Near Enough to Home pt. 1

Perhaps the most striking thing about Canada is that it is not part of the United States.

–J. Bartlet Brebner

Sanderson stumbled forward through a universe of misery. His lungs ached as he struggled to keep them filled, his mouth blocked by the gag his captors had stuffed there; wind-blown Kentucky rain stung his eyes, and with his hands bound behind him he could not wipe them clear; his feet chafed and bled where the cheap, ill-fitting American boots cut them. It wasn't enough that these Federal prisoners had cold-cocked him and dragged him along as a hostage to aid their escape; they'd stolen his boots, too—and them just broken in to where they were comfortable—and replaced them with shoddy atrocities that were almost worse than being barefoot. Don't give up, he told himself. If you give these men a reason they'll kill you, and then you'll never find Scott.

"Keep moving, you redcoat bastard." A hand thumped him between the shoulder blades, driving him forward until he stumbled. A branch slapped him in the face; blinded by the rain and the moonless night, he felt his way forward, fighting to keep his balance, until he was sure it was bush and not a tree trunk he was about to step into. Then he fell forward, thrashing and kicking about as he did. Thin branches scratched his face, but the pain was worth it so long as his captors didn't figure out what he was doing.

Neurypnology: Word of the Day

Neurypnology, [f. NEUR + HYPNOLOGY] That branch of science which deals with the phenomena of hypnotism.

1843 BRAID (title) Neurypnology; or, The Rationale of Nervous Sleep considered in relation with Animal Magnetism. 1887 Daily News 1 Apr. 5/2 Dr. Charnot, the famous Parisian Professor who, with Dr. Braid, has told us so much about the science of neurypnology, or nervous sleep.

Notes About "Near Enough to Home"

As I've mentioned previously, this week's posts include Extras relating to Dixie's Land. Beginning tomorrow I'm publishing "Near Enough to Home," the story that started it all. (Originally I was going to publish the story on Wednesday, but it is sufficiently long that I am publishing it in three parts: tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday.) So I thought I would provide a bit of background to the story.

"Near Enough to Home" is grounded in an extensive alternate-history timeline I began working on in the early to mid-1990s. I call it the Firebird Timeline, because a novel of that name was the first project I began (that novel remains unfinished to this day, but I continue to entertain hopes). Then, in 1997, Mark Shainblum and John Dupuis announced they would be editing an anthology of alternate-history stories about Canada, to be called Arrowdreams. And I realized my timeline contained a healthy niche into which I could put a story that would simultaneously be an adventure tale and a commentary on this country's relationship with the United States (and with itself).

So I started writing, filling in bits of my Firebird Timeline (FTL) as the plot and characters demanded, and when the story was finished I had a pretty clear sense of how my alternate US Civil War would play out.

I also had what has been my most successful story to date. Mark and John bought "Near Enough to Home" for Arrowdreams, and two years later Glenn Grant and David G. Hartwell included it in their anthology Northern Suns. And then Hartwell placed it in his fourth "Year's Best SF" anthology, which to be honest surprised the hell out of me.

Rereading the story as I typed it up (for some reason I don't seem to have transferred my digital copies onto the current computers) was a bit of a humbling experience. For one thing, I was appalled at the number of times I used the word that in a fashion both unnecessary and disruptive. (I don't think I do this sort of thing anymore.) And for another, I found several instances where the story has since been placed into contradiction with the FTL as it has existed for the past decade or so.

Some authors take advantage of the digital realm to constantly update stories they've written. I don't subscribe to this approach; I prefer to think of a story as being a fixed thing once it has been published. (This rule doesn't apply to something like Dixie's Land, which I continued to edit as I was serializing it—though it certainly applies now that the serialization is complete.)

So as you read the story over, think of it as being as much a time-capsule as it is a part of the world of Dixie's Land.

Dixie's Land: Prologue

[This was written at the request of one of the editors who nearly bought the novel. The next editor who nearly bought Dixie's Land, however, hated both this prologue and its accompanying epilogue (to be posted next). And since neither of these was part of my original concept of the story, I've decided to leave them out of the final edit of the novel. I'm posting them here for those who are interested. -MS]

2 April, 1850

Dearest Mama,
Mister Lincoln is off to the War. He took the cars south, to the big new base at Cairo, shortly after mid-day today. Our good friend, Joshua Speed, took a different train a few hours later, his destination Carlyle (in Pennsylvania) and eventually the National Capital. As you can see, the Springfield Depot was a very busy place today.

