Thursday, March 17, 2016

The OId Ways And The Old Country




[Excerpted from The Hill Of The Ravens by H.A. Covington]



Don’s elder daughter Cynthia Ellen Redmond was helping her mother in the kitchen. “Hi, Dad,” she said. The eldest Redmond daughter very greatly resembled Sarah in her younger years, the same slim strong build and handsome features, but without the young Sarah’s passion and wildness. Cindy was still wearing her green Labor Service coveralls. She had spent the day supervising a crew of younger people who were doing their mandatory year of manual work after graduating from high school. Today they had been raking leaves and doing landscaping in Priest Point Park. Next week they might be collecting the city’s garbage or repairing an elderly couple’s home. A few weeks before Cindy and her crew had been in Yakima picking apples, and in the spring they would be out in the woods doing forestry work, planting seedlings and stocking fisheries.

The Labor Service was the Republic’s response to the age-old excuse of capitalism as to why massive Third World immigration was needed. “Who does the dirty work?” moaned the old capitalists of the United States. “White and even black Americans won’t get their hands dirty or work up a sweat. We must have all these brown coolies, or who will do the heavy sweaty stooping stuff?” In the Republic, everybody’s children did. 

That meant everybody. Absolute equality of national service was the bedrock on which the system rested. Labor Service deferments for young people were even harder to get than military deferments for young men. Everybody’s kids worked with their hands for a year. Even if they were blind and in a wheelchair, a job was found for them counting widgets by touch or something of the kind. A field foreman’s stripes gleamed on the left sleeve of Cindy’s overall, indicating that she had voluntarily extended her time in the NLS beyond the legal one year requirement. She was now twenty years old, a quiet and competent young woman. By graduating from high school and passing her History and Moral Philosophy course she had already earned her C citizenship certificate and the single vote that came with it. Like many girls, Cindy had opted to go for her second level of citizenship through national service rather than through college or through marriage right out of high school. On completion their year of Labor Service, boys went right into the military for another two years, and they left the army with a two-vote B category citizenship.

Don’s youngest daughter Eva was doing her homework on the dining room table, a History and Moral Philosophy assignment on the life of Commander Rockwell. Eva was fifteen and starting to kick at the traces a bit. She wanted to achieve her own citizenship through the coveted “cultural asset” status, as an actress. If she passed the H & MP course and also the talent evaluation by the Ministry of Culture, she would get a C-1 certificate as opposed to her sister’s present C-2. 

Eva was entering high school on the Arts and Humanities track and she was doing well. She really did seem to have the true dramatic fire, and she had already appeared in two adolescent bit part roles on local television, which made both her parents proud enough to explode. Opportunities for actors were more numerous than one might think in the Republic, given that one of the primary national missions was preserving Western art and drama in the purest form. There were not only the Ministries of Culture and Broadcasting and the Northwest Film Board, but a number of prestigious private theater and movie companies. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men in Seattle and Portland’s Globe Theater Group were deemed to be among the most eminent and skillful Shakespearean and Restoration repertory companies in existence, attracting talent from all over the rapidly diminishing English-speaking-world. 

Eva intended to try and get her own Labor Service assignment as a stagehand and set builder for the NBA or one of the private companies. Nor were other canons of the European tradition neglected. Eva’s drama class was producing Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac in the original French for Thanksgiving Theater Day, with Eva playing the female lead as Roxane. Only in the Northwest Republic could the classical works of Western drama now be performed from their original texts, without later interpolations of multiculturalism and political correctness. In the spring they were planning for a field trip to make a video movie of Wuthering Heights, to be filmed in eastern Oregon as a viable substitute for the Yorkshire moors. Eva was determined to snag the role of Cathy, although she had told her father that if the family adopted a Lebensborn child before then she would stay home and help her mother with the infant.

Public schooling in the Northwest was superior to anything in any American university, and many European ones. The Culture and Education Ministries were convinced by the catastrophic American precedent of the last century that the devil made work for idle hands, and that it was in the interest both of society and of the child to keep him out of trouble by making sure that from kindergarten onward, until the boys went into the army and the girls went to college or marriage, school was a full-time job. The Party took an iron-hard line against various degenerate entertainments and pastimes of the kind that had wasted whole generations of white youth before the revolution. 

