“From Her Eyes A Doctrine” is the second book from the author Ash Donaldson. The book takes place in a dystopian future where western civilisation has crumbled and the European stands on the edge of existence. Whilst it is set in the future, the book takes the tale into the ancient ways of European spiritual traditions, a “rebirth” of an ancient spirit. Two of the main characters being named Aethelstan and Leonidas should give the reader some indication of exactly how this “rebirth” takes form.
I first became aware of Ash’s work when he appeared on Red Ice, but it wasn’t till we shared personal mails that I began to take a real and meaningful interest. Ash was kind enough to reach out to me and shared some excerpts from his book that he thought I might find interesting. When reading them it instantly became clear as to why he would think this. In one short piece, he captures the very same feeling I present in True Romance.
Notes from the author
“The book takes place in the year 2107, and the scene below is when one of the characters, Aethelstan, is recalling his first trip as a ‘scavenger’ into the city, to rescue a child and her mother, only to realize that the mother was dead. The protagonist in the book, Phoebe, is gifted with the ability to see and feel Aethelstan’s memory as he tells it to her.”
Book Excerpt
The baby was still cradled in Aethelstan’s other arm, only whimpering now, but the deafening alarm kept on. Now Aethelstan had to find a way to escape the Bunker, with his shoulder gashed and a baby to carry. Tearing off his shirt, he wrapped the girl snuggly to his chest, wincing from his wound as he secured the bundle with his sleeves. His arms were free now, but already there were more voices coming down the hall, men opening each door in turn. More armed men had arrived. There was no one to help him. Escape was impossible.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the pings of the alarm now impossibly far apart. She felt Aethelstan’s pulse quicken, his muscles tighten. And then it began, the horrifically frenzied assault of one whom Leonidas, veteran of the siege of Budapest, avenger of the rape of Bucharest, had deemed death’s disciple. As the scavenger’s son carved his way out of the Bunker, Phoebe understood as never before this fundamental truth: that women are bound up with life, but men with death. She was out of her element here, like a father standing by awkwardly as the midwives help his wife deliver a baby. Phoebe was now witness to another kind of birth, of Aethelstan as everything Leonidas knew he could be. In his berserker fury, she saw a young man fallen in love with death, lured to it as by a lover, and saw how that unutterable desire served him better than any weapon.
She understood then that a boy’s fascination with fatality was but a foretaste of the man’s most vital, and perhaps final, role: to place himself in the line of death and face unspeakable horrors. It was to ready himself for this that a boy dreamt of battle-scars upon his body. It was for this that he contemplated acts of self-sacrifice so moving that they would bring him to tears. All so that one day the boy, become a man, might open that black door with a smile on his face. And if – if, instead of grasping for that dread door with the trembling hand of the afraid, he could swing it open hard enough, perhaps it might just slam shut again and he would find himself surviving certain death. But if fatal destiny could not be avoided, then he would rip death’s door right off its hinges, to storm inside and leave a lasting memory for generations of the living. Yes, such things, so dark, so beautiful, grow out of boy’s dreams.
As I am sure anyone who is familiar with my work, can see the similarities in philosophical outlook upon the European Soul. Ash, being a veteran of the Iraq War, is not without merit when writing on such matters either. As a man that has seen war, he is far more qualified to imagine such a future than most.
In our quest to re-find our ancient spirit the arts are of great importance. When re-claiming OUR culture, OUR quest for freedom, it is important that we imagine these traits first in the arts. As I explain in my piece “Heroic Myth”, we constantly strive upwards, we reach out for that almost untouchable dream of ourselves: the dream that the Gods and Goddesses first had for us. I mean, you have to wonder would Ferdinand Baptista Von Schill of made his heroic stand at the battle of Stralsund if it had not been for Ernst Moritz Arndt’s heroic writings and poetic verse? And if he didn’t, would Germany have been so inspired as to throw off the yoke of French domination? Whilst we may never know, we can say with some certainty that such writings helped inspire generations of men to heroic action.
Although I will admit I have not read the whole book yet, I certainly will be. In keeping too with some of my recent posts, I think it vital, if we are to re-birth the ancient spirit of our forebears, we must support those within the arts. The arts have the ability to create whole cultures, to inspire the lost and confused. In a time when our ancient ways are under constant attack and our people are told to hold their ancestry in shame, it is vital that these men of the arts stand forward.
So please, if you think you may find this book interesting, or his other works “Blut and Boden: A Fairy Tale for Children of European Descent” and the sequel, “A Race for the North,” check out his work in the links below.
I’ll leave this piece with a beautiful poem from the book that a man dedicates to the children of his community, who descend from all the peoples of the North. One could call it “To a European Child.”
In the time of the Goths, a girl walked the shore
of Baltic waters, heard the sea’s wild roar,
saw sunlight on waves, the plunge of ship’s oar,
felt sand underfoot, found shells to adore.
Magic day, magic summer, a world to explore,
to find words for such beauty, this task she swore.
What she captured in verse, that always remains,
her blood, blood of poets, it runs in your veins.
A Celtic man stood in a green Gallic field,
flanked by his kinfolk, with longsword and shield,
facing the Romans, who demanded they yield.
Others had surrendered, willingly they kneeled,
but these were free men, their battle-cry revealed.
As the Celts’ numbers dwindled, their fate was sealed.
Yet still he swung on, refusing slave’s chains.
His blood, blood of heroes, it runs in your veins.
A maiden of Germany loved a knight on a quest,
a heart-sewn cloth she gave him, and one last caress,
for Jerusalem he departed, a crusade for the West.
At the gates of that city, an arrow pierced his chest,
but with her dear cloth to his wound tight-pressed,
he survived the fight, by her love most blessed.
To her he returned, a bond stronger than chains,
their blood, blood of lovers, it runs in your veins.
Man and woman of Eire gathered their children ‘round
to bury their littlest one in an ancient mound.
With tears they left famine and a barren ground
and boarded a ship for America bound.
Westward they trekked, fertile land they found,
all their hard toil with prosperity crowned.
Cherishing simple joys, enduring their pains,
their blood, blood of settlers, it runs in your veins.
These the men, these the women, who the odds defied,
the mailed warrior, the veiled bride,
a thousand generations to you are tied,
the mind, heart, and body by which you are supplied,
their deeds your inspiration, their spirit your guide.
Never think you are alone – they stand by your side.
The bow, the origin, gives the arrow its force,
the fletching, tradition, guides the arrow’s long course,
the shaft, the unbroken line by which it soars,
but the sharp point that finally strikes – that is yours.
I love this poem….