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strawberrymarshmallowstories · 4 years

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Ice Queen (Gods&Goddesses AU) - Kim Seokjin

What the-

Your nose tickled with a familiar scent before you saw it - the bouquet of blue roses as waves of the ocean, the tips fading to depths not many witnessed in a lifetime. But instead of appreciation or surprise, a curse slipped from your lips.

You ran a scan on your psychic shields.

Negative - no irregularities over the past 12 hours.

It would’ve been scary hadn’t it happened before. The main house scan from security office came back a moment later - also negative. As always, you logged it for further investigation.

One day they were bound to make a mistake.

But when? And how?

Teleporting left a detectable trace. It could be masked, but not eliminated. You ran another scan on the bouquet itself - the flowers came back as pure, energetically untouched.

Human handiwork?

A tilt of your head, eyes narrowing at the inanimate intruder. Impossible. To bypass security, to bypass your rock-solid shields without a trace.

But despite all that, somehow still, at least once a year you woke to a bouquet of blue roses at your bedside. Blueberry-blues to arctic ice, from matte navy's to robin-egg blues. Unimaginable colours, hadn't you seen it with your own eyes.

A quick twinge along the familial line and your sister's energy greeted you before her long-limbed frame. As she danced through the doors, her long white dress flowed around her with a life on its own.

But her joy was short-lived.

'Again?' A whisper, her steps slowing to a reluctant gait. As the morning rays touched the flowers, tiny bursts of light erupted on the blossoms. As if small fireworks had sparked to life between the delicate petals.

You’d never heard of such talent for manipulation. With big eyes specialists deemed it impossible, all while clutching to the rose as drops of deep red stained their skin. But thorns mattered little with magic petals between their fingers, nose in the blossom as if its scent was a drug.

That they hadn't turned this into a fortune was a hint of their power. And wealth.

Ania leaned closer. 'It's kind of romantic though. Absurd, yes, but romantic.'

With a scoff you pulled a robe over your gown, soft yellow over black silk. An unexpected gift from your sister because you needed some sunshine in your life.

As a reply you’d almost iced over her aquarium.

'Cowards.’ You jutted with your chin as she pulled you into a hug. ‘It’s more creepy than what-not. How many years has it been?’

'Immortal’s infatuation lasts way longer. But hey sis, it’s not worthy enough to ruin your day.' A squeeze. ‘Happy birthday.'

Your arms wrapped around her on its own. With days being counted and her excitedly packing her bags, you wanted to laugh and cry the same. Accepting a position at the Union should've been a happy occasion.

But she'd chosen Alta on the other side of the world.

'I really don’t want to go in today. Can't I just burn the whole building down?'

She only laughed, having been there for many of your late-night rants. About Ancients and their Seconds who had no proper concept of time, about their minor territorial issues blown into elephants - the bare thought gave you a headache.

But you’d accepted it as a part of your job. You’d long realised Ancients didn’t see time as everyone else - they had centuries long behind them, a pebble in the ocean compared to yours. You’d once asked your mother how Ancients would ever respect you with their age against yours. She’d only laughed and told you to grow thicker skin.

Your sisters’ wink jolted you back to reality, mischief streak a spark in her eyes. 'You want me to do it? Oh please tell me yes!'

Different from yours, your sister had fire flowing in her veins, one that made her locks flow as lazy flames licking dry wood. It had placed its claim just after her first decade - early but not unforeseen. But what made her unique apart from her winning smile and olive-kissed skin, was the mark on her shoulder. Worn with pride, a medallion of a true claim.

Not many could take pride in it.

You, on the other hand, had been born from the other side of the spectrum. Ice queen, as per the hushed whispers. Ironic, as the roses always held an imprint of icy hues, as if a reminder of who you were.

'Would you like to come along?' You asked with a hopeful tinge. Ania had been there for your many risky escapades which had your mother breathing out fire, and her silence had earned your unwavering trust. Because even between family members trust wasn’t a given.

It had to be earned.

But today she only shook her head. 'Don't take it the wrong way but the Union you sure scares the hell out of me.' A theatrical shudder. ‘As if possessed, you know?’

You shrugged but couldn't hide a smile. 'What can I say, it’s a gift.'

‘Sis-,’ she said, her tone alert. ‘You may want to get dressed.'

Warning and uncertainty in one.

'Jin just, ported in?' A question of wonder, as if she herself doubted the pathed words. ‘Are you expecting him?’

'Not that I know of.' You scanned over your mental calendar. 'But let him in, he’s not the type to leave.'

Ania finished telepathing with a frown, seating herself in an armchair under the squared windows.

Every god had its own essence, something to warn the people ahead - a feeling of the sorts, that made weaklings scatter and called strong ones to attention. Energy reacted to his every footstep. It gathered around him, drawing nearer to the silent power humming through his veins.

He’s beautiful. Ania pathed with a nervous glance.

A fact. He was, even for an immortal. A muse for artists of many species since - whenever he was born. With his energy as a prided cloak he had nothing to prove - even his role as Lindiana’s Second a status to envy for.

He greeted Ania first with a kiss on the back of her hand that barely touched.

Before his gaze fell on you.

'Happy birthday to my favourite princess.' He mocked a bow, dark hair tickling his forehead, silken as if asking to be touched. But it was his eyes that had you pinned - deep earthy browns, whispers of warm summer nights and honey on the tip of your tongue. Tempting in a way he must’ve known.

And intended.

'Appreciated, not many call me a princess these days.' You leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. ‘But I'd prefer not to see your face first thing in the morning, Jin. So why are you here again?'

He only smiled as he took in the surroundings, the space filled with the most luxurious of fabrics in the richest colours - ones you’d selected personally and had travelled lands to acquire. Ones heaven against your fingertips, of softness only cashmere could grasp the edge of.

How unlike you, and he must’ve known.

You shifted in your spot. The games he played, you didn't know how to win.

'Actually I've been demoted to a pickup guy.' A glance at Ania. ‘Summons.'

‘What is this about?' You forced your shoulders to straighten. Even when you felt nothing without your usual suit of straight-cut trousers and a blazer tailored to fit every curve.

'Incident on Ancient lands, your mother asked me to get you,' he said just as the buzzing datapad stole your attention.

Rebel activity in Alexei’s territory. Summons have been sent out, documents forwarded. Seokjin will pick you up. - Mother

'I’ve always wondered why my mother likes you so much,' you asked as much as sighed. 'What do we have so far?'

'It’s the charm,' Jin dragged out as you headed to the closet room, his voice loud enough to carry through the divider wall. 'But for the incident, lots of fire, no casualties.'

Nothing that’d normally require immediate summons. But your mother had a reason for everything.

'By the way.' His eyes skimmed over the formal suit as you walked out, twirling a blue rose between his fingers. 'Nice flowers.'

You cast him a narrow-eyed look.

'A special occasion? Or perhaps a message?'

He handed a rose to Ania who graced him with one of her sweetest smiles, her cheeks flushing to the skin of a ripe peach. With the dimples sharp as if encarved into her skin, even Jin held her gaze as if to breathe in her beauty and joy.

'That's none of your concern.' You threw a knowing glance at Ania. You'd seen those eyes work on its prey. She had yet to learn that Jin was never anyone's prey.

He was a hunter.

'However, Jin.' You refrained from rolling your eyes, focusing on perfecting your low bun. 'You're a pretty good teleporter--'

‘--one of the best, as a matter of fact.''

An obnoxious irritating man.

‘Is it possible to teleport something without appearing with it?'

A tilt of his head.

'An interesting question.' He ported another blue rose into his hand as he set his steps towards you. 'This information doesn't come cheap. What do you need it for?'

No other god would flinch at the proximity, and neither would you. Even when goosebumps ran down your spine and down to your fingertips. So you held his gaze as he stood before you, although your instincts demanded you run.

Your breath hitched at the gentlest brush against your neck. He’d tucked a rose behind your ear. 'And here I thought you didn’t like me.’

'Alright, that’s enough.' You shoved at his chest. Away, you had to get away. 'I don’t know how these flowers got here overnight. My security office detected no movement, neither did my scans find any breaches.'

Jin rubbed the spot on his chest. ‘I'm sure your shields are of steel. Then either a human or a family member.'

Human, perhaps. But a family member - not an option you'd ever consider. You glanced away. Stark contours stared back from the mirror, with a glint in your own eyes you’d never seen. But that didn’t faze you, not when silver flicks played in your hair.

Only a bare hint. As on the roses, until hit by sunlight and the chaos ensued.

With the look you threw at Jin, anyone would’ve been quivering in their boots. But Jin was an insufferable man not fazed by much. 'And no, nothing out of the ordinary.'

Jin ported a feet closer, making you jolt when his chest almost touched yours.

'You need a list who's been here for the past three days and why. Teleports can be set up and traces can be covered - the best can do it 48 hours beforehand with an inanimate object.'

A sharp inhale and you took a step back, one out of instinct. 'Stop doing that, you're setting off my shields.'

An excuse. A pathetic excuse that went on deaf ears as his hand came up to your ear once more, a brief touch before brushing aside the rebellious glittery strand. ‘It suits you well though.’

You swatted his hand away.

'You think it's previously set up?' Ania voiced, a grin on her lips at the unfolding theatrical play.

'Who knows, we all love a little secrecy around here, and you go around in pretty high circles. I think someone’s trying to impress you.' Jin sauntered across the floor, taking a seat on your bed as if that was the most natural thing to do. Back in the playful element - one surprisingly more comfortable. And predictable. ‘And some immortals like their lovers cold and stiff.’

You heard Ania gasp.

It would’ve been an insult had it not been Jin. But today your eyes lingered - on his suited up frame against the backdrop of your messy sheets.

You bit into your inner lip, body stiffening at the tightness in your belly. He was pushing your limits, he always did. This was your home field, a place where you were supposed to be your strongest. But still he smashed through every shield, every facade that kept you safe.

'I told you to stop,’ you muttered under your breath, hands balling into fists. Clutching for control under a veil of anger.

Silly silly girl.

He smiled. 'I don't think they'll make a move. Perhaps a message. What did they call it back in the day--’ he trailed off, a low hum at the back of his throat. ‘Desire for the unattainable?'

You shoulders tensed.

He’d spoken the same words as the old flower vendor many years ago. In an antiques store in the middle of a human town, he’d spoken of meanings humans placed on flowers. A human folklore passed down through generations.

But if Jin knew of it...

Ania's laugh pulled you out of your thoughts, the sound bubbling through her whole being. 'I'm sorry sis but it makes sense. You, uh--’ A quick glance at Jin. ‘Shoot down anyone who dares to approach.'

'I could care less,' you hissed back. It hadn’t been a choice, but a necessity. Because if you slipped once, someone could die.

And everyone would find out you were flawed.

'And you.' You pointed at Jin, lowering your outermost shields to initiate a psychic link, just enough for a teleport. He accepted it without hesitation and held out his arm.

You never had that freedom. Every single touch and mental contact had to be calculated and prepared for. A single wrong move and you could betray yourself.

And once you tucked away your darkest memories, you accepted his arm and the room turned into a whirlwind of colours.

'Oh great, you're here - here’s the files,' you heard as soon as the energy materialised into familiar grey walled conference room. Your fingers clutched at thin air, digging into your palms, close to drawing blood. All to silence the past.

It always happened. The nightmarish demons had first found you when you had been no more than a babe. It was then when your mother had learned of your wide broadcasting affinity, when your scream for help blasted through every single pair of ears in the household.

You’d asked her many times about that night, but she always chose silence. Although her eyes spoke of sadness, of a little guilt and of secrets she’d one day take to her infinite sleep.

Luckily no one questioned your fears. To anyone, teleporting came with careful consideration due to risks imposed - it was a sign of great trust.

But in this case, you had to trust your mother’s judgement.

Because you knew, no one wished to be on the receiver end of your mother's wrath. You'd seen it, seen the power she held and the mercy she did not have.

Yes, she was your mother, but she was also a warrior queen.

'Wasn't that Jin?' Madeli piped as you sat down, her hands sorting paperwork to be reviewed. 'I thought you hated his guts.'

You scoffed. ‘My mother seems to like him. And I think she likes it when we don’t agree.'

'I wish he'd pick me up in the mornings, how romantic would that be.'

'Depends what you consider romantic,' you retorted. The room had started filling out, most entering in silent discussion. You nodded at everyone who glanced up, a couple of silent-mouthed greetings. ‘But you hate commuting and he loves women, sounds like a fair deal.'

Madeli lowered her voice. 'Did he ever do something to you?'

You shrugged and skimmed over the first report.

'It's about him not leaving me alone.' You handed her a signed document that disappeared into one of her many organisers. Once you wondered how she carried it all, and then recalled a queue of others that stayed behind for a kind word in exchange.

Maybe they had more commonalities than you’d thought.

A dreamy murmur under her breath. But your attention had already been stolen, by the friction in the air that had grown to a point where you could no longer ignore it. Too much energy in one space.

This time many territories had come as a pair when only one presence was required. The rumours had spread.

An Ancient had been struck.

Madeli finished with the attendance list and stepped down from the podium. After a nod at the closest guard, you started with the ancient incantations that came as second nature. Pages and pages of words that now slipped off your tongue, but once had taken a year to remember.

Fed by each Ancient’s contribution, the barriers could hold in anything. As a Mediator, at times like these you got a slight taste of their power.

A heavy mass, too heavy for frail shoulders. One could only be born to hold such power, and you were not one of them.

With a tight-lipped smile of control, you raised the outer barriers. As a barriers master, it was your job to keep it intact, to stop the energy from the world.

You cleared your throat, eyes browsing the crowd just as the microphone light flashed green.

The energy of the room focused on you. It was massive, possibly destructive even when constrained. The energy peak was also why Ancients rarely met in one place, and if they did - only under supervision.

Although civilised to a certain extent, one offensive remark and chaos would ensue.

That’s where you stepped in.

'This will be short. Alexei is still forwarding us the reports.' A quick inhale. 'It is true, his territory has been struck. And by someone with ancient control and strength, or something close enough.'

Quiet gasps and low murmurs around the room.

That should've been impossible, a pact of peace confining Ancients not to strike unless formally challenged or attacked. It had taken a century, endless hours of work and negotiations until everyone’s energy prints decorated the Terra Agreement.

If someone overstepped it, the Terra Union had the right to strike back as one.

'It's not one of us, as far as we know. The energy pattern doesn’t match our database, so we’re currently leaning towards a group channeling.'

Glances around the room - some of suspicion, some of surprise. Channeling was an ancient art lost in time. One not practiced or taught due to its inefficiency - it drained the participants of energy and could render them useless for days. No god would willingly leave themselves this vulnerable.

'I need access to energy reports for the past week, of any imbalances in each territory. We believe they yield fire as a general element but we cannot set it as a limit.'

You knew that didn't say much, earth elements only a basic affinity and could be trained. But this one had been nothing but simple, this energy had expanded until the verge of bursting.

