Monthly Archives: September 2005


A Horse of a Different Color Gene

I happened to run across this interesting page about the “cremello” and equine genetics — ie, why it’s not proper to call these horses albino even though they look it. I always wondered about this thing with white and black points in horses. They also have a handy color chart of what happens with “dilution” by the cream color gene. (Silver and dun apparently act similarly, but are different colors in their own right.)

All this is in aid of a group supporting pink-skinned, blue-eyed cream-colored horses. I’m not sure I’d be into breeding such horses, but certainly the horses themselves are worthy of support. It shouldn’t surprise anyone, either, given all the other coloring-based organizations, like the ones supporting palominos and paints, or this one I’ve never run across looking for champagne horses.

That “champagne” site includes some fascinating info on newly discovered color genes which mimick the one they’re looking for. This site charts the “Pearl” gene found in at least one lineage of Andalusians, as well as other “new” (ie, previously unrecognized) genetic horse color weirdnesses. So far, it looks as if the vast majority of these weird genes are not necessarily new, and may all go back to Spain’s Andalusians and through them from Arabian horses. This would not be any great surprise to people who know horse history.

Here’s a whole site dedicated to equine coat colors, including the common color changes between foal and adult. Fascinating stuff.

But all this is making me feel very worried about the science behind the imaginary horse breeding program I carried out in third grade. I tried to be careful about realistic color consequences, but I have the uneasy feeling that all the Arabs and Akhal-Tekes I was using would have skewed my results considerably.

(And that, btw, is yet another example of “stuff kids are interested in which adults don’t or can’t openly support”. Any girl who’s really interested in horses ends up learning a vast amount about breeding, but somehow I doubt the Barbie Horse Farm software has anything about breeding or genetics at all.)

Apparently there’s now an Akhal-Teke breeder not far away from one of my grandmas. (Siiiiiigh!) The owners were having trouble maintaining the typical metallic “shine” of their coats in the non-Swedish sun of Florida. But the comment box knows and tells all….

Over on the other owner’s blog, there’s a sad post about a noted breeder currently imprisoned in Turkmenistan.


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Happy Triumph of the Cross Day!

Of the 6,525 BellSouth employees living in the path of Hurricane Katrina, every single one has been found alive and well.

“With age-old love I have loved you; so I have kept my mercy toward you. Again I will restore you, and you shall be rebuilt…proclaim your praise and say: The LORD has delivered his people…Behold, I will bring them back from the land of the north; I will gather them from the ends of the world…They departed in tears, but I will console them and guide them…proclaim it on distant coasts, and say: He who scattered…now gathers them together, he guards them as a shepherd his flock…I will turn their mourning into joy, I will console and gladden them after their sorrows…Thus says the LORD: Cease your cries of mourning, wipe the tears from your eyes. The sorrow you have shown shall have its reward, says the LORD, they shall return…There is hope for your future, says the LORD…Set up road markers, put up guideposts; Turn your attention to the highway, the road by which you went. Turn back…to these your cities…For I will refresh the weary soul; every soul that languishes I will replenish.” (Jeremiah 31, various verses.)

Holy Cross Day, the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, and the feast of the Triumph of the Cross are all names for the same celebration — the rediscovery of the True Cross by St. Helena. All different sorts of Christians still celebrate this feast, thanking Jesus for His great sacrifice through our wonder at the poor inanimate piece of God’s creation that became so intimate a part of God’s plan for salvation. Much as we Catholics venerate an image of the Cross on Good Friday with genuflections and caresses, so do the Orthodox on this day lie prostrate on the floor while the Cross is raised before the congregation and the following song is sung:

Come, O faithful, let us bow before the life-giving Cross
on which Christ, the King of glory, freely stretched out His hands.
By this He raised us up to our former happiness,
which we had lost because of the ancient Enemy
and the bitter pleasure that exiled us from God.
Come, O faithful, let us bow before the Wood
which lets us crush the head of the invisible enemy.
Come, all you families of the nations,
let us venerate the Cross of the Lord with our hymns:
Rejoice, O perfect redemption of the fall of Adam;
Rejoice, O venerable Cross.
Filled with fear and awe, we embrace you; we glorify God, and we say:
O Lord, You were nailed on the Cross;
in Your goodness and love, have mercy on us.

Come, O people, let us contemplate the marvelous wonder;
let us bow before the power of the Cross.
For the tree of Paradise gave rise to the reign of death,
and now a Tree has made our life blossom forth,
when the sinless Saviour was nailed upon it.
And now, all the nations that are nourished
by this incorruptible food sing praises:
You destroyed death by Your Cross and set us free.
O Lord, glory to You!

The word of Your prophets Isaiah and David is now fulfilled,
for they spoke of You, O Lord, and said:
All the nations shall come to You and bow before You.
Behold the people who are now filled with Your grace
in Your sanctuary in the temple of Jerusalem.
O God of goodness who suffered on the Cross for us
and gives us life through Your holy resurrection,
protect us with Your care, O Lord, and save us.

Rising from the depths of the earth on this day,
the Tree of Life strengthens our faith
in the resurrection of Christ who nailed on it.
His raised hands announce His ascension into heaven,
which permitted Him to dwell in our nature in this fallen world.
We also cry out in thanksgiving:
O Lord who was raised on the Cross and raises us with You,
grant heavenly joy to those who praise Your name.

The four corners of the earth are sanctified today, O Christ our God,
by the four ends of Your exalted Cross.
With it, exalt your faithful Christians
who destroy the power of the enemy through your Cross.
You are great, O Lord, and wondrous in Your works; glory to You!

The words of the prophets have told of the most holy wood
by which Adam was delivered from the ancient curse and from death.
On this day of its exaltation, creation raises its voice
to beg God for the abundance of his mercy.
O Lord, your compassion is beyond measure;
spare us, O God, and save our souls!


Behold the words of the prophet Moses are fulfilled, O Lord;
for he said: You shall see your life suspended before your eyes.
Today the Cross is exalted, and the world is freed from error.
Today the Resurrection of Christ is renewed;
the ends of the earth exalt with joy.
At the sound of the cymbals of David,
they offer a hymn of praise and say:
In your goodness and love for all,
You have brought about our salvation in the middle of the earth, O our God.
Through your Cross and Resurrection You save us.
O Lord all-powerful, glory to You!

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The Saddest Day of the Year

I avoided watching cable again today. I didn’t want to watch Katrina coverage, and I didn’t want to watch 9/11 coverage.

I don’t need to remember. I need to find some way to forget.

So today I did chores and read a Daisy Dalrymple and watched The Band Wagon, and tried to pretend that things were normal again when really, they never were. They hadn’t been for years before that day. We forgot, that’s all.

So then I watched Walter Huston in Abraham Lincoln, and now I’m watching 49th Parallel. There’s a surprising amount of comfort in watching movies that know a war’s a war.

But the homily today still needed to be about forgiveness, and the sky today was still that same September blue. And it still hurts.

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Happy Nameday to Tonks….

This post may be too geeky even for Harry Potter fans.

Variant spellings are the bane of my Googling. However, I think we can all see why a parent might decide against naming a daughter “Nymphodora”….

St. Menodora
Feastday: September 10

Martyr with her sisters, Metrodora and Nymphodora. They were orphans of Bithynia, in Asia Minor, who were denounced as Christians and taken before the local Roman governor, named Fronto. They refused to worship the pagan gods, and Menodora was beaten to death, as was Nymphodora. Metrodora was tortured, burned, and beheaded.

If you read this Australian Greek Orthodox info, you’ll see that the sisters were notably stubborn and have a nice icon. I wonder if the stubbornness and the three good sisters were a sort of backhanded tribute to Narcissa and Bellatrix?

