Drama in the Beginning

I just finished reading the book of Genesis, and noticed some things that are kind of interesting-or depressing, however you want to look at it.

1. First of all, several of the women in there really get the short straw out of life.
Zilphah and Bilhah, the handmaids of Leah and Rachel-they get caught up in the sisters' petty squabble for Jacob's affection, having to bear his children while Leah and Rachel claim them as their own.
I doubt anyone asked them if they wanted to.
And poor Hagar-she goes to bed with Abraham because Sarah can't have children, and gives birth to Ishmael.  Then, when Sarah is able to conceive, and has Isaac, Hagar and Ishmael get kicked out into the wilderness, and even though they survive and Ishmael gets his own line of people, from then on God refers to Isaac as Abraham's only son-it's like even He forgot about Ishmael.
Again, I doubt anyone cared what Hagar wanted.
And this serves as a perfect transition to my second observation.

2. Genesis, or at least the family of Abraham, has a family tradition of the firstborn children getting passed over in favor of the younger ones.
First Ishmael gets replaced by Isaac, and in fact is basically disowned.
Then when Isaac is grown up and marries Rebekah, they have twins Esau and Jacob.  Esau, the older is the favorite of his father, but Jacob is Rebekah's favorite, and he steals Esau's birthright and father's blessing.
Rachel is the younger sister, and Jacob loves her more than he does Leah.
Joseph and Benjamin, Jacob's youngest sons, are the ones he seems to love more than the others-possibly because they're the sons of Rachel, his favorite wife.
After the selling-Joseph-into-slavery fiasco, when Jacob is dying he has Joseph bring his two sons Manasseh and Ephraim to his bedside-guess which one he gives a special favor to?  That's right: Ephraim, the younger one.
Even many generations later, Moses, the younger brother of Aaron and Miriam, is the one chosen by God to save the Israelites from slavery.

I'm not trying to be blasphemous or disparage the scriptures.  I'm just providing some interesting food for thought.

Attack of the Octo-Purse

Many of you most likely don't know this, but I love to crochet.  It's one of my favorite hobbies, to the point where I have developed calluses on my fingers.  I am also left-handed, meaning that when my mother, who is right-handed, tried to teach me how to crochet, I was forced to develop my own technique for holding the hook, moving the yarn into position, etc.  As a result, some of my projects don't turn out quite the way I expected...

Take, for instance, this last Christmas.  My sister, whom I was going to visit during the holidays, had told me and my siblings that she would like more warm clothes for her daughters, because apparently they didn't have enough for where they had recently moved.  So, I decided to put my skills to use, and throw together some hats.

I did an owl hat, a dragon hat, and a baby elf hat, all of which turned out fine.  But the gift for the oldest girl, Alice, presented more of a problem.
It was apparently what is known as a Hockey Fan Crochet Hat, the pattern for which can be found at redheart.com.  I thought it looked quite cute, with the little socks at the top, and hopefully nice and warm.  So I gathered my yarn and hook, and began trying to put together the striped version.

I don't know what happened; as I was trying to attach the socks to the bottom, in such a way that they could be tied in a knot at the top like in the photo, I realized that the opening had become far too small for the head of a baby, much less Alice's.  More than anything, it now resembled an ovular blob with two long stripes hanging from it and a hole in the bottom.  Dejected, I gave up hope of trying to make it into a hat, and wondered what to do now.
Should I discard it, and start making a new hat?
But I'd spent so much time on it, and tried so hard...
Maybe I should figure out something new to make of it.

Looking at the monstrosity I had created, I had a sudden inspiration.  I had made stuffed animals before; and looking at this now, I realized that I could make it into some kind of animal.  Why not...an octopus?  The shape was just about right.
Then my roommate, who I shared the idea with, went one step further and said that it could be a purse.  Putting the two ideas together, I had an epiphany: why not both?

I attached a button to one 'tentacle,' and a loop onto the other; this way, when it was held upside down they could be connected and make the purse's strap.  Then, just to be fanciful, I added two miniature tentacles to the back of the octopus (technically this makes it only a quadropus, but my fingers were tired).  Finally, I created two eyes, attaching them onto the front of the creature.

I now had a creation that was basically an octopus when held one way, but when turned the other way, became a useful and adorable handbag (the extra tentacles, being hollow, could serve as handy pencil holders).  And when I showed my creation to some other people in the ward, one of them coined the phrase 'octo-purse' (making me feel silly for not thinking of it myself).

Sadly, I do not have any pictures of Alice with it; however, after she received it, she kept walking everywhere with it over her shoulder, carrying useful items such as books and pencils and American Girl doll earrings inside.  Looks like my creative mistake paid off after all.

