Peter awoke to the sound of a young female voice speaking to him. "Patriarch...? Are you awake."

After a moment, his consciousness returned to him and he whispered, "I am. What is it?"

"A Wanderer," the pre-teen aged girl said, adding, "At the gate."

Peter blinked his eyes open and found the hut very much still in the Black. It was unusual -- and dangerous -- for a Wanderer to approach a Village unannounced during the night, causing Peter to ask with obvious concern, "Guarded?"

"Yes, Patriarch," the girl answered, verifying, "Four guards. He's being good, but..."

"Yes...?"

She said with a concerned tone, "They say he's hurt. Much."

Around him, some of those sharing Peter's bed this night stirred, some moaning with semi-conscious disappointment at being awoken at the early hour. The nearest of the three women habitually slid a hand onto Peter's body, caressing it downward to locate his penis and gently begin kneading it to life.

"Not now," he whispered to the Breeder, gently moving her hand away. He probably should have let her excite him to stiffness to perform his duty. One of the lasting effects of the Apocalypse 250 years earlier was that successful breeding was now about as easy as catching and holding a river eel in your bare hands without getting spiked or bitten. Instead, Peter kissed the ovulating woman lovingly on her forehead and told her reassuringly, "Later, my dear. Later."

..........

Trent knew the danger of approaching a village in the Black, but he'd had little choice. He'd been cutting over a ridge when he'd stumbled upon a brown bear that -- frightened more than anything else -- had lashed out at him with a huge paw and razor sharp claws. He'd been sliced across the chest, then in his haste to get away, he'd then fallen down a steep hillside, rolling more than a hundred feet before colliding with the trunk of a tree.

Trent had been on his way to a Gathering at Little Lake, two days walk to the south, but he wouldn't make it, of course. He'd stumbled upon a well worn path earlier, and after searching found it just before sundown. He followed it through the night, losing it several times, forcing him to backtrack. Then, he'd heard a dog -- not a wolf or coyote -- bark at the sound of his approach. And five minutes later, he looked up to see a fifteen foot log pole gate blocking the narrow gap between to cliffs. He dropped onto the dirt before the gate, calling out for help. As he sat there bleeding all over the shirt pressed to his chest, he prayed that the people behind the gate were Patriarchists. If they were, they just might see him as worthy of being worth saving. Peter had come across villages or isolated homes that had had no interest in strangers or their needs. In fact, he still bore the scar in his thigh from when he'd once been shot as a raider, despite the fact that he'd done nothing more than eat a berry from a wild bush within sight of the cabin.

Suddenly, the black of night illuminated. Peter looked up to be blinded by some sort of oil lantern-curved mirror contraption that sent a column of flickering light his direction. He tried to identify himself and his situation, but instead -- as four females with bows and spears approached him -- he only smiled meekly, laid back to the ground with a thud, and passed out.

Alex had been on busy on guard duty. She stood quietly in the pale light, looking out into the dark horizon. The night was cold and rather eventless as usual. It was a welcomed change for her though. That is, until she heard calls for help from outside the gate. She alerted her fellow guards and quickly shuffled towards the gate, bow in hand and her long brown hair streaming out behind her.

The other girls filed in behind her with their behind her as they aimed their bows at the new comer. Alex opened her mouth to address the strange man, injured man but was cut short as he suddenly collapsed. “Go get the Patriarch. Quickly.” She told the young girl next to her. The young girl nodded and quickly scampered off.

Alex lowered her bow and waited for the Patriarch’s approval before helping the other women to move the stranger inside. They carried him over to the Communal hut.

-------
Naturally, the news of a newcomer traveled quickly even during such a late hour. Caia had been fast asleep in her hut when the commotion outside stirred her awake. The Matriarch slowly lifted herself out of bed and slipped out to see the women and Patriarch carrying a wounded man over to the Communal hut. Curious, she followed them coming up to walk besides her male equal.

“What is going on?” She questioned. Her tone clearly demanding quick answers. “Why is a stranger here this late?”

Caia walked up besides the unconscious man as they laid him down in the hut. She examined his wounds for a moment before looking over at Peter. “I do hope he hasn’t brought us trouble..” She grumbled.

One of the girls that had brought him in, Alex, looked up at Caia. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Matriarch. The most we’ll be dealing with is a wild animal and not any angry people. I think he got attacked by a bear or something judging by the wound he has.” Alex informed her calmly. Alex then looked to Peter. “Should we go ahead and treat him, Patriarch?"

In and out of consciousness, Trent had been hearing nothing but female voices. If he'd been clear headed enough, he would have come to the conclusion that he was, indeed, in a Patriarchist village. This was good news for him, of course: he was a strong, healthy, fertile male, the last evidenced by the children he'd fathered over the past years of his Wandering. They would surely tend to his wounds, give him time to recuperate, then send a few fertile women to his bed to add some diversity to their village's gene pool...

..........

Peter heard the familiar, confident, and demanding voice of the village's Matriarch as he followed behind the women carrying the injured Wanderer toward the Communal Hut. “What is going on..? Why is a stranger here this late?”

"He's injured ... been attacked," Peter said, taking a moment to give orders to the Guard Watch's Captain to add bodies to the perimeter watch. He looked to Caia, adding, "Man or beast we don't yet know."

They all entered the Communal Hut. It was an interesting structure, a combination of "A" frame, log cabin, and teepee: it was round at the base except for where the front entrance sat in a straight section of wall, with a base diameter of almost 30 feet; then it rose at a steep angle -- a safety feature for the sometimes heavy winter snows -- to a height of nearly 40 feet. The first Patriarchists of Tall Rock had lived in temporary huts while building this structure, and for years everyone had lived in just this one building. But as the population grew and resources were increased, additional buildings were constructed. Today, Tall Rock included the Communal Hut, six Home Huts, and eight additional buildings for stock animals, food stuffs, firewood, scavenged goods (for which a use was still unknown), and more.

And, of course, the Breeding Hut. Peter had never once in his 12 years as Patriarch been inside the Breeding Hut. His sharing of his own Seed was done in his own bed. No, the Breeding Hut was the domain of Peter's female counterpart, and he left the Matriarch to make any and all decisions about who used it, with whom they used it, and how often they used it.

“Should we go ahead and treat him, Patriarch?"

The irony of the Breeding Hut and the relationship between Peter and Caia was, of course, that while she made the decisions about which of Tall Rock's fertile women bred with the Wanderers who sometimes dropped in on them, he made the decisions about whether they came through the gate or not. The Patriarch of a Patriarchist village was honored and respected by those who lived in his care. However, there came a point in each Patriarch's life when his major contributions to the almost entirely female population -- his seed and his security -- might be better provided by a new and younger male. Truly, the only thing that kept the women of any Patriarchist village from killing or running off their Patriarchs one after another was that no matter what you thought of the man, the next man could be even worse.

"Treat him," Peter said, quickly adding, "And ... if he lives..."

He didn't continue. There was no need. If the Wanderer didn't bleed to death in the next minutes, he would like die of infection in the next days. The era of antibiotic pharmaceuticals was long gone, so long gone that the Patriarchists had no knowledge of them at all. Peter knew that Caia's girls had quite an array of natural remedies for this, that, and the other ailment, but ... well, this man looked pretty bad, and Peter held little hope that the Wanderer would ever share his Seed with the Breeders of Tall Rock ... let alone any fear that the man might one day take his place as leader of the village.

Peter looked to Caia, giving her a knowing expression, then turned and departed. There was nothing more for him to do here, and he had three ovulating women in his bed who were eager to perform their most important duty ... bringing forth new life in a world that had suffered such horrific dying.