Nom de plume: Rivrdog

Climate change Elitism - 1500 private jets

It doesn't get any more in-our-faces than this: 3,000 attendees to the World Economic Forum go to Davos Switzerland in 1,500 private jets. Most of the jets have luxury seats for 8 to 12 in them. Two elites per airplane this time and they are already trying to get us out of our fuel powered cars. No, not just your Earth-Thumper SUVs, now it's all fuel-driven cars, even your 57 mpg Prius'. 

I don't give a flying eff what they discussed there, for me, this is elitism at it's worst.

Beto gets the Bum's Rush

Beto the Burglar, perennial unsuccessful candidate for TX Governor, crashed TX Gov. Abbott's presser on the Uvalde mass murder, and got the heave-ho. Good!

"Seven Spanish Angels"

The song's provenance.

That one song that gets me right in the gut? It plays, I have to stop and overcome the tidal wave of emotion: "Seven Spanish Angels"

 

Refrain: "There were seven spanish angels at the altar of the sun...they were praying for the lovers in the Valley of the Gun."

 

Of course, the ballad is a story of violent death.

 

Of course, since the age of 25, I've been trained to deal with violent death, so why does THIS account of it affect me so?

 

"She reached down and picked the gun up,

that lay smoking in his hand,

she said, "Father please forgive me,

I can't make it without my man',

and she knew the gun was empty,

and she knew she couldn't win, but

her final prayer was answered

When their rifles fired again."

 

That's known as Suicide by Cop.

 

I was a cop for 25 years. MY gun could have dealt Death like that, on any duty-day of those 25 years.

For 25 years, I dreaded that it would.

I have not gotten OVER that dread. Put it in a box, but never got OVER it.

 

And then I hear "Seven Spanish Angels" again....

...and your Rivrdog wakes up the blog again. The "social" media I've been using these past 7 years has gone Full Commie, so I am weaning myself off of it and returning to blogging where Riverdog sets the "community standards".

Covid Wasteland, Chapter Six

  Covid Wasteland

 

Chapter Six – Birth of a Clan

 

The start of what became known as the Fertility Moon could hardly be noticed. The Cowlitz Nation was decimated by the Covid Disease, which easily mirrored, maybe surpassed the pandemic caused by the introduction of Smallpox by the first European Colonists. Chief Mak’aa saw these figures every day, and he only had to lose 3 more members of his Tribe to be under two hundred, down from a Pre-Covid population of 1,400. Exactly 110 were women, and of those, just under 50 could bear children. If each generation bore 150 new Cowlitz from the base and the ratio of women remained the same, it would take four generations, or about 120 years, to recover back to the pre-Covid tribal population under the best of conditions, so probably five or six generations. THAT was why Chief Mak’aa decided to front-load those odds by bringing in as many as a thousand whites from the former Oregon. If THAT turned out well, then two or three generations would see successful re-establishment of the Cowlitz Nation.

Chief Mak’aa knew he was tampering with History to call the new Clan across the Great Water the Chinook, because the Chinook HAD been the predominant tribe in the region, NOT the smaller Cowlitz. However, the Chinook had not been re-established like the Cowlitz had been before Covid and the socio-demographic disasters which had been worse than the disease. Already in the History Book, the destruction of the former US of A’s economy had been total, caused not by disease-brought population decline, but by the Political, then Civil War resulting from the American Left’s attempt to use the Covid Pandemic emergency to wrest control of the government from the center-right which had held it. The Civil War hadn’t even ended, because there wasn’t enough Government left intact to either fight it or call it off. The resulting “Balkanization” of the former USA had indeed happened quickly, and couldn’t be denied. This resulted in a curious demographic fact: the Native Tribes/Nations were now just as strong as any of the fractured governments were. There hadn’t been a “Native Congress” convened due to the destroyed logistics and communications, but most surviving Chiefs of Nations knew it was their opportunity to reverse the 300 years of colonization and restore the continent to Indigenous Hegemony. The simple fact was that the Natives still had their Earth-connected religion and living practices, and those HAD survived the 300-year suppression of the Native race by the White race which was now effectively destroyed as a people, and with no more ability to impose THEIR hegemony over the First Peoples.

All over the USA, the tiny percentage of the white race which survived had little time to think about the errors of their ways, though. For everyone between the Coasts of North America, just getting enough to eat, or keeping warm in the winter became their full-time job, so none dared take the time to think of the philosophy involved, and Spirit had to take care of itself. Had these survivors been able to see this Big Picture, it would have been instantly obvious: the closer the small bands were to surviving in ways not used for three hundred years, the closer they were to actual survival.

In their little corner of the continent, the Cowlitz Tribe was surviving well enough to begin thinking about expanding and projecting their hegemony, and they’d taken the first steps, their now-established alliance with the surviving band of Whites across the Great Water which the Whites had ALSO stolen from them and renamed the Columbia River. Two Warriors and their Slave now crossed that River on the White man’s bridge, at night, only a sliver of a moon to guide them, in clear and cold weather. Those two men, Warrior Two Eagles and Warrior Sea Eagle and their condemned Slave Dorothy, not referred to as being from her former Wapiti Clan now, took a good hour to get up the steep slope to the half-way point, then less time to descend the equally steep west part of the Bridge. The single Militia sentry at the west foot of the bridge let them pass, he had been given orders to not restrict the travel of the Cowlitz, but to ask names and record them only. The sentry observed for his report that the woman appeared to be a slave, by the way she was tethered to Two Eagle’s horse while she struggled with a heavy pushcart. While the sentry was using his tiny LED light to scribble in a notebook, that slave came up with some food, and fell to her knees offering it to the sentry, but purposely breaking the flatbread and some fish off for Two Eagles to eat, to show good faith. The sentry ate, gratefully, and when the two men took their leave and called him “Warrior”, he wrote THAT down also. The three people removed themselves from his limited sight-range quickly though, and he had no way of knowing which way they might have gone. They went along the shoreline to the West, but stopped for a meal in the dark. They ate silently, and the silence was complete. They let the Slave relieve her bowels and bladder, insisting that she clean herself in the water afterwards, which she did, then they started back up to the highway, and walked the wide roadway up the steep hill for two miles, taking most of the rest of the night to do that. The men helped the small and weak Slave move her heavy cart uphill. As the winter night began to give way to the day, they came to the top of the hill, rested again, ate again, but resumed their journey. Just another mile and they came to the former Hudson County Park. There was a cluster of old campers and two Ti-pis there, and their occupants, fifteen in all, welcomed Two Eagles like he was a long-lost Brother. Slave was now relieved of her burden, mostly food, and it looked to be just in time: most of those men, 13 of the 15 were men, were seriously gaunt. The women looked a little better, but not much. With hand gestures, Two Eagles instructed Slave to pass out the food, and to give the women more than the men got. Nothing got done while the starving people slowly ate their food. Finally, one of the women came over and sat next to Slave, said nothing for a minute, then asked a question of her outright.

“What Clan are you?” Sea Eagle interrupted.

“She is a Slave. I was told to send her to her Next Life, but I also had a use for her, to bring this food to you from your new Chief.”

“What Chief, my Warrior?”

“Chief John of the Forest and River Chinook.” Next followed sagas of the past two days’ events, ending with the fifteen realizing that they would now be fed, and that was good. Sea Eagle then told them of the Old Code coming back, and most of the group smiled and nodded affirmatively at that news. Two Eagles got them out an FRS radio, showed them how to use it, although one of them seemed familiar already. Next, he gave them a little backpacker’s solar panel to keep it charged, and told them that they should turn it on at first light and at dusk, and listen, and they would be “Hilltop Camp”. Next, Two Eagles asked them if they had weapons. None of them did, save for a few small knives, they had traded their weapons for food several moons ago. Those would have to be gotten from the Whites.

Two Eagles had saved the best for last, though.

“As part of the newly restored Chinook clan, you will be supported by our White allies, except that we have decided to eliminate the race-names. Those people are all Chinook now, and they have a good group of Warriors, what they used to call the St Helens Militia. As you men get stronger, you will be able to consort with their women and bring half-blood babies. One of their Warriors will be assigned to be the Ambassador to your Camp, and you will see to it that man mates with this Slave so her belly swells. That is a priority of the Chiefs now, bringing as many Cowlitz and Chinook babies as possible. Know that this Slave may resist being required to mate. Her refusals, if any, will be overcome. She may become part of the House of Gathering that First Cowlitz Gatherer Constance Otter is now teaching, but for now, she is your slave. Slave, remove your garment!” She does, and they see the whip-tracks. “Dress again, slave.” She covers up quickly against the morning chill. The woman near her asks a question next.

“Where is her Love-box hair? Is that a new thing for Slaves?” Sea Eagle answered.

“No, but it IS the reason she is a Slave today. She was given to your new Chinook Chief as a wife, and she removed her hair, but injured herself and could not act as a wife should. The Chief’s Second Wife thrashed her, and her reaction was bad. Instead of being corrected by the thrashing, it made her Spirit worse, and she rapidly added more strokes, to the point she could not accept them all. That means degradation, and she was degraded. Her next baby-moon will be in just under a Moon. She must be mated to become with child. That is a Chief’s Order. If you aren’t contacted by the Warrior-Ambassador, she still must be taken and given seed. At that point, it will not matter whose seed makes her baby. Who is leader of this Band?” The woman acknowledges that. “Then she is your Slave now. What is your name and Clan so I may report to the Chiefs?”

“I am Amanda Bear, my Warrior. My father was River Bear and my mother was Mountain Bear. I am a Gatherer, my Warrior.”

“Good, Amanda Bear. You now have someone to carry your gatherings. She has not been trained to Gather yet, but she is a good beast of burden. If I may advise, tie her to you when you sleep, unless you have her assigned to one of your men. Know also, she must have the feel of a whip on her body often to keep her thinking of how to do things properly. We must go now, we are meeting the White Warriors in Deer Island tomorrow.” Amanda offers them back some food, but the Warriors decline and set a fast pace trotting out of camp. They kept up fast pace until they got down past the Warm Ground of the ancient Nuclear power plant there. The former Trojan plant reservation had been guarded , but the governmental collapse meant that now it wasn’t. As a reservation, it had become home to plentiful wildlife, most good to eat. On instructions of Chief Mak’aa, the two now prepared to hunt deer, and within an hour, they each had one of the small Black-tail wapiti, field-dressed, and fixed to their ponies. They continued the last five miles to Deer Island, a small White village, but there was an important military asset there, a small Chemical Refinery, which still had valuable stocks of chemical fertilizers and some fuel, so it was being guarded by the Militia.

Captain Borcher and his go-to NCOIC, SSgt Al Steward, and Cpl Mickey Ryan greeted Two Eagles and Sea Eagle, and the warriors cared for their horses while the NCOs relieved them of the meat. Next, the two Warriors were introduced to the pair of chemical plant caretakers, who gave them a quick run-down of what the former Dyno Nobel Powder company used to make – Explosives. They couldn’t make them now, complex reactions had to be critically maintained, and no one knew how to do that, but the two things involved, diesel fuel and nitrogen compounds, WERE highly useful. The fuel would power various engines, and there was a LOT of it, over fifty thousand gallons on the property, and the nitrogen compounds, good for fertilizer, were stored in the dozens of tons. The plant was situated on good bottom-land, used to have extensive lawns, but those had been plowed up and there was a fine fifteen-acre truck farm there now, the main source of vegetables for the Militia, and of course, the plant care-takers. The plant had emergency generators which still ran, and Captain Borcher had cobbled up a huge battery bank composed of every car and boat battery he could lay his hands on, hundreds of them, plus boat and RV battery chargers and inverters. The old Powder Plant was probably the most self-sufficient place within 200 miles in any direction, and Captain Borcher knew it also had to be a target. He briefed all this to the two Warriors, also briefing their roles: they were to be the leaders of a Scouting Unit, which he wanted to eventually number about twenty. The Scouts would operate in three-Warrior teams, so the Captain wanted seven teams. To fit the native Warrior class as well as the Military classification, the Scouts would be given Warrant Officer Rank vis-a-vis other Militias, but they would be Warriors, still high-Caste, in the River and Forest Chinook Tribe.

The two Caretakers also functioned as cooks and farmers, so the next thing on the agenda was a good meal, venison and fish, and Winter Squash. The caretakers had found an old but serviceable wood-fired cook-stove, and the heat it gave off warmed the huge utility room well. They all ate, and then Two Eagles briefed the situation at Hudson (Hilltop) Park Camp. He reported that the men seemed to be in good spirits, but couldn’t do much because they were essentially starving, AND they were unarmed, couldn’t hunt anything but the smallest game with traps and snares. The Captain excused himself, then conferred with his two NCOs at hand, giving them instructions to load up a Dyno Nobel Company diesel crew-cab pickup and take all the gear those people could use up to their camp. The truck ran into the Armory in St Helens, picked up six rifles, all decent for deer and elk, enough ammo so that practice could be done, and two handguns. They loaded a barrel of fuel in the truck, and hooked up a trailer with a diesel tractor on loan to till up some plots for hand-farming. Al would drive the truck, leave it there, and ride his bicycle back. In St Helens, the Armory stored several dozen bicycles, so Al put two of them in the truck in addition to his. As he was getting ready to leave, Deer Island passed a message that he needed to stop at the Bridge and pick up his old fishing-buddy, John Stamford, CHIEF John now, and he would be traveling with his TWO wives, Katherine Otter and Medicine Chief Ruth, who wanted to make the trip to check on the health of the outpost at Hudson’s Camp, and Katherine would check on the status of defensive training. That made a truckload, because Captain Borcher had just transferred Katherine’s war-Slave Raccoon to the Camp, the small band there had a lot of work to do to move the place from just bare existence to a working Chinook outpost. Two Slaves would give them adequate farming labor.

The Forest and River Chinook Clan was getting off to a solid and organized start, as Chief Mak’aa knew it would when he’d put the right people in place to lead it.

 

 

Covid Wasteland, Chapter Five

  Covid Wasteland

 

Chapter Five

 

Pomp and Strange Circumstances

 

 

Katherine and Dorothy got to the door to the Chief’s private quarters before John, and they prostrated themselves on either side of the doorway, as if they had practiced this move, which, of course, they hadn’t. John walked through the doorway, expecting to see some sumptuous apartment, but instead, it was a roughly-circular room made up to look like the inside of a Tipi. There was a fire-pit, which John guessed used to have gas flames, but now had only five jar-candles and a box of matches next to them. Dorothy struck a match and lit the candles, then she went to a stack of folded blankets and got several down. She laid down a thick blanket, folded in quarters, then stood by with another opened up. She pointed at the folded blanket and spoke softly.

