"Avram Davidson - The Kar-chee Reign" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Avram)

His eyes followed hers to where his youngest son stood in conversation
with a girl on whose hip his hand rested so lightly that one might almost
assume neither of them to know it was there at all. Almost; but not quite.
"MmmтАж That seems a flighty girl to me. I suppose she's twitched her
rump at him and now he doesn't know whether to build a house or drag
her off into the bushesтАж Of course, one needn't preclude the other. Still.
Flighty."
Moma said, "Babies make good ballast. You were on the flighty side,
too, recollect."
"That was before the Devils came," he said mildly.
"Not so long ago as thatтАж Well. House timbers. Might think about itтАж "
A comfortable silence fell between them. He, his work being officially
over, might have put on the loose shirt and kilt, both decoratively worked
in dyed threads, which she had laid out for the purpose in their room. She,
her work being officially still on, would not yet slip into the equally loose
dress (only the unmarried women need endure the discomfort of tight
ones), equally brightly embroidered, which hung in her corner. Both, then,
were girded briefly around the waist, and wore no other clothing. The
afternoon's sun was still warm.
The moma and popa of Home Rowan looked on and about quietly and
contentedly. The large, sturdy old house with its rounded ends was well-
and newly-thatched; let the rains fall in due season as they surely would
(forfend a drought!), it would not let by a drop. The walling palisade and
gate were solid and well-set, the pens held fat stock and poultry, fields and
garden were in good tilth, and the storehouses were as full as any
homesite's should be that was not niggard with its help. Neighbors,
kinsmen, and even those not so allied had come to help with the work and
were feeding andтАФdepending on ageтАФfrolicking or enjoying a peaceful
visit. A potbellied pupdog, descended out of the lean loins of the Settler
Rowan's lone companion on the long voyage hither, nosed along for scraps,
followed by an equally potbellied grandchild. The pupdog paused, spread
its legs, piddled. The child did the immediate sameтАж Startled by the
sudden laughter, he looked up, ready for tears. Seeing only Moma and
Popa, he smiled proudly, and gurgled vigorously as he tottered off in
pursuit of the pupdog.
It hadn't always been a goodly scene. There had been famine, preceded
by droughts; plagues of beasts and plagues of men; there was once
something mightily like a little war; wild beasts had raided and attacked,
andтАФrarely, rarelyтАФwild men. Floods had lapped almost to the doorsills;
retreating, they had left behind mud and wreckage and bloated bodies. A
favored daughter had suffered of a long and painfully wasting illness
before dying, and a less favored son (perhaps because of that, or for
another reason none could think of) had one day walked down into the
ocean and not come out. Nor had Old Ren, as he was beginning to be
called, inherited the homesite peacefully. His years of enduring the
usurpatous tenure of his wicked and godless uncle, Arno Half-Devil, and
how he had finally wrested all away from him and sent him to die in the
caves, formed the integuments of a legend which was still in formation.
And now, when the minor festivity of the thatch party ordinarily would
be beginning to slow down, it received fresh life. In past the carven blue