Strandpiel 32
February-March 2022. Deciding – it's a sort of general rule, but not hard and fast – to stay out of references to big unresolved topical issues. I do have readers in both Russia and the Ukraine, after all. Can't help wondering how my "Russian" characters might react and how many exasperated face-palms, at the very least, would be happening right now. (Vision of Olga, Irena and Nadezhda and some of the others watching Roundworld footage via HEX, and getting annoyed). Also, the nearest I've ever been to introducing a "Ukrainian" character was Air Watch pilot Tatiana Grigorenko, and that was by default – it was pointed out her name is more Ukrainian than Russian. Best noted this is happening in the real Roundworld, but to step back from any overt mentions.
Timed out: off on holiday for ten days (English east coast) and hoped I could get a fuller version of this chapter out. Can't get there in time, so this is between half and two-thirds of what I was working up: the rest will be held over for next time. Just so you all know I'm not abandoning you while I explore the lovely Lincolnshire coast… ( flat English farming country and very bucolic. Voted heavily for Brexit…)
V0.07 Also...bloody F F has stripped out all the footnotes and I'm currently 140 miles away from my master copy of this chapter with only a hand-held held Tablet to work on and one of those keyboards that you poke at with a finger .Damn. I will attempt to restore them. Slowly. An Amazon Fire tablet is not my best friend for speedy accurate writing.
Back from Lincolnshire full of ideas for continuations, and at a proper keyboard again. Footnotes reinstated as originally intended!
Bitterfontein, RH, April
The post-auction bar at the Free Trade Exchange Hall was doing its usual brisk trade. It was populated by local farmers, stock-men and representatives of the usual supporting professions, happy in the knowledge of a good afternoon's work well done, relaxing and kicking back after the day's buying and selling had been completed.
Horst Lensen stood with a group of peers, younger men who owned or who had to do with farms and agricultural enterprises, and accepted a beer. A thick roll of banknotes was safely stowed in an inside pocket, testament to the sales he had just made.
"You got the three beans, then." Martinus Lensen said. It was an accepted joke between farmers selling cows that the bidding at an auction began with the traditional offer of three beans. It was time-honoured. Even if the bulk of the livestock being sold had not been bovine.
"And more." Horst said, happily. His older brother grinned back.
Martinus grinned, wryly.
"Ag, man. The way you and Mariella turned the old place around. Especially Mariella."
"She's the brains." Horst replied, taking no offence. "Without her and her family, we'd have been stuffed. No question."
Martinus Lensen, older, well-rounded, with the ease that comes from getting prosperous in a job that doesn't involve too much personal lifting or excess physical activity, smiled benevolently.
"I remember a bit over ten years ago." Martinus said. "Everything going down the poefdoef, Mother wrecking herself to keep the place going, Father… well, Father… you went missing, and everyone thought that was it, you were dead."
Martinus grinned, wryly.
"Dangerous profession, assassin."
"I'm still here." Horst reminded his brother. "Came back. Mariella helped."
Martinus looked sympathetic.
"And her family." he said. "They saved the place. That rescue plan."
The brothers remembered. The family plaas had been slowly going under, treading water with accumulating debts. Horst had been thought dead somewhere in Klatch. Mother had squared her chin, determined to go down fighting. Then Horst had come back. And not on his own. The Smith-Rhodes family had proposed a rescue plan. Hendricka Lensen, married to an incapable alcoholic and exhausted by struggle against what looked like eventual bankruptcy and ruin, had sold the plaas to a management consortium headed by the Smith-Rhodes family. With the money to invest in what was recognised as a fundamentally sound business, the Smith-Rhodes involvement had paid off all the Lensen debtors. They had also invested and modernised with new buildings and equipment. Horst Lensen, his Army service over and with a fiancée to offer a dowry to, had returned and had taken over more of the management. His new wife, a Smith-Rhodes, had also become involved. Within a few years, as had originally been agreed, the management consortium allowed Horst and Mariella to buy back more and more of the title to the business, paying off their debt to the Smith-Rhodes family until their original investment was repaid, and their notional ownership of the place was now vested in one family member, Mrs Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen. The plaas now belonged, truly, to the Lensen family once more.(1)
"Shame Father never got to see it." Martinus said. They remembered him for a few silent moments. Andreas Smith-Rhodes had placed only two conditions on the support deal that had kept the Lensens afloat and set them on the path to prosperity. Mother had seen the sense of both clauses, even though both had caused her grief.
Her husband had been certified medically incapable and had been sent to a residential place elsewhere that had sought to dry him out and wring the alcohol out of him. The Smith-Rhodes family had paid the bills, in the genuine hope he might come back healthier and in better shape, with twenty rather than two or three years of life expectancy. Andreas "Barbarossa" Smith-Rhodes had talked him into it, using a combination of diplomacy, friendly concern and when all else failed, force of personality. Mother had supported this, genuinely wanting a reformed and healthier husband she could have a normal married life with. Not an alcoholic liability.