The children are very unhappy that their Papa has gone, though Jimmy puts a brave face on it, thinking that as the eldest it is his duty. I understand his feeling, and am struggling with my own brave face. Sarah and Thomas are too young to really understand what is happening, and I hope that they will soon enough forget their unhappiness and return to the careless joys of childhood.

Trix

Overall Rating: 95

One of the two or three best-looking of all sweetened breakfast cereals on the market today, and one of the tastiest, too. Could it be that the champ, Froot Loops, is about to be dethroned?

Image from the Institute collection

Appearance

You can make kids cereal look good without having to resort to cheap and shoddy anthropomorphism. Of course, you have to be willing to go to town with artificial colouring, but hey, those negative side-effects haven’t been conclusively proved yet, have they? The new [in 1993] Trix is a blinding day-glo bowl o’ fruit, with each different flavour represented by a unique and recognizable shape. There are raspberries and orange slices and bunches of grapes and whole limes and (somewhat incongruously) bananas. Some of these shapes are actually represented (more or less) by flavours. Good as the stuff looks dry, it’s even more blindingly bright when the milk’s added.

Taste and Texture, Dry

The multitude of different shapes actually makes Trix a little difficult to pick up out of the box, but that’s just about the only knock against the stuff as a snack. Oh, it doesn’t quite have the sugar-coated, upfront blast of Froot Loops, but it’s pretty darned close, and because the sugar is more subdued, the individual flavours are actually more discernable.

Taste and Texture With Milk

Who cares about discernable flavours at this point? A bowl of Trix with milk is just a rush of a sweet-sour citric sugarbomb. Tastes great, who gives a &@#! about how filling it is? The texture is a bit of a disappointment; the product begins to mush out rather quickly, and this kind of cereal really needs that crunch to go with the sweetness. But all things considered, this is a minor complaint.

Conclusion

It may well be that the terrific look of this product will be lost on most consumers. But to we at the Institute, it’s all part of a truly awe-inspiring breakfast experience. We now know what that stupid rabbit is always going on about. But we’re equally convinced there’s no way he’s going to get his paws on our Trix. this sugar rush is too good for bunnies; anybody got a Valium? [February 1993]

Indivulsion: Word of the Day

Indivulsion, a. Obs. rare [IN - 3 cf. L. indivulsus not torn asunder (Macrobius).] Absence of separation; unsevered condition.

1638 MEDE Wks. (1672) I. xxxvi. 192 The Water ascends upward, the Aire downward, against nature, to maintain the connexion and indivulsion of the parts of the world.

Dixie's Land 6.3

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[concluding chapter sixteen]

Stewart watched from the gate as Uncle James vanished around a corner on the road back to Arran. He’d hoped he was wrong about Uncle James, but that hope was faint now, and fading.

Of the two men, he was sure that Father would best survive this morning. He had, Stewart realized, much less self-worth tied into what the neighbors thought of him; his ideals would probably survive and even flourish wherever he and Mother eventually settled. Uncle James he now saw as brittle, in the same way as that Federal regiment had been brittle a year ago. One good shock would cause the man to break. And Stewart was no longer sure that he would be sorry if this happened.

The man who would suffer the most, he’d decided, was himself. I’m losing my family, he thought. Donald will probably never speak to me again. And I won’t be able to speak to Mother and Father. Not for several years, at any rate. And who knew what several years would do to him, or them?

Does an idea matter more than family? That was the question he still couldn’t answer. I never got to choose my family. The things I believe in, I have chosen to believe. He hoped that certainty would be enough.

The wagon emerged from the barn, Sally and Mama Cleo in the back amidst the trunks and boxes, Steven driving. Mother got into the seat beside him; the sight no longer meant anything to Stewart. Father mounted one of the two remaining horses; they weren’t leaving Donald with much. With any luck, though, he’d be married soon, and the harvest would be good.

He knew that they were looking at him as he turned his horse to the gate. It was just as well; he would have to lead them for the next few days, until they passed the border into their new life.

Stewart tried not to think too much more about that. He would see them again, some day, if it was God’s will that he do so. In the meantime, there was Texas to deal with.

And then, a visit to the theater.

