The Fiery Cross by Diana Gabaldon
straightened up a little, and felt for the small knife I carried at my belt-just in case.
"No." She sounded a little dazed-and no wonder, I supposed. I felt more than a little dazed myself, simply from emotion and fatigue. Enough so that I almost missed what she said next.
"What clid you say?"
"I thaid ... Mary Ann didn't tell me what I wath to do ... after."
"Mary Ann," I said cautiously. "Yes, and that would be ... the first Mrs. Beardsley, would it?"
She laughed, and the hair on my neck rippled unpleasantly.
312 Diana Gabaldon
The Fiery Cross 313
"Oh, no. Mary Ann wath the fourth one." "The ... fourth one," I said, a little faintly.
"Thye'th the only one he buried under the rowan tree," she informed me. "That wath a mithtake. The otherth are in the woodth. He got lazy, I think; he did not want to walk tho far.'
"Oh," I said, for lack of any better response.
"I told you-sshe thtands under the rowan tree at moonrithe. When I thaw her there at firtht, I thought sshe wath a living woman. I wath afraid of what be might do, if he thaw her there alone-tho I sstole from the houthe to warn her."
"I see." Something in my voice must have sounded less than credulous, for her head turned sharply toward me. I took a firmer grip on the knife.
"You do not believe me?"
"Of course I do!" I assured her, trying to edge Hiram's head off my lap. My left leg had gone to sleep from the pressure of his weight, and I had no feeling in my foot.
"I can thow you," she said, and her voice was calm and certain. "Mary Ann told me where they were-the otherth-and I found them. I can thow you their graveth."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," I said, flexing my toes to restore circulation. If she came toward me, I decided, I would shove the goat into her path, roll to the side, and make off as fast as possible on all fours, shouting for Jamie. And where in bloody hell was Jamie, anyway?
"So ... um ... Fanny. You're saying that Mr. Beardsley"-it occurred to me that I didn't know his name either, but I thought I would just as soon keep my relations with his memory formal, under the circumstances-"that your husband murdered four wives? And no one knew?" Not that anyone necessarily would know, I realized. The Beardsley homestead was very isolated, and it wasn't at all unusual for women to die--of accident, childbirth, or simple overwork. Someone might have known that Beardsley had lost four wives-but it was entirely possible that no one cared how.
"Yeth." She sounded calm, I thought; not incipiently dangerous, at least. "He would have killed me, too-but Mary Ann thtopped him."
"How did she do that?"
She drew a deep breath and sighed, settling herself on the ground. There was a faint, sleepy bleat from her lap, and I realized that she was holding the kid again. I relaxed my grip on the knife; she could hardly attack me with a lapful of goat.
She had, she said, gone out to speak to Mary Ann whenever the moon was high; the ghostly woman appeared under the rowan tree only between halfmoon wax and half-moon wane-not in the dark of the moon, or at crescent.
"Very particular," I murmured, but she didn't notice, being too absorbed in the story.
This had gone on for some months. Mary Ann had told Fanny Beardsley who she was, informed her of the fate of her predecessors, and the manner of her own death.
"He choked her," Fanny confided. "I could see the markth of his handth on her throat. Sshe warned me that he would do the thame to me, one day."
One night a few weeks later, Fanny was sure that the time had come.
"He wath far gone with the rum, you thee," she explained. "It wath alwayth worth when he drank, and thith time. . . "
Trembling with nerves, she had dropped the trencher with his supper, splattering food on him. He had sprung to his feet with a roar, lunging for her, and she had turned and fled.
"He wath between me and the door," she said. "I ran for the loft. I hoped he would be too drunk to manage the ladder, and he wath."
Beardsley had stumbled, lurching, and dragged the ladder down with a crash. As he struggled, mumbling and cursing, to put it into place again, there came a knock on the door.
Beardsley shouted to know who it was, but no answer came; only another knock at the door. Fanny had crept to the edge of the loft, to see his red face glaring up at her. The knock sounded for a third time. His tongue was too thick with drink to speak coherently; he only growled in his throat and held up a finger in warning to her, then turned and staggered toward the door. He wrenched it open, looked out-and screamed.
