Strandpiel 23: Reis in die buiteland – travelling abroad
How dual nationality works out for one proud user.
Another amateurish, rushed and skimpy thing thrown together in a hurry so as to fulfil a need to keep the tale moving forwards. Lots sketched out, too little time to write. More will follow. Apologies if this looks a little bit scrappy and got to get something out there for Hogswatch as a sort of gift to readers.
Somewhere on the Disc:
The witch moved in the still silent world. At least, she tried to move. The very deep snow was presenting a few minor difficulties, not the least of which was that it is tricky to move normally when a drift of fairly fresh snow is halfway up your thighs.
She folded her arms and waited. At least the sky was a pure brilliant blue and it wasn't exactly likely to start snowing a blizzard again. Yet.
Bekki felt thankful for the Far Überwaldean winter clothing. It really did keep the worst of the cold out. But it wouldn't keep it out forever. A good reason to get on the move again as soon as possible. She adjusted the set of the ushanka fur hat and checked the fold-down flaps were securely over her ears. She also checked, in case of misunderstandings with the group of large beweaponed men in furs and horned helmets who were for the moment merely watching her with curiosity, that the pull-out black pointy peak of the fur cap was visible, and which betokened her witch status to observers. Irena called this a budionovka, or something.
She frowed and made an educated guess.
Somewhere near the Hub, probably. Snow as far as the eye can see. In every direction. A group of classic barbarians about two hundred yards away who have just seen a woman on a broomstick pop into existance out of nowhere. Straight into a snowdrift. The local word here for a witch... is it a Norn?
Bekki thought again. There was a useful glossary of words and terms on Petulia Gristle's bookshelf. Miss Tick had had a hand in compiling it. It was a look-up compendium of words for Witch and terms for witch-related things in a lot of Disc languages. In the frozen lands of the Hub region, depending on if you were in Nothingfjord, Hubsvensska or the Swommi country, a Witch was a Norn, or she could be a Heks – this was pretty much universal around the Hub – and depending on the degree of local tolerance, may or may not be invited to participate in a heksejagt. She could be a häxa to Hubsvensskans, or else a trollkvinna, or even a förtrollerska. A Swommi might call her a lumoojatar or even a Noita.
She'd read the book carefully, based as it was on Perspiciacia Tick's travels around the disc. She had noted Miss Tick hadn't been to Howondaland. Yet. This had given Bekki a slight sense of one-up on her mentor. She had made a point of pencilling in a few Howondalandian words for possible inclusion in the next edition. Just to make the point.
And now it all seemed less academic and distant, as she watched the armed men who, for the moment, were watching her carefully from several hundred yards away. Bekki made sure the hilt of her machete was visible, but made to attempt to move towards it. Yet. She took a deep breath and waited, watching the snow around her.
After a moment or two there was the first of three pops and some muffled swearing. She glared down as, in succession, two Feegle and a demon emerged from the snow. They'd actually been on the broomstick when it had materialised from Feegle-space inside the snowdrift. Being more than six inches tall, most of Bekki had been outside the snow. Her legs from mid-thigh down, still straddling the broom, were buried, however.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, mistress…" said the old Gonnagle, registering an as-yet-not-too-annoyed Witch looking down on him. "The boy is new, ye ken. Inexperienced, ye see."
Bekki smiled slightly. Gonnagles tended to be better educated, more thoughtful, more softly spoken, more restrained, than other Feegle. Lore had it that the best of them were selected from birth by their Kelda mothers and sent off to specialised and secret Gonnagle schools in the high hills, the legendary Ur-land of the Feegle race in remote Hyperllamedos, on the other side of Llamedos and Hergen. Gonnagles trained in secret and necessarily scaled-down stone circles in the remote places, which did not welcome outsiders. Lore also said this was the real Druidism, the stuff that worked. That which Gonnagles of old had passed onto humans was necessarily diluted and distorted and tailored to human needs.