Probably a literal translation from the Greek acta, by some Russian Orthodox. We are told that in exchange for their monastic life, “God adorned them with the gift of wonderworking”, and that they looked very young and beautiful in spite of being old nuns. So there’s the morph.

Menodora means something like “passion’s gift”, Metrodora is “measure’s gift”, and Nymphodora is…well, “numpha” has a _lot_ of meanings. The primary one actually isn’t nymph, but maiden/bride. Another meaning is a certain four-letter female bodypart, which probably was just loads of fun in Ancient Runes class. Go look it up on the Perseus online dictionary.

I still think Metrodora sounds like a good name for a girl born on a subway. 🙂

There’s also an 1836 Russian crime novel called Nymphodora Ivanovna which Rowling may have run across, given her interest in literature and mysteries. Unfortunately, however, the heroine is described by the author as “a silly goose”, which has to be even more delightful for an ambitious young Auror.

Here’s the Orthodox feast, with slightly different info.

A poetic September saints’ calendar, with a verse for our three:

(September 10)
Menodora, Metrodora thought,
Like Nymphodora, torments of the flesh gifts [dora].
Smitten and died on the tenth were the three whose name has the meaning gifts [dora].

There’s also this verse:

(September 8)
On the same day, Saint Severos met his end by the sword.

�Ready I am all torment to endure�,
Severos said, �And is the sword for me?�

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Infodump Repetition

There’s an BBC radio gameshow called “Just a Minute”, which makes celebrities talk for one minute on a given subject without hesitation, deviation, or repetition. (Except of the name of the topic assigned, grammatical variants on a word, or common words like “is” and “the”.) It’s a fiendishly difficult game, especially with people listening and ready to pounce on any mistake.

Well, I know at least two authors who would stink like dead fish on this program. David Weber and Anne Perry. God love ’em both. They’re good storytellers, but they will keep saying the same thing over and over, often in the exact words they used before. Admittedly, it’s said that a bestseller needs to do this for the benefit of readers who can’t remember what they first read two weeks back. But if you can’t remember it that far back, it must not be all that important or interesting.

David Weber usually repeats himself with explanations of a technology in his universe, or of a political situation. Now, I admit that it’s nice to be told or reminded about these things at the beginning. But when he cut-and-pastes this boilerplate several times in a single book, I begin to want to call him at two in the morning and leave the same message until the memory’s used up. (Yes, that would be wrong. So is what he’s doing. Fortunately, I have the artistic integrity not to try to bore the nice man to death, and I wish he had the same respect for me.)

Anne Perry, on the other hand, believes in restating the same information about forty times per novel. Now, I’ll agree that in a mystery novel, you probably should repeatedly recap the facts of the case, in order to underline the detective’s thought process and perplexity, and to make sure the reader is walking down the desired garden path. But you don’t have to repeat the facts of the case onscreen to every single person the detective interviews. Honestly, it makes me want to scream. Beyond that, we have the POV problem. Perry realllllly likes third person omniscient, which is of course a handy but underused POV. But she also likes describing every single thing a character is thinking and feeling about what he or she is saying, and about what the other person is saying. She also likes to describe every tiny muscular movement of the face and hands in excruciating detail. Needless to say, questioning a suspect takes a bloody long time. Beyond that, if one character can’t instantly perceive every thought and feeling of another character, the other character is obviously suspicious. Emotion is all. It’s enough to make you hate the most likeable characters.

It drives me nuts. I can’t read Weber anymore, unless I take him at a breakneck pace. I never could read Perry. I listen to her audiobooks, though, because an actor does give them more life, I know they take forever (a good thing when you’re listening over headphones at work), and the mystery puzzles are good if you can actually wade your way through them.

If they must summarize, I wish they’d also present new information, or give a different angle on the data each time it’s presented. Better yet, I wish they’d string it through the book instead of infodumping at all.

Now maybe I’m being oversensitive. Perhaps certain people enjoyed learning the same information over and over at school. Me, I tuned out instantly and started reading a volume of science fiction or mystery under my desk until I heard something new. I used to skim the same way. Now I have less patience, and just stop reading. After all, there are a lot of other things I could be doing with my time.

Still, there’s no reason a good editor couldn’t save us all a lot of suffering by chopping out a sentence here and there and replacing it with “Once everything was explained, they got down to business.” It would certainly be easier on trees, shelf capacity, and my sanity.

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Anti-Katrina Reading

I’ve been reading a fluffy but fun little detective series by Carola Dunn. It follows 1920’s English girl reporter (okay, girl feature writer and photographer) Daisy Dalrymple. All she wants to do is write up big old houses for Town and Country. Instead she keeps stumbling over dead bodies and having family secrets confided to her. Fortunately, she also keeps running into Chief Inspector Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard.

It’s a bizarre little series, if you think too hard about it. The atmosphere is house party mystery, but the actual crimes are much nastier and the sex and violence explained in a more contemporary way (though the people still act like they’re in a twenties mystery novel). It’s as if Nancy Drew suddenly started investigating serial killers and finding out that her neighbors were all sleeping around or coming out of the closet. Also, if Daisy wasn’t so much fun, she’d be a Mary Sue who needed neck-wringing. And it’s just plain weird to read historical novels set in an era from which you’re used to reading contemporary novels.

But Daisy is a lot of fun, as are all her supporting characters. The 1920’s setting is well done, with many of the implicit details of your normal house party being explicitly explained. (I for one was stunned when Peter Dickinson explained how the whole backstairs thing worked in country houses, and Dunn does a good job of explaining it in action.) The novels are extremely short, too. (I can read one in about an hour.) So if you want a nice read to take your mind off things, try Carola Dunn and Daisy Dalrymple. You’ll want to read them in order, though, since there is a continuing storyline.

There are two Daisy short stories at Belgrave House. Under “Free EBooks”, click on “Short Fiction”.

Dunn also writes Regencies (which she did before her mystery gig). I read one of them from the library, Angel. It was written back in the 80’s, so it’s probably not a fair representation of the lady’s style now, but it was okay writing and entertaining enough, even if the setting was dealt with a bit self-consciously.

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Surfing Around

You know, Russian “fantastica” has some of the best covers I’ve ever seen. (Some of the worst too. And some repeats of covers for other books, which doesn’t usually happen at Western publishers anymore.)

Check out the 2003 Eksmo cover for Oleg Volkovsky’s People of Fire. Look at the liveliness of that fire. Look at how the guy actually has some weight and wasn’t made by Poser.

This novel, by the way, is just one of several recent Russian sf novels with the plot, “What if the Anti-Christ fooled people into thinking he was the Second Coming?”

I’m not as fond of this cover, though I do like the design and the little inset. But I like the premise of the main story in this collection, “The Seven Rainbow Sins”. Someone invents a device which allows you to see your neighbor’s seven deadly sins, each represented by a color. How do you keep living in a world where your secret shames aren’t secret anymore? (I’m betting the answer is frequent confession and a contrite heart… but since it’s a Russian story, I’m betting that gets to be a problem, too….)

What I really need to do is find an anthology series with a good mix of stories from throughout the last century of Russian sf/f. The problem is that Russian anthologies of this type tend to be flooded with classic stories from American and English sf/f, i.e., stories I’ve already read. This is not of course true of American anthologies, so I’m kinda stuck.

However, I do think I ought to get both volumes of Fantastica 2003, which seems to be some sort of “Best of 2001 in Russia” anthology. I have a feeling I need to get on the stick about this, since it’s already 2005!

Btw, the good news is that I found out our library’s now got a good-sized section of Russian books. (Apparently many of them were in storage until the library got more shelves.) I can probably pass on any Russian books to them with a clear conscience, so that means I can buy more Russian books! Mwha-ha-ha!