Instead of skateboards, Northwest kids got Shakespeare. They had computer games in abundance, but instead of mindless destruction of bizarre alien life forms all such games required the exercise of young minds to outwit the programming through swift analysis, thought, and reaction. Instead of the holographic virtual reality games and pornography that rotted the minds of American children of all races, Northwest boys and girls got virtual time travel that let them see and hear and smell everything from the hiss of the clothyard shafts at Agincourt to a day in the life of a pioneer family heading west in a Conestoga wagon, circa 1850. 

High school graduates were required among other attainments to speak, read and write fluently in four languages: English, Latin, and two others not their native tongue. The Latin requirement was not only for the increased knowledge it gave the child of modern languages descended from the tongue of ancient Rome, but also because the declensions and syntax imposed an orderly mental discipline on the child’s mind. Latin has no equivalent of “Like, whatever, dude.” Most Northwest high school students chose Spanish for one of their languages, for the very practical reason that it was the primary tongue of their national enemy and it would prove of use. Eva had impressed the hell out of her parents by choosing French and Italian. When she had made her choices known, Don had asked his daughter why. “French in honor of the one nation who dared to oppose the American empire back in the old days,” the girl had replied. “Italian because I always hear Aunt Tori and Big Bill speaking it, and it’s beautiful. I want to talk with Tori in Italian.”

Cindy El was prim and attractive, and she promised to grow into a handsome and matronly woman, but Eva had the makings of a true beauty. The girl was blond and willowy, her hair a shining and living sheaf of gold, and her walk was that of a princess who would grow to become a queen. When Eva entered a room every male eyeball from eight to eighty clicked, and it worried Don. For Cindy there had only been one, Mark Conway, one of nature’s gentlemen, and neither of them had ever given her parents a moment of worry. With Eva, chasing every teenaged boy in Olympia away from the house had already become almost a full-time job for him and Sarah both. The kids were even willing to brave Baskerville for a moment or two in Evie’s company. 

Middle son Matt, aged nineteen, was stationed in Twin Falls doing his army service and trying to live down the reputation of his famous namesake. He was going to major in political science and criminal justice when he got out of the army and he had already told his father he wanted to follow him into BOSS after the required minimum three years in the Civil Guard as a police officer. Somehow it just seemed right that there should always be a cop named Matt Redmond in the service of his people. Third son John was now aged eight and worshiped his spaceman brother Allan. John’s room was full of photos, prints and crayon drawings of Allan, the Martian landscape and the spaceship Vanguard that took Allan to Mars. “Cindy El’s getting married!” John breathlessly informed to his father as he mounted the stairs to his bedroom.

“Well, one would hope,” agreed Don genially. “I’d like to get her off my hands sometime this century.”

"She's getting married to Mark Conway!"

“Yeah, well, I’d admire if you let Cindy and your mother tell me all about it, young ‘un,” said Don. Every now and then a little bit of the South still slipped into Don’s speech, relics from his uncle and later association with John Morgan. Don hung up his coat and his gun in the bedroom closet and took off his tie, then put on the smoking jacket the girls had given him on his last birthday. 

* * *

He sighed. “Never mind, enough about work for the evening. Now what’s this about Cindy getting married to Mark Conway? I mean, it’s not unexpected. It’s always been on the cards since they were in elementary school, but have we finally gotten a formal proposal?” She smiled.

“Yep. We received a registered letter from Pastor Marlon Carlisle today,” said Sarah, handing him the envelope.

“I’m flattered the Conways elected to use the most prominent Christian Identity minister in the country as the matchmaker.” Don read the letter out loud. “On behalf of the Conway family and their son Mark Isaiah blah blah…a true and honorable affection having grown between Mark and your daughter Cynthia Ellen blah blah blah…sure looks like a proposal to me,” asked Don, glancing over the text. “And they’re not asking for a dowry. Always a sign of a love match. Okay, Snoops, now that it’s finally coming down to brass tacks, how do you feel about the prospect of Mark as a member of the family?”