A Gonnagle who returned to his clan was then charged with training and identifying possible successors who, if they were not sent back to the Source to learn, would be taught sufficient wisdom. This included the power of the Crawstep, the magic that meant certain Feegle could move in more than the usual four dimensions of material existence.
"Are you unhurt, Angus?" Bekki asked, politely.
"A wee bit chilly in the spog regions, thank ye for asking, mistress." the old gonnagle replied, politely. He turned to glare at the far younger Feegle, barely adult, who was emerging, spluttering, from the snow.
"And does this look like the great city of Ankh-Morpork to ye, boy?" he said, pointedly.
The young Feegle looked round him, a view that took in great drifts of snow, an occasional stand of stunted pine trees, and a group of fifteen or so heavily armed Hubland warriors.
"Gordon bloody Bennett." the fourth member of the party grumbled. He did the thing with his forehead and his palm. "They're just surprised at the moment." said Grindguts the Destroying Demon. His tail twitched and he twanged a tusk thoughtfully. The demon turned his face to confront the warrior group and flexed his broad muscular chest in a meaningful way. Although only a few inches high, he radiated purpose and determination.
"Think you'd better get us out of here, before they get over the surprise and come this way?" Grindguts said, nodding meaningfully to the small miserable-looking Feegle. "Eighteen Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork, for preference. If you need the bloody postcode, it's AM3 1DL…"
Bekki reached down through the snow and found the staff of her broomstick. She gripped the reassuring presence and hoped the panniers were still attached.
"Good idea." She said. "Wee-Archie-Aff-The-Midden, do try to concentrate? Everyone get aboard. Ready, Archie? Ankh-Morpork, please. Thank you."
The trainee Feegle navigator nodded miserably, gathered himself, and made the crawstep…
Olaf Tillverkareavsmörgåsarsson, chief of the small warband, blinked as the Förtrollerska, or perhaps theHäxa, blinked suddenly out of existance, along with the trio of little people who he knew represented bloody bad news. You didn't see them often up here in the snowy highlands, but the blådåligahäftigalvar, the blue sprites of uncertain temper, were known down on the plains. And avoided. There'd been at least two of them with the Häxa. And a third who was green. Hubland myth said nothing about little green sprites. But he was prepared to bet any mention in myth would not be about their being friendly and in our myths. And that Häxa had been carrying a sword too. Sword-maiden. Buggers, when riled. He breathed a sigh of relief they'd dissappeared again. It meant he wasn't obliged to try and attack, as the Code demanded. And the lads seemed relieved too. A Häxa with red hair who carried a sword. And had blue sprites with her. Any saga written about that encounter would not be a long or noble one.
He shuddered, and motioned the war-band to move on.
Pratoria, RH. Two days before Hogswatch.
The new Minister of State for Foreign Affairs sat behind his desk as if he'd occupied it for all his life. In a way, he had. Nearly forty years in the Diplomatic Service had been leading up to this moment. He'd been ambassador to Ankh-Morpork for over half his career, acclaimed as the best possible man to represent Rimwards Howondaland's interests in one of the key diplomatic postings overseas. He had quietly amassed respect and prestige in that posting and even had the respect of Lord Vetinari. Who had indeed sent a suitable token of acknowledgement to him on the occasion of his rising to a position of considerable power and prestige in his own nation. It was sitting on the desk, Julian Smith-Rhodes noted, as an issue to be dealt with. Able to read the ornate scroll upside-down, a skill Julian had learnt and honed in all his dealings with powerful people whose desks he tended to observe from the other side, he wondered how exactly his former boss was going to deal with this one. It was so typical of Vetinari to send gifts that both acknowledged achievement on the part of the recipient, expressed genuine appreciation and worth - and which ticked at the same time. Julian also knew what exactly would be in the large velvet box next to the scroll.
The Minister of State pushed a full glass across to Julian.
"Thank you, sir." Julian Smith-Rhodes said, politely.