Add fire into that mix, and you got what humans would call a bomb.

This required a long buildup, of months at least.

'Alexei is feeding information back to us as we speak, including ash samples. We will also get Yoongi's team dispatched shortly.'

'The one with the human? Is the human trustworthy with this?' A female voice jeered from the back. Lindinia, a goddess from a neighbouring territory to Alexei's, the one to steal your sister away.

Her eyes narrowed even further at your delay, making the resemblance with her cat uncanny.

'The human's a she, and she worked as much on the Lux medication as anyone else in that team.'

Silence. It had only been a remark, one you could've ignored but didn't. Everyone in that room knew of the specialised research team, one of the best in the immortal world with queues up to decades. And many of them had orders in for research costing billions.

Even with a human on it.

'However, while you're already standing, would you please share the incidents from your today's report?'

While gods kept to their own territories and upheld the value of family ties, there was a reason your family was in the middle of it all.

Aethra family were Mediators, ones who'd brought the lands together through a psychic network. And for that, they'd earned their respect from Ancients. They had even gone further to form the Terra Union, to work on justice with fairness extended to humans, gods and Ancients, and even creatures rarely seen in your realms.

But in the middle of it all, even the Union couldn't escape mundane politics.

And so your own special broadcasting ability had been skillfully buried under barrier-mastering and shield specialisation that gave you this job. But apart all the ranks you'd earned, your mother still considered you a weapon she'd protect, until the reveal was absolutely necessary.

Which hopefully never came to be.

Because that meant war.

Because what you could do wasn’t supposed to be possible - to blast out a message to any living being, or the whole globe if you so wished. Terra psychic network worked through signal transmitters, family members with broadcasting affinity, where they lent their abilities to connect others directly.

But you didn’t need signal transmitters for pathing, you didn't even need to link into the familial Terra network.

You somehow bypassed them all, exempt from any regulations. That meant you couldn't be tracked and left no evidence.

A weapon.

When Lindinia spoke, the calamity of her voice shushed the whole room. 'An energy bubble burst yesterday, exactly 24 hours before the incident. The centre was in the middle of an uninhabited forest. Sadly, no witnesses-'

'Not this again!’ A loud voice rumbled through the space. ‘I will not risk with the rogues getting to my territory! I'm out!'

In these moments you understood what your cousin Karter, another Terra network transmitter, meant with the impression of a burly bear. Still as handsome as any god, Rangeet held stark masculine beauty only the bravest would invite to their bed.

‘You can't.’ You said, stating what should’ve been obvious. ‘Your comms links will break and we need your link as much as you need ours. Karter can’t hold up your network on his own.'

His eyes blazed, fists clenched.

'But it's your choice Rangeet. You can go back to using phones, handy little devices that humans like. You can even give me a call sometimes, let me know how you're doing.'

You watched his eyebrows turn into a frown, his Second tapping on his arm. Phones could be too easily hacked, its signal picked up midway and destroyed without ever reaching its recipient. It was too easy, a child’s play.

Whereas Aethra transmitters could forward a message and no one would even know its contents. Once a link was initiated, it formed a secured bubble around the parties, formed from both energy fields and invisible on the psychic plane.

'Once we get our hands on those ash samples, shall we attempt a location teleport?’ Jin’s voice sounded and your eyes met his, a glint of amusement lingering on his lips. ‘Surprise them a bit? I'm sure Markir would love a slight exercise, that old man is turning grumpy.’

‘That’s right, let’s get the trackers on the energy lines,’ Lindinia cooed, her eyes flashing with her own power. ‘That would set a great example.’

‘No,' you interrupted. ‘They haven’t killed anyone yet. We’re sticking to the agreement. Trackers have already been sent out to scope the possible areas and so we wait. And prepare.’

‘Are the lines enough for an energetic photo?’ Jin asked and you glanced over at him again - while a reasonable question, you shook your head.

‘Not enough to attempt a teleport. I will not risk losing any more trackers on this.’ What you left unsaid was clear to anyone. Attempting a teleport on an incomplete energetic photo could be fatal.

You’d seen photos once, the torn limbs and the still beating heart halfway spiked through. Sickening. You took a breath to focus.

‘Let’s continue.’

'That was tough, Rangeet was so close to ripping out Jin's throat,' Madeli giggled as you both headed out, two pairs of heels clicking on tiled floors.

'I wish he had,' you muttered as you nodded at Lindinia. The goddess with feline grace in a hushed discussion sent back the faintest of smiles. Jin only nodded in acknowledgement, as per the etiquette. Nothing more, nothing less.

'I really have no idea what's up with him,’ you continued once you passed them. ‘He just… really irritates me.'

‘Well, my darling,’ Madeli started, her arm linking over your shoulder. ‘If you haven’t noticed, we’re all a little weird around here.’

Yeah, you'd definitely noticed.

‘But tell me,’ she hushed. ‘A little bird sang of a secret admirer.’

Damn it Ania, you sent another twingle along your familial line. You got back airy bubbles, showing her glee and joy. In hindsight, the rom-com loving secretary and your sister’s fiery soul had been a bad introduction.

‘Who knows, it’s been going on for years,’ you confided as you glanced into the mirror. The glittery strand still remained, but no one had mentioned it. They probably thought you’d lost it. ‘Please also schedule a meeting with Yoongi for later this week. But be careful, he’s in a foul mood.’

‘Of course.’ A snap of her fingers and her organised beeped. ‘What will you do about the stalker guy though?’

You touched the scanner pad and the doors slid open before you. Almost as large as your living quarters, your office space welcomed you with its delicate design and minimalistic interior - a perfect balance of cool ice you represented. Beautiful work, done by another cousin who’d pursued an alternative career path.

‘It’s beyond me.’ You plopped your bag on your desk and headed over to the windows. The view of the city was breathtaking in any weather, the streets bustling with immortals with a human or two thrown into the mix.

The room echoed as Madeli dropped a folder on your desk. ‘Anyway, Alexei just sent through additional energy reads, I’ve passed these on but there’ll be a copy on your datapad. No updates from other teams.’

‘Thank you.’ You glanced over your shoulder. ‘And listen, is it just me or something's not right?’

On your birthday, of all times. When you wanted nothing else but to relax, bask in the sunlight and laugh at silly things that didn't matter.

But a hunch was a hunch.

You didn't ignore hunches.

‘You want to fly over there? A plane would take 2 days and you can't leave for that long. Would you like me to schedule a teleport?’ Madeli checked her organiser. ‘The earliest is tomorrow morning, 7am?’

You shook your head while horrified somersaults ransacked your stomach. One teleport too many in one day.

The nightmares always waited, at the dimensional space you'd vowed to stay away from as a child. That's the only vow you'd ever broken.

‘Today.’ Your heart sunk. ‘Can you contact Jin please?’

Madeli’s raised eyebrows asked questions you didn’t have answers for. 'But he's not an official Terra teleporter.'

‘It’ll be fine.’ You assured, yourself more than her. ‘Sadly he finds me too amusing alive.’

A reluctant tilt of her head, nails clicking against the datapad. A quick affirmative nod a second later.

‘He said he’s free in about an hour, and that.. he’d love to spend some quality time with you?’ A quirked eyebrow. 'Are you certain?'

You slipped out of your heels, rubbing at your calves. ‘Positive, and thank you, I'll get some work done, so let me know what needs immediate attention.’

A shrug as a grin formed on her lips. ‘That's what I do best. And you must keep me posted on your date.’

You would've thrown something at her, but papers did not quite fly well.

#sfwbangtan #jhope.network #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #kim seokjin #seokjin #jin

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notwhelmedyet · 5 years

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Dratchtember Day 7

Prompt: free space! Ratchet accidentally summons a demon and then falls in love, part 3/3. This time featuring the Dead End clinic and the DJD as demon hunters. (cw: violence, torture) ...and yes, if you were wondering I did look up a directory of the supposed metaphysical properties of minerals for this fic (also on ao3 here) (demon summoning part 1 here)

Ratchet sighed. His patients didn't like it when there were cops lingering outside the building, even if Orion was his friend and didn't mean any harm. "I promise, Orion, first sign of trouble I'll call you up," he said, patting his friend on the shoulder. "You and Roller."

"I know, it's just - " Orion gesticulated at the surrounding street with its broken buildings and shuttered shopfronts and Dead End inhabitants. "Response times getting out here aren't great. It'd make me feel a lot better if you kept the clinic locked and hired some security. You've got a lot of valuable medicines in there and people are desperate."

"I heard you the first time, Orion, and I'm sorry but it's not going to happen. If I lock up the clinic it ceases to become a community space that people living here are willing to interact with. It starts looking like a predatory research lab or worse, a body-stripping operation. There's no point in running the clinic if nobody goes."

"Well, what about security? Just one guard - "

"I'll think about it Orion," Ratchet promised. "It's a good idea and I promise I'll think about it. Now, I really do need to get back to work," Ratchet hooked his thumb over his shoulder. He and Orion made their goodbyes and their promises to definitely hang out more and find the time to meet after work when they were both free - Ratchet was expecting be at least a couple of months but stranger things had happened to him lately than syncing schedules with Orion Pax.

Someone draped their arms over his shoulder, melting into him like a Cyberlynx seeking out warmth on a cold day. "You gonna hire security?" Drift whispered into his audial, clearly amused. "You need some tough mech to look after you, keep you safe?"

Ratchet rolled his optics. "I assumed you had it covered."

"Mm, I suppose I could be tempted into taking the position," Drift murmured. He kissed the back of Ratchet's neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it joined with Ratchet's shoulder.

Ratchet tried not to squirm, hooking his thumbs into his hip plating and pretending he was surveying the city skyline contemplatively. "Not in front of the patients," he hissed under his breath.

"I want a nice rock in exchange for taking over security," Drift said. "Two rocks, actually. Tourmaline quartz, for sure, to clear the clinic of negative energies. And rainbow moonstone - meditating with a charged rainbow moonstone is supposed to help you find feelings of inner peace, I read."

"I'm not buying you magic rocks," Ratchet grumbled.

---

Drift looked at the rocks in his cupped hands and then squinted at Ratchet. "Are you dying?" he asked, sounding suddenly very concerned.

"Why would I be dying?" Ratchet asked.

Drift stared at him in 'I have been requesting nonsense spiritualist crystals for a year and now you are suddenly giving them to me and there is no alternative explanation that makes sense'.

"I'm not going to be attending at the hospital in Iacon anymore," Ratchet said. "I've been requested as the attending medic for the Prime."

Drift smiled. "No more Panax? That's great, Ratchet - I knew someone was going to see how talented you were soon - "

"I don't want you to come with me to work any more," Ratchet said. "The clinic is fine, we'll still have the clinic. And I want to spend as much time with you as I can. But it's too risky to have you in the presence of the Prime."

Drift looked down at the rocks and then looked back at Ratchet. "This is an apology, then?"

"I am sorry. I couldn't turn down this appointment - he's the Prime, you don't say no to him. But I'm not so dense that I couldn't put together the pieces of what you've said about your previous summoners; they were government, weren't they? Maybe not at the Prime level, but certainly at the level of the Functionist Council."

"Not all of them," Drift said.

"But enough of them," Ratchet finished. "We can't risk that someone there has a way to detect slivers, that there are people in the Prime's inner circle who are observant enough to realize that you exist and what you are. I said I would keep you safe and the best way I can think to do that is to keep you far away from those people."

---

Sometimes Ratchet’s patients at the clinic were reluctant to invite themselves inside. So when he saw a minibot huddled up by the entrance, Ratchet detoured to check if they were in the midst of a medical emergency.

"Hey kid, you here for the doctor?" Ratchet asked, crouching down a few feet away. Never get to close to a Dead Ender without permission, he'd learned that the hard way. Some folks didn’t want his help and he wasn’t going to force it on them. Even on his new CMO’s salary, he didn’t actually have the funds to take care of the entire Dead End. He needed to get himself a wealthy patron like Orion had.

"Hey medc Ratchet," the bot said, wiggling their fingers in a little wave. "No, I’m good. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?"

"The street’s a public place, last I heard," Ratchet said. Technically Dead End was divided up into the territories of various street gangs and syk-pushers but Ratchet didn’t pay that any mind. He looked around, taking in the stillness of the street that night. It was too early for this deathly calm. "Something happening out here tonight?" He asked lightly.

"Someone got Theo," they said.

Ratchet raised a brow. Theomus was one of the most well-respected flophouse managers’s in Dead End. He ran one of the few buildings where a mech could rent a room and find a safe place to sleep off the streets and he was known for being both fair in his prices and unwilling to take sides in inter-gang disputes. If Theo was dead, that was going to have a seismic impact on the neighborhood. "They know who yet?"

The kid shook his head. "Whoever got him is still out there and - bad things don’t happen near your clinic."

"Is that right?" Ratchet asked.

"Proctor told me he nearly got disappeared a few days ago but he ran to the clinic and the mechs chasing him disappeared. They found them the next morning with their sparks ripped out, down by the Old Gate. Whoever got Theo, I don’t think they can touch me here. This place is protected."

"Sounds like superstitious nonsense to me," Ratchet said. "But come inside. There’s plenty of chairs in the waiting room, won’t hurt to have you taking up one of them."

After Ratchet worked through the patients who’d been waiting for him to show up, he headed of the back stockroom in search of Drift. They’d put a cot in Ratchet’s office but Drift had decided he preferred to set up a nest of towels and other soft things and sleep on the floor. Ratchet turned on the light and shuffled sideways until Drift winked into view.

Drift made a sleepy noise and stretched out, blinking at Ratchet. Ratchet sat down and spread his arms, "Hey sweetspark, I missed you."

Drift threw himself into Ratchet’s arms, knocking them both onto the floor. "Ratchet!" He pressed his helm up against Ratchet’s, brushing their noses together. "How was your day?" He asked.

"It was fine," Ratchet said. "Better now." He kissed Drift, then got an arm around his waist to lift him as they stood up. Drift wrapped his legs around Ratchet, laughing into the kiss. Ratchet walked until he bumped into the table, then let Drift go to cradle his helm in his hands.

They wound down eventually, Drift still peppering Ratchet’s collar with kisses between words and Ratchet petting his finials as they talked.

"I heard some bad business went down in the Quarter today," Ratchet said. "Felt real tense out there tonight."

"Mm. I didn’t hear anything," Drift said. "But I did notice it seemed tense. Not a lot of foot traffic."

"I heard something else interesting," Ratchet said.

"Oh?"

"Apparently someone saved Proctor - you know, the kid with the fuel tank replacement surgery - from some body snatchers the other day. Right outside the clinic. You know anything about that?"

"How toothless do you want me to be?" Drift murmured into his shoulder. "I know you don’t like violence."

"I’ve never had any illusions that you were harmless," Ratchet said. "You’re going to start some urban myths if you keep it up."

"There are some people out there who think they're monsters and that they can do whatever they want without consequence," Drift said. "I’m just...correcting those misapprehensions."