The End

Chapter One     Chapter Two     Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five    Chapter Six

Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine    Chapter Ten    Chapter Eleven    Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen    Chapter Fourteen    Chapter Fifteen    Chapter Sixteen

Chlamydeous: Word of the Day

Chlamydeous, a. Bot. [f. mod. L. chlamyd -ae fr. chlamydae, having a mantle + ous.] Having one or more floral envelopes.

Dixie's Land 16.2

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[Continuing chapter sixteen]

“This has all been very interesting,” Uncle James said after Father and Mother had gone to break the news to Donald and the servants. “But I am still waiting for an explanation of the reason for my being here, Charles. And for the rather extraordinary way I’ve been treated so far this morning.”

“I am very sorry, Uncle,” Stewart said. “But look on the bright side. You at least haven’t had to give up your home.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Charles, any more than it suits your father.”

“You might feel differently if you had seen and done the things I have in the past few months,” Stewart said. “I have watched good men die for bad causes. And I have seen bad men work diligently in causes I thought to be good.”

“For the moment I’m going to assume that the latter refers to me. Will you explain it?”

“As it turns out, I was not referring to you.” Though I could have.

“Then why am I here, Charles?”

Milge: Word of the Day

Milge, a. Obs. IN - 5 mylge. trans. To dig round about. Hence Milging vbl. so.

c. 1420 Pallad. on Husb. ii. 296 Mylge hem not [orig. circumfredi non debeut] in tymes whan thai floure. Ibid. 362. In their age a mylging they desireth, Lest thai therynne al hoor yberded goo.

[I'll wager one could have a lot of fun with yberded goo. Whatever that is. -MS]

Dixie's Land Chapter Sixteen

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SIXTEEN

“What are you doing here?” Father stood in the doorway, his stance that of a man defending his castle rather than one of a younger brother welcoming his elder sibling.

“I am here,” Uncle James said with careful dignity, “to see Charles. Please tell him I’ve come as he asked.”

“Charles? Charles is in New Orleans. I think you should go, James.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in New Orleans, Father.” Stewart stepped out from behind the big oak that shaded the front porch. “But I wanted to be sure that both of you were in the same place before I told anyone that I’d come home.”

“Charles?” Mother appeared in the doorway, her face just visible behind Father’s shoulder. “Oh, Charles, you’re safe!” She tried to get through the door. Father, though, didn’t move.

Hot Wheels Cereal

Image from the Institute collection, in
which it really ought to stay

Overall Rating: 41

If there’s one thing we at the Institute hate more than oat-flour, pretend-to-be-sweet cereals, it’s big, clunky oat-flour, pretend-to-be-sweet cereals. Not even marshmallows can save this guck.

Appearance

Just fine. If what you like to see in your bowl in the morning is big disgusting chunks of beige cement bobbing on the surface of the milk. The stuff is supposed to look like wheels, I guess, but given the sculptural limitations imposed by a medium of flour and water, fer godsake, things don’t quite work out. Instead (and this wouldn’t have been such a bad thing were it not unintended) the product looks like miniature sections of lotus root.

Of course, the marshmallow “cars” tend to spoil that illusion fairly quickly. They look like pastel-coloured kidneys.

Texture and Taste, Dry

Eurgh. Ghod, we hate oat-flour cereals! They are dry and they’re crumbly and it doesn’t seem to matter how much sugar you dump on them, they still taste like sawdust. This product is nowhere near as dense and tasteless as Honeycomb (the worst of the worst), but it’s still like biting into wallboard. And while the marshmallows are the usual Ralston psychotically sweet explosions, there aren’t enough of them to override the dry desert this cereal is.

Texture and Taste with Milk

The milk goes a long way toward relieving the dusty tedium of the product. But why not just drink the milk? The one thing oat cereals have going for them is good crunch and mouth-feel in milk, and this one is no exception. In fact, if you are lucky enough get a bowl with a reasonable ratio of marshmallows to icky dry kacky bits, it’s close to almost being a nearly pleasant experience. Of course, so is dental surgery on drugs.

Conclusion

The marshmallows seem to sink to the bottom of the box. So open this package from the underside, pour yourself a few bowls to get most of the marshmallows, then throw the rest away. Or save yourself the trouble, and throw the box away before you open it. Or before you even buy it. [January 1993]

Opifice: Word of the Day

Opifice, Obs. [ad. L. opifici - um a working, f. [opifex] + ficum doing, making] The doing or making of a work, construction, workmanship; concr. a fabric, a work.