Two glasses were raised and clinked together.
"Well, so much for a long happy retirement." Pieter van der Graaf said, wryly.
"Did you see yourself as ever getting one, sir?" Julian remarked.
Pieter smiled slightly.
"Not after your father suggested I stand for office. No."
Julian understood this. His father was a man who didn't need to get emphatic. Charles Smith-Rhodes talked to people. In a low and reasonable voice. Those people then reflected on what was being said. And then they did as they were being asked. It saved time. And Julian suspected his father had also spoken to Friejda van der Graaf, a woman who clearly missed the courtesy title of "Lady" that Ankh-Morpork bestowed on the wives of overseas ambassadors as a courtesy thing. Rimwards Howondaland did not have nobility. It was a republic and had officially done away with all that a long time ago. But the wife of a Minister of State, should she want to continue styling herself as Lady Friejda… this would be understood.
Thinking he had retired to a plaas outside the clement coastal town of Hartenbos for a gentler life, Pieter van der Graaf had sighed deeply, accepted that his nation had another patriotic call on his time, and entered politics, easily becoming a Volksraad representative for his new home town. The backing of the Smith-Rhodes family had eased this somewhat.
Then the usual horse-trading had happened after the Vondalaander Party had entered coalition with the National Unity Party to form a government. As the price for its support, the NUP had demanded its people get several key ministries of state. Foreign Affairs had been one of them. Again, Charles Smith-Rhodes, a major backer of the NUP, had dropped a few words in certain places.
And a distinguished former Ambassador was now, without any drama or fuss, the man ultimately in charge of every Rimwards Howondalandian embassy and diplomatic mission around the Disc. Among other things.
"A month ago, a retired Ambassador who wanted to sit on the stoep with a quiet beer and just keep in touch with family." Pieter said, drily. Today, one level down from the Prime Minister and two steps away from being President. Not that I want either, Julian."
"It might work, sir." Julian Smith-Rhodes said. His former boss smiled slightly.
"Depends on your father." Pieter said. "And the consortium of interests he speaks for. Who, I cannot help noticing, include your father-in-law."
Julian winced. He found the de Beers, with the exception of his wife, to be hard work. Pieter noticed the wince.
"Anyway." he said. "This isn't entirely a social call, Julian. How long have we known each other?"
"Seventeen years, sir. Since the Tobacco Fields battle. Shortly afterwards, I ended up at the Ankh-Morpork embassy as your junior military attaché."
Pieter van der Graaf nodded encouragingly.
"Your cousin Johanna suggested it. Even though her motives at the time appeared to be six-parts composed of making mischief, I thought it was a good idea. I spoke to your father. I got you. At no time did I ever regret that. Which is why I want you here. Now. Working for me."
"Sir?" Julian said.
"As of now, you are my Political Private Secretary. Which means you are based at this office and report directly to me. You, Julian, are my eyes and ears in the Volksraad. You listen to what's being said. Talk to people on my behalf. Listen to their opinions. Keep me informed. Willing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. And, Julian?"
"Yes, sir?"
"We've known each other for seventeen years. We do respect each other's abilities and talents. Would it kill you, at least in the privacy of this office, to relax a little and call me Pieter? Indulge an old man?"
"Yes, sir… Pieter."
Pieter van der Graaf smiled slightly.
"Thank you. Now, a fringe benefit of being minister is that I get a grace-and-favour house in the city, with servants, fully paid for. Friejda's over there now, terrorising the servants and making it clear what's expected of them. Why don't you and Chloe drop round for dinner? Friejda wants to see you both."
"Be delighted, Pieter."
"Good. Now we can discuss what to do about this. There's no denying Vetinari is strictly within the bounds of protocol, and this is a wholly appropriate and thoughtful gift. Too damned thoughtful, in some respects."
Pieter van der Graaf held up the ornately calligraphed vellum scroll.
Julian Smith-Rhodes regarded it thoughtfully.
