's father, the way he is suddenly quiet and listening? The song is perhaps not to his taste."
"Everyone's a critic." Bekki said. Nadezhda smiled.
"Yulia is being, perhaps, provocative. Song is about how peasants tend trees in orchard. Peasants spend the year tending to the trees. They harvest apples. Then the landlord turns up, who has not helped tend the trees, and demands large part of apple crop as his rent. People are singing this song, and not caring that their greedy parasitical landlord is present. The song says he is greedy and parasitical, therefore he must be. Grand Duke Nikolas, and his daughter Lady Olga, know in this place they must permit such songs, and take them with good humour. Is song from days of Union of Soviets. Not normally sung when Grand Duke is present." (7)
Nadezhda smiled a big smile.
"Is rather funny. But I should speak with Skripka about being provocative."
"Auntie Firebird, did you seem me beating the shamanka drum? Auntie Xenia said I should, and showed me how." Tatiana piped up.
Bekki praised the way she had kept the beat. Nadezhda smiled with maternal pride.
"A great responsibility. You did it almost perfectly." she told her daughter. "And Xenia Galena will teach you more."
"The scissors, mamya." Tatiana said, insistently. "The scissors that want to cut Auntie Firebird's hair off."
Nadezhda frowned.
"Da. Nozhnitsy. I understand a lot of people are seeing scissors around you, Firebird. Irena Yannesovna is concerned. She will speak to you, but in meantime, while she must do other things, has asked me to also speak to you. It is true you were her Fledgling rather than mine. But to me, any Fledgling who is possibly in trouble is my Fledgling too. What is happening, what can we do to guide you and keep you safe?"
"Hullo." Perspicacia Tick said. She was holding a full glass and a plate of food. "Is there room for one more here, Nadezhda? Gives me a chance to speak to your little girl too, if you'll permit."
"Da. Join us. Firebird has problem in her Steading, perhaps. She needs guidance."
Miss Tick settled herself down, with perfect confidence that she would be accepted.
With a flood of relief, Bekki described her new Steading, and the Hartebeeste Problem as her aunt had explained it to her. The older witches listened attentively. Nadezhda and Miss Tick looked at each other.
"Hmm." Miss Tick said. "Sounds like a Class Two poltergeist to me."
Nadezhda shrugged.
"Perhaps." she said. "There is other possibility."
She nodded at a group of nearby Cossacks who were keeping a respectful distance from Witches, and part stood up.
"Это мирно." She said, looking at them as she drew her sabre. The Cossacks grinned back, understanding.
"Is custom, Firebird. You draw sword in front of Cossacks, it can be misunderstood. Especially when vodka is present. I have said "this is in peace." So that there is no misunderstanding."
She laid the sword across her lap and touched the metal.
"Sons of Kroschkei." she said. "Elves. By the way, miss Tick. Take care in touching blade. Touch on the flat or on the dull edge, ricasso side. Sharp edge is sharp. Spassibo. "
Bekki was suddenly alert.
"You said…" she reached out and touched the blade herself. "Elves."
Miss Tick smiled a tolerant smile.
"I remember Tiffany Aching going onto the Elf-world with the Feegle to rescue the boy." she said. "There's a whole ecology over there of weird and wonderful creatures, especially around the Queen's court."
She kept a careful hand on the blade.
"Good point, Nadezhda. Things the Queen creates and gets bored with, or something that sincerely wanted to escape from her menagerie. It found a way to cross into our world. An open door. An escape tunnel. It's one of the ways we get poltergeists in the first place. Things created by Elves. Part of their world."
Bekki was suddenly alert.
"And… if the Queen notices it's gone. Would she send people to get it back? Through the same tunnel?"
"It's possible." Miss Tick conceded. "Chances are she hasn't even noticed, or else she might just be bored with it and considers it too much effort to chase. Personally, I just think it's a Class Two poltergeist. If it can manifest in the world and cut people's hair off, that means it's got power."
Nadezhda frowned.
"I think, important we know where such tunnel emerged, if this is case," she said. "This girl, the sad, lonely, troubled one. She is tunnel. She screamed when your aunt threw knives at the thing, did she not? Miss Tick, we have only little evidence and it may be one of several things. Firebird is correct. It is not likely to be Dungeon Dimensions. It could be creature escaping from Elf-world. Perhaps Elves released it deliberately, to see where it went and if it opened door that can be followed. To place where there they believe there are no Witches. But there is small evidence. Lots of possible explanation."
Nadezhda looked at Miss Tick.
"This girl's mind feeds it. Offers it a path to enter our world from place of origin, wherever that is. May not be from Elf world, but should still be reported, and Witches should know. We should investigate her. Firebird, I will speak to Olga Anastacia. You must find way to see this place for yourself. As Witch. You must also keep us informed."
Nadezhda Popova looked very stern. She stood and gripped the hilt of her shashka. Bekki got a sudden picture in her head of riders on horses. Charging. With such sabres raised and ready to slash. Second Thoughts prodded her.
Cossacks. At some point in your life, you are going to be on a battlefield, whether you want to be there or not, and you will see a lot of Cossacks charging. Do not be the one standing in front of them when they do.
"We have duty. If Sons of Kroshkei come into world, to find them and liquidate them. Is Witch duty."
Nadezhda smiled slightly. She resheathed her sabre and sat.