"He was too far gone." Martinus said, quietly. "Too far down that particular road to turn back."
Horst accepted this, not without a stab of grief. Some hurts never really healed. He remembered the dreadful day when his parents-in-law had arrived for a visit, having crossed the country with the news.
"I'm so sorry, Hendricka. Better you hear this from us." Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had said. Her husband had looked grimly silent and still, head bowed.
Father had gone back to drinking and the new liver and kidneys, implanted by clever Igors, which had been "clean" and had not built up the tolerance of a long-time alcoholic, had simply not been able to withstand it. Toxic shock, Igor had said.
Horst shut off the memory. His brother looked sad and worried. For both, men who habitually dealt in distilled alcoholic spirits, it was a fear, the elephant in the room. They were the sons of an alcoholic. Both had learnt a lesson and both drank abstemiously, carefully, with respect, frightened of what might happen if they didn't.
"Which leads us to…" Martinus said.
"Nikolaas." Horst said. It only took one word.
The oldest of the three Lensen brothers had been the second condition of the buyout. Of the three, Nikolaas was the most like their father. In every respect. He had not taken kindly to the family plaas now no longer belonging to them. It had cut him out of his inheritance, for one thing, the expectation that the oldest son gets everything. It had been pointed out to him that this no longer applied. He could knuckle down and work, as an employee, or else he could seek his fortune somewhere else. The former family business was no longer a place where could expect money for no perceptible work, or else walk into the bottling plant and take whatever he fancied. That would now be theft and treated accordingly. No special considerations applied. Those days were over.
He had taken it badly. Mother had wept and had said she had been at fault. For indulging him for so long. But he had gone, in bad grace and after a scene.
"I don't let him near my business, now." Martinus said. "Tempting fate."
Martinus Lensen ran a thriving import-export business in Caarp Town. He exported the beers, wines and spirits of Rimwards Howondaland to the world, focusing on the produce of the Winelands. He imported the best the rest of the world had to offer. He had grown quietly rich at his trade, and as he said to his mother and brother, after he'd seen the City, he wasn't cut out for country living or any sort of farming any more. But he'd trade in the family product, and cut you the very best deals on it, Ma. He also had a low tolerance for an older brother walking in and assuming he was entitled, by right of family, to take whatever he liked. There had been Scenes there too.
"Don't tell me." Horst said. "Nik's going to have another try at claiming what he considers to be his inheritance. Didn't he learn last time?"
"Legally, he doesn't have a leg to stand on." Martinus said, drily. "The inheritance failed when the Smith-Rhodeses bought us out. It became their plaas, and the Lensens became tenant managers. Didn't apply any more. New rules. You and Mariella managed the place on their money, with Ma supervising. You did spectacularly well at it, Mariella brought in a lot of ideas, and money of her own to back them, and within five years you bought it back from the Smith-Rhodeses. And of course when it became profitable, Nik walks in, hasn't been seen for six years, demanding a cut, and threatens Mariella with legal action to get him reinstated as heir."
They considered this.
"You, Ma and Riella own it now." Martinus said. "Your plaas. Your money. Your blood. Your sweat. I don't have a claim. I'm happy about that. But Nik."
"Won't be told." Horst said. "And it takes a lot to get Mariella that angry. Wouldn't risk it myself. The only reason why he walked out alive was because Ma begged Mariella not to kill him."
"Reckon she would have done?" Martinus asked.
Horst shook his head.
"Needs a contract first." he said. "Professional ethics. But get Mariella that riled up, and you never know."
"Best not to get Riella fired up, then." Martinus agreed. "That's like coaling up a dragon."
Horst grinned.
"Do you know, only two people have that privilege. To call her Riella." he remarked. "She hates it, usually. I don't get to call her that, but then, I'm only her husband."
"Me, and the old boyfriend in Ankh-Morpork." Martinus said.
Horst looked thoughtful.
"Tim Bellamy. Nice guy. He's okay. I get if there was a world championship in being a nice guy, Tim would retire undefeated. I like him. Impossible to dislike him." (2)
They called for fresh beers and studied the bar around them.
Martinus changed the subject.
"What's with Marcus Swaart?" he asked, genuinely intrigued. "I hear there was a bit of bother at a fifteen-a-side game and he got shown his own arse. Made the papers."
Horst grinned.
"He hasn't been seen much since." he said. "Recovering from injury. Not so much the broken ribs, as the multiple fractures to his pride."