"Well. At least it means Friejda is now officially and formally Lady Friejda. For the rest of her days." he said. Julian studied the faraway look on the face of Sir Pieter van der Graaf, recipient of a honorary knighthood, as befits a foreign diplomat who for twenty years was as near to a friend of Ankh-Morpork as his position allowed him to be. The velvet box, Julian knew, would contain the sash, medal and regalia going with the office, to be worn on appropriate ceremonial occasions. Somehow, Julian suspected this did not include occasions like Heroes' Day or Independence Day.
Genua.
"I've never been here before." Bekki said, in a quiet reasonable voice she'd inherited from her mother. Generations of Assassin students had realised that when Johanna Smith-Rhodes spoke in that sort of a low reasonable voice, they were in deep trouble. It was the sort of low reasonable voice that said the speaker was an irritation away from not being reasonable or low of voice.
"Aye, well, always something new tae see, aye?" said the Feegle, Wee-Archie-Aff-The-Midden. Bekki looked down and glared at him. There was a suspicion of tapping of toes on the flagstones. Other people in the plaza on a hot coastal day turned with interest to regard the red-haired young witch in the wholly unsuitable winter clothing. She was, indeed, starting to sweat slightly.
Angus the Gonnagle visibly winced. He glared at the junior Feegle.
"Waily." he said, simply. "Tapping of the feets."
Bekki sighed, deeply.
"I cannot help but notice, Wee-Archie-Aff-The-Midden, that the architectural feature over there, spanning a wide canal, has a remarkable degree of similarity with sketches and iconographs I have seen of the Bridge of Excruciating Screams, a method used by a past ruler to discreetly move unfortunate persons between cells and torture chambers. Which geography books tell me is is not in Ankh-Morpork. It is, in fact, in Genua. Which is quite a lot of thousands of miles away from Ankh-Morpork."
Bekki turned and regarded her flight Feegle.
"So, Wee-Archie-Aff-The-Midden, would you care to try again? Anywhere in Ankh-Morpork will do. I'm not fussy. I can always get a local bus home. Or a cab. But my own family front door would be nicest of all. I thank you kindly. In anticipation."
A few seconds later, the travelling party were back in Feegle Space, where Bekki had a brief conversation with a four-sided triangle. She remembered she'd been here before. So did the four-sided triangle.
Pratoria, R.H.
"Indulge me, Julian." Pieter van der Graaf said. "While Chloe and Friejda are sharing tips about how to be a perfect society hostess in their respective roles. I'll show you the garden. Lots of space there and the gardeners know to keep a respectful distance."
Where we can't be overheard, Julian Smith-Rhodes thought. He nodded assent and followed his old boss and mentor outside.
"Not the right time of year for protea to flower." Pieter said, indicating a flowerbed. "But come February. Of course, you don't see these in the Central Continent, outside hothouses in Ankh-Morpork."
Julian agreed, guardedly, wondering what the older man had in mind. They walked out together onto the lawn, aware they were getting beyond the reach of any listening ears. BOSS might have a few plants among the servants. Julian suspected his father definitely would. He wondered who else might have a presence here.
"You miss Ankh-Morpork." Pieter said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Julian sighed. Of course he missed the city. For a lot of reasons.
"I'd like to be back there." Julian agreed. "But. Duty calls."
The older man nodded, and patted Julian's arm sympathetically.
"Keep in touch?" he asked.
Julian nodded. He tried not to be specific.
"Johanna. Her family. Heidi and Danie." he said. "Johanna's keen to know how I'm getting on. She writes as often as she can. Probably more regularly than she writes to her mother."
Pieter smiled slightly.
"I'm just betting she forwards a few pieces of mail. The ones you can't post directly."
Julian looked at Pieter. He wondered how much to reveal. The older man gave a knowing smile.
"I might have a use for that. If you're willing, that is."
Julian decided to trust Pieter.