“My Chief, your wives welcome you to your first home. Your First Wife will see to your comfort, and I will prepare a warm drink for you.” John was still standing, so Katherine came up to him and began to slowly strip him. When she got his coat, outer shirt and undershirt off, she unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans, then got on the ground and helped him remove those. After she took them off, and gently sat him down, she removed the belt and handed it to him. He looked up at her, but now she draped the open blanket over him, pulled out a hair-pick and a small piece of latigo and fastened the blanket around his shoulders. He asked her now:

“My wife, why did you give me this belt? Do I put it around the blanket now?”

“No, my husband. Remember the Prime Rule you wrote for all of us? You may need to whip us, so you should always have an instrument of punishment near you.”

“My Wife, do you think you will need punishment soon?”

“I can almost promise that I will anger you, my Husband. As the Chief probably told you privately, I am not very good at accepting authority without question. I have been beaten before for this. Now, had Nenamook not sealed her own fate just now, you would have had to develop a strong whipping-arm to handle both of us. I think your Second Wife will be very compliant, even if I am not.” Just then, John heard a soft roaring noise coming from the next room.

“What is that noise, my wife?”

“That is an ancient military all-fuel heating stove. Dorothy is using it to boil water for tea. You will need this tea. It is our Love-Tea. It will give you great endurance, also make our wombs stay open for a few days more during out baby-moons. I might be with child, I might not be, but I will act as if I’m not until I miss my monthly flow, not for another eight days, then I have to miss next-moon’s flow also to be sure.”

“What is in this tea, what herb?”

“It doesn’t grow here, it grows in Asia. The Herb is called Muira Puama. Some know it by it’s China name, Ginseng. Now that world trade has stopped, it will become very valuable. I do not know how much of it our Tribe owns now. All I know is that it works. I took it before my last two pregnancies. Your Second Wife has not been pregnant before that I know of. She had taken a religious vow on that. Ah, here she comes with our tea.” Dorothy came out of the little kitchen and she was stark naked! Stark, as in she had removed all her pubic hair also! She carried her little tray steadily, with great grace, and she knelt before her Husband and handed him his cup of tea, then handed one to Katherine, then took hers to John’s left (inferior) side and knelt, raised it to her lips and began to drink it. John turned his head and gawked at her. Finally, Katherine spoke.

“It’s the hair removal, isn’t it, my Chief?”

“Yes. Dorothy, why did you do that? It looks not-natural. Did you cut yourself doing that? I have to know, so you can be treated if you did.”

“My Husband, I had no way of looking, so I might have. It feels like a scrape down there.”

“Katherine, take her where the light is best, have her spread her legs and look to see if she is hurt.”

“No, my husband, I will love with you now. I am not too hurt to love.”

“Katherine, did she just refuse my order?”

“Maybe, my husband, but maybe she didn’t see that as an order. Second Wife Dorothy, our husband did give you an order to let me look at your love-parts. I need to look.”

“No, I am sorry, my religious training tells me not to do that.” John just shook his head.

“I don’t believe this. Dorothy, I was told you were very smart. Of course, you have to know that making love is a messy business and involves a lot of activity that will make any wound down there much worse, very fast. If you get infected from this skin damage, you could either become sterile and not be able to have children, or you could even die from it and go to your Next Life. I will give you the Order again, my wife. Go with Katherine and left her look at you.” Dorothy shakes her head “no”. John addresses Katherine.

“My first Wife, make her a Book of Bad, I will make the entries later. For now, the Tea is working, isn’t it?” John stands up and they both can see the tented-out blanket. Katherine turns to Dorothy.

“Get out the Bed Skins. Quickly!” She does, and spreads them out on the light mattress-pad in the middle of the floor. Katherine lays down and puts her legs up around her ears, and John dives right in. they couple, and John has amazing staying power, but Katherine doesn’t, has her orgasm, then rolls off of John, putting her feet up on the wall, but he hadn’t let his seed go! He is VERY relaxed, and after his long day, falls asleep quickly, but he still has his erect baby-maker! Dorothy now moves in, and impales herself on John’s proud tool. She is a virgin for a brief second, but breaks her own hymen on him and keeps going, doing full-stroke up and down, and a twisting motion as well. NOW John wakes back up, has his climax and sprays her many times. Dorothy now copies Katherine’s position, and puts her feet up on the wall in the “hold-seed” position. Some time later, both women come off the wall, and look at John, who is asleep again. They cover him up, and Katherine pulls Dorothy to her feet and leads her out of the room. Katherine gets a pair of candles and brings them close and looks at her labia and peritoneal areas. They aren’t cut, just puffy and red. Katherine gets wet towels and cleans Dorothy up and then herself, then they go back into the bedroom and clean their husband up. This, plus the Love tea in him, gives him another stiffy, so Katherine mounts it and begins her moves, fifteen minutes later drawing his seed. He cuddles with his two wives and he couldn’t be happier. He gets ready to love again, and this time he chooses Dorothy, but when he reaches for her to pull her to him, she cries out. He recoils from her.

“You DID hurt yourself, and you knew you were hurt, but you loved with me anyway? That is not right? Are you trying to fool me to get out of your troubles?”

“No, my husband, your first wife disciplined me and my sitting-part is very sore now.” John was aghast. He stands, Katherine prostrates herself now. He speaks down to her abased form.

“I gave no orders for this discipline, my wife. As I told you before, you may never presume to think for me. You have violated the Code, badly violated it. Get me a strap!” She does, takes her punishment position and he gives her twenty strokes. She takes them stoically, but now he is angry at both of them.

“Tonight, in what was supposed to be a happy celebration of my marriage to both of you, I have to face my people and admit I have two out-of-control wives. I will say nothing, but both of you get to wear the about-to-be-slave clothing. Put it on NOW!”

In the Longhouse, used to seeing wall-to-wall crowds of Tribal members for these big wedding celebrations or caste-elevations, it was a small and somber bunch of about twenty-five or thirty stalwarts. Usually, there would have been five expert drummers on the big drum, but now they had two, and they were a mite off their timing. All the leaders WERE there, though: the Ruling Council, formerly twelve, now only seven, but Shaman Elizabeth was there, and Chief Mak’aa. The Chief had been informed about the unsettled status of the two wives of Chief-in-Waiting John of the Forest and River Chinook. The Chief had set the agenda:

First, he would read a long-ish statement about the joining of the two peoples, starting with Shaman’s observations of the good fishing that John brought to his people.

Then he would spin a saga about the Battle of Longview Bridge. He felt most folks were already up to speed on these two agenda items, but for continuity of the entire Longhouse presentation, he needed to start at the start.

Then he would speak to cementing relations with the new West Shore part of the Tribe by a traditional marriage, THEN Shaman would cover the new Disciplinary Code, necessary to the Tribe’s survival.

John and his two wives would be introduced next, and that would likely surprise the guests, because the wives would be presented in their “bad-girl” clothing. The Shaman would marry them, and both during and after the actual wedding ceremony, the women would show the utmost debasement to EVERYONE.

Next would come the Elevations: John’s elevation to Chief of the Western side clan, then Dorothy Wapiti’s elevation to be Shaman of that clan. Shaman Elizabeth would herself place the ornate Shaman’s robe on Dorothy, but OVER her disciplinary clothing, NOT replacing it. This was a tricky thing to do, because Shamanic Authority was supposed to be absolute, but in Dorothy’s case, it was limited, and she herself could be easily degraded out of her position if she built up any more Disciplinary Code violations.

The Shaman would next lead prayers, assisted by Dorothy, then they would feast.

The Chief thought all this would take three to four hours, and he was correct. New-Chief John’s wives, still suffering from thrashed backsides, were just about in tears from the hurt of sitting down, getting up, repeating that dozens of times. It became obvious, and finally, Chief Mak’aa’s First Medicine-woman, Ruth, came to the Chief and asked him about the women. The Chief had to explain, and did.

“This business of getting Chief John married into the Tribe didn’t go well, Ruth. First, I sent him Katherine Otter, well before any idea of making the tribe bigger came up. Initially, I was just going to merge his group’s fishing and ours. The two of them had a rocky start, but she did cleave to him, and accepted his seed. She did NOT act as a wife should though, and he had to start a Book of Bad with her. Then we had the Battle, and during the battle, she fought two male bandit-warriors and defeated them, capturing a third bandit who is now her Slave. Then they came here, to learn the Ways and Paths of our Nation. That was going well, but it occurred to me that Katherine Otter was a commoner, and he needed a higher-caste wife. I proposed Nenamook, my daughter. Nenamook was, as I’m sure you have heard by now, VERY resistant to the ideas of being a good wife. In fact, so resistant that she refused all of my and Chief John’s orders at her introduction to John. Then she physically attacked Katherine Otter, who killed her in close-combat. I reacted quickly, and Shaman Elizabeth agreed that her Assistant should be John’s additional wife. He personally reacted well to the concept of having two wives. He had some minor disciplinary problems with Dorothy on his first night, when she risked her health to shave her Woman’s Lodge, and he called her on that, ordered her to let Katherine Otter look at it to see how badly it was hurt, but Dorothy refused. Her husband refused to lay with her, laid with Katherine, then slept. While he was sleeping, Katherine, who HAD been appointed First Wife, then whipped Dorothy, a NOT inappropriate thing to do, but definitely inadvisable, since had she asked her husband, he wouldn’t have let her. Accordingly, Chief John then arose from his sleep and then whipped Katherine for presuming his authority. Both Wives have remaining whippings left on their Books of Bad, so Chief John ordered them to wear the traditional clothing for women in the process of discipline.”

“My Chief, that is an amazing saga! Or is it about ten sagas? All that aside, I need to examine both women.” Then the Chief speaks again.

“My wise Medicine Chief, I almost forgot, I left something out of the saga. The Second-wife Dorothy was able to take John’s baby maker into her while he slept, and she got his seed, after he had refused, for health reasons, to have her cleave to him.” The Medicine Chief shook her head, then spoke.

"My Chief, wife Dorothy should not have been elevated to be West Side Shaman, even though it was made clear that her authority is somewhat limited. This woman is impulsive, and allows her life to be governed by impulsive behaviors, not Piety and Wisdom as it should be. I am happy that Katherine Otter thrashed her, because Chief John probably would not have. I have a bad feeling about that marriage. Katherine is solid, strong, is just the woman Chief John should have as a wife. Unfortunately, my Chief, and I mean no slight to you, you have made two choices in a row that are not working out well for your new Chief. I believe that you must make a third selection now, my Chief.”

“My Ruth, who I myself wept over several times in years past, just who do I have to select? Other than you, there are NO high-caste women not already married.”

“My Chief, you have just made your choice, but we need to use a coyote’s cunning here. I will be that wife, but not right away. First, following your edicts of baby-bringing, I need a consort. Give me Chief John as a consort. Yes, I will be the third woman in his life, but I believe he is Chief enough for all of us. While I am consorting, and we won’t know for two moons if it worked, I will work on moving Dorothy out of his life. I will make a wager now, though: she moves herself out much sooner than two moons. Here is my plan: At Dorothy’s next disciplinary infraction, and at her rate, that will happen before dawn, you remove her as proposed-Shaman. As she builds up her Book of bad, you reluctantly tell Chief John that you have to degrade her to Slave. The Council approves, she is degraded and thereby divorced from you. You announce my new baby and my new status as Chief John’s wife at the same time. As for Dorothy, she can Gather for Constance Otter. She is bear-bait, has no forest-sense at all. You won’t even have to condemn and burn her, the bears will take care of that. How does this plan seem to YOU, my Chief?”

“My wise Ruth, there is only one danger in it: that danger is that with you at Chief John’s side, he may very well become the more powerful of we two Chiefs.” Ruth turned away, went to the eating-circle where those Tribal members attending were enjoying somewhat of a feast, well more than enough to distend all their shrunken stomachs. Wife Katherine was sitting on his right, in her disciplinary smock, and Shaman Elizabeth HAD removed the high-caste clothing from Dorothy, and she sat to Chief John’s left, the inferior place, her cedar eating-plank laid across her lap. Ruth bent down and picked up the plank, told her that she was taking that place. Dorothy got up, wincing in pain from her thrashed posterior and turned to get the plank from Ruth, but Ruth had set it on her own lap, and now she pulled her knife, cut away the chewed parts of the venison, salmon and flatbread, pushed those parts over to the edge of the plank, pointed with the knife for Dorothy to pick them up and she did. Chief John had been watching this, now he spoke.

“Ruth, my First Medicine-woman. What great Medicine do you have for me in my new job? I’m going to need all the help I can get!”

“My Chief, your Wife Katherine will help you to be a Great Chief, and very soon, but now I have news from Senior Chief Mak’aa.”

“What news, Medicine Chief?”

“According to the renewed Old-code, I must bring a child now. I have no husband, and none is being assigned, so Chief Mak’aa assigned me a Consort to bring me baby-seed.” John smiled, spoke lightly.

“Well, Medicine Chief, that will be a very lucky man, to be allowed to consort with the most vital woman in the Tribe.”

“My Chief, you flatter me greatly, but YOU are that lucky man. The Chief assigned me to consort with YOU. I am two days past the usual end of my baby-Moon, but I’ve been drinking Love Tea, so my moon might be extended just enough. We won’t know for at least a moon and a half, maybe two and a half moons. I am sure you know that I must keep getting your seed for that time until my womb swells.” Now Katherine spoke.

“My Medicine Chief, I am delighted to have you join me. Hopefully, both of our Love Lodges will see our Chief at their door tonight. I will tell Second Wife that she can tend to both of our needs for preparations. She shouldn’t be loving now anyway, she injured herself trying for her best possible love-advantage by removing her lower hair. Perhaps you could attend to her wounds so that she can join with her husband on her next moon or moon after that?”

“My sister Katherine, the wound she probably wants treated first is her thrashed sitting-part. I hear that you have been promoted to Punisher. You deserve that promotion. Between your skills as a Punisher and your knife-skills, you might be facing the Council for elevation to Warrior soon. If your elevation does come to the Council, I can tell you that I will raise MY right hand, my Sister.” John seemed more amused by this than anything, and didn’t realize that he was somewhat intoxicated by all the extra Yarrow that had been put into his serving of the traditional fish-goulash. He got up and wandered over to speak with Chief John. As he left, Ruth attracted Dorothy’s attention and waved her back over. By the time Dorothy got back to the little Chief’s Circle she had been in, Ruth had taken the Chief’s blanket-seat, and continued with her meal. Dorothy picked up her blanket to move it to a position facing Ruth, but Ruth patted the plank floor next to her on her left, and Dorothy took the inferior seat, very gingerly sitting down. Ruth got right to the point.