"I have never heard thuch a thound," she said, very softly. "Never." Beardsley turned and ran, tripping over a stool and sprawling full-length, scrabbling to his feet, stumbling to the foot of the ladder and scrambling up it, missing rungs and clawing for purchase, crying out and shouting.
"He kept thouting to me to help him, help him." Her voice held an odd note; perhaps only astonishment that such a man should have called to her for help-but with a disquieting note that I thought betrayed a deep and secret pleasure in the memory.
Beardsley had reached the top of the ladder, but could not take the final step into the loft. Instead, his face had gone suddenly from red to white, his eyes rolled back, and then he fell senseless onto his face on the boards, his legs dangling absurdly from the edge of the loft.
"I could not get him down; it wath all I could do to pull him up into the loft." She sighed. "And the retht ... you know."
"Not quite." Jamie spoke from the dark near my shoulder, making me jump. Hiram grunted indignantly, shaken awake.
"How the hell long have you been there?" I demanded.
"Long enough." He moved to my side and knelt beside me, a hand on my arm. "And what was it at the door, then?" he asked Mrs. Beardsley. His voice held no more than light interest, but his hand was tight on my arm. A slight shudder went over me. Wbat, indeed.
"Nothing," she said simply. "There wath no one there at all, that I could thee. But-you can thee the rowan tree from that door, and there watb a halfmoon rithing."
There was a marked period of silence at this. Finally, Jamie rubbed a hand hard over his face, sighed, and got to his feet.
"Aye. Well. I've found a spot where we can shelter for the night. Help me wi' the goat, Sassenach."
We were on hilly ground, spiked with rocky outcrops and small tangles of sweet shrub and greenbrier, making the footing between the trees so uncertain in the dark that I fell twice, catching myself only by luck before breaking my
314 Diana Gabaldon
neck. It would have been difficult going in broad daylight; by night, it was nearly impossible. Fortunately, it was no more than a short distance to the spot Jamie had found.
This was a sort of shallow gash in the side of a crumbling clay bank, overhung with a tattered grapevine and thatched with matted grasses. At one time, there had been a stream here, and the water had carved away a good-sized chunk of earth from the bank, leaving an overhanging shelf. Something had diverted the flow of water some years ago, though, and the rounded stones of what had been the streambed were scattered and half-sunk in mossy soil; one rolled under my foot and I fell to one knee, striking it painfufly on another of the beastly stones.
"All right, Sassenach?" Jamie heard my rude exclamation and stopped, turning toward me. He stood on the hillside just above me, Hiram on his shoulders. From below, silhouetted against the sky, he looked grotesque and rather frightening; a tall, horned figure with hunched and monstrous shoulders.
"Fine," I said, rather breathless. "Just here, is it?"
"Aye. Help me ... will ye?" He sounded a lot more breathless than I did. He sank carefully to his knees, and I hurried to help him lower Hiram to the ground. Jamie stayed kneeling, one hand on the ground to brace himself.
"I hope it won't be too hard to find the trail in the morning," I said, watching him anxiously. His head was bent with exhaustion, air rattling wetly in his chest with each breath. I wanted him in a place with fire and food, as fast as possible.
He shook his head, and coughed, clearing his throat.
"I ken where it is," he said, and coughed again. "It's only" The coughing shook him hard; I could see his shoulders braced against it. When he stopped, I put a hand gently on his back, and could feel a fine, constant tremor running through him; not a chill, just the trembling of muscles forced beyond the limits of their strength.
"I canna go any further, Claire," he said softly, as though ashamed of the admission. "I'm done."
"Lie down," I said, just as softly. "I'll see to things."
There was a certain amount of bustle and confusion, but within a half hour or so, everyone was more or less settled, the horses hobbled, and a small fire going.
I knelt to check my chief patient, who was sitting on his chest, splinted leg stuck out in front. Hiram, with his ladies safely gathered behind him in the shelter of the bank, emitted a belligerent "Meh!" and threatened me with his horns.
"Ungrateful sod," I said, pulling back.
Jamie laughed, then broke off to cough, his shoulders shaking with the spasm. He was curled at one side of the depression in the bank, head pillowed on his folded coat.
"And as for you," I said, eyeing him, "I wasn't joking about that goose grease. Open your cloak, lift your shirt, and do it now."