"Actually, those letters go through Mariella. The Guild of Assassins has its own arrangements. Mariella and Horst get official mailings from the Guild. She has to reply to them. The replies go through the Guild bureau in Pratoria. Anything for Ru… another Guild member – goes back in the same mailbag. That goes privately to Ankh-Morpork. As you can imagine, nobody cares to intercept that. Except, perhaps, Lord Vetinari."
"Ah, yes. Vetinari." Pieter said, reflectively. "And once back in Ankh-Morpork, anything destined to go to another Guild member in the Zu… another country – goes in the Guild post for that nation. Where it goes by secure private courier, and the local nation also realises you do not interfere with Assassin communications. And any replies written by a Guild member in that country return to Ankh-Morpork. If marked private and confidential for the attention of Mrs Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen, that item then goes to Pratoria, and then directly to Mariella. Who sorts the mail and ensures the letters go directly from her hand to yours. It may take weeks, but you have a private and secure means of communication with, shall we say, a highly placed and influential person in her own nation."
Pieter van der Graaf smiled the same smile.
"Julian, are you discreet in where you keep such letters, once received?"
"Yes, sir… Pieter. Mariella keeps them for me in a very secure safe place. I trust her absolutely. Horst knows too. But I would trust my official bodyguard and security consultant with my life. And her husband."
"Smith-Rhodes family values." Pieter remarked. "The best sort. So, if I were to ask you to establish informal, discreet and deniable contact, on my behalf, with this person who lives in a place where we can not send mail by normal channels, would she be willing?"
"I can ask her, Pieter."
"Good." Pieter said. "We need such channels, Julian. We might not be able to establish open talks yet. But if my time in this job is going to mean anything, I'd quite like to be remembered as the man who said to the Zulus – let's talk. Neither of our countries can afford another bloody ruinous war and we both sustain armies that are too damn big and a massive drain on our national resources. And the bigger our armies, the more likely it is that some bloody fool's going to want to use them. And of course the nature of the job is that this has to be discreet. At first, anyway."
"I'll do what I can, Pieter." Julian said. "Even if this technically counts as treasonous behaviour."
"Julian. It's only treason if we lose. And I do not intend to lose. My head, least of all. Now, changing the subject. This bloody damned knighthood Vetinari wished on me."
Julian Smith-Rhodes considered.
"It's only a honorary knighthood. You aren't an Ankh-Morporkian national, after all. And Vetinari is within his rights to confer a mark of recognition on a distinguished Ambassador, as a mark of respect and esteem. It might offend if you refused it."
"An international incident. With one of the two superpowers on the Disc. On whom we depend for a lot of things. And if I accept. The Vondalaander party will say I went native, that I did my job in Ankh-Morpork to the complete satisfaction of the Ankh-Morporkians. That I'm tainted, and Vetinari's man in government."
"Agreed, Pieter. But the other party will hail you with exactly the same logic. You win one side, you lose the other."
They walked on together.
"You could put a press statement out. To say you accept the honorary knighthood in the spirit intended and that you regard it as a honour. But that for all everyday purposes you remain merely Mister van der Graaf, a citizen of a Republic that gave up these things on independence. However, you accept that should you need to visit the Ankh-Morporkian embassy on official business, on their soil you become Sir Pieter the moment you step through the gates. As to do anything else would potentially cause offence."
Pieter considered this.
"Good thinking, Julian. Thank you. This way, I only have to face the wrath of Friejda, who will not welcome being relegated to a mere Mrs unless we visit Ankh-Morpork."
He grinned.
"You know, did I tell you Vetinari used this tactic to threaten Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes, on his first visit to Ankh-Morpork?" Pieter said, conversationally.
"Really, Pieter?" Julian was suddenly interested.
