Time Portal: Vertigo

Inspired by a prompt at A Year in the Life of an Art Journal

What is more likely to send a gal spinning through time than an episode of vertigo?

Part 6: Cradle Songs and Distant Melodies, The Highwayman's Daughter

 Part 6: Cradle Songs and Distant Melodies, 

* * * The High Toby * * *
Listen to this entire story in the April Edition of "Unpolished Performances", a free podcast in the iTunes Store. Download it by clicking on this link.

Somehow Da had acquired a horse for Dolly and her brother to ride into the country. She hadn’t known, at the time, how they could afford a horse of their own, and such a magnificent beast as well. 

She knew now. 

The two children had called the animal, Shrugu, because of the patches of white that appeared mysteriously on it’s dark coat. Eventually her father had taught her to apply the dark brown dye that helped to turn Shrugu into a shiny black horse instead of a gray. The coloring had served to protect the horses’s identity when her father had first taken him from among his fellows. It also made Shrugu nearly invisible, when it came to hiding beneath a tree on the toby.

Fion well remembered the promise he’d made to his wife. He’s sworn that he’d leave his old lay behind him in Ireland. Never again would he order the hapless carter or coach driver to ‘stand and deliver’. But he’d promised to care for their children as well, and some vows have more power than others.

With those children well hidden beneath a screen of bushes or trees, he would approach a lone vehicle on Shrugu’s back, his pistol at the ready. Excitement and fear pulsed as one, for this could be the moment when a hidden pistol would emerge, and take him down with a lucky shot. Then there was the bully, well-beloved moment of excitement when, with pockets heavy with coin and a still racing heart, he and the horse lit off with a great woop and a yell, well in advance of the mark. What that mark didn’t know was how shortly Fion and Shrugu would pull up beneath another tree, only a few yards away.

Soon his well-born victims would struggle off down the road to resume their interrupted travels, fuming and wailing over the loss of watches, rings and money. The children, as Da had taught them, waited quietly in their secret abode. For they knew that Fion would soon double back to put them up on Shrugu. Then, once more, they traveled masquerading as itinerant tinkers with a box of ribbons and a few spools of thread to give them a reason to always be moving onwards along the hard high road.

Fion had chosen his marks carefully, never too many on the same stretch of road. He’d taken only enough to feed himself and his children and to pay for shelter during the cold months. The MacLiams had been tobeymen for generations, and he knew well that a highwayman didn’t have much chance of a long life. Yet, with care, he could provide for his children until they were old enough to fend for themselves. He’d heard there was farmland to be had out west. Owen and Dolly were old enough, now, to set to work ploughing and planting.

* *

The highwayman’s daughter patted the horses muzzle softly and murmured into the great flickering ear. “Hsst, Shrugu,” she whispered. “Do you want them to hear us? Dinna gie us away.”

The carriage jingling down the road was pulled by a pair of fine plump grays. The coachman was well togged out in fine livery. Should she take a chance? Da would have said ‘no’, but Da was gone now. He’d been taken and hanged when he tried to rob the mail, thinking it a worthwhile risk for two men. So, Owen had gone with him. Luckily for her brother they needed young soldiers in Ameriky more than they needed corpses. Owen was stationed now, not so far away, in the Allegany mountains. 

Jenny had taken up with Johnny Hodges, the butcher’s son. But town life for an unmarried tinker’s daughter was no sinecure. She was wise enough to know that life with Johnny would continue only as long as his head wasn’t turned by a trimmer ankle or waist. And she was skilled enough to know what she had to do to make the money she needed to build that farm that they'd always dreamed of.

Dolly fumbled for the pistol at her belt. That belt held up a pair of Owen’s old trousers. Clad in men's clothes and with her hair stuffed beneath her brother's old hat, no one would ever suspect that Dolly MacLiam had been the tobeyman this night.

She thought back to the last time she’d lain in wait for Fion. Just that once, he’d decided to take his son along . “Just this once so we can get enough money to build that farm.” Da had never meant for Owen to take to the family lay. And he’d certainly never meant for his daughter to find herself pointing a pistol down the road and calling out, ‘stand-and-deliver’.