1637 TOMLINSON Renou's Disp. 393*  Bees ... suppoditate both aliments and medicaments to man by their own opifice.

Dixie's Land 15.3

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[Concluding chapter fifteen]

Stewart found himself smiling again once he’d located Colonel Goodall. That man, it turned out, commanded the 4th Virginia Dragoons—cousin Will’s regiment. Even better, Will was in the squadron Colonel Goodall took with him to perform General Lee’s reconnaissance. Stewart hoped he and his cousin would get a chance to talk before the assignment was over; for now, though, he could only wave to Will from his position beside Colonel Goodall as the squadron cantered east from Oak Springs.

“We can expect to find Federal cavalry out here,” Goodall told him as they rode. Someone had provided Stewart with a saber and carbine, and he was trying to figure out the carbine’s mechanism as he bounced in the saddle. “We’ve already had a scrap today, south of Yellow Bluff.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Maybe ten miles from our current station,” Goodall said. “That was at first light, mind. The Federals have moved south and west since then.”

“Where will we go?” Stewart dropped a percussion cap, cursed under his breath, and gave up for the time being.

Dixie's Land: Endgame

With the conclusion of chapter fifteen of this novel, my first venture into serialization approaches its end. So I thought I would write a bit about what happens next.

Obviously, the immediate future brings chapter sixteen, next week. That's the final chapter of the novel and so I suppose it's appropriate it appear in the last full week of April. The serialization process has taken just under four months.

The following week (28 April - 4 May) I am going to post some Dixie's Land extras*. First I'll post the prologue I wrote, at one editor's suggestion, but which is not going to appear in the epub version of the book. The Wednesday of that week (assuming I get the work done on time) I will post "Near Enough to Home," the short story that got this whole thing going in the first place. And finally, on the Friday, I'll post the epilogue that matches the excised prologue.

And that will take care of Dixie's Land. The first full week in May will see the first posts in the serialization of a mystery novel. More details to come...

*I would have liked to be able to post a map of the bits of North America in which this novel is set. Unfortunately, my skills aren't sufficiently developed yet to allow me to make such a thing quickly, while still trying to write 3-4 hours a day.

Dwang: Word of the Day

Dwang, Sc. [cf. Du. dwang force, compulsion, constraint f. dwingen to force]

1842-76 GWILT Encycl. Archit. Gloss. Dwang, a term used in Scotland to denote the short pieces of timber employed in strutting a floor.

Dixie's Land 15.2

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[Continuing chapter fifteen]

“What’s the name of this place?” he asked the sergeant.

“Oak Springs, sir. Not much to look at, is it?”

“I’m still glad to be here.” Stewart was surrounded by wagons, and the din of the mules was almost enough to drown out the sounds of cannon and musketry. He did a quick estimate of the number of wagons in the baggage park, and realized with pleasure that his months in the War Department hadn’t been entirely wasted. The vehicles told him General Lee had brought a good twenty thousand men with him. Surely that was a force huge enough to deal with any invader. “Can you tell me where General Lee has his headquarters?”

“Well, his headquarters is in the first farm north of town,” the sergeant said. “But he ain’t there. Ol’ Bobby’s on the north side of that creek over yonder”—he pointed at a line of trees north-east of the town—”with the rest of the army. It’s called Little Mayfield Creek, I think.”

“Much obliged, sergeant,” Stewart said. He still restrained himself from pushing the horse too hard. He expected to need the animal shortly.

Barathrum: Word of the Day

Barathrum,  [L., a Gk. βαραθρov.] A pit, gulf.  Hence: a. A deep pit at Athens, into which criminals condemned to death were thrown. b. (earlier in Eng.) The abyss, hell. c. An insatiable extortioner or glutton (so in It.).

c. 1609 Man in Moone (1849) 27 A bottomless Barathrum , a mercilesse money-changer.  1633 MASSINGER New Way III. ii  You barathrum of the shambles.

Do Unto Others

Friend Dale Sproule has an interesting piece up about the search for beta readers. Reading it, I realized I've never even tried to find a beta reader.

Don't think I'm being arrogant; it's just that for more than three decades now—since my fiction-writing career began, really—I have workshopped pretty much everything I've written. A workshop session is, to me anyway, like concentrated essence of what I understand beta readers to provide. Put it another way, if the workshop is any good at all you're going to need a fairly thick skin.

