Strandpiel 40
bloed op die sand – blood on the sand
Work being Somebody Else's Problem for a day or two, another chapter. While the ideas are fresh. In which two people linked by a shared name run into little problems to be overcome. Johanna gets a headache. So does Ponder. Bekki moves towards her informal Graduation as a witch. Young Johanna gets an extended cameo. Still wondering how to get Emma Roydes into the story – she and Young Johanna are inseperable friends, after all. The machinations of Uncle Charles and Uncle Pieter as they try to put a spoke in the wheels of a war machine – Uncle Charles will consider all-out war with the Zulu Empire is bad for business. Uncle Pieter will consider it bad for peace and for his necessarily covert moves towards lowering tensions and fostering some sort of good relations with the neighbours. So they have to make sure the deck is stacked so they can palm the wild card, Crowbar Dreyer. As before – version one, and a long one this time including extensive end-note.
Music and Art will also be discussed, as well as necessary changes at the Guild School.
Now read on.
A restaurant, Ankh-Morpork (fill in the details later)
A group of female teachers from the AGS had got together for a social night. It was partly old friends meeting up; but also a working meal where Things Were Being Discussed. In the main, they were housemistresses and former residential housemistresses. Changes were being planned. The intention was to go to Lady T'Malia, who decided these things, and present her with a well-thought out considered proposal as to who took over Raven House after Miss Gillian Lansbury became Mrs Gillian Stitched. Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had been the first Residential Housemistress in Raven, was there to make her own input into the process.
"Heidi's got a nanny, then?" Miss Alice Band inquired. "So she'll be back at School at the start of the autumn term?"
Johanna smiled and nodded, in a quietly triumphant way. Learning from her own experience, she had strongly reccommended Heidi get somebody in place before her mother-in-law turned up to take over and make the decision for her. So as to present Agnetha Smith-Rhodes with a done decision. A useful girl from Sto Kerrig had been employed.
They discussed the baby for a while, as good manners dictated, then moved to the other thing. It was the one they were here to decide.
"So it's official, then?" Alice (Tump House) asked.
"You guys finally got it together, huh?" said Antoinette de Badin-Boucher. (Black Widow House). "Hey, only took you ten years. Talk about a slow courtship!"
Gillian Lansbury (Raven House) smiled a big relieved smile and showed off the engagement ring. As good manners dictated, it was examined, approved of, and envied.
"A big down-on-one-knee proposal, was it?" Alice asked, knowing full well the answer would be other.
Gillian's smile faltered slightly.
"Well. His actual words were "Look, old thing, I've known you for a few years now. How about it?" Then he got the ring out."
Madame Emmanuelle de Lapoignard nodded, reflectively.
"Eh bien." she said. "From a Morporkian man, that is as near to a profession of undying eternal love as you can expect. And from a man such as Tobias Stitched it is positively emotionally incontinent. His parents had words with him, sans doute?"
Gillian sighed. Toby's parents had indeed had a few words. Along the lines of "Long courtship. Quick engagement. Quicker marriage. There are some decent places to be had around Nap Hill. Spa Lane's nice. Lots of Gillian's colleagues live there. We rather suspect she has a few dollars banked from her job, but if you're short we're willing to help out. To get you both set up in married life."
Johanna took her colleague's hand sympathetically.
"It will be nice to hev you es a neighbour." she said. "But the fect remains, if you will be merrying Toby this summer end moving out, Raven House will require a new Housemistress."
Gillian nodded.
"Which is why we're here. Johanna, you were the first Housemistress. When Raven was new. You made the place. I took over something that you created."
"And you did bleddy well et it, too. But it is coming to en end, so we need to get you a sucessor. There are still seven weeks to the end of summer term. I would suggest thet so es to give you time free to deal with the complexities of your coming marriage, we select your successor end begin to get her trained. We cen ell help out there. We all heve experience of managing houses."
All eyes turned to the sixth person at the table. She had been silent so far, but had been intently watching the five other women at the table around her, with particular attention paid to the movement of their lips. Until you divined the reason why Ethylene Glynnie was watching your face so intentily, it could get unnerving, especially when the woman doing the slightly frowning intent staring was in Assassin black.
Johanna smiled.
"Of course, Gillian, we all know the real reason why you're getting merried end resigning the residential post in such a hurry." she remarked. "It is to evoid being responsible for my daughter Famke for enother six years. I eppreciate one year of Famke is enough for enybody."
There was general knowing laughter and relief that Johanna had said it. Miss Ethylene Glynnie was slowest to get the joke. She had particular, unique, problems with Johanna's Howondalandian accent. Johanna understood this and tried to articulate words around her in as near as she could get to Received Morporkian, taking care to enunciate clearly and with obvious lip movements.
"Well, buddy, you get her for life." Antoinette remarked. "Kinda comes with the turf for a mother, huh? Like a life sentence?"
Antoinette de Badin-Boucher had to try to teach Famke Quirmian. It was another mandatory proficiency for a young Assassin: Quirmian was the language of culture, diplomacy, the arts(1) , music(2) and fine cuisine(3). Of course an Assassin should be fluent in Quirmian. As some anxious parents pointed out, Antoinette de Badin-Boucher was from Quirmian Aceria and had a somewhat colonial accent. The School pointed out that good Quirmian teachers did not grow on trees, even in Aceria, ehhh, that had an abundance of trees despite the sterling efforts of the lumberjacking trade(4). Besides, we also employ Quirmian teachers and teaching assistans from Quirmian Phlaanders(5) and Genua, areas of the Disc where Quirmian is spoken as a living language and which is, unavoidably, divergent from that of metropolitan Quirm.
Antoinette had inherited Black Widow House from Madame Emmanuelle some years before, keeping the tradition of a Quirmian-speaking housemistress going. Emmanuelle had been entranced and amused with the Acerian version of her language, and had adopted the girl who was then her pupil as an informal protègée. Her graduate, after a suitable period in the world, had then returned to the Guild School as a teaching assistant and eventually Housemistress.
Johanna considered this.
"Ja, but I get periods of parole for good behaviour." she said. "Otherwise known as school terms."
There was more appreciative laughter, tinged with sympathy and the suspicion of shudders.
Miss Ethylene Glynnie frowned.
"I appreciate other members of staff might find Famke to be hard work."she said. "She is a strong-minded young lady, after all. But I've never found her to be anything other than enthusiastic to learn, she's well-behaved, accepts the disciplines of my lessons, and she is an absolute delight to teach. I've never had the slightest trouble with her and I do have to admit I'm getting quite fond of her."
"Well, yes." Gillian Lansbury said. "It does help that in your lessons she actively wants to learn and she's therefore committed to learning. She likes you, too. That helps."
Miss Glynnie smiled, serenely.
"As she'll be in Ankh-Morpork over the summer, I hope she doesn't neglect her music lessons." she said. "I rather hope to be able to continue giving her private tuition."
She looked at Johanna, who shuddered slightly.
"Music lessons. While she is et home. Ja. I hev this in hend. To save my family, my neighbours, end ebove all myself, a lot of headaches. I hev engaged Mister Thorskjovellsson, who has done a lot of bespoke building work et the Zoo, to do a little job for me. It will cost a lot of dollars. But the way I see it, you only get one set of ear-drums."