“Second Wife, how badly ARE you injured on your sitting-part? Have you been seen by either of my two Medicine-Women?” Dorothy lost it then.

“No, I haven’t and that is up to me, not you. The other woman here almost killed me with her thrashing-strap, and no one seems to care. She isn’t Spirit-favored, and neither are you. I am closer to that than either of you and I should never have been thrashed. Only my Husband can make those decisions about discipline. I WAS a Shaman’s Assistant, and WAS promoted to be the temporary Shaman on the far side of the Great Water. You, Ruth, are a Healer, a vital skill, but that doesn’t elevate your piety one bit. MY Piety HAS been elevated and tested and that’s why I got my position across the water.” Dorothy had gotten so wound up, she hadn’t noticed that Katherine had left. After a quick report to her husband, he and Katherine circled around to the rear of Ruth’s and Dorothy’s position. In a glance around, Ruth saw the two, but Katherine pantomimed to her to say nothing but keep up her parley. Dorothy was really wound up now.

“So you have joined our family to get my Chief’s seed? How did THAT get arranged? What did YOU have to give the Chief to make that assignment happen?” Chief John had heard enough. He strode quickly back to his place as Ruth quickly vacated it. Katherine knew what came next, and she didn’t resume HER position, bit remained within arm’s reach of Dorothy. John stood, then ordered Dorothy to stand.

“On your feet, you miserable excuse for a wife. We have two members of the ruling Council here and I am proposing to divorce you.” Ruth came right back.

“I support your request, Chief John of the Forest and River Chinook. You may now assume that your request will be granted. Do you have anything further?” John looked at Katherine.

“My Wife, my ONLY wife, you have another Slave. I accuse my former Second Wife of violation of the Prime Rule and Rule Four. For the Prime Rule, since it’s your second offense, twenty strokes. For Rule Four, bringing embarrassment and discredit in public, twenty-five strokes because a High-Caste, Medicine Chief Ruth was the object of your rage. Where is your Book, or stroke tally-stick?”

“I didn’t bring it. Why would I bring it to my own wedding? That makes no sense!” Chief John looked at Wife Katherine.

“My loving Wife, did YOU bring yours.”

“Yes, my Husband. Here it is.” John took the little stub pencil from the leather cover of the Book, opened it and wrote “expunged” as the last entry.

“My wedding gift, Katherine my love. This Slave had forty-five, then got another forty-five, then has just repeated all of her offenses for another fifty-five. That’s one hundred forty-five, so she has made Sub-Slave at one hundred. At midnight, she gets to add tomorrow’s Dailies, and that adds to one-sixty. Termination of a sub-slave is mandatory at one-fifty. Ruth, will you go find Chief Mak’aa and advise him what has happened here?”

“Yes, my Chief, I will.”

“Wife Katherine. Bind this slave. Hand and foot. I don’t know how Chief Mak’aa will have her killed.” Slave Dorothy awkwardly got up to run, but Katherine, with the same thrashed ass and 80 pounds more to move, was too fast for her. She sprang like a cougar from eight feet away, grabbing Dorothy by one ankle, upsetting her and dropping her to the Longhouse floor. She held her down and peeled the long latigo belt off of her and tied her hands and feet, then removed her own belt, almost twice as long, fifteen feet, and fastened the loop-end around Dorothy’s neck., leaving thirteen feet free, easily enough to hang her with. She stood holding that plaited rope when Chief Mak’aa and Shaman Elizabeth came in, leading a pony. Without a word, they re-bound her legs tightly together above the knees, and tied her hands at her waist, and left the excess of THAT plaited rope free. To the pony, there was no drama, it was just another burden. Chief John asked his opposite number about her fate.

“My Chief, that was a short marriage, so I have no regrets. The only time she and I mated, she stole my seed from me while I was sleeping, so I doubt if she is making my baby.” Ruth agreed, and she WAS Medicine-Chief, so her opinion counted. Now Shaman spoke.

“My Chiefs, we have a happy-Spirit to recognize and a sad duty at the same time. The happy part is marrying Bear-clan Medicine-Chief Ruth to Forest and River clan Chief John. Just leave the slave with a Warrior and we will celebrate our Happy-Spirit now. Afterwards, we can decide on our solemn duty of how this wretch must die. Warrior Two Eagles and Warrior Sea Eagle, you have her until we have our ceremonies. Make whatever use of her you want, she is a condemned Sub-Slave, so if she dies during your play, no sanctions will be on you for her death. You two have been very faithful and very pious in your duty to keep your Shaman safe, and now you are rewarded, not only with this Slave, but with new positions: you both will be the Warriors to form the Warrior House for Chief John’s new Clan. The Warriors showed deep deference, and led their hapless slave out on the pony. Chief John spoke.

“The marriage will wrap up up this strange day, and the new dawn tomorrow will bring more planning and organizing things.” Chief Mak’aa interrupts.

“Not tomorrow. I have declared a Moon of Consorting starting tomorrow. All couples and consorting-pairs will begin consorting tomorrow and continue until conception is achieved. There is something new, too. Shaman?” She smiles, takes Chief Mak’aa’s arm, and speaks.

“The previous requirement for the House of Piety to remain celibate is removed. Including me, there are seven women in the House. We will add the fruit of our wombs to the Tribe’s total. I will consort with Chief Mak’aa AND you, Chief John. Between the two of you, I am certain to have a Chief’s Child. My two Warriors will also consort, with the other six in my House of Piety. I will get reports about the Spirit of the Piety House, and the one with the best Spirit will join the Forest and River Chinook clan as Shaman. The other rule the Chief and I just changed is that members of the House of Piety may now be married, to men of the Chief’s caste or the Warrior Caste. Finally, as small as we are, we can never HAVE enough Warriors by rejecting half the tribe, so now women will be allowed to raise their Caste to Warrior. The first one will, of course, be Katherine Otter.” Katherine, on her knees with head lowered in debasement since the circle now held two Chiefs and a Shaman, rises on Chief John’s command, just as the two Sewing-women approach bearing her new War-Tunic, breeches and sandals, and a shield with two spears. Her bow would be her own responsibility to construct. The Sewing-women quickly dress her, then she looks at her shield: it has three coup-marks and two capture-marks on it already, and her spears reflect coups as well.

Now, the big drum announces “assembly”, and the Chief’s Caste doesn’t have to go far, the Tribe comes to them. When the drum sounds a War Roll, all the Warrior Caste present forms a semi-circle around the Chief’s circle. Warrior Katherine Otter has joined them, and they put her in the center of the caste-arc. The drum falls silent, and Shaman Elizabeth starts to chant a prayer, so the Piety-first Tradition lives on.

Covid Wasteland, Chapter Four

Covid Wasteland

 

Chapter Four – Team Practice

 

Constance Otter got right into it. Now that the word had gotten around about Katherine’s battle, Katherine was pretty much an instant hero in the Militia. No one could match her feat of taking on two knife-warriors at once and defeating both of them. Captain Borcher wanted her to demonstrate some knife-work for the Militia when she and John returned. He had an idea that ALL his troops should be trained in her style of knife-war. He planned to ask her to set up a demonstration that the entire Militia would observe, then she would become a knife-arts instructor. The Captain didn’t know that his Ambassador was already discussing the same matter with Chief Mak’aa in Longview.

The first thing on the agenda at that parley at the gloomy Tribal Center was communications. The Family Service Radios they had were easy to keep charged, but they were low power and could only go half the distance between St Helens and Longview at their best range. They needed better comms and they needed it now. John thought about Marine VHF, and there was plenty of that around, but even at 25 watts, it wasn’t guaranteed to cover the 25 miles separating the two towns. The Marine Single Side-band would cover that, easily, but those sets were generally found only on ocean-cruising yachts. There was “Ham” radio, but they didn’t know any Hams. Could they find any? Some stomping around and looking for the tall antennas would have to be done. Maybe Captain Max would know. The parley moved on. The next subject was Mobility.

The Cowlitz had horses, more than enough after the die-off of some 80% of their Tribe. There were lots of bicycles around. There were a few electric cars, too, but those had to be charged by heavy alternating current, and there was no A/C grid left operating around here. Very little fuel to run generators, either. Nope, mobility was on the river, human or sail powered, or on the road, horses or bicycles. Bicycles were better. Twenty miles per day out of a horse was pushing it, but a bicycle-mounted troop in good shape could easily do 30, even with full kit, and 45 on a Forced March. Then John thought of steamboats. Steam had been there long before liquid-fueled engines. He drew a sketch of one and pushed his paper across to Chief Mak’aa. The Chief knew of one, but it was all the way downriver in Cathlamet, forty more miles down past Longview.

“They have a civic celebration there every July. Bald Eagle Days. I have led a horse-display unit down there twice in their big parade, and one of the times, there was a tractor towing a replica of a 140-year-old steam boat. I got a good look at it after the parade. It ran on coal or wood. There’s coal up around Chehalis. The Government closed the mining down, it’s “dirty coal”, but I heard it’s open again and being traded for up there. Good heat from coal. The Tribe never used it, but we know of it, and the Casino up there has pictures of the mining. Steam, yes. There are a couple of tourist railroads, the Chelatchie Prairie just south of here and the Mount Rainier about seventy-five miles north of here that still have coal-burning steam engines. The problem with coal is that it’s heavy. A pack-horse can’t carry enough to fire that steamboat for more than 30 miles. A steam locomotive could drag several hundred TONS of it down here for us. We have a siding at the Casino we could keep the coal cars on. Slaves pushing coal carts could supply that boat with fuel in both places. Maybe, just maybe, we could eventually find a steam-powered generator.” John spoke now.

“Just before the Covid started up, there was a big interest in electric-motor bicycles. An outfit in Seattle was making them. I had a friend in Portland who bought one, and he let me ride it. They were good for 45 miles before the battery ran out, and it could be pedaled easily. If we could find a few of those, we can keep them charged with the little solar panels like I use to charge my electric row-boat. That gets our troops back and forth without wearing themselves out pumping the pedals like they do now. If one of our troops goes anywhere on a bicycle, we have to double-feed them, and there’s barely enough food to go around now.” The Chief spoke next.

“Food will stop being a problem soon. That’s why Constance Otter is with you now. Within a month, her Gathering should put half again the calories into your Militia’s stomachs, my Fisher. Katherine Otter is also supposed to recruit you some bank-fishers and maybe some gill-netters. You should have twice the fish shortly. Now, when will your Captain let me meet and talk to the entire Militia?”

“When can you come over to our side, my Chief”

“It will take me a few days to organize that, but I will come back with you and Katherine Otter. I will bring another load of cargo for your Militia, so we’ll need your sailing-boat again. I will send a runner, who will voyage to St Helens. This runner will be my only child, Nenamook, and she is my best voyageur. Now, let us speak in depth of my mission to the Nation of Lower Columbia. Did you know that we refer to the Great Water as “Chinook”, the name of our parent Nation, which the whites UN-established in THEIR codes? What I am actually doing here is re-establishing the Chinook Nation. It is an Omen of the Great Spirit (John raises his hands, properly) that you surviving whites named your new authority after the Chinook Nation, in your own name for it, of course. Even “Lower” is correct, as we peoples of the Great Water also used our words for “upper” and “lower” to denote where along the Great Water our Tribes would live. Now came the biggest Omen of our Great Spirit (hands up again), who has told us over the years that we could outlast the whites, and that they would go away in a short period of suffering from a big disease, just like WE did three hundred of YOUR years ago. So, we must constantly praise our Great Spirit (hands up) and our Shamans who bring us these omens. You cannot realize, my Great Ally who-will-be-Chief, how much it means to ME personally for the Great Spirit (hands up) to have selected me to follow Her Path and make the Chinook peoples whole again.” John blinked. He had NO idea that he figured, personally, as a favored-by-God person anywhere for any reason, but now he sat in private parley with the strongest Native Chief in the entire region, who had just told him exactly that. The Chief continued.

“So, John of the Forest and River Chinook, your work for the next few very-busy days is to learn how to be a Chief. Then you and I need to go downriver to Cathlamet and find that steam-boat. MY first two jobs in uniting the Lower River Chinook will be to have good river-transportation and communication from St Helens, maybe even Scappoose, all the way down to the ocean. There are many sailing-boats available, but in reality, they are only a temporary solution. We have to have steam-power. I am praying that this boat-owner in Cathlamet knows of other steam-boats, so that our new Nation may have a fleet of them. I am also praying that he knows of generating electric power by steam engines. If we can do that, then we can power communications systems – the wires are already there, and my digital-medicine people tell me that electric supply is the only thing we don’t have to start up communications right now. Yes, we have some of the little sun-panels, but they don’t make enough power for anything besides charging the little radios which only talk fifteen miles as the Eagle flies.” John saw it then. BAM! It hit him between the eyes! He raised his head, sat up very tall, then spoke slowly.

“My Chief, we can forget about steam-generation of electricity for now. Doesn’t this mostly-abandoned City have many houses and businesses which have the sun-panels on the roofs?”

“Well yes. In the better housing districts, they are on about one out of five dwellings. As I understand them though, they weren’t designed to power the houses, they made power which went back into the main electrical distribution system, which the power companies then re-distributed. We can’t run the entire electrical grid, my Chief-to-be.”

“No, but we COULD go to those houses and remove the electrical sun-panels AND the additional equipment for storing power, converting the power, all of that, then bring it to OUR places and set it back up to make power where WE want that power to be used, my Chief. As I understand sun-power, what we whites used to just call “solar”, it’s only limitation is that it had to have daylight to make any power at all, and we have long nights here in the Winter. Most of those installations had batteries for holding the electric power the sun-panels made. Few of the homes had enough batteries to store all the electric power though. What we will have to do is not only remove panels, but remove inverter-controllers and many more batteries also.”

“What is an inverter-controller, I don’t know of those?”

“My Chief, an inverter-controller is a very technical equipment that takes the changing power supply from the sun panels, the power output changes all the time when clouds come, or the sun-angle changes, or night comes. The controller-part takes in that uneven power and puts it out as very even power, storing the power in the batteries which provide the extra smooth-power back to the inverter-part when needed. The inverter-part changes the battery-power from DC to AC. What goes into the electric lines is very smooth and steady AC power, the kind that machines and communications devices all need. The equipment is out there, what we have to do is build our own grid in the places we need, like communications camps along the river. There must be a lot of the little short-range radios available, aren’t there?”

