"Alan Dean Foster - Catechist 1 - Carnivores Of Darkness & Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

tyrex shells grow!" Sleepy faces glistening with a reluctance to believe turned to the tall, lanky head of
the village. Asab briefly considered the child's harangue before finally frowning down at the anxious,
panting youth. "We will go and see. And for your sake, boy, there had better be something on the sand
besides shells and dried sea noodles!" While barren of all vegetation save a little grass and a few hardy
weeds, the beach was not devoid of wood. Gigantic logs cast ashore by the cold Samoria Current littered
the sand and protruded from rocky outcroppings where they had been hurled by violent storms.
Interspersed among the unbranched, well-traveled forest giants were the whitening bones of demised sea
creatures large and small: whales and serpents, birds and batwings, fish and stoneaters. From such
bountiful detritus did the villagers recycle useful materials for their homes and barns. "There!" Colai
pointed, but the gesture was unnecessary. Everyone saw the hungry dragonets circling over the spot.
There were a dozen or more of the little black scavengers. Wings folded, another four or five sat on the
sand picking at irregular lumps that on closer inspection resolved themselves into perhaps a dozen
human figures. Ululating and waving their spears as they approached, the villagers frightened the
carrion-eaters away. Hissing their displeasure, the raven dragonets rose into the transparent air on
noisome, membranous wings, content for now to circle slowly overhead. They would wait. Truth to tell,
if anything Colai had understated the matter. The bodies were more than passing strange. Just as he had
claimed, several showed faces matted with hair, mostly black or brown but some as yellow as the gold
that Morixis the Trader brought from the far southern mountains. The figures were clad in an excessive
amount of clothing, all of it dyed overbright and some fashioned of cloth so fine it was soft as a little
girl's tears. On top of this barbaric display of color most also wore armor of heavy cured leather of a type
unknown to Asab or any of the other village warriors. Scenes that showed men fighting with one another
and strange animals and buildings were deeply embossed on breastplates and leggings. With so much
weight to carry it was a wonder that any of them had been washed ashore. Asab and two of his best
warriors knelt beside one man. With one exception, all the bodies on the beach were shorter and stockier
than the average villager. They were also exclusively male. "See." Tucarak ran a finger along the dead
man's exposed cheek. It was cold with the damp of the sea and infused with death. "How smooth the
skin is. How untouched." With his other hand he traced the curving scar, a sign of manhood, that
decorated his own cheek. "And how pale," added a disapproving Houlamu as he rose. "Who are these
men, and where do they come from?" Raising his gaze, he squinted out to sea. Nothing was to be seen
save the dark, chill water, not even a lingering cloud. There were only the endlessly rolling waves and
the amazingly homogeneous deep blue of the morning sky. "Well, they are dead, and I am sure they
would not want their dying to be wasted." With that Asab ceremoniously began the salvaging of the
deceaseds' belongings, beginning with their curious apparel and assiduously examining every bulge and
pocket for anything, however foreign and exotic, that might prove useful to the village. "Can we safely
eat them, do you suppose?" Tucarak held a blood-and-salt-water-soaked shirt up to the sun. "They look
like men. So they should taste like men." "Ho-yah," agreed Asab. "We will let old Fhastal try a bit of
leg. She will eat anything." The chief chuckled softly. "If it does not kill her, we will know it is safe for
the rest of us." Houlamu contemplated the proposed dismemberment with distaste. "You can eat them if
you wish. I only eat what I know. Or who I know." He nudged another of the limp bodies roughly with
the butt of his spear. "These are plumper folk than the Koipi or the Nalamhat." As he spoke, Tucarak
was tugging hard on the corpse's unusual footgear. It was much too awkward and heavy to be worn on
Naumkib feet, of course, but cut into pieces it might provide the makings for a couple of pairs of
serviceable sandals. "If anything, I would think they would taste better than our neighbors." While the

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chief and his warriors debated the deceased visitants' suitability for the cooking pot, other members of
the tribe wandered up and down the waterline in search of other bodies. Among the searchers was a