---

Ratchet had always thought he’d hated parties, but he hadn’t realized the depths of loathing he was capable of experiencing until he was asked to attend one of the Prime’s "banquets". Hundreds of rich bots and senators swirling about, trying to one-up each other and buying and selling influence over ritzy energon spritzers. People felt the need to talk to him because he was Chief Medical Officer and somehow they thought that translated into some sort of influence with the Prime. If he’d had any sort of influence at all he would have been safely home at his apartment watching cheesy movies with Drift. He wondered what they’d think if they knew he still lived in his run-down apartment block with his college roommate.

It was already a scandal that Ratchet was so young. The Prime hadn’t chosen Ratchet out of any special regard for his skills, he’d told Ratchet as much. He’d selected Ratchet because he didn’t give a damn about politics and had no political connections to any of the Prime’s rivals. That, a general competence and the Prime’s apparent grudge against Panax (really the one political opinion they shared) had been enough to catapult Ratchet from obscurity.

Ratchet made awkward excuses to the senator who’d cornered him to try to ask about "you know, this noise when I bend my elbow. It goes ‘creak, creak’, I swear it does, I just can’t seem to make it do it just now." Spotting an unoccupied doorway out onto the balcony, Ratchet lifted another flute of engex from a serving droid and slipped out of the crowd.

There were still people out here, just fewer of them. And since the balcony was only lit by the decorative floating lanterns it was nearly too dim to recognize people. Hopefully that would stop people from locating him for a few minutes.

"Excuse me, Medic Ratchet?"

Ratchet sighed, then squared his shoulders and turned to face the speaker. Large frame, tank alt, probably a dark blue or purple but it was hard to tell in the lighting. Long clawed hands gripped a delicate flute of engex. He was wearing a mask.

Ratchet hadn’t realized this was a masquerade. "That would be me," he said, then offered the mech a hand to shake. "And you are…"

"My name is Tarn." The mech lingered on the handshake just a shade too long. Ratchet’s plating crawled. "I run a...team, one of the Prime’s pet projects. We seek out occult beings and those dangerous persons who would try to harness that power to their will. We call it the ‘DJD’."

Ratchet didn’t like where this was going, but he had a part to play. "Can’t say as I believe in any of that, but the Prime is free to spend his money where he wills. What is ‘DJD’ supposed to stand for?"

"Oh, it’s a joke - we call ourselves the Demon Justice Division. And I assure you, doctor, the creatures we seek are very real indeed."

"You would be the expert on that, I suppose," Ratchet said with a tip of his glass. "Forgive me if I remain a skeptic; they drill it into you in medical school. Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Ah, yes. I understand you live with a certain Trefacto of Iacon at," Tarn rattled off Ratchet’s address. "There were several books inside your residence as of three days ago that would fall under the purview of my unit. I had my agents take the liberty of removing this contraband from the property. I decided it would be best to speak with you in person, rather than bringing you and your roommate in for official...questioning. Often it’s simplest to take a light touch with these matters."

Ratchet’s spark was stuttering in his chest, a sickly mixture of rage and fear. How dare… He tried to quash that response and decided there was no way he could do that convincingly. "You had my apartment searched?" He asked in a voice on just this side of civil. Maybe slightly beyond it, but quietly enough that he didn’t attract the attention of the surrounding socializers.

"Yes."

"On what grounds?" Three days ago...Drift had stayed at the clinic that day because Ratchet had been doing a showcase surgery, he didn’t like being alone in the apartment when Ratchet wasn’t there.

"I don’t believe you’re understanding the depth of the Prime’s trust in me. He is concerned that others may attempt to use powers beyond their control to tilt the planet away from its proper course," Tarn said. "You weren’t singled out, doctor, you were one of many. Now, the books. Do you know why they were there?"

"My roommate believes every conspiracy on this side of Luna II," Ratchet said, trying to figure out how to phrase this so that Trefacto would sound thoroughly unthreatening. "He believes in crystal healing, he believes that people have auras, he believes that Luna I was eaten by an invisible space whale. He had a passing fancy in the occult and got a few books on the subject. Nothing came of it. As far as I know they’ve been sitting on a shelf ever since."

"You don’t believe he’s implemented any of the techniques in those books?"

"I don’t believe he could implement any of the techniques in those books," Ratchet said. "Because it’s all slag. But no, I don’t think he’s actually tried any of it. He got the books from a street vendor or something, tried reading them and complained that the writing was impenetrable and gave up."

"Mm-hmm," Tarn said. He lifted his mask slightly with one hand so that he could take a sip of his drink.

"Is it illegal now, having books?"

"Oh no, we’re not discussing a violation of the law. We’re discussing the potential violation of the natural order of things, of the will of Primus." Tarn reached out and brushed the underside of Ratchet’s chin with his claws, tilting his head up. "I think it would be for the best if you were to find a new roommate, doctor. I would hate to have to bring you in for interrogation. The Prime is very fond of his new pet, after all." Tarn stepped away, raising his glass slightly in acknowledgement. "Travel safely tonight, doctor. And watch your step."

---

"Are you going to need help carrying any of this down?" Trefacto asked, pausing in the doorway of Ratchet’s room. Ratchet grimaced, looking around a the chaos. He’d hoped to get everything packed up before the van came, but they’d messaged him that they were waiting downstairs and he was still bundling up his datapads into stacks.

"Yeah, that’d be helpful, actually," Ratchet said. "I’m sorry to leave you in a lurch like this. I’d planned on moving out at the end of the lease, but…"

"You’re the Prime’s CMO now, it was weird they didn’t order you to move out sooner," Trefacto said with a wave of his hand. "I’ll just sublease your room out until the trimester ends. Got a few boxes prepared? I could carry those down for you while you’re packing the rest."

"One second, let me check these to make sure they’re ready," Ratchet said, climbing over the stack of datapads to open up one of his finished boxes.

"Is that a moonstone?" Trefacto asked. "Oh gosh, is that cuprite? Ratchet, you never told me you were into the metaphysics of crystal energies. We could have been having so many interesting conversations."

"Oh, that��s not mine actually," Ratchet said. "It’s a gift. For my sparkmate."

"Woah!" Trefacto gasped. "You’re dating someone? Primus’s fuelpump, that’s wild. For how long?"

"Uh, awhile. A year or so."

"And you never mentioned anything?" Trefacto smiled. "Wait, why am I even surprised, this is you we’re talking about. Congrats. You should definitely introduce me to your sparkmate sometime, though. If we ever hang out after this. You do have my comm frequency?"

Ratchet dutifully pretended he would ever call Trefacto again and checked that he had his comm frequency written down. The rest of the time they were packing, Trefacto continued to ask Ratchet questions about Drift. Ratchet absently invented answers, most of his mind on packing. The rest of his concentration was on the anxious knot in his spark, which was growing harder and harder to ignore. So he got a little threatened by some theatrical weirdo with his own secret police force. That was no reason to freak out - no reason to freak out more than he already was.

By the time he’d said his goodbyes to Trefacto and sent the van off with his stuff towards his new apartment, the knot was beginning to become physically painful. Ratchet decided to walk it off, but the pain kept building and eventually he had to sit down. It felt like spark pain, but Ratchet’s indicators all looked steady. The only time he’d expect to see pain like this in a healthy patient was if they were a split spark and something was stretching the bond between them and their resonant partner -

Wait.

"Orion, Roller, I’m going to need you at my clinic," Ratchet snapped into his comm as he dropped into his alt mode.

"What’s going on?" Orion asked.

"Someone’s about to get murdered at my clinic and I can’t wait for backup," Ratchet said. "So, uh, get there fast or hopefully avenge me. You’re looking for a guy about Roller’s size, wears a mask, talks like a creep, thinks he’s lord of the universe. Tarn."

"Ratchet, wait for us," Roller said. "We’ll get out there as fast as we can."

"Sorry, I can’t promise that," Ratchet said. "He’s got my sparkmate."

Ratchet turned off comms and switched on his locational beacon. How could Ratchet have been so stupid as to think Tarn wouldn’t know about the clinic? Ratchet hadn’t even warned Drift about his encounter with Tarn the night before - he hadn’t wanted to make him so worried that he insisted on shadowing Ratchet at work and get caught.

Ratchet hit the streets of Dead End at a speed he hadn’t realized he was capable of. People ran to get out of his path, streets flying by until he got to the block where his clinic was and had to screech to a halt because of the mass of people blocking the road.

"Medic!" Someone whispered frantically and the crowd converged on him, mobbing him so he couldn’t move forwards. Ratchet transformed back to his root mode and tried to push past them.

"Medic Ratchet, you can’t go in there! They’ll kill you!" Someone whispered and Ratchet paused. He looked around. These weren’t just any Dead Enders. These were his patients, the ones he’d left at the clinic when he’d gone into work the night before. Even his long-term care patients, who couldn’t walk on their own, had been dragged out into the street.

"What’s happening?" He asked.

Everyone tried to answer him all at once and Ratchet had to throw up his hands to stop them. "One person," he said. He pointed at a grounder with green paint and a bad case of peripheral rust infection. "You. What’s happening in my clinic."

The mech explained, haltingly. Five mechs - one of whom was definitely Tarn - had shown up at the clinic. They’d ordered everyone out and, when some of the patients tried to fight back, one of them had transformed into a sniper rifle and Tarn had started picking off patients.

"He got Sleek," the grounder said. "But before he could shoot anyone else your demon showed up to fight them."

Drift had rushed in, in all his idiotic heroic bravery, and thrown himself at Tarn, buying the patients time to evacuate.

"Before we left, I saw them trap him," one of the other mechs in the crowd said. "The three of them used these lasers to make a light trap and pinned him in it. We haven’t seen anything since - they’ve got two guards on the door. One brute with a grinder in his chest and the one who turns into a rifle. But we could hear them for awhile." The mech shuddered. "It sounded horrible."

Ratchet’s fuel ran cold. Five mechs, all built for combat. No, not combat. From what his patients had seen, they were built for torture. "I can’t leave him there," Ratchet said. How was he going to take down five mechs? What if Drift was already...no. If Drift was gone it would stop hurting, and it hadn’t. "I need more information," Ratchet decided. "And if anyone’s got one, I need a gun."

The buildings in this section of Dead End had largely been gutted in the fires and the riots. To a mech that knew their business they were porous - you could follow a path through broken windows, half-collapsed staircases, walls with secret tunnels and jury-rigged catwalks. Ratchet’s patients knew their business. Ratchet found himself in the building opposite his clinic, using a mirror to look through the window while he crouched below its frame. Sure enough, the two guards at the front door were exactly as described. Ratchet watched them for a moment, trying to turn the sludge in his brain into a plan. He had a bad habit of going into things without a plan and it had, historically speaking, rarely ended well for him. And most of those times he hadn’t been trying to take down five fanatics-slash-professional torturers.

Drift screamed. Ratchet flinched, but he kept his optics on the mirror. The larger guard turned towards the clinic for a moment in response to the sound, a sick smile on his face. And then, just for a moment, his optics disappeared from behind his armor. The guard turned back and his optics lit red again. Ratchet snapped the mirror closed. "Those people aren’t mechs," he said. "They’re demons painted to look like mechs."

Ratchet and Drift had realized, a while back, that if you went through the effort of applying body-paint, Drift would be visible from all directions. It was useless for blending in with a crowd because they couldn’t paint over his optics, not if Drift wanted to see. And so you’d have a perfectly visible bot whose optics were pools of impenetrable darkness from every angle but one. Apparently Tarn’s DJD hadn’t found this to be a problem.

"Okay," Ratchet said. "Can someone help get me to the back entrance? I’ve got a plan."

From inside the building, the sounds of what they were doing to Drift were inescapable. Ratchet shuffled through the back hallway to his storeroom, quivering with anger. He couldn’t do anything about that yet, he had to wait. Ratchet’s tank wanted to purge itself but there was no time to waste having feelings. He had a demon to rescue.

In the dark he gathered up his supplies. Then he climbed onto the table to reach the hatch that led to the crawlspace above the ceiling. He’d spent plenty of time clambering around in here when he did the wiring for his lights and surgical equipment, but when he’d been doing all that it hadn’t mattered how much noise he made. Now what mattered most was silence and the silence let him hear all the louder what was happening downstairs.

"Do you repent, Sliver?" Tarn asked. "Do you repent for your crimes against Primus, do you welcome your damnation?"

"I already said yes," Drift stammered. "I’m a practicing spectralist, you know."

There was a crackle like an arc welder and Drift screamed again, voice ragged.

"You are nothing," Tarn hissed. "You are not fit to speak Primus’s name. You are not fit to speak. You’re place is to serve and to scream."

"Fuck you," Drift growled.

Ratchet tried to tune it out again as he reached the space over the entryway. Two slivers, watching the road and not the ceiling. Ratchet vented slowly, trying to steady himself. One of his patients, who was definitely a gunrunner, had lent him a bandolier to carry his supplies in. Ratchet took out a roll of tape, some wire and a handful of small lenses. He assembled the components of his trap first, then started lowering them into place. He started with the corner by the door - lifting one of the small ceiling tiles beneath the crawlspace and hooking the wire with the mirror taped to the bottom over the support beam. Four mirrors, suspended exactly the same distance from the ceiling. He wasn’t going to have much wiggle room. Finally, he powered on the little laser pointer he’d found and lowered it down on it’s own hook until he could see it refract off the mirror. The beam bounced from mirror to mirror and the trap closed. The slivers didn’t seem to notice, at least not yet. Ratchet moved on to the main room.

Slowly, carefully, he unscrewed a bit of ventilation piping and moved it aside so that he could use the ceiling vent as a peephole. Be strong, Ratchet. You’re going to save him. He forced himself to look.

There were a pair of light circles - one that encompassed most of the room and one that was encircling a single berth, with just enough space for a slender red and gold sliver with electricity sparking over his plating to stand at the head of the berth without exiting the circle. The other sliver was huge, larger than tarn, with an open barrel chest full of liquid metal. They were standing close, but carefully outside the circle. Tarn paced back and forth, crossing over the light beam of the inner circle with little care.

Drift was on the berth.

You could make a sliver visible by painting them, Ratchet and Drift had figured that one out on their own. Apparently you could do the same thing by pouring molten metal over their frame. Drift shook and shuddered on the berth, frame streaked with lines of grey cooled slag.

"Feeling warm yet?" Tarn asked lightly.

Drift glared at him.

Tarn snapped his fingers. "Kaon."

The sliver with the electricity powers - Ratchet’s patients had warned him about them - grabbed Drift by the finial. There was a crackle and then charge arced between Kaon’s shoulders. Drift writhed on the berth.

Ratchet focused his fury into his hands. He laid in another trap encircling the sliver with the smelter and then carefully lowered in his laser pointer. The mech didn’t seem in a hurry to move, hopefully Ratchet would have time before he noticed.