He narrowed his eyes at me, and shot a quick glance in Mrs. Beardsley's di-
rr
The Fiery Cross 315
rection. I hid a smile at his modesty, but gave Mrs. Beardsley the smaR kettle from my saddlebag and sent her off to fetch water and more firewood, then dug out the gourd of mentholated ointment.
Jamie's appearance alarmed me slightly, now that I had a good look at him. He was pale and white-lipped, red-rimmed round the nostrils, and his eyes were bruised with fatigue. He looked very sick, and sounded worse, the breath wheezing in his chest with each respiration.
"Well, I suppose if Hiram wouldn't die in front of his nannies, you won't die in front of me, either," I said dubiously, scooping out a thumbful of the fragrant grease.
"I am not dying in the least degree," he said, rather crossly. "I'm only a wee bit tired. I shall be entirely myself in the morn-oh, Christ, I hate this!"
His chest was quite warm, but I thought he wasn't fevered; it was hard to tell, my own fingers being very cold.
He jerked, made a high-pitched "eee" noise, and tried to squirm away. I seized him firmly by the neck, put a knee in his belly, and proceeded to have my way with him, all protests notwithstanding. At length, he gave up struggling and submitted, only giggling intermittently, sneezing, and uttering an occasional smaU yelp when I reached a particularly ticklish spot. The goats found it all very entertaining.
In a few minutes, I had him well-greased and gasping on the ground, the skin of his chest and throat red from rubbing and shiny with grease, a strong aroma of peppermint and camphor in the air. I patted a thick flannel into place on his chest, pulled down his shirt, drew the folds of his cloak around him, and tucked a blanket up snugly under his chin.
"Now, then," I said with satisfaction, Aiping my hands on a cloth. "As soon as I have hot water, we'll have a nice cup of horehound tea."
He opened one eye suspiciously. "We wifl?"
"Well, you wil_l. I'd rather drink hot horse piss, myself." "So would I."
"Too bad; it hasn't any medicinal effects that I know of."
He groaned and shut the eye. He breathed heavily for a moment, sounding like a diseased beHows. Then he raised his head a few inches, opening his eyes. "Is yon woman back yet?"
"No, I imagine it will take her a little time to find the stream in the dark." I hesitated. "Did you ... hear everything she was teRing me?"
He shook his head.
"Not all-but enough. Mary Ann and that?" "Yes, that."
He grunted.
"Did ye believe her, Sassenach?"
I didn't reply immediately, but took my time in cleaning the goose grease out from under my fingernails.
"I did at the time," I finally said. "Just now-I'm not sure." He grunted again,this time,%rith approval.
"I shouldna think she's dangerous," he said. "But keep your wee knife about
316 Diana Gabaldon
ye, Sassenach-and dinna turn your back on her. We'll take watch and watch about; wake me in an hour."
He shut his eyes, coughed, and without further ado, fell fast asleep.
CLOUDS WERE BEGINNING to drift across the moon, and a cold wind stirred the grass on the bank above us.
"Wake him in an hour," I muttered, shiffing myself in an effort to achieve some minimal level of comfort on the rocky ground. "Ha, bloody ha." I leaned over and hoisted Jamie's head into my lap. He groaned slightly, but didn't twitch. 55
"Sniffles," I said accusingly to him. "Ha!
I wriggled my shoulders and leaned back, finding some support against the sloping wall of our shelter. Despite Jamie's warning, it seemed unnecessary to keep an eye on Mrs. Beardsley; she had obligingly built up the fire, then curled up among the goats and-being merely flesh and blood, and therefore exhausted by the day's events-had gone immediately to sleep. I could hear her on the far side of the fire, snoring peacefully among the assorted wheezings; and grunts of her companions.
"And what do you think you are, anyway?" I demanded of the heavy head resting on my thigh. "Vulcanized rubber?" My fingers touched his hair, quite without intent, and smoothed it gently. One corner of his mouth lifted suddenly, in a smile of startling sweetness.
It was gone as quickly as it had come, and I stared at him in astonishment. No, he was sound asleep; his breath came hoarse but even, and the long particolored lashes rested dark against his cheeks. Very soffly, I stroked his head again.