"I was talking to some of the bros." Martinus said. "Old friends. Business contacts. Apparently Marcus the Mountain(3) has been a bit subdued lately. Can't think why. He was seen in a bar, sitting on his own, having a few beers and staring into the suds. You know Donie Liederman's bar in Kirstenbosch? He buys from me. Good man. Anyway, Donie saw trouble coming and got the barman's friend ready, briefed a couple of big men, just in case Marcus got too intense, and everybody in the place breathed just a little easier when the Mountain finished his beer, got up and walked out."
Martinus grinned.
"Go on." Horst said.
Well, he came back in, running in, a few minutes later. Looking frightened. Which is a new one for everybody. Marcus Swaart is not a man who usually has the brains or the imagination to be frightened."
"Except by nurses with needles." Horst remarked. His brother grinned.
"Remarkable girl, isn't she? Riella's little sister, people are saying? Anyway. He asked for a big klippies, threw it down, hell of a waste of good klipdrift. Then he said he was being followed. In the street."
"Go on." Horst said. "Usually with Marcus, that's inviting a fight. But he ran away?"
"Well. After a couple of big brandywines, which apparently did not touch the sides on the way down, he told a strange story. He'd left the bar to go home then realised he was being followed. By little men, about six inches tall. One of them was blue, as you might expect."
"The blue devil factory." Horst agreed. Inside, a little suspicion was growing. "Marcus should watch that. Not good."
His brother grinned.
"But the other one was green. That's new. An ugly little thing with a tail and big teeth. Fangs. Tusks."
Horst became impassive.
"And did the little blue man, or the little green man, say anything at any point?"
"No. Dead silent. But grim. Very grim. Apparently they kept popping up to stare at him. There one minute, not there the next. Broke his nerve."
Martinus shook his head.
"The new girl. The nurse. Riella's little sister?"
"Niece." Horst corrected. He sensed this wasn't going to make a difference. "She patched up his knocks and put him on painkillers. And I know Bekki's good. She'll have warned him about mixing them with alcohol. With that sort of knockout drop, you don't drink."
"That'll be it, then." Martinus said, understanding perfectly. "He was seeing things. Maybe his own guilty conscience, or something. You say Riella and Bekki came here with you?"
Horst grinned.
"Bekki got called to an incident." he said. "Stockman got kicked by a stirk. And with somebody like Bekki out there demonstrating she knows what she's about, they'll be queuing up afterwards with all sorts of other little knocks and bruises. Mariella went with her to fend them off, or at least to get them to form an orderly queue. We'd better go and see if we can extract her, or she'll be there till next Thursday."
Bekki's life in Howondaland was settling into a round of hard work and activity. Being a Healthcare Practitioner meant little time off, even with Aunt Mariella and Mevrou Hendricka acting as informal receptionists, screening the callers from the nearby towns and farmsteads. She was training her orderly Dertien to do a lot of the simpler procedures and he was getting the hang of it quite swiftly and with competence, but it still made for busy days.
Bekki was also fitting in an evening surgery twice a week in the neighbouring township of Turfloop, making herself present to look after the needs of the residents, scrupulously arriving by invitation, and flying in on Boetjie, a Pegasus who needed regular exercise. As she had said to Captain Verdraainer of the Bureau of State Security, no magic whatever was involved, as a Pegasus was a recognised sub-species of horse, and the normal zoological principles of flight applied to Boetjie as they did to any winged creature in the Gods' creation. And she understood it was perfectly legal for a white person to visit a native township, which she did by invitation from the Village Chief, in order to bring medical assistance and healing as part of the legally sanctioned charitable work undertaken locally by the Lensen family.
The look of supressed bilious anger on the part of the BOSS commander had been scary, but also something to cherish.
Bekki had also been prompted by her Second Thoughts not to push this too far. The man was dangerous. And, she realised, she also had a degree of protection that meant Verdraainer would have to be really sure of his case being watertight, if he ever arrested her. She was a Smith-Rhodes. The name counted.
Also, Olga Romanoff had met this man, and had apparently said they should talk as peers, Police Captain to Police Captain. Olga had apparently reminded him that this Rimwards Howondalandian Citizen was also, because of her unique status, a Pegasus Service pilot, and one of her command. "She also has dual citizenship with Ankh-Morpork. And I'm sure you're aware, Captain, of the diplomatic protocol involving Pegasi. Has Foreign Minister van der Graaf sent you official notification, from the highest Government level, of what this means? He has? Khorosho. Or perhaps, lekker.
"So I'm sure there will be no misunderstandings, Captain, while Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes is resident in this country. Just as I, myself, spend part of my week resident in Pratoria, and my own Pegasus is necessarily stabled there with me during those times. As a naturalised Citizen by marriage, I respect the Laws and Statutes while I am here, and Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes will do so while she is here. I have instructed her accordingly."
