When we saw the news this morning about the earthquake in Sumatra — just
across the Straits of Malacca from where we are — I commented that Malaysia
should be safe from the threat of tsunami because the earthquake was on the
far side of the island of Sumatra. Obviously, I was wrong.

As the death tolls continue to rise throughout the night, it’s clear that the
greatest devastation has occured in India and Sri Lanka, although it is chilling
to see the see images of destruction from Penang and Langkawi in Malaysia and
Phuket and Kerabi in Thailand, all of which we have visited. The southern end
of Peninsular Malaysia appears to have avoided the the destructive tsunamis.
In any case, Kuala Lumnpur is sufficiently inland that we would not have been
in danger anyway.

Thanks to those who have expressed concern. Please keep the people of Southeast
Asia who have suffered this catastrophe in your thoughts and prayers.

When we saw the news this morning about the earthquake in Sumatra — just
across the Straits of Malacca from where we are — I commented that Malaysia
should be safe from the threat of tsunami because the earthquake was on the
far side of the island of Sumatra. Obviously, I was wrong.

As the death tolls continue to rise throughout the night, it’s clear that the
greatest devastation has occured in India and Sri Lanka, although it is chilling
to see the see images of destruction from Penang and Langkawi in Malaysia and
Phuket and Kerabi in Thailand, all of which we have visited. The southern end
of Peninsular Malaysia appears to have avoided the the destructive tsunamis.
In any case, Kuala Lumnpur is sufficiently inland that we would not have been
in danger anyway.

Thanks to those who have expressed concern. Please keep the people of Southeast
Asia who have suffered this catastrophe in your thoughts and prayers.

Ksenia stood at the top of a snowy hill, watching her son guide his sled along a well-worn path. The sled run began just behind the dacha, winding down through the garden and finally coming to a stop a little short of the low stone wall that divided the garden from the orchard. This was Ivor’s favorite course, and it was one of the few hilly stretches on the grounds that was sufficiently free of obstruction to meet his mother’s exacting standards. Even so, with each run she worried that he wouldn’t be able to stop and that he would collide with the orchard wall, although after dozens — if not hundreds — of runs, he had never even come close.

After the sled came to a gradual stop at the bottom of the hill, Ivor got up and began making his way back to the top, his sled in tow. The climb to the top of the hill took several minutes; the ride down lasted no more than thirty seconds. And yet Ivor would be perfectly happy to keep riding down and climbing back up all day. And Ksenia would be happy to watch him do so, at least until his teeth began to chatter and his normally warm brown complexion took on a bluish tint.

“Now there’s a fine Russian boy hard at play.”

Ksenia turned to see Sergei Banov standing behind her. One of Mr. Keyes’ oldest friends, Banov had also been a good friend to her over the years, as had his wife and daughter. Although it was never discussed openly, Ksenia knew that the self-described “retired intelligence man” had spent a good deal of time trying to discover what had become of Reuben Stone. And because it was never discussed, Ksenia deduced that the search was fruitless.

But she also knew that Sergei was not a man easily discouraged by long odds or an initial lack of success, as he had demonstrated two years earlier by finally tracking down the man who killed his son. Even Mr. Keyes thought that was impossible.

“Good morning, Sergei Petrovich,” said Ksenia.

Banov smiled broadly.

“Good morning, Ksenia Ivanova.”

“And good morning to you,” he continued, waving and calling out to Ivor.

The boy looked up from his trudging and solemnly returned the salute.

“Good morning, Uncle,” he said, only slightly raising his voice. At a young age, he had already observed how easily voices carried over the snow.

“See how he loves the snow,” Sergei said to Ksenia, indicating the boy’s steady trek back up the hill. “He is a true Russian, that one.”

Ksenia nodded.

“I was just thinking about that. His love of the cold he gets from his Russian mother. But his ability to withstand it he gets from his American father.”

Very Light Blogging, that is.

I know it’s been light for the past couple of weeks as I wrapped up my year at work, but it’s about to get a lot more so as the SpecuWife and I head off for three fun-filled weeks (or so) in her home town of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

I’m going to try to get on here every couple of days (if possible). I’ll do my best to at least keep up with publishing the new chapters of Stillness.

If you need to reach me, write to me at bowermaster-at-gmail-dot-com.

Merry Christmas, all!