ALL BLOG POSTS AND COMMENTS COPYRIGHT (C) 2003-2018 VOX DAY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRODUCTION WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION IS EXPRESSLY PROHIBITED.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

EXCERPT: The Missionaries

Of all the novels we have published to date, The Missionaries by Owen Stanley is without question one of the best. It is almost disturbingly funny. It's also available in both hardcover and paperback from Castalia Direct.

Laripa was distinguished among the settlements of the Moroks by the presence of the greatest orator, Malek; the greatest sorcerer, Macardit; and the greatest philosopher, Garang, a twisted, hairless little man with a squint. It was thus a kind of Florence or Paris, a cultural centre where the aspiring young intellectuals of the Moroks came to learn the secrets of their fathers, and, more hidden still, the dark revelations of the Before-Men who, led by Tikame himself, had roamed the mountains when Time itself was not.

As befitted its status as the cultural capital of the Moroks, its men’s house was the largest, the best-ornamented, and the most smoke-blackened in all the island. Raised on piles, its rear was low, but the roof-ridge rose into the sky, so that, being more than a hundred feet long, the top of its front end, the formal end, was nearly forty feet above the ground. The boards covering the front of the house were brilliantly painted in the form of a great face, whose mouth was also the entrance. The teeth of this mouth were provided by two rows of bleached skulls, as the boiling and preparation of skulls was one of the arts for which Laripa was celebrated.

Below the men’s house, the hovels of the women formed two parallel lines for a couple of hundred yards down the crest of the spur. At the end of these two lines, a second, smaller, men’s house faced up the yard between the huts of the women, looking directly at the great face of the principal men’s house. The yard was steep and slippery, of shiny red clay, and all around the village ran a high stockade of timbers, whose tops were carved into replicas of simian faces, or barbed to resemble spear points, or hacked and pruned into stranger, even more lethal shapes, curved and twisted like instruments of torture.

The interior of the great men’s house was lit only by those rays that penetrated the narrow entrance, and its natural obscurity was rendered the more impenetrable by the smoke which filled it, rising from the smouldering logs on the hearth of ashes running the entire length of the building. Inside the entrance, in the ashes, smoking his bamboo pipe, sat Nyikang, once the most renowned of the Laripa warriors, now little more than an old bag of bones looking out over his beloved mountains, waiting to die.

Smoking was the last of this world’s pleasures left to him; the government had stopped most of the axe murders at which he had been so proficient, and he had never been much good at sorcery. He’d always muddled the spells at the critical moment. Sex, well, that had been fun, and at least the government hadn’t stopped that yet, but it was a long time since he had felt up to it. The last time, that had been a long time ago, when the great landslide swept away some of his pandanus trees, but all he got for his trouble was a splitting headache, and he had given it up as a bad job ever since. Not that he was missing much as far as Teopo, his last surviving wife, was concerned. She was almost as decrepit as him and never bothered to wash anymore; she was usually covered in dust, like an old gourd abandoned in the corner of a hut.

It was ages, too, since he had led the killing of the pigs at a great dance. His teeth had mostly gone now, and he couldn’t even chew a pig, let alone kill one. Soon he would be a spirit, roaming the forests of the high ranges with his ancestors, without fire, or food, or hope. He still clung to life, not out of love of this world, or fear of that to come, but from habit.

His attention wandered back to Macardit and Malek, who were sitting outside on the verandah, talking.

“A bat’s wing without fresh dog’s blood will blight naught,” said Macardit. “Some say that a frog’s head, crushed with ginger root, giveth more power than the blood of any creature, but that is folly.”

Malek nodded wisely.

“Dog’s blood, thou sayest. I will mind it well.” His fourth and most recent wife had been seduced by his cousin, so he had come to Macardit for a little private tuition in sorcery. The receipt for smiting an enemy’s genitals with gonorrhea cost only a small pig; a larger one, of course, was required if the Master himself recited the spells. Since this enemy was a cousin, the handier and cheaper remedy of the axe was denied him, but a good dose of the clap would suffice to put the fellow in his place.