Tarn walked over to the smelter and filled a ladle with molten metal before walking back to the berth. "Sit up," he commanded.

Drift stared at him, sullenly. Tarn snapped his fingers and Kaon shocked him again. Drift still didn’t move to sit up, possibly because he couldn’t. Ratchet knew that Drift was stronger and considerably faster than most mechs, and given some of the stories Drift had alluded to from his time before Ratchet he must have been able to withstand more damage than most Cybertronians could survive. But still.

Ratchet began to mix the vials of chemicals he’d brought with him, tamping the container closed with his thumb. He needed to wait for the right moment.

"Lift him," Tarn ordered and Kaon wrapped his arm around Drift’s shoulder to shove him to a sitting position. "Would you care to tell me your name? I’m offering you one last chance to give me your name and your bond. I want you to understand - this is your very last chance. I would be happy to have you join our ranks, but if that’s not a possibility...my directive from the Prime was to purge all unholy creatures from the planet. And that I will gladly do."

Drift didn’t say anything, which Tarn clearly took as an invitation to monologue. "You might believe that you can outlast me. Primus knows you slivers can survive a great many things. I once had Tesarus grind a sliver down until it was only a head and it could still cry out in pain. But I was chosen for this role for a reason. I was forged with a gift beyond that of my peers - the ability to break any machinery, snuff out any spark, extinguish any demon. All by the power of my voice."

"That sounds about right," Drift said. "I bet most folks want to die, if they have to listen to you too long."

Tarn reached out and grabbed Drift’s face, forcing his head back. "Your name," he roared.

"Drift," Ratchet whispered, coming to a realization he should have had a long time ago.

Drift’s optics flicked towards him and Ratchet knew he was right. Drift had lied when Ratchet had first summoned him - he’d given Ratchet his actual name. The ability to order him, to bind him and to banish him. That meant that Ratchet could break the binding on Drift, right now, and he’d be able to leave Cybertron.

"I may die," Drift spat. "But I will always be his."

Tarn poured the ladle of molten metal over Drift’s face. The pain echoed through the bond to Ratchet’s spark so intensely that he thought maybe he was dying too. When he forced his optics to focus again Tarn was pacing, ladle halfway across the room where he’d apparently thrown it in a fit of rage. Kaon had released Drift and was looming over him, charge building on his plating.

That was Ratchet’s cue. He lifted his thumb off the vial in his hand and dropped it against the vent grate. Smoke poured out and a few moments later Ratchet heard the sprinklers start as the siren kicked on. Someone screamed, hopefully Kaon. Ratchet was already scrambling back towards the stockroom entrance, dragging open his own internal protocols and scorching ground as he went.

He dropped down into the stockroom in perfect silence. He’d been hoping for a pistol, but the patient who’d loaned him the bandolier had handed him off both a laser pistol and a rifle. Ratchet checked each of them again and then stomped into the main room and shot Tarn.

Tarn was armored, so he wasn’t expecting to bring him down in a single shot, but it was still disappointing to see him shrug off the shot with a shake of his head. At least Kaon and the smelter were down - Kaon on the ground, plating smoking and the smelter hammering on the invisible walls of his laser trap. But Tarn was still in play.

With his faceplate on it was very difficult to tell if Tarn was speaking. Ratchet fired another shot at him, nearly hitting him in the throat. Not that "nearly" did any good. He’d never been any good at shooting, Roller had pointed this out numerous times throughout his attempts to train him. Tarn drew his own gun and Ratchet dove behind the life-support console, feeling the shockwave from the impact against his back.

Barring some freak accident or an actual miracle, he wasn’t going to be able to bring down Tarn, Ratchet realized. Thinking otherwise had been an act of hubris, brought on by rage. Drift was too weak to even lift himself and there was no way he could stop Drift from hearing Tarn’s voice. Tarn could be killing Drift even now, and there would be no way for Ratchet to know.

There was only one option: breaking the bond so Drift could escape.

Ratchet stepped out from behind the console and fired a shot, not at Tarn but at one of the mirrors making up the circle around the berth. "Drift!" He yelled. "I order you to save yourself! Go home!"

Drift stared at him in shock. Ratchet felt a pressure on the sparkbond again, this time different than the others, a vibration of what could only be described as laughter. He looked at Ratchet and then he was gone.

Ratchet had known Drift could move more quickly than was physically possible for a Cybertronian. He hadn’t realized until he could see it in the traces of melted iron fused to his frame that Drift was using magic to do it.

Drift threw Tarn to the ground and sunk his claws into Tarn’s frame. Tarn struggled and then slowly began to melt into sintered sentio metallico. When Ratchet tore his optics away from Drift the other slivers were already gone, unbound with Tarn’s death.

Drift hauled himself to his feet and began to stagger towards Ratchet. Ratchet ran to him, digging back into his protocols to enable his hearing again. "I told you to go!" Ratchet yelled, scooping Drift up into his arms and burying his face against his chest. "I told you to go so you’d be safe."

Drift’s vocalyzer crackled and hissed, melted beyond function. But then his voice echoed against the sparkbond, perfectly clear.

>>You told me to go home, Ratchet. You’re home.<<

"What in the pits is going on?" Orion shouted, throwing the door to the clinic open. Roller staggered in behind him, looking around frantically.

Ratchet looked at them across his ruined clinic, sprinklers still pouring water from the ceiling, Drift’s mutilated frame clutched in his arms. "It’s a long story," he said. "This is my sparkmate. He’s a demon. I don’t suppose either of you have some green tourmaline on hand? I think we’re going to need all the healing energy we can get."

#dratchtember #dratchet #my fics #demon drift #no offense to folks who believe minerals have metaphysical propertise #i majored in geology #i'm contractually obligated to hate minerals jk

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inexchangeforyoursoul · 6 years

Text

finally I managed to write another short chapter lmao

18. The end of just another day (when nothing goes as planned)

Soon enough she started bouncing on the bed, which eventually earned some Law-brand righteous fury, pocket edition. Got away with a kick in the shin (which doesn't say much as he had no shoes on,) a cheek pinch, then getting pushed over with his arm over her neck. Latter was scary to be honest, considering all the junk on the floor... but she hit the mattress, so all was good. One ought to know people's limits, and Kat figures that she must have overstepped Law's twofold that day. If he could have, he would have spewed fire... truly a shrew, in and out.

For a moment she was afraid that he was legitimately mad, but manhandling her seemed to let out the steam as he returned to his usual self afterwards. Which was double the relief, really; he was being so high-strung that it made her nervous after a while, too. Must have been hung up on that little adventure in the morning still... accidentally solved that problem, didn't she. Still felt kind of bad about pissing him off, not gonna lie; her conscience made her tidy up a few spots later. This involved making heaps of stuff look neat and orderly whenever he was out to the loo. It's... some kind of a bug of hers, but she just cannot clean with someone else around.

On the other hand, though... she proceeded to waste the rest of the day by trying to get the ins and outs of this space-time manipulation she discovered instead of, you know... doing what she's supposed to. The procrastination period has officially kicked in, which is bad. Kat knows it, and yet... she cannot concentrate on this shitty practice anymore. Just after two minutes her thoughts kept wandering off. She'd rather have been cooking than sitting down there, which really shows how desperate she's become to do anything else already. Which in turn also makes her feel guilty.

Can't even think about anything else as she quits the bathroom with black hair once again. She also forgot to get the hoodie, but mayyybe she shouldn't bother Law more today... he seemed rather tired and is probably asleep already. Sigh... it must be just as cold outside as last time, will have to run for it.

Crossing the dining level, she nearly bumps into another elusive and huge man for the second time that day.

“Oh, shoot...! Sorry,” she squeaks, and is especially concerned upon seeing that he has a very big pot in his hands.

“It's alright, it's alright! Be careful, though, wouldn't want to splash you,” Fugu says with a smile, backing into a hallway to make the staircase free.

“Oh, as long as it's not hot, it really is no big deal... I keep having to remind Law that clothes are washable, actually.” Hearing that makes him break into a snort-ridden goofy laugh. “I'd be more concerned wasting some of that... soup, is it?”

“Yes, on its way to the cold-room before I get the missing bits tomorrow,” he nods. “By the by, you're welcome to eat over again, if you like.”

“Um, yeah...” She's a little embarrassed here... it's rude to just never turn up again, even if it feels off to go back to a place that has awkward memories tied to it. Especially without someone to accompany her... and she also has the unfortunate habit to avoid places she feels she hasn't visited in too long. A few of said places she liked a lot, too... just thinking about it is embarrassing. She starts picking at the hem of the tee. “Sorry for not visiting at all, it's just... there are so many people, and after what happened last time, I, uh...”

“I see, I see,” he says with an understanding sigh. “You don't have to push yourself. It will be all the more gratifying to see you pop up anyway.”

“Okay,” she breathes timidly, putting her hands together to play with her thumbs again.

“Well then, don't let me hold you up here. See you around, Miss Kat- and goodnight!” Fugu bids farewell, working his way backwards through the passage.

“Same to you!” Kat puts said hands on her mouth- whoops, her voice slipped a little too high there and broke... seems like eons since that last happened. Even though it was two days ago, and that estimation is almost pushing it.

Opening the entrance makes her forget all about that, though, because holy hell, is it freezing out here for someone in a single T-shirt. Can't stop, won't stop until barging into the ladies quarters where everyone has already gathered.

“Oh, so that's why you're late,” Nami notes in a half-hushed tone, in the process of getting under the covers. Carrot is already asleep. “Honestly, you should have kept your hair like that.”

Kat shivers one last time before moving from the entrance. “Retrospectively it really was a bad idea to wash it out right before going, because sheesh,” she breathes.

“Where did the hoodie of yours go?” Robin asks, having put on her PJs at last.

She sighs as she's patting some volume into her day-by-day flattening pile of fluff; “Forgot it... then decided against bothering Law when I got out of the bathroom, because quite frankly, he looked exhausted.” She sits down. “... and I also made him angry earlier today, so... yeah.”

“Has it anything to do with that new trick we've heard about?” Nami mumbles from her pillow.

“Not really, I was just being a pest.... although, now that you brought it up, check this out~” With that, she stands up anew, near perfectly disappearing from the environment a second later.

“That's wonderful,” Robin muses, smiling on the edge of the bed. She sprouts an arm to poke the girl in the back, to which she winces. “Your shadow is still visible, but that only adds to it.” Hearing that, Nami also lifts herself a bit to see this with her own eyes. Kat looks back to the wall where she's reflecting the light from.

“Dang, you're right...” she pouts, putting her hands on her hip; the reflection follows in kind.

“You are making these powers look like party tricks...” Nami smiles, falling back into bed. Kat is like... oh god, it's like the first incarnation of the Clima Tact. And its debut. Usopp and his stupid manual... okay, thinking about that just pissed her off. She turns onto her other side and mumbles a goodnight to everyone.

“Too bad I don't really know how any of these shadow figures work,” Kat mumbles, trying to get a rabbit right; which is, quite frankly, the only one she knew how to do years and years back. Something acceptable appears after a little fiddling around and she's content with that, dispelling the unstable aura that has become noticeable upon concentrating on the silly task of playing with shadows.

Robin's watching her with amusement. “You should show that to Carrot, I think she would appreciate it.”

“I guess so,” Kat mumbles, then lets out a really big yawn. “God, I'm also out of commission for the day... what time is it anyway? He has nothing to show the time in that hole as far as I can tell.” She squints at the corner with the clock, but the nightlight is just not doing it from this distance.”

“Just past 11,” Robin tells her, also slipping under the covers.

“That should explain it... oh well, goodnight.” Robin hums in response, and before Kat could even think about switching the light off, it's gone already. She curls up in her pile to get this sluggish show going again tomorrow. Oh boy.

As the last lights go out all across town, blown away by the cold breeze like candles, and the only thing resounding near and far is the rumble of the sea and a melancholy violin solo from the very ship Kat is on, three figures could be spied near the docks. If someone were to see them, the only thing they could make out was that two of them were quite tall, and one of these two was also wearing something furry and shaggy, not unlike the costumes popular on this festival taking place.

“I'll be damned, Baltazar wasn't kidding...” the tallest one mumbles. Definitely a man. “These fools really are loitering here, a week later.”

“So... what's the plan?” the really deep voice of the not-quite bushoo inquires.

The other grunt-sighs. “... it's too obvious that I'm tempted, huh? Why else would I have insisted on preparing you all for this specific target, anyway... But first, let's see what we can do for our friend Gambo and the boys. I owe the man one, after all,” he thinks aloud. After a few seconds of contemplation, he arrives at a conclusion. “If the security will be too tight or risky, it is what it is. In that case, we could go and have some fun instead. What do you say?”

#KMKY #Kate writes #it's around 1.5k words

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forestbathing-studies-blog · 7 years

Text

. the effects of fire, human clearance and grazing probably limited forest cover to about 50% of the land area of Scotland even at its maximum. The stock of woodland declined alarmingly during the First World War and at the end of the war the Acland Report recommended that Britain should secure a strategic reserve of timber. The Forestry Commission was formed to meet this need. State forest parks were established in 1935.[10][11][12][4]

Emergency felling controls had been introduced in the First and Second World Wars, and these were made permanent in the Forestry Act 1951. Landowners were also given financial incentives to devote land to forests under the Dedication Scheme, which in 1981 became the Forestry Grant Scheme. By the early 1970s, the annual rate of planting exceeded 40,000 hectares (99,000 acres) per annum. Most of this planting comprised fast-growing conifers. Later in the century the balance shifted, with fewer than 20,000 hectares (49,000 acres) per annum being planted during the 1990s, but broadleaf planting actually increased, exceeding 1,000 hectares (2,500 acres) per year in 1987. By the mid-1990s, more than half of new planting was broadleaf.[7][13]

Historical woodland cover of England. The Domesday Book of 1086 indicated cover of 15%, "but significant loss of woodland started over four thousand years ago in prehistory". By the beginning of the 20th century this had dropped to 5%. The government believes 12% can be reached again by 2060.[14]

In 1988, the Woodland Grant Scheme replaced the Forestry Grant Scheme, paying nearly twice as much for broadleaf woodland as conifers. (In England, the Woodland Grant Scheme was subsequently replaced by the English Woodland Grant Scheme, which operates six separate kinds of grant for forestry projects.)[15][16] That year, the Farm Woodlands Scheme was also introduced, and replaced by the Farm Woodland Premium Scheme in 1992.[17] In the 1990s, a programme of afforestation resulted in the establishment of Community Forests and the National Forest, which celebrated the planting of its seven millionth tree in 2006

The writer must seek isolation, whether he or she likes it or not. So I walk through the forests and hills back to my train, marveling that yet again I found my way. Through Matsuo Bashō, veritable father of haiku, we learn that the true writer does not lead a sedentary life, and indeed must walk in order to express his or her syllables. Bashō walked for 156 days through Japan in his legendary 'Deep Road to the Far North' series of haibun that defined the term. Japan still remains a heavily forested country – at least 70% of the surface is forested. By doing so Bashō also demonstrated that the true haiku and haibun haijin’s tool is not the pen but the wooden staff. Not only does this staff lift branches and part bushes to see the dew drops and flower petals, but it can also be leant on when searching the sky for floating eagles, patterned clouds and drifting cherry blossoms. The wooden staff also taps haiku on a road perfectly, like a variant of morse code to nature; ”win—ter…is…o—ver…my…staff…is…carved…dog…barks…to…each…tap.”

