Olivia Hutanonoyong

They clothed Olivia in gilded gown; they crowned her with a sparkling tiara; rouge they puffed upon her cheeks, and mascara they drew on her eyes. They led her to the palace hall, where she will tell of the plight of her people. Olivia, our champion was what they called her. She shall bring a tear to an eye of many a governor; she will move their hearts with stories of suffering.

The governors brimmed with compassion at her hearing. They smiled when she beamed, and teared when she wept. They were enthralled by the beauty of Olivia Hutanonoyong. One by one they stood up, and offered her refuge in their own homes. Olivia, you can be my bride, said one. You can be my concubine, said another; my child's caretaker, my prized minister... The princes were overtaken by Christian charity. They vowed to be of help in any way they can. Only in this way shall we Rumelians show our unity; that we may show our strength and our moral uprightness in a world full of evil people.

Olivia basked in the attention. She had come with the burdens of her people on her shoulders, but the heat of the moment made her feel light. She felt the radiance of her own beauty and the exuberance of personality that came with it, and she became in the grip of a strange energy in this dazzling and unfamiliar ambiance. Facing the magnanimous gaze of the prince-satraps, she replied:

You hypocrites! You were the cause of all our sufferings. Do you pretend to exercise Christian love now that you see beauty before you? I am a Permyak. My forerunners were marched across the Hindu Kush; my ancestors dug themselves into the frozen ground in Karaganda; in Nineveh they saw their families massacred; in Kitay they were slandered and abused. Even today, we are assaulted from both sides in this civil war that was your making. 

What do you newcomers know of this martyrdom? Our faith is older than the hills, yet you have always sequestered us beyond the Pale in your minds. You worship a false god who lavishes you with earthly riches, and you blame the poor for their own afflictions. Me you will keep for your own pleasure, but my brothers and sisters you will continue to torment and ignore. Be off with the lot of you! You can marry the ass I rode in on.

Upon her words, the generous and beckoning smiles turned sour. The princes and the governors hissed and scowled at Olivia's ungratefulness. They were offended by her negativity. They renewed their suspicions that the Permyak rabble could never see the good side of things, that they may always squander their chances of striking a favorable deal. They had not anticipated that anyone would reject them so cruelly. They bared their teeth and beat their chests to nurse their wounded pride. They would not allow Great Rumelia to appear as if she were losing in such a public occasion. Then they came to a decision on Olivia Hutanonoyong.

Strip her of her gown and her adornments, and put her back in the rags she came in. She shall be passed between all of our households, not as family or guest, but as a slave, to whom we can do whatever we please. She shall have to perform the most revolting forms of labor, scorned even by the other slaves, as this only befits her kind. 

And this was how Olivia came to be in the residence of Jaromil Toyogarov, the harshest of the princes. Here was where she met Irannika, Jaromil's betrothed, and convinced her to flee.

Notes
1. Olivia's role in this story is based loosely on Yazidi human rights activist, Nadia Murad, and other darlings of public opinion who have likewise been put into a spotlight.

[Getty Images]

2. Olivia lists a selection of twenty-first century people groups (in order: South Asians, Volga Germans in Central Asia, Chaldeans in northern Iraq, and Mainland Chinese) as "forebears" to the Permyaks in her speech. This is plausible, because the "Permyaks" are by (my) design a highly heterogeneous group in terms of ethnic origins. My own notes pin Olivia's ancestry to the Diaspora Chinese (which puts her closer to the Rumelians than she would like to admit), with some elaboration on the etymology of her surname.

The Aspag

[Collection of the University of Aberdeen]

I am telling this story as someone who ended up where I am very much by accident, and who has been known as the Bishop among the people by a disastrous misunderstanding. If I die in this shitty country, maybe someone will find this letter on my body and be able to know my life story in my own terms for once. My name is Makarios Niwa. I am from Bestyakh, up the river Lena from Yakutsk, one of the oldest cities in the world still standing. I started this present journey from Archangel, where I went to seminary. From here in Taimiria I planned to use the summer months to make my way to Tiksi, and after wintering there sail south to home on a hired barge.
If it is not obvious to you, the reader, given the state of today's world, the plan has gone to fuckall. The Sultan of Taimiria and his entire family have perished in a flood that struck out of nowhere, some time ago. The Christian prince-satraps of the south of Taimiria have risen up in revolt, taking inspiration from the Reconquista of Spain. These petty kingdoms take up the lucrative Kheta River and Laptev Sea Channel, all the way from Norilsk to Hatanga. They are hemmed in from the south by the Putorana Plateau and to the east by the river called Anabar, beyond which lie lands belonging to the Lenese and the Sakha. Every one of these newly-independent kingdoms have developed an indelible distrust of foreigners like myself, and have closed as much of their borders as they could. The people here tell me that if I try to travel overland to Tiksi, then the Prince of Totte Muran, whose lands I must pass through, is sure to have me arrested and thrown into prison. This would be for no reason other than a belief that a foreigner is considered a Muslim spy by default.

And the Haji, who has become my guide here and is more or less in charge of my life and death, told me: you should have gone by ship! The pirates who used to maraud the Arctic coast have abandoned their thieving ways and now offer their services to transport passengers and cargo between the Archangel and the mouth of the Lena, with the advantage of avoiding the Taimir Peninsula altogether. They may be barbaric, but they are also astute enough to recognize a good business opportunity when they see one.

Allah forgive me, I did not realize this; all this is quite new to me.
In any case, I am already deep in the tumultuous heart of Taimiria, and am unable to go any distance without possibly meeting an untimely end, be it from a Muslim mob, a Christian mob, or just any random bandit coming my way.

The northern border, where we are at, has never been defined and is now hotly contested between the prince-satraps and Hakim Sultan, a pretender to the throne. The worst of the civil war has happened here and Amatodate Abbey is filled to the brim of its ramparts daily for people seeking sanctuary, waiting a few days, and returning when things seem a little quieter. I had in mind the options of going back to Archangel over one of the summers or waiting for the war to end so that I could continue on my walk to Tiksi. I do not think about either option anymore, because, apparently, I am now the Bishop.

The Taimirians have made me their Bishop; they would not let me leave!
If you are reading this and do not know me, please know that I am not a holy man of the Christian religion. I had been in doubt of my faith since finding the wisdom of the ancients in the Library of Archangel, more wondrous and all-encompassing than the inscrutable fiction that the religion offered. I was even ordained, but did ask the Metropolitan to have it nullified. No, I do not have the papers to prove it, but it does not matter. I cannot conceivably be anyone's priest or anyone's bishop.

They call me Aspag or Aspagpasho, a corruption of the older Greek word used in this country. The second one is more of an honorific, I think.
Yes, they have been calling me the Aspag since I pulled an arrow from an old tree stump on my way here, two years ago. This was one of those villages populated by Sarmyaks, people who still spoke the ancient Korean tongue. When I first approached the Sarmyaks, we could only communicate with gestures and signs. The leading Old-Man had gestured for me to pull out the arrow, and when I did, the entire village burst alive with murmuring and shouts of surprise and incredulity.