People looked sympathetically at Johanna.
"Drums. Yes indeed." said Miss Alice Band.
Miss Glynnie looked excited.
Johanna smiled at her.
"Come over for dinner, Evvie." she said. "You cen perheps offer professional guidance. End you may like to meet Ruth, my other daughter with en interest in music."
"I understand Rebecka is also developing an interest in music, chère amie?" Emmanuelle offered, with an innocent half-smile. "Since she met a pleasant young man who is a musician?"
Johanna winced again.
"Ja." she said. "To be fair, Bekki is growing more capable in bass instruments. In every respect except using the bow. But even thet is getting less excruciating to the ear. If she plays with her fingers alone..."
"Pizzicato." Ethylene Glynnie said, helpfully.
"Ja. I do find a drink helps. For me, thet is, not for Rebecka. A place for two out of three of my daughters to prectice music es they wish is now pressing. End a young man, in this city for the summer, will visit, who plays bress instruments. I suspect he will wish to play music with my daughters. Hence my employing a good Dwarf builder who knows whet is needed. It will be in place by the end of the summer term when Famke returns home. "
Emmanuelle, an immediate neighbour of Johanna's, expressed full support and said if there was anything she could do, chère amie?
"Raven House." Alice prompted them, after a brief thoughtful silence.
"I suggest Evvie covers a few residential nights for Gillian." Johanna said. "To get experience. To get to know the girls end the menegement chellenges they present."
"Which of them are absolute bloody horrors who'll push and push and break the rules. If they think they can get away with it." Alice said.
Gillian smiled.
"To weed out the ones who will inevitably get over-confident and think having a Housemistress who is deaf is a gift from the Gods and that they can get away with murder."
Miss Ethylene Glynnie smiled and closed her eyes. She concentrated for a moment and laid her hands flat on the table.
"I believe a diner at the other side of this restaurant has just laid her knife and fork flat on the table." she said. "She is sitting at a table twenty feet away with a man who is perhaps her husband. Or may not be. I sense an embarrassed silence between them. This comes to me as awkward shifts and un-easy movement and vibration in the air. She is wearing ill-fitting new shoes with heels. I feel them scraping on the tiled floor in a manner suggesting physical discomfort. She is also wearing a new corset or some sort of underpinning garment which is also new and laced up too tightly. Also a source of discomfort. I get the squeak of the stays. And in the other direction there is a waiter rebalancing a tray of glasses on his arm. I can sense the shifting of liquid-filled glasses on the tray.."
The other teachers, who could see what Miss Glynnie was describing, grinned appreciatively. Just because somebody was deaf, in the accepted sense, didn't mean they were unaware. Miss Glynnie made what she called the sixth sense, of intuitive feeling of position, vibration and movement, into an Assassin art-form all of her own. She had taken advantage of the lazy perception that deaf people were handicapped and capitalised on it, in some unique ways of interest to the Guild.
The girls of Raven House were yet to fully realise this. It would be an unpleasant shock to some of them.
Johanna, asking for the bill later, remarked pleasantly that it would be good to get home. Maybe put an hour or so in, on the paper she was writing for the Scientifick Pseudopolitan. You know, just to make a point to Ponder.(6) The girls know their bedtimes, and anyway Claude might be back from his evening at the Guild of Butlers to drop a few hints. It should be a quiet night at home.
Johanna was about to realise how wrong she could be.
Spa Lane. Ankh-Morpork:
Bekki hastily laid the mirrors flat and face-down in her sister's room. She had tried not to look into the multiple reflections, even though deep-down temptations had dragged at her witch senses like a whirlpool. Young Johanna nudged her, as Ponder Stibbons shouted at them to run down to his study. Quickly.
Bekki reflected if Dad was moved to shout, it was important... she turned to look at her cousin.
"Get your weapons." Johanna said. "You know how to use them. And where we're going, we'll need them."
Bekki reflected that her cousin had worked it out, quickly. She looked into the disconcertingly intent face framed by the incongruous pink hair. It was a face that promised trouble for somebody out there, like a somebody or somebodies who had just abducted a child.
"Always assuming my sword is still there, after what happened to it last time." Johanna said, meaningfully.
"Well, yes, but this is magic..." Bekki said. Her cousin scowled slightly in a horribly familiar way.
"So? If you can get me there, and you will, you might need another sword. Get your weapons!"
A few minutes later, they were in Ponder's study. He had activated the omniscope and was having a shouted conversation with an unseen but present fourth.
++Your daughter is in the Dungeon Dimensions, Professor Stibbons.++The entities who dwell there have taken her.++ And yes, I can get the three of you there.++ One moment.++Computing.++
"The three of us?" Ponder said. He looked into the face of a niece who was nodding at him and placing a hand on her sword-hilt. The sword. The family weapon. Which the Dungeon Dimension entities had met before.
"Oh..." he said, realising.
It is correct, Professor Stibbons. said a voice only he and Bekki could hear. We will get there by our own means. And, liewe hecksie? Please tell Johanna Viktoria that this time we had no need to borrow the sword. She is here to wield it herself.
Bekki relayed this. So this one is Johanna Viktoria, she thought. I'd never asked if she had a middle name before. It's funny how you can not know things about your own family...
Bekki nodded welcome to Johanna van der Kaiboutje and wondered what her middle name had been. Livinia, wasn't it? Or perhaps Lavinia. She'd have to ask.
"They're here?" Young Johanna asked.
"Ja." Bekki replied. "Looks like almost the whole family's here."
"Bad luck for them, though." Johanna replied. "Whoever they are."
"You'll see soon..." Bekki said, as a glowing octogram appeared on the floor of the study.
++Step into the octogram, if you please. ++This is your portal in.++
"What octogram?" Johanna asked. Bekki suddenly realised her cousin was unable to see octarine.
"Take five paces forward and one to your right – staying between me and Dad." Bekki said.
"Don't move your feet." Ponder requested. "Or if you have one foot inside and one foot outside a magical portal.."
"Eina." Johanna said, quietly.
"Ouch, indeed." Ponder said. "And tuck your arms in tight..."
There was a shimmering in the air, as a determined green blur leapt into the magical octogram with them. Bekki felt her cousin stagger and sway. She steadied her.
And then black gritty sand was underfoot and a cold wind soughed as they arrived...
"Bugger me." said Grindguts the Destroying Demon. "This is not a nice place."
Bekki took stock. Johanna drew her machete. Ponder laid a cautious retraining hand on her arm...
The Zulu Empire, at the Lioness' Kraal.
Elsewhere on the Disc, due to the relative position of the Discworld's sun over Howondaland, it was about two in the afternoon and the sun was still high in the sky.7
And in a frozen moment of time, Princess Ruth N'Kweze realised she was about to die. An assassin had finally got through. Ruth watched another of her guard, a man in Denizulu's command, picked up in the huge cobra jaws of the thing. The serpent head worried at what was now a corpse, then contemptuously flicked it aside. Ruth tried not to watch as the broken body hit the ground. There were a lot of bodies there now, male and female. But more of her soldiers – and Denizulu's – were pressing an attack. The thing had so many assegais sticking out of it that it looked like a grotesque porcupine. But as Ruth watched, horrifed, the latest hacked gash from a broad-bladed spear knitted and healed. She saw a spear that had gone in deeply being extruded and squeezed out of the wound it had inflicted. The spear popped out with a reverse sucking noise and as she watched, the wound closed and healed, leaving only smooth scale.