I'll leave the details of what's involved to another post, because really it's a separate topic. What I want to say here, now, is that workshopping provides one benefit that no number of beta readers can, no matter how good they be or how well-attuned to what you're trying to do with your writing.

Dixie's Land Chapter 15

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FIFTEEN

“I would take you with me if I could,” Stewart said. The eastern sky was dove-grey; the sun would be up in a few minutes.

“Don't be silly.” Pauline snuffed back a tear, wiped the corner of her eye with the back of a slender hand. “I have no interest in seeing the upper Mississippi or Kentucky. And I'd only slow you down.”

“I know.” He wiped another tear with his finger, trying hard to be feather-light with his touch. The sweat drying was making him chilly, and he marveled that he could feel cold in this God-forsaken climate. “I would still rather have you with me. Being with you now makes me realize how lonely I'm going to be once I leave.”

Pauline smiled wickedly. “You certainly won't have much opportunity to do this up-river. The Cajuns are friendly people, but they're not that friendly.” Her hand snaked under the quilt he'd covered himself with. Stewart yelped.

Count Chocula

Image from the Institute collection...
evidently by way of Mexico

Overall Rating: 65

One of the granddaddies of the sugar-coated set, this product still manages to compete with younger and more aggressive cereals. A nice balance of sweetness, crunch and the ubiquitous marshmallows.

Appearance

These things are supposed to look like ghosts or something, we guess. They don’t, much, but they’re by no means the worst-looking cereal to come down the pike. The marshmallows, though, are disgusting: some have been dyed shades of brown we didn’t know existed. And what the cereal looks like after it’s been sitting in milk a few minutes is too gross to contemplate; let’s just say it would be a good idea to be fully awake when eating a bowl of this.

Taste and Texture, Dry

Not half bad. The Count is made of corn flour, so the mouthfeel is crisp and the texture is firm without breaking your teeth. The “chocolate” flavour is determined but not overly chemical. It’s always nice when the disguise works properly. There is a bitter aftertaste after a couple of mouthfuls, though, and the individual pieces are sized a little on the small side, so this isn’t an ideal snacking cereal.

Taste and Texture, With Milk

Doesn’t hold up too well. What can you say about a cereal where, seconds after the milk goes on, the marshmallows are crunchier? Maybe the crunch is in the “chocolate” colouring, which leeches into the milk as you’re pouring. It’s pretty cool to see the brown colour climbing up the stream of pouring milk like a spawning salmon. But it doesn’t do much for the flavour of the cereal, and the “chocolate milk” that results has all the flavour of cocoa made by boiling wood stain in water. Enough “chocolate” remains in the cereal itself, though, to make for a pleasant bowl. One bowl only, however. Don’t repeat this.

Conclusion

No North American chocolate cereal could compete with Chockles, and that’s all there is to it. [January 1993]

Irrefringible: Word of the Day

Irrefringible, a. Obs. [f. IR + L. refringare to break up, check, etc. f. re- back +L. frangere to break] That cannot or may not be broken down or demolished.

1596 BELL Surv. Popery I. I. ii My just and irrefringible probations.

Dixie's Land 14.3

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[Concluding chapter fourteen]

It would have easier to return to the hotel, wake General Magruder, tell him the whole story, and hope to be arrested for dereliction of duty. Because it would have been easier, Stewart instead forced himself to keep walking past Canal, uptown toward the Swamp and Pauline’s rooms. With Patton on his way west, Thomas headed north to what he believed to be freedom, and Menard gone to some papist vision of heaven, there was no one to comfort or even distract him as he walked.

It didn’t matter, he decided, whether Wilson had been telling the truth about Pauline or not. That the accusation had been made was damage enough. What does it say about me? he wondered. What does it make me, that I would kill a man for saying that? And that I want her anyway?

He felt light-headed and sick to his stomach, and knew that this wasn’t just because he hadn’t eaten all day.

Pauline and Cleburne were seated on the front porch of her building, and both stood as they recognized him. Pauline—who had, thank God, changed out of her costume and cleaned off her make-up—flew from the porch into his arms. She was crying.

Strumpery: Word of the Day

Strumpery, Obs. Also stromperie. [f. strump shortened form of STRUMPET + ERY] The practice of harlotry or prostitution.