“I think he’s a fine young man and a very good catch for our daughter. I always have.”

“I agree, one hundred per cent. Does Cindy El think he’s a good catch?”

“Oh, yes. You said it yourself, she’s been chasing Mark for years.”

“But…?” prodded Don, sensing a small hesitation.

Sarah frowned slightly and chose her words carefully. “Cindy El wants the marriage, but the religion aspect worries me a little bit. Cindy has never been all that spiritual in the old ways, not like Eva who does all her alignments every day. Cindy’s the stolid and down-to-earth one among our kids, she always was, and she lives very much in this world. We’ve talked about it and she assures me she won’t have any problem attending church with Mark or allowing their children to be raised as Christians.”

“Yeah, well, at least the Conways are CI and not holy-rolling Pentecostals who want to burn you at the stake for that voodoo that you do so well. I know that ZOG persecutes them, but I swear that sometimes I think that’s one group of immigrants the Republic could do without. It’s really ironic. In the United States the Pentecostals are accused of being racists and fascists because they preach against interracial marriage and homosexuality to their congregations, but when they come here they cause nothing but trouble. They get in everybody’s face by demanding Bravo citizenship without having served in the military. At least once a year I have to bust some group of tub-thumpers for sneaking into race and politics disguised as religion, especially since they can’t seem to shake this stupid obscene idea about Jews being God’s Chosen People. They’re as hare-brained as Todd Andrews and his so-called Heroic Vitalist Center.”

“How odd of God to choose the Jews,” quipped Sarah.

“Not news, not odd, the Jews chose God,” replied Don with a smile.

“We’ve news for the Jews: they’re going to lose!” giggled Sarah, completing the third line. “To think that one used to carry ten years in federal prison!”

“Yeah, I know. Sometimes I think we overthrew the United States government simply for the right to tell jokes. But the Conways aren’t bigots like the Pentecostals. Your father came to accept your own adoption of the Craft,” pointed out Don. “Nor do I mind having Christians in the family as long as they’re sane and decent people. Why shouldn’t it work in reverse?”

“Dad is an old fashioned hoot-’n-holler Baptist, not Christian Identity,” said Sarah. “Insofar as he has any religion at all, which isn’t very far. The Aryan race is his real religion, always has been. He thinks my Craft is just a silly little girl phase I never grew out of. It doesn’t offend him because he doesn’t take it seriously. Yes, I know, the Conways are good folks and they think the world of Cindy, but I’m concerned about how the rest of the CI community here will treat her when they learn she was brought up in the Old Ways. It seems to be getting worse every year, this pointless, stupid bickering over religion. Why can’t we just lay it aside? Like we don’t have problems enough with those American maniacs constantly scheming to re-conquer us and enslave us again?”

“It seems to be the peculiar curse of our race,” sighed Don.

“I know it was during the early days of the Movement,” recalled Sarah. “Commander Rockwell and the Old Man tore their hair out trying to get what few people we had to see sense on the issue and not fight over it.”

“It was bad,” agreed Don. “It’s hard to believe that even at the height of ZOG’s power, there were racially aware white people who hated other white people so badly that they would rather ZOG continued to rule than the people they hated have any part in the solution. That period of history was never entirely sane, and in some respects we were just as nutty. Even before ZOG, religion was our curse. We spent many centuries merrily butchering one another by the millions over the Great Jumping Jesus, yea or nay or how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. No matter how imminent the existential threat from the üntermenschen, there is always a white man somewhere that we hate worse. 

"It’s like we must have a white opponent to fight against, as if it fills some deep psychological need. It’s almost as if a non-white enemy just doesn’t fill the bill in some weird corner of our soul. I always thought that Commander Rockwell had the best way of dealing with it, which is just not deal with it. The Constitution of the Republic gives every man and woman the right to freedom of religion, freedom to practice their faith and to raise their children in that faith, with the critical proviso that they do not attempt to disguise political activity or ideology wrapped in a religious cloak. That’s a lesson we learned the hard way back in the twentieth century, when the established Christian churches then were almost totally corrupted with Zionism and sexual perversion. In the States they still are. We rightly guard ourselves against that particular Trojan horse, but beyond that we should all worship God or the gods in our own way and just shut the hell up about it. Sorry, I know I’m rambling, but the whole situation just plain ticks me off.”