The Haji turned out to know every language, even the ancient ones that everyone else has forgotten, and he interpreted for the conversation that followed.
So the story he relayed to me was this: Whoever pulls the arrow out of the tree in Okhum (this here village), that the late Aspag Behnam fired into the tree himself, is to be the new exarch of Taimira.
I asked them why Behnam Aspag could not find and then ordain a successor on his own.
They replied that Behnam Aspag found himself increasingly under the Sultan's thumb as he grew old. The Sultan had long sought control over his position, and so ensure influence over his Christian subjects. He fancied the Aspag's son, Sikander, as the successor, because he was most easily controlled.
"So is Sikander Yasin the Aspag now?" I asked
Yes, Sikander Yasin was the bishop as far as the aristocracy was concerned, but from the time of the flooding of the capital, he has been living in Toyogarovsk, where the Christian prince-satraps have entrapped him and now elevate him as their spiritual figurehead.

With voices radiating pride and defiance, the villagers concluded: we do not trust these kings any more than we trust the Sultan, who was not that bad to us after all, nor will we take the cowardly Sikander Yasin by his word; because Behnam-ata has shot his arrow into the tree at Okhum; he will ordain his successor with this here arrow, when he yanks it — and the Sarmyaks of Okhum lifted me off my feet, paraded me around town, shouting Aspagpasho! Aspagpasho!, and slaughtered their livestock to prepare a full week of festivities for my "ordination". I tried all kinds of reasons to back up my protests, up to the fact that the proper form of ordination was not followed — but the people here only heeded their own lore: For in this country the Lore reigns supreme, and no one would listen to any Reason.

Notes
This passage is a re-writing of The Skeptic King, with major changes and embellishments to the context and the characters.

The Aspag and the Haji, as a traveling pair, first appears in The Demon of Krasnoyarsk. The same text also references the flood that destroyed Ustana Shehir, the Sultan's capital city.

The desperation and frustration experienced by Makarios Aspag in his travels unfortunately takes much inspiration from my personal experiences.

Galimjan

Galimjan spent many days and nights traversing the forest, only wanting to be as far away from Parmiakert as he could. He had been dragged against his will by his brother to murder as many of the Permyaks as he could, to prove his manhood and earn his esteem among the boys of Shurikoi. Presently, his brother is dead and the mob had been dispersed, but Galimjan ran and ran. He was not afraid of what had caused the gruesome demise of Batu, but that his father's violent temper would be turned upon himself: You tell me that brave Batukhan died gloriously, waging war; and you, coward, why do you come back alive? And Father, he will reach for the knife, the knife!

The boy understood that it struck him with terror all the more since it was his father, even though realistically it would not have mattered who held the knife to him, coward that he was. He became all the more haunted by what had happened at Parmiakert despite running further and further away from the village, as if it had ripped itself off its foundations and is now in hot pursuit of him. I'm a coward! he wept at this and other cowardly thoughts, and finally he lolled among the leaves on the forest floor, drifting into fretful sleep.

The dream that ensued, as would happen for some days with little variation, is set in the same forest where collapsed Galimjan in his long flight. This was one of the dreams that sometimes afflict a weary hunter who has gone some days without sleep, and start to have trouble telling if they were awake or had dozed off. A clearing in the aspen grove, as if it had always been there; likewise a lake, a cave, inserted most nonchalantly into the fabric of reality. A gentle prompt, said by no one but perceived crystal-clear in the mind of Galimjan: Tuamma, she's your Tuamma, that is how you call her. Not a name, but as a title of kinship. This was a relative, a mother, like one he had never had.

Your Tuamma was the one who defended the poor Greek family against your brother Batukhan, and took his life.

Upon this introduction, Tuamma lifted her head and acknowledged Galimjan, smiling disarmingly. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old, but her look was sober and she had distant, immovable disposition of someone far more advanced in age. She dressed simply, with a white dress and blue sash, and a baby lay swaddled in her arms. She gave him a little jerk and he squealed joyously.

"My son," she piped light-heartedly, as if also to say: this is all quite self-explanatory.
"Look at him!"

Galimjan leaned forward to look. The baby had a healthy flush which gave it the appearance of radiating light. He perused Galimjan's face with interest, whereupon the latter felt acutely that all his thoughts, experiences, and insecurities lay open to the baby's scrutiny. His face blanched as he realized that this mother and son had prevailed over Batu, so gallant and virile, and then pounded him into the dust.

Batukhan of Shurikoi, when he had defeated and killed Mihalis Kazoglou, would have liked to ravished Kazoglou's wife before putting his house to fire, but Elena had bred a nest of vermin, and the sight of Permyak children turned his lust into rage. But Kazoglou had another woman in the house; a maidservant, surely, who threw herself at him and prevented him from going near Elena, her daughter and her son. Batu shoved and shoved, but the maidservant was strong enough to hold her ground. And with his dagger he stabbed her. One, two, both in the face.

"Into Gehenna be your souls and all your kind!" he screeched. As he drew back to stab the girl a third time in the gut, Galimjan, from behind, noticed a strange, nauseating movement in his brother; it was as if all the bones in Batu's body were being broken simultaneously. Finally his spine bent and folded backwards, so that his head was almost at his bottom, and he crumpled into a twisted, shapeless heap between the girl and Galimjan, without even the time to utter a cry of pain.

Galimjan had trouble reconciling this horrific carnage with the serenity of the mother and her child before him. He stole a glance at Tuamma's face one more time — ya Allah, the two knife-scars are still there. Tuamma is going on as if nothing untoward had happened to her earlier. As he fretted, his finger strayed close to the baby's hand, and the little one reached out and held it.

"Look at him!" said Tuamma again.

Galimjan watched in fright as the baby's countenance began to change. In fact, everything began to change. The cave and the clearing were gone, what was in its place was a wide field, in its center an altar of gold. The boy-child now became a lamb, gazing with an authority at two million people falling to their knees in adoration before him. The lamb was alive, yet has been slain, as its throat had been slit. Blood flowed from the wound and into a golden cup on the altar.

And four living creatures sprang from the four corners of the world, where the first saints had been sent to spread the Gospel: a lion, an eagle, and a man, each of them adorned with three pairs of wings, their bodies covered with eyes. They towered over the rest and came forward to the altar, each footprint glowing with the glowing letters of scripture, whereupon they prostrated before the lamb as if regarding themselves the same level as dirt.