1553 C BANSLEY Treatice (Percy Soc. 1841) 9 Nowe fye upon proude strumpery. 1573 G HARVEY Letter-Bk. (Camden) 113 A sinke of strumpery.

Dixie's Land 14.2

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[Continuing chapter fourteen]

“It was my job to see that Colonel Walker got his rifles,” he said as he entered the room. “I take it that your job was to see that the Canadians didn’t interfere with his departure for Texas.”

“Hello, Stewart,” Patton said, getting to his feet. He wore a nondescript shirt and trousers, the shirt damp and sticking to his chest. A vest and jacket were draped over the back of a chair. “That Pauline down there, screaming bloody murder? I should have guessed.”

“I hope she has the sense to run,” Stewart said. “She did what I asked her to. Her part in this is done now.” He certainly doesn’t look like he’s had a hard time, Stewart thought. Not like Menard.

“How did you find me?” Patton asked, walking to a crude washstand in one corner of the room. “Oh, and you were wrong about my job. Colonel Walker is quite capable of handling the Canadians.”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” Stewart said. “What was your true job, then?”

“To help Walker destroy the Lovejoy plot,” Patton said.

“The what?”

Flaughen: Word of the Day

Flaughen, Sc. Also flaughin, flauchin. A flake of fire or snow.

1649 VISCT. KENMURE Sp. in. Select Biog. (1845) I. 401 The sparks and flaughens of this love shall fly up. 1811 A. SCOTT Poems 43 (Jam.) As new fa'n snaw That, fleecy pure, in flaughins fa'.

Dixie's Land Chapter Fourteen

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FOURTEEN

“What will your uncle do when he learns that Thomas has gone?” Pauline asked.

“I don’t know.” Stewart wished Pauline would talk about anything else. He didn’t want to be reminded about Thomas. “I hope he’ll be understanding.”

“How do you feel about it?” Pauline asked. Her voice sounded uncertain, and Stewart remembered that the Canadians and English didn’t understand the complex bond between master and servant, and never would.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Stewart said. “But I do want to thank you again, Pauline”—he knew he should call her “Miss Martin” in Cleburne’s presence, but he no longer cared about the proprieties—”for your help. And for your presence of mind. I hope I can call on you for one more demonstration of your quality and your courage.”

“My … courage?”

“I can’t lie to you. What I want to do is dangerous. You’ll be taking nearly as great a risk as me.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

He told her as they walked.

Ricicles

Sounds great, tastes good. But it’s pretty much a light-weight. It’s not really up to the stresses and demands of a modern Balanced Breakfast. Good afternoon snack, though.

Image, as (almost) always, from the
collection of the Sucrophile Institute

Appearance

Yawn. Can you say Rice Krispies? Thought you could. If Sucrophile were more of a Zen master (or even a Zen apprentice), this product would appeal mightily. Each piece of cereal is a single grain of rice. Said rice is then subjected to a sudden blast of dry heat, which causes it to pop into a light, crunchy morsel. Then a shitload of sugar is dumped on it. The simplicity of it could be very appealing, if breakfast cereal were part of the Cha No Yu, the famous Zen Tea Ceremony. But it’s not, eh?

Texture and Taste, Dry

Not really worth trying. Like Dino Pebbles before it, each piece of this cereal is too small to be picked up. So there’s no point in snacking out of the box. Some points are gained for the delicate mouthfeel and the way the sugar manages to emphasize its presence without overwhelming everything and causing your pancreas to explode. But this is not a dry-snack cereal, not in your wildest dreams.

Texture and Taste, With Milk

Lots of plus points for managing to overcome the biggest problem facing all rice-crisp cereals: getting the sugar to adhere. With this product the sugar’s baked on, and the result nicely combines the light, crisp snap of a rice cereal with the blood-bouncing rush of a kiddyrot cereal. This stuff is, quite frankly, not up to a full slate of Saturday morning cartoons. Its crispness and mouth feel are a lot like a politician’s promises the day after the election: the substance vanishes pretty quickly. Be careful not to use too much milk, because this product absorbs very little before it sogs out entirely.

Conclusion

Ricicles (great name, by the way) is a little like a rose wine: it’s very pleasant in a limited way, but there aren’t that many circumstances in which it’s the correct choice. It’s certainly not the product you want for a Saturday morning of cartoon-watching. It would, however, be ideal for a quick, small bowl in the late afternoon before supper. Just don’t let Mom find out. [December 1992]

Glaciarium: Word of the Day

Glaciarium, [f. L. glaci- es ice + arium as in aquarium, vivarium] A skating-rink with ice artificially produced.