“Listening to one’s husband ramble comes with a wife’s job description,” she said with a quick kiss.

“Look, Tim and Stephanie Conway are both B-category citizens. They’ve got a prosperous contracting business building immigrant housing for new settlers, good quality homes and apartments.  We’ve known them for years, and I’ve never seen a sign of bigotry against any other white person or group out of them. They know you’re Wicca and I’m NS and if it’s ever bothered them, I’ve never detected it. And I’m a detective, remember? Mark’s a fine and steady boy. He’s coming out of the army in January and going to work for his dad part time, and the rest of that time he’s going to work on a civil engineering degree from Oregon State. That would mean that he and Cindy would have to move down to Portland, but hey, it happens. They grow up, Snoops. It’s the right point in both their lives for him and Cindy both to start a family, and I’ve got no problem with it if Cindy doesn’t.” Don grinned at his wife. “You just don’t want to give Cindy the Little Talk,” he said with a chuckle.

“I already did, last year,” Sarah reminded him. “Just in case she and Mark…well, never mind, we both know that wouldn’t have happened, Mark is almost like a medieval knight with his lady when he’s with Cindy, but still I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Thank the gods that we now live in a society where it was mine to do. I remember my sex education classes starting in second grade, before the revolution. Some of them were so filthy I still can’t believe anyone could teach such things to children.”

“I was home-schooled by my aunt and uncle for that very reason. This is now. What did you think of it then?” asked Don curiously.

“I was seven years old, and you have to remember most of what we were taught wasn’t normal sex. I thought it was all very silly and gross, and it convinced me that grownups were mostly insane. Why on earth would they want to do nasty stuff like that, otherwise? One day I went home and told Dad about what we were doing in class. The day after that Dad came to school and beat the faggot sex education teacher to a bloody pulp. That was his first arrest for hatecrime. He broke out of King County jail and from then on it was…well, you know what it was like. But I never went back to that school.”

Cindy came back into the kitchen wearing a skirt and sweater and without being asked piled steaming potatoes au gratin into a large bowl for the dinner table. “Hi, princess,” said Don to his daughter. “Look, honey, got a moment? Can you step into the study? I’d like to talk to you. I reckon you know what about.”

 “Sure, Dad,” said the girl. “Been upstairs talking with Aunt Tori?”

“Yes. She wants me to tell the reunion tonight that her lumbago’s acting up, which is horse hockey. She’ll outlive us all.” They went into Don’s den and sat down on the sofa together. “No bull now, Cindy. Mark Conway has formally asked our family for permission to marry you. I want to know how you feel about it.”

“Actually, I was the one who asked him to marry me,” said Cindy with a smile. “Once when we were eight years old. Then again, seriously, a year ago, before he went into the army. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“That’s all I need to hear, princess. I’ll send my formal acceptance to Pastor Carlisle tomorrow. I’ll also call Mark at his unit up on the Yukon border and I’ll tell him the good news myself.” He leaned over and kissed her. “May the both of you know nothing but joy and fulfillment, all of your lives. Now, in view of your coming change of situation, I want you to be honest with me about everything. How can I help?” 

Don expected a calm and serious assessment of the young couple’s financial and material needs prior to their each receiving their Life Grants from the state. Those needs he was fully prepared to fulfill with all the resources at his command, including his father-in-law’s as well, for he knew he could speak for John Corbett on this. After all, this was Cindy, the practical and unsentimental one. It was her way.

Cindy El rarely surprised him, but this time she managed it. “Dad, what was the old country like?”

“Huh?” asked Don in surprise. “Cindy, why on earth would you ask me that now?”