But the coach was clearly a rich one, a noble family’s(*) vehicle perhaps. Just this once, she’d take the chance. For Owen wouldn’t be a soldier forever, and there was still a farm to build. 

She lifted the bridle rein and a song, that seemed to come from very far away, rose unbidden in her throat.

As I was going over the Appilachin’ mountains


I met with captain Farrell

and his money he was counting. 


I first produced me pistol,

and I then produced my rapier.


Said stand and deliver!

For yeh ‘air a bold deceiver,

musha ring dumma do

whack for the daddy 'ol


whack for the daddy 'ol


there's whiskey in the jar

I counted out his money,

and it made a pretty penny.


I put it in my pocket and I took it home to Johnny.


He sighed and he swore,

But said he never would deceive me,


Oh the devil take such menfolk,

for they never can be aisy.


Listen to this entire story in the April Edition of "Unpolished Performances", a free podcast in the iTunes Store. Download it by clicking on this link.

* Dolly MacLiam's victims were English aristocracy before the American revolution 

Fellow Time Traveller: Crotalus cerastes

Please click on the illustration above to enjoy all the lovely details 

involved in Crotalus cerastes passing through her chosen time portal

The rains are over, the rabbits and gophers are out and soooo is sommmmebody else. Isn't she lovely? And she was ever so polite about letting me know she was there, about a foot up the side from the trail. I was irritated that I left my audio recorder in the car. Her conversation with me, would have been such great audio for my next podcast. 


I knew when I created this  background, that it was somebody's idea of the perfect time portal. I just hadn't realized, until I stopped by Edgewood Park* for a short hike on the way to a music lesson, that it was the preferred time portal for Crotalus cerastes (a.k.a. one beautiful California rattlesnake).


* Edgewood Park Preserve, San Carlos, San Mateo County, San Francisco Bay Area. Put your snake proof boots in the car, Take the Edgewood Exit off Highway 280, meander down the hill. Parking is just off Edgewood Road. Part of County Park System . No dogs (but just across the road is a Mid-Penninsula Open Space Region trail that permits dogs)

Time Travel Trip, A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 5)

Have you missed any of the

 Previous Journal entries

for Russia Bound Time Travel?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.

 * Time Travel Trip, The Samovar's Story: Russia Bound (part 2)

Jan 13, 2011

Part 2: The Samovar’s Story

 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

* Part 3: The Winter Palace: Russia Bound  

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

*  *  *

 Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 

I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.

* * *

Part 5: A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace

The high drawing room walls were covered with pale green silk brocade and there was gilt everywhere: mirrors, picture frames, and on every kind of bibelots imaginable from clocks to vases. Normally I would have stopped to take in the beauty of the glittering decorations against their background of undersea color, but my attention was drawn to the massive table that dominated the center of the room. I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.

This was, my new friend explained, with an airy wave of her hand towards the enormous table, "just a simple evening tea". I did indeed see tea, being dispensed from a very familiar-looking samovar nearby. That genial beverage was nothing more than a side note, however, though it was a pretty elegant note.

The silver samovar had acquired a nice polish since it had left my possession. In current times, the vessel had that nice new look of a recent wedding present. The intertwined initials "N" and "A" stood out in clear relief. The insignia on the pot was easier to make out now. It was a fearsome pair of crowned, birdlike creatures with rather horrid humanesque limbs. They were holding various nasty implements with strongly royal characteristics. I recognized the emblem from a vague memory of a class worksheet pertaining to the arms of the Romanovs. No wonder the samovar had proved to be such an excellent vehicle for my travels back to the palace.

The urn sat on a small, but very elaborate, boule table shaped like an elaborate fiddle. The marquetry work was lovely, consisting of inlaid mother-of-pearl against an ebony and red background

But it was what was laid out on the thickly patterned damask covered tablecloth that really attracted me. Despite my whale boning, my travel experience had made me frankly hungry. The board was spread with the most delicious looking viands. In the middle of the cloth was a huge pyramid of sparkling crystal platters heaped with absolutely prime looking apples, pears, grapes and mandarin oranges. I've never wanted a piece of fruit so much in my life. Our modern day marketing technicians could learn a lot from whoever configured that display. Off to one side footmen were just lifting the white napkins off silver serving dishes, filled with napoleons, slices of babka and chocolate gateau, small sweet rolls, meringues, almond, raisin and fruit cookies, ginger biscuits, and three other kinds of pastry I didn't even recognize.