“Fresh blood, fresh blood,” reiterated Macardit. “If thou but usest fresh blood, the bat’s wing, and the words of power which I have given thee, and well besmear his codpiece with the remedy, there will be one pig that will not root in thy garden for a while.” Macardit drew on his bamboo pipe, but found that in the long interval of conversation it had died.

Labels: , ,

11 Comments:

Blogger Daniel Bendele February 27, 2018 8:54 PM  

One of the funniest and most terrifying books I have ever read. Mr. Stanley perfectly illustrates how divorced from history and reality the Leftists truly are. God help us if these people are allowed to keep destroying our nations.

Blogger LP999-16 February 27, 2018 9:17 PM  

Wow, wonderful excerpt

Blogger Cataline Sergius February 27, 2018 9:45 PM  

This going to sound like BS but I'm in the middle of re-reading it.

From my own review of it.

This is a book that touched me more then I thought it would. For most of my career in the Marine Corps, I was fighting nasty little low level insurgencies. Honestly most of these had been going on before we showed up and continued after we left. They were just run of the mill tribal conflicts that flared up and died down again of their accord when the world wasn’t looking.


But when the world was looking it was time to send in the Marines “Hoo-Rah!” I didn’t mind overmuch. It was a life of adventure and I was young enough and dumb enough to enjoy it. It was why I joined the Corps in the first place. And I am reasonably certain we did more good than harm. The people we were dealing with understood, respected and even honored a warrior ethic. We were comprehensible to them, even if the motives for our arrival looked pretty hazy to them

We made some effort to get to the know locals and listen to their problems and grievances. Occasionally we would dig wells for them, which was usually appreciated. Although they always wondered what it would cost them in the end.


Sadly what it would usually cost them was becoming a UN protectorate.


The UN assessment teams that would follow on our heels...after we had settled things down naturally...were an inexplicable plague, the likes of which the poor bastards had never known.


The best of the UN Poo-bahs had but one purpose and that was to make sure the UN got the credit for what we were doing. The average ones would try to put us in UN Baby Blues, constantly lecture us on how to do our jobs and saddle us with insane Rules of Engagement, (bottom line don’t do anything gross like shoot back). The worst of them would have had the colonial government of Leopold II reeling in horror.


The infuriating thing was sitting helplessly by and watching the UN get away with doing these things. I have no idea why the United Nations still enjoys the kind of prestige that it does at that point. It ranks as equal members first world democracies and third world kleptocrats. It’s Human Rights Council is a by word for farce. It’s a dumping ground for diplomats that couldn’t make it in their own countries diplomatic corps. This is an oligarchy of bureaucrats with no one to answer to and yet, it pretends it’s the best that humanity has to offer.


As you may have guessed a book about United Nations high commissioners getting what they deserve is little short of porn to me...

Blogger Clint February 27, 2018 11:12 PM  

One of my favorites, for sure. I have it on Kindle and paperback. I also have two as gifts at Christmas.

Blogger rycamor February 27, 2018 11:15 PM  

Just finished it a couple weeks ago. Wickedly funny satire but all of it believable. Even the parts that seem over-the-top... believable. Anyone who has come into contact with primitive tribal peoples and the secular humanist elites can see all this happening quite easily.

Blogger tim February 28, 2018 12:30 AM  

"Give us audio," they wailed.

Blogger Resident Moron™ February 28, 2018 12:31 AM  

“disturbingly funny”

and uncannily accurate.

Blogger tim February 28, 2018 12:37 AM  

you got stories? Throw down.

Blogger tim February 28, 2018 12:42 AM  

The Gates Foundation. Eugenics Africa style

Blogger The Kurgan February 28, 2018 6:12 AM  

While I thoroughly enjoyed the book, I didn’t find it particularly funny. I realise in hindsight that this is mostly because many of the tribal descriptions that most readers take as funny social commentary to me seemed simply decent descriptions of actual primitive societies. Having lived in Africa for over two decades I just didn’t really see any of the tribal descriptions as very far from reality at all.
I thought it was instead quite appropriate anthropologically.

Blogger heyjames4 February 28, 2018 9:37 AM  

Some readers took the tribal descriptions as funny social commentary?

Post a Comment

Rules of the blog
Please do not comment as "Anonymous". Comments by "Anonymous" will be spammed.

<< Home

Newer Posts Older Posts