“I was just thinking about Mark and me today,” she told him. “I was wondering what our children will be like, what kind of world they will grow up in, wondering if my sons will have to fight another war to keep our country alive. Then I started wondering what it would have been like if you had stayed behind, what kind of life they would have had. Or even if they would be at all, or I would have been born at all. That, and you and Mom going to the reunion tonight reminded me how much we owe you. But I just got curious. All around me every day I meet and speak with new people, new settlers, and they all know where they came from. 

"I guess like all us woodchucks who were born here I sometimes feel there’s something missing. I hear people speaking in German and Russian and Afrikaans, or in English with accents from England and Ireland and New Zealand and Massachusetts. It’s like they have something I don’t, in a way. So I wonder. What was our own land like, the land we lived in before we Came Home?”

“Honey, I was only six years old when we left North Carolina. I've lived all my life since then here in the Homeland. Never wanted to be anywhere else.”

“But surely you must remember something?” pressed Cindy. “I hear a little of it in your voice sometimes, a passing reference to this or that.”

“That’s mostly from growing up around Uncle Matt and from your grandfather,” pointed out Don. “I picked up some of their speech patterns second hand. I’m not really a Carolinian.”

“I know. I wish I had known Uncle Matt.”

“So do I, princess. Matt and Heather both. You missed something there.”

“It’s almost like North Carolina is a ghost that follows us everywhere. Someone once called us a haunted people. Haunted by our past, haunted by the many lands we came from. I want to know our family ghosts, Dad, so I can tell my own children about them someday. Our own land, the land long ago…what was it like? Can you tell me anything?”

“Well, yeah, I remember a little. I dream about it sometimes,” said Redmond slowly. “Just hazy images mostly, the kind a person of my age retains from their early childhood. Not much, and what there is doesn’t hang together very coherently. There are some bad memories, like gangs of ugly black children with big bubble lips and nappy frizzy heads chasing me and beating me with sticks, throwing rocks at me if I came out of my yard, that kind of thing. But there are good memories as well.

"Sometimes I dream about the summer, the muggy burning heat of a kind that we never get here, or at least we never get here on the South Sound. I dream about air conditioners rumbling in windows, dripping water from the condensation. I remember green and leafy trees, kind of the same as we have here, but different as well. The trees were smaller than here but with bigger leaves, and the Carolina pines are different from our firs and cedars. I know that because I’ve seen photos, but I remember it too. At least, I think I do. Taller, straighter, and in my mind I see pine cones and brown pine needles like a carpet on the ground everywhere. Soft dirt, softer than here, darker.

"And sometimes sand. I remember going to a place once that my parents called Cliffs of the Neuse, which is a river in Carolina. I remember there were big tall pine trees growing up there out of hard white sand. I remember looking down on the water and it was kind of muddy greenish brown, not like the blue of the Sound here. I remember going to places with old cannons, Fort Fisher and Bentonville. They were Civil War battlefields where Southern soldiers fought against the United States, very long ago in the first time when our people revolted against the Americans. Later ZOG had all those sites plowed under and all the relics were destroyed, and it became against the law even to speak of that time or to honor any of our ancestors who fought for the Confederacy. Display of any Confederate flag or insignia still carries ten years’ federal prison time now, if I recall correctly.

“But mostly I remember autumn in Carolina. The trees blazing with gold and red and brown, the air clear and chill. I remember a Halloween or two, jack o’lanterns on porches and beautiful golden leaves on the ground. You want to know what I most recall about the old country, honey? I remember the Halloweens. My brother and my sister and I used to go trick or treating. My Uncle Matt took us all, with his gun worn outside on his hip. He was a North Carolina state cop then, and he was one of the few white men who were still allowed to carry a weapon after the Schumer Act. He went with us so none of the black kids messed with us or stole our candy. 

"Yeah, I’d have to say it was Halloween I remember best. There was just something different in the air than here, maybe because we were closer to the real Old Country, the Europe that our ancestors came from in those tiny wooden ships. My Christmases? Those are all here, Cindy El and thanks to Matt and Heather they were all good ones. I guess that’s the best way I can explain it. Halloween means the old country to me, but Christmas means the Homeland. I hope that makes some kind of sense to you.”

“And your father and your mother? My grandparents?” asked Cindy.