“Yes, my smart Chief-to-be. In the Tribe we have about two hundred of them, and there have to be many more around, it’s just a matter of searching for them and collecting them up. I see what you want to do, and that’s build a short-range network with a capability of passing messages up and down the entire river-Path of our Nation. You know, I only have about five people who know this equipment. We have to build up a communications and power Militia.”

“My Chief, that part goes without saying. For you, it’s easy: take the best one of your small group of electric-medicine people and make him a sub-chief. His first job will be to find more electric-medicine people. While they are recruiting, they will need to plan out their electric and radio network so that your Warriors and my Militia can start to secure the land necessary for the camps.” The Chief looked at John across the table, smiled and spoke.

“John of the Forest and River Chinook, I am going to do something now that will create a controversy here, but by tradition, my position of Chief is for life and therefore secure. I am going to name you as my Successor-Chief. I have only one child, that’s Nenamook, and while there have been female Chiefs, they are very rare. The sagas say only three in Tribal memory. Now, did you know that a Chief may have two wives, or a wife and a consort?”

“My Chief, I had heard this discussed before, but I didn’t know whether the BIA still allowed it.”

“The BIA (the Chief spits) is dead, to my everlasting joy. Yes, the BIA did forbid the polygamy of Chiefs, so our Native Councils legitimized Consorting, or breeding outside of marriage. Consorting is the prerogative of only the Chief-caste but Chiefs may order it for lesser castes and all children of such matings are Chief’s Children. The BIA frowned on THAT rule also, but couldn’t stop it, because the whites were notoriously loose in their marriage relationships in the past two generations. You will have two wives, unless one of them wants to degrade herself to Consort. You will have Warrior-fisher Katherine Otter and Voyageur-Ambassador Nenamook. When your marriage to Nenamook happens, any opposition to my naming you as my successor ends.”

“My Chief, I am at a loss for words at your great generosity. Your only daughter! That must have been a very hard decision to make, my Chief.”

“No, my other-shore of the Great Water Chief, it was an easy decision to make, but now I have a warning for you. Several warnings, about Nenamook. She is physically very attractive, but has let the world know that she does not seek the role of being a wife, and would prefer to remain unwed. She HAS consorted, but with women, not men. She has a sharp tongue, which her mother let her get away with as a youth, until it became too late to change it, but then my wife died. That’s not all. One of the people she had difficulty with the most is your wife Katherine Otter, who I had to punish for caste-harmony reasons, when I should have punished Nenamook. I have a suggestion for you. You must discipline her the very minute she tries to speak out against you or Katherine. If it is in public, that would be better yet. Most of all, you need to put a baby in her womb. That will end almost all of the resistance to you and all other men that she has. As part of her first discipline session, you could also announce that she is definitely Wife Number Two, and will defer to Number One, Katherine. It’s up to you, but if you have to whip her, I would consider letting Katherine do it. Another way is to order her dressed to your desires, in clothing clearly secondary by design to that worn by Katherine. In our Custom, you are supposed to see that your wife is dressed to YOUR standard, not hers. I will help you out here. My sewing-people have made her AND Katherine some clothing suitable to being the wives of a Successor-Chief. I will have the First-Clothing-Maker show you now.” He pulls out a copper cowbell and jangles it, and two women come in, bearing bundles. They pull several dresses out and display them on the conference table. The first one is larger, obviously for Katherine. It is highly decorated, and has the Otter Clan logo on it as well as the new Chinook logo. The other two dresses are smaller, but plainer in style, they are shift-dresses. One of a lighter color and one of a darker hue. They have only the new Chinook logo on them, but there is an embroidered red circle on both that is empty. The Chief spoke to that.

“The minute Nenamook gets her clothing, and you order her to put it on, she will know. The empty red circle is for addition of a slave-mark. Empty, it means not a slave yet, but the fact that the empty circle is there and waiting for it’s mark to be applied tells the observer that there is definite potential for the wearer to be degraded down to Slave.”

“My Chief, what is all the latigo strapping for? That’s enough for five belts for the dresses, at least.”

“You are very observant, my Chief-in-waiting. Tribes-people who have lost the confidence of their Chief, and are one last step away from degradation to slave, or to their Fire, wear the Five-Circles belt. It goes around the waist five times, with a loop on one end and the other end smaller to be tied in a knot at the end-loop holding the belt on. There is that much latigo because that is how much is needed to secure a slave, hand and foot, or to tie a condemned person to the burning-stake for their death by Fire. When you are ordered to wear the Five-Circles Belt, you are on borrowed time, and SO IS YOUR SPIRIT! In Death by Fire, unlike other forms of execution, the Great Spirit cannot accept your Spirit to transmit it to the Next Life, so when your Spirit leaves your burning body, the Great Spirit scatters it widely with Her Wind, and it can never be recovered. This we believe. This is the one thing a Warrior has always had: a Warrior can never be executed by Fire. The Great Spirit’s enduring Gift to Warriors is that they die in battle, and their Spirit goes on, or they die by their own hand, and their Spirit goes on down the path of Kiva-wa to their Next Life. Remember the prayer that Constance Otter spoke at the Bridge for the dead bandits? Bandits or not, they WERE warriors, so the prayer of plea to the Great Spirit to release their Spirits MUST be spoken after their death. I believe that some of the Christian sects also do this? It’s called the Last Rites, correct?”

“You are very wise in the matters of Spirit, my Chief. I shall forever defer to your Spirit-wisdom.”

“My Spirit thanks your Spirit for that praise, my next-Chief. Now your Chief-time begins. My First Clothing-maker, summon both Nenamook and Katherine Otter to me, right now.” The First Sewer prostrates, touches her head to the Earth, then the Chief claps once and she gets up and both of the Clothing-Makers leave the room. The Chief gets up, goes to what had to once be a hall-closet, opens it and drags out a heavy, hand-carved wooden seat. He puts it’s carved front-piece in a specific direction, it seemed to John. He was correct, the Chief was orienting it in the direction where the sun would set. He then explains, after getting out a wooden-handled leather flail and laying it on the seat.

“My Next-Chief, now you meet both of your wives at once. You will have words of introduction to Nenamook, and words of advice on how to be Primary Wife for Katherine. I will leave it up to you whether you begin your new marriage with a display of your authority on your new wife’s back or not. My advice would be to speak some simple rules, and classify each rule as to what penalty is earned if it is broken. Do you follow this?”

“Oh, YES, my Chief. I not only follow it, such a program of behavior control is already in effect for my wife Katherine Otter. I call the system a “Book of Bad”. Katherine must carry a small notebook on her constantly. In it, I record instances of bad conduct, and the penalty for such. It is a matter or our mutual agreement when she must present herself for whipping. She MAY carry minor penalties for a while in her Book, but if those penalties add up to more than fifty strokes of the whip, she MUST take enough strokes to get below that number. If she doesn’t, she will be degraded to Slave. If she seems to me to be breaking rules too often, I can make her butt connect with her brain without there being a violation, just give her some strokes every day, so she feels it enough to remind her. That is our system, my Chief.”

“Why, Chief of Forest and River Chinook, that is brilliant. A disciplinary system so that no one may say that all whippings are from making the Chief angry. This should bring better acceptance of discipline in my Tribe! I will pronounce this system to the Tribe immediately! Can you write down the lists of offenses against good order in marriage and their stroke-counts for me?”

“Yes, my Chief, I will do that now, it may take me fifteen or twenty minutes to get it all on paper, though.”

“That’s fine, your wives can wait and keep silence while you write. I will see that they do.” John got busy, and this was the result:

The Prime Rule: The Husband is in charge of his wife (wives) from the day of marriage.

Rule One: when the Husband speaks, the wife may not interrupt. First instance, warning. Second Instance, five strokes. More instances, ten each AND an order of Silence.

Rule Two: The husband shall listen to his wife (wives) as they communicate to him BRIEFLY. The wife (wives) shall listen to the Husband any time he speaks to them, regardless of length of speaking. If the wife demonstrates Failing to Listen, five strokes.

Rule Three: The wife (wives) shall do their normal work-load without prompting by the Husband. If they fail to complete their work, a warning the first time, ten strokes if the warning is ignored once, twenty-five if it is ignored again.

Rule Four: Behavior outside the family. The wife (wives) shall in no manner EVER speak ill of the husband. First offense, fifteen strokes, IN PUBLIC in front of the the Tribe, or that part of it who heard the ill-spoken words. If the matter comes to the attention of a Chief or Shaman who then has to speak to the Husband about lack of control of the wife (wives), the penalty for the disgrace-bringing wives is twenty-five, administered by the Chief’s assigned Punisher.

Rule Five: Spirit-crime. The primary Spirit crime is Apostasy, speaking ill of the Great Spirit or refusing to accept Her position as Supreme Spirit. All Spirit crime accusations rise to the level of Required examination by the Shaman, who shall bring those results to the Chief immediately. If Apostasy is confirmed, the only sanction is Death by Fire. Lesser Spirit Crime can include various failures of Piety in the Works of the Great Spirit, and these can be only committed by adults over the age of fourteen. Parents are REQUIRED to provide adequate Spirit-education to their children, and failure to do so is a Second-order Spirit Crime, always punishable by a minimum of fifty strokes in public, to a maximum of permanent degradation to Slave.

Rule Six: Bringing children. The survival of our Tribe being of the highest importance, all women over fourteen, or by Chief’s permission, over twelve years of age, are Required to consort as appropriate for the purpose of bringing children to the Tribe. If a fertile woman passes two consecutive baby-moons without consorting, she has committed a Second-order Spirit Crime. If a woman comes to her Husband to mate, and he refuses to mate with her, that woman MUST report the failure to her Shaman, and the Shaman may bring a Second-order spirit-crime against the husband. In the case of such refusal, the Shaman shall assign a male consort for the spurned wife (wives).

These six rules shall be memorized by every wife of the Tribe and their Allies, to whom it also applies. Each Tribal wife shall maintain a permanent record of offenses committed and punishments received. This shall be called the Book of Bad.

 

John looked up from his writing, seeing both his wives, plus Shaman Elizabeth Wapiti and her Assistant and Chief Mak’aa. He passed his tablet of paper to the Chief, who read it and smiled, then handed it to the Shaman, who read it then gave it to her Assistant. Shaman’s Assistant Dorothy Wapiti then stood and read the new Code. John watched his wives closely. Katherine listened with her gaze lowered in debasement, as she was sitting in front of the Chief and Shaman, but Nenamook, who was sitting right next to her on her left (the inferior position), constantly looked around, turning around enough to look right at John, who was seated behind her. John knew what was coming next. The Assistant finished, and the Chief spoke.

“My daughter Nenamook, recite Rule Two, NOW.”

“My father, that rule was about listening as my Husband speaks.”

“Correct, and you watched him write those words on this paper, so those were HIS words the Assistant Shaman just read. Now, do you think that Assistant Shaman Dorothy speaks for our Shaman, whose very voice commands Piety-by-listening?”

“Yes, my father, she DOES speak for our Shaman.”

“My daughter, do you think that you may have committed a Lesser Spirit Crime by demonstrating your disdain for the Assistant’s words, which by definition of her position ARE words of Piety?”

“No, my father, I do not believe I committed that Spirit Crime.”

“Well, we have witnesses. I’m the first witness. Let’s compare your attention to that of your sister-wife, Katherine Otter, who paid strong attention. Katherine Otter, prove you paid attention by summarizing the Six Rules, please.” Katherine Otter does that, her voice ringing with conviction and respect. “That’s very good, Katherine. Shaman Elizabeth, do you find the elements and evidence of a Lesser Spirit Crime was committed by Nenamook?”

“I do find that, my Chief.”

“Pronounce a sanction for my daughter, please, my Shaman.”

“I pronounce the minimum sentence for this first offense of a Lesser Spirit Crime, my Chief.”

“Very well. Assistant, please make a short run about the Tribal Center and invite some members of the Tribe in here to witness public punishment.” Nenamook now knew that she was in for a severe whipping. She sat glumly on her blanket. She wondered how hard her new husband would thrash her, but one thing bothered her worse: the order to have children. Her father, the Chief, had just ordered every woman left in the Tribe to have children. She knew it made sense, but the whole idea of it just didn’t fit HER. She knew that the minor Spirit-crime she had just been convicted of could never be repeated, and worse, now she wondered if her refusal to get pregnant, and she planned to refuse, would mean THAT Spirit-Crime would be bumped up to Major status, which would burn her. She came to a decision, sat up, thrust out her chin and spoke directly to her Chief, her father.

“My Chief, I cannot stand the embarrassment I have had to endure here. I wish to invoke my Warrior’s Right and self-execute.” The reply came swiftly.

“My daughter, you are NOT a warrior, and have no such right. Just being my daughter never gave you Warrior-caste status. To do that, you would have to go through the caste-raising process with the Tribal Council. Considering the fact that you have just been found to have committed a Lesser Spirit Crime, I will not allow you to go to the Council with that request, and anyway, that request is never granted without a showing of coups counted. I know of none you have counted. Your request is refused. Aha! The Tribal witnesses are here. Assistant, have them stand by the back wall so that they have a good view of the whipping bench. Pick two to stand by me and observe from the front side.” All that re-positioning was done. It was time for the Chief or Shaman to appoint the punisher. The Chief deferred to Shaman Elizabeth, who announced her choice.

“I require this Spirit-Crime punishment to be done by Katherine Otter.” There WERE gasps in the large room. Nenamook shook her head, then spoke.

“I refuse to allow this low-caste to whip me. That’s just not right!” Nenamook straightened up, stood up and lunged toward Katherine, who ducked low to avoid the hair-grab Nenamook was trying for, but when Katherine straightened up, she had drawn her knife, inverted it and now she plunged it into her assailant’s belly, edge up, and using both hands, ripped upwards, disemboweling Nenamook, who curled up and collapsed in a bloody ball, screaming out her last breath without words. Katherine left the knife in her, now resting in between the halves of what used to be her heart and she threw herself on the ground, in front of her Chief in total debasement. The Chief stood, then took the steps toward John, stopping in front of him. John lowered his head in debasement. The Chief spoke.

“Chief of Forest and River Chinook, please take your wife into my private room and clean her up, then dress her in her celebratory clothing. She has to witness your marriage to your second wife. Shaman’s Assistant Dorothy, would you please go with your new husband and help him get his First Wife ready? We will be out here trying to clean up this mess. The coyotes and wild dogs will get a good meal, so my shameful daughter finally does something good with herself. We won’t bother with a high-caste funeral, she lowered her own caste to that of Slave with her Apostasy, did she not, my Shaman?” Shaman Elizabeth Wapiti speaks.