A haibun journey is a pilgrimage, where what happens on the way makes the destination. And the wanderer is not only Quixotic in his, or her nature. A sword of any kind must therefore be put aside for other quests. As haibun merely take from what is walked through on paths onto lines on pages, and a blade only serves to distance the reader from the writer's words. The semiotic staff therefore takes on even more symbolic meaning.

wooden staff— reflected in the shine of samurai sword

Not Don Quixote, nor wandering samurai, then what? Like the Navajo in the south western states, who use wooden tools on mother earth lest they leave scars, I don’t set out to make an impression that might not heal.

samurai’s sword slices candle still stands, and burns and yet…

http://fractalenlightenment.com/16617/life/walk-in-the-forest-to-heal-oneself

Forest holidays. Saudi Arabia date plantation Hofuf Finland

I long for nature’s products. Not the creams from companies with names like Natura, or Flower, Plantigen, with pictures of flowers or berries on the front, and packed with goodness knows what chemicals in a plastic container ultimately destined for the garbage dump. Lies on the cover and junk in the container. Thank goodness we are finally waking up to the dangers of antibacterial soap and hand gel. And the lack of contact with germs may actually be much more harmful in the long run than we think.

When my copper shop was in full swing before it collapsed and went bust, we were trying to persuade health authorities to change door handles, kidney bowls, keyboards and other items to copper surfaces. There is no better antimicrobal surface in the world. None. Southampton hospital is changing door handles to copper or brass ones — brass is a copper alloy. If all hospitals in GB did the same it is estimated 20,000 lives a year would be saved. That is a serious estimate. Of course more lives would be saved if doctors did not wear ties, which hang down on one patient then onto the next.

We also developed an entirely natural gel we called Yakutia ● Copper Honey, then Yakutia ● Copper Dew, put into aluminium tins. Medical organisations use zinc creams for scar tissue reparation — and zinc shares very similiar properties as copper, except that these days copper receives controversial press. It didn’t use to. Traditionally copper buckets stored water and kept it fresh, and traditionally, and accordingly, many less people suffered from arthritis. When I take part in my pilgrimage through Siberia, with no destination, I wear copper insoles in my boots. I want a woolen sweater, not the popular fleece, which has plastic fibres now found in fish from the world’s oceans. I won’t wear the garish coloured technical performance sports shirts that are specially designed for people not on pilgrimages, but rather a hemp shirt and jute bag, both that grow naturally without draining an area of water like cotton does. I long to be properly back in touch with nature.

sunlit waterfall in my wooden cup the taste of a rainbow

I walked for hours, a little of it in the light of dusk, for in Siberia at this time of the year, now that we have passed through the longest night, we now get dusklight for a few minutes a day. I thought some of the snow had melted, and stepped out into the whiteness with less forbearance than usual. But I was misled by my windowpane and it's view, and that in fact between the footprints in the snow lay patches patches of dark, expressionless ice. We are in January. The sun will not rise until 11.00 am and the snow will not melt until June, so what was I thinking about? The deer have not even taken to the ice yet; they can smell the water, and they are still digging in the snow for the last of the Autumn roots, destroying the forests say the rich landowners, but they despise reindeer herders.

The sun will set just after 2:00 pm, though in fact it never really rises over the horizon anymore, but at least it will rise earlier and set later, and then we will no longer remember the almost total darkness for a few weeks, twenty four hours a day. During those days sanity is not a given, but a conscious choice, like an oxygen mask a diver consciously keeps strapped tight as he descends into the depths, ever tempted though, to succumb to the belief that he can breathe in the deep blue, like those here believe they can survive winter with a bottle and by keeping their watch off, or that they can walk home alone without being tied to another, so that in a blizzard they will only be found the next morning, if it is morning. The mist swirls around me like yesterday's troubles and tomorrow's uncertainties, making the horizon, like time, blurred. I am reminded of The Beatles, and The Glass Onion, and hum it without soul, ‛We fooled you all, the walrus was Paul..’ Winter goes on and on, motionless, humourless, and no longer virginal.

I arrived at my destination at dusk to pay a visit to a family of Bosnian refugees I knew from the old days. Arriving at dusk means arrived at about 1.45 pm and stayed for a cup of coffee, then set off for my train station again, for hours of walking in the winter dark can be a risky affair if one stumbles.

So why did you come so far

‛So why did you come so far, all my daughters are married!’ joked my Bosnian friend.

‛I’m on a haibun pilgrimage,’ I said, ‛walk, write, walk, write.’

He paused, nodding his head and stroking his chin: ‛Pilgrims and refugees are both the same,’ he said.

northern lights at the edge of the city nature whispers in colour

pots, pans and unknown medical cures. But not everyone is only a trader. A Siberian ethnic Yakut, distinguished by his weatherbeaten Asiatic features and headband takes my photograph on an old Kiev medium format camera, spending time to get the composition just right as I sit on my jute duffel bag. He tells me he can send me the photo, in black and white, if I give him my address. I tell him it is ok. I enjoyed my brief stint at fame and don’t need to physically possess the moment.

‛You have a Yakut heart!’ he laughs, confirming my guess at his ethnicity. They say that we are only ever six persons away from knowing any person on this planet, or there are six degrees of separation between us, so that a mazimum of six steps can be used to connect any two persons. The average distance of 1,500 random users in Twitter is 3.435 degrees. I scan the station. The possibilities seem almost endless.

sunlight through windows an orchestra of voices a beautiful departure!

Who has heard of Toliatti and its gulags? About 15 years ago I drank a glass or two of homemade wine on a front porch, with a retired postman who’d walked home from Toliatti, on the Volga. Yes, that’s right, he didn’t walk inToliatti, but from the non-descript decrepid town somewhere on a trainline in the middle of Russia.

Delivering the post had been his job — to the Hungarian eighth army who had invaded the Soviet Union in support of German troops during the Second World War, a not inconsequential fact when you consider the Russian/Soviet determination to ensure that did not happen again by creating the Warsaw Pact countries.

But János delivered mail. He collected it from the train, or trucks and delivered it to the front line troops. This is a more important role than it first appears, for a man cannot fight without news that has loved ones are well.

And love was what made János walk. In the middle of the Second War and the middle of Toliatti, János delivered his mail and kept walking. He walked out of Toliatti, next to the Volga, along the trainline, then through the taiga, through the trees, over the hills, across the river and in the meadows. He walked, and walked and walked, all the way back to Eastern Hungary, to the wine-growing town of Tokaj, back to his wife.

When he arrived back, he discovered his sister-in-law had been taken away, just taken to the gulags. So he turned around and walked, attempting to find her, somewhere in the hugeness that was Siberia. He never found out what happened to her, and only had stories of the bitter cold, and equally bitter sense of defeat.

As I sat in Tokaj, Eastern Hungary, drinking his delicious homemade wine, which he kept in his wine cellar dug into the hillside, I noticed her picture hanging on the wall; a beautiful young woman, the portrait soft in the evening glow. They never saw her again.

János spoke no English but the wine talked. We shared many a glass, glancing at the portrait of the young woman who died in the gulag.

sentenced somewhere deep in Siberia —memories make grapes grow

Fellow Travellers 1

American travellers busy sewing or sticking flags of Canada to bags and shirts is legendary and has almost become de rigeur. It is rare, however, that being an American is alone an offense, and cetainly not in Siberia. All the same, the three Americans across from me are very busy plastering Canadian patches on bags and clothing, before practicing the accent with a loy of lilted ‛ays.’

‛I am not sure all the matriachical train station guards in the small towns along the railroad tracks will spot the difference,’ I say.

‛Hey man, you gotta do what you gotta do,’ says one of the three,

‛Where’s Snowden anyway?’ says the other male, ‛I’d like to meet him, maybe even bring him in. There must be some kind of reward.’

‛Well, Canadians wouldn’t be saying that,’ I said, ‛and you never know what kind of microphones they have on trains.’

The two American males went quiet in contemplation, a silence broken only by the pretty sight of the slipping out of her flip flops and painting her toenails bright red.

‛I’d do this in the bathroom normally,’ she chuckled.

She was from Florida, and wasn’t exactly sure where the train was heading.

‛All the way to Vladivostok,’ I answered.

‛And no cute guys,’ she said.

She was good-looking in a disharming sort of way, with strawberry blonde hair, but as such did not stand out in the carriage, aside from her flip flops which set her apart from the high heels worn by the Russian women on the train. Inside the compartment it was too warm as usual in eastern Europe, but most passengers kept their sweaters on regardless, as if judging the temperature by the view outside, where patches of snow flashed by under the fir trees.

Linda put her heels on the seat beside me across from where she sat. ‛I could paint a little white maple leaf on,’ she giggled.

At a small station her two friends dashed off to restock on food, eschewing the fresh pine pastries being sold from baskets on the platform and buying instead overpriced stale buns in plastic packets from the buffet.

‛They even asked if we were American, man,’ said the taller of the two returning.

‛Only the mosquitoes weren't fooled,’ said the other.

http://www.myminnesotawoods.umn.edu/2012/03/the-memory-of-trees-in-a-modern-climate-epigenetics/

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3586649/

I learn two things today. First that the population of Perm and the surrounding area are the closest of the Irish along with the Basque in Spain and France.

But I also find out that about 150,000 inmates were imprisoned in more than 150 camps in the Perm region during the late 1940s. This was about a third of the working population of the region.

Perm-36 Labour Camp

Daily Schedule of a Gulag Prisoner Time Activity

6:00 AM Wake up call

6:30 AM Breakfast

7:00 AM Roll-call

7:30 AM1 1/2 hour to march to forests, under guarded escort

6:00 PM1 1/2 hour return march to camp

7:30 PM Dinner

8:00 PM After-dinner camp work duties (chop firewood, shovel snow, gardening, road repair, etc.)

11:00 PM Lights out

Yekatinberg

We are on a journey this month, my partners and I, through Siberia, though the further down the train tracks we travel, the more opens behind us. I, myself, am searching for the Russian soul, that unique, raw soul, with all its flaws worn on its sleeve, where the vodka spills.

Today, we are in Yekatinberg, in the footsteps of Coelho’s words and of the Urals. I feel immediately at home stopping here on this journey, among these mountains outside Yekatinberg’s eastern balconies in pine-scented forests again. I am not a man of the pencil line horizon. So I walk upwards, to the nearest peak, to compose my haiku.

high in mountain forests where even shadows don’t reach nature inspires through silence

Tyumen

In Siberia at last, home to so many who live with nature. Winter is when traps are laid, and fresh water comes from holes dug deep in the ice. Soon the bears will be out again, and hungry, though a bear makes fine food. It is not possible to chase them away when fishing. They will always come back, so must be shot.

In a few months the leaves will shimmer in the breeze. In Tyumen I will only see the fort from far. I feel at home among the birch and pine trees.

Tyumen fort shines at night but I shine among the birch trees that rustle with such longing

pine trees gently sway is it the wind blowing or is it my mind?

I looked over at Linda, now applying another colour of nailpolish. I imaged her taking a few barefoot steps with snow melting.

she walks in the snow until the grass at the edge of spring

early blossoms are late how thoughtless yet another haiku about snow

Acrobats

I have come to the singular conclusion that a view must be merited, that it is a right that must be earned, and that this should be our quest. Working hard for a view of the world does not mean the same as slaving away for years for a front porch, in order to be able to sit there, gazing endlessly across a stretch that slowly develops into other front porches. On the contrary.

across river Ob endless taiga nothing else matters

For four hundred years thousands of mammoth tusks have been found in Siberia, from mammoths almost intact, with many organs perfectly frozen and stomachs half full of food - at times the blood still viscuous due to the 'anti-freeze' components found in the blood, so called cryptoprotective properties, as in Arctic amphibians and fish. But why so many in Siberia remains a real mystery. Why did millions of the woolly mammoth move to the cold in Siberia, and how did they die so quickly after eating? Did a massive cold front move suddenly from the Arctic? That would be a climatic condition that does not exist today. If this is the case, it would have been very cold - freezing a mammoth suddenly and quickly is no easy thing at all. It would have taken temperatures as low as -100C. The mystery is far from solved...

fifty thousand mammoth tusks found deep in Yakutia I step on ancients

Novosibirsk

with all its philosophical and spiritual messages. One of the messages is the exploration of Tengriism, which will happen here on this blog to further depth over the next few days, as our train ride through Siberia continues.

Some you reading this have shaman blood, but you do not know it – yet. I once journeyed with a shaman, taking an inner journey as well one that saw many miles rush under wheels. In many ways I am still on that journey, though already I miss my log cabin of an ever-deepening late winter, the dry, powdery cold and morning ice crystals on the window panes playing with light as I stumble around getting breakfast after yet another night without vodka and morning without hangover.'

I find the coffee, and now feel like the luckiest man alive, with Yenisei on the journey too, and the opportunity to roast some coffee on the charcoal dawn fire and serve it to her, as she purrs herself awake and unwraps herself, naked, from the fur.

charcoal from the embers she becomes my winter tiger nude and hot with stripes

I find it difficult in Novosibirsk, the capital of Siberia, and do not need to be in the capital of anywhere. Soon she will show me how to draw the birch sap from the trees, and I will literally taste the taiga.

within a ring of fire a story is warmed deep in Siberia

Yenisei

among the pine trees only one set of footprints- mine

It is a long way. Much of the railroad has been laid by the bare hands of prisoners from labour camps, whose prison was Siberia itself. Gulags rarely needed fences or guard towers. Escapees were never going to get far. And the railroad still crushes the bones of those who perished building it.

Not everyone who laid down rail lines in Siberia was a prisoner. Many volunteered, and even stayed afterwards. Those people have a special inner peace about them. An understanding of nature, and a deep respect, too. They are people who prefer the numbing colds of winter to the pleasant summers, full of unforeseen dangers and reckless laziness.

Winter is a time when travel is often easier, across solid lakes and rivers and through frozen forests. It is a time when hospitality is offered, and when bears are not around near villages, nor dangerous ticks and bothersome mosquitos in swampy, muddy forests.

And life is more bare in winter, survival more of a test. It is first an appalling mix for the novice, but soon an appealing one. The sense of freedom is like nothing ever experienced elsewhere, and maybe all the more so because it is worked so hard for.