The spears of her warriors were having absolutely no effect at all.
Yet they still pressed in, to defend her. Their princess, their iNdula. Ruth quietly admired their bravery, felt pain at their loyalty, and exasperation at their stupidity. But her people were dying for her...
She watched as a better-aimed spear practically hacked off one of the creature's arms. Then, with sick inevitability, she watched it re-knit and re-attach itself. Then saw how the woman who had aimed the blow died. She also saw Zoya, her Cossack captain, gathering a squad of warriors together to strike in unison, shouting things like It can't get all of us! Let's show this bitch how we can really fight!
Ruth shook herself.
Time to show them how a Zulu Princess can face death. Maybe they'll make a song out of this.
She lifted the absurd ceremonial assegai, less than thirty inches long with the ludicrous silver-chased blade.
Maybe I'll hit somewhere vital...
"Ayiko bia!" she screamed, in challenge, and leapt forward. She was dissappinted that the pregnancy bulge – Gods, my child! - made fast movement impossible. But the thing seemed surprised, as if Ruth leaping forward to challenge it was the last thing it expected.
Ruth sensed a movement in the air. The thing whipped and swayed along its length: she looked up and realised Sissi n'Kima had leapt onto its back, using some of the still-embedded assegais as if they were rungs of a ladder, and was stabbing down into the creature's head. It screamed, unable to reach the impudent human female on its back. Sissi hung on grimly with one hand and tried to drive the spear deeper into its head. Ruth realised: she was going for its brain. A vital target.
Its attention distracted, Ruth tried to guess where its heart was. She tried to remember Johanna Smith-Rhodes' teaching in herpetology and sought to visualise what she'd once seen of a dissected snake. Then scaled it up. Maybe you could hit a vital point for just long enough, like temporarily killing an Undead...
If this works, a Zulu has just had her life saved by the Red Death. Talk about irony.
The thing really screamed as Ruth's assegai hit home. Ruth withdrew the weapon, trying to keep hold of it for another blow. She expected to see the wound knit and heal and leave no trace.
She blinked.
The wound she had inflicted smouldered. Black acrid smoke wisped off it. A deep purple-black blood oozed. For the first time. And the wound stayed open.
Ruth blinked again. Of course. Undead.
"Silver!" she shouted. "The moon-metal! The moon-metal hurts it! And bring fire! We need fire!"
A thrashing arm from the thing knocked her heavily to one side. Ruth realised it was not in complete control of its movements. It must be in pain. But she, Ruth N'Kweze, just wanted to lie there, staring up into a brilliant blue sky, so beautiful, a nice afternoon to die...
Ruth realised something. She looked up to see Sissi stabbing ineffectually down into the creature's head with her spear. Ruth shook her head. She gathered herself and made a decision.
"Sissi! Catch! Silver weapon!" she screamed, and tossed the spear as hard and as accurately as she could. She watched as her friend and assistant caught it one-handed. Then laid back again, weaponless and feeling very tired.
Then a large shape was looming over her, her shadow falling over Ruth. She looked up in mild surprise to see Sophie, the witch-girl from Ankh-Morpork. Well, from Lancre, anyway.
"You wanted fire, princess?" the witch said. She was clearly scared, but gathering herself.
Ruth nodded. Sophie stood protectively over her.
"Watch this." she said.
The first fireball tore into the thing's approximate shoulder and blew an arm off. It did not regenerate. It screeched in agony. Ruth saw Sissi N'Kima being flung off its thrashing back, and winced with pain and sorrow as she hit the ground and did not move. People ran to her.
But the silver-chased assegai was embedded deeply into the creature's skull.
And as she was digesting this, the second, and then a third, fireball from the young witch hit it in quick succession. It screamed one last time then slumped. It did not move again.
"Sophie?" Ruth said, quietly. "Help me up, will you? I need to be on my feet. Thank you."
The Dungeon Dimensions. Eternal night.
Bekki saw her sister Ruth, sitting cross-legged in the sand. There was a semi-circle of the disgusting and vaguely ridiculous Things in front of her, watching intently. One stood proud from the rest as her sister industriously sketched on the artist's pad.
"I could use an eraser. A rubber." Ruth said, in the intent artist-at-work way she knew so well. Bekki watched, with sick inevitability, as one popped into existence where her sister could reach it.
She realised the Thing was holding a pose.
~~We shall reward you well, Ruth Leonora Daquirmia Smith-Rhodes Stibbons.
Bekki looked sharply at her father.
"Daquirmia?" she asked.
Ponder Stibbons grimaced and appeared to slump slightly.
"Oh, shit." he said, meaningfully.
One of the Things looked his way. Bekki was sure it was smiling.
~~Indeed, Professor Stibbons. When a little while ago you attributed the name, you thought in jest, to your youngest daughter. Your wife warned you not to make such jokes. It allowed us a doorway. Leonard of Quirm. Leonora Daquirmia. Such names resonate.
"Oh, Dad." Bekki said, reproachfully.
Her father hung his head.
~~And you cannot interfere, Professor Stibbons. Nor can your older daughter. You are both magic-users. The rules are inflexible on this. You may, however, watch. Ruth will return to your world and her drawings of us will be published and circulate. She ill be our agent in your world. People will see her work and Believe. She is our doorway to power. And such power, inside the minds and imaginations of people!
"If you dare interfere with my sister." Bekki said, stepping forward. "I am going to say the Rules can go voetsaak. You've seen me using a sword before. Some of you must have survived. I couldn't get you all."
Bekki , Ponder realised, was angry. And when she got angry, she was her mother's daughter. All the way.
~~You cannot interfere. The oily obscene voice said again. The last time you were the subject. You were resistant to our will. We could not touch you. Those others helped in a most unfair way. But here you are an observer. Powerless to intervene.
"Wellnow." Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande said. "I'm here. I'm not in any way a magic user. Magic brought me here, I'll agree. But I'm not magical. Therefore the rules don't apply. And you've seen this sword before. I think we're going to have a little fun together, don't you?"
Give them Hell, Johanna Viktoria. another voice said. "And by the way. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."
Johanna jumped. She looked round.
"I can see you." she said, slowly. "But only three of you. Rebecka said there are four of you?"
"Different rules apply here." Bekki said. "Dad might say we aren't in regular space-time here. This place is real. Just... differently real."
Young Johanna blinked. Bekki took charge.
"Johanna Viktoria. I think I'm going to have to call you that to keep it straight. This is Johanna van der Kaiboutje Smith-Rhodes. Who founded our family. Johanna Cornelia van der Merwe Smith-Rhodes. Her oldest daughter. Then there would have been Johanna Martia Smith-Rhodes. Who is... elsewhere... for an indefinite period. And this is Johanna Francesca Smith-Rhodes. Oupa's sister, who died young. Our great-aunt. If Mum were here, she's Johanna Famke Smith-Rhodes, of course. And you're here. Johanna Viktoria Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande. Which means there are four of you still."