The first, the man, announced his arrival from Qaraqosh of the East, and there he proclaimed:
ܩܕܝܫ ܩܕܝܫ ܩܕܝܫ ܡܪܝܐ ܐܠܗܐ ܐܚܝܕ ܟܠ ܗܘ ܕܐܝܬܘܗܝ ܗܘܐ ܘܐܝܬܘܗܝ ܘܐܬܐ 

The second, the lion, announced his arrival from Iskandariyya of the South, and he proclaimed:
ϤⲞⲨⲀⲀⲂ ϤⲞⲨⲀⲀⲂ ϤⲞⲨⲀⲀⲂ ⲠϪⲞⲈⲒⲤ ⲠⲚⲞⲨⲦⲈ ⲠⲠⲀⲚⲦⲰⲔⲢⲀⲦⲰⲢ ⲠⲈⲦϢⲞⲞⲠ ⲀⲨⲰ ⲠⲈⲦⲈⲚⲈϤϢⲞⲞⲠ ⲠⲈⲦⲚⲎⲨ

The third, the calf, announced his arrival from Antiocheia of the West, and he proclaimed:
Αγιος ἅγιος ἅγιος κύριος ὁ θεὸς ὁ παντοκράτωρ, ὁ ἦν καὶ ὁ ὢν καὶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος

The last, the eagle, announced his arrival from Ararat of the North, and likewise he proclaimed:
Սո՜ւրբ, Սո՜ւրբ, Սո՜ւրբ է Տէրը, Ամենակալ Աստուածը, որ էր, որ է եւ որ պիտի գայ

And the crowd heard this and responded likewise, affirming them. Galimjan, though he could not make out the words, saw them emanating from each person on the crowd, as like words on a scroll, each in their own language and being propelled upwards, until at a certain height they converged with those from the strange creatures from the ends of the earth, and became as if a single prayer from a single body. Galimjan had the impulse to join them, but as he tried to utter the words — he could not remember them — and then, when he could eventually recall, he tried to say them and found out that he forgot them again. Time and again he doubted that his own language even had the capability to describe what he had just seen. Then, weeping bitterly, he jerked his finger away from the babe's grip, then let his body fall and be racked with pathetic sobs until the morning, when the Haji found him half-conscious on the forest floor.

Own work (2017)

Notes:
1. Written on/for the feast of Christ the King, although I'd have sworn this theme is just a coincidence.
2. The events in this passage immediately follows those in Parmiakert and immediately precedes events in Haji Thexeira.
3. As in the prequel, the scene of Batukhan's slaying takes inspiration from a Polish legend on Our Lady of Częstochowa.
4. The title Tuamma stems from Catholic folk tradition in Flores, Indonesia related to the apparition of Mary to a young boy in Larantuka.
5. The scene of the Lamb (in particular, the number of attendants) takes after the events of Vigil Night in World Youth Day 2016, Kraków
6. The words spoken by the winged creatures are Aramaic, Coptic (Sahidic), Greek, and Armenian renditions, respectively, of Revelation 4:8 ("Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, who was, and who is, and who is to come.")
7. The lamb, who "was alive, yet has been slain": ex. Revelation 5:6

Halep and Niwa

In the turmoil of late October the family of Shultankonyi Osman moved into Amatodate Abbey. As usual, the Abbé exercised his autocratic prerogative to silence anyone who might object to a group of Muslims moving in, on the principles of sanctuary— As soon as old Kachituvan-neni had raised her complaint, saying that Muslims were predisposed to kill any Christian on sight, Musa Abbé had retorted that the mere fact that Osman, with his wife, children, and guest, deigned to show up at all already contradicted her claim. It was however quite impossible to find any more space in the main residential compound. Eventually, a tool-shed had to be evacuated to make space for them. It was hardly glamorous, but it was better than falling to the Satraps— and, besides, they might not get along with the rest of the refugees, who had suffered grievously under the Qarataimir militias.

The guest who came with the Shultankonyi was a learned man: a Hafiz, or someone who had had the entirety of the Quran memorized. He was also a curious-looking foreigner and would have stood out in any crowd, Christian-Taimir or Muslim-Taimir. We learned later that Halep-hafiz was a Laurentine, transplanted from the other end of the Little Ocean. He had come to Taimiria on the auspices of his mentor at an academy in Iqaluit, since contact and dissemination of doctrine between the continents had been lost for a number of centuries.

"I have no hope of my mission succeeding anymore," confessed Halep-hafiz to Makarios Niwa, the Metropolitan's emissary. "The Qarataimir have proved to be uneducatable bumpkins; stubborn heretics; they never listened nor adopted any doctrine I have come to spread." The Qarataimir had asserted to him, among other things, that the Quran was dictated by Gabriel to the Prophet Muhammad in Ottoman Turkish rather than Arabic, something which grated on poor Halep's ears. "These people would sooner die for the Turkish race than they would for the one true God!" he lamented. He did however spare the Shultankonyi the worst of his denouncements, for he was indebted to them.

It is worth mentioning what had transpired between the Hafiz and the Metropolitan's emissary when they first met. Makarios Niwa was the one the people at Amatodate called "Aspag", the Metropolitan of Archangel himself, or someone equal to him. It had not mattered to the people that Makarios had been sent out of Archangel more or less as a running-boy for the head of Christendom, or that he had dropped out of seminary in his final year, and lost his faith to boot. Halep had not realized this, and tried to start a debate with Makarios, thinking him to be a man of faith. But the Aspag only laughed at him, saying, "how like you foreigners to be quibbling over fairy tales at this time, when human lives are so much at stake?" 

After about a week of unpleasantness, Makarios gradually began to offer his responses to the Hafiz's challenges to the best of his abilities, based on his training in the seminary. He discovered that the fellow lived for the debate, and in time they formed a close friendship despite disagreeing on almost everything.

A family in Aleppo. Photo by AFP/George Ourfalian [source]

References

1. The names "Halep" and "Niwa" allude to the modern cities of Aleppo, Syria and Mosul, Iraq.

2. The title "Aspag" is plagiarized from the Irish word meaning "bishop".

3. The name of the character "Kachituvan" is plagiarized from a street name in Penampang, Sabah.
4. The Metropolitan's emissary being treated as identical to the Metropolitan himself mirrors similar events in Halldór Laxness's 1989 novel Under the Glacier.

Nyland och Österbotten

The Haji recounted: There is a story from far west, beyond the Barentines, that the pagans of Finland worshipped not one God, as we do, whether Christian or Muslim, but a multitude: In the province of Nyland they worshipped the gentle goddess of the sun, who caressed the trees with the rays of her light, and brought succour and joy to the herding-boy of the field, but the Ostrobothnians worshipped the Thunder-God, who called doom upon the wicked; burned them up like a candlewick with a swift bolt arcing across the heavens. The people of Nyland and Ostrobothnia engaged each other in frequent feuds, especially between their high-priests and warlocks, ever jostling for supremacy, and to settle once and for all which god was to come out top — Justice, or Mercy?

And then commented Abbé Musa: I pity the pagans of yore for fashioning the masters of their world out of the human understanding, as the wisdom of men brought the civilizations of the old world only to perpetual war. As it was in Finland, so it was also in Persia, where battled the demons Hêlal and Angra Mainyu. A world of two evils, while goodness barely seeps between their front lines! But we know from revealed truths from the Father what we never would have otherwise: that Justice and Mercy are One, embodied in the same God; that the justice dealt a repentant sinner among us is the same time mercy!

And Olivia added: Remember that the Father we call to in Heaven is a Father, but even his love for his children is also like that of a mother, that he would smother us in warm embrace and say: more then a treasure, or the sun itself, you are worth the sacrifice at Cavalry; what would I give to place you in the furnace, strike you with blows of the hammer, so that it becomes a shining jewel?

The Abbé agreed: It is exactly with this understanding, that the children of Amatodate are at the same time the children of the Almighty, that we have endured all the abuse the world has heaped upon us down the centuries — right from the beginning, when we faced down the tyrants of P'yŏngyang.