There were tiny crystal bowls filled with molded butter, and a colorful medley of jams and jellies, lumps of sugar and cut orange segments covered in a fine dusting of sugar. Nearby were concentric circles of bread platters that seemed to be graded by contrasting colors. There were artfully arranged pieces of black bread, dark and light ryes, steamed bread, french rolls, and slices of light brown wheat bread standing at attention. Opposite the breads where platters arranged, again, in concentric neatly arranged circles of sliced ham, chicken, tongue, turkey, beef, and something I thought might be grouse. There was also cream cheese, grated white cheddar, Swiss cheese, and green wedges that could have been cheese. Off to one side were trays of  sausage rolls and filled savory pastries, absolutely oozing with meaty filling. These were laid out on long platters made of delicate bone china, set three tiers high.

At a nearby small table a party of beautifully outfitted young women were drinking tea out of delicate green and gilt porcelain cups. A dark haired beauty in pale blue was sliding her fork into a piece of glazed babka thick with candied fruit and raisins. My mouth began to water and I looked desperately at Alina. "Do we just help ourselves?"

She answered by thrusting a plate with one of the delicious-looking chocolate laced Napoleons towards me. "Gospedee, bozhe moi, the tsarista has descended on us! Here take a mille-feuille, head over that way, and just blend in before she notices you." 

I managed to snare one of the golden pears and a piece of black bread as she hurried me across the floor towards a table by the far wall, occupied by three elderly ladies. “Why are we running away from the empress? I’d love to at least get a chance to see her. I promise not to ask for her autograph or anything!”

“She's unpopular in St. Petersburg because she's so suspicious of everyone in it.  And that just makes her even more suspicious. If she thinks you're a newcomer she'll wonder what you're doing here. We could both get the boot.

I moved my plate up so that it partially covered my profile. "So what do I do to blend in?"

"Oh Grafinja Ulyana will likely take you under her wing. If you want to get an idea of typical court gossip, you can't do any better then to join Ulyana Marovna's party. I'll introduce you." Alina kept an eagle eye on the gilded main doorway as she hurried me across the room. As much as I'd have liked to spot that ill-fated granddaughter of Queen Victoria, I was even more interested in getting through the evening without losing access to my tasty little meal, even if I didn’t manage to score some of that babka.

Grafinja Ulyana was happy to accept any friend of Alina Fyodorovna without question. It made me wonder just who Alina’s daddy Fyodor had been, when her comrades Grafinja Kseniya  and Baroness Theodora, ("She's an Austrian," Alina whispered,) made a fuss over me as well. A neatly aproned woman came around to refill my new companions teacups and deposit brimful cups for Alina and me. Porcelain cups, not tea glasses, I noticed appreciatively, despite what I'd read in my well-worn copy of Elena Molokhovets' A Gift to Young Housewives. I made a mental note to add this important historical tidbit to my travel journal.

It wasn't too long before the ladies left off complimenting me on the color of my hair, the tone of my voice, the luster of my complexion, and returned to what they'd obviously been discussing when we arrived. The Baroness was having her brand new dacha redecorated and Kseniya Grigorevna had quite a number of suggestions to make. Ulyana Marovna disagreed with most of what her friend proposed. I yawned, thinking that their conversation wasn't that all different from one I'd listened to at the neighborhood New Years Eve party, except that where I lived no landless peasants were evicted when Joy and George who lived down the street, had bought their "little place in Carmel".

Alina didn't seem much impressed by the conversation either. She jumped right up when I finished my napoleon and looked longingly towards the center table. "I'll go, Lariska. Chocolate gateau? Babka?" I indicated that a little of each wouldn't go amiss. The thought reminded me of an old joke of my father's, something about 'a little of ich, that's what we always said in the Russian army.' I wondered if my American grandfather was already hearing that joke from his father across the ocean back home. I wouldn't have been the least surprised.

I managed to slip a few piece of cheese, and one of the meat filled pastries off the Baronesses plate while the ladies heads turned to follow Alina's form across the floor.