~~Happy families. How touching.
With one sword. said Johanna Cornelia. And a living person who knows how to use it. We've watched her.
Although that pink stuff in your hair. What were you thinking of? said Johanna van der Kaiboutje. She shook her head.
LADIES? PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ANY PRECIPITATE ACTION JUST NOW.
Bekki turned round.
"Oh." she said. "you again."
Death turned to contemplate her.
A TRUE WITCH'S REPLY, REBECKA.
"Hold on." Young Johanna said. "I can see you. Does that mean..."
JOHANNA VIKTORIA SMITH-RHODES-MAAIJANDE, I BELIEVE? NO. YOUR TIME IS NOT YET COME. AS YOUR COUSIN HAS SAID, DIFFERENT RULES APPLY HERE. I HAVE BEEN QUITE NEAR TO YOU ON QUITE A FEW OCCASSIONS, HOWEVER. HULLE NOEM JY DIE PIENKEDOOD, JA-NIE? MOENIE SO VERRAS WEES NIE. EK PRAAT ALLE TALE.
"When you think about it, it really isn't that surprising that Death speaks every language." Bekki said.
INDEED. I WOULD ADVISE YOU TO WATCH, FOR NOW. I HAVE ALREADY SPOKEN TO RUTH LEONORA. NO EXTRA NAMES, BY THE WAY. JUST THE TWO SHE WAS GIVEN AT HER BIRTH. THEY WILL SUFFICE. RUTH KNOWS WHAT SHE IS DOING. AND SHE WAS GIVEN A GREAT WEAPON. NOT WITH EXPLICIT STEP-BY-STEP INSTRUCTIONS. THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN AGAINST THE RULES. BUT SHE WORKED IT OUT FOR HERSELF. TRUST ME. YOU WILL SHORTLY SEE, IF ALL GOES WELL, THAT SHE IS HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER AND A SMITH-RHODES WOMAN.
Death paused and nodded at the family group.
AS ARE NO LESS THAN FIVE OTHERS HERE PRESENT. HOW ARE YOU, BY THE WAY, MEVROU SMITH-RHODES? KEEPING WELL, I TRUST?
"So.. you don't have anything against, you know, dead people being here?" young Johanna asked. "I thought you'd be dissaproving or something."
Death grinned at her, somewhat inevitably. He nodded pleasantly at the Ancestors. They smiled back, perfectly relaxed.
I COLLECTED ALL THREE IN THEIR APPOINTED TIMES. WHAT THEY DO AFTER THAT IS ENTIRELY UP TO THEM. I HAVE NO ISSUES.
Pleased to hear it. said Johanna Francesca. In the foreground, Ruth flipped over a new page on her pad and said "Next, please. I think... you, the one with the lobster claws and the tentacles. Do you people have names, by the way? So I can write them under the pictures? Thank you."
Ponder Stibbons watched his daughter sketching and gibbered inside, an anxious father who could not intervene. But a little Wizard voice was insistently whispering Everything has a true name. Everything. And Ruth is getting them to tell her their true names. Voluntarily. This is important. It's in all the Lore and stories. And what can you do with a true name?
He forced himself to watch. In the background. Johanna Viktoria was excitedly getting to know her relatives. Some sort of family reunion appeared to be going on; he heard womens' voices happily chatting in Vondalaans as if it were a family braai on the back lawn of the huis.
Blood River was a shambles, start to finish. A complete scheisshuis of a battle that should not have been fought. It's where I got these scars on my face...
You know I dissaprove of you using profanity, Johanna Cornelia.
Asseblief, mutti. But stupid men started that war. I got the assegai through my face. And died of the wounds that never really healed, two years later. In those circumstances, a little swearing, ja-nie?
Tell me about the Kokoda Trail battle, Johanna Viktoria...
Bekki watched her sister flip another page over and call another Thing forward. Time was elastic here. Ruth might have done three sketches, she might have done thirty. But her sister wasn't tiring at all; she seemed driven by the compulsion of the artist to make Art. Death, in the background, looked on impassively. He wasn't moving a bone and was leaning patiently on his scythe.
At last, Ruth stretched her legs and stood up. Looking tiny and frail, she considered for a moment or two.
"I got all my drawings of you, and I thank you for letting me draw you all." she said. "Now I need to tell you what I'm going to do next."
Ruth smiled up at her audience, a little girl, innocent and without guile.
"My art teacher gave me a book to read." she said, conversationally. "It was very interesting. Especially the bits about the History Monks who live in a lovely valley near the Hub where cherry trees grow. I like cherries. They're really yummy. Don't you?"
Ruth smiled, beatifically.
"Anyway. The story says the monks, or the ones who could draw really really fast,8 used to go into the Otherworld and hunt demons."
Ruth reached into a pocket of her dress, seemingly absent-mindedly.
"They'd find a leyak, that's their word for a demon, and draw the demon as accurately as they could. They were very good artists and did some really scary pictures of leyaks. And you know, they believed once they'd captured the true likeness, that's the very best picture they could draw, that if they then destroyed that picture, they'd killed it." (8)
Ruth held up the box of matches she'd stolen from Dorothea's kitchen.
"I had to steal these from our cook. I feel really bad about that as I love Dorothea. But I can't do what you ask and go back to the real world with these pictures. I know Daddy and my big sister are waiting over there for me to take me home. I want them to be proud of me. Even though I'm playing with fire. Which Mummy and Daddy said they'd be really really angry about."
Ruth tore a picture at random, from her pad.
"I think I'll start with..." she pointed a finger. "You."
The Things screamed as Ruth struck a match. She paused a moment, then set light to the page. Her selected Thing screamed. Then burst into flame. It writhed and was consumed along with the page. Then Ruth dropped the charred corner to the ground, and repeated the process with another.
Maar, she's bright. said Johanna Francesca.
Ruthless, too. Must get it from her mother. agreed Johanna Cornelia.
"You got into my dreams. You frightened me. You gave me nightmares." Ruth said. "That was naughty. I really don't like that. Well, you aren't going to get into my dreams any more."
Reckon she'll go to the Assassins' School? asked Johanna van der Kaiboutje. Another Thing screamed in pain and fear and went up like a torch.
Ruth lit another page from her pad. Bekki spotted a new complication. It looked as if several of the more desperate Things were massing to rush at Ruth and physically prevent her...
"This is where we come in, I think." Young Johanna said. She drew her sword. Bekki drew hers.
"Not magical at all. Just a sword. So no rules broken. " Bekki said. "Won't be long, Dad."
Grindguts the demon grinned, cracked his knuckles, and followed them.
Ponder made polite conversation with the Ancestors as the Things screamed. There was a periodic whoomph of flame, or the crunch of metal hitting organic material, and a periodic emphatic statement of YOU BELONG DEAD.
Finally, Ruth was encouraged to burn the remaining pictures in her pad, just to make sure.
"Now we can go home." Bekki said hugging her sister protectively. "Told you I'd fight for you, baby."
Ruth, eight years old again, suddenly burst into tears. She ran to her father for a hug.
"We'll get you home, sweetheart." Ponder said.
Ruth wailed.