Symbols carved into rock at Namforsen near Näsåker, Sweden, discovered only after a hydroelectric dam was built across the Ångermanälven in the 1940s

Picture taken August 2013.

References:
1. Psalm 85:10

2. St. Josemaría Escrivá, The Forge (1987), Author's Preface.

3. A song from Gjallarhorn's 1997 album (Solbön/Åskan), a medley of pre-Christian Finland-Swedish chants: a) Bön från Nyländska Folvisor, Uusimaa, and b) Åskbesvärjelse från Österbotten.

4. Rudolf Steiner, Incarnation of Lucifer and Ahriman (1919). The Abbé mistakenly refers to the ideas of Steiner as the tenets of the Zoroastrian religion.

The Siege of London, AD 994

Extract from Gerpla (1952), chapter 23.

As for King Æthelred himself, when he received news that the viking army was on its way to London, he began vomiting more terribly than anyone has ever been known to, and lay bedridden in an out-of-the-way dwelling. Æthelred's men were either killed or taken captive, apart from those who retreated inland and managed to hide themselves in forests or farms.

The Vikings held course for London, arriving in the evening and mooring their ships tightly together on the river below London Bridge; they prepared to storm the town walls at daybreak. There was no army in the town, and none to defend it but the townsfolk themselves. When the Londoners came to realize that an overwhelming force was marching on their town, every one of them made preparations to defend his home and his possessions, each with the weapon, implement, or tool that he had at hand — there being a general shortage of arms normally considered suitable for war, and fighting men to wield them. Most of those who had any skill in arms were at work in the fields of their masters or served in Æthelred's army, or had hired themselves out to other kinds or sailed away on trading voyages. The men left in town were mainly old or children or youths, besides numerous women and cripples. There were also large numbers of lepers and beggars, as well as noseless fornicators and handless thieves.

When the horns signaled the attack, and the Vikings, shouting and screaming, rushed onto the piers, rattled their weapons, and erected ladders against the city walls, they encountered these folk, each jabbing with his own lance. Some of the townsfolk fought with brooms, others with pokers, some with shovels or pitchforks, and many with clubs and sledgehammers. Graybeards and paupers, as well as maimed thieves, fought with their crutches, and children with their toys. The townsfolk showered rocks on the Vikings, while respectable dames and poor women joined in the attack, some pregnant, others carrying babies in swaddling clothes on their backs. Unspoiled maidens and foul whores stood side-by-side and poured boiling urine over the attacker, while others hurled simmering pitch or pumped water on them from the river. Flaming brands were cast at the fleet — fires broke out widely and leapt from ship to ship. It was not long before the fleet was one massive blaze, and great numbers of the Vikings' ships sank. The townsfolk also managed to wreck all the ramps and ladders that the Vikings had thought would gain them access to the city. Every Viking that did manage to make it over the wall was surrounded and thronged by the crowd and pummeled with all sorts of base bludgeons, or stabbed with carving knives and table knives, files and awls, pins and knitting needles and shears, or bitten to death by the inhabitants and ripped to living shreds and thrown to the dogs.

English books say that at this point, when King Æthelred hears this news, he is so terrified that the spew sticks fast in his throat, like an avalanche obstructed by a narrow gully — for the fear that a land's rulers have of foreign conquerors is slight compared to their fear of their own subjects. When Æthelred hears how the townspeople of London are relentlessly burning and sinking the Norsemen's ships, and boiling the Vikings in piss and carving them up with table knives, he feels utterly betrayed— to learn that now, in the space of one morning, the wisdom handed down by sage English kings of old, that the Norsemen are invincible, is to be proven false by a crazy rabble, weaponless and ignorant of warfare, after England's army has fled to the woods or hidden itself in manger stalls.

Æthelred rises from his bed, hale once more, and sends men in haste to Thorkell Strutharaldsson the Tall to deliver the message that he wishes to parley with him and sue for peace with the Vikings. The Vikings respond quickly by retreating from the town and rowing their ships down the river — those that were not burned or sunk. They summon King Æthelred to meet them at the mouth of the river. There they make a pact that is often cited in English books, with King Æthelred promising to pay the Vikings a tribute of four-hundred-and-eighty hundreds in silver. Æthelred, being penniless, offers to open every door in London to the Vikings, and to designate them protectors of the city, and he pledges to command that they be honored above all others by the people of the land and loved most fervently of all their leaders, and to place at their disposal, beyond all other authorities in England, all the city's property and revenue. Thorkell and most of his men, being landless from birth, had never imagined claiming lands or kingdoms for themselves, but only of pillaging for kind or cash. In return for King Æthelred's offer, they pledge their true willingness to defend him from those subjects of his who stubbornly pit themselves against illustrious warlords and eminent conquerors using table knives and ladles, brooms and crutches, or who pour piss on the heads of men of renown.

Guests from Overseas «Заморские гости»
Nicholas Roerich, 1901
oil on canvas, 85 by 112.5cm

Irannika Yasin

They asked of the Toyogarov Satrap: what was his downfall? Where did he go? Why did he take off into the Taiga one night, with torn clothes and incoherent screeches?

The forest sang, in reply, the song of the hill country: the Mesogriadines, where a new Amatodate over the ashes of the old was rising, as through the centuries —

Young Veronica stared down the prince's cannons
Then on a flaming chariot to heaven she soared
A rough-woven sash became her wedding garment
But her palace-rags she leaves for Jaromil

With his army and cannons perched on the hilltops overlooking the monastery, Jaromil Toyogarov had pleaded with Sister Irannika to leave the people of Abbé Musa and to return to the palace, once again, as queen. He might even forgive her defection to the Sultan — everyone, as a matter of course, believed that the religious of Amatodate secretly favored the Muslims — and to guide her return to the true faith. He wept, he cried out, he let the tears course down his face. "My love, my betrothed!"

Irannika, who watched him from the ramparts, did not respond. For the onlooker it did not seem apparent that she was moved by the prince's emotional affect, or if she heard at all what he had said. We found out later from Sister Olivia, who had served her in the courts of Toyogarov, that Sister Irannika was likely to be in a state of panic. Fear dominated the couple's betrothal, for Jaromil was a vile man, cursed to an irascible temper, who lashed his subjects with the slightest provocation. The bride herself had no shortage of anger directed at her from the prince.

"Leave this evil man, he will be your death," the servant Olivia had suggested, one day.

"Where can we go? Who will protect us in this lawless land?" Irannika was uncertain.

"Do you remember your aunt, Ershebet? She was close to death, and given one month to live. She gave the month in service to the poor and the sick taking sanctuary in Amatodate, and passed away five years after. Whoever was watching over her will watch over us as well!" Then, putting on her snowshoes, she said, "He may only have hurt you with words now, but he will do to you all that he has done to me before, now that I am gone."

And so, Princess Irannika Yasin and her servant Olivia Hutanonoyong went out, plowing into the snow, and made for Amatodate. For young Irannika was fond of her late aunt, and longed to follow in her footsteps.

