Mutely Spoken
Sven Begha went once more to the boggy inlet. There he found his tautly strung and glutinous-coated, seepage-daubed, cattle-skin, strake-lathed Korak. A light built coracle he strengthened for the sea. Out of the flax bushes he dragged a pile of straw and bundled sticks with a roll of canvas wrapped in the leather twine string attached to its corners. A wooden branch shaped to fit his hand. As hefty as a mallet; he took this too, along with some pegs. Sharp edged and hardened by burning.
His nature mutant and morose. He was silent on all occasions. Yet somehow there was more life lived inside him than any other. At least it seemed so to the girl. She admired him; also in her quiet. His own silence was another matter that leaked all the time from him. He would lean forward to consult. If close by or launching himself from a distance. In anger he beat on logs with a stick. This too did the tongue wagging for him. He was not in that manner slow of speech. As he made the sticks skitter in dance with sound and extremely fast and rapid to the ear. So everyone knew exactly how he felt. As if he were angry at their hearing. At least he expected them to respond radically and behaved alike in accord.
He lived in the village on a small island shaped itself like a bar out to sea. And there was a bar at the northern end of the island leading the more safely into an inlet. He was a mute boy from some unknown trauma he had suffered as a lad. He walked on the ozone side of the island always on the beach. Angling his body for the electric clutter of ozone in his nostrils. He was drawn to it. The soft sand between his toe's. The Lupins in the tussock. The Frisian sky at his back. Teutonic swamp far off in South Easterly distance. The Western Romans had set up a forward camp a days journey away down the coast on the southern side. Past the cliffs and the point with its taunting rip-tide sweep and the whirlpool hidden in its shadows. The other side of the cliffs. That is away from the island and the village in the middle. This additionally also held a deep abyss -where the contents of the whirlpool, would be disgorged further inside a cavern. Visible only at the surface after a trek through some very thick bush. He was one of few from the village who’d dived into its waters. He swam like no other of his tribe. As an outcast to the seagoing peoples he had been thrown many times abruptly into the tide. He had been forced to encounter water. With its deadly liquid difficulties and its deep final embraces.
His disposition whatever the day was always tilted toward the ocean. He bent his mind and his understanding an his body and with his walk and desires and in his ears and nostrils- he smelled always the smack of the sea in them. Could not resist.
Above all though, he lived for is dance of danger amongst the growlers. This was frequent now for these with a decades of the cold ocean’s. And the clothing had changed to suit this was no ordinary century. Lifetimes were like no other time. Double wrapped feet and arms, with a covered head, doubtless were no protection from thieving Romans and their coastal forays.
Coming back from one of his own adventures unknown and unseen by others. He had discovered for himself the strong power race which let out the inlet waters at the southern end.
Deceptively leading into the riptide on a one journey trip around the point. As beyond lay the circling water spiral. A geyser in reverse; sucking the unwary down into the vast subterreanian caves.
Many tribesman had been lost though very few women. Nor had any been recovered. They were forgotten. It was far too fearsome to think about. Otherwise their situation on the coast island was very amenable to them. They had a fishing, trading and transporting settlement colony.
When out on the ocean in midst of the fierce shrieking silence. He rode in the road of the ice growlers. As afflicted with terrifying fierce low cutting winds. He drove always forward with his specially cut wooden paddle. A stage platform built out one side of his slim skiff link, spinning, corake it had a cavity set for the tiller with its handle. Then a sail, or wind catching shelter erect against the howling siren. As a mast and canopy. All served to direct the ferocious howling wind. The paddle attachment which led neatly over the top and to step cut-out into it for his vigorous foot. Which mute could push down hard and release inner rotating motion swift and stopped in rapid moves yet still in succession. Pumping his forward motion like he was draining the seas. His intent heavy with human purpose and traction
A dancer on the deck of the floor in his ocean. his little platform twisted and writhed and he moved his feet and leaned out to add leverage to is thrusting plunges through the sodden waves.
He also had a smaller sail rigged to catch the wind against the tired like a flag of battle. This propelled them swift on towards his goal. For he wished to cross over the bar at the very exact time that the next sequential wave came over it. Crashing and sluicing amidst the ocean of swelling and heaving seas. More than ninety times he had done this. Sometimes with small colder icebergs, scraping the winters bottom heavily on the bar and the seething waters around.