Freedom in the land of gulags. It is an interesting thought. But for all its history of brutality and horror, Siberia is a vast, mystical land, of shamans who reach where the church or mosque doesn't, and where temperature plunges so low that cement or metal foundations of buildings are useless next to the hardy wooden ones of the taiga, thus proving, once again that nature wins.

inhaling pine scent calmed by the breeze rustling trees spirits of the wild

A Prophecy

Up near the Arctic Circle, there is magic afoot at this time. We know here, that Santa was a shaman in his big black boots, collecting the Fly Agraic mushroom, red with white dots from the forest, and feeding it to his reindeer then drinking the mix when their livers had removed the toxins, or putting them in a big sack and later hanging them to dry above the fireplace. And these magic mushrooms that grow under the fir trees, with ethereal fertilisation, are symbolised now with the draping of silver-coloured tinsel over the so-called Christmas tree, in reality the world tree, the tinsel symbolising sperm.

Of course, after eating the magic mushrooms the deer fly, and Santa laughs, with red cheeks. The Siberian tribal and Saami people's myth of the world tree is real. If you would like to treat yourself to one of these mushrooms, make sure you boil it first, unless you have any reindeer around. And then come North, and see our northern lights, and watch, touch our magic, none-materialistic world. Just remember the Swedish saying, 'there is no cold weather, only cold clothes.'

northern lights the magic world speaks shaman inspired

Therapy from another culture

Almaty

If I remember right, when I was working in Kazakhstan, I measured the country to be as wide as Ukraine to Portugal. Hearts pretty much as wide too.

For Kazakhs, hospitality is a tradition learnt from deep within. A guest into a Kazakh home is welcomed with a cup of Kazakh tea; fragant, with indefinable and potent herbs — potent because there must be something in it to have your mind soon dreaming of never ‘’returning home’’, and of putting your own yurt in the grasslands next to the forested mountains.

It is a country of the future, possibly to rank alongside China and Brazil. Sudden new buildings seem to slide up from nowhere, almost, in the bare steppes of Northern Kazakhstan, in the new capital Astana. Almaty retains its former grandeur as capital, greatly aided by the mountains around it, where cool pine trees border paths. Yet each building’s modern, intricate design often reflects a homage to the past. The golden egg building is one, with the Kazakh theme of start of civilisation, and other buildings use much of the Kazakh connection to wildlife and nature as influence.

But I worked far from Astana, at an oil refinery near Tengiz, in Eastern Kazakhstan, somewhere far from anywhere. In the evenings the Kazakh women of the base (proud, as Kazakh women are the only Muslem women who do not wear the hijab, or cover their heads, and more Kazakh women are in upper management positions than in North America) would sometimes perform Kazakh folklore, wearing traditional dress and playing local instruments.

Here is one thing I learnt which I want to share here, as it works: After eating we stood upKazakhs briefly bring their open hands up to their cheeks or neck, flat palms facing the body and about 2'’ or 5 cms or so away from the body. They bring their palms down slowly past the chest down past the stomach and then away from their body in a wide downward movement. The action takes about 5 seconds, and can be repeated. It can also be done at any time, though definitely works well after eating: without any question of a doubt it aids digestion and brings a relaxed, yet ‘’perked-up’’ feeling.

When I tried to climb the Mont Blanc I remember when I took my gloves off, to try to keep the tent pegged into the glacier during a blizzard. I could barely move my fingers. And that was in July in France, in weather so cold I suppose there should not have been a blizzard, except maybe it wasn't. The wind was howling so strongly it may have just looked like one. It swept away my foam mattress, too, which made for a very difficult night, and movement was not possible in waist deep snow and a cliff edge somewhere, even with a headlamp.

in the taiga I long for no more than taiga

Stragglers are we. Thousands of miles over kilometres of bones. All for what? Sometimes, like now, its good to get off before the end of the journey, then the journey does not end.

The traps are set. The night is young. The snow is fresh. I’ve seen the tracks. The conditions are difficult for the elk right now. The snow is not strong enough to support elks, so they often get stuck, making easy meat for hungry wolves and awakening bears. And an elk, or caribou in north America, can provide food for a long time.

Good. I am nearly all out of frozen fish. I set off this morning into the cold snap, lowering temperatures now hovering at minus twenty two degrees. The cat is huddled on the bed in the cabin and frozen wood has been placed onto the fire. I could do with a cup of tea but will have one when I get back.

long polar winter no sunrise or sunset not asleep not awake

Shamans

Shamans, in yurts, teepees, chant their song Resounding rhythm flowing, to the drum Echoes tapped across the wintry sun ☼ And the sun, a pale echo Tipped so far from the horizon in its trance That the snow shines only by moonlight ☼ While the signs that show Spring has come Are still the sounds of the Shaman's drum The shaman, her eyes lit by fire, the yurt by song ☼ So dance, beauty, dance, dance until the sun rises For soon you will chance upon fields of fresh flowers And lie in meadows perfumed by long-melted snows

The Road of Bones

On the Road of Bones you never travel alone. Here breath suddenly freezes, and drops in tiny fragments, tinkling like a wind chime. In this cold words travel no further than a few feet, and they say words themselves freeze when the temperature drops far enough to make metal crack. This is the notorious road built by the prisoners of the Gulags, the torture camps.The road stretches to Magadan on the Pacific ocean, from Yakutsk in Yakutia, a vast mysterious republic within the even larger emptiness of Siberia. A republic that would be the eighth largest country in the world if fully independent, with a population of just 1 Million.

Here in Yakutia the temperature can plunge to -60C, rendering the road a gamble that only those needing to escape a misdemeanor take, or those imbibed with a certain madness. But who would go in summer, when the mud and mosquitoes make escape well nigh impossible and madness well nigh sure?

So the best time to go is in late winter, before the melting of snow and floods, when the cold is loosening its bitter grip - but even then it is dangerous, for when the temperature rises it begins to snow heavily again, after being too cold to snow during the winter months. And the wolves are hungry by then. And I mean hungry. Last winter a pack of 400 wolves killed 300 horses before they were finally driven away. But we gamble. We leave behind the rugged Yakutians who want us to stay until June, the summer solstice, and the start of the new year in Yakutia, when the republic is full of festivities, and greets the rising sun in the morning as one. We take the Road of Bones, where if voices have really frozen then the painful sounds of the Gulag prisoners is best not heard during the thaw if one is to keep one's sanity.

sun rises ice on pines tinkles in breeze drum - snow from branch hits ground

Ulan Ude is near the Mongolia I always wanted to walk through, and the Kazakhstan I know and like so much. Kazakhstan, perhaps the most tolerant country in the world.

All our thoughts are different in Ulan Ude. It is a chance to explore the Buddhist nature that lies within each of us. I sit facing the last of the taiga, the last birch tree, and compose my haiku.

pine needles make a comfortable rest oh! stinging ants!

And I return to the train. The Tran-Siberian, and stare at the early morning dawn.

Mud

I have seen the draining mud. Like many I played in the creeks for endless childhood hours, vagrantly defying, yet again, rules about set dinner times and sleep in my fantasy of youth, captured and explained now only in my imagination.

But I knew then, as part of my defiance, that mud is glorious, and a natural plaything. In the childhood of our civilisation we knew that too. When I walked the River Nile and sat with villagers for tea they still complained, years later, about the lack of life-giving floods, that used to provide nutrients to the parched and starved land, now changed in the name of control and real estate by the river, but for the select few.

And sitting in fountain square, in Baku, Azerbaijan, I learn from my Bengali friend, recently escaped from the latest Bangladesh flooding, how harmful the dykes and walls we built through the past generations have been, how these blockades were cleverly-designed to contain the rising waters from the Himalayas. Now the rivers rise no more. They spill, and rush over the walls suddenly, when there is barrier no more at a certain height, a masse of water spreading miles wide, all at once.

It is perhaps the same people who always carry umbrellas who conceive of the notion of blocking nature, the ones who want to disinfect themselves from the pleasure of kicking a puddle just to see. They, the seekers of sand beach and cement house can only think vertically, and can only watch a sunset from the umpteenth floor of an office insulated from the earth where it sprouted.

In the creek across a field now of memories I too made little boats from leaves and twigs and watched them float downriver slowly, or more quickly when the rains came. The creek, like my childhood, is no more, and the skill of building the best tiny boat has gone too, from lack of practice or opportunity, replaced instead by plastic models bought with cereal packs full of the latest ways of modifying taste.

But my memories are still fashioned by twigs and trees and leaves, by not avoiding puddles and staying away from the concrete of car-strewn streets wherever I can.

after the storm colourful pieces of sky in mud puddles

The Gobi

When I arrived in Baku 15 years ago, I spent the first night in a caravanserai. There, I bought a chain; a set of prayer beads, in turquoise stone. I say 'bought' but I had no local Manats, the Azeri currency.

"No problem," said the street sales man, "pay me when you see me next."

A few weeks later I saw him, in a crowd surrounding the then president Aliev's walk though the old town, near the caravanserai. I paid him, and thus became part of the mutual trust we shared for each other.

in a caravanserai on the edge of the orient I told my own fortune

Chita

I did what he asked, and only opened the small rice paper holding his three lines a few moments ago, in order to finish my passage with the haiku. It was written in Buriat script, so I was forced to call upon a Mongolian friend far in Mongolia, in Ulan Baator, to perhaps translate it. He could not, but in turn called his friend living in northern Mongolia, a Buriat living near Chita, in Ereentsav, to help. His friend told me he had a pair of Buriat winter boots he was sure I might like, and very useful for the cold Lappland winters. In turn I remembered my gortex jacket, bought once in a mountain town but too small for me, and promised to forward it.

The haiku he wrote

rain tinged with sand the storm brings dust from the steppes grasslands lands among me

We often talk about taking the train, but of course, the train takes you, just like a dream does. Everytime one steps up the steps of a train carriage, one steps into a dream.

on the train deep into the soul of Siberia we share bread and dreams

The ice patterns blown onto plants are more beautiful than the flowers that briefly bloom in summer, and more fragile. But my journey into Siberia brought me equally tender and graceful moments. They are moments on the landscape of my mind that is the memory of a journey, ever eastwards from Moscow. We passed through many temples that passed through different moments in history themselves, and are in reality only remnants, reminders of former days and ideas. For the true Siberian religion is shamanism, and it is not possible to travel through the Siberian taiga without meeting a shaman, and without taking another journey into the spirit world without one of the shamans encountered on a muddy village path, or up in a grassland meadow.

I know shamanism well from the Saami people in Lappland, and indeed fell in love with a shaman once, and travelled far with her. But that is a story I have recounted elsewhere. Still now, though, I find female shamans are able to reach further into the sky, and shamanism is a part of Tengriism, with its spiritual home of Kazakhstan, but also Yakutia, in the north.Tengriism is the religion or philosophy of open spaces. No traveller or journey man or woman can remain untouched by its simple and compelling spirituality.

to know your path follow the shadows of the tracks above you

Amur

Amur sounds like 'Amour' in French, which means Love, and is a most-fitting theme as we near the end of our journey. Amur, love, mila, in Latvian, uthando, in Zulu, liubav, beautifully, in Croatian, like Russian. And then I remember it is 'rakkaus,' embarrassingly, in Finnish, and I understand the lack of romance in that country, that I left behind in my thoughts. In Swahili it is upendo, Polish miłość, echoing somewhat nearby Latvia. In Javanese it is katrasen, which disappoints somewhat. In Khmer it looks the nicest, ក្ដីស្រឡាញ់, and I think of languages like Persian, Arabic, Japanese and Mandarin, and their beautiful calligraphy, and reflect on how important that art is.

I look at the flow of the Amur, nature's caligraphy, alive, moving, even though frozen on the surface now. But it is underneath that I took my journey, that we took our train into Siberia. I know I will be back. Back to watch the sun rise over the sparkling untouched snow, and carve its rays through the trees of the taiga, when I will be able to unwrap my haiku by hand with my wooden staff, onto the sandy banks of the river that sounds like love to some.

haiku not yet inscribed -promised for a return journey then drained into sand

There is always one person willing and able to break the mold, one who has that rebellious soul, and sometimes I am lucky enough to meet them. Each time I do, I recognise that innate need to step forward, or even sideways, to walk out of step or in another direction. They carry me. For them I will do everything, and they are much more rare than you think. They are not the ones who tell you they speak their own mind in a self-satisfied grin, but are instead the ones of small gestures at significant moments.

There was the Russian soldier I knew who had served in the Gobi desert and Afghanistan, who had a permanent karate tic, that is to say he was always chopping the air suddenly, in supermarkets and other not-natural karate chop environments.

We lived together, rather ludicrously, in the Russian embassy in Budapest - a long story if there ever was one, and our job was a little more ludicrous; to look after some high-spending Ukrainian teenage girls who thought we were the two most uncool people walking the civilised streets of bourbonville, but as they seemed impeccably connected all the way up to president Yeltsin of Russia, we remained uncoolly present, and very uncool to any cool young men who approached them, which made us even more uncool in the Ukrainian pink-outfitted teenage eyes, which further developed my Russian ex-soldier friend's karate tic, and wiped supermarket shelves of produce alongside the Danube river that cuts Buda from Pest. Those were uncommon days.

Three years later he called me from Korea, where he was studying ancient medicine similar to acupuncture, but with tiny burning pots, to congratulate me on the birth of my first daughter of three in Aberdeen, Scotland. How he got my number, or knew where I was, who knows.

there are people to meet while we walk that make it important to walk

one eagle in the blue sky

one wolf among the trees

one heart beat

hawk flies free but hunts for his master who feeds him

Vladivostok

Vladovostok is the kind of city I would like to arrive in at dawn. There has always been something fascinating about this last city on a train line one could start in Portugal if one so desired, and finish here, with a few waits on station platforms in-between.

In Vladivostok we are near the North Korean border but also near to Japan. Imagine, though, travelling through the whole of Russia, of Siberia, and arriving here, in this mysterious city. One does not immediately think of beginning another journey, and on the Trans Siberian we skirt close to Mongolia, Kazakhstan and Kyrgystan, they must be experienced too.

For now I would be satisfied to sit on a bench facing the Pacific. And I remember Irina, in Western Ukraine in 1991, joking with me about coming on the Trans Siberian, when the price was a carton of Malboro cigarettes, and smiling when I said "Vladivostok or bust!"

hello Irina! I am here at last, facing the sea -without you

her beauty

thousands of miles away

in the immediacy of my mind

It is said the if Bill Gates needed to assign someone to a complex, arduous project, he would give it to a lazy person, because they would simplify it to the easiest level.

Edward de Bono advocated an even easier step; including random factors into the problem to force thought patterns that are not the norm. Costs too high? Here, bring them down using this orange in the equation. Travel does that. Each next corner is different, and therefore subject to creativity and inspiration.

Into Ukraine

I dream of wheatfields, golden, waving slowly in the breeze, the sky spotless, and so blue, of embroidered sleeves, fingers with cherry red nailpolish ripping a chunk of bread, and dippping it in salt before handing it to me. I dream of mountains where carts trundle up mountain lanes, and pastures are decorated with haystacks yielding to the horizon, and pine trees linger next to their aroma on mountain paths. I dream of the Black Sea, in a world where simple enjoyments still have a meaning, of shashlik, of people who have endured a history not many in Europe have, yet remain proud of their almost unique hospitality.