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BellSouth vs. Katrina

First off, BellSouth is matching donated funds at a rate of 2 to 1 (for up to 1 million dollars) if you donate to the BellSouth Pioneers Disaster Relief Fund, which provides aid to employees and retirees of the company. So if you have a BellSouth connection and you want to help, you can make your donation money go really far!

Other stuff BellSouth is doing for its employees and retirees, from a letter by CEO Duane Ackerman:

— We are accounting for employees in the impacted areas through the BLS-I�m OK number at 1-877-257-4665.

— Updates are being provided to employees through the Info-NOW number at 1-877-257-4669.

— “BellSouth Cities” will be set up in affected areas. These tent cities will offer displaced employees, retirees, and their families lodging, meals on site, take-away meals, water, ice, coolers, showers, toilets and laundry facilities.

— Volunteers are already in route to help at the Tent Cities.

— Loans are being made to affected employees.

— Our Employee Assistance Program is providing counseling to help employees and retirees cope with the disaster.

— Disaster Supply Kits are being assembled to be distributed to affected personnel.

As for the wider world (that whole telephone/Internet company thing), you can read about BellSouth’s repair efforts on a link right off their homepage. As of today, the latest news release was from Tuesday, September 6:

Based on data from BellSouth’s field survey teams, an estimated 810,000 lines remain impacted in the hardest-hit areas along the Gulf Coast in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. In this same area, BellSouth has 131 central offices, with all but 19 operating. These 19 central offices serve approximately 187,000 access lines, with 166,000 of these lines being in the New Orleans area. Restoration plans for these 19 offices are being developed.

“Restoration begins with our central offices and high-capacity trunk lines and the vast majority have been repaired. We are making steady progress as we gain access. Most customers will be restored within 30 days,” noted Smith. “However, some communities may take longer to rebuild in certain cases depending on when residents and businesses are able to return to these most affected areas and the time it takes to rebuild needed local infrastructure. New Orleans is an atypical situation given the floodwaters and access issues, and because of this, we will track restoration activity in New Orleans separately.”

As it gains more access to the most heavily impacted areas, BellSouth continues to assess the full impact on its network operations. It is too early to project the total magnitude of destruction caused by Hurricane Katrina, but based on the information available today and without the opportunity to survey and physically assess the entire area, BellSouth’s initial estimate is a cost of $400-600 million, including both capital and expense, for network restoration.

BellSouth has about 13,000 employees in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama – and approximately 6,500 of these are in the hardest hit areas affected by the storm. In order to help our employees continue to work in the face of this hardship, BellSouth has set up BellSouth “tent cities” in Baton Rouge and Covington, Louisiana; and Gulfport, Hattiesburg and Jackson, Mississippi. An additional location will be established this week in Kenner, Louisiana. These cities will provide BellSouth employees and their families with necessities such as food, shelter, clothing, financial support and employee assistance programs. The cities will also serve as deployment areas for BellSouth technicians and engineers that will be sent back into impacted areas to restore service for customers.

It still ain’t pretty, but things are getting done.

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I don’t want anyone to think I’m all friv and no give here. I have not only made my donation to Catholic Charities; I also intend to give to the Knights of Columbus because they’re going to match any Katrina donations made through them. (And because one of my brothers is in it.) I got the good folks at Steve Jackson Games to send a little Dino Hunt out to a shelter needing games (though I’m sure the company was already sending out donations like everybody else); and I did my best to shake people down (among other things) when I cantored Mass on Saturday.

But if I can’t actually be doing something for Katrina at any particular moment, then I have to be doing something else. There’s no particular moral virtue in letting the Katrina coverage take over my life, which is what it’s been doing for the past week. There’s not even any particular moral virtue in fretting over my aunt and uncle, if I’m not actually praying or doing anything else to help.

I’m sure this is true for other people as well. So I’m giving them something else to think about, and me, too.


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Here’s a lovely page on another Russian hunting breed, the chortaj, with pictures of the dogs in the field.

Hunting with sightdogs was and is not just the sport of nobility, even today it is a necessity of life in the steppes of Russia. The pastimes of nobility included wolf hunting with scent hounds and Borzois. This disappeared together with the nobles. The regular Chortaj hunter needs his sighthound for lifelihood: often a whole family depends on the caught prey of their Chortaj. There were no big kennels, however every hunter had and has 2 to 6 Chortaj. So, the selection process was done very slowly and establishing this windhound breed must have taken quite a long time for such wide area.

The page also includes some good advice on caring for any kind of sighthound:

Most sightdogs like to rest on soft surfaces, preferable slightly raised. They are real couch potatoes in this respect. One reason why you should at least provide them with soft and cushioning ground cover, better mattresses or a sofa to rest on, is the fact that they have no fatty layer under their skin, there is no thick coat cushioning joints and bones either. Because of this sightdogs habitually resting on hard or rough surfaces quite quickly develop pressure boils and sores, apart from the fact that they feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Few sightdogs like to sit, their anatomy and angulation of back-hip-legs makes this a position they find hard to take. Do not assume your dog is disobeying you when he either only stands or lies down, and tries to avoid sitting properly.

…Even though one may come to believe that a sightdog needs a special amount of work, this isn’t correct. Normal daily walks and about 2 or 3 occasions during a week when the dogs are allowed free and fast running suffices to satisfy their needs.

I am pleased to see a breed which is still allowed to do its work, and owners which refuse to breed their dogs without seeing them prove their prowess in the hunting field and earn their “diplomas”. (I have to admit, I would like to see wolfhounds get to try themselves against their ancient foe. But with the way wolves are multiplying all over depopulated Europe, it’s probably a good thing that Ireland’s an island….) And I like the term “windhound”.

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Taste of Russian Romance II

Here’s another first chapter from Irina Melnikova. It kills me that Russian fluff apparently is a lot closer to War and Peace than your average read-and-forget book. But then, maybe Russian writers and readers aren’t resigned to considering romance fluff?

Melnikova apparently writes novels which are funnier than this, like Alexandra — A Punishment from God, in which a famous beauty decides to punish an errant admirer by working as a maid in his house. (Somehow I feel that complications and havoc ensue, considering all the difficulties inherent in this course.) But I don’t know that I’m in the mood for maids, especially after doing a bunch of housework this weekend.

(There’s a large contingent of male anime fans who have this thing for maids, and I don’t mean in a semi-realistic Victorian Romance Emma way. I seriously doubt that any of their okaasans ever made them do a lick of housework in their lives. There’s also a large contingent of women out there who seem to think being a servant was either romantic or horrible beyond imagination. I don’t think either was necessarily true; but I do know that housework is hard work, and that’s with laborsaving devices. Somehow, I rarely want my fantasy life to involve work!)

From: The Antique with Carnations
by Irina Melnikova
Eksmo: Moscow, 2004.

Fields gray from many days’ rain, drooping winter crops, slovenly shocks of last year’s straw, boggy road, sadly bent branches of broom, black stumps in places of old forestry, lopsided crosses in old graveyards — and everywhere, wet dissatisfied crows sitting on the lower branches of trees, reed-thatched roofs, or fallen down fences, and accompanying the coach (too well appointed for a wilderness like that) with their unhappy, grim and endless cawing.

Prince Grigory Panyushev looked out the coach window for the hundredth time, sighed, and threw his head back onto the cushions. The most severe boredom had been eating at him for the last few days along the whole long and monotonous way to his new estate, which with God’s help and a decent amount of letters of credit, the
prince had managed to save from the heirs of Princess Zavidovskoy. It was a burden for him because of its extensive size and its excessive distance from the City or any decent road.

They had left Moscow on a clear June morning, dry and warm. It seemed to him that nothing had foreshadowed the present stretch of bad weather. But at the gates of Yaroslavl’, an enormous thundercloud had come over them, lashed them with hail, and poured down a generous shower, which eventually had become the drizzling obscenity of tedium which had spoiled the journey from then on.