He waited and watched in the darkness he moved from the horizon toward the coast out from the inlet. His determination was set on his face is whole-body trembled with the pleasure of it. A journey begun as born in its destination. He attended the horizon with piercing sight. Over and over each chop of wave the sharp dark smack of wave stop he could not stop could not rest. And there it was the rise. Beginning in the base of the ocean roiling up and over the bar. He headed for the swell . He again propelled and propelling. This foot is full outstretched. Leg bending. The other in unison with poleing and cutting full water. And his body sings together with his lungs. He conquers marine space by moving his violent convulsions to the icecaps. In time to the gleaming glissandi of ocean.
And across in the long drowning troughs of the seagoing brine.
The growlers were out there. He headed for them all.
And then you saw it. Almost straight away. A large one lying flat he raced toward. Hidden in its dark night shadow yet certain of its shape. It rode low and slow with the water. Not rocking so violently as the others: it was huge and big enough for this night’s work. He clambered aboard. Staking a tough peg into its rough immensity. Is of wounding it forever. Tethering has crack aboard – that small craft of many speaking is and of many names. One could draw its very creation out of the raw shaping is of the brain stop
He listens well silent in speaking inside talks in his head. Speaking of her. Of the sea. Of the ocean far and wide. Beyond the beach bar barrier – a barricade to an inlet suitable for fishing craft. They are the Vikh: half a century late from the Dangeld and the further of all thing the jury althing.
With a sense of foreboding he heads out to sea again and again over the ensuing months looking for Roman’s. Their blood more precious than hers until all are safe.
Village know of rubbish from stories of the past recent history. Men out to sea fishing ambushed. The sounds carry over the horizon. Mute boy guesses what has happened. Boy narrator viewer.
He is gazing out to sea looking at the growlers approaching he rushes back and swims across the inlet. Few of his tribe swim. He had to they threw in so often. Long the other side he drags is lightly built Oracle stop he fashioned on the Celtic sleeve model. Battles back across the inlet away from the bull rushes. Runs along bank – distracting them from village stop what does he see over the horizon like radar? A hunch, – is back to a small hunch in this – animallike?
An old man and his young concubine. She was a slave girl. The Headmans girl was a ravaged beauty having the sullen dignity of a Greek. Mother purchased as a slave by the Rus And brought North for breeding and companionship.
He sees the Roman ships appear three or four in the water in the mist the ocean at the turn of the tide around midnight. They are bold sailors. With this, the wind assisted swell, lumbering Roman fortresses rise over the bar, that is protecting the inlet at one end. There drogue scrapes some dull thud tumbling over the bar with them. He sees it from the swamp side of the inlet and running along the path is the observer to see that it all. Dull grey humpy shapes. The bodies of frozen tribesman.
The race, drum the beach, drum the Roman drum with their village song. Warn them. Warily. Yet with force. Force it is.
Bought is the Headman’s concubine to keep them warm with lust. The girl was eager enough for the job she had. Opening her body against the groin of the old man to give them pleasure. When required. There was no love there or no ceasing respect either. She enjoyed what she had to do, and make no bones about it with his slow movements. He appreciated her that is all. The men went to battle out to sea. They had gone there to drive away the Rhomish in every ship. Often their thin fishing craft took the beating. At their hands above the boating adzes and the kindling axes and bronze spears to weild wooden sticks. With an outer sheath of thinnest copper at the end. This was not enough green copper. Against an iron death that thrust back at them with tremendous military dread.
The Headman hung upside down strapped to a tree with a Roman sign. Tortured by slashes of iron fish-hooks tied in a cluster of leather bindings. Then they went out fishing with his blood. Crudely spearing crabs and lobster and small fish in the inlet. The first Romans he finds gone. Passed tide-race, beyond the cliffs point, beyond another inlet exit – to perish in the village trap of race, rip and spinning whirlpool.
And he heads towards the ozone heavy seas burning with plasma glory fires. To seek more vengeance.
The oceanic agony of the great depths. Striving to be free of their gravid wet and liquid drownings.
Launching a fresh sparkling day blue sky in flashes over vaster distances like miracles of vision.
Dark on this crackling horizon he heads out. Paddling twisted in shaped in deep warping deep – against the bending water, - his deep digging movement. He can breathe the ozone cracked by his own fast dipping. The crack is fast of beat: nimble on the watery surface under all conditions. Speeding dizzily towards its swaying and jagged distance. His arms a tireless sinew, which flashes and stretches throughout his hard body.