"It was horrible, daddy! They made me burn my drawings! That should never have to happen!"
And, elsewhere...
Well, Johanna Viktoria, we may never meet again like this till your time comes. But it was good.
"I understand. I feel privileged."
Her ancestors gave her virtual hugs.
Carry on making us proud. said Johanna Francesca. Oh – and I really like the pink hair. Wish I'd thought of something like that.
Ponder Stibbons took a deep breath. He had just seen what the family he'd married into was capable of. It should not have surprised him. But he felt appreciative at how two daughters and a niece had turned the situation around. He'd seen the same sort of thing in Johanna, his Johanna, on any number of occassions. Of course his daughters would have the same streak in them.
"Time to go home, I think." he said. He wondered if they could get back before Johanna did. He'd asked HEX to keep her informed and he'd even had a brief word with Eve, who had been concerned that Miss Ruth had gone missing. He wondered exactly how much time had passed here and what the time would be in the real world. Ponder adjusted the weight of Ruth in his arms. She hugged around his neck, a little girl now who needed Daddy.
"Bekki, let's see about organising a doorway to go back?"
The Zulu Empire, at the Lioness' Kraal.
The clear-up was beginning after the fight. Indunalas were barking orders and shouting at soldiers who were going into after-battle shock and closing down. The bodies of the dead soldiers were carefully and reverentially collected. Some families and friends were wailing as mourning began. The smouldering corpse of the creature was carefully being avoided. It smelt bad, already.
Sophie Rawlinson, standing close to the Princess and ready to steady her if it was needed, admired the strength of will that was keeping her upright. Ruth had said she needed to be seen alive and on her feet. This was important. She also wanted to know what the Hell was going on. And keep me informed on Sissi. Sophie, you know some healing? Thank you for what you did. Can you do what you can for the people who got hurt? Find out about Sissi. Then come and tell me.
Sophie had then gone to do what she could for the wounded. There weren't too many of them: the thing had killed rather than wounded in the close-quarter fighting.
She shook her head. Sophie Jane Rawlinson, aged fifteen, from Rawlinson's End in the Shires,(9) where her family had been the squirearchy for absolute years. A pupil at the Quirm Academy For Young Ladies until she'd caught magic. Sent to Lancre to learn witching and the Heaven-sent chance to be with horses. Lots of horses. Heaven. Then she'd got her Pegasus and was now in training for the Pegasus Service. Which had brought her to this strange foreign place. And to a battle to the death.
She shook herself, and went to the job that was in front of her. Where fierce warriors were now saluting her respectfully and chanting in her honour. This would make things easier...
"Let's jolly well get some sort of hospital set up, shall we?" she said, decisively. "And I want it clean. And I want you to get me a lot of things. Chop-chop!"
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork:
"So you're back, then." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said. She was relieved. She had arrived home to find the house empty of her family. Eve had explained as best she could. Johanna figured the best place to wait had been in Ponder's study. She had asked Eve to get her a drink, a big one, and had sat at Ponder's desk, figuring that if they'd left from here they'd return here. Then she'd glared at the desktop omniscope.
"HEX." she said. "Whet the bleddy Hell is going on?"
Hex had kept her informed. Johanna took a deep breath and realised she could only wait. And hope. As this was magic, it was down to Ponder and Bekki to deal with. Not her area of expertise at all. Although they'd taken Young Johanna with them...
++There is a long tradition of this, Johanna.++ the exploring party contains a magic-user and a fighter.++ To cover all eventualities++ Ponder is the magic-user.++Johanna is the fighter.++ Bekki combines both.++
Johanna accepted this. And waited. Then the air popped and people returned, an agonising wait later.
Ruth leapt from her father's arms and ran to her mother. Johanna registered that she'd been crying.
"If anybody's hurt you..." Johanna said, darkly.
"We got them all, Aunt Johanna." her niece said. "Asseblief. Sorry. None left over for you."
Johanna nodded with satisfaction. She registered something about her niece appeared to have changed in some indefinite way.
"That was probably the single most amazing experience of my life..." Young Johanna said, slowly.
"Care to tell me about it?" Aunt Johanna said. She called for a pot of tea. This was going to be a long mission debriefing...
The Zulu Empire, at the Lioness' Kraal.
Irena Politek did several slow circuits of the kraal. She had arrived to drop off some mail and to collect Sophie for her flight home. She hadn't expected to see disorder, smouldering craters and the aftermath of a battle.
She also registered several large birds in the sky, flying circuits around her Pegasus and looking menacing. Regarding them with a Witch's eye, she realised exactly who they were, and scowled.
"Oh, for goodness sake. I warn you that if you come any nearer, you will be looking at a fireball from directly in front. If you can't do anything useful, piss off out of my flight-path. You are in my way, you silly little men."
The birds flew nearer, but made no attempt to impede. Irena nodded at them, meaningfully. Two could play the intimidation game, and it wasn't anything new. She'd faced down military carpets over Klatch, predatory cranes over Agatea and winged harpies over Ephebe. Other nations had their air forces too, these days. So why not the Zulus... Ruth had imported her own air-users when she realised she'd been over-flown by an enemy who had taken iconographs at leisure. If Crowbar Dreyer came back, he'd find the airspace now had air-capable Witch-Finders in it, ones who could take the were-form of vultures and night-flying impondulo birds.
Ruth had not wanted to do that. A dozen or so Witch-Finders in her kraal was not something completely under her control and they had their own agenda. But she still needed air cover.
"Want me to pit the heid on any of yon scraggy crows, mistress?" Buggy Swires asked from the mane. "Nae bother. Just one of them gets too close and I leap over and ask if his his mother can sew..."
Irena shook her head. The Pegasus Service pilots could employ weapons in self-defence, yes. But so far no clear attack had been made. Not one that justified aiming a Feegle at them. And the Zulus were a friendly country. For now.
Irena made a four-point landing and dismounted. She took in the scene.
"Care to tell me what's been happening here?" she asked. The warrior, a man, she noted, made the salute and ran to find somebody who spoke Morporkian. Irenan waited. Then a woman warrior, one she vaguely knew from Ankh-Morpork, ran to her.
"Hi. Chakkie, isn't it?" Irena said.
Chakolate N'Golante was another graduate Assassin in Ruth's service. She looked worried.
"Please come with me, Sergeant Politek?" Chakkie requested. "Things are a bit confused here right now. Err... I'm covering Sissi's duties for now. The Princess ordered me to step up. Sissi got wounded in the fight, you see."
Irena digested this.
"Where's Ruth?" she asked. "And what happened here, exactly?"
"We're not sure. But I'll explain what I saw..."
Irena listened. She asked to be taken to the hospital, to see if there was anything she could do for the injured people. Here she found Sophie, who was moving among the injured, doing what she could, and barking orders at Zulu women who were somehow getting the idea, despite speaking no Morporkian. Irena took in the black pointy hat with the fetching white neck-scarf attached, and smiled to herself. It looked right, somehow. Then she busied herself attending to injured people, bandaging, stitching, and taking pain away. She talked to Sophie in between patients and got a picture of what had happened.