"So, are you a member of the family too?," Grafinja Ulyana demanded once Alina had passed out of earshot.

I swallowed the rather large bite of pastry I’d just popped into my mouth. It was filled with what I thought was grouse, and was extremely tasty. I hoped that the napkin I quickly applied to my mouth made me look like I was delicately bred, and not like a glutton who'd bitten off more than she could properly chew.

"Family?" The word, coming on the heels of the grouse, was a little croaky.

"Yes, the family. One of Fyodor's um- connections?"

I suppose I looked as stupid as I felt. "I never met Alina's father. We're not related. I don't even know-"

"Himmel, Grafinja! The girl isn't one of these morganatic connections of which your Russian aristocracy has so many. Anyone can see she's German or Prussian. Our men marry their wives properly!"

Ulyana snorted. "The Teutons are the worst when it comes to morganatic marriages, what about The  Countess of Merenberg?"

Kseniya nodded. "It's true, Baroness. My mother always said-"

"Are you trying to tell me that Alina's parents are Romanov's?"

All three women turned in my direction. Ulyana raised one eyebrow. "No one really knows for sure, but the Tsar's father was very friendly with Alina’s mother before he was engaged to Maria Fyodorovna, when his brother was still alive. And then she married rather quickly and had Vasily. And that marriage wasn’t even recognized. It was all very irregular. Well I mean, look at his name, Vasily, what it means in the Greek!"

The name was starting to ring a bell, all right. I wished I had my cell phone. I was dying to look up the Greek connection for "Vasily".

"I’ve heard that rumor, but I’ve never believed it. Everyone always said that Tsar Alexander remained faithful to Maria Fyodorovna," Kseniya insisted.

"Well, of course they would say that. Though I don’t actually know if there was any gossip after the marriage itself.” Ulyana tapped her front teeth thoughtfully. “I mean Vasily and Alina’s mother married Maria Fyodorovna's cousin, even if the contract couldn’t be acknowledged legally, it gave her children a father. And those children even have the same patronymic as the dowager empress, because it's a family name. These things can be kept in the family. You know that as well as I do.”

I didn’t need my cell phone anymore. I’d remembered the connection. Alina's mother had planted rather a strong hint when she gave her son the Russian name derived from the Greek word for royalty.

“There's no doubt that Vasily has the Tsar's ear.” Ulyana added. “Well he would, if they're half-brothers, wouldn't he?"

San Francisco Illusions: Only a Matter of Time

San Francisco Illusions Continued

Please click on the picture above to enjoy the colorful detail

San Francisco Illusions: Spending Time

San Francisco Illusions continued

Please click on the picture above to fully enjoy all the beautiful detail

Time Out for Time Travel - Unpolished Performances Episode 2

On Youtube

Part 1: Time Out for Time Travel

Part 2: Time Out for Time Travel

* * *

Part 1: Time Out for Time Travel The Simple Romantic interviews Captain BidingMyTime, senior staff member for The well known Time Travel service, “Period Pilots”.

Captain BMTime "My parents got along pretty well with everybody ‘round there, cuz my mama was one of the N`dee, you’ve probably heard them referred to as the Apache. My daddy was a retired cavalry officer who came west after the war

S.Rom. So your mother was a Chiricahua? Did you spend much time with her family?

Captain BMTime You see hon, that’s how I got involved in the business at such a young age. About 16 I was when I went to help out one of my aunties one summer. She was my mother’s oldest sister. I was always a little bit of rebel at home, you know capable girls with ideas of their own, weren’t real popular in white settlements in those times. But strong-minded women were nothing new to th T’Inde. And that’s when I started off on my career.

S.Rom. So you learned about time travel with the Apache – I mean the N’dee?" .... Click here to listen to the remainder of this Podcast Preview on Youtube

Part 2: Time Out for Time Travel The Simple Romantic reads recent short, light pieces from her art journal. Click here to listen to Time Portal Identification Made Easy, A Milk Can Remembers, The Dasher or Playing at Past Times, the Assemblage – Dawning of the Music

My first podcasts are not out as 'casts, yet. Instead, as I build my podcasting skills, I'm doing the first couple of months as youtube audio- slideshows. Please click to see and listen. And let me know what you think. I’d love to find your comments here, or out at youtube.