"Yes. My esteemed brother-in-law arrived in the City and fought down a dangerous criminal who had evaded capture for seven months – a man who was even giving Johanna a lot of trouble, and who might have proven too much for even her. Then again, the fact she was nine months pregnant at the time and trying to fight whilst experiencing labour pains probably meant she was not at her best. And afterwards, I understand Vetinari was concerned at the idea of Barbarossa teaming up with one or both of the Ridcully brothers, with the consequent high potential for civic unrest and collateral damage."
Julian considered this.
"Yes. They did rather bond together. Especially over a drink. A large bomb going off in a crowded pub might have caused less potential damage."
Pieter smiled again.
"I understand that when invited to a reception at the Palace, Lord Vetinari did raise the issue of the baronetcy conferred on Cecil Smith-Rhodes, at a time when he had just reversed the demise of Empire and added the state of Smith-Rhodesia to Ankh-Morpork's dwindling imperial possessions. A baronetcy, he reminded Barbarossa, is a hereditary knighthood that passes down to the eldest son in every new generation. Or would have done, except for the fact the War of Independence happened and resulted in our nation being born in the fires of war. And proclaiming itself a republic with no degrees of inherited nobility. Which meant the baronetcy passed into abeyance. Not, according to the rules of these things, revoked. Merely suspended. And the eldest son of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes was the first Charles Smith-Rhodes, who married a Boer woman called Johanna van der Kaiboetje, identified himself strongly with her people, and fought on the rebel side in the War. He therefore declined to adopt the honour, and merely styled himself Mister."
"But he was still, officially, Sir Charles Smith-Rhodes. And he in his turn had children. With that Johanna." Julian mused, working it out.
"Exactly, Julian. Vetinari reminded Barbarossa that as he was in Ankh-Morpork, this trifling matter of a baronetcy flapping around unclaimed could so easily be amended by knighting the current oldest son of that branch of the Smith-Rhodes family. And he, Vetinari, believed Sir Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes was a direct descendant of the oldest son of Sir Cecil."
Pieter van der Graaf smiled, happily.
"Barbarossa realised he was being threatened, and chose to behave himself while in the city. Vetinari did not press the point, and Barbarossa remains a Mister."
"So Aunt Agnetha was very close to becoming a Lady…" Julian mused. "I wonder how she felt about that? A Boer and descendant of Boers who fought for a Republic?"
Pieter grinned again.
"My sister was not a happy woman. She in turn undertook to ensure her husband was a model of good behaviour in his stay in the city. And it gets better, Julian."
"How, exactly, Pieter?" Julian was intrigued.
"Well. Vetinari is also a keen proponent of equal rights for women. He believes half the population who are disenfranchised and unable to realise their full potential is wasteful to the City. He wishes this to change, with all due speed. He has been heard to point out that a knighthood descending only through the male line is a relic of an outmoded social consensus. And that in this day and age it should be conferred equally on the eldest-born child, even if female. So if Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes declines to adopt a title and relinquishes it, by the new laws of hereditary peerage it goes to his eldest child."
Julian saw exactly where the older man's train of thought was heading. He boggled, and then grinned slowly.
"And the female equivalent of a knighthood is…"
"Exactly, Julian. In direct line of decent from Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes through his oldest son Charles. We potentially have Dame Johanna Smith-Rhodes, Dame of the Ankh-Morporkian Empire. And the Guild of Assassins values that sort of thing, in its teaching staff and senior people. I cannot see how she could refuse. However she feels about inherited nobility."
The two men laughed so loudly that a late-working black gardener looked up and wondered what was so funny.
Agatea.
"Wee Archie Aff The Midden?" Rebecka inquired, in a voice that was very polite and reasonable. "I've never been here before. But I've read a lot of geography books, and I can identify places from pictures. And we currently appear to be on the upper slopes of Mount Fukuto, if I'm not mistaken. Which is a sacred and a holy place in the religion and culture of the Agateans."
She nodded down to the intent-looking group that was scrambling up the mountain path towards them.