“You are perfectly correct, my Chief, she did commit Major-level apostasy. Your planned disposal of her self-defiled body is appropriate, as is your choice of Dorothy Wapiti to replace her. That also saves me the job of finding a proper high-caste consort for my former Assistant, doesn’t it, my Chief?”

“All correct, my Shaman, but why would she be your EX-Assistant? You will need to provide Shamanic guidance for the Forest and River Chinook, and Dorothy Wapiti will be that other-side Shaman, still working for you, but remotely.”

“Yes, my Chief. She has worked as Assistant long enough to qualify for elevation. We should schedule the ceremony.” The invited tribes-people had finished cleaning up the messy battle scene, so now they got their reward from their Chief.

“My good people, you will be the Second-Circle guests in the Longhouse for our ceremonies. Please go to your homes, clean up and dress for this solemn and merry occasion. Come hungry, we will use up some foods stocks for this.” The seven of them all lowered their heads in deference, then rose, raised hands and gave their throat-warbling vocal salute to their Great Spirit to voice their thanks, then they left. The Chief turned to John and smiled.

“My Forest and River Chinook Chief, we won’t go to the Longhouse for another four hours. I have to go supervise what food will come out of our cache, so you take your wives to my quarters, right through that door there, and you will know what to do when you get there, I’m sure.” As if on signal, the three responded.

 

(All three) “Yes, my Chief, thank you, my Chief.”

Covid Wasteland, Chapter Three

     Covid Wasteland

 

Chapter Three - Skirmishes

Sailing Vessel Orion was a Hunter-44, a flush-deck boat with a very tall mast known as a “fractional-rig”. For a sailboat that big, it didn’t sleep but four, but that made little difference. It did have a small wood stove for heat and some cooking on board, though, and Katherine set herself to work preparing fish. There were some potatoes available, so she took some fish-fins and started on her soup. She sent SSgt Steward ashore to get some more wood for the stove, because she would be running it for a while, that fish-soup didn’t cook fast. The Skipper, Max Auerbach, came back with him and approved of the new ship’s Cook! Max kept looking at the clock, and at midnight, he turned on his shortwave radio and spent a half-hour listening to various stations around the country. It seems that quite a few ocean-capable sailors had abandoned their luxury homes for their yachts, and there was a network on both Coasts of these guys and the one or two females, and they kept each other advised on things via their Single Sideband radios, which had global reach when the sky-waves cooperated. While he was talking, and using up to twenty amps from his batteries, he watched the instruments for his mast-mounted wind generator. Not great, it was only charging five amperes, so he told SSgt Steward to set up a crew duty of pumping the stationary bike up on deck, which had a 250-watt generator for just this instance: no solar, little wind and a battery drain. John took the first trick and his wife popped up there to cheer him on in between tending her food on the stove. The Skipper and the Staff Sergeant went over a chart of the Longview area, to familiarize themselves with places they could land. They needed to plan landings at about three places in case of unfriendly people. The water needed to be about ten feet deep, as the Hunter’s keel drew over seven feet.

After three, everyone got a few hours of sleep. At eight, they had a meal, then warped out into the river at ten and set sail. A down-river East wind had set in, the tide was at fast ebb, so they made very fast progress, almost ten miles per hour over the ground, and they made Kalama before noon. Katherine did contact the Tribe then, and were told that the Warriors wouldn't be at the river until two. The skipper ordered sail taken in to slow down and Katherine made up another meal to feed everyone, fish AND soup. At one pm, the Bridge came into view, and the Skipper spent a lot of time glassing it with his best binoculars. He called over SSgt Steward and he looked at it. There was something new, it looked like some sort of structure had been built about in the middle of the bridge. They decided to have Katherine ask the Tribe about that. She called them up and they told her it was a criminal gang, and they were charging a high toll for crossing AND they were trying to charge tolls to River traffic also. John asked for the radio and she gave it to him.

“Cowlitz Control, do you have any contact with the Longview Militia?” Control responds.

“Affirmative, Orion, we have one of their people with us now.”

“Any chance that Militia can get together with us and your warriors to remove that threat from the bridge?”

“Orion, we’re working that now between our War Chief and that Militia. If we show up in force, though, they will just cross the bridge into YOUR territory unless you can bring enough force to stop that.”

“If we land in Rainier, we have 4 guns, with 3 rifles. If we can find any of OUR Militia, we ought to be able to get them between us and destroy that gang, over.”

“Orion, that’s affirmative. For your force, set up to take out the bicycles they will ride off the bridge when we show up. They will have a long downhill, so they will be moving fast, over”

“Okay, Cowlitz, we know how to handle that tactically. Any idea of when you will be ready to move on them from your side?”

“Two hours, Orion.”

“That works, we’ll need a little over an hour.”

“When you hear the first shots, we’re shooting at them, they will be in your face five minutes later.”

“Okay, we won’t shoot until they are close to us.”

“Okay, Orion. Best of War-Spirit to you.” John handed the radio back to Katherine, who put it up to her mouth and uttered a throat warble, and they heard one back!

The Skipper was already headed for the Rainier dock. When he was almost there, he started his diesel auxiliary and entered the City Marina on that power. His motor wasn’t running long, he probably only burned a quart of fuel. Katherine and Mickey tied up the yacht, and then they hear a familiar sound, the Captain’s bicycle-bell! At the head of the dock, he pushed his machine down the ramp to the floating docks and there were two more men behind him. All three of them slung M-4 rifles. John began to exult, just a bit. Their total force was probably at least a dozen now, maybe more. The Skipper came up with a large coil of light wire rope, the material for his mast-stays. He met the Captain and handed the cable over to him, and some tools, and the Captain and two of his men took off for the bridge to set up their deadly trap, a neck-high wire stretching all the way across the two lanes of the bridge. They didn’t come back for an hour, but then they took off with Mickey and John trotting along on foot. It was about a half-mile to the bridge and John was glad Katherine had fed him well. They strung the cable then he put two men each behind concrete abutments about 150 feet down-bridge from the snare-wire.

They didn’t have long to wait, maybe ten minutes, then they heard shooting from across the bridge. At first, they couldn’t see anything because of the arch of the bridge, but then they saw smoke blowing. It appeared that the Cowlitz force had set fire to the mini-fort the bandits had built on the bridge. John looked over at the Captain, who gave fist-pumps and held up two fingers, meaning a short wait now. They saw the first riders, three men and they had to be moving thirty miles an hour downhill. They were in a line abreast and none of them saw the wire until they were into it. Two went down, their heads almost severed, with huge and instant blood loss, and the third scalped himself on the wire, but was still moving when Mickey broke cover, ran over to him and slit his throat. John looked up the bridge, but saw no more riders and he broke cover, met Mickey and the two of them tossed the scalped guy over the rail, about 45 feet to rocks below, then his bicycle joined him. His rifle and ammo stayed behind. The Captain and his man did the same thing, twice, with the last two bodies. The Captain hadn’t quite gotten back behind cover when the next group of four riders came into view. These guys used their brakes and slowed down. The Captain gave the “stay down” signal and he himself ran right down the highway towards the end of the bridge. This caused the riders to speed up and suddenly there was a tangle of bodies as they all crashed into the wire and each other, not being as spread out as the first bunch. The Captain turned, knelt and began slow-fire into the knot. A shot came back, but only that one bandit was firing. The Captain yelled and charged. The other three began firing at the clump of bodies in the middle of the highway fifty meters away. The one bandit shooting now stopped. The four Militia advanced at Rifle Ready, but neither of the two living but wounded bandits were capable of resistance. Mickey handed his rifle to John and started cutting throats and thirty seconds later was done with his grisly work. Only one rifle and two handguns on those four bandits. Mickey checked, and the rifle was out of ammo. Then they heard a cry and looked up, seeing four horse-warriors approaching in a canter. The Captain said softly to sling arms, and they did, except for Mickey, so he was holding his bloody knife when the riders came up and dismounted. Three native men and one Native woman. She looked around and her gaze settled on Mickey. She dismounted and walked over towards him, stopped six feet away and lowered her head.

“My Warrior, you have counted much coup. I am Constance Otter.” The Chief was already talking to the Captain. The War-Chief related as to how they had killed three outright, and two more burned in the building, the rest escaped. Constance Otter now went with Mickey, looked over the side, crossed to the other side, looked over, debased herself again, and then shouted at her Chief.

“Seven, they got seven here, my Chief.” The Captain turned to the Chief.

“Do you have any casualties, Chief?”

“We don’t, but one Militia troop got burned mishandling a fuel-bomb. He will be okay, my Medicine-woman is with him. I don’t know about that “Militia”. They sent two people. We were facing a dozen. I’m not happy. Say, where is Katherine Otter?”

“She stayed with the Captain of our sailing boat. Let’s dump these bodies over the rail and go down to our ship.” They dumped them, but then the Chief had Constance Otter say the dead-enemy prayer just once, to release the Spirits of the dead foe. The Captain and his two men rode off towards town on their bikes, and Constance and Mickey doubled up on her horse and John on the Chief’s horse. They were in no hurry, so it took them about fifteen minutes to get back to the boat. A surprise awaited them. Two more dead people on the ramp to the docks, and down at the boat, one prisoner of war, a woman. The Skipper explained.

“Captain, we were minding our own business here, when these three came down and demanded food. I told them no, and they pulled knives. Katherine here killed both of them, face to face. The woman gave up and we didn’t kill her YET.” The Chief smiled.

“Under our Custom, she is Katherine’s war-slave. If Katherine doesn’t want a Slave, she can give her away, sell her or kill her. What is your choice, Katherine Otter?”

“I will keep her, if she will work hard. If not, I will kill her.” The Chief continued.

“You have to mark her then. First, put a slave collar and kill-ball on her neck.” Katherine got busy, and using some latigo that the other warriors gave her, she fashioned a permanent neck-collar and five-foot leash tied to it. The woman’s wrists were then tied to a latigo belt and they hobbled her with ankle-ties and a 18” hobble-strap. They had nothing suitable for the jugular kill-ball though. Katherine took her below while the men were talking, and Constance was bathing her Warrior-Mate over on the beach. She WAS impressed when she got him naked, then when she washed him in cold river water, his prominent baby-maker only shrank a little! They all heard the slave scream, twice, as Katherine Otter burned the prominent “X” into her chest and another, smaller, one on her neck. Up on deck, the Chief looked over at Constance Otter and Mickey. They were both dressed now, but were doing a “long good-bye” with much hugging and a deep, deep kiss. They came back to the boat, and the Chief came up to them, putting out his hands to Constance Otter.

“You seem to have chosen this Warrior, my young Otter. Has he agreed to have you as his wife?” Mickey seemed tongue-tied for a moment, but then said “I do, my Chief” and that was all it took. Now Mickey had to reach down and get his wife off the deck where she had prostrated herself to him. They all heard a “Yip” from the hatchway, and Katherine stood there with her arms raised, praying her thanks to the Great Spirit for finding her daughter such a fine husband. Next, Katherine gave her daughter a job, to clean up her Slave, who smelled like she hadn’t bathed in a year. Constance walked her off the dock to the beach, removed her clothing and pushed her into the river, using handfuls of sand to scrub her. She left the filthy clothing on the beach, tied the Slave back up and brought her aboard the boat. Constance fed her some fish soup while the Captain motored out of the Rainier Marina and over to Longview Grain Terminal, where he tied up the boat and now they waited for their Cowlitz-Nation cargo to arrive. John and Katherine fished, and caught some catfish and a small sturgeon. The catfish went into the soup pot with more potatoes, and Constance took a bucket, gave one to Mickey, he slung his rifle and they went foraging along the dock. They found what they were looking for, some sprouted wheat, a lot of it, and Constance carefully up-rooted it and put it in the buckets. After an hour, the buckets were full, and they walked back to the Orion. Constance fed the Slave some more soup, and the nourishing food brought tears to the woman’s eyes. Having your life saved, even to be a Slave, was worth tears of thanks.

Now the Cowlitz Warriors returned with the cargo. There were a bunch of rag-tag whites pushing a line of carts. Constance whispered to Mickey.

“They’re slaves. We captured them in battle, like my mother captured her slave-woman.” Several carts were stacked up with 5-gallon plastic fuel jugs, some with a scribbled “D” on them, some not. Some ammunition cans for both military calibers, 5.56 and 7.62. A few bales of plastic tarps and now at the last, tools for working the land. Shovels, spading forks, rakes, hoes and finally, about a dozen native-made bows, with bundles and bundles of arrows. It looked like there wasn’t going to be room below, but they made it fit. The fuel jugs were tied down along the flush-deck toe-rail. Working the deck was going to be a nightmare going back. The Cowlitz Warriors roped their Slaves together and walked away. Now, with night falling, the wind was quite fresh, coming right upriver, and the skipper and Mickey sailed Orion right away from the dock, tacked out into the channel, then gybed up-river. Constance helped Mickey set the two foresail-booms for “wing-and-wing” running, and the big mainsail was shortened by three reefs, as it tended to mask the wind generator, and they needed that. It was flood tide, so the boat made little noise ghosting upriver, AND it made over six knots, almost hull-speed! The Skipper calculated that this would put them into St. Helens three hours before dawn, so he had Mickey furl the Working Jib, and they slowed down two knots. There was an advantage to going slower: it made the windmill turn faster, so more power to the batteries. The wind began to die off about midnight, so after his shortwave listening was done, the Skipper recalculated based on four knots and also two knots. Four got him there at dawn, two by mid-morning. He ordered the Working Jib back up and after the batteries showed full-charge, he took the reefs out of the mainsail and hoisted it back up to the peak of the mast. They were back at three knots for now, but slowly losing speed. They were also going a perfect trolling speed, so John and Katherine fished two poles apiece. Two Coho and one Chinook salmon came aboard when Sand Island and St Helens came into view after daybreak.

The Slave came on deck, unfettered now except for her collar and leash. She was wearing well-used, but clean “lucky-locker” clothing, all menswear, but it covered her. She bore mugs of tea and fish soup, and even managed a smile. She was smart enough to have figured out that first, this mixed-race outfit was strong enough to survive AND they would keep her alive, and two, she WAS a woman, with a working womb, and therefore valuable to them. Her life was secure, and she knew it. She also knew that her owner, the strange roly-poly Native woman who could move like lightning and had defeated BOTH her male former-companions AT ONCE in knife-combat, was NOT the woman to cross, EVER. The Slave knew, to the roots of her very Soul, that this woman WAS her future, for good or bad.