In other words, lay off, Bekki thought. She smiled to herself, but her Second Thoughts prompted caution. Verdraainer was powerful. It would not do to provoke him too far.
In one of those rare intervals in between patients, Bekki reached for her bass and the bow, settled herself, and began playing scales. Outside her surgery, a dog howled. She remembered that she was a Witch with a musical instrument and conscientiously tried to move out of the infrasonic. The fact that even in normal circumstances, the lower register notes could go straight to your bladder, was a consideration, too.(4)
Yulia had seen right through it, of course. She had contrived reasons to fly to Howondaland since her first visit and, understanding, Olga had brought her out as second pilot on the Pratoria run.(5)
"I've, err, got something to confess to you…"
Yulia had grinned.
"No need, Firebird. I've heard about your music teacher."
She had bowed to the third person present, who only the two Witches could see.
"Herr Maestro." Yulia said. "I heard about you at the Conservatory."
The spirit of Gustav von Verschlimmbesserung (deceased), the Bonk Philharmonic Orchestra's principal bassist, bowed back.
"A graduate of the Wotua Doinov Conservatory." he said. "A pleasure and a privilege, my dear. If Miss Smith-Rhodes is amenable, what shall we play?"
Bekki, feeling like a sort of passenger in her own body, felt her body and fingers being instructed in the movements of the Acciughe e Capperi movement of Mozerella's Four Seasonings. Apparently this was a virtuouso piece, ideally for a string octet, but which could be carried by bass and solo violin.
She allowed herself to move with the music and Gustav's direction, hearing his voice in her head explaining about the music and the finer points of basscraft, registering that they were now moving on to Syd Baileyus' violin concerto in B, where, alas, a single double bass would have to stand in for a whole orchestra, sketching out the main themes for the soloist to build her performance around.
"We'll manage." Yulia said, with her delighted smile. "They say this is possibly the most difficult piece for a single violin to play. I understand they say Sydney Baileyus didn't like violinists very much."(6)
Bekki realised her role in musical life was to be in the background, playing the themes that enabled the star solo act to stand out. She didn't begrudge this. Ampie had said he couldn't do what he did as a trumpet player without feeling deeply thankful somebody else in the horn section was doing the grunt work, laying down the very basic oompah-oompah beat on the tubas and euphoniums and dwarf-horns. He imagined the double basses and the cellos did the same unglamorous support work for the violins to weave their main themes around.
She understood this, and let Gustav steer her fingers and her bowing hand. She was getting better, with every training session. This was worth the price, especially with a violinist in front who was incredibly good at what she did. Bekki watched Yulia. Her feet were barely moving, or else you might have said she was dancing. Everything from her hips upwards were driving the violin, she realised. It was mesmerising to watch.(7) She was ducking, bending, swivelling on her hips and waist, and demonstrating the essential truth that a violin bow is a little over two feet long. To push it forwards for its full length and then to draw it back for its full length requires a lot of movement for a girl of maybe five feet five, if that. She watched Yulia, in a different place, lost in the music, practically bouncing up and down on her feet as the bow moved against the strings. She also noted her Flight-Feegle nodding a silent welcome to Wee Archie and Grindguts, as they came in from one of their little expeditions. Bekki frowned. She liked to know where they were, in case of misunderstandings. Justnow they tended to disappear for hours at a time and could get a bit shifty and shuffly if asked. Bekki had also noted there seemed to be some understanding between them and Uncle Horst, as if some sort of secret was being kept. She frowned again and decided to ask him. And if Uncle Horst got evasive, Aunt Mariella could ask him. It could wait.
She noted the two Feegle and a Demon sitting on the desktop, in quiet respect, as the music played. That figured. Feegle respected human musicians and had been known to not even rob them a little bit, if they came too close to a mound. Human musicians were appreciated. And if the musician was also a Witch, the Feegle who served her got respect and mound-cred. The flight-Feegle had fought to travel with Yulia, leaving Wee Banjo Duggie the last man standing. He got perks, like hearing her play violin, and provided he bathed regularly and kept quiet during performances, he got to accompany her to the Opera House and the Disharmonia Hall to listen to performances.(8)
Bekki focused on providing the background orchestral oompah and faltered a little, as she sensed Gustav receding. But it didn't matter; she'd got the idea of this piece, and made sure the bass oompahing came in, in key and in tempo. She heard his voice.
"Ladies? I can see customers approaching. People are waiting outside. You will shortly have patients to attend to. As Witches."
"Healthcare practitioners." Bekki corrected him.
"Miss Rebecka, there are people." Dertien said. Her orderly had been sitting in the doorway, on the stoep, listening to the music and appreciating.