Sure enough; the smile flickered like the touch of a flame, and disappeared. He sighed, very deeply, bent his neck to nuzzle closer, then relaxed completely, his body going limp.
"Oh, Christ, Jamie," I said softly, and felt tears sting my eyes.
It had been years since I'd seen him smile in his sleep like that. Not since the early days of our marriage, in fact-at Lallybroch.
He'd always do it as a wee lad, his sister jenny had told me then. I think it means be's happy.
My fingers curled into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the solid curve of his skull, the warm scalp and the hair-thin line of the ancient scar acrossit.
"Me, too," I whispered to him.
SPAWN OF SATAN
RS. MACLEOD and her two children had gone to stay,%vith Evan Lindsay's wife, and with the leaving of the MacLeod brothers with
Mthe militia, plus Geordie Chisholm and his two eldest sons, the congestion in the big house was eased substantially. Not nearly enough, though, Brianna reflected, considering that Mrs. Chisholm remained.
The problem was not Mrs. Chisholm as such; the problem was Mrs. Chisholm's five younger children, all boys, and referred to collectivelyby Mrs. Bug-as "the spawn of Satan." Mrs. Chisholm, perhaps understandably, objected to this terminology. While the other inhabitants of the house were less forthright than Mrs. Bug in stating their opinions, there was a remarkable unanimity among them. Three-year-old twin boys would have that effect, Brianna thought, eyeing Jemmy with some trepidation as she envisioned the future.
He was at the moment giving no indication of a potential for future ramu
page, being half-asleep on the rag r g of Jamie's study, where Brianna had retired in the faint hope of fifteen minutes' semi-solitude in which to write. Residual awe of Jamie was sufficient to keep the little warts out of this room, for the most part.
Mrs. Bug had informed eight-year-old Thomas, six-year-old Anthony, and five-year-old Toby Chisholm that Mrs. Fraser was a notable witch; a White Lady, who would undoubtedly turn them into toads on the spot-and no great loss to society, she gave them to understand-should any harm come to the contents of her surgery. That didn't keep them out-quite the opposite; they were fascinated-but it had so far prevented them breaking much.
Jamie's inkstand stood to hand on the table; a hollow gourd, neatly corked with a large acorn, with a pottery jar of neatly sharpened turkey quills beside it. Motherhood had taught Brianna to seize random moments; she seized this one, and a quill, flipping open the cover of the small journal in which she kept what she thought of as her private accounts.
Last night I dreamed about making soap. I haven't made soap yet, myse6r, but Fd been scrubbing the floor yesterday, and the smell of the soap was still on my hands when I went to bed. It's a nasty smell, something between acid and ashes, with a horrible faint stink from the bog fat, like something that's been deadfor a long time.
I was pouring 'water into a kettle of wood ash, to make lye, and it was turning to lye even as I poured. Big clouds ofpoisonous smoke were coming up from the kettle; it was yellow, the smoke.
318 Diana Gabaldon
Da brougbt me a big bowl of suet, to mix witb the lye, and there were babies'fingers in it. I don't remember tbinking there was anytbing strange about tbis-at the time.
Brianna. had been trying to ignore a series of crashing noises from upstairs, which sounded like several persons jumping up and down on a bedstead. These ceased abruptly, succeeded by a piercing scream, which in turn was followed by the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a loud slap, and several more screams of assorted pitches.
She flinched and shut her eyes tight, recoiling as the sounds of conflict escalated. A moment more, and they were thundering down the stairs. With a glance at Jemmy, who had been startled awake, but didn't seem frightenedmy God, he was getting used to it, she thought-she put down the quill and stood up, sighing.
Mr. Bug was there to tend the farm and livestock and repel physical threats; Mr. Wemyss was there to chop firewood, haul water, and generally maintain the fabric of the house. But Mr. Bug was silent, Mr. Wemyss timid; Jamie had left Brianna formally in charge. She was, therefore, the court of appeal, and judge in all conflicts. Herself, if you would.
Herself flung open the study door and glowered at the mob. Mrs. Bug, red in the face-as usual-and brimming with accusation. Mrs. Chisholm, ditto, overflowing with maternal outrage. Little Mrs. Aberfeldy, the color of an eggplant, clutching her two-year-old daughter, Ruth, protectively to her bosom. Tony and Toby Chisholm, both in tears and covered with snot. Toby had a red handprint on the side of his face; little Ruthie's wispy hair appeared to be oddly shorter on one side than the other. They all began to talk at once.