"I see." Irena said. "Listen. It needs more than we can do. Especially for Sissi. She's in a bad way. I need to get back to Ankh-Morpork and get a few things together that this place needs. And to get a report to Vetinari, soonest. If it turns out Crowbar Dreyer sent the assassin, this could mean war. Vetinari needs to know. Quickly. And I want to get other people here. To help out. If you see Ruth – resting up, is she? How's the baby? - tell her I mean no disrespect. And to rein in her bloody wizards, as if any of them try to attack me or my Pegasus, there'll be another fight. Feathers flying. Literally. See you soon, at latest in about two hours."
A little over three hours later, Irena was back. Towing a magic carpet with Igors on it. These included Matron Igorina from the Assassins' Guild. The Igors had gently steaming cold-boxes. There was also a wizard, from the university: he held the position of Emeritus Chair of Ghatian Magic and Mysticism. Arch-Chancellor Ridcully had genially rousted him out, and said to pack for a warm climate, you have got five minutes, laddie. Vetinari's instructions. And mine. So get a shift on.
The wizard blinked, then went to examine the corpse of the attacker, expressing professional and scientific excitement.
Irena shook her head, directed the Igors to the makeshift hospital, then went to find Ruth.
"Where the bloody hell were you people?" Ruth demanded. She had regained something of her usual composure. And she was angry. Her husband Denizulu stood beside her, trying to ignore the pain of a bandaged and splinted arm. He had lost twelve good men dead and wounded. He was furious too. Ruth had lost twenty-three Lionesses. He grieved for the dead and felt for the wounded. He was angry too, reflecting that for him, it could have been worse. And he'd broken the haft of his name-spear, the one given to him when he came of age, when he'd stabbed the thing in defence of his wife and child. It had swiped him away contemptuously. He'd hit the ground awkwardly and he feared he'd broken his shield-arm. But broken bones healed.
The knot of Witch-Finders in front of her shuffled awkwardly.
"I asked for you people. To provide a magical defence. When the need arose you were nowhere to be seen. I ask again. Where were you? You failed in your duty! You can shout and rage about the white witches being alien and evil. You can scream at me to banish them from my domain. But when it came to it, one white witch, one who is barely fifteen, was there, and she was more use than the whole sorry ragged bunch of you put together. Between she and Sissi, who by the way nearly died out there, they killed that thing. And you were nowhere to be seen! You thought it was more important to take wing and menance another friend as she came in to land, a friend who is welcome, a friend who even as we speak is bringing healers and healing!"
Ruth trembled with fury.
"I petitioned my father to send you. My father will hear a report on how you conducted yourselves. Reflect on that. I'm minded to banish you all from my kraal. But only my father may decide your fates. You are his men, or were. Now get out and go about your duties. If you're capable, that is. And not another word, or I swear I'll kill you all myself!"
Ruth waited while they shuffled out. She breathed out.
"Chakkie?" she said. "Find the witches, would you, and ask if one of them can attend me? I really don't want to drag them away from the wounded people for too long. But I rather suspect I'm getting contractions. All that excitement brought it on."
Ruth paused and said
"I may need to be moved to the birthing place. Soon. Get a strong discreet guard out there, could you? Thanks. And I believe I'm really going to need a Lancre-trained Witch."
To be continued...
(1) Except when the language of the arts was Brindisian
(2) Except when the language of music was Brindisian, Überwaldean or sometimes Far Überwaldean
(3) Except when the language of the culinary arts was Brindisian or sometimes Toledan
(4) Antoinette was a daughter of a lumberjacking family and had brought Axes and Saws with her as transferable trade skills of interest to Assassination. She also taught Combat Ice-Skating, also known as hockey, and had a fondness for maple syrup and poutine.( ) Although not together.
(5) If there's a Discworld Belgium, then the other half of it has to speak a sort of French. The illogic calls for this. The name on Roundworld sounds exquisitely odd: Wallonia or Waloon. What to do with it on the Disc… la pays des Wallies? A Quirmian-speaking Phlaanderer: a Wallie, or une Wallette?
(6) Johanna wanted to make a point to Ponder that science wasn't just about the abstract and theoretical, it could be practical too. The SP largely carried papers on advanced theoretical magic from the universities at Brindisi, Genua, Braseneck and Unseen. Ponder Stibbons practically had a regular column. Johanna had bet him she could get published too. Ponder had said "Go on, then." He would very soon see a paper on Establishing The Degree Of Leucistic Albinism In The Hublands Bipolar Bear And Other Winter-Adapted Species by Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, PhD, gracing its pages. Johanna had picked the topic with care and was exploring it with professional diligence. She had a follow-up article planned on Melanistic Phenomena Amongst Ravens, Starlings and Blackbirds.
(9) It was about eight-thirty in the evening over Ankh-Morpork. This was the sort of thing that played merry Hell with the body-clocks of Pegasus Service pilots.
(8) Or who could slow time so that they could take their leisure and do a really good drawing. And yes, I'm lifting from Graham Masterson's nasty but lingering horror story about Indonesian mysticism here, Death Trance. Where Balinese monks go gunning for really nasty demons. A sort of Boer people appear at one point. (Dutch East Indies, as was). Read this if you want a horror story that truly lingers – possibly his best.
(9) I know. Vivian Stanshall's wonderfully eccentric upperclass English family, the Rawlinsons of Rawlinson's End.
The Notes Dump:
The place where all those simmering ideas go, like the ingredients of a good stew, to simmer until the moment comes to serve them into bowls with the equivalent of good chunky fresh bread and red cabbage.
"beneath any jollity there is a foundation of fury." – Neil Gaiman on Sir Terry Pratchett. An essay worth finding and reading.
Hearing about the latest religiously inspired murder in Paris. Depressing. Especially since the perpetrator is said to have shouted Allhuhu Akbhar! – God is great – before lashing out. Fired up Google Translate and gotالله لا يعجب كثيرا - Allah la yuejib kathirana- "God is not greatly impressed".
A review to "Discworld Tarot" that said
I've HAD IT with Trump bashing by media! Imho, Fanfiction should be mostly politically neutral. I get that the Election was a hot mess, but the Media are insane. I just couldn't take anymore.
Oh dear. Well, you can't please everybody… a real shame the reviewer (the same one who gave the enigmatic "See ya!") didn't leave the option open to message them back, but worth discussing here.
Firstly – ALL reviews are welcome. They're a validation that people out there are reading the stuff and care enough, and are motivated enough, to post a reply. Thank you.
And of course I like the praise. Who doesn't? But the more negative and critical views are pretty much vital and more useful to a writer as while they don't fuel the ego, they point useful things out – where I could improve, what's wrong with the work, even the little things like duplicated footnotes or silly little typos or lines/dialogue that clunks and can be improved. Silly little things I'm inclined to miss and when remedied improve the final quality. Keep pointing them out.
But… Fanfiction should be mostly politically neutral. Now there's a statement. It deserves a reply.
To begin with… nothing is absolutely politically neutral. Nothing. The BBC prides itself on being "politically neutral" and to an extent manages it. But it still has an "editorial direction" which in a very British sort of way manages to occupy the same space without being "political". That's probably inevitable. I may get onto discussing this in detail later.
At the other end of the scale, you get horrors like FOX-TV in the USA, and the Daily Mail in Britain. Which are overtly political whilst claiming to be objective and seekers-after-truth.