Yulia threw herself into the last few bars of the Syd Baileyus. Bekki knew enough about music to appreciate that Syd Baileyus had been really fond of the false ending, as if he was reluctant to let go of a piece. Just when you thought it was coming to a finish, he'd confound expectations, and add a bit more…
She watched the bow flying up and down the strings, rising to the low notes, dipping to the treble notes, and then as Gustav instructed her hands in the trademark crashing bass chords that marked the end of a Syd Baileyus piece, the music ended with a triumphant rush of violin.
The Feegle cheered, and there was a rush of applause from outside.
"I should leave you now, Miss Smith-Rhodes. You have Witch-work to attend to. Miss Vizhinsky, it was a pleasure and a privilege."
After that, it was patients.
"You should have said, Mr van de Bossen." Bekki said. "Were you waiting out there for long?"
Her patient grinned.
"Didn't matter. The music was good." he said. "Was that you two ladies? Wellnow. There's a thing. It was pleasant to listen to. I don't suppose you can do something like Boesmanland or Is lekker ou Jan?"
Bekki quickly translated for Yulia, who grinned.
"No disrespect. I am foreign and ignorant and I don't speak your language." she said. "You could sing it for me while we work, perhaps?"
"She's a healthcare practitioner too." Bekki explained. "But from a different country."
She assessed the patient.
"Dislocated shoulder." she said, half to herself. She took care to say it in Morporkian for Yulia's benefit.
"The stoep gave way under me." Mr van de Bossen said, as if this was no special thing. "Bloody droëhouttermiete, whole nest of them under the huis. Ate right through the stoep. Kept meaning to have something done about that justnow."
Bekki shook her head.
"Reckon it's gone from justnow to now-now, Mr van de Bossen." she said, sympathetically. Any other bruising?"
She nodded to Yulia.
"Nanny Ogg showed you how to fix this?" she asked. A little voice in her head was saying Yulia doesn't know how to do this as she really didn't spend much time in Steading work. She's a different sort of Witch. This way I can show her how, without the patient realising she doesn't yet know how to do it.
Stand behind, take hold of the patient, brace yourself against him." Bekki said. "This sort of job needs two of us."
She looked at her patient, a man in his late fifties, probably single, probably been meaning to fix that little problem in the woodwork of his house but never quite getting round to it just now. Until the woodwork of the decking had given way under his feet in a cloud of termite dust. She spoke to Yulia in basic Rodinian, guiding her into the right stance and position.
"ноги врозь. Шире. Возьми его за плечи. Под подмышки. Держись крепче. "nogi vroz'. Shire. Shire. Voz'mi yego za plechi. Pod podmyshki. Derzhis' krepche. Spassibo."
"That's her first language, Miss Rebecka?" he said, in Vondalaans. "Sounds a real tongue-twister. Bit harsh on the throat."
Bekki grinned.
"Rodinian, Mr van de Bossen. I'm learning it."
"Most foreigners never even try." Yulia said. "I like her. She's good."
"I'll try to do this quickly, Mr van de Bossen." Bekki said. "You will feel a moment of discomfort.."
She began to hum a song.
O, Boesmanland, vat my hand,
Lei my oor die Rand se kant
As jy vir my kan sê waar die Boesmanland lê,
Boesmanland vat my hand…
On the second repetition of take my hand, when she judged the patient was calm and attentive, she took his arm in two places, as she had been taught, lifted, twisted, and felt the reassuring not-quite-a-click as everything settled.
"Это была «Bushmanland», старая песня моего народа." she said. Yulia grinned.
"также, как восстановить плечо." she replied. She hummed "Boesmanland" for a few bars.
"I believe I can play this on violin." she said, thoughtfully.
Mr van de Bossen flexed his arm.
"Jislaaik, it works!" he said. "Sore, though."
"It will be." Bekki said. "Favour the other arm for a few days, and get something done about the decking on your stoep." she said. "Removing the termites would be a good start. And are you sure there are no other bruises?"
She knew this would be futile. She was asking an older Boer man to drop his britches in front of two young girls, for one thing. But he didn't seem to be walking with any difficulty, and he should know how to self-medicate for cuts and bruises.
He grinned, sheepishly.
"Err.. how much do I owe you, miss?" he asked. "I know what Klipdrift Henderson would charge, and I reckon you did it better. Err.."
"Whatever you think it's worth, Mr van de Bossen" she said. "Just drop it in the collection box at the door, mounted on the wall. You see it? Lekker."