On a geography field trip to Hyères, in the south of France late at night I stood in the sea. Technically, it was not part of the official activities of the school trip, and I stood in nothing except the sea, having removed bathing trunks. My Ukrainian classmate had lifted her flowery skirt up her thighs and walked in, as close to me as she dared raise her skirt, and beckoned. In the sea at waist height, each step was precious, but I joined her, and in fact she let the hems of her skirt drop down as we kissed, and I both learnt about and felt the passion of the Ukraine.

Years later, when I took a troop of Ukrainian college actors around Eastern Europe with a play I had written, called 'How to catch a man,' a tragicomedy, I stayed on to teach a while in a Western Ukraine fresh from the dissolved Soviet Union, and was seduced by the rustic charm of the Carpathian mountains, the people of which I knew as market traders in various countries on the border – in Hungary, Slovakia, Poland and what is now Serbia, selling all their household belongings in that turbulent era, rugs, shawls, knives, forks, samovars, skis, toothbrushes, jams that exploded from jars, barometres crafted in solid wood and gas masks from a variety of wars.

I bought the ornate samovars, plates, barometres and jugs, and an orange-coloured wine, which I sampled in the middle of a street with my Californian Chuck Norris-like US Peace Corps pal, newly returned from a tour of the country himself, in which he'd stayed with gypsies and nearly returned married. So thrilled was I with Ukraine, even its dangerous mafia, that I planned to set up a business in Sevastopol. It never happened, but I visited Odessa and L'viv, and of course Kiev, and now approaching a grey and silver age, I knew I had to again visit the country that had been so much in the news and in my life. and as we drove towards the border I sat note book in hand, pen ready, I felt the exitement of journeys old, and this one, new, to a country that had sealed my interest with its first kiss, thigh-deep on a beach at midnight in the south of France, all those years ago.

She returned to the Ukraine from Canada, as some maybe do.

`Ah, well done man!´ I said, in tailor-ruffled white suit, as my fifth piece of luggage, a large heavy chest, was pulled off the steam train onto a platform, where it landed with a clunk. `Smoothly fielded! After all, its full of champers!´

I did not really say that, and only thought it, but then that was really for a start to yet another novel without end, frequent notes in my pockets and bags, like train tickets from long-forgotten journeys with all-too temporary aims.

I would have taken my travels like that in another epoch no doubt, and somehow a travel book set in most eras including this one seem to lend themselves to the romanticm of travel that somehow quickly fizzles out in the reality of plastic bag-lumered crowds waiting at airports around the yet again the same branded fast food joints and industrial beers or that drink that still symbolised freedom in much of Eastern Europe in the early 1990s: Coca Cola.

Thirty years ago, after my first midnight kiss, I would have arrived romantically by train, had the Ukrainian girl herself been foolhardy enough to return to her motherland with me, thus following up on a challenge she had issued. But instead she headed off to Canada, and when I crossed the border in 1991 it was with other teachers in a tiny minivan, and took an hour to scrape through, as one did in Eastern European borders at that time.

This time we arrived by car, with author and photographer Ese Kļava as my translator and journey companion, though having read her fascinating book, Butterfly Thy Name, I was worried if I could pull off the literary conversation that might arise, as well as the raw intimacy that could be covered should her book be broached, which covered her innermost desires, all substantially more revealing than my baptising Ukrainian midnight kiss.

Ese was disarmingly frank. `I have an idea that half Ukrainian, half Georgian would be an exciting, exotic mix,´ she declared.

I met Ese in Burgas, Bulgaria, where she was writing her current bestseller.

`I think will need to base my main character on you,´ she said by way of introduction, `as we'll be spending time together.´

`But you'll have to drop your pants. It 's an integral part of the book.´

`And an integral part of me,´ I said.

`I'll use that line if you're not careful!´ she said.

While I proofread her manuscript she drove up through Bulgaria.

Ese was disarmingly frank. `I have an idea that half Ukrainian, half Georgian would be an exciting, exotic mix,´ she declared.

I met Ese in Burgas, Bulgaria, where she was writing her current bestseller.

`I think will need to base my main character on you,´ she said by way of introduction, `as we'll be spending time together.´

`But you'll have to drop your pants. It 's an integral part of the book.´

`And an integral part of me,´ I said.

`I'll use that line if you're not careful!´ she said.

While I proofread her manuscript she drove up through Bulgaria.

Starý Smokovec was the ideal writer’s retreat. A small town in the Tatra mountains, with clean air, not too much to do except walk, and write, a language that I did not understand but was charming to the ear, and prices that meant I was able to concentrate on the book without worrying about where my next meal would come from.

The Tatra mountains were just right for the writer — easily accessible but out of the way, with those great mountain hikes and lubrication. Even the tea was good. I wrote in all seasons, in chalets and pensions and bars, over garlic soup, cheese and bread. I took trips to Moldavia, in the new Czech Republic, just as Dubček, one of the architects of the 1968 Prague Spring died in a mysterious car crash. I took trips down to Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia, where I travelled with false documents as the Serbs in Belgrade tried to get rid of Milosovic and his Lady Macbeth, until the Serb police got rid of me.

Despite an ex-boxer prime minister who arranged to have the country’s president’s son kidnapped, beaten up, and dumped at the border, Slovakia was one of my favourite destinations some 15-20 years ago. More particularly, Starý Smokovec, in the Tatra mountains.

Slovakia was a country with an attitude in the early 1990s. In next-door Hungary the prime minister had just announced he was not prime minister of Hungary, but of all Hungarians; tantamount, just about, to a declaration of war. With its sizable Hungarian minority, history of being invaded by Hungary (the last time in 1968, as fighting strafed the streets of Prague during the Prague Spring), and while Yugoslavia nearby crumbled, Slovakia tensed.

Mercier, the infamous Slovak prime minister, argued for Slovakia joining the newly formed CIS, formed from the ex-USSR, to become the’’richest state in the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) instead of the poorest in the European Union, and banned shops using only the Hungarian language on their signs.

I loved the atmosphere of turmoil in Eastern Europe at the time. Writers need tension, conflict and pressure — just ask the Czechoslovak authors who wrote the masterpieces they did under the communist regime, permanently fighting censorship or worse.

But most of all I loved coming to Starý Smokovec. I was in various locations in Eastern Europe in those early years of the decade, but whenever I wanted to add a few more chapters to my burgeoning book, I would head straight for the mountain town for a few weeks, in summer, winter, spring and autumn. I stayed in various different pensions, each one clean, charming, with a table in a room with a view. Considering the pensions started around €5 per night at that time, I was able to spend all my breaks ensconced in a room, coming out for breathtaking walks among trails, or a few Tatran beers, surely the world’s finest beer, if also the most unknown.

I took trips to Romania, during those infamous days when miners were paid to come to Bucharest to crack a few demonstrating student heads open, after the fake ‘revolution’ that got Ceaucescu and his own Lady M out of the way, and I traveled to the Ukraine, with its visas issued not to the day of departure, but hour. Then I returned to Starý Smokovec to write. Those were special days of change.

You might be surprised to learn of another reason: trees maintain a memory of their origin that helps them adapt to their local conditions. In this article I will discuss epigenetics: a novel area of research that pertains to both modern medicine and forestry. So what’s in a tree seed? Tree seed contains DNA, the genetic blueprint of the tree, along with carbohydrates for the developing embryo and a seed coat for protection. But DNA alone does not determine what the tree will look like. Scientists are learning that chemicals bound to the DNA influence how the tree looks and functions. These chemicals are referred to as the “epigenome,” and they function to turn genes ‘on’ or ‘off,’ much like a light-switch. This means you can have genes for a trait, but those genes might not be expressed. In fact, there is a field of science devoted to studies of the epigenome called epigenetics, Latin for “outside the genome.”

Genes are inherited from parents, and the epigenome maintains a “record” of life experiences that you inherited from them. Sounds like a science fiction novel? Here’s the rub: the epigenome shuts genes on or off based on life experiences. For example, a child’s brain is in a heightened state of development and wiring. Life experiences can switch genes on or off through the epigenome, essentially leaving a record on your DNA. The really crazy part about epigenetics is that the “position” of the DNA switches, whether “on” or “off,” can be passed on to their offspring. In this way, your grandparents’ life experiences may influence the way your genes are expressed. between obesity and diabetes. In medicine, scientists are just beginning to understand these trans-generational links between health and inheritance that complicate studies of disease and susceptibility to disease. The epigenome provides an important mechanism by which experiences are imprinted onto our DNA to help us adapt to modern life.

Back to trees. Trees, like people, experience a huge range of environments during their long lifespan. Unlike people, they cannot run from bad environments, and spend a great deal of energy reproducing to disperse their offspring to better novel environments. In this way, trees are masters at adaptation. Like humans, experiences can be imprinted on seeds. In this case there is an evolutionary advantage at stake: trees imprint clues about the local photoperiod and possibly local temperatures onto developing seeds. Scientists recently, and unexpectedly, observed this mechanism in Norway spruce trees. Scientists in Norway conducted a simple experiment. They selected Norway spruce trees with established pedigrees that reliably produced tree seed adapted for reforestation in the northern part of the country. These parent trees were copied through grafting, and the new grafts were planted into a location farther south. After the trees matured, seed was collected from them and planted back north. Much to their shock, the seed from this southern orchard more closely resembled trees growing in the southern environment than their kin in the northern part of the country. The growth rhythms of the seed from this new southern orchard were more in tune with the day lengths and temperatures of the southern environment. In fact, the seed from this southern orchard was not suitable to plant in the northern part of the country. Genes, assumed to be the blue-print for tree growth patterns, had been trumped by the effects attributable to the epigenome. The scientists later learned that they had just witnessed adaptation due to epigenetics. This was one of the first reports of this phenomenon in trees. The effect was pronounced within a single generation. I had the good fortune to meet one of the scientists at a meeting in Thunder Bay, Canada last summer. I asked Dr. Johnsen how his colleagues accepted the news that he had essentially made a discovery that contradicted Darwin’s basic theories of evolution. Epigenetics works alongside natural selection to provide an additional mechanism for trees, and other organisms, to adapt to their environment. As the climate changes, developing seeds receive environmental cues that allows them to make adjustments to improve their ability to grow in a novel climate. At some point, our climate may change too drastically for

In order to write wtn I decided to live in Chamonix, France, next to the Mont Blanc, highest mountain in Western Europe. I took a job as a mountain refuge warden there for a while, at some 2,000 metres altitude, but soon enjoyed reading the mountains more than a reader would have reading my never-appearing novel, so I moved down to the centre of town as winter set in. I loved Chamonix.

In the town I enjoyed a friendship with the PGHM, the mountain rescue team, a friendship I struck when working at the refuge, and particularly when one night a hammering at the door woke me; a man in a terrible state, having stumbled and jumped down the steep mountain side to the refuge after watching his wife fall over a cliff. The rescue helicopter went up to look with searchlight and found her, but radioed back they could not get near her in the cliffs at night, and that anyway, she had not survived the fall, that much they could see. I had gone up anyway to find her, especially after the helicopter team told me in no uncertain terms not to tell the man his wife had been killed in the fall until morning, as he might very well just step straight over a cliff himself at the news. So I went up the mountain in order to not have to answer his questions, and after a few hours saw she was not in a state of survival, and I waited till morning, standing at the door of the téléphérique, the cable car, to tell him, at which he crumpled onto the floor of the cabin, and the big moustached cabin operator later remarked:

‘’you know Hamish, I would have expected him to fly at you in a rage and hit, beat you.’’

‘’Yeah, great. Thanks.’’

The PGHM had recovered her body and then got into an argument with the local police, who wanted to take the man back to the scene for ‘questioning’.

‘’I’ve seen it before,’’ the station head of the PGHM had remarked: ‘’we’ll have two bodies over cliffs. He’ll jump.’’

There were other solid friendships; with the ski instructor, a woman who had skied down the very difficult Bossons glacier, after walking up with her skis for over eight hours, and who giggled at my British reserve when she and her friend had thrown their tops off to sunbathe at a mountain lake only hours after meeting me; and there was Catherine D’Estivelle, the climber, who that summer had climbed the Aiguille Verte —the Green Needle, alone, over eleven days, bivouacking on the rock face, and the woman who owned the bar that let me keep a tab running all winter, the bakery owning couple who made the freshest bread on the spot, which I ate where it was cooked, and the other mountain people, who regarded the tourists with mild indulgence; the tourists who had a penchant for acting like tourists — you know what I mean, of which perhaps the most touristy were the Swedes, who drank copious amounts of booze but would not touch the water, for fear of it not being pure, who boasted of a clean Sweden while uprooting all the Christmas trees in Viking exuberance and drinking coffee slowly each morning, wearing heavy mountain gear that clinked and jangled and jarred on their nerves.

And I decided to leave. To leave the town I loved. The blue/green late afternoons in the shade of the pine tree slopes of the mountains, the cream mornings of snow-capped mountains between open shutters, the newsagent who gave me my morning newspaper and coffee every morning when I walked through the door, and the mountains, again, and my mountain climbing partners and the seasons.

My last season in Chamonix was late summer, in the Saami definition of eight seasons. I was living my last few weeks in a tent at the bottom of the Mer de Glace glacier, and my morning plunge into the water rushing off the bottom of the glacier brought a new definition to the word cold, as well as embarrassment, when one morning I had jumped in, lay down briefly in the current and clambered out quickly, and heard a ‘’coooeeee!’’, looked left, looked right, looked behind, looked in front, my skin growing red, my vital parts shivered to mere millimetres, and then heard the ‘’coooeee!!’’ again, looked left right front back sideways and finally..upwards, to see a woman on delta wing, circling before landing, and laughing at my lack of restraint.

And the morning I left I met a silver-haired solitary Czech climber, who was hammering nails in his boots and knotting old ropes — his dream happening at last: climbing Mont Blanc, his food with him in cans, his home a tarpaulin over a wire, his happiness complete.