Making the last mile into St Helens Marina was tough. For the umpteenth time, the Captain TRIED to sail, but the now-ebbing current flowing through the narrowed channel was just too strong, so he started his diesel and they finished that last mile in ten minutes. Captain Borcher was there and he had brought five men and two women of the Militia with him, and they and their push-carts and wheelbarrows were lined up and waiting.

Katherine Otter made introductions, both of herself and her daughter, and she ANNOUNCED her Slave.

“My honorable Warriors, this is my war-Slave. I shall call her Raccoon, because she WAS a thief, but she is also cunning, like that night-creature. She was smart enough to give herself up when I defeated her bandit-companions, and if she applies that level of smart to her work here, we will get along just fine. I will have her work for this Militia, doing such Slave-work as you may assign her. I noticed that she was unmarked, and still is, except for my slave-marks on her. Show the slave marks, Raccoon. When she is working for you, she gets praise if she does well, and I will reward her, or she gets whipped if she does not do well and you may whip her to encourage better work. For you men, please do not mate with her, and if she asks by word or other way to mate, I want to know about that quickly. Captain Borcher will decide who she mates with if she mates at all. Slave Raccoon, your work now will be to remove the cargo from inside the boat to those up here who will put it ashore and take it away to be secured. Handle everything carefully. Do not damage the cargo or the boat as you remove it or you will be severely beaten. Get to work! My daughter has some questions related to her sustenance-gathering work. Constance?”

“My Warriors, I am humbled and proud to be working for you. My mother didn’t mention my status, but I am now the wife of Corporal Mickey here, by arrangement of my Chief, Mak’aa, and of course, Mickey’s acceptance. My job here will be to bring you our Tribal knowledge on using Nature’s Bounty to not only help us survive, but help us actually improve our lives. In the First Nations, you know us as “Indians” from an ancient European explorer’s reference, in the First Nations we follow an Earth-Oriented religion. Some of us also follow the Christian religion and we have and use Christian names, some of us. We have our own codes of behavior, all of which were established well before the white men first arrived. My mother’s Slave is an example. When we go to war and defeat our enemies, we have several options. One of them is to take our captives as personal or tribal slaves. All slaves become part of the Tribe, and must follow Tribal rules. There are four Castes, or classes, in our Tribe. The Chiefs and their families and the Shamans, or religious leaders, then just below that, the Warriors, then ordinary tribes-people, the largest caste. Slaves can either be considered a sub-class or of no class. A Slave may be raised in caste by vote of the Ruling Council, but not by the single action of a Chief. This is about the ONLY limitation on the power of a Chief. Thank you all for allowing me to relate my position here. Captain, shall we continue with our work?”

“Yes, Constance, and thank YOU for your excellent summary, that saves ME some teaching.” The hatch-way cargo-passer yelled down below, but nothing came back up to him. He dropped down into the ship and Raccoon was asleep on the deck. He came back up and told Katherine Otter. She started below, but Skipper Max handed her a short piece of rope.

“She will need a stronger lesson, Katherine.”

“Yes, I can see that. I will send her up here for her thrashing. You’ll need someone else down here to handle cargo, sir.”

“Okay, Katherine.” Katherine goes back down the hatchway into the boat’s interior, then there is a loud yelp from Raccoon, as Katherine strikes her sleeping form. Anguished wailing starts, and Slave Raccoon comes up the hatchway, minus her shirt. Skipper Max yells for Mickey, who is ashore on the dock now.

“I need my Bosun. Since we’ve reverted to older codes, my bosun needs to thrash this lazy crew-member.” Mickey comes back aboard, finds rope and ties her hands above her head to the main-boom, which he then raises by it’s halyard until she is standing on her tip-toes on the deck.

“How many, Skipper?”

“Ten, Bosun. Back and ass. Objective is stripes but not blood. You can have two extra to practice.” Mickey leans over next to her head and speaks in a low voice.

“Slave, how you take this whipping might have a bearing on how long you live. If you take it well without screaming and cursing, it will go much easier on you. If you react badly during the whipping, you will probably get more than the twelve stripes on your hide. If you REALLY fuck up, I will guess that your Owner might decide to kill you, and we will hang you right here.”

“I will try to be silent, Bosun.” Mickey undid the rope holding her pants up, dropping them, then made a coil out of the pants-rope and put it in front of her face.

“Bite on this, so you don’t bite your tongue.” She opened wide, he shoved the rope in and she bit down on it. He started, high up, his first slash with the rope putting a bright stripe on her back diagonally. He worked downward with each stroke until with the sixth one, he was right across her ass-cheeks. She hadn’t made a sound, but had lost bladder control and peed all down her legs onto her pants. Mickey started up the other side with his other arm, and finished with the herring-bone pattern even. One or two of the welts oozed a little, but no droplets of blood appeared. He reached up and took the coil of rope out of her mouth. The Skipper came over, looked at her back, nodded to Mickey. Raccoon spoke then.

“Bosun, may I return to my work now?” Mickey looked at the skipper, who shook his head “no”.

“No, slave, first you go ashore and rinse out those pants, wring them out and put them back on. When you aren’t dripping, you may go back to work. You needn’t wear a shirt. Those stripes have to dry a bit.” Now Constance came up and looked at her back as Mickey was lowering the main boom back down and untying her from it.

“After we get unloaded, I will go upcountry with Mickey and collect some Yarrow and bring it in to make a poultice for her back.” Mickey reaches into his belt-pouch and pulls out some wilted green plant material.“Like this, my love?” She take some, rubs it between her palms and smells it.

“Yes, that’s yarrow. You’re the first white I’ve ever met who used it, my husband. Give this bunch to her to chew.” The pain-sweat was starting to run down Raccoon’s face. “Slave, put this in your mouth and chew on it. Don’t swallow it, just chew it and then suck the spit out and swallow that, then chew some more. It will take the pain away. Skipper, replace her down below. She can’t do delicate work for a while.” The yarrow, a mild narcotic, was effective in minutes and the pain-sweat stopped. She was still dripping wet, but she took a place at the gangplank and passed the cargo along, saying nothing. No one spoke to her, either. Her back was THE lesson-plan in Militia discipline at that point. All of the Militia men and women knew there had been, and would be, again, times when they couldn’t keep their eyes open on duty. Now they knew what to expect if they got caught and it mattered to their superior.

 

Covid Wasteland, Chapter Two

Covid Wasteland

 

Chapter Two – Love in a Wasted Land

 

John Stamford, newlywed, opened the door for his bride, but didn’t carry her across the threshold. He had no idea of how that tradition would be accepted, so he held her by the hand and then closed the door behind them. He reached out to her and put both hands on her waist, and was surprised when she broke free and dropped to the wooden floor and prostrated herself before him without a word. He realized that she would stay there until he intervened, so he gave that order.

“Rise, my wife, unless you want me to join YOU down there to pray for our new life.” She rose slowly to her feet, spotted a wooden chair and brought it to the center of the room, then led him to sit in it, then knelt on his left side, putting herself lower than him. She looked up and he made a good guess.

“You are not my captive, a slave to me. You are my wife now, Katherine Otter, so come to my strong side.” She smiled, and happy-tears rolled down her olive-skinned cheeks. She spoke.

“You have had a native wife before now, my husband?”

“Oh, no. I was married, lived up the river in Portland, but she was killed in a food riot when I was away on Militia duty. We had no children by our choice, and I am grateful for that blessing of the Great Spirit.” The both threw up their hands and she trilled her throat warble, which he would later learn was the way to attract the Great Spirit’s attention to a prayer. Now he got up and pulled her around in front of him, facing him.

“This is the position a married couple should spend their best moments in, I think, my lovely Otter.” Now she hugged him fiercely to her bosom, and he took the hint and kissed her on the mouth. She pushed her tongue right into his mouth, fought and won a tongue-duel, but broke the kiss, looked up with parted lips and asked for him to love her!

“My husband, it is the best moon now.” He missed that one, and answered wrong.

“Shall we fish, then, my love?”

“Not THAT moon, my husband, my BABY moon! You are correct though, my womb-moons and the fishing moons are the same right now. That’s a bother, a wife needs to bring herself to her husband every day of her best moon. The moons will grow apart in time.”

“Katherine, we have so much to do, separately and together, are you sure that getting pregnant is right for you and us now?”

“John-fisher, I will say words now you may whip me for, but in my Nation, we women never put anything before bringing babies for the Tribe. Nor do any other First Nations. You see, when the whites first came to our land they gave us bad sickness and many clans just ceased to exist save in Spirit. The ones which survived knew that forever more, there would have to be many babies. We have never had to be married to have babies. I have had two children myself, but only one lived. That is my daughter, Constance Otter. You will meet her. She is a grown woman now, twenty three years of age. She is First Gatherer now, runs the House of Gatherers, much more important than it used to be. The food of the forest and the mud-lands along the River keeps us alive now. One of your first tasks will be to start up a House of Gathering for YOUR new Tribe, my Fisher-Chief. But that is for later. Now is the time for you to give me your seed. There, I demanded it. You must tell me to remove my clothing now, my husband, and I will have to wait to see if you thrash me or love with me.” Without another word, she bent down, unlaced her sandals, undid her plaited latigo rope-belt, pulled her tunic over her head and she was stark naked, just holding the belt. John sat back down on the wooden chair, with all his clothing still on. John spoke, then, in a very level and slow voice.

“My wife, you must never presume to THINK for me. That is wrong. I have many wonderful skills of the Earth to learn from you, but I know how to THINK. From you, I need to learn piety in the works of our Great Spirit, I need to learn of your Clan’s vast store of knowledge of this River, and I need to know how the First Nations are going to help the survivors rebuild and renew. I do not need to learn how to THINK. You just gave me a choice of loving you or thrashing you. I would never thrash you except if you did something that was not only wrong, but intentionally wrong. We all make mistakes, and shouldn’t be marked by the whip for not getting something correct.

“Get up and put your clothing back on. Go out and check on the smokers, then we will go fish for a while. You and I have some issues to sort out before I can give you a baby, Katherine.” Now John got an unexpected reaction as she fell to the floor and prostrated herself, great sobs coming from her still-naked body. She finally calmed and slowly picked herself up. As she dressed, she explained the mis-understanding.

“My husband, now I must tell you I came here with a false mission, so maybe you WILL whip me. My Shaman and my Chief told me I was sent here to finally do something to make up for the mistakes of my youth. They told me that it was a way of doing penance. They have previously judged the whites on this side of the river to be lesser people than the Tribe. They told me to expect to see in you the bad side of your Spirit, and that you would thrash me often, maybe even send me to my Next Life. They never told me that I would find a man with a good Spirit, but that is what I have now. My husband, I am so ashamed, I am not worthy to be your wife.” THAT broke John Stamford, right there. She had laced her sandals on, had put the tunic back on over her head but had not wrapped the rope-belt yet. He took her hands, took the plaited leather rope, took the tunic back off of her, picked her up and carried her to his bed. As she lay there watching him, he undressed himself. In a low voice, he spoke his love-words then.

“My wife, my love, now I see your soul, your Spirit. Your Spirit DOES have an empty place in it that MUST be filled with a baby growing there. It will not be the only baby, either. We will make many babies, my lovely wife. Are you ready to take me inside you?” She surprised him then.

“Not in this bed, my love. Lets get up and I will show you how I need to be loved. First I stand, like this. Then I bend over and put my hands on the Earth, or now, the deck of your floating house. That wakes up Mother Earth, and she helps me get ready for you. That starts to get me wet, so your seeds can swim to my womb.” She was incredibly limber, thought John, but he WAS ready, at full-length, and he came behind her and just got his baby-maker wet, then played at the entrance to her Woman’s Cathedral for some minutes. She was moaning love words, but not in HIS tongue. After a few minutes of the exquisite teasing and getting her supremely aroused, John entered her all the way, and pushed in as far as he could, then started to spray her relaxed and somewhat-dilated cervix. When he had given her all he had, she finally spoke.

“Now take my rope-belt, loop it around my legs, turn me upside down and tie my ankles to that sturdy peg you hang your coat on, lover. I have to “hold-seed” for twenty minutes, or as long as it takes me to sing my songs.” John did that and she started to sing, in a quavering voice because she was inverted, but it was almost a lullaby, it seemed to him. It didn’t look comfortable to him, though, so he brought his chair over, sat in it and scooted it so she could hang in his lap. He kissed and licked at her breasts and her voice changed. Then he used his fingers to get her even more aroused at her Vee. This had an effect on him, and he was soon ready to love her again, but this time she let him love her in his bed, and this time, after seeding her again, he put her feet up onto the wall while he played in her love-box, keeping her orgasmic for at least twenty minutes, but there were no clocks to time it with. After her time on the wall, she left him there to fall asleep, and she got up, got dressed and went to relieve the fish-men and tend the smoker fires. Outside, she found them doing a good job, but Mickey had a strange grin on his face that told her he had probably watched her and John loving. She spoke to that.

“Mickey, I hope my husband and my loving didn’t make you uncomfortable. Did it?” Now Mickey was s simple guy, but honest, so he replied honestly.

“Oh, no, Mrs Stamford, that didn’t bother us. It IS your wedding night, after all, so that’s perfectly normal.”

“Well, thank you, Mickey. That is very refreshing. We’re going to get along well, I think. I have to go back to the Tribal Center tomorrow, but my daughter Constance Otter is going to come back on the boat. You will meet her. She will be the one to introduce you to your new wife, maybe.”

“Oh, we will have time together. I am on the crew of that yacht, both as a Warrior and a fore-deck sail-handler. It’s a Cutter rig, so it has two head sails, that’s a lot of work to keep them trimmed properly and drawing well. In fact, we will both go because the Captain said things are getting pretty rowdy in Longview now. Their Militia is actually smaller than ours, and we will have to hang out at the dock for a while. With three rifles, we should be safe enough, though.”

“My Tribe will send at least four Warriors for escort from the Tribal Center. Yes, everyone will be safe.”