Aunt Mariella had come up with an elegant solution to the Witch's dilemma. She had accepted the one thing a witch can never do is to accept actual money for her services. Anything else was fine; the old clothes standard and the elaborate barter system of Obs did the trick. Bekki was effectively bartering her services to the Lensen plaas for full board and logistic support, like new clothes and other sundry items as and when she needed them. The distillery, for instance, kept her supplied with things like surgical alcohol and completely pure distilled water.(9). The glassworks on site, usually geared up to making wine and spirit bottles, now also made standard-sized pill bottles and phials for medications.(10) Bekki herself had been given a pill-press for creating standard-sized pills and lozenges. She had been allocated a small work-room for this and had lost no time in training Dertien in how to make pills, each carrying a standard measured dose of the common decoctions, such as Essence of Beech-Bark for headaches.
The cashbox by the door had a large poster next to it to say, in two languages, that customers who were not Lensen plaas employees or members of their immediate families were politely requested to pay what they thought the service was worth, and that a "honesty box" principle applied. Profits left over after defraying reasonable operating expenses would go to the Township Poverty Relief Fund, a registered charity.
"Reasonable operating expenses?" Bekki had asked. Aunt Mariella had grinned.
"You're sending people away with bottles of pills, or potions." she said. "Of course you're asking people to bring them back when they're empty, but how many do you reckon are ever going to do that? And we make those bottles on site. There's a cost I want to cover."
Bekki conceded this. She also realised that bandages and dressings cost money and couldn't reasonably be recycled.
And it was also instructive to see her white patients, some of whom were perfectly capable of making jarring comments about black people in the townships, diligently dropping coins and notes in the box on the way out. She approved of this. Her aunt described it as changing minds, not with the full flood of a hosepipe, but a dribble at a time. "Just get them damp." Mariella had said. "At least to begin with."
And today, she and Yulia were working together on a stream of patients, most of whom, she learnt, had been sitting outside listening to the music. It had been understood. And free music was not to be scorned in the Platteland. Their impromptu concert had been appreciated.
"So he makes his house out of wood." Yulia said, when Mr van de Bossen had departed. "And only when it begins to fall down does he stop and think, better do something about those termites."
She shook her head.
Bekki grinned.
"Yulia, around here there's a thing called justnow." she said. "Well, more of a state of mind, really. Shall I try to explain it?"
"Ah. We have oblomovshina." Yulia said. "Different. But I see better now, I think."
She thought for a moment.
"There must be creatures who eat termites?" she asked. "Where there is a pest, something eats it."
Bekki grinned.
"Ant-bears." she said. "Also honey-badgers, if they're hungry enough. But with honey-badgers, the cure might be worse than the disease."
Yulia grinned back.
"I might try Borrowing." she suggested. "Just for long enough to put the idea into the mind of one of these ant-bears that there is a big dinner under that house. Then to show it the way."
"Good idea. I'd have to make sure Mr van de Bossen knows what to expect, though. Ant-bears are big."
They moved on to the next cases. Another day for working Witches.
To be continued. got timed out.
Notes Dump:
From tvt: Russian standard for surgical alcohol: medical antiseptic alcohol (96%, or 192 proof, mostly safe for consumption) or various surrogates of similar strength, many of which aren't so safe.
Also picked up on the tale of Julie D'Aubigny, the real-life Madame Deux-Epées, La Mapuin. Wow. Actress, opera singer, girl who bluffed her way into male-only swordfighting schools in France by dressing as a man… declared insane and forced into a convent (a common remedy for Women Who Did Not Know Their Place) she escaped and went after the men who'd banged her up…
Also… says a lot for Euro-centred history that I've only just picked this one up. Ecuador in South America in the wars of independence from Spain generated Manuela Sáenz, who rebelled, learned to fight, dumped a useless husband, and became a leader under Simon Bolivar. Polly Perks in a poncho. Brief biog, copied from ;
Born an "illegitimate child" to a noble father in 1797, Ecuadorian revolutionary Manuela Sáenz was raised to be a proper aristocrat — but she was quick to shirk convention even in her youth. Sent to study at the most prestigious convent in Quito, Sáenz was known for scandalizing the nuns by dressing like a boy, playing with weapons, and riding horses. Forced into a marriage that she called "supremely ridiculous," Sáenz deserted her husband to join the South American revolution for independence from Spain.
Using her connections to the elite, Sáenz became a spy and informant before being promoted to colonel by none other than the famed Venezuelan Liberator Simón Bolívar, with whom she was also having a lengthy and passionate affair. But despite her tremendous contributions to the revolution and the autonomy of 19th-century women, Sáenz was exiled following the death of Bolívar, and she spent her final decades largely alone and in destitution.
Chinese New Year: the current edition of "Fortean Times" (FT416, Feb-March 2022) has a cartoon strip on mythical creatures created in mediaeval times and earlier, as a mash-up of various real animals (hippogriffs, for instance).