I was going to Oymyakon, the coldest town in the world (lowest temp recorded -71.2ºC/ -96.16ºF) , in Yakutia, Siberia, and chosen because I was sure that sitting in a hut in the coldest town in the world was a sure-fire way of writing, and importantly, completing a book. Immediately I set about planning an expedition through Yakutia, until I remembered it was to write I was going, and to attempt to ensure I was getting myself stuck into a small cabin, with a pile of logs, tea pot and long lost love deep in fur. The last one was not actually a requirement, though it was true that having someone to cook always means a necessary routine can be installed into a writer’s drab existence at the table, which is in reality a window of course. Yakutia, and in particular Oymyakon, fits some requirement’s of a writer’s retreat, but not all: it was exotic, not pricey — the cash flow is going in 1 direction after all, if the book is to be scribed — and the fish can be caught and cooked, a welcomed way to meditate. Oymyakon is a small town, the nature is beguilingly beautiful, but it forces you back to the writing table quickly, and the natives are not too restless. The town is found on the infamous Road of Bones. It does get a sprinkling of tourists, which is nice, and not all are similar to the Norwegians who got stuck and needed rescuing, claiming to be broken down, or the Germans who also got stuck and chose not to leave their vehicle when being rescued to thank the rescuers. (They would have been charged in another country of course, in places like Vancouver, but then would have probably found ways to sue for being charged for stupidity, as some do.) The fact that conditions were harsh, and risky, like the mountains of Chamonix, is something of a bonus for a writer. But it is also a pleasure when the little luxuries are available — bananas were prevalent, which was comforting, because at -55ºC ( -67ºF) they are more useful to hammer nails into wood than a badly made hammer, and don’t stick to the tongue like the head of a hammer does — something I can personally vouch is true, and if you don’t think you look absolutely stupid walking around town, even in Oymyakon, with a hammer stuck to your tongue, then think again. The wolves do hunt at night, and it if true that if the cold mist descends with the plummeting temperature in the deep snow and you are lost, then you have about 15 minutes to unlose yourself and find your way. After that your chances get pretty slim pretty quick, except your chances of being found next morning when the day is clear, a mere few metres to your cabin. But this provides the tension for your novel, so is worth the risk. Did I write the book? Yes. Did I find a cook deep in the fur, in a cabin down the road? The culture in Yakutia is captivating. And for those against fur, I can honestly tell you from experience that artificial fur just shreds; falls apart at those temperatures, and not keeping warm is not a question of fashion. Everything is different in summer though, when they welcome dawn on the longest day of the year at the summer solstice. Travel narrows our horizons — the more we learn about other cultures, the more sure we are about universal truths. And in Yakutia a universal truth is hugging cooks keeps you warm, as long as you compliment the mammoth steaks - tens of thousands of mammoth bones or even frozen mammoths have been found throughout history, so there’s a chance...

Some benefits of Forest Therapy

Lower concentrations of cortisol (indicator of stress)

Increased Natural Killer Cell count (enhanced immune response)

Lower pulse rate

Lower blood pressure

Greater parasympathetic nerve activity

Lower sympathetic nerve activity

Results of physiological measures show that forest therapy effectively relaxes people’s body and spirit (emotional state).

Heart rate during forest walking was significantly lower than that in the control. Negative mood states andanxiety levels decreased significantly by forest walking compared with urban walking.

http://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2008/05/02/national/forest-therapy-taking-root/#.VFiY6DSUdAU

Notes from a train window

A forest cannot be tamed

time is different among the trees

baby milk powder, in Africa, cutting down trees, removes happiness from the equation.

There is no other forest like the pine forest. When I write in my haiku that I fall asleep under the boughs of a pine tree, I mean that can happen for a night, or even during winter, where heavy snow does not make it under the thick boughs that trap the warmth. I am writing a book about the benefits of forests on health, specifically pine forests, and I can honestly say that a few hours spent filtering thoughts through pine branches while dozing off under a tree is a natural way to recharge. Perhaps it is the scent I like most, as well as the gentle grandeur of the pine forest.

seeking comfort

I sleep on a mat of pine needles

I am rejuvenated

Among the many reasons to preserve what is left of our ancient forests, the mental aspects stand tall. The notion that forests have a special place in the realm of public health, including an ability to refresh the weary, is not a new one. Medical doctors, including Franklin B. Hough, reported in early U.S. medical journals that forests have a “cheerful and tranquilizing influence which they exert upon the mind, more especially when worn down by mental labor.” Individuals report that forests are the perfect landscape to cultivate what are called transcendent experiences—these are unforgettable moments of extreme happiness, of attunement to that outside the self, and moments that are ultimately perceived as very important to the individual.

In 1982, the Forest Agency of the Japanese government premiered its shinrin-yoku plan. In Japanese shinrin means forest, and yoku, although it has several meanings, refers here to a “bathing, showering or basking in.” More broadly, it is defined as “taking in, in all of our senses, the forest atmosphere.” The program was established to encourage the populace to get out into nature, to literally bathe the mind and body in greenspace, and take advantage of public owned forest networks as a means of promoting health. Some 64 percent of Japan is occupied by forest, so there is ample opportunity to escape the megacities that dot its landscape.

Undoubtedly, the Japanese have had a centuries-old appreciation of the therapeutic value of nature—including its old-growth forests; however, the term shinrin-yoku is far from ancient. It began really as a marketing term, coined by Mr. Tomohide Akiyama in 1982 during his brief stint as director of the Japanese Forestry Agency. The initial shinrin-yoku plan of 30 years ago was based solely on the ingrained perception that spending time in nature, particularly on lush Japanese forest trails, would do the mind and body good. That changed in 1990 when Dr. Yoshifumi Miyazaki of Chiba University was trailed by film crew from the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation (NHK) as he conducted a small study in the beautiful forests of Yakushima. It was a test of shinrin-yoku, and NHK wanted to be there. Yakushima was chosen because it is home to Japan’s most heralded forests. The area contains some of Japan’s most pristine forests, including those of select cedar trees that are over 1,000 years old. Miyazaki reported that a level of physical activity (40 minutes of walking) in the cedar forest equivalent to that done indoors in a laboratory was associated with improved mood and feelings of vigor. This in itself is hardly a revelation, but he backed up the subjective reports by the findings of lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol in subjects after forest walks compared with those who took laboratory walks. It was the first hint that a walk in a forest might not be the same as a walk in a different environmental setting.

Since then, university and government researchers have collaborated on detailed investigations, including projects to evaluate physiological markers while subjects spend time in the forest. The research team from Chiba University, Center for Environment, Health and Field Services, has collected psychological and physiological data on some 500 adults who have engaged in shinrin-yoku, and a separate group from Kyoto has published research involving another 500 adults. These studies have confirmed that spending time within a forest setting can reduce psychological stress, depressive symptoms, and hostility, while at the same time improving sleep and increasing both vigor and a feeling of liveliness. These subjective changes match up nicely with objective results reported in nearly a dozen studies involving 24 forests—lower levels of cortisol and lower blood pressure and pulse rate. In addition, studies showed increased heart rate variability, which is a good thing because it means the circulatory system can to respond well to stress and can detect a dominance of the “calming” branch of the nervous system (the parasympathetic nervous system).

Forest Therapy, Tree Density and Cerebral Blood Flow

Research has certainly shown that the emotions of pleasure and happiness are elevated with an increase in tree density within specific settings, even in urban settings. The bigger and denser the trees, the higher the scenic beauty scores—up to a point. If trees are too tightly packed—if a trail is too narrow or obscured—the scene becomes foreboding and fear will be increased.

Adding to the strength of the research, in many of the studies, the objective measurements were also recorded in urban environments as a means of comparison. Here, the researchers controlled for physical activity, time of day, temperature, average hours of sunlight, and other factors. In other words, they weren’t stacking the deck by recording the objective measurements in rainy and cold urban settings compared with sunny and warm forest environments. In one study, the researchers went so far as to bring an instrument capable of measuring brain activity out into the urban and forest settings. The time-resolved spectroscopy system (TRSS) device allows for a reading of oxygen use in the brain via the reflection of near–infrared light off red blood cells. The Japanese researchers found that 20 minutes of shinrin-yoku (compared with 20 minutes in an urban setting) altered cerebral blood flow in a manner that indicated a state of relaxation. More specifically, the total hemoglobin (as found in red blood cells) was decreased in the area of the prefrontal cortex while in the forest setting. Hemoglobin levels are jacked up in this area during anticipation of a threat (stress) and after periods of intense mental and physical work—complex equations, computer testing, video game playing, exercise to exhaustion. So essentially, a decrease in levels means the brain is taking a time-out while in the forest. Although sedatives are also known to reduce activity in this area of the brain, they can have detrimental influences in cognition. Stress hormones can compromise immune defense; in particular, the activities of frontline defenders, such as antiviral natural killer cells, are suppressed by stress hormones. Since forest bathing can lower stress hormone production and elevate mood states, it’s not surprising that it also influences markers of immune system strength. Qing Li and colleagues from the Nippon Medical School showed that forest bathing (either a day trip or a couple of hours daily over three days) can have a long-lasting influence on immune markers relative to city trips. Specifically, there were marked increases in the number of natural killer cells, increases in the functional activity of these antiviral cells, and increases in the amount of intracellular anticancer proteins. The changes were noted at a significant level for a full week after the trip. The improvements in immune functioning were associated with lower urinary stress hormones while in nature. None of this was observed during or after the comparison city trips. As mentioned, the reduction in stress is almost certainly at play in the improvement of immune defenses. However, the natural chemicals secreted by evergreen trees, collectively known as phytoncide, have also been associated with improvements in the activity of our frontline immune defenders. Li has measured the amount of phytoncide in the air during the studies and correlated the content to improvements in immune functioning.

This is an interesting finding in the context of the century-old reports on the success of the so-called forest cure in tuberculosis treatment. In the mid- to late 1800s, physicians Peter Detweiler and Hermann Brehmer set up sanatoriums in Germany’s pine forests, as did Edward Trudeau in the Adirondack forests of New York. All reported the benefit of the forest air; indeed, contrary to expectations, the results seemed to be magnified when the forest air trapped moisture. There was speculation among the physicians of the time that pine trees secreted a healing balm into the air, and in yet another twist of the shinrin-yoku studies, the existence of an unseen airborne healer is being revealed.

Shinrin-yoku is alive and well today; the word has entered the Japanese lexicon. At present there are 44 locations approved as “forest therapy bases.” These are sites that have been not only the subject of human research indicating benefits to stress physiology; a team of experts from the Japanese Forest Therapy Executive Committee ensures other criteria are met before designation, including accessibility, accommodation (if remote) cultural landmarks, historical sites,, variety of food choices, and comfort stations. Chiba University’s Miyazaki, who played a massive role in taking shinrin-yoku from a throwback marketing concept to credible preventive medicine intervention, continues to perform research and is now looking at the physiological effects of time spent in Tokyo’s major urban parks.Since Ulrich’s original observation, there have been additional studies confirming that the mere presence of flowering and foliage plants inside a hospital room can make a difference. Specifically, in those recovering an appendectomy and randomly assigned to a room with a dozen small potted plants, the use of pain medications was significantly lower than that of their counterparts in rooms with no potted plants; they also had lower blood pressure and heart rate, and rated their pain to be much lower. As well, those who had plants in their rooms had comparatively higher energy levels, more positive thoughts, and lower levels of anxiety.

Since a view of nature or a few potted plants can influence subjective and objective measures of stress, and maybe get us out of the hospital faster, it seems likely that nature can keep us out of the infirmary to begin with. The first indication that this might be the case was in the reporting of architect Ernest Moore in 1981. In examining the annual sick records of the State Prison of Southern Michigan, he noticed there was a glaring difference in health-care utilization based on cell location. Specifically, those inmates housed in the cells facing outside to a view of green farmlands and forests had far fewer visits to the medical division than did those inmates housed in the inner half, with a view of an internal concrete yard. In addition:

Norwegian research shows that having a plant at or within view of an office workstation significantly decreases the risk of sick leave. A 2010 study from the University of Technology, Sydney, Australia, reported that levels of anger, anxiety, depressive thoughts, and fatigue all reduced over a three-month period, and not just by a little bit—these parameters were reduced by about 40 percent, while reported stress was down by 50 percent. On the other hand, those without the stress buffer of a visible plant indicated that stress levels rose over 20 percent during the study.

• Installing plants within a radiology department of a hospital reduced short-term sick leave by 60 percent.

• Research published in 2008 in the Journal of the Japanese Society for Horticultural Science showed that greening select high school classrooms with potted plants for a four-month trial period significantly reduced visits to the infirmary compared with age-matched students attending classes without the visible plants.

In Chechnya if you are not mafia the chicks don’t dig you. The capital of Chechnya is Grozny, and the Grozny football team, run by some mafia head who may also be president of Chechnya, one forgets these days, tends to win most of it’s home games. Getting into the stadium is not exactly easy, with all the machine guns around — bodyguards, security, police, passerbys with machine guns. Since the guy who runs the team, who also has mafia written all over his black shirt black tie black sunglasses black Mercedes Benz, and may also be president of Chechnya, is very rich, some very famous stars play for Grozny, and pledge absurd alliance to this poor, developing football team. Brazilians, Africans, ex-European footballers of the year. They train thousands of kilometers away somewhere in Russia then fly in for home games and fly out again immediately. They just love the club of course, in a wry sort of way.

That’s Chechnya, and if you don’t have cash bulging out your pockets you grow a beard like the kind they would not dare in some Arab countries, and then pretend you don’t care if the chicks don’t dig you and take to the hills, where if you shout ‘freedom for Chechnya!’ loud enough and proclaim faith to a god you did not find before at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, then someone somewhere will subsidise you, not necessarily some disparate Arab group, who know you do not fully understand what Jihad means, but perhaps even a spy agency from a land yonder who likes the idea of you harassing Russians.

Some of that changed, after Beslan, where nearly 1,000 people were held hostage without water for 3 days in North Ossetia, Russia, a part of Russia that has a dialect of Iranian as the regional language. The Chechyans, who arrived fully armed for the siege and easily bribed their gunladen way passed police check points, then massacred a few hundred fleeing victims, nearly 200 of them poor children, during a totally bungled-up and quite disgraceful attempt by police and army to break the siege. Chechyans were no freedom fighters; they were really bad guys.

Being a really bad guy in the Caucasus Mountains, where Chechnya is located, puts you in good company; it’s where Stalin was born in nearby Georgia, and for that matter Sadam Hussain was born only 300 kilometers away. But it’s also a beautiful area of the world. “When God was handing out land for different countries,” they say in the Georgia, ‛he forgot about us, because we were eating and drinking and dancing when we should have been queuing up for our land. Since he’d already given all the land he had to give, he was forced to give us the special parts he was reserving for himself.”

And in the Caucasus refusing a gift can start a war. Name two republics there and they’ve probably fought each other. It’s where the world’s first Christian nation is located, and the first holocaust of the last century. Near the mountains is Kolmykia, the only Buddhist republic in Europe they say, where chess is taught as a school subject, but the rest of the countries and republics are divided between variants of Christianity or Islam, and often a mix, where traditions include bride kidnappings, when the woman is plucked off the street by a gentleman on a horse, or worse, and instantly is therefore married to him, or these days bundled into a black Mercedes.

Paganism has long been associated to the worship of trees - and particular trees have been allocated different roles, almost similar to the role of a saint in the Catholic religion.

Quite rightly, too. Place your palm against a tree trunk and feel the energy. What if the energy is coming from you, and not the tree? So what, it is flowing - and what if you feel it is only your imagination? Even better, for imagination is more important than intelligence. And that comes from Einstein so don't take it up with me.

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