The Ravisher
(Of Patagonia: 6000 BC)
Chapter One
Devil of the Wind
A small sheltered ice cove in the land now called Patagonia, 6000 BC, in the mountains yet to be named Tierra del Fuego, where before, there lived a hundred generations of men—and now there lived but one, who was known as the Ravisher, the only one left of his kind. He was born and bred, in this climate, and said to have been a madman, who fought with the devils of the wind. In the heat of anger he was a mask of menace, he belongs to no clan, and he was an outcast for the most part—.
He wore a single garment, a beaver skin, scantily, and not covering his whole body. His feet were wrapped in a leather substance, a long heavy whale bone, which appeared at first glance to be a battle-ax, ceaselessly he would beat his opponents with, until they dropped to their knees, like falling snow.
He was all of six-foot, slim and broad shouldered; faded sea-green eyes, robust chest, strong as a killer whale. Light complexion, and on his head he wore a guanaco fur hat.
He carried this spike like whale-bone-ax in his right hand, slowly in swing. The fisherman nodded his head as he approached him, and his swinging bridge, that reached to the other side of the lake, a long strung out bridge:
“I wish to cross your bridge,” said the warrior-hunter, known as the Ravisher.
“Ye’ll only cross it if you pay me,” said the old man, “it is my livelihood.”
“Ye’ll face the devil if you do not stand aside,” said the Ravisher “you have made me an outcast, and we have our own ways.”
Then the wind picked up, to sixty-miles an hour and the bridge started to swing, high and low, sideways, and said the fisherman, “If you insist, go, but you are mad if you do,” and he ran to his small warm cozy hut, as the Ravisher moved slowly across the bridge, and the Fisherman cried out again, as if anger, “You’re mad!”
“Quiet,” yelled the Ravisher, “I’ll come back there and slay you all.”
Chapter Two
The Ravishing
The need was not desperate for the Ravisher to cross the bridge, strange illogic of such a man, he turned around saw the fisherman run to his shelter of his warm hut, leaving him as if no more than a rock out of place, or in his way.
The moment was sad and gloomy; the wild wind moaned and gave an everlasting thrust—as the Fisherman gazed out his window, cussing at the warrior for not paying him, on his now nearly ruined frail bridge.
The wind had caught the bridge, like a sail on a ship, leaped it into the air, staggering the Ravisher back onto shore, the bridge damaged beyond repair now. Then a flurry of snow hit the area, the Ravisher realizing something—of the madness of the Fisherman, cold as ice he was—more so than even he, not to open that warm door, for him—this spurred him to a greater tempo.
Here he stood alone, tossed into the snow by the torrent winds, and here in the warm hut was a race of humans, who dared to test his resolve, his vigilance, his right to survive, staring out the window at the wind was his: wife, husband, and three children. The snow did not cease, the weather did not clear, the wind held. With his battle-ax, he tirelessly smashed into the corners of the hut, weakening the rafters, a thousand times he struck the hut, he needed no sleep, he ate nothing, and by the time he sighted twilight (several hours had passed), the weather was calm, and he was full of sweat, yet there was still a heavy wind in the makings, more likened to a sharp breeze, a storm on the way: hence, he left the family, snatched from their nest standing in dismay, disbelief, the hut a pile of smashed timber, kindling. In haste to reach the lake, he roared with laughter stumbling forward, his body shook with keen enjoyment over the situation. That old demon inside of him had come out. And as he looked back one last time, he had not the slightest doubt of their demise. There they stood—standing and waiting for the forthcoming freezing snows and winds as if paralyzed, in shock, as the Ravisher dived into the lake head first, and swam fearlessly to cross it before the tempest arrived.
No: 696 (10-24-2010)
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