The prince’s train consisted of five wagons drawn by horses with pedigrees, and ten covered wagons in which traveled his cook, footmen, grooms, ridingmasters, kennelkeepers, borzois, gonchaya beagles, musicians, and both his valets, guarded by two dozen professional hunters on horseback. It was half a verst long. And instead of the predicted two, three days, it had already been trudging down the boggy roads for a week. What’s more, the prince and his numerous servants had not needed to spend the night even once in tents either erected right in a field or in a forest clearing. The inns in these places stood no less than fifty versts apart from each other, and were furthermore characterized by such squalidness and dirt that the prince would have preferred to spend the night on a narrow cot, rather than being bitten by fleas and
bedbugs on the featherbeds of the next auberge.

“How much longer?” he asked unhappily without turning to his companion, an old friend and comrade in the amusements of his restless youth, whom he had chanced to meet in St. Petersburg on his return to Russia. Known to the whole capital as a dashing hussar, gambler and rake, Arkady Drozdovsky was famed for the fact that,
upon suddenly obtaining an inheritance, he had spent it entirely on drink in the company of revellers and idlers of his own sort.

But he was most famed for his unusual passion for street masquerades. He had first become infamous as the leper about whom the northern capital gossipped about for so long. Dressing as a monstrous beggar, he had started a campaign of vengeance on the pavements in front of the house of his distant relative, Prince Golitsyn. Upon the following evening, he repeated this occupation before that of the already aged Princess Ruzakovtsevoya, who loved to arrange noisy revels with many distinguished guests in attendance.

In a tattered coat, his face smeared with soot and a ragged broom in hand, he scurried about between groups, aiming to grasp or rub against the worldly beauties in alt and their proud — or to be more accurate, peacocking — cavaliers. Catching sight of an acquaintance or friend, he immediately cried out that he needed
alms, shook his dirty broom before him, took him by the lapels of his frockcoat, and knocked off his top hat with the appearance of inadvertence. In case of any failure, he quarreled like a leper would and was very skillfully repulsed by the stalwart footmen which had been ordered by their offended masters to chase the beggar out
of sight. Sometimes he got it strong and hot, but in spite of the cuffs and lumps, Arkady did not lose his passion. He continued to play pranks and amuse the public of the capital with his tricks. And he laughed louder than anyone when he was found out.

With each day the number of his victims grew — legend blamed it on his leprosy — and not desiring to lose the glory of being an original, he was forced to continue devising newer and newer tricks and ruses in order to wind the latest dupes around his finger. So each time, Drozdovsky’s wits became sharper and more malicious, for a public satiated with his costumes was no longer so easy to deceive, and still less easy to make laugh.

The world’s dissatisfaction gradually ripened, but the mischief-maker himself seemed to notice nothing, and continued to amuse himself as though nothing were the matter. Once two nuns appeared before the Countess Chernoukhova, known for her devotion and righteous life, and began to tearfully beg alms for their monastery.
They begged and sobbed so convincingly that Chernoukhova herself went for the money. Returning, she fell down in a faint; the nuns were dancing a squatting Cossack dance with fury and wild laughter. It was Drozdovsky and a friend. They say that Chernoukhova was not stunned by the dance so much as the monastic women’s hairy feet, which they used with such vigor that they were starting to rip through their robes almost all the way up to their belts.

The event which put an end to Drozdovsky’s mystifications and jokes had spilled patience’s cup. At one large banquet, when the guests had been seated in their places, the chair was pulled out from under the Swedish ambassador. The diplomat fell full length onto the floor, but immediately jumped to his feet and said, in a voice shaking with anger, “I hope the scoundrel who allowed himself
this impudence will declare his name!” Drozdovsky did not declare himself; and after that, he was as if dead to the capital’s beau monde. Offence and mockery could be endured, but cowardice they did not forgive.

“Ten versts,” Arkady answered, interrupting the prince’s reflections. “Now we will travel along the lake for half a verst, then there’ll be the bridge across Mischief Ravine, but as soon as we’re there, your lands will begin.”

“Hm. Is there much fish in the lake?” asked the prince, and yawned.

“Many, Your Brightness, many,” sighed the estate steward sitting on the opposite seat, Kuzma Ilyich Bobrykin. He had joined the prince’s train in the town of the day before. “Only you can’t get to it from your side of the lake. Swamps, yes, marshes. But in the lady’s land, they say, the peasants catch ’em for fair. Last
year, they caught a pike with a gold ring. The old men say Little Mother Catherine lost it there. The Empress greatly loved to come stay with the old Count. Apparently she lost her heart to our part of the world. But after the fire, when the Count put up a new stone house, she said it was just like him and called it an ‘antique with
carnations’. And so the estate is called to this day.”

“What about the count? What was he called?” Grigory yawned and looked out the window again. The rain had ceased, and through the rising clouds in the sky a dim solar disk suddenly appeared.

“Izmestev,” Arkady answered for Bobrykin. “Thirty years back, he died a very old man, but you must remember the young count. Fedor, they called him. He was rich beyond counting, but he barely attended the balls — in short, he didn’t play his cards right. And he got married anyhow, very quietly. They say his mother found him
a bride. But eight years ago, he broke his neck. He was riding, and his horse threw him into the ravine. Exactly the same one we’re about to cross. Mischief.”

“Is that why they call it Mischief?” Grigory looked at the manager.

“Of course not.” Bobrykin waved his hand. “The greatest bandit strongholds were here. The old men say, what’s more, that in the terrible ravine stood the very camp of Ivan Likhutev’s gang. They robbed and killed everyone, with no exceptions. Back then, if you went twenty versts, the babas would screech laments, as if
singing you to your certain death. That bandit Vanka’s powers were undying crafty, when it came to searching. He put a hundred travelers under his will. But in the hills….” Kuzma indicated with his hand the side of the coach looking toward the thick brushwood around the lake. “…on the old road at Grekhovovo Pass, he somehow robbed the landowner. Dozens of his robbers collided with the lord’s hundred servants in formation, and took the whole thing clean. He got out only by calculating how much public prayer and how many candles he’d need to put before the wonderworking icon for safe passage. But on Zaraiskoy Mountain, he got merchants down to their peg tops, and even sent folks for a percentage of the fish at the bottom of the lake.”

“They tell pure fairy tales about this Likhutev here,” smiled Arkady. “Supposedly soldiers surrounded him, and he would drink wine from his favorite cup and vanish into the same cup. Another time, they had just caught him after having quite a time of it, when suddenly the whole cottage went up in smoke and flame as if gunpowder had been tossed upon it.”

“And what happened? Did they catch him?” Grigory finally felt that his boredom had left him.

“That I don’t know,” sighed the manager. He guiltily unclasped his hands, as if it were by his omission that the bold, sly robber hadn’t been taken and put in jail. But then, squinting, he pronounced solemnly, “This was very long ago, in Little MotherCatherine’s time, so people might be lying about that.”

“It appears that the Empress wasn’t afraid of bandits, if she came to stay in these parts so frequently.”

“She didn’t fear ’em, Your Brightness. God sees she didn’t fear ’em.” The manager crossed himself. “Yes, and whenever she was here, the robberies stopped.” Kuzma lowered his voice slightly and timidly examined the coach window. “People say that Count Izmestev and Vanka Likhutev — was the same person. The count, seemingly,
earned his money by robberies, then, yes, by robberies. They say he was bad at business from the first, and so he had to get rich some other way. There was even a story that one of the merchants — I don’t know whether this is true — saw the count in the robber’s caftan. But soon after that the merchant disappeared like he’d
fallen into the earth, and they feared it was connected with the Count. He was tall and unusually strong. He could bend horseshoes with his bare hands and drive a troika from the back of a sleigh. But here his son let him down. He didn’t grow much, and his voice was as shrill as a wench. After the count’s death, the old countess
ruled the estate, her that married off Fedor Gavrilovich. People say, by force. The young count didn’t want to be married at all. But then he got used to it, and then he soon beat his wife. He raged especially after the death of his mother, the old countess, but the young countess didn’t stay unavenged. They say someone threw him out of his window, and after that the count always went lame….”