Prince Toyogarov was dismayed by the lack of response from his bride. A wave of rage hit him like a wall, and he tasted blood in his breath. Irannika could see the tenderness in his eyes disappear, turning into resentment, shame, and then rage. Then suddenly, raising his left hand, he ordered the cannons to fire.

The last thoughts of Irannika Sikanderovna Yasin were filled with fear. Curiously, and contrary to her own expectations at the time, the fearfulness was not at the thought of Jaromil, nor was it the prospect of her own imminent death. A random seed of a thought had just taken from in her mind about the elderly Anita, who had stayed behind in the building, and refused to evacuate. Anita-neni will die, far from everyone, alone, if I do not go now.

The thought of it filled Irannika with dread. She broke free of her panic-induced torpor, tore her gaze away from the cannons, and made a dash towards the stairwell, heading straight for the dormitory where Old Anita stayed.

We could see all this happening from across the lake. We watched as the buildings of the monastery collapsed into a cloud of chipped wood and ash. With it went our Sister Irannika, Old Anita Kachituvan, and Brother Arkadius Wijaya. May they rest in peace.

The rumors came out of the Christian army that the Toyogarov Satrap's true motivations of finding his bride at Amatodate was no secret, despite a carefully-crafted pretext by his general that the monastery had housed injured soldiers in service to the Sultan. The prince reacted to his own decision with immediate regret, and rallied his men to a search for Irannika's body as soon as the dust had settled on the rubble. They searched for one week, they searched for two — they turned over every stone and wooden beam, but all it turned out was a blue robe of softest silk, finely embroidered; the one she wore on the day of their betrothal.

"Our daughter Irannika has gone the way of Elias Nabi," rejoiced the survivors of Amatodate upon hearing the news.

Ainu Robe. Collection of: Los Angeles County Museum of Art [source]

The Adventures of Zhang Qian in Alexandria Eschate, 128 BC

After years of trekking through the scorching deserts of the Tarim Basin, Zhang Qian —famed diplomat and explorer on a mission to procure horses for Great Emperor Wu's campaigns against the Huns— arrived at Alexandria Eschate, where settled the furthest diaspora of the Macedonian Empire. Seeing the snow-capped peaks of Tien Shan in the distance, he exclaimed: Truly, I must have been the first of anyone in the Heavenly Kingdom to lay my eyes on such a wondrous sight! And then he had for lunch a huge bowl of beef la-mian from Chinatown down the street, because travelling also made him very hungry.

Tien Shan [Photo: Maureen Barlin]

Abbé Musa

This was the week before the autumnal equinox. In one of the nights the people who stood sentry at the monastery's ramparts noted an unearthly, flickering red glow on the ground on the distance, but could not discern how it had happened. At the same time Sister Irannika was in the throes of a nightmarish vision which she later recounted to Abbé Musa. This was how it went:

A demon, which seemed to be three men welded into one in the inferno. Three heads, three torsos, an indeterminable number of arms and legs, none being where they belonged. The faces locked in grimace, their complexions at once deflated and ashen and glowing with impotent rage, their voices chanting and announcing their names: Ivanov, Beria, Dzhugashvili; Ivanov, Beria, Dzhugashvili... 

"The local demons of Taimiria," noted Abbé Musa. "In the empire which spanned this land of eons past, the pharaohs sent their men to work to the death in Taimiria and as far east as Šaškotan, where poor and noble alike built the road and were buried under it when the cold claimed them, and to where the souls of the pharaohs themselves were banished."

Sister Irannika Yasin continued: And then at once the three heads spoke to me. Dogs! Swine! The tribe of Tanezeden are little better than animals. They dared speak against our Prince of Toyogarov; they spoke treason against the Taimirian race. They shall not even be seen as equal as flies, whose wings and legs we pull apart for sport. And that is what we will do to them.

Lies, lies! I cried. But they laughed at me. Lies? They believed the lies of the Metropolitan of Archangel and his representative. Lies, but who speaks truth? We are at war, truth we have long trampled into the sod. The bleeding edge of the sword, the smoking barrel of a gun, these are now our Truth. 

We do not ask "what is true?", but rather "whose side are you on?" I will show you what happens when you are no longer on our side. I will show you the monsters that the Tanezeden clan really are. The truth, our Truth! The men we tortured until death, the women we violated in sight of their kinsmen. And all taken apart to pieces to hung on rotting boughs, heads against legs, arms against trunks. Monsters that we vanquished and humiliated, a testament to our might!

Poor Irannika was drenched with tears at this point. "These were my cousins, my kinsfolk that were murdered by Prince Jaromil. I could not bear to look, but I could not tear away my eyes. I felt I had had a glimpse of hell. I know in the past that people who see hell do so while protected by Maryam Eme. Why not now?"

Abbé Musa replied. "I had a dream last night, too. I did not pay attention to it and let myself forget it in the busyness of the day's affairs, but it has come back to me now. Maryam Eme gave me a horse-drawn cart, but it had been set alight in a bright flame. Be assured that your cousins are now restored to dignity and risen to the bosoms of our Mother, with the forerunners of Amatodate, as what was done to Elias Nabi on his last day on Earth."

Los desastres de la guerra, plate No. 39: Grande hazaña! Con muertos! (A heroic feat! With dead men!).
Francisco Goya, circa 1810

Notes
1. This passage takes its inspiration from discourse surrounding current events, and also the particular work of Francisco Goya depicted.
2. The role of Maryam Eme was described earlier in Haji Thexeira.
3. The character of Irannika Yasin was first introduced in Lisbeta Griadina.
4. The present iteration of the monastery Amatodate is taken as the setting here. Previous iterations are described in Amatodate. The monastery is ultimately based on the presently vacant Territorial Abbacy of Tŏkwon, now the site of the University of Wonsan, North Korea.
5. The many-headed demon references figures in Soviet leadership Lenin, Stalin, and Lavrentiy Beria.
6. A phrase from the demon's monologue was lifted from a quote by Mao Zedong.
7. The Abbé referred to the "Road of Bones". This is the place which we know today as the Federal Highway R504 "Kolyma" of the Russian Far East.
8. The Abbé references the story of Prophet Elijah taken to Heaven (2 Kings 2:11)
9. The name "Šaškotan" comes from an island in the northern Kuriles. In the present context, it is understood simply to mean the furthest east of the Asian landmass.

Mother's Day Storm

The Storm came on Mother's Day. The Storm tore up the northeastern corners of Lancaster County. The Storm went and we were alive— but me, I had begged to die. The Land of Plenty had no privation to starve the body with, but poverty of spirit lashed out at me, like so many tentacles from the maws of Hell opened up, wrapping around my arms and feet, drawing me in. I have come a long way since. I have resumed a state of normalcy. Now it is clear what to do and what to avoid in life. I have met with objectively worse crises and have been able to keep myself above the circumstances. But the events of May 2015 were a watershed; these small events dictated my most important life choices afterwards, my habits, my outlook. And you, you were in the thick of it all.