CAN fanfiction be politically neutral?
The short answer is "no".
The long answer: you are building on a pre-existing world originally generated by the mind of somebody else. To be true to the original it has to convey the mood and the atmosphere and the "ethos" of that world. Which in this case means carrying something of the spirit and world-view of Sir Terry Pratchett. As expressed in his creation of the Discworld, a marvellously realised conception that reflects this world through the medium of fantasy, and latterly steampunk scifi. Terry does have a few definite ideas about society, social order, the way people should conduct themselves, and so on – the sort of concepts which for want of a better place to put them, end up in the general ball-park area of "politics".
Terry Pratchett's "politics", if you could call them that – seems an insultingly banal and limited term for a world-view that took a lifetime to form – are easy to perceive but hard to categorise. As with so much else you can't easily stick a label on it, but if I were forced to assign categories to the world-view that comes out in the Discworld, words like "left-liberal" – "liberal" used here as Americans might understand it. "Anarchic", in the strict interpretation – that only those systems of government that people select for them selves and voluntarily choose to be governed by are ultimately legitimate. A distaste for those systems imposed from outside that ultimately depend on force to legitimise them. Oh, and "left" here is in the British/European interpretation of the word, a social democratic tradition which even after Blair is still further to the left than the Democratic Party in the USA. (To us, the Democratic Party is only "left" in the sense that it is nowhere near as far to the right as the Republicans, and we can get puzzled that the Democrats are thought of as "left-wing" in any meaningful sense. Relative to the Republicans, I suppose, they're a foot or two further to the Left. But still a party of what looks, to us, like the centre-right…)
So Terry, and this is over-simplifying horribly, can be thought of as having a very British sort of left-liberal-anarchism which comes out loud and clear in the Discworld.
Straight away, you've therefore got politics. Like it or not.
I could go into this a lot more – my first draft got horribly detailed – but small-p politics are integral to the Discworld. It's part of the three-dimensionality that give the place such vivid depth and reality as a reflection of our world. Part of the weft and weave that makes it so compelling. Not the only strand of the tapestry by any means – but a key one.
Then where Terry leaves off, the fanfic writers take over.
And yes – I'm left-wing. In the European tradition, which American readers of a certain mind-set would regard as "dyed in the wool communist". I call it "democratic socialism", for want of a better word, with overtones of Christian Socialism. That's a European political tradition too and light-years away from polished televangelists in sharp suits telling their viewers that Jesus would vote Republican and so should you.
This inevitably gets into my writing.
And it's also where critical reviews are useful: one wise reviewer pointed out to me that my tale The Civilian Assistant was getting overtly political to the point where the political theory was taking over the story. I looked at it again, re-read it and realised – that reviewer was right. Getting polemical is never a good thing. So I throttled back and it became a series of shorts about the everyday life of the City Watch with the politics minimised.
And devising "Cenotia", based on a few oblique hints in canon, about the Discworld Israel, became a minefield in its way. I severely self-censored here as I didn't want to lose readers or get embroiled in a flame war. Yes, I do have a few thoughts and opinions on modern Israel and its relations with its neighbours. It's just that you have got to be so bloody careful. So Cenotia has no West Bank or Gaza Strip, for instance. I'd have liked to write them, but I could see the perils looming up from miles away. And they really didn't belong in that story anyway. And, as tvtropes might say, Rule of Cautious Editing Judgement Applies. (Let's just say I've done some conscientious background reading and fact-finding about Israel-Palestine so that any comments I make – but not here - are based on sound fact and honest reporting. Wanting to find out what the bloody hell is really going on there. And let's leave it at that.)
Better I do that – explore ideas of social repression, and the way people who benefit from the advantages close their eyes and minds to what's happening to the people on the receiving end - through the medium of a country which – the more I find out about it – the more I love. And which does not exist in that particular abhorrent form any more. South Africa. What can I say? I love the people. There's a deep, fascinating, history. It draws you in. Afrikaans is one of the two or three world languages which is as closely related to English as you'll get anywhere. And even post-apartheid… the thing about Zuma has its own appalling fascination. The heirs of Nelson Mandela, who fall woefully short of the standards he left. But apartheid: the pressures of that society and the way people responded to it and lived with it. What it did to them and how it shaped them. Often in surprising ways. Got to write it in the Discworld, man. It's crazy enough to be part of the Pratchett world and a mirror of ours.
Assorted other ideas – from the first draft
The Discworld is three-dimensional and finely realised. For Ankh-Morpork and the other described societies to work, there has to be an underpinning of the mundane and everyday, for the more fantastic elements to be believable in their context. A witch on a broomstick is everyday and normal in this world: but the Discworld would focus not on the witch, but on the reactions of people who don't so much see "flying woman in a pointy hat" as – in the case of flight technomancer Olga Romanoff – get inconvenienced by the loud sonic boom, the rattling windows, and the occasional shattered window. (10) And tend to get sweary about it.
Economics and politics are there in the Discworld, like it or not. They're part of the fabric of everyday life, just as they are on Roundworld.
And as with so much else, Terry does not make it easy for the reader to discern his position.
What for instance can the political Right see and approve of in Ankh-Morpork?
Well, there's no or little regulation. The "free market economy" applies with the explicitly stated minimum of Government intervention strangling business. Taxation, despite protests (and some people always complain) appears to be minimal. The argument of the free market is that an economy functions best when it is self-regulating and the best triumphs, driving out the worst. In the absence of onerous taxation, the wealth then trickles down from the intrepid entrepreneurs and adventurers at the top who take the risks and therefore should be allowed to keep the benefits without a thieving Government robbing them (tax). Everybody benefits because of the talented minority who generate the wealth.
This is indeed how Ankh-Morpork works. It's an illustration of neo-liberal economics in the classic sense.
Political conservatives can also take pride in the class system – no King, at the moment, but a well-defined structure of social rank and privilege where (almost) everybody knows their place.
Ankh-Morpork, working to the philosophy of laissez-faire economics, is a surprisingly vigorous place full of ideas, innovation, enterprise and movement. (however, the Man who generally embodies laissez-faire and believes in small government, - he IS the government – is always there).
So far, so conservative.
Then you get the other side of the coin and start to discern what Terry Pratchett might really think.
The role of kings and nobility, for instance. A concession that the founder of a noble house might have indeed had characteristics of nobility, ability, competence, et c, that set him apart and make him exceptional for the right reason. But then the wealth and prestige descend, unearned, to his descendants for no better reason than they happen to be his genetic offspring. And by degrees you end up with the current crop of Rusts, Eorles, Venturis, Selachiis, et c.
The idea that a drooling malevolent idiot (eg Joffrey in GoT) might end up in a position of power just because his father was – the hereditary principle. Which is the drawback with royalty and could not, of course, ever happen in an egalitarian republic like the USA.
And the subversion of "Lord of the Rings" – that the hidden King will come out of the wilderness, rescue the City where he is born to be King, and the morning after, he goes into the presence of the Ruling Steward and tells him that he frankly doesn't want to be King, you're good at this, you may as well carry on as we were... but makes the veiled threat that if necessary, if there's no other alternative, he can take over. For a while. In case of emergency, break glass.