The prince and Drozdovsky exchanged glances and started to laugh.

“Among your neighbors, Grigory, you have a particular woman,” explained Arkady, not ceasing to smile. “An intolerant character who quarrels with all her neighbors. She allows nobody onto her land. She does not drive out to call on anyone. She lives almost alone, with only her sister, yes, and the servants. Two
villages and a hamlet she has in her possession, and they talk even in Orel and Voronezh provinces about the villages there. Rich, capricious, willful.”


“Beautiful, mon cher, very beautiful, but not everyone has the strength to manage this ridiculous, obstinate filly.”

“You’ve met her?” asked the prince with genuine interest, and Drozdovsky smirked to himself, noting the gleam in his friend’s eyes.

“Alas, God spared me such good fortune. The countess is one of those who personally demands bowing foreheads and holds a whip with no less skill than a fan or lorgnette.”

“They tried to woo her in the beginning,” Kuzma added in support of the lord’s comments. “Only she ordered both the matchmakers and suitors chased off with sticks to the very border of the estate, and from that time on, she put out cordons on all the roads so that nobody would try to break in on her quiet. Yes, you can see one right there. That’s the shortest road to the estate. Another two versts and we’ll see the house itself….”

Grigory looked out the window. A wide sandy road turned off smoothly into the forest, on the border of which could be seen two rock posts with wooden gates attached, next to which stood two strong and sullen peasants with flintlock guns at the ready.

“You said nothing of such strong guards!” smiled the prince. “Will they really shoot, should we decide to visit the widow?”

“Who knows but them?” Kuzma scratched the back of his head. “They didn’t shoot nobody yet, but nobody’s decided to pass through those gates.”

Because of this conversation, they didn’t note that the endless fields had changed into low, gently sloping hills which were overgrown with gloomy firwoods. And only seldom, on spots which had been burned or cut down, blazed the bright verdure of
young birch groves or a small flock of aspens with tiny kopeck-sized leaflets suddenly emerging in a clearing.

The rain had quite ceased. Under the first, even more timid rays of sun, the sandstone looked like golden armor thrown onto the side of the road by tired soldiers. The straining glance looked fixedly and intently at the dark and unfriendly
depths of the forest and died on each hillock. Any minute now, there will flicker among the trees a tempting view of the facade of the manor house, hidden in a park divided by a false road leading to the lake. And possibly it will strike only this flat device, or the white wall of an arbor, or a belfry spire will reveal the presence of that estate with the strange and intriguing name “The Antique with Carnations”.

Grigory sighed. How often could one give oneself over to such romantic illusions? Perhaps he should not have made such mistakes in this life, allowing feelings to overcome reason. He had made mistakes, and not just once; and here he was again, acting like a drooling adolescent just torn from his little mama’s skirts.

And the widow-beauty would surely prove to be a fat, snubnosed, old before her time landowner, with large breasts and the rest of the details that had been the mode twenty years back. Wilfulness was in Russian ladies’ blood, especially those who had doomed themselves to a stay in such godforsaken places that they never held a fashionable Parisian magazine in their hands, and whose whole amusement was to war with flies, yes, or to whip their maids’ cheeks and fornicate with their grooms.

But the tension in him continued to grow, his incomprehensible, irritating tension which was turning into trembling, and in order to stop it, he had to grit his teeth and hold his fingers still — by shaking, they might manifest his unexpected (and so absurd) agitation.

So as not to give away his totally unjustified interest in his surroundings, Grigory half-turned to look out the window as if reluctant, hoping that his appearance was as lazily bored as before — and that it by no means reflected his true mood.

On his left, over the hills and the dark wall of firwoods, could be seen a high belfry, clearly differentiated against the background of the sky, now turned bright. The road went off on an angle, and beyond it opened a panorama of the town laid on the tall opposite bank of the river, the endless windings of which were lost among its hilly banks sheltered in dense forest.

Churches, crenellated walls, towers… Visible from far off were the tall grass-overgrown earthen shafts, the tops of churches, the usual Catherine-style arcades with merchants still in ranks and the average man’s houses inside gardens, scattered along the slopes divided by ravines.

“Belorechensk,” explained Arkady. “The former Matushkin estate is located near here. I’ve know these parts from childhood.”

The road slid downward again, then back up. The presence of a small river or stream somewhere in the shaded ravine could be quickly inferred from the willows. A humpbacked bridge whose logs quickly repeated the hooves of horses; a building abandoned out of German economy; and then further on a quite tall, flat, and
gigantic rock wall cut as if by scissors; and over here, to the right between dark trunks, again the endless aqueous smoothness of the enormous lake.

“Look, Your Brightness!” cried Kuzma, and pointed a hand in the direction of the lake. “There she is — what a beauty!”

But Grigory had already seen for himself the house that Catherine the Great had once named the Antique with Carnations. A huge three-story house made from white stone, with six columns at the main entrance, upon which rested an elegant triangular
pediment. The high porch, with two routes disappearing toward the lake, was decorated with statues of marble lions lying in a sphinx-like pose. Circling the courtyard like girls in a round dance were lindens, but in its very center grew a huge oak with
freely extended branches which covered the house from any outside gaze. In the high windows of the first floor, where he guessed the ceremonial suites were located, sunbeams played; above it was a mezzanine with almost square windows. Surely there were the rooms for children and tutors… To the right, not far from the house on a high rock hillock, stood a light and elegant gazebo sheltered by lilac bushes. About eight Tuscan columns carried a cupola crowned by a sphere.

Grigory caught his breath. Something long forgotten, almost like a fairy tale, floated up in his memory at the sight of this wonder, lost in the wilderness among wild and gloomy firs, many lakes, and swamps. But the road skewed to the side,
and the estate was hidden behind the trees. Only the halo of the sunbeam reflected from the windows of the upper level flickered in the end through the thick tops of the trees. And this forced his heart to feel agonizing pain, because memory had again returned the prince to the grimmest and most cheerless moments of his past.

He took off his hat and wiped his sweating face with his handkerchief.

“Look, Grigory,” said Arkady quietly. “It seems as though the mistress herself is escorting us.”

The prince turned to the window and fell into admiration at the spectacle which appeared before him — a horseman, or to be more accurate, a horsewoman in male costume. Bent over the neck of a splendid Arabian hunter, she galloped along the road which bounded the estate. She was so caught up in the run that she paid no attention to the prince’s train, the cries and whistles of the huntsmen, the barking of the excited dogs, or the hallooing of the servants leaning out of the covered wagons. The horse ran just as it should, and the horsewoman stayed in her saddle as if she’d
been cast that way.

She was continually hidden by sandy outcrops or behind trees, but now she reappeared. The woman wore no hat, and wind fluttered through her thick mane of dark hair.

“Ye-es!” Grigory held it out, and looked puzzledly at his friend. “Pure Amazon! She keeps her saddle like a real hussar!”

“She’s already there!” Arkady shook his head and solemnly pronounced, “I wouldn’t want to meet her at the fences. No, you just watch how her horse obeys her! Well, what a witch — that’s the right word — a witch!”