I have been advised to look to the experiences of Job for spiritual consolation. I can relate to his experiences having smart-ass friends surround him, and attempting rather lamely to rationalize his suffering. For me, I had trouble coping with outpourings of sympathy when my old friend came to her untimely death. I know well-meaning people sent me full-length essays to exhort me to hope, to optimism. Now is the time to announce that I either skimmed through them or did not read them at all, although I appreciate their decidedly unfathomable thoughts. Others shied away from me, as though I were a cursed object— To those people, I say: you stayed silent; you turned away. You pretended I was not there, that I was not hurting. Yes, the demons that assault my mind do not cross a certain boundary. You did not do wrong, but you are no friend.

The day after the accident, I went for mass in the morning, not being able to sleep at all. My friend Benedict can vouch for my account of what happened next, because he was with me, and saw it happen. The good people of La Obra were also there. As per custom, they sat not in a group, but dispersed themselves among their pews, each giving a wide berth to the other, as if they were strangers. Also according to custom, they spent a good few minutes in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament after the end of mass, even after the rest of the churchgoers had dispersed. On this day they stayed even later than usual, after the sacristan had switched off all the lights and we were plunged into darkness. The good people of La Obra changed their seats wordlessly, still maintaining mutual distance, until they formed a ring around Benedict and myself, not importuning me with outpourings of sympathy or words of instruction, but facing Jesus and praying as hard as they could. The good, upright men knew who to run to in times of difficulty. Because of this— three years and six months later— I joined their ranks.

I did feel the expected emotions of sadness, grief, and loss at each turn, but the strongest emotion was one that you might not expect: a feeling of being spooked, a sense of impending doom. I could not and have never since shaken the feeling that one day I too will be hurled into the nether-world without warning. I bore my listeners to sleep wondering out loud if today will be my last. But I do believe, that, if one does not become too obsessive about it, it could be beneficial. The awareness of the fragility of your life is a glimpse of the bare truth of existence. So many habitually cloak that truth with the pursuit of small pleasures, and fall asleep not caring if the a mark has been placed on their head for the Grim Reaper. Me, I am as sensitive to the prospect of death as a World War I soldier crossing no man's land is sensitive to the prospect of a stray bullet, over all of my waking hours.

Then came the Storm, which laid waste to the flimsy shack I built for myself in the wake of the first disaster. What could I do in such a place? My friends are not real, my acquaintances keep their distance. I could die here out of sheer chance; it could be the elements, a freak accident, or a random miscreant like the white supremacist Ignatius Noogent, who haunted my dreams. Who then will find my body, who will weep over it? The voice in my head hissed into my ear: no one. And the gates of Hell opened on me, leaving me clutching at straws.

Let me live, cries Laleh Pourkarim, the poet. Let me live! Let me live a little while more. I live, I live, I live another day again. I am glad I did not die. I am happy knowing there are still things to do. I give thanks for the sun in the sky and the roof over my head. The pursuit of happiness, I throw at the wayside. No time, I mutter. No time. I fear death and I fear it with a passion. I was and am scared out of my wits at being dragged to the wedding banquet underdressed. Eat, Pray, Love? No! Live, Live, and Live. Eat to Live, Pray to Live, Love to Live. I work hard, because I can earn my keep, eat food that does not poison me, and live. I pray so that I can be close to God and live. I love because good friends are precious and genuine friendship keeps me alive. Bad habits do not help me live; they must go! Good things superfluous to the purpose of living, they will get the hatchet as well!

Now, I am making a long stay in Cleveland. I came with no family, no friends, no network to take my falls. I found myself plunged into a culture which encouraged people to be greedy, selfish, miserable, and resort to violence to solve their problems. To these things, I want to say no! I want to be the contradiction; I will be the fly in your ointment. Greed will be the death of Charity, and Selfishness separates me from friendship. Misery leads to despair, and despair will cut me away from the Lord. The wages of sin is death. I have no intention of following the crowds down that path!

I have no choice but trust, to give myself. I do so, because it is that or leave me wilting away inside, like a corpse. I have no choice but to keep the Lord's commandments, because I want to live forever. I went out and conquered my fears of the city and all its wondrous unknowns, because to cloister myself in fear is no way to live. I made the choice long ago; I have no desire to do otherwise. Do you know? I have found my treasure in the field. Do you understand now why I do things the way I do? Of course, I cannot for the life of me expect any response. I write a blog which no one reads. And now it is time to go to bed. Goodbye.

Mackinac Bridge, Michigan

The Story of St. Casimir's Church, Cleveland

To jest moja parafia - Sw. Kazimierz

This is the Polish parish in Clevie's St. Clair-Superior neighbourhood. In earlier times, Polish people from Poznań moved in in large numbers. They got to have their own parish because św. Stanisław, which serves the Warsaw Poles at South Broadway, was too far away. The church was closed in 2009 and re-opened in 2012 after parishioners (and, they say, the patron St. Casimir himself) kicked a fuss. When the bishop came to close the church, Władysław Szylwian pulled the plug on his microphone and became the instant village hero. The uncles and aunties here lured me in with Polish cuisine and have managed to conscript me as parishioner. They also signed me up for their parish school alumni club, but I have no idea how that works.

The neighbourhood of St. Clair-Superior was a literal riot in the '80s and '90s. The pastor was regularly mugged on parish grounds, and the sound of gunfire lulled residents to sleep. Sw. Kazimierz was turned into a fortress with a perimeter of barbed wire, and the stained glass windows, which the hoodlums liked to shoot at for sport, had a bulletproof layer installed. The gangsters have supposedly shot one another all to death since that time, and thus the neighbourhood today is somewhat less exciting than it used to be.

The Canada Post

I was stuck in Canada (a.k.a. Canuckland) for a month, from mid-March to mid-April, on the whims of the Embassy of the United States (a.k.a Yankland), who needed that much time to unearth my life story and slog through the related paperwork. This month has hit me with very varied experiences and I think I was very glad to have had the opportunity for a one-month forced exile from the Greatest Country on Earth. I have no overarching narrative to present here. Instead, I shall lazily present a series of extremely short stories, as has been the norm for my recent travelogues, and invite the reader to make whatever conclusion they want. Here we go.

1. How to be stranded in Canada for a month

I applied for a J1 visa to the United States. I brought all the things that they said I must bring to the interview. Ms. Consular Officer Lady, who I am sure is a great person to her family and friends, asked me for my CV, which I did not have on my person. So she drew up a writ of refusal, asked me to send in my CV and research history, and told me to wait for "two to four weeks" and "you can go anywhere, just not the United States". And then the interview ended.

The plan had been to stay less than a week at the time. No one likes to see the word "refusal" in such a situation either. I remembered the weather became extra slushy those few days.

Thomas the Burundian was my host. He was a good guy and tried to reassure me that things were not so bad, after all. "We had a guy from India in here; he was in the same situation as you are now. They asked him to stay put for a few months, and in the end he went home to India to wait it out. (You know what, never mind.)"

2. Thomas of Burundi

Wurtemburg House

Thomas the Burundian works at Amnesty International. Thomas the Burundian is an exquisite gentleman. Thomas the exquisite gentleman lives in an apartment in a grand old house at Rue Wurtemburg, and gets guests to stay in the extra rooms through Airbnb. Thomas greets his guests with a welcoming wave, wafting gratuitous amounts of civility. On the first night of my stay we shared the dinner table and talked about geopolitics. I found that we disagreed on some things. I decided not to bring up the hilarious story of Pierre Nkurunziza, who wanted to be President-for-life like Paul Kagame from the country next doors, but could not, and instead had people rising up against him in huge riots. So the story goes.