The world doesn't need any more kings. But it can use people like Vetinari – a ruler who realises his rule is conditional and not absolute, despite what people think, and that if he annoys too many people at once the most primal democratic vote of all will be counted. and he can't count on a pension plan or a long retirement, were that to happen.
Here's an anecdote: I once attended a Conservative Party fund-raiser and garden fete in Norfolk, England. Norfolk is a place that's solidly blue on the British political map with one or two little flickers of red. (American readers: switch the colors. Over here, blue is conservative and Right, red denotes radical and Left. Capital-C Liberal, to us, is a sort of urine-yellow colour (with good if unintended reason) and the British map has quite a few blobs. Not as many as before they pitched in with the Conservatives, but they're still there).
I'd been invited by friends who I liked and respected despite the handicap of their being Conservative Party members. There are some. That's important too: just because somebody has political allegiances you don't share doesn't make them idiots or slavering monsters.(11) I suspect I'd find Boris Johnson to be a really likeable bloke despite his politics being somewhere to the right of Ghengiz Khan, for instance. I could happily spend time in Boris J's company and enjoy it – because, whilst horribly wrong in so many ways, he is a genuinely nice guy.
Anyway, Norfolk. The sort of place where if Donald Duck stood for political office wearing a blue rosette, he'd be in as an MP by a thumping majority. That sort of place. Manchester is the mirror image; substitute red rosettes. And some of our Labour MP's are Donald Ducks too. That's a failing in the British system and an argument for some alternative electoral mechanism – a Labour voter in Norfolk is disenfranchised, effectively, by postcode, as is the Conservative voter in Manchester. Both deserve better. And ideologues or idiots or both with no effective opposition can do as they like, unchecked. One-party rule by democracy. Look at local councils which are unfit for purpose; though I hate to say it, Manchester City Council is a prime example. Sixty-four seats, sixty-three held by Labour, an opposition consisting of one solitary Liberal. Manchester needs Tories. Just enough to provide an effective opposition to keep the ruling party honest and on its toes. Or you get hereditary idiots thinking they have a god-given right to rule. Result: one-party rule with no scrutiny. Many local councils on the south of England have the opposite problem: Tory rule in perpetuity.
I digress. That garden fete in Norfolk.
Garden parties on a summer day in an English rural village can be surprisingly pleasant social occasions. No barbie, BBQ or braai, just a running buffet and light drinks. And it was worth punting in a couple of quid just to walk unseen among the enemy for an afternoon – and, as my wise friend Helen G probably intended, to come to the realisation they're at bottom people just like us. I often wonder what happened to Helen – bright, attractive, clever, personable. If the Tory Party had any brains, it would have nurtured her and she'd be an MP by now – and it would have an Asset. But they didn't. Can't even find her on FB. Ah well. (She'd censored my dress sense and told me not to wear any of the t-shirts that had logos like "Send Thatcher on a Cruise" or "Margaret Thatcher – the real enemy within" or even "Free Nelson Mandela". (It was the 1980's).
It was interesting. Moving among people and listening to conversations. People who were otherwise well-balanced and rational saying the most hair-raising things. Oddly enough, pro-European in the main, no Brexit voices. But what could be called the usual Thatcherite voices: ideas like, council house tenants were ridiculously subsidised and should pay "more realistic rents" as they were getting a better deal than hard-working people buying their own houses (note: nothing said about the British housing market being artificially inflated and driving mortgages more expensive than they could be), the idea that workers had too many rights and an employer should be able to discriminate against, for instance, pregnant women and non-white minorities, that South Africa was a paragon of European values, we go there every year for a few weeks, and the blacks should bloody well put up and shut up, we need servants over here who know their place and don't answer back, apartheid would be a great idea here - that sort of thing. Well, it was good to hear what the other side was prepared to say when it thought it was among its own and was safe to speak frankly…
I met the archetypical Tory woman there in twinset and pearls. She gaily said isn't it lovely? Meeting people and not talking politics all the time. I said something like, err, you did see the name on the banner over the gate? North Norfolk Constituency Conservative Party? People expressing opinions that could be fairly described under the general heading of politics?
There was a moment of mutual incomprehension.
She said something like
"Young man, Helen, such a lovely young woman, fearfully bright, explained to me that you belong to a different political party. Each to their own, I suppose. But you're listening to us, you're being pleasant and I may say, charming, and you are refraining from talking politics, and I thank you."
I realised then.
Politics is what other people do. We are simply talking about the way things are and the way any normal right-thinking person would agree is how they should be. It only becomes politics if somebody says something you don't agree with.
That was a good lesson. It's stayed with me.
Keep your mind open and always be prepared to listen to other peoples' opinions. As you could be wrong. Never just associate with people who share your views. Or else you end up, for instance, in the sort of Facebook groups and discussion forums that are there for mutual back-slapping and bias-confirmation. ( I do "ethical trolling" on various FB forums. Like going into a Christian Zionist – that is, right-wing religious with a highly selective reading of the Bible - discussion group, and asking seemingly innocent little questions, in the manner of a seeker after truth. Just to see if it gets people thinking. They're sort of time-bombs to put into people's heads. Damn, there's one CZ group that seemed to realise what I was up to and barred me from posting…. So it must have had some effect. Then again, I also got barred from a pro-Palestinian group for pointing out the inconvenient truth that Israel has a right to exist and isn't always in the wrong. They didn't like that either).
And.. I freely admit I struggle to find things to like about Donald Trump. I'm looking. I really am. But there's just a void there. I'm of an age to remember the sense of disbelieving WTF that happened when Ronald Reagan was elected president and we all wondered if the USA had collectively lost its marbles. Then again, we'd just elected Thatcher. (I say "we". I was a few months too young to vote in May 1979. Not that it would have made a difference, damn it). And after Reagan we saw Bush the younger, or Shrub. And now we have Donald.
To balance things out – Hilary would have been a disaster too, in her own sweet way. The USA was caught between two unenviable choices. One thing that was lost under the radar of the unspeakable crass awfulness of Donald was Hilary C's sabre-rattling over Syria. She was ready to go to the wire and confront the Russians. And take on Putin in a staring contest. This was loud and clear. You got the horrible feeling she wanted to be another Kennedy, and fight her own version of the Cuban missiles thing. This is something Donald has largely refrained from, and you can thank him for that.
And… Americans voted for Trump because enough of them genuinely, passionately, wanted him. Americans voted for Hilary reluctantly, because she wasn't Trump and was seen as the lesser of two horrible choices. That sort of thing matters. You do wonder how Bernie Saunders would have fared. Ah well, it's a done deal now.
But don't look to me to refrain from little digs at Donald. I'm not made that way. The man is, in his way, comedy gold. Black comedy gold, admittedly. I'd do Hilary too, if she remained in any way significant. Something about her rubs me up the wrong way. Like an American version of a Blair Babe.
(10) If light travels that much more slowly on the Disc, I imagine the speed of sound would be similarly slowed down too: Olga and Irena would be travelling at a lot less than 780mph. Mach One is easier to get to on the Disc.
(11) Although look at a lot of current Tory MP's and cabinet ministers…. And shudder. I suppose their mothers love them…