Exhibit A: the Octo-Purse in cephalopod form

Exhibit B: the Octo-Purse in handbag form

Exhibit C: The joining mechanism

Exhibit D: The purse, held aloft

Season of the Witch ending

“You know-” Calla gasped as we ran faster- “I think I had-a dream about this once.”
“Really?” I puffed back.
“Yeah.  When I was-maybe five.  I don’t remember everything-just being chased by the house.”
“Did it have chicken legs?”
“Yeah.”  Her eyes widened.  “Maybe-an early vision?”
I shrugged, wincing at my already-aggravated broken wing.
“Wouldn’t-be surprised.”
I awkwardly pulled the towel out of my shirt,* and threw it over my shoulder.
“What’s that for?” Calla yelled.
“Is it doing anything?” I yelled back.
There was a gasp.  “Yes!”
Just in case, I looked over my shoulder.  And yes, just as I’d hoped, it had become a vast, glassy lake, right there in the forest.


Why Baba Yaga kept items in her hut that could be used against her, especially in easy reach of others, was anybody’s guess.  And you’d think she’d have learned from previous times dealing with people who used the same trick.  But maybe it was for the same reason that she wanted to steal the sword.  Arrogance.  Or following the proverb of “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
It slowed her down as we kept running; Baba Yaga couldn’t swim, and as I suspected, she didn’t have the patience to go around.  So I saw her forcing the hut to wade into the lake.  The hut didn’t like it; it squirmed, and shook, and finally jumped out of the water and refused to go back in, water dripping from the floorboards.


“You okay?” Calla suddenly asked.  Since the witch was briefly inconvenienced, we were going a bit slower-though not slow enough to be overconfident.
“...You’re asking this now?”
“You look pale.  And I’m not having to struggle to keep pace with you.  Tristan, I think your wound’s worse than you’re acting.”
“I’m fine, kid.  I’ve got my adrenaline-”
Which is when I started to see colored spots before my eyes.  Because whoever is control of these things loves their moments of irony.


Calla muttered something that was almost a curse, but not quite, and then grabbed my arm, draping it over her shoulders.
“That’s gonna slow you down,” I protested.
“I’m not leaving you.  Xen would never forgive me.”
“Better get this out, then.”  I fumbled around until I got the comb.  “Lake’s probably not gonna hold her for long-”
Sure enough, we heard the sound of the mortar riding the wind across the lake.  I didn’t bother to look this time, focusing on running.
Calla said indignantly, “It flies far better for her than it did for me!”
“Well-” I gasped- “it is her mortar.”


Time for the comb.
I tossed it, just long enough to see it starting to grow into a giant impenetrable forest,** and kept going without looking back.

***

Much to my relief, Baba Yaga did not continue chasing us.  At least, not that I could sense, even though my abilities were a little off par at the moment, so she could have flown past us dressed as a belly dancer playing an accordion, and I might not have noticed.


Eventually we made it into a town with a teleportation mirror, and took the first opportunity to get home.  We materialized in the kitchen...where I’m ashamed to admit that I promptly passed out.
Hey, it had been a long week for me, okay?  And I’d just gone through a lot of physical exertion while suffering from severe blood loss; don’t judge me.


My last conscious thought was, Well, I can add this to my list of Times Tristan felt Useless.
It seemed like all I’d done the entire time was be captured/at the mercy of more powerful beings, and rely on others to do things for me.  I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t grateful to Xen, Morgan and Calla for finding out what I wanted to know, or the vodyanoy-duck for leading me to where the soul was kept...I just felt like I spent more time being acted upon than doing any acting of my own.  Definitely not my finest hour.


I regained consciousness to find myself in bed.  My limbs felt heavy, making me realize after a moment that Xen must have bitten me to keep me paralyzed for some reason.
How long have I been here?
My eyes slowly flicked open, and caught sight of Xen sitting by the side of the bed, glaring at me in a way that made me nervous.
Seeing I was awake, before I could even try to speak, she leaned down and kissed me.  Which felt wonderful, after everything I’d been through.
When she finally stopped, I gasped, “For a moment I thought you were going to hit me.”
“I did consider it.  But decided I’d rather do this.”
“Is there a reason why I’m paralyzed?”
“So you stay in bed until your blood cells have sufficiently multiplied.”
“Geez, doc, you’re taking your practice very seriously.”
She glared at me again.  “You have a bad habit of underestimating the extent of your injuries.  While that can be an admirable quality, it also makes me occasionally want to strangle you.”


“...How’s our son?” I asked.
Xen finally smiled.  “Waiting for his daddy to get better.  He keeps wanting to come in and play with you.  I had to be firm and tell him to let you sleep.”
My throat constricted.  “Well...can I at least see him before bedtime?”
“Of course.  Until then, go back to sleep.”
“Yes, boss,” I sighed.