First Fisher John slept, catching up on his sleep-deficit, and now sleeping the deep sleep of a deeply sated man. His wife and the two other Fishers finished the smoking, raised the grids of smoked fish to the top of the smokehouse, and built up the fire to dry the fish out well. They were still out there when the tide went slack just at dusk, and she rigged more lines for bottom-feeding fish, which get more active as the current slows and stops before resuming for the next tide. By sunset and a while, they had a bucket of suckers, two lampreys and three small sturgeon landed. John got up then, saw the new fish, and suggested they take them to the Yacht Captain, who would need some food for his crew. The four of them secured everything at John’s place, packed their away-kit and extra ammo, grabbed their rifles and walked down the waterfront to the yacht-berths.

Covid Wasteland

A dystopian novel of the decline, fall and rebirth of the USA

Chapter 1 – Early aftermath

 

John Stamford engaged the propulsion on his electric-powered Pulling Boat, a 24-foot heavy wooden craft, and slowly pulled away from his net-drift. He had an important job in the newly-minted collective of Lower Columbia. He fed folks the salmon he caught in his half-size drift-nets, and today, he was bringing in an even dozen Fall Chinook Salmon, about 300 pounds of vital protein.

 

He looked around the horizon. After the utter collapse of the Federal Republic and the State government structures in the “Covid Crisis”, which was 98% a man-made disaster, the people along the River had drifted along, starting survival bartering, but now there was an attempt to restore SOME government, and this super-County with it’s claim of land covering parts of three former Oregon Counties had claimed a vital swath of the Lower Columbia River, some lowland agricultural land and some up-land timber country. It had three cities, Scappoose, St Helens and the town of Rainier, on which sat the only bridge across the wide and mighty River.

 

To protect the integrity of the new super-County, a militia had been mustered, it’s duty was split: some protected the road leading out from the former Portland, now a ghost city, and the rest of it was in Rainier, to protect Lower Columbia from invasion coming across the bridge. John had a boat that wasn’t dependent on fuel, it was electric or could be rowed, he charged the batteries in his craft with solar and wind generation at his St Helens Marina dock, so he was designated as being in charge of the boat-protection of Lower Columbia, a Militia duty. He had guns, an M4 and a 357 Magnum revolver with a long barrel. He was confident with both of them, but the rifle did get in the way of fishing from his too-small-for-the-job converted rowboat, so he normally carried only the revolver.

 

There was almost no fuel around, propane, diesel and gasoline were things of the past. The Feds had disbanded their military units, but some had refused to disband and had stayed together on their posts. Those commanders and units usually didn’t last long, though: when rations ran out, when the fuel supplies ended, the military wasn’t prepared for it. They tried bicycles to move troops around, but those were impractical for moves of anything over the size of a platoon, and few movements involving travel of more than 10 miles were even tried. When those remaining units folded up, their troops were generally allowed to take their rifles and pistols and all the ammo they could load onto their bicycles.

 

For Lower Columbia, the closest Army base, at Fort Lewis in Tacoma, had let go some bike troops who had wound up in Longview, on the other side of the bridge at Rainier. About a dozen of these people had formed a small Militia in Longview, but they had a food problem. Their only reliable source of protein was eggs from a few chickens, and game from up in the hills. Most of the livestock were gone, now a year after the collapse.

 

No one was keeping track of it, but for any one who stayed in one place long enough and survived, they were getting lonelier and lonelier. The population of the former USA was now unsupportable at over ten percent of it’s former size, and Nature took it’s course quickly, famine killing off most everyone who died, not the diseases. Scrounging stored food became a survival tactic, and most Militia leaders had their people doing this. The smarter ones also had elementary farming going, and sustenance fishing and hunting, and had developed/restored the old ways of food preservation, that is dehydrating and with salt. The few who knew these methods were in high demand, and most took their compensation in food for themselves and their families.

 

Very little information came out of the big cities, and anyone hearing it wouldn’t have had the time or resources to do anything with the information anyway. If anyone had known, they would have found horror there. The date of the collapse, now fixed at October 15^th, 2020, was when President Trump had thrown in the towel. He’d been spectacularly unsuccessful in getting the “blue-state” Governors to start an orderly transition back to normalcy from the closures ordered to combat Covid. Those governors had been instrumental in destroying the booming Trump economy, and thought they could essentially take over the country by continuing to refuse to allow commerce to restart. Just prior to resigning, President Trump ordered the US military to facilitate Militia formation, and that had happened quickly. Vice President Pence was sworn in as President, but he remained only long enough to communicate to the military that he would also resign, and when he did, he urged the Joint Chiefs to take a tough line with Speaker Pelosi, who would obviously attempt to ignore the Constitution and Bill of Rights.

 

When Madam Speaker WAS sworn in, she was ready with her list of edicts to essentially install herself as President-for-Life, but one after another, the heads of all the available policing agencies she supposedly controlled informed her that her edicts were rubbish, and unless she firmly rescinded them and started over, she would have zero help enforcing any of them, and in fact, they promised her that they would place themselves under military control, and they did. The first result was open street violence in Washington, DC, followed quickly by the same thing almost everywhere in the country in the cities. The revolutionaries claiming or feigning allegiance to President Pelosi were quickly chased from their untenable positions by militia actions. In the meanwhile, the trucks and trains were parked, the few airplanes flying stopped flying, and the country ground to a halt by what would have been Election Day.

 

No food, no fuel and then the electric grid was gone by the end of November. With it went all forms of digital communication. By Christmas, the cities began to be overwhelmed by the issue of dead bodies. Some cities managed better than others, but the problem was nationwide. No one kept track of the deaths, either. Historians would later estimate that the former USA lost half it’s people in the Winter of 20-21, and the death rate never let up when the warmer spring weather arrived. By the one-year anniversary of the “Covid Emergency” declarations, population losses amounted to five to eight percent of remaining population per month.

 

It was bad, but nowhere near that bad in the hinterlands. Most small towns are more or less self-supporting, with local agriculture being able to keep the local population from starving. The biggest shock to the hinterlands was farming having to drop back about two hundred years in accomplishment. Most farmers used the last of their fuel to prepare small plots which could be worked with hand tools. Potatoes suddenly became the crop to grow. 3500 square feet of tilled ground will yield enough potatoes to feed a family of four all their carbohydrates. Protein was another matter. Some livestock could survive on natural pasture, but rustling and poaching was a bad problem. No farmer planned for his/her livestock to make it through a full year, but with no power, it couldn’t be slaughtered and frozen, either. It all had to be converted into jerky, and that only lasted for a month or so before it also became inedible. The inevitable barter system of work paid for with meat products became the norm, and callused hands became the norm for everyone in the countryside. A day hoeing the rows bought you enough protein to keep you alive for the next two days.

 

Militia duty wasn’t popular. Most Militias couldn’t feed their troops full-time, so the troops had to put in their labor like everyone else AND pull their Militia duties. John Stamford’s life in the Militia was more determinate than most, since all he did was fish. The Militia commander had a couple of trusty troops who handled his fish for him when he brought them back to the marina in St Helens. John taught those guys the initial preparations for drying and smoking the fish, and they helped him when he got back. The Militia got used to eating the dried fish on duty, and the commander secured other food items for John as compensation for his vital work.

 

After his decent catch, John rowed most of the way down the Sand Island Channel, only using his batteries for maneuvering into his dock. The two helpers had a third person with them, and once the boat was tied up, John was introduced to her. Al Steward, one of the helpers, did the honors.

 

“John, this is Katherine Otter. She came over the bridge to see us, and we biked her down here yesterday. She is from the Cowlitz Nation, and knows fish-processing. She said she heard we were fishing and her Chief sent her down to help us make the most of your catches.” John looked at her. The young side of middle aged, short at five feet and stocky, she wore traditional sandals and had some sort of a native tunic-dress on, and it was embroidered with an otter-figure on the chest. John spoke then.

 

“Katherine, I am delighted to know you. Otter clan, there are two others, correct?” She smiled.

 

“Yes, Bear clan and the Wapiti clan. We Otters are the ones who do the river work, though, mostly fishing. This boat of yours is almost like an ancient river-canoe, John. My great-grandfather fished from something this size. Our Tribe has drawings of the boats Captain Cook used when he first came here to the River. This boat looks almost exactly like the boats he and his men came to us in. May I see your catch, John?”

 

“First things first, Katherine. First, I have to set my boat batteries to charging. Hand me that cord behind you.” She turned around and picked up the coils of stout extension cord. John plugged it into the receptacle on his boat and she turned back around, pointed at the light sequence, which turned green, then threw the switch as if she had done that task before. Al handed him two clean muck-tubs and he lifted the fish from the bottom of the boat where they had been covered with wet burlap, and the two guys carried them to the cleaning station and got to work. Katherine just watched. The guys produced knives and quickly cleaned the ten fish. At the end, there was a bucket full of fins, gills and heads. She piped up now.

 

“What do you do with that, John?”

 

“Some I use for bait for the sturgeon poles, some for the crayfish traps, but the seagulls get most of it.”

 

“You should be eating it. I will show you this. Do you have roots or potatoes?”

 

“Potatoes, yes. Occasionally, I get corn, but not at this time of year. Vegetable now is cabbage, mostly. Some carrots. A few squash.” Now the helpers were mixing up the brine, and one got to work cutting up a fish. Katherine interrupted him, and began to cut the fish herself, but into small strips, not the chunks he was making. Her strips had almost no bones in them, his chunks were full of bones. Her hands were a blur doing this, the fish filled the brine-tub quickly and the two guys began to copy her style.

 

“It’s finger-size, see that? A working man needs one finger-sized piece every hour, ten fingers for a day’s work. He won’t have to stop working, he just reaches in his Possibles bag for a fish-finger and eats it. Now the bones will go for soup along with the other parts. The soup will have potatoes and protein. A ladle of that is a meal also.” They finished the fish and it was all brining, and John baited the three sturgeon poles and cast them out from the dock while he built small fires in the smoker-barrels. He wasn’t paying attention to the poles, but he heard a “yip” and turned to see Katherine set the hook on one pole and reel in a small sturgeon, about three feet long. Another pole got some small nibbles, but John didn’t strike the pole until Katherine yelled at him.

 

“That’s a sucker. Bring it in!” He reeled it in, about a three-pound bottom feeder. He threw it into the fish-parts bucket. She was cutting up the sturgeon, but she stopped and sang something first. John smiled and spoke.

 

“You just prayed for the Spirit of the fish, didn’t you?”

 

“Of course. It’s Spirit will live again now in another creature. Maybe we will catch that being also.” They all heard a little bell then and looked back along the dock head-walk. A guy was pushing a mountain bike towards them. It was the Militia commander, Captain Borcher. He leaned up his bike and came over to the group, seeing Katherine cutting up the sturgeon. He just watched while her flashing knife blade did it’s quick work, then the sturgeon strips went into the brine bucket with the salmon. She flopped the roped bucket into the river a few times and sloshed all the fish slime and scales into the river.

 

Katherine stopped then, and made a prayer in her native dialect. John was mesmerized by the rise-and-fall tonal presentation and the Captain could see it on his face, and smiled. Made HIS job easier. To the two helpers, he signaled “give me a moment” and as they walked around the corner to tend the smoker fires, he faced John.

 

“John, we’ve got something new going here, something fantastic, and you and your boat are really the cause of it. Last week, the Cowlitz Shaman was down at the riverside in Kalama and watched you fish. She rode back to the Tribal Center and talked to her Ruling Council. As a result of her observations, the Tribe now extends us an offer we can’t refuse. It’s quite complicated, involves the Tribe really overseeing our new Super-County of Lower Columbia, but they want to join with us as the stewards of the land we essentially took from them four and five generations ago. The say that their Great Spirit (he throws up his hands towards the sky, eliciting a short chant from Katherine) has made the whites have this horrible tragedy of body and Spirit, and asked the Tribe to find the whites most attuned to the Earth and give them a chance to learn the ways of the Great Spirit (hands up again, and the chant). YOU, John, are now the first Lower Columbia Ambassador to the Cowlitz Tribe. What this does is give the Militia, who they see as Warriors, and therefore in a higher caste and closer to the Great Spirit (hands up, the chant, and now the Captain utters the strange throat-noises also), it gives us the status of a Tribe in their sphere of reality, and puts us almost equal to them, in a sort of “probationary” status for now, but it will become permanent shortly if we follow their lead.” John looks puzzled, so Captain Borcher continues.

 

“Their Chief realizes that we have a long way to go to attain their level of earth-awareness, WHICH INCLUDES SURVIVAL, so they have given us a Guide, and that’s Katherine. She has the same roles as Sacajawea did for Lewis & Clark. Now, this is the hard part for you, John. The Cowlitz are matrilineal, that is, the women pick their mates, not the husbands. The women also have the duty of passing all the tribal knowledge down to their children, so they really run their families. In return for that, the men protect them and sustain them with the Bounty of the Earth that the Great Spirit (now John has caught on, so he also throws up his hands, but hasn’t practiced the vocal salute, so doesn’t give it) points out to them via their Shaman and Chiefs, both of whom have placed Katherine with you to be your guide. Ahem, that also means she is your wife and you are her husband, John.” The Captain stops. John composes himself, and turns toward Katherine, then drops his head to his chest in abasement for a moment, then raises back up. Katherine now does the same, but also reaches up with her hands and pulls John’s face down to hers and they bump noses, then they both turn to face the Captain. She speaks, with her head lowered so she’s not equal.

 

“My Warrior-Chief, the first thing we need to do is find some fishers to replace John, so when he comes to the Tribal Center for his immersion-learning, your Warriors won’t starve. You need a month, we say moon, to get that going, and I suggest you start with the two Warriors who help John with his Bounty.” The Captain agrees, calls out to the two men, and they come back to the group of three.

 

“Okay, here it is in a nutshell, guys. The Cowlitz Tribe across the river is making a treaty with our new super-county. The good news out of this deal is that it ups our survival chances here from a weak maybe to a strong yes. The Tribe has resources we can’t match, and if the Feds ever do re-constitute, they are still bound by international law to respect the Native treaties, and we’re going to have one. It’s a learning process, guys. We have to quickly become familiar with their Traditions and Customs, but we of the Militia have already been put into their Warrior Caste, which is the highest caste below Chiefs and Shamans. Stamford here will be our Ambassador to the Tribe and you two guys are going to be in charge of the fishing operation while he is learning Tribal life across the Bridge. You will have to learn to run his boat, but I’m guessing you already have that down, except maybe for getting the right rowing muscles going. Al, you’re in charge, I’ll give you two more stripes, so you’re a Staff Sergeant, and Mickey, you’re a Corporal now. Means little, we’re still not paid, but it does give both of you a better food allowance.” Katherine broke out in a big smile.