An extreme version of this tendency to Igor real-life animals, at least as thought experiments, was a Japanese version called the Kotobuki. This Pokumon-monster has, from front to back:
1) The comb of a cockerel
2) The horns of the ox
3) The ears of the rabbit/hare
4) The head of the rat
5) The beard of the goat
6) The forearms of the monkey
7) The scaly neck and vertical scales of the dragon
8) The mane of the horse
9) The belly and hindquarters of the tiger
10) The back and spines of the wild boar
11) The rear legs of the dog
12) The tail of the snake.
This creature only makes sense when you realise it's the Eastern Zodiac cycle all rolled into one! (This has to exist for real in Agatea)
Developing the thought. Over the evolution of the Discworld, Ankh-Morpork became a sort of steampunk London. (look at the shape of the river). Lancre is a sort of portmanteau Lancashire/Yorkshire/Cheshire (think about overlaps with Alan Garner's fantasy novels set in the hillier bits of Cheshire). The Chalk is the Southern English Downs of Terry's childhood crossed with the Wiltshire where he chose to live. The Shires fill in a lot of the rest of rural England - I get a sort of general Rural England vibe from "Snuff", could be West Country or Welsh Marches combined with East Anglia. Somerset meets Norfolk.
Now here's the thought. All this "fantasy England" setting is happening to the Hubwards and the Turnwise of A-M. To the Widdershins is a region called the Chirm Country which has been "static" ever since the first books in the series. It's there, but apart from identifying one or two locations and setting it due Rimwards between the Sto States and the Circle Sea, nothing has ever been done with it.
Chirm is remote bleak moorland shading into the Rammerorks (note the "Ork" in that name) and the Trollbone Mountains. It has a moribund port city, Chirm, which is apparently clinging on to old glories, but failing and impoverished, once a contender to Ankh-Morpork for maritime trade but long since outclassed.
I think this is the Discworld's North-East of England, the essential completion of the set of fantasy-English locations. Chirm City is a portmanteau of Newcastle, Hartlepool, Middlesborough and Sunderland (Can I lump them all together without getting shouted at?)
In fact... Chirm City has its eleven-a-side team of which the people are proud. A match against any big side from A-M means all Watch leave is cancelled...
Trying to recover those lost footnotes from memory so there is something here...
rght, got them back now as they originally were:
(1) discussed more fully in Gap Year Adventures. In which Mariella realises her future has been decided for her by Fate and by Family.
(2) Horst Lensen had no worries about this. He knew Tim Bellamy's fate in life was to be the Nice Guy to girls. He knew he could absolutely trust his wife in the company of one of her oldest friends and not lose any sleep over it. Tim was a Nice Guy. Horst knew that if Mariella went for a dinner with her old schoolfriend Tim, all that would ever happen would be dinner and she'd come back in a happy and mellow mood. Tim was a Nice Guy.
(3) Stuck here. Horst and Martinus are obviously speaking in Vondalaans. This is presented in Morporkian for the convenience of the reader. I'm looking for a good Afrikaans, or Cape English, idiom for "enormous muscular man of great strength and uncertain temperament" but this isn't forthcoming at the moment. So taking a lift from Game of Thrones and importing The Mountain to the Turnwise Caarp. This is the general idea I'm working for.
(4) both Yulia Vizhinsky and Ethylene Glynnie had advised Bekki that a professional double bass player, faced with sitting onstage with the orchestra for up to three hours, took only the absolute necessary minimum of liquids before a performance. "Because the Conductor will not be happy if you raise your hand and ask if you can leave the stage for five minutes, Firebird." Yulia had said with a completely straight face. "Conductors are… intense people. It is best not to disturb them too much."
(5) Her usual Second pilot, Sophie Rawlinson, was currently All At Sea as part of a specialised naval aviation detachment. This didn't worry Sophie as lots of horses were involved as part of the deal. We shall return to this.
(6) Actually, Sibelius loved the violin, and considered the great disappointment of his life involved having been rejected as an orchestral soloist. A sort of urban myth circulated that he'd made his violin concerto that mind-blowingly difficult to play, out of spite. It's more likely that he wanted to throw down a challenge, out of his love of the instrument. Watching a soloist like Hilary Hahn practically throwing herself about the stage, so as to get body, bow and fingers where they need to be at any given time, as well as thinking ahead to the correct place to be in for the next change of rhythm and tempo, is instructive. As is the fact that one screechingly bad bum note during one of the most complex passages was understood and forgiven (the flute player sitting behind her really winces, though). Even the conductor pretends he hasn't heard. The Sibelius Violin Concerto is one of those pieces.
(7) Really watch a solo violinist. It's like a whole-body anaerobic workout. Hiliary Hahn's performance of the Sibelius concerto is mesmerising – it isn't just arms and shoulders that do the work.
