Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

   The dog’s excitement in turn produced people. An old man and a young one appeared from somewhere to stand between two of the buildings. At first glance Marge thought that they were dressed very much like the servants at the party, but a second look showed that the clothing of these men was somewhat more varied and complex. They advanced slowly, with puzzled faces, to pause like the dog on the edge of the marsh. The young man spoke to quiet the dog, while the gray-beard continued to study Marge from fifty yards away, then hailed her. Their language was not English, nor—and this seemed additionally unfair—did it even sound anything like the tongue that the other two men had spoken before Marge in the dungeon. That scene too had seemed perfectly real. Before the world blew up in a swirl of monsters…

   The peaceful landscape before Marge now was reassuring by comparison. Both men were calling to her now, but she could not understand a word.

   She shook her head. At last she called back, in a tremulous voice: “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re saying. What place is this?”

   The men looked at her blankly, then shook their heads just as Marge had done, and conferred briefly between themselves. Presently they advanced, wading the narrowest neck of the small marsh, to where Marge stood. Feeling uncertain and confused—but not really frightened—she smiled at them tentatively and waited. They talked to her a little more, uselessly. Then each took her by one arm, not unkindly, and they marched her back across the marshy land and up toward the buildings. These were somewhat larger than Marge had thought at first sight.

   The door to one of the smaller houses stood open. As Marge was brought in by her escort, a worn-looking woman in a long, plain dress rose from a wooden bench beside the smoky fireplace, putting down her knitting. Or was it sewing? Marge had trouble remembering which was which. Anyway it was work of some kind, cloth and a large ball of snarled-looking gray thread or yarn.

   The two men and the woman all talked together now about Marge, and took turns questioning her. They had only the one language, and tried it repeatedly. It was no easier to understand when they spoke slowly and clearly, or repeated the same question several times in a loud voice. She did her part by running the same experiments with English.

   From somewhere nearby, Marge thought it was from inside one of the large buildings, there came at intervals a loud, determined clanging, as of heavy hammerblows on metal. The people with Marge paid this no attention but went on debating about Marge. Marge got the impression from their gestures that the woman thought they had better take the problem to someone who was over there, where all the noise was coming from, while the two men thought this not advisable, at least not right now.

   Eventually they thought to offer Marge a place to sit down, a wooden stool that like everything else in the little house looked homemade. She had a cousin who had lived in one of those crazy communes once and had told Marge all about it. This must be, somehow, something similar. Now the woman was bringing her a wooden bowl, complete with wooden spoon, containing a thick substance that looked like unrefined oatmeal.

   Marge said yes, thank you, and tried some. For oatmeal, it wasn’t bad. Then the spoon rested idle in her hand for a while when she noticed two objects that were leaning against the roughly plastered wall just inside the open doorway. They were a short spear, and a shield of what looked like tough, thick leather. The spear’s metal point was the size of a man’s hand, its shaft was handcarved wood, straight and sturdy as a hoe handle. The shield was round, and bossed with metal decorations. But it was the functional look of both objects that impressed Marge.

   Meanwhile the people who had been interviewing her had things to marvel at too. Her clothing, for one thing. They were not really surprised at the dirty rags her costume had become, but after she had given permission with a smile, they rummaged through her shoulder bag. One of the men held up the jeans against himself; evidently they were not considered women’s garb.

   Presently the men put her things back in the bag and went out together, leaving Marge with her porridge and the woman for companionship. The woman, who had gone back to fussing with her tangled thread, watched Marge closely, smiling now and then. Once she offered Marge a chance to try the knitting or whatever it was; her guest’s helpless refusal came as a surprise.

   Marge finished her porridge. Perhaps half an hour went by, with recurrent bursts of hammering from the other building. Men’s voices could now be heard also, growing progressively more excited. At last there came a prolonged cheer. Maybe, Marge thought sourly, they were watching football.

   Actually she knew better. There wasn’t even an electric light in sight, or a radio, let alone a TV. And now the sun was getting ready to set.

   The housewife crouched over her hearth, where a tiny fire was smoldering, and from the embers lighted a lamp of a kind Marge had never seen before, a clay bowl holding oil in which a mere shred of cloth floated for a wick. The smoky, flaring glow of it filled the little house unevenly.

   Before the sun had gone completely, the two men who had found Marge on the hillside were back, their bulky figures darkening what light the open doorway still gave. And between them now was a third man, a little shorter than they. At first Marge could see him only in silhouette against the