"Also. Is troubled young girl in place where it is dangerous for her. She needs help and healing too. That also Witch job."
Bekki felt reassured. And also worried.
"So could be donkervolk." Aunt Mariella said. "Kabouter."
Bekki was relieved that her aunt knew to touch iron.
"Could be, Aunt Mariella. But as Nadezhda Popova said, too much speculation on too little actual evidence. Die donker volk are one possibility but it isn't the only one. I need to get over there and see for myself. Nadezhda was pretty clear that I report regularly to the Air Watch command on this. In the meantime, they're talking to people. What you might call the Witch hive mind. Getting ideas. Looking for people who've seen this sort of thing before."
"I'll set this up." Mariella promised. They rode on, sharing chocolates. Bekki frowned. She had an idea a settlement of some sort was nearby, although the bush road took a sharp turn to the left, around the outcropping of a bluff topped by marula and buffalothorn trees. Just muted muffled noises. Faint changes in the bush smells, suggesting human habitation. A hint of smoke, possibly from a cooking fire or fires.
Mariella looked more alert and motioned for Bekki to stash the sweets away in a saddlebag.
"Turfloop township's just round the next bend. Brace yourself. With the best will in the world, it can smell like the Ankh on a bad day and aspects of it can make The Shades look pretty."
To be continued – more to come. Looking here for a shorter linking chapter setting out a bit of background and more themes for the coming story.
(1) The sort that's one step up from plasticene and which air-dries to a fairly solid permanent consistency. After this you get into the sort of ceramic that needs a potter's kiln.
(2) Homage. To the setting for the video of Bok van Blerk's song 68 Chevvy (Minki), which is a shabby general stores in the middle of nowhere in South Africa.
(3) Terrible Italian, I know. But be fair. Bekki can't be THAT multi-lingual. Trying to get a fair but grammatically horrible Italian version of "that's cutting me own throat" here.
(4) I have actually tried some of these. Kalahari Moon in Bristol Market is a shop selling Saffie produce to expats. I wholeheartedly recommend this establishment to anyone in the Bristol area. Otherwise, South African names for sweets, snacks and confections were pretty much randomly bunged in to evoke the feel of sweeties on display in a shop.
(5) The whole marketing strategy behind pick-and-mix sweetshops.
(6) See Gap Year Adventures. In which Mariella realises what powerful forces are at work in her life and in which Hendricka Lensen is introduced as a supporting character.
(7) Now go to Russian band Otava Yo, who perform the Little Apple song on a riverboat steaming down the river Neva in the city formerly known as Leningrad. Is this city a magnet for Russia's eccentrics and nutty people?
he stuff that gets dumped when camp is made at the end of the daily Trek: the Notes Laager
Looking for Italian translations of "dibble", "dibbler". Google Translate offers "dilletarsi" for the action of "dabbling", as in "messing around" or "getting involved in something without knowing too much about it". Dilletante.
"Cutting my own throat" is apparently tagliandosi la gola.
Possidenti, Scudiero – "squire"
Mariella's opera libretto: "Oh, he is Giano the thief, see how he fills his pockets, the merchant is unaware!"
Le Camicie di Nero – The Shirts of Black
Retrieved from my account on Quora and worth adding here…
Question asked - Have you ever written FanFiction? If so, what was it about and where did you post it?
My answer (March 19, 2020):-
Yep… I was writing fanfic, slowly and painfully, on an old electric typewriter many years ago (late 1980's), trying to do a comedy pastiche of The Lord of the Rings/The Silmarillion, aware I'd never be able to profit from it and it was only for fun. I was trying to answer questions that were nagging at me, like "Who built the sewers under Gondolin and Rivendell? Elves ate food. Therefore they would have digestive systems. Therefore there MUST have been elven plumbers and drainage/sewerage people. For the bits on top to glow and be beautiful, there must have been infrastructure below. So what sort of outlook on life would a high elven plumber and lavatory repair man have had?"
I ran with this - the idea of The Lowest Of The High Elves - for a year or two. An elf who would think the High Elves above him were a snotty stuck-up bunch of entitled bastards who wouldn't recognise a ball-cock if they got hit on the head by one, a Low Elf who would, in fact, recognise fundamental things about Orcs that Tolkein hinted at but did not follow through logically (if they were bred from debased elves, some of them, it follows on, would be more Elf than Orc. And if the potential exists in Elves to become Orcs, then there'd be some strolling about Rivendell who would be Elf on the outside and orcish on the inside).
I ran with this until I discovered a published author called Terry Pratchett. Then I realised, with a sinking "you bastard, Pratchett…" sort of feeling that this guy was writing EXACTLY the sort of fantasy-parody-comedy stories that I wanted to write.
Only - better.
I gave up for a few years, but bought every Pratchett tale as they came out. I gave away the electric typewriter to a friend as I wasn't using it. I lived in the Discworld. I bought the Companions for further detail.
Then word-processing and the gift of Microsoft Word coincided with my getting maybe as far as the tenth Discworld novel and thinking… what if….
And I finally got the Internet. The perfect storm. My compulsion to write was reborn. And… those Discworld pastiches, continuations and original character fics started to happen.
Occassional goes at other universes, yes (including Tolkein) - but in the main, I write the Terry Pratchett Discworld.