Meanwhile, the horse and horsewoman flew off to a high hill and froze there like a statue. And Grigory noted that the horsewoman was magnificently made, and probably possessed a strong will, if so proud and rebellious a creature as a purebred
Arabian hunter could be made to obey her. The stranger raised her hand and peered at the horizon for a time; she remained in view of the train for a fraction of a second more. Then extending her hand, she made the horse rear, and giving it a touch of the crop, disappeared almost instantly behind the hill, even more rapidly than she had appeared on the road before them.

“C’est magnifique!” exclaimed Arkady, and clapped his hands. “My heart sniffs out that you won’t have to be bored, prince, next to a neighbor like that. I bet somebody reported your arrival to her. Oh, already this female curiosity and
pride! Rain, slush, and she racing beside your coach….”

“Indeed, the countess always rolls along out here. Rain or no rain, all the same she orders her horse to get going.” The manager damped their enthusiasm. “And only in the morning does the light come out, only another time does the sun rise; and now she’s already at the other end of the lake. And who doesn’t dream of her?”

“Who, who,” Arkady began to laugh. “I know who….”

Noticing the dissatisfied grimace on the prince’s face, he calmed down and became still, feeling that his conjectures about the lady’s early jaunt in this case would be inappropriate.

But Grigory suddenly thought that he also would like to take a morning ride around the lake, even in the dew, even in the fog and rain, in order to see this strange woman more closely and examine her as he should, instead of as the vision that had flashed before his eyes a few moments ago.


* Prince: knyaz, not tsarevich. Tons of them were running around Russia back in the day.

I hope to goodness the “rebellious Arabian” horse thing was ignorance on the prince’s part and not on the writer’s. Arabians have their own minds, yes, but they have to be treated with great gentleness.

I’m pretty sure we all know what borzois look like, but I’m having trouble finding an English page about gonchayas, which are sort of like beagles. (Russian-English gonchayas pretty much look exactly like beagles, except with longer legs.)


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Taste of Russian Romance

Irina Melnikova apparently can write a good Regency (or Russian equivalent). She apparently also has decided to become the thinking Russian woman’s Tom Clancy. For your escapist needs, I present an excerpt from a novel that’s about as far from Katrina as you can get.

From The She-Wolf, or Wild Leeza
by Irina Melnikova


An intelligence officer must know how:

— to make parachute jumps, come down a rope from a hovering helicopter, and pilot hang gliders, parasails, catamarans and motorboats;

— to learn military topography to perfection, to orient himself in any locality by compass and map or local landmarks, to quickly and accurately find the necessary objectives, to indicate the coordinates of the investigated objective on the radio;

— to determine by appearance any potential enemy weapon and know its tactical and technical data, and to determine the enemy’s training for the use of WMDs;

— to identify enemy personnel by uniform and rank insignia and enemy technology by identification markings and exterior appearance; to determine by sound the location,
number, and nature of the activities of the enemy;

— to learn the actions and tactics of the subdivisions of a possible enemy, and how to use his weaponry and technology;

— to carry out with excellence both maskirovka techniques and methods of noiseless movement in any locality;

— to carry out all reconnaissance methods: observation, interception, ambush, photography, and reconnaissance in force;

— to secretly and noiselessly overcome wilderness and urban engineering barricades, to ford or overcome water obstacles by improvised means, to swim and float well;

— to endure a prolonged forced march, shoot accurately, throw a knife or a grenade both accurately and far, use a riflebutt or a knife skillfully, and be a master of hand-to-hand fighting;

— to act as a ‘military mountainclimber’;

— to master the skills and habits of survival under extreme conditions…

Judging by Anatoly Taras’ reference works, the INTELLIGENCE OFFICER must know all of this. He is a strong, powerful, specially trained man, who has no right to lose control of himself in even the most outrageous situation.

But if a woman finds herself in such a situation? What do the reference books advise?


The signal vanished off the dispatcher’s radar screen ten minutes after the airplane took off. The dispatcher was experienced, with many years of accident-free work. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Only a couple minutes ago, the captain had reported that the aircraft had achieved cruising altitude, and that everything was normal. He had reported in a totally workaday manner, with no agitation. Any captain of any airplane always reports that everything is working and he’s on course with no interference. But the signal disappeared, and it didn’t reappear in ten seconds, or in a quarter of an hour, when it should have showed up on the dispatchers’ radar screens at the Novokuznetskovo Airport. Then they reported the whole thing to their superiors.

Naturally radio contact with the crew was lost at the same time the signal disappeared. The dispatcher sensed fate’s nasty plan in this, because yesterday morning when he was getting ready to go to work, he’d glanced at the calendar. He’d hurried to brag to his wife that tomorrow he’d have finished ten years of service at the airport; and they’d surely congratulate him, especially since he deserved it for his excellent work.

Idiot. He really did know it was bad luck to compliment himself, but no, he didn’t hold back. And now he’d got a total snafu by the horns. The last trip of his shift, and so unpleasant a surprise — a ChP, on top of it all! An IL-76 transport plane, like always, loaded with soldiers of the technical division and three jeeps for the military district command. Nine crewmembers and sixteen passengers… Had twenty-five people, including two children, crashed somewhere in the taiga? The dispatcher no longer believed that everything would work out. If the signal had vanished, that bad luck wouldn’t pass by as he’d prayed to God it would.

It was equally old news that he would now never become flight director, although he felt he’d done nothing wrong. All his actions as dispatcher had been competent, precise, accurate and professional, but uneasiness didn’t let him off the hook. As always, they’d be looking for a scapegoat, and who, after all, would it turn out to be? The dispatcher, of course — just a meek little workhorse.

So thought Leonid Ogurtsov, the supervisor of the air traffic control group in whose shift this tragedy occurred.

After two hours, when the aircraft failed to land at its destination, there was no longer any doubt that it had suffered a catastrophe. But within the hour, army and MChS (Ministry of Emergency and Disaster Relief) helicopters took off. Beneath them lay the endless taiga, covered by dove-gray haze. Autumn had made lavish brushstrokes across the glens and forests, painting them in impossibly bright tones: aspen groves blazed crimson, birch groves molten gold, and poplars blushed rosily on riverbanks and islands.

But to these people, there was no beauty in the taiga. On the contrary, the abundance of hues interfered with concentration and finding the crash site, the broken treetops, the smoke from the fires where fragments had fallen…

Chirring like giant magpies, the helicopters combed the course followed by the lost aircraft. Helo pilots were no less superstitious than air traffic controllers, and until they’d found the exact site of the disaster, they
preferred to call the aircraft “lost”.

Rain had fallen in the mountains for several days in a row. It had totally drenched the taiga, so there probably couldn’t be a large fire, especially if the IL had fallen into a lake or onto the rocky spurs of the Kuznetsk Alatau.

Search and rescue workers, following the same course through the taiga on cross-country vehicles, had time to question both local residents and hunters. They hadn’t noticed anything strange in the sky in the given hours, they hadn’t heard explosions, crashes, or any odd sounds; and so far they hadn’t found one intelligent witness, either. To be more exact, they learned nothing about what they were looking for. In these godforgotten taiga villages, they saw anything and everything from flying saucers to little green spirits with horns, tails and hooves; but nobody’d noticed anything like a crashing airplane. True, the airplane had been lost at five in the morning, but even the most honest farmwives, who got up to milk their cows before dawn or even the first light, had also plainly heard nothing except the lowing of cattle, yes, and the streams of milk ringing against the bottom of their milkpails.

To sum things up, there had been an airplane, but there was no airplane now. It was as if a bird had whisked it away on the wing; as if a magician had pointed his wand and turned the gigantic airliner’s lifting body and everything in it — many tons of fuel, its cargo, and almost thirty people — into dust, into molecules, into nothing….