(8) In Feegle slang (and Scottish military slang) to banjo somebody or something is to apply corrective or instructional violence. Wee Banjo Duggie was good at this.
(9) Mr Graham the Master distiller had risen to the challenge. He had also suggested to Mevrou Hendricka that providing doctors and medical practices with absolute pure alcohol could be a profitable spin-off for the business.
(10) Mr Vensterman the master glassblower had also said "Mevrou Hendricka, is there any reason why we should not…"
Taster for the next episode:
This is a taster for how the next chapter will open, or at least an episode within it:
It had not taken long before one of Bekki's other little secrets was out in the open. She'd expected that: it was getting harder to keep her face impassive when listening to native Howondalandians speaking their own common language around her, not letting on that she was understanding more and more of what they were saying to each other when they thought the white people nearby were too dumb or lazy to understand. She used those first couple of months just to listen, to improve her own knowledge of the Shosha language she'd first learnt from the servants at home. Or in this region, Xhosa. It was a different dialect from the form spoken in Smith-Rhodesia. She listened, and learnt, and built up a picture from the unguarded talk around her.
The way her cover became blown had been wholly unexpected. She'd managed to keep a poker face while the boys talked among themselves about which of the girls would be more amenable than the others and who would be most understanding and approachable.(11) Her grasp of the demotic had improved, too.
It had been an unremarkable early morning. Black labourers were arriving from Turfloop township in small groups and were being marshalled into working gangs by the bluff and amiable Baas van Linden. The Baas had unlocked a tool store and was unconcernedly handing out pangas to a working group who would shortly be going off to bring an area of land into full use. It was a further slope that had been allowed to go fallow for a couple of years, and therefore a lot of Howondalandian undergrowth needed to be cleared. Mev'Mariella wants it clearing for vines, van Linden had said, and we do not want to dissappoint Mev'Mariella, do we, now?
She had watched, disregarded in the background, marvelling at the casual and matter-of-fact way in which the big heavy machetes were being distributed to perhaps twenty black workers by a single white man. She let her mind play on the ever-present fear among her people of there are more of them than there are of us. What happens if they rebel and slaughter us all in our beds? Her mother had said that among White Howondalandian women with too much time on their hands, this was usually accompanied by a not-quite-hysterical fear of The Fate Worse Than Death.
Bekki had finally worked this one out, aged about fifteen and after a little pastoral chat with Nanny Ogg. Nanny had grinned a big dirty grin.
"At my age, it'd be interestin' to have a lad take an interest." she had said, thoughtfully. "Backhanded compliment."
Actually, Mrs Ogg. One of Bekki's spirit guides had been nearby, her long-deceased many-times grandmother, Johanna Livinia Smith-Rhodes. While you can't completely rule it out, my experience is that I was a prisoner of the Zulus for two years.In all that time. Nothing. They explained I was too thin, too pale, the unsightly skin blemishes were off-putting and besides, that red hair made me most unattractive and unsightly. The Paramount King said Zulu women are beautiful and we are not. Therefore, no point.
Bekki shook her head. Apparently the Zulu King had also said to Johanna Livinia that it's more fun with a woman who's actually glad to see you. Her ancestor had been treated less like a prisoner of war and more as a honoured guest during her detention, and had sat out the rest of the First Zulu War in perfect safety.
She and Nanny Ogg had agreed that women with too much time on their hands can get a bit fixated and preoccupied, and Johanna Livinia had explained more about the fear-inducing idea of fate worse than death.
"They wish." Nanny Ogg had said.
I'm dead. There could be worse fates, Mrs Ogg.
In the present, Bekki had reflected that the Lensens were thought of as good baases, and had genuine respect from their black employees. She knew this was not universal in Rimwards Howondaland. Her aunt and uncle ran a good plaas and treated everybody with respect and dignity. Other white employers did not bother with this so much. She'd heard the unguarded talk among the blacks about other places and other baases. Therefore, Baas van Linden could distribute heavy agricultural tools without a qualm. Especially the sort that doubled for weapons.
And I know... this is like one of those series novels where each volume ends with the first chapter of the next in the series. as an inducement to the reader to go out and buy it. All I can say is... Chapter 32 is on itsway. Stick around.
(11) Armed with the knowledge and township gossip, Bekki had been able to say to Jona, the housemaid who served her in the mornings, that if she, Jona, had any worries or concerns, come to me and we can talk about them, privately. Bekki had hoped she didn't need to spell it out, and had explained a wise old woman in Lancre had taught her a lot of things about what happens between men and women and how a healthcare practitioner might ease things. Nanny Ogg's teaching to young witches had been thorough and unforgettable in all its meticulous detail.