He yearns to be out there among them. As for the danger of crushing ice with his swamped our branch lath and cattle skin stitching boat. What of it? He laughed at it. In the year of the ice cold seas. He is soon among the growlers and he feels ecstatic with his perils. If life could not kill him what of death?
And he is gazing further out to sea watching the arctic growlers. Deeper, longer flashes of white blue: with green-grey at the blurred sight horizon.
Deep in the night.
Hugging the inner coast. Shrouded in mist stop between the growlers on the island. With the change of tide he headed for the southern end of the island - that with the rip out from the quagmire of sucking sinkhole. Around the cliff edged outcrop. A cistern over the void. A deadlier cascade it would be hard to find.
With the race of inland water still. Tempting. Easy of entry. Not so the exit.
He found a cleft in the aft end of the ice.
The trap was ready.
Seeking for the Roman metal. He saw ships hunkered down and covered over with the icy mist and rain. They rode with muffled oars as if attending a funeral in Genoa. Ice burdened their keel. A fatal mistake.
He sees them without any hesitation; unprepared, and he so ready. Hunting them with his eyes.
He unloaded. Throwing the straw wrapped in oil skin. Grease seepage drawn from the swamp. A pigskin full of it suitable for a fire stop and has flinty kept in a small pouch around his waist. He hauled his kayak carrack abort another name for it. Names that would passed through the centuries; in his day multi variant name. The beginning of the world name that every man spoke freely in his mind and could plant on its face for all to see. They did not need speeches in those days. . Many layers of dryness to keep from the wet. At a small tent he rigged up a small fire.
On the bowsprit rig he fashioned a hole with axes. To take the strain. Seating the angle tiller aft inside as with the mast. As he had done before- fixing them and placed with hot gushing urine streams. That stained the groaning berg with glistening clear yellow cement.
The Romishwere mustering in the seething ocean, muttering in their planning below decks. Before the beach across from the village. Ready for a second attack. He drove the growlers among them like cattle. he controlled the sea. And in the lee of its big existence drifted the smaller one for their clumsy destructive work. He was going to heard them into the Romans fleet. He set the straw in the sticks of his own bed alight. And through the bundles wrapped in sail intent. Onto the oil skin latinate covers. They flared into flames. Several vessels were burning. This sail wrapped or unfurled burst into fiery semaphore awakening the village.
The role most loud cries stirred everyone to warning. A threat was approaching! Beware, beware.
Vessels burned and burning several crashed into others. The Rhomish now confused. We are heir to mortality they cried. Distressed in fiery burning. The hot metal aiding them none. They sank in the waves.
Several older men in the village waded out and finish them off with loud grunts. The women gathered toward the Latin corpses. Plundering and dispatched by her mute lover. He thrusts are full blooded. His burnt sharpened stick is good to use; in the thrusting impulses of an enraged husband.
The villagers are waiting. She raises herself to shout, she cannot- a mute and beautiful joy overshoots her. Her eyes light with a golden sheen, reflected in the lanterns waiting for them on shore. She drinks this in. Golden lights of welcoming fires.
She turns from the light of the receiving villages her tribes-people. Yes, her people- she says to herself. All mine.
Toward him she now looks and looks. The two askance are one and his murmurs cry love inside. A union of her. She is like him, he like her. The mystery man as clear as day. He alone of all watching for them.
He drinks from her gaze. A sip at a time, a tired smile on his lips. He has spoken. They hear him. Love measured.
He stands there blue, cold and stiffened at the tiller post. Sprinkled with hoar frost crystals: chilly pallor; exhausted as death.





Masculist Book recommendations

These are the books this whole site references for its authority
Everything stated here is backed up by one or other of books like these.
However I consider their 'interpretations' weak and their recommendations for ACTION- in the light of population, economic, political and massive government funding biases to be highly regretable at best. For instance their recommendations are small in scale or dismissively 'ironic' as if we were talking about some tiny 'bad joke' incident.
The ramifications as to the survival of Western Civilization is really what at stake- and thus the deeper ironies run in precisely the opposite direction; how will feminism survive if it successfully destroys the so called capitalist/patriarchy/deep state structures on which it so seriously depends?






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