Less than a week into my stay, Jessie Liu of Nepean returned to Canada from a trip to sunny California and arrived at Wurtemburg by car. She yanked me right out from there and let me stay at her son's room for the remainder of the exile. For this, I owe her my eternal gratitude.

3. Auntie Liu of Nepean

Chinatown of Ottawa

Auntie Liu is the daughter of a friend of my father from his days of mucking around in the United States in his youth. Auntie Liu works for the Canadian government, like most people in Nepean. She has formed many ideas about the governance of Canada and suchlike and have been more than enthusiastic to make sure I (and anyone else within earshot) knew about them. I found that we disagreed on some things, but never mind. It is a good thing to be listening to people who disagreed with you.

Auntie Liu introduced me to Costco and the Asian Supermarket T&T 大统华, also punnily known as 炸药店 (Explosives Store). She taught me how to cook steak, how to distrust Chinese restaurants with their scammy card reader machines, how to pick out fresh produce at Explosives Store, how to deal with the public transportation, how to pick a good high school for your kids in Ottawa, how to go to Chinatown, and many other potentially useful life skills.

I tried as much as I can to be good, clean up after myself, and do some cooking. The neighborhood of Centrepointe, where we were at, had a nice church in a half-hour's walking distance, making it handy for daily mass.

4. Parkhill University Residences

At the oratory

Matthew of Surabaya attends the University of Ottawa (uOttawa), and had to find a place to stay. It was late, and school housing had run out. Searching for alternatives on the internet, he found Parkhill.

Parkhill University Residences sits at a quiet spot in back-alley downtown next to the Embassy of Mali. An oratory in the building and resident Frs. Paul Cormier and Joseph Escribano make daily mass extra handy here. Not all are practicing Catholics: Matthew, for his part, stayed for the cozy environment conducive for study rather than for the religious formation, and Minh is an outright communist who had found his way into Parkhill by sheer dumb luck.

Like the city itself, Parkhill has English and French speakers in equal measures, making conversations interesting.

Weekly meetings and prayers make for excellent bro-company with many illustrious gentlemen around town. Also on one occasion I was invited to become a museum exhibit for a full room of high school-age fellas who asked me questions like "Is Singapore part of China" just to see how I would react. But the happenings at Parkhill are too many to pen here.

5. The Church in Ottawa

St. Clement's - FSSP Latin Mass Parish

St. John the Apostle - Parish near Auntie Liu's house

St. John the Apostle serves the elderly of Centrepointe, offering mass on Tuesdays to Fridays at 9 o'clock in the morning. Father Lindsay takes a vacation on Mondays, so on Mondays I join for noonday mass at the Notre Dame Basilica at Downtown, near to the National Gallery. On Saturdays I join Latin mass at St. Clements, which sometimes is filled to the brim with French-speaking children. Later, I would discover that the same parish runs a nearby school.

Notre Dame - Cathedral

Our Lady of the Annunciation - Anglican Ordinariate Parish

The Ordinariate parish is run by Fr Doug. Fr Doug helped me through the liturgy because I was the only guy who showed up and had to do the responses without any prior experience. I learned that the Ordinariate Mass is almost identical to the Tridentine mass of the Latin tradition. I have a newfound respect for Ordinariate Catholics and their compatriots, the High Church Anglicans.

The Eastern Catholics are represented by the Syro-Malabars and Ukrainians, but the locations of their parishes are weird, and I never had an excuse to visit them. The Chinese parish is in Orléans, a Francophone neighborhood, which is also very odd.

6. The Church in Gatineau

Notre-Dame-de-l'Île - Parish of Hull District, Gatineau

My experience of the Church in Gatineau has been disappointing. To be fair, I had been warned about the state of the church in Quebec, which seems to be in terminal decline since the 1960s. The website of the Cathedral did not show the correct mass timings. Notre-Dame-de-l'Île's actual mass timings also differed from what was shown on the sign up front. By and by I found a group of aunties in a meeting at the church's basement. "Pas de messes ici! Shoo! Shoo!" they said to me. "No mass here! Go away!"

- Vous devez changer votre site-web!
- C'est pas notre problème!

Five minutes before mass was due to start, the priest arrived in his car and assured me that the mass and Eucharistic Adoration was, contrary to the women of the basement, set to take place that evening. I was overjoyed. I called him Monsieur because he did not have his collar on. He would disappear again shortly after the start of Adoration, leaving a layman to say the priest's lines and elevate the Host.

6a. Exchange with Suzanne from Quebec City on the Quiet Revolution

This came from the Catholic History Geeks Facebook group. I found it interesting and relevant, so I repost it here.

Me: [...]It surprised me to see that the church in Ottawa is thriving but the parishes in Gatineau (which is supposedly Francophone and Catholic) feel gutted. I read that the parish of Notre-Dame-de-l'île in Hull was formed out of four former parishes when the churchgoing population fell from a quarter of a million to ten thousand. It is way harder to find daily masses there than right across the river. Friends from Québec, or who are familiar with Québec history, is this the result of the so-called "Quiet Revolution"? Have you lived through this period of Canadian history? What was it like?

Suzanne: Hi there. I grew up in Quebec. People describe the "Quiet Revolution" as this hardcore anti-Catholic period. I don't remember it that way. It was more of a progressive indifference of the Church that today has developed into full-blown anti-religion. Quebeckers never had to fight for their faith. They were never constantly attacked by Evangelicals or other Protestants; so they were never forced to learn the why and wherefore of their faith in order to defend it. So Quebec's faith was a mile wide and an inch deep, depending a *lot* on sociological transmission to keep the faith going. This is why when there was an onslaught of secular thinking after the advent of T.V., Quebeckers' faith couldn't take it. The Church, faithful Catholics, have very little confidence in themselves or their faith. They basically retreat in the face of the onslaught. And that's why you have churches closing down and Quebec losing its Christian landscape.

7. The geography of La Capitale

Link

The Capital of Canada sits on the south bank of the Ottawa river, which drains east into Saint Lawrence. The river forms part of the border between the provinces of Ontario (south) and Quebec (north). The big village of Gatineau sits on the north bank, within walking distance, and enjoys the perks of being close to the national capital without technically being part of it.

The neighbourhoods of Ottawa work roughly like this, from west to east: Kanata has the high-tech startups. Bayshore has gunfights with guns smuggled in from Yankland. Nepean has retirees and government workers. South Keys has the airport. Downtown, Vanier and surrounding areas have drug addicts and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, who is also a drug addict. In the furthest east, Orléans is the French-speaking district, as mentioned.

Downtown Ottawa is split in two by the Rideau Canal, which functions as a skating rink in the winter (i.e. most of the year). Parliament Hill and Ottawa's most iconic buildings sit at the left bank of the canal, within eyeshot of the Embassy of the United States on the right bank. Unlike many other cities, Downtown is densely built, human-sized, walkable, and well-connected by public transport. For this reason it swiftly became my favourite place on the continent.

