Enchanted Pilgrimage by Clifford D. Simak Read Free Book Online Page A

finished up the bowl. “You want another one?” asked Ma. “There is plenty in the kettle.”
    Cornwall shook his head. “No, thank you. It is kind of you.”
    â€œNow you lay back,” she said. “You’ve sat up long enough. You can lay here and talk with Pa.”
    â€œI don’t want to be a bother. I’ve put you out enough. I must be getting on. As soon as I see Gib to thank him.”
    Pa said, “You ain’t going nowhere. You ain’t in shape to go. We are proud to have you, and you ain’t no bother.”
    Cornwall lay back, turning on his side so he faced the squatting marsh-man.
    â€œThis is a nice place to live,” he said. “Have you been here long?”
    â€œAll my life,” said Drood. “My father before me and his father before him and far back beyond all counting. We marsh people, we don’t wander much. But what about yourself? Be you far from home?”
    â€œFar,” said Cornwall. “I came from the west.”
    â€œWild country out there,” said Drood.
    â€œYes, it is wild country.”
    â€œAnd you were going back there?”
    â€œI suppose you could say I was.”
    â€œYou are a tight-lipped creature,” Drood told him. “You don’t say much of nothing.”
    â€œMaybe that’s because I haven’t much to say.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” said Drood. “I didn’t mean to pry. You take your rest now. Gib will be coming back almost any time.”
    He rose and turned to walk away. “A minute, Mr. Drood,” said Cornwall. “Before you go—thanks for everything.”
    Drood nodded at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “It’s all right, young fellow. Make yourself to home.”
    The sun, climbing up the sky, was warm upon him and Cornwall closed his eyes. He had no more than closed them when the picture came—the sudden surge of men out of the woods, the chunk of arrows, the shadowed flash of blades. It had been quietly done—there had been no screaming and no bellowing except by the men who had been hit, and not too many of them, for the most of them had died quickly, with arrows through their hearts.
    How had it come, he wondered, that he had lived through it? He could remember little—a sword coming down on his head and instinctively throwing up his arms to ward it off, then falling. He could remember falling from the horse he rode, but he had no memory of falling to the ground—just falling, but not striking. Perhaps, he thought, he may have fallen into a heavy patch of undergrowth, for underbrush grew thick and close beside the trail—falling there and being considered dead, not being noticed later.
    He heard a grating sound and opened his eyes. Another boat had drifted in against the raft. In it sat a young marshman and before him, in the middle of the craft, a basket full of clams.
    Cornwall sat up. “You must be Gib,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right,” said Gib. “I’m glad to see you looking well.”
    â€œMy name is Mark Cornwall. They tell me you are the one who saved my life.”
    â€œI am glad I could. I got there just in time. You were fighting off a wolf with your bare hands. That took a lot of guts, to do a thing like that. Do you remember any of it?”
    â€œIt is all pretty vague,” said Cornwall. “Just snatches here and there.”
    Gib got out of the boat, lifted the basket of clams onto the raft. “A lot of chowder there,” he said. “You like chowder?”
    â€œIndeed, I do.”
    â€œMrs. Drood makes it like you never tasted.”
    He came over and stood beside Cornwall. “Drood and I went out this morning. We found seven bodies. The bodies had been stripped of everything of value. Not a knife, not a purse. All the goods were gone. Even the saddles from the horses. It was the work of bandits.”
    â€œI am not so sure,” said