Within the hour, the loss of the aircraft had been reported to the President and the Chairman of the Security Council, as well as to the Ministers of Defense and the MChS. Later, they reported it on television without any details. In the following hour’s news program, they showed a map of the area where the plane was assumed to have crashed. True, the TV cameramen didn’t yet know that although the area had
been plotted out, the fallen aircraft hadn’t turned out to be there….


All around her, it seemed to stink of cinders and gasoline. Her body, from head to heels, was in unbearable pain. The woman opened her eyes and didn’t understand where she was, at first. She lay in an extremely inconvenient position, almost hanging by her feet, face buried in something stiff which, after more thorough examination, turned out to be the cellulose suitcase in which airline shuttles transport their cargo. What’s more, this bag was not the only one, and the woman found that her head was surrounded by them.

She tried to pick her way out of this obstruction, but first she had to free her foot, which had gotten stuck between the bags and a torn piece of metal the size of a car door — but which had pitilessly mangled someone, and hung over her head like the sword of Damocles.

But in spite of her pain, she nevertheless managed to avoid the blow when she pulled her foot down, and the door fell onto the bags, cutting like a knife through one of them.

After this, the woman finally came to herself. True, her head continued to ring like a bell, but she had already begun to distinguish separate sounds. Before this, they had merged into one alarming rumble. But now they were divided into burning hot howling wind, tree noises, and… a thin wail which sounded like the whine of a puppy weaned from its shaggy wetnurse.

The woman went on the alert, and immediately felt milk begin to flow from a breast. The child had cried, and her body had reacted to his weeping more quickly than she’d understood what these sounds indicated in reality. A hot stream slid along her stomach; her chest was being bent to the breaking point. Paying no attention to the pain, she quickly moved her hands to free her from cellulose captivity. And the first thing she saw after picking her way outside was a patch of blue covered with odd feathers — clouds in the sky — in a frame of bent metal. Its sharp corners and razor edges confirmed unambiguously that they’d been made by an explosion.

She crawled along on her elbows, because her weakness made it impossible for her to rise to her full height. Her head whirled, nausea rose to her throat, but the woman kept crawling toward the source of the sound that was bothering her. Finally she found herself on the edge of what had been, a few hours before, the tail of an airplane. This quite small piece of it was hanging between two gigantic cedars and the toothy peak of a cliff. The piece of metal was all that remained of an enormous airliner, by some miracle balanced on the edge of a precipice. Further on, hooked from a branch, a stroller was hanging, and from it came the baby’s cry.

Despite everything, the woman rose to her feet. The child was no more than two meters away. But between them lay a real precipice, and there was nothing to lean against so that she could reach for him. She looked down to where a young fir grove’s tops bristled. Enormous chunks of basalt peeked through it. Ten meters to the ground, but to jump down would be dangerous without a doubt; she might not just break her legs, but her neck, too.

Once again she measured the distance to the child by sight, then put out her arms, and almost screamed from horror. Her warm flannel shirt with its dark green checks was ripped to shreds. Its sleeves were completely gone, and her hands were one continuous bruise, intersected by several deep cuts and abrasions, the blood already dried.

With horror, the woman raised them to her face, refusing to believe her own eyes. Then her gaze slid lower. It turned out that her jeans were in as bad a state as her shirt. But her feet weren’t much different from her hands, because enormous bruises and abrasions decorated them no less lavishly. Then she tore open her shirt, and found the same collection on her thighs and ribs. Probably this was the result of the aircraft’s crash against the cliff, or to be more accurate, its tail’s crash — the tail which trembled and screeched threateningly with every threatening motion.

The baby kept up its crying jag, but she couldn’t do anything. Her head was feeling even sicker, her thoughts were confused, and not one of them would stay with her for long — which she maybe should have wanted.

Milk had overfilled her breasts. Her mammary glands had hardened, and every motion of her arm shot back a dull viscous pain. At that instant the child fell silent as if its spirit had flown somewhere, but a minute later it took to wailing with even more strength, and her breasts responded with new milkflow. It did not spare her brassiere, which became wet and chafed her under the armpits. Moreover, the milk came right through her shirt, turning her into a window and making it possible for the cool breeze to easily take a walk along her whole body.

The woman glanced to both sides. What to do? She knew perfectly well that she could stay here forever and watch while the child went on crying. For that matter, she couldn’t at all remember why she’d been on the airplane. Indeed, only yesterday they’d taken her into the family-home, but her absence of belly and abundance of milk in the breast confirmed that she’d already had time to give birth. Yes, and judging by the cries, the baby was already pretty big. Her baby? But why didn’t she remember how she’d borne him, and why had she found herself in an airplane?

The woman pressed her fingers against her temples. Something wasn’t adding up in her head. At first she couldn’t even remember what they called her. And she was greatly cheered when her husband’s voice floated up in her memory. “Leeza! Leezok!”

It sounded so clearly in her ears that she shivered. Was he really around somewhere?

But now she refused to think like this. The time of his mission to the Caucasus had been over last winter, and now it was almost autumn; she must be ready to give birth…

But when had she had her baby?

Her temples were ready to burst from stress, but the child wasn’t crying anymore. But he had apparently fallen silent because his hunger had made him lose all his strength. And then she began to take decisive action. First she threw down a bag of airline rags. True, they scattered when they fell, but still she hoped that she wouldn’t break a leg if she had to fall down. Then she crawled up to the edge of the piece of aircraft that had saved her life. She leaned down sharply, and then, without thinking too long, the woman jumped. Without a push, without going limp against a possible miss and fall. But evidently God had saved her this time, too. She managed to hook herself a branch next to the stroller.

The branch turned out to be none too reliable, and it bent under her weight. But the woman’s hands were strong, and she herself was young and agile; she instantly shifted to the lower, thicker branches. In spite of the pain in her whole body, she moved easily, noting to herself that she was hampered only by her known injuries, and this was a good sign in itself.

It didn’t give her any special trouble to get to the stroller. The baby did turn out to be pretty big, ten months old or not much less. He stared with round little eyes and tried to get up. He was saved by the fact that he was closed inside; otherwise he would long ago have been thrown from the stroller. Leeza carefully caught him up with one hand; the baby gulped and smiled. She pressed him against her chest and carefully started to work her way down, continually throwing her head up to see what was going on with the torn piece of metal hanging over her head.

Just as soon as she hit the ground, she rushed to the cliffs to get as far as possible from this dangerous place. The child quieted in her arms. She pressed him against her breast and prayed Fate would let them find cover under the rock overhang before the piece of airplane crashed to earth.

But she heard the terrible crash more quickly than she’d expected. Leeza rushed toward a huge basalt chunk, and without remembering, rolled behind it. And came back to herself at the baby’s loud cry. She was holding the little one in a death grip and apparently it’d hurt him, because he twisted in her arms and wailed his tiny lungs out.

“Shh, shh,” she whispered, and kissed the baby on his tearstained cheek. He quieted, and she, putting her hand on his head, carefully looked out from behind the stone.

The fragment of airplane, after shearing off a gigantic tree branch and the mossy top of the cliff like a razor, had fallen down the precipice, where stones were still being brought down and a terrible echo beat along the gorge’s rocky walls.

Some of the bags disappeared after it, seized by the pieces falling down, but three or four only flew further away, and those remained. Leeza rose to her feet, but the child in her arms started to cry again; and so she tore open her shirt and put him to her right breast. He sucked long and greedily, casting glances at her with his little black eyes with their thick eyelashes. The pain in that breast was eased, but then the left one overflowed with milk, and another hot stream ran down her belly without ceasing.

But the little child was that hungry. His little wool suit was soaked right through. The little one should have been changed immediately and muffled in something warm before he froze in the icy wind. The gusts were getting stronger and stronger, and when the first excitement from the rescue started to die down, Leeza felt herself getting chilled to the bone. And that wasn’t amazing; her clothing had turned into pitiful rags.