This building is important for some reason

8. Canadian Soft Power

Auntie Liu's sister has a husband, a genial fellow named Try. Try is Cambodian-Canadian, a Francophone, and lives in Gatineau. He visited us at Nepean one fine evening, bringing gifts from the wife's place in Nanjing. A thing of Try which made an impression on me was that he spoke in a mesmerizing drawl which I have come to associate with the country of Canada. It was late into my stay in the country, and it had grown on me as well.

The country has had me in its thrall for a long time, its influence on me disproportionate to its influence as a world power. I would happily watch a mediocre Canadian movie over a similar American film of higher acclaim. I had learned my first French words from Quebecker songs. I had eschewed authentic American country music, preferring its imitators on the Manitoban prairies. It was no different for this trip. I had my fill of Canadian movies and Canadian literature. The film adaptation of Joseph Boyden's Through Black Spruce aired at Bytowne Cinema during the time of my stay. I bought and am reading Boyden's earlier novel, Three Day Road, which had catapulted him into fame. The Haida-language film Edge of the Knife aired in Toronto in the last week of my stay, and I took this excuse to go on a road trip down south.

It helped very much that Ottawa bookkeepers sell very good books at very affordable rates at many places about town, spoiling me rotten.

From Patrick McGahern's bookstore, which is probably more expensive than most others

9. The almost-road trip to the North

I was briefly tempted to make a trip to Iqaluit during this time. The airfare (~2500 CAD) felt prohibitive, and the temperatures in the Canadian Arctic in the month of March (minus a gasdfjillion degrees in any scale) seemed to be beyond the reach of my human experience. Strangely, the former did more to discourage me than the latter.

The temptations would continue, and, as someone who becomes irrationally excited at the sight of Inuktitut syllabics, I accepted them as a test and opportunity for mortification in this blessed season of Lent. Confiteor tibi, Domine. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Don't look at it, Andy

*throws away magazine*

10. A quiet way of living

Despite all appearances and temptations, I was not keen for adventure. People who know me all know that I am a homebody who likes to play Civilization VI too much for my own good. I was anxious to get into the rhythm of work in Cleveland more than anything, to the beat of a quiet, uneventful mode of living. This was no time for adventure!

I complained to Mom, and she gave me a dress-down, saying something along the lines of: Suck it up. There's nothing you can do about this mess. You are now on holiday, whether you wanted to or not. Go out and learn to have some fun.

That's fair. I went to the museums and grudgingly assumed the role of a tourist. They turned out to be great. The National Gallery is now a favourite place.

Yay, art!

History!

Tame cockroaches!

But when I was not in the mood to spend on earthly pleasures, I found home in the public libraries, one branch in Downtown on the Rideau, and the other at the former Nepean City Hall. Here admission and wifi are free, and there was shelter and quiet. I could print my readings, write my papers, and get the research work going at snail's pace (I was told not to bring my laptop).

At the Downtown branch of Ottawa Public Libraries, I discovered that the homeless population shared my passion for books, internet access, and free shelter from the elements. This made for quite interesting company whenever I wound up studying here. The librarians of Downtown graciously adapt to serve their customer demographic, and treat everyone cordially and with respect. There is just one awkward detail: when you needed to use the bathroom, you have to ask the front desk for the keys.

11. Good people

There is a hidden Chinese restaurant on the south side of Rue Rideau, between Dalhousie and Walter. They occupy the husk of a former restaurant, giving themselves no distinguishing brand or name, and never bothering to lift a finger to change out the signage or the furnishings. However, I must point out that their noodles are very satisfying to horf. The restaurant has become very popular among the uOttawa students who manage to find them. I must also note that they are unique in the neighbourhood for rounding down (not up!) the price for cash payments to the nearest dollar, and for not accepting tips!

Byward Market has a Moroccan restaurant named Le Casablanca. I went there whenever I felt posh or wanted to have coffee that was not watered down. I built some rapport with the family running the place over time. Near the end of my stay, the building had a fire which gutted one of the other restaurants. No one was hurt, but it was probably really bad for business. I hope they are all doing better now.

I should remember that people are good and can be good all on their own, whether they are good to me or not.

The last random story I would like to write about is about an old man and his two young granddaughters, whom he brings to Centrepointe Avenue to be picked up by the school bus every weekday morning. I spotted them often on my way to church and drew a sketch of them, from memory, because I found the scene to be exceptionally adorable. I'll let the picture do the talking.

Are they twins? The girls were of similar heights. Their jackets and pants were colour-coded, but the hats are switched. Grandpa holds both their backpacks. I have no surefire way to know who owns which bag now. Where will they be when I come to Ottawa again? Maybe, the sisters will be all grown up when the time comes. Will they still think of themselves as the pink and green halves of a pair then? Maybe something else?

I've written enough; it's time to sleep.

Arkadius

Photo: A. Novichkova

I am on my way once more; I, Thexeira Haji, consigned to wander the earth in unending pilgrimage. My sins were numerous, my promises I did not make true; No sacred silence did I keep in the floridness of my youth. Instead, I have Silence foisted upon me. Deep, dark, endless Silence, as expansive as the Taiga who stretches from Noril to Khatanga, from the slopes of Putoran to the shores of Qarataimir. How the timber of the woods muffles my cries; how their leaves blot out the light of the sky!

A close friend passed today, a volunteer at the place of my refuge, now obliterated by cannon fire. Arkadius, Arkadius, how did I not know you before! You have no good looks, nor stature, nor power, but the light of your deeds have been blinding. Yesterday you were one with us, the unwashed and needy; today we remembered you as the one who saved us from certain demise. As our sanctuary came down, crumbling into dust, it was you who had readied the canoes and pushed us out into the middle of the lake, away from the reaches of the General's men. The Good One answered to your wishes, sent us to safety, but you yourself wound up entombed in the rubble, alongside the bride of Toyogarov.

Hear, Arkadius, the cries of Olivia, who grieves you so stridently. She has consigned herself to the lake shore, she has turned down all nourishment offered her, waiting in vain to see you arrive on your own boat. Tell me, Arkadius, was this really needed? Should you not have spared a thought to those who valued you over their own lives? Silly, impudent man! You hurled yourself bodily into the maws of the Satraps, the hypocrites, and those of their thugs. Now defeat hangs heavy over all of us, and the justice of God rings hollow.

I, more than anyone, deserve death, and not to have good people giving themselves up for my sake. I only offer to people my company and my stories of faraway places, and in return they keep me alive. The propensity of good people to buy into this sucker's trade befuddles and humbles me. Give back, I tell myself, give back! But I could never give enough, however much I strain with the effort. This is not the time for me to be alive. I, more than anyone else, deserve death! How gladly I would have exchanged my place in Hades for that of Arkadius!

What would I give for the Lord of the Universe to hear me? What would he say to the ravings of this mad creature? If only one day he could open his mouth and rebuke me for my delirious exclamations, or take the burdens of such heartbreak, enough to last me generations.


Notes
This passage is dedicated to the memory of Anthonius Gunawan Agung of Palu, Central Sulawesi Province, departed September 2018.