 

“You see, my Warrior-Chief, this is how we’ve done it forever. Our Warriors also get more food as they rise in responsibilities, and in the old days, this was how they attracted wives of good caste, unless they took them in battle as captives. Are either of you two Warriors married?” The Captain answered.

 

“Al is, Mickey isn’t.”

 

“Well, maybe Warrior Mickey will get some help from Shaman about that emptiness in his Spirit.” Mickey grinned, and Katherine saw that, knew that this vital Fisher had to have a wife SOON. “Okay, my Warrior Chief, tomorrow I will have to travel back to the Tribal Center. Fishing is too good now to interrupt my Fisher-Chief, so how do I get back to the bridge?” The Captain looks at John.

 

“Get ahold of the Skipper, and tell him he’s going sailing tomorrow. Official duty. Food rations. Katherine, we have a sailing yacht we can use. We will sail you down to Longview tomorrow when the tide is right.” She piped right up.

 

“Mid-morning, the River Spirit wants to meet the Sea Spirit and speeds everything up, but afternoon, the Sea Spirit is stronger for coming back, and the Wind-Spirit is stronger also. When we get to Kalama, my radio will reach the Tribal Center, and some warriors will meet us at the bridge to escort us to the Tribal Center. I will have those Warriors bring some things for your Skipper that need to come back here and aren’t right for carrying except on pack animals or in carts. The Shaman might also come back with the Skipper, or even the Chief for parley. My Fishers, it’s time to smoke some fish now.”

 

 

Captain Borcher nodded to Katherine and turned to get his bicycle and head back to his headquarters. He knew that this new alliance was EVERYTHING for this neck of the woods, and to think it had only been a hungry man’s pipe dream yesterday. Katherine knew what SHE needed to do now, so she took John’s hands in hers, looked up at his face and asked him to show her his home.

Dealing with the Lockdowns - Oregon version

There are two ways for the State Government of Oregon to make a Disaster Declaration. One is in the Oregon Constitution, in Article X, Section A. the other is an ordinary State Law, ORS 401.165, Declaring States of Emergency, referring to COUNTIES asking for this help, but they MUST provide details.

 

Have any of my readers seen those County Requests for Declaration? I haven't.

 

The ORS also says the Governor may declare such an Emergency, but it alludes to there being a requirement for details. I haven't seen Kate's details. Of interest to me would be which "models" or guesses she relied upon to declare the ENTIRE state was in mortal danger from Covid-19.

 

Hindsight is ALWAYS 20/20, and now we know that the original models and predictions were HIGHLY inaccurate, as they predicted death at the rate of 3% of population when, in fact, the actual death rate has been TWO-TEN-THOUSANDTHS OF ONE PERCENT.

 

Why will NO ONE of SUBSTANCE front up Governor Brown and ask for or DEMAND the answers to these "pesky details"?

 

Basing a major societal change which tosses constitutions out the window on inaccurate data has been done before, says my History Book.

 

For example, Hitler did it on 9/1/1939 when he invaded Poland and started World War Two in Europe, after declaring that Germans living in the section of Poland known as the Sudetenland were in mortal danger from racist Poles trying to kill them. Now the Democratic Party USA has done it right here, when our gullible President went along with inaccurate data (deliberately inaccurate or just sloppily inaccurate is still to be determined), so our Nation's economy lies in ruins after the two-month shut-down which was not required.

 

My take on all this is that it has now happened to the good old USA and can't be UN-DONE, so we need to bend our backs now, get back to work, rebuild our economic structures and above all, DON'T LET THE SAME CREW COCK IT UP AGAIN!

 

America, put on your working clothes, pick up your lunch pails, and head for your work-place. If the Management is too afraid of the government to re-open, first, tell those caviling wimps that you have their backs, and if they still won't open, kick them to the curb, go into the factory floor and start the production lines YOURSELVES!.

 

We are either the victims of the stupidest move by our governance ever, or we are the victims of a cruel political move to kill freedom. In both cases, the solution is GET BACK TO WORK, AMERICA!

Sunday sadness scribbling

I'm from an old and prolific Portland medical family, & I'm normally highly sympathetic with the medical profession.

 

I've turned, though. The obvious fact is that most doctors have chugged the commie Kool-Aid, and keep chugging it.

 

I profile a lot. I was taught how to do it in the various police academies I attended and in follow-on LEO training courses, plus profiling is just organizing common sense.

 

My main profiling these days is to classify and categorize the political opposition to our Constitutional Republic, but you already know that if you follow me on Facebook or on this Rivrdog Blog.

 

I will now profile the medical profession, and it isn't looking good for them. Here are my profile qualifiers:

1. Do you (choose one) a. Tolerate, b. Support or c. Actively Defend and advocate for Socialized Medicine? (record answer and move on)

2. In your entire office or suite of offices in a medical comples, is there a single US Flag on display? (record answer and move on)

3. If your work is for a health maintenance org claiming a religious afiliation, do you refer low-spirit cases to practitioners of the religion? (record answer and move on)

4. As to Covid-19, do you (choose one): a. Tolerate, b. Support or c. Actively Defend the suppression of alternate views on the USA's response to the disease vector? (record answer and calculate results):

 

Perfect (good) profile (rates Zero)

Item one should be a "no" on any of the three choices.

Item two should be a "yes"

Item three should be a "yes"

Item four should be a "no" on any of the three choices.

 

Here's the bad part: I have two offspring in the medical profession. One rates between 1 and 2, the other between 3 and 4, and they are nowhere as PROFESSIONALLY antagonistic towards the Republic as some other medical providers I've encountered in the past ten years or so.

 

In conclusion, I'm going to put it all together: the two most important professions in this USA are Information movers (newsies, computer gurus, etc) and Medical Providers. Both those professions are badly compromised as to maintaining the health and vibrancy of our Constitution and governance according to it.

 

Looking for what profession DOES unilaterally support our Constitution and governance according to it, I find only Veterans. A few months ago, I would have said Veterans and LEOs (I am retired from both professions), but the LEO profession has guzzled enough commie Kool Aid to remove themselves now as saviors of the American Way, following the Information movers right over the Marxist cliff.

 

Result? Of the 8.5 million Veterans, MAYBE 5 million are fit to fight for this Republic against the communist hordes.

 

Those aren't very good odds.

Blue-State Governors are Tyrants

This post deals with Oregon's Governor, Kate Brown, a democrat/socialist.

Copied from my Facebook post of just now.

Re: Oregon Constitution, Article X, Section 6:

Sorry, Oregonians, court precedent says when Government sets rules of "Sunshine", they must be followed or else all actions taken in the illegal sessions must be considered invalid.

The Governor's Emergency Declaration, which went into effect at midnight March 7th, expired 30 days later. Gauleiter Kate will, of course, claim that the Legislative Emergency Board action to approve an "Extension" gives her authority to continue her Nazi-style lockdown and suspension of personal liberty, but by the clear language of the Article and Section, it does NOT. How the HELL can secret phone "sessions" qualify as "Convening the Legislature", or, for THAT matter, how can a "meeting" of the E-Board qualify for this Constitutional mandate to actually HAVE a REAL SESSION? The Constitution means what it says. This Article & Section can ONLY be met by proper Notice to Speaker & Senate President, who then MUST make the duly-constituted Public announcement, then the Legislators arrive at the place to convene PHYSICALLY, then the Session is called to order. A proper extension of the Governor's Emergency Declaration also involves drafting a Bill for an Act, having it read in the appropriate Committee, voted out of that Committee to the Floor, debated, etc. There is PROCESS, and no amount of "danger" from the disease allows it to be circumvented. If you believe so, YOU may also properly be considered a Tyrant and usurper/destroyer of the Oregon Constitution.

Then there is the matter of the Primacy of the Federal over the State Constitution. The State Constitution clearly says when there is a conflict of Primacy, the Constitution guaranteeing the highest condition of Liberty takes precedence. See Article 1, Section 33.

Is #KillerKate going to argue that she has the power to suspend personal liberties when the Feds interpret THEIR Constitution to say those liberties MUST be preserved? When President Trump says, as he already had, that the States may resume commerce and life, liberty and etc, then Section 33 comes into effect.

If you believe the Governor, you: (1) Haven't READ the Constitutions, and/or (2) do not possess the reasoning power called Logic which is REQUIRED in order to make such interpretations.

That is all. You ARE free to pursue a normal life in Oregon now, and have been for over 21 days. If you decide, as I have, to continue your medical isolation, (I am properly considered "medically fragile") that is now and always was your choice. If you decide to END your medical isolation, THAT is also your choice.

Yes, YOU are FREE to make this choice, and the State is NOT FREE to restrict your right to do so.

BTW, true statistics show that the State's first claim that a "calamity" existed, a claim necessary for perfecting the Emergency Declaration (Article X, Sections (2) & (3), was NEVER TRUE. It just never even slightly approached that level that she claimed after Trump's "Epidemiologist" lied through HIS teeth, and constinues to at this hour. Proper investigation WILL show that high-level objections to "calamity" status were buried on orders of #KorruptKate, I will put $$$ on that...

BTW2: In Oregon, the civil Tort of False Imprisonment usually bring the falsely imprisoned compensation of about $3,000 per day. Multiply that by 4.2 million Oregonians and then by 21 days. My calculator gags on that number, but I believe it is $264.60 times ten to the tenth power. That's how much the State owes it citizens, and I'm going to bet that a class-action claim for this WILL be filed soon. The State's credit rating from Moody's dies on the filing date, and the State goes bankrupt shortly thereafter.

New point to ponder: If all the Blue States have to declare insolvency, how does President Trump deal with that? My guess? He fights their declarations of insolvency by accusing them all of conspiring via the Democratic Party to overthrow the US Government via #ScamDemic. If he can make THAT stick, then RICO the Democratic Party, and they accept blame, THEN he will allow bankruptcy, with conditions. The first condition: No more Democratic Party USA.

Re-open the USA NOW!

You won't see such analysis on the MSM, but all over the country, protests against the lockdowns are ramping up.

 

This might indeed, be out of frustration at President Trump, who has vacillated badly twice now on re-opening commerce.

 

It's this way, Mr. President. The WORLD now knows that this virus is not going to end life as we know it, as it was projected to do just 3 weeks ago. What we DO know is that the Democrats are trying to make their meager political position into a political juggernaut via the suspensions of personal liberty in the States which they control.

 

I don't see this issue in terms of the disease at all, even though I'm one of the "high-risk" folks myself, with 3 major risk factors, not just one.

 

I see this issue as a stark attempted subversion of the Constitution which I am FOREVER sworn to protect and defend.

 

If Covid-19 HAD been the killer virus it was hyped up to be by WHO and the Left, TEMPORARY suspensions of civil liberty would have been appropriate. Since those projections have all failed, and the disease is hardly a threat to healthy people, only a threat to the unhealthy, continued violations of our Constitutional guarantees of Liberty are intolerable.

 

Re-open the USA, Mr. Trump. Your continued refusal to do that begins to give the impression that you, too, have no particular passion for our Constitution.

 

Order some sort of re-opening plan, and prepare to use whatever force is necessary to overcome the objections of China's allies, the Democratic Party.

 

If your present waffling continues, Mr. President, I believe that today's gathering protest-storm will quickly devolve into Civil War, and that war will be raging before Independence Day.

 

Take charge, Mr. President. That's YOUR job. You have all the authority you need to re-open the USA.

 

Use it!

My last blog-post, maybe...

Patriots can ignore this post, it's meant for Liberals.

 

One day soon, well before this Nation gets into the lazy, hazy days of summer, every adult in the country will be forced by circumstances mostly NOT under their control to make a stark choice: when the shooting starts for the now-inevitable Civil War, which side will you join up to fight for?

 

Sitting it out will NOT be an option. The fighting will be nasty, CV-19 will be a walk in the park by comparison.

 

YOU.WILL.HAVE.TO.CHOOSE!

 

First of all, you will have to feed yourself and your loved ones. This will be a logistical war. Think the TP shortage, only all the FOOD will be gone, not just paper products and hand sanitizer. After the first week of war, there will be no more food, then the combatants will begin killing each other for food supplies.

 

Regardless of your political persuasion, you'd better make some war-buddy alliances. Start a Militia if you have the leadership skills to run it. If not, find one and JOIN it, following ORDERS of your leaders. Those orders WILL involve you risking your life on a frequent basis to accomplish the missions of that Militia.

 

Liberals, in case you still believe that your political leaders wouldn't START a Civil War, you're wrong. They already HAVE started it. All large-scale wars start on economic bases, and the Democratic Party decided to destroy this Nation's economy to serve their end of destroying the Nation's President, Mr. Trump.

 

Such a broad-scale plan of national treachery can't be called anything but war. Most of the large-scale wars of the past two centuries started with a lot less provocation than #PlanDemic.

 

The Left outnumbers the Right in total people available to fight, but the Right has the Force Multiplier: millions of experienced military veterans, most of them well-armed. They will count coup at least five-to-one over the Left.

 

The Left is doomed to lose this war, mostly because their only potential ally which could make a difference, China, is 6500 miles away, and lacks the ability to project their large army over that distance in the face of our Navy and Air Force.

 

No, the Left will have to slug it out in the cities, and the Right will control the logistical infrastructure, and will simply starve the Left out. The Right will let the Left have the Cities, with their starvation and disease. CV-19 Version 2, will kill far more of the Left's forces off than the well-aimed bullets from the Right's rifles.

 

The only controversial thing about this post is that this future should have been obvious to the Left for the last 3 years, but they just kept making sharper Left turns, and now have succeeded in creating the perfect Loxodromic Curve, in which they've flown up their own butts.

 

Can this war be forestalled? Possibly, but the Left's leaders, worldwide, would have to, in the next week or so, admit that they've warred on Trump and his 63 million voters, totally fold up the #scamdemic, and offer reparations to repair the damage caused so far. Political momentum says that won't happen, so now the world WILL experience World War Three and degenerate into smaller nation-states, NONE of which will be the Socialist Utopias the Left was trying for.

 

Most will be city-states run by warlords. Global commerce won't recover for at least a century. Your cell phone won't work after July. It will be a beans and bullets barter system in what's left of the USA.

 

You won't want to live here anymore, Liberals, but the rest of the planet will be worse off.

 

You made your bed, now lie in it, Liberals.

 

If any Patriots got this far in my post, remember, save one bullet for yourself. The Warrior's Code says we have that right.

 

May God have mercy on our Souls.

 

Post-script: Hard copy available in case the Left can't stand to face the future they brought and shuts my account down. If you want one, most know where to find me, for the next two weeks anyway, after which it won't matter who is writing History, will it?