Finally the little one fell from her breast. His eyelids closed over his eyes, but wet diapers kept him from falling asleep. And then Leeza carefully left him on the moss. The child wailed offendedly. But this was not that bitter and hopeless weeping which rended her heart, and so she risked leaving him alone.

The first bag happened to be pretty packed with leather jackets, but on the very bottom she found two sport suits, one pre-worn, and a packet of men’s knit hats. All this was free of sizes. Of course. Second, she found packages of towels and oilcloth shower curtains. Also good, she thought, immediately figuring out that the towels could be used instead of diapers and babywipes. In the third bag was nothing but big stuffed toys, but after turning them over in her hands, she figured that if she ripped them up and took out the stuffing, she might come up with quite decent baby clothes for the little one.

She dragged the suitcases back to the place where she’d left the child. The landing knife which she always wore fastened to her ankle was still in place, and like a experienced taxidermist, Leeza pulled out a large monkey and stabbed it in the stomach. She pulled out porolon, which meant it was a well-stuffed toy; she decided to think how she could adapt the stuffing, too. And only then was it the little one’s turn. He was a boy, and he smiled merrily when she took off his wet diapers. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt at all. Leeza looked at his body carefully and didn’t find a scratch or a bruise on him. He laughed, kicked his legs around, and tried with all his might to grab her nose when she bent too low over him. Leeza wasn’t mistaken. He was ten months old. And he stood up firmly, but he apparently wasn’t walking by himself yet.

As she must, Leeza wiped him off with the hem of her own shirt, which seemed to have come apart for exactly this purpose. The water from the puddle she moistened the rag in was very cold. And before she used the rag, she warmed it on her stomach for a little while. She was still quite chilled, but she must not scare the little one or let him catch cold.

After accomplishing this procedure, she wrapped him up in a diaper made of soft towel, adding a piece of porolon from the eviscerated monkey. Now the boy was dry and warm. In addition, Leeza tucked him into an improvised playsuit made from the hide of the little monkey. She got it on him just in time, and the child immediately shut his eyes and sniffled. She kissed the little one on the forehead, tucked him into the smallest of the jackets and carefully laid him on the moss. And only after all this did she study herself.

She took off her rags and climbed into the new sports suit, and put on the old suit’s sports jacket. It apparently had belonged to a man, because she found an open packet of cigarettes in the pocket. The suits were a little big for her, but she was instantly warmer, and when she put on a man’s leather jacket over it and a wool hat on her head, she thought that now her own brother wouldn’t recognize her.

Leeza bent over the boy. The little one slept and looked very funny in the fuzzy fur coat of a little toy animal. Leeza squatted next to him. Now it was time to ponder it all and figure out what else to do. She closed her eyes….

…a narrow stony road. Up ahead an APC dives and bumps from hole to hole, behind them is another APC, and in between is a tarp-covered truck. Oleg is at the wheel, and she’s next to him. Terrible pain keeps stabbing into her stomach. “Breathe, breathe through your mouth,” Oleg pleads. He doesn’t look in her direction because he can’t take his eyes off the road, the machine is throwing him side to side so much. With every push she grits her teeth so as not to yell out from the current assault of pain. His words start to sound to her like “Suffer, suffer, homegirl….” And that’s all! A fiery flash pierces the sky, a terrible crash, and she flies, flies into the precipice….

Leeza shuddered and opened her eyes. What was that? What happened? Why didn’t she remember anything but this trip on a truck? But clearly, she did have her baby. And this was the child. He certainly looked like Oleg. Yes, and who else could it be, when her breasts were bursting with milk. But then, why didn’t she remember the past nine or ten months, or what they’d named the boy? But then, how could she have any doubt? He had to be Dima, Dimok — that was the name of Oleg’s friend who’d been killed back in the first Chechen war….

Leeza rubbed her forehead. And her fingers hit a narrow scar. Where did she get that from? She hadn’t had it before. Her heart stopped with alarm. Something had happened to her, and she didn’t know the explanation. And this catastrophe… she didn’t have a clue what airplane she’d flown on, or where.

She pulled what was left of her clothes toward herself. No documents, either for her or her child. No tickets. No medical information. Nothing which you could use to get back memory of the events which had led her to this absolutely wild world, where there was only forest, yes, and cliff, and beyond that the white and blue autumn sky.

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Help from Everywhere

First off — if you were in a Katrina-damaged area, are employed by BellSouth or the Berry Company and haven’t checked in, or if you’re close family to someone employed by them and haven’t checked in — please call 1-877-BLS-I-M-OK. Folks are worried about you. Even if the building you work in has been destroyed, your job is still there. Even if you have to come up and visit us in Ohio. (We don’t bite.)

Second off, if you’re really jonesing to go volunteer, the Red Cross has apparently loosened its training requirements:

The Red Cross has been overwhelmed by people wanting to volunteer to go to the Gulf Coast states to assist in hurricane relief.

Volunteers, who must be at least 21, should expect no electricity, high humidity, temperatures of 100 or more, limited communications and exposure to reptiles while staying in “shelter accommodations, at best.”

They must attend one four-hour training and then leave within 24 hours for an assignment of at least three weeks’ duration.

You’re in the army now, so eat your puppy chow….

20 other countries have been offering the US aid.

Russia offered us search and rescue help — two big transport planes full.

Germany is either being rather snitty about the whole thing, or displaying touching faith in our abilities:

Many believe, however, that the scope of the disaster is such that the US government, which has one of the most sophisticated crisis management systems in the world at its disposal, should be able to respond to it adequately.

Fortunately for sanity’s sake, many other Germans think this is pretty rude.

The Latin-American Cruz Roja (Red Cross) site has links to help with Katrina. Interestingly, this is not true of many of the national Red Cross organizations’ sites. (This may not be apathy so much as infrequent updating of the website; or they may feel that the international and continental website is a better place to put the links.) However, the Costa Rican Red Cross is linking by popular demand, and the Spanish Red Cross links to our Red Cross, too.

The Tahlequah Daily Press from Tahlequah, Oklahoma, reports that the Cherokee Firedancers, a unit of forest fire firefighters which operate under the auspices of the US Forest Service, headed for New Orleans Monday. They also published a little recruiting plug:

Want to travel to exotic locations, breathe lots of smoke, and carry heavy equipment around all day? Maybe you should be a Cherokee Nation Firedancer!

Good stuff.

There’s going to be a Katrina telethon Friday night on NBC. And MSNBC. And CNBC, too.

I don’t know where to put this, but in other news, this 1984 Ohio State Disaster Center study claims that looting is sparse in disasters, and homeowners are imagining their losses.



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Katrina Charity Blogburst

On to the main event. Instapundit proposed a charity blogburst today, so I’ll do it too. I’ve been supporting Catholic Charities.

In times of disaster, the U.S. Catholic community is there to help…recovery work is provided by local Catholic Charities agencies in the impacted communities.

Here’s a page on previous 2004 hurricane relief:

Immediately following a hurricane, local Catholic Charities agencies� emergency assistance ranged from distributing food, water, personal care items, and lodging vouchers to providing medical assistance and mental health counseling to helping the community’s clean up efforts and assisting people in completing FEMA applications.

Today, the agencies� long-term recovery efforts are focusing on providing temporary and permanent housing, mental health counseling, budget and financial counseling, job placement and counseling, outreach to migrant farm workers, and other assistance.

“This is going to be a long, sustained recovery process…”We need to get people back into their homes, back to work, and feeling secure and safe again.”

In other news, Amazon finally decided this disaster is big enough to warrant a Red Cross link. I’m glad. Faster would have been nicer, but I’m glad.

You can find links to many other worthwhile charities at Instapundit.

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