1878 19th Cent. Mar. 365 The real ice at the Chelsea glaciarium.

[Safe to use this one now that the real ice is melting around the ol' homestead. -MS]

Dixie's Land 13.3

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[Concluding chapter thirteen]

“Get under the dock,” Grant whispered, as loudly as he dared. He tried to push Byron with his bad hand while using his good one to hold the struggling Irishman under water. The greasy water and the impossibility of gaining any purchase told him that he wouldn’t succeed. Byron had to disappear into the darkness under the dock if he was going to survive.

“Help!” Byron shouted.

Someone overhead fired a pistol. Grant was sure he heard the ball sizzle as it passed his head, and that the water splashed into his eyes came from its impact with the river.

The governor-general was thrashing about with astonishing vigor, given both his age and the fact that his arms were bound tightly to his side. From the edge of his tear-smudged vision Grant could see that Byron was making his way away from the dock—to where any Irishman with a weapon couldn’t fail to kill him.

“God damn it, George!” he shouted. “Get back under the dock!”

Ambagiosity: Word of the Day

Ambagiosity, Rare-  [f. ambagios -us + ITY] Circuitousness.

1824 SOUTHY Lett. (1856) III. 419 Without any delay, let, hindrance, impediment, ambagiosity, circumlocution, or needless, superfluous and unnecessary roundabout forms of speech.

Dixie's Land 13.2

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[Continuing chapter thirteen. Apologies for the delay: blame an incipient cold...]

“Where are we going?” Sherman huffed.

“And what are we doing when we get there?” added Captain Gale. He’d been ordered to go with Grant and Sherman; evidently the major didn’t trust them much.

“We’re going to the Levee,” Grant said. “And we’re looking for a boat.”

They’d doubled back along Chartres to Pitt, a narrow street that would let them get to the Levee unseen by Macartey. “You think they plan to take him on the river?” Gale asked.

“It’s their only real way to escape,” Grant said. “And if assassination was their plan, Byron would be dead already.”

“So you and I are pirates now, are we?” Sherman grinned, his teeth seeming almost to glow in the dark. “How are two old men and a Canadian going to take a ship?”

“Boat,” said Grant, “not ship. I doubt that Macartey would be fool enough to try to bring a ship to the Levee, given how closely it’s watched these days. No, I think we’re looking for a smaller craft, something that’ll get them downstream to where a bigger vessel is waiting.”

“Smaller like that?” Sherman asked, pointing.

Portionist: Word of the Day

Portionist, [ad. med.L. portionista (499 in Dn Conge) f. portion- em shortened form of PORTION : see IST.]

1. A student in a college, receiving or entitled to a defined portion or allowance of food (whether as a boarder or as recipient of a benefaction).

1895 RASHDALL Universities II. 488 The body of Portionists (now corrupted to Postmasters) was engrafted ... about the year 1380.

2. Eccl. One of two or more incumbents who share the duties and revenues of a benefice.

1888 Dict. Nat. Biog. XIII 247/2 He was also canon resident and portionist at Hereford.

Dixie's Land Chapter Thirteen

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THIRTEEN

“What are you doing here? How did you find us?” Stewart pulled back from Pauline, brushing his face where the makeup made it itch. Cleburne, Captain Grant, and his friend Sherman joined them, having seemed to silently agree to give Stewart and Pauline a moment together.

“Thomas came for me,” Pauline said.

So you were wrong after all, Stewart thought to Menard’s spirit. “On his own? What a resourceful boy.”

“Man, you mean,” Cleburne said. “I have to agree, though. That was impressive.”

“What did he say? Why isn’t he with you?”

“He was worried, Charles—Captain Stewart,” Pauline said. “I didn’t really understand him, I must say. He said something about having missed Captain Menard, and being afraid that both the captain and you were in trouble.” She looked past the others to where Menard’s shrouded body lay on a sidewalk, awaiting the arrival of the New Orleans garrison’s provost marshal. “I see he was right to worry.”

“He was,” Stewart said. “But where is he?”

Pauline shifted. She looked back at Menard’s body rather than at him, Stewart noted, and his spirits sank again. “I promised I wouldn’t tell,” she said after a moment.

“So he’s on his way to St. Louis,” Stewart said.