“I actually can’t remember that much about them, which I suppose is something I ought to feel badly about, but in my mind they are always kind of overshadowed by images of Matt and Heather. I wasn’t with them when they were killed, thank God,” said Don. “It happened in the state capital, Raleigh, what they called a carjacking in those days. A Mexican gang specialized in stealing late model cars and shipping them to South America. Rather than take the time to break in and maybe damage the merchandise they simply waited for a nice car driven by white people to pull up to a stoplight or park, then dragged them out, killed them, and drove off with the car. It happened all the time in those days. 

"I remember my Uncle Matt and my Aunt Heather coming to our house and asking us, my brother and sister and me, if we’d like to go on a long trip. I didn’t know it, but they were actually taking us away for good, one step ahead of the Child Protective Services. This was before It Takes A Village, but the government was already using the law to kidnap white children and give them to liberals and…well, to other kinds of people. The courts had declared Matt and Heather to be unfit guardians because of Matt’s so-called history of anti-government activities, which involved his job as a state police officer. He had this funny idea that the law applied to federals as well, and back in the old days he rained on a number of Washington’s parades, so I understand. 

"Plus there was that business with Bill Vitale. They never forgave him for that, especially Hillary. The Old Man wrote a book about it, which you may have read. [See Slow Coming Dark] Anyway, we kids were put on a train to Seattle with Aunt Heather. We couldn’t fly because we had to travel under false names. I do remember that long, long trip. I remember changing trains in this big huge station in Chicago where I ate a messy hot dog while sitting on a hard bench and slopped chili all over my shirt and pants, while about a hundred radios all around seemed to be shrieking out Mexican salsa music. I remember seeing the Rockies coming up ahead in the train’s observation car, capped with snow, and my first sight of blue lakes in Montana. Heather took us to her uncle, Oscar Lindstrom, and he hid us in his cabin out near Yelm for a year or so until Matt and Heather were able to Come Home themselves.”

“Will we ever be able to go back?” asked Cindy softly.

“Why? Do you want to go back?” asked Don in surprise. “I mean, it’s not a bad thing if you do. A lot of people here believe they will go back some day, to the lands of their birth. Everywhere from Germany to Milwaukee to South Africa. I think all of us want to go back, at least a little.”

“Mmm, not for good, I don’t think. I was born here. My home is the Northwest and it always will be. But it just makes me mad that the Americans won’t give us entry visas, won’t even let us go back to visit. Like we’re contaminated or something.”

“To them, we are contaminated,” said her father. “We are contaminated with two things they fear more than anything. Courage and racial pride. They spent seventy years stamping courage and pride out of our people, and yet despite it all here we are in the Northwest, springing back up again like weeds.”

“I’d just like to see Carolina someday,” she said wistfully.

“Someday, yes, I think we’ll be able to go back,” said Don. “Not in my lifetime, but maybe in yours. I’d say pretty certainly that your children will be able to go back someday if they want. Honey, you know that the Homeland was never intended to be a prison for us. It’s a lifeboat, a place of refuge. One day the men and women of our race will grow strong and brave again, and more importantly, we will grow many. There will be enough of us so that we can kick down the walls they’ve built around us and take it all back, the America and the Canada that our forefathers made. Speaking of those children you mentioned…Cindy, before God, are you sure you want Mark Conway to be their father? Honey, I won’t pressure you or try to force you. When all is said and done, this is your decision.”

“Yes, Dad. I’ve known Mark was the one since I was a child, Dad, and Mark knew the same about me. Just like you knew Mom was the one, and she told me she knew you. I just had it a lot easier than you did. You two had to meet and recognize one another in a bad time of fear and violence and sickness. I didn’t have to go through that. You and Mom and Papa John and Aunt Tori made a world where it was possible for Mark and me to come together without fear or guilt or confusion, where young white people aren’t driven half insane by what’s happening around them. I know enough history to understand that.”

“Don’t ever forget it, Cindy El. Because if you do, you and your children will be forced to repeat it. Now let’s get in to supper before the smell of that crackling pork drives me nuts.”

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