"And if I'm not mistaken, that very excited priest, accompanied by six or seven horribly beweaponed samurai warriors, is coming up to greet us and no doubt to explain that gwai-lo, white ghosts, and filthy heathen foreigners, are not allowed on the sacred mountain, are defiling the place, and that desecration can only be expiated in blood."
She glared down at the hapless Feegle.
So. Let me suggest a course of action to you, if I may? Try and focus. Not on a place, Wee Archie Aff The Midden, but on an idea. I'd like you to consider a red-haired woman, older than I am, with whom I share ties of blood, kin, and above all, love, and put me where she is, if you can manage that? Thank you so much!"
That should be precise, Bekki thought. He must be able to link me to Mum and get me there that way?
And, as the fiercely gesturing priest and the samurai laboured up the slopes of the sacred mountain of Agatea, the broomstick and the travelling party shimmered and vanished…
"Hello again." said the four-sided triangle. "We do seem to be seeing a lot of each other these days, don't we?"
Bekki smiled politely.
"You know, when I first met you when I was five. I wondered how a triangle gets to have four sides. Mum said that makes you a square. And you said "no it doesn't. I'm still a triangle!" I mean. Er. How?"
"Your dad's who he is, and you get some of the things he tries to tell you about higher dimensional reality and polynomial m-dimensional wossnames, and you still don't get it?" the four-sided triangle said. "Ponder Stibbons's daughter? Gordon Bennett! Look, love. We're outside normal four-dimensional space and time. Just look upon me as the extrusion into five-dimensional space of an n-dimensional reality, okay? Ask your dad about the maths, he does quantum…"
And then they winked back into existance again. In a very familiar living room. The broomstick thudded to a halt and dropped to the floor, and Bekki stood up unsteadily.
"Well, jislaik!" a very familiar voice boomed, in surprise and amusement. Bekki blinked and looked around her. At some very familiar faces. Just not the familiar faces she expected to see.
Oupa Barbarossa threw out his arms in welcome. As did Ouma Agnetha.
"Our liewe heksie has arrived." her grandmother said. "Unexpected and making a very strange entrance, but still welcome!"
Bekki ran to the grandparents who had been the first to call her the Little Witch and hugged both. Then she looked round. Uncle Andreas. His wife Auntie Nelli. Aunt Agnetha. Her husband Uncle Kurt. Bekki was received with genuine love and affection.
"You little fellows want a drink?" her grandfather asked Feegle and demon. "Some more of your people dropping by for a glass, later."
Then Bekki saw. The slender red-haired woman, who'd been watching with a look of quiet amusement on her face, stepped forward with arms extended for a hug.
I should have been more specific, Bekki thought. When I said, take me to a red-haired woman bound to me by ties of blood and love and family, I meant Mum. But Aunt Mariella will do. For now.
Bekki and her aunt embraced warmly and fondly. Bekki realised she still had to get to Ankh-Morpork as her parents and sisters were expecting her. But Piemberg, Rimwards Howondaland, would do for justnow. She was with family, just before Hogswatch.
And, she realised, sensing other presences, not just her currently living family.
"Can you be surprised, liewe heksie?" she heard her great-aunt Johanna Francesca Smith-Rhodes saying, in the psychic space. "Where else do you expect us to be for Hogswatch, than with family?"
Bekki sighed. She'd deal with this later.
Timed out – there's a lot more later, Part two of my Hogswatch/New Year tale to come….In which Bekki deals with issues of Family, both living and dead, and finally gets to Ankh-Morpork after several false starts and detours…. And how will her mother deal with an inclusion in the Patrician's New Year's Honours List? Read on….
To be continued
Notes Dump:
Somewhere in a sea roughly halfway between two continents, the one of the tale being currently written and the semi-glimpsed one of future tales yet to be committed to paper, where isolated ideas are given lifebelts and a signal rocket against being spotted and rescued.
Aaargh. Tried to type "Heroes" and predictive text gave me "Herpes". In the context of a solemn day of national celebration and remembrance called "Heroes' Day". Hmmm…