***

So far there have been no nasty repercussions from Baba Yaga or Koschei the Deathless.  But we’ve been on alert, just in case.  And trying our best to recuperate.  Xen’s had me on a lot of bed rest while my blood cells regenerate and my broken wing finishes healing.  Phil plays with me as often as he can, and hopefully soon I’ll be strong enough to carry him on my shoulders again.  Calla’s been very quiet and thoughtful about whatever the witch told her.  I haven’t pushed about it, figuring she’ll tell me if she wants to, but I am undeniably curious.
For now, though, I’m trying to enjoy life with my family until some new catastrophe hits us.

* Snapping off a button in the process; dang it.
**Which, if the story was correct, she wouldn’t be able to go through, and every time she tried to fly over it it would just grow higher.  And trying to chop down the trees with her iron teeth would just result in splinters in her mouth.  Hopefully she wouldn’t try her magic instead; I wasn’t sure if it was resistant against that.

Season of the Witch part 22

To my relief, we appeared right at Baba Yaga’s front gate.  Also to my relief, my stomach had not revolted much during the last two trips.  Maybe it was just too tired for its normal nausea; I didn’t dare to believe that it was developing a tolerance for teleporting.
Wearily hefting the sword, I set down the vodyanoy, and cracked open the gate.  Then, from above and behind me, a voice called, “Tristan?”
It doesn’t sound like she’s gotten older...but you can’t be too careful about these things.  It doesn’t prove anything anyway, since she ages so slowly.  She could be any age, she could-
A mortar flew over our heads, landing in the yard.  And out climbed Calla, looking fresh as a daisy-if a bit dark around the eyes, which were moistening as I looked.  She stumbled forward, and wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her head in my chest.  With my free claw I rubbed her head.
“How...long?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“Two days left,” she murmured.  “You’re ahead of schedule; usually the hero shows up at the very last moment.”
“Well, you know me.  I’m no hero.  I don’t believe in following conventions.”
Calla snorted.


Baba Yaga looked extremely disappointed when Calla and I showed up with the sword.*  However, a bargain was a bargain, so she sighed and took Kladenets from me.
“Very good, Chernobyl,” she said begrudgingly.
“Thanks.  We’ll be going now,” I said, also returning the pack of supplies.  She barely noticed, instead smugly running her long hands over the blade.  I had a feeling she was trying to find out what it did.  And something told me when that happened, she would be most displeased.  So it was probably best to get going now.
On one of the shelves by the fireplace, I noticed a blue towel and fancy wooden comb laying side by side.  Remembering an aspect of one of the tales of Baba Yaga, I inched my way over and picked them up, tucking them into my shirt.  Since I’d foolishly forgotten to ask Koschei to heal my broken wing, and Calla’s healing skills were erratic at best, we were probably going to have to run soon.


The witch turned to stare at Calla.
“Remember what I told you, myshka.  I mean it.”
“Yes ma’am,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
I was curious, but now wasn’t really the time to ask.  I caught Calla’s arm, and quickly pulled her out of the house as the witch went back to the sword.
“What’s the rush?” she asked, tapping the door frame; as she did, the house lowered itself, and we jumped out onto the lawn-much better than my previous experience with the place.
“She’s probably about to find out that the sword does nothing but make good borscht,” I explained.  “We need to get away before that happens.”
Her little jaw dropped, and she covered her mouth after a second with a slightly hysterical giggle.  “Really?”
“Yeah.  It’s not our fault, but she might try to take it out on us regardless.  Go faster.”


We had barely made it into the woods when I heard a horrible, ungodly screech, followed by the thuds of giant clawed feet thumping across the ground.
Shoot.  The whole house is coming after us.
Calla gasped.
I risked a glance; if you’ve never seen a house on giant chicken legs chasing after you, it’s hard to imagine.**  A little wobbly at first, probably from not having to move so much in such a long time, it thudded after us, giant claws scraping the ground and leaving ditches in their wake.  Baba Yaga stood in the doorway, hair blowing back, eyes of fire burning even from this far away.  And I could see that her pale face was twisted in a fury that gave me an adrenaline rush.

*The vodyanoy had been returned to the lake, and his true form-though he still disliked the rusalki, he figured it was safer than being somewhere closer to Koschei’s influence.  Calla promised to keep in touch somehow, and has even been considering introducing him to the world of the Internet, if she can create a spell to make a computer waterproof.
I asked her later why on earth she made him a duck, of all things.  She explained that she’d been trying to make a firebird, for dramatic effect, but his watery nature kept struggling against it, and finally it seemed easier to just make him something actually connected with water.  Besides, they were on a tight schedule.
** Unless you have a very creative imagination, or have seen it happen in a movie with very convincing CGI or something.