Red savages!"
My baby's beautiful hair!" "She started it!"
". . . Dare to strike my son!"
"We was just playin' at scalpin', ma'am. . . EEEEEEEEEEE!" ... and torn a great hole in my feather bed, the wee spawn!"
"Look what she's done, the wicked auld besom! "Look what they've done!"
15 "Look ye, ma'am, it's only ...
IA! 95
Brianna steped out into the corridor and slammed the door behind her. It was a solid door, and the resultant boom temporarily halted the outcry. On the other side, Jemmy began to cry, but she ignored him for the moment.
She drew a deep breath, prepared to wade into the melee, but then thought better of it. She couldn't face the thought of the interminable wrangling that would come of dealing with them as a group. Divide and conquer was the only way.
"I am writing," she declared instead, and looked narrow-eyed from face to face. "Something important." Mrs. Aberfeldy looked impressed; Mrs. Chisholm affronted; Mrs. Bug astonished.
She nodded coolly to each one in turn.
The Fiery Cross 319
"I'll talk to each of you about it later. Aye?"
She opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it very gently on the three pop-eyed faces, then pressed her back against it, closed her eyes, and let out the breath she had been holding.
"No." She sounded a little dazed-and no wonder, I supposed. I felt more than a little dazed myself, simply from emotion and fatigue. Enough so that I almost missed what she said next.
"What clid you say?"
"I thaid ... Mary Ann didn't tell me what I wath to do ... after."
"Mary Ann," I said cautiously. "Yes, and that would be ... the first Mrs. Beardsley, would it?"
She laughed, and the hair on my neck rippled unpleasantly.
312 Diana Gabaldon
The Fiery Cross 313
"Oh, no. Mary Ann wath the fourth one." "The ... fourth one," I said, a little faintly.
"Thye'th the only one he buried under the rowan tree," she informed me. "That wath a mithtake. The otherth are in the woodth. He got lazy, I think; he did not want to walk tho far.'
"Oh," I said, for lack of any better response.
"I told you-sshe thtands under the rowan tree at moonrithe. When I thaw her there at firtht, I thought sshe wath a living woman. I wath afraid of what be might do, if he thaw her there alone-tho I sstole from the houthe to warn her."
"I see." Something in my voice must have sounded less than credulous, for her head turned sharply toward me. I took a firmer grip on the knife.
"You do not believe me?"
"Of course I do!" I assured her, trying to edge Hiram's head off my lap. My left leg had gone to sleep from the pressure of his weight, and I had no feeling in my foot.
"I can thow you," she said, and her voice was calm and certain. "Mary Ann told me where they were-the otherth-and I found them. I can thow you their graveth."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," I said, flexing my toes to restore circulation. If she came toward me, I decided, I would shove the goat into her path, roll to the side, and make off as fast as possible on all fours, shouting for Jamie. And where in bloody hell was Jamie, anyway?
"So ... um ... Fanny. You're saying that Mr. Beardsley"-it occurred to me that I didn't know his name either, but I thought I would just as soon keep my relations with his memory formal, under the circumstances-"that your husband murdered four wives? And no one knew?" Not that anyone necessarily would know, I realized. The Beardsley homestead was very isolated, and it wasn't at all unusual for women to die--of accident, childbirth, or simple overwork. Someone might have known that Beardsley had lost four wives-but it was entirely possible that no one cared how.
"Yeth." She sounded calm, I thought; not incipiently dangerous, at least. "He would have killed me, too-but Mary Ann thtopped him."
"How did she do that?"
She drew a deep breath and sighed, settling herself on the ground. There was a faint, sleepy bleat from her lap, and I realized that she was holding the kid again. I relaxed my grip on the knife; she could hardly attack me with a lapful of goat.
She had, she said, gone out to speak to Mary Ann whenever the moon was high; the ghostly woman appeared under the rowan tree only between halfmoon wax and half-moon wane-not in the dark of the moon, or at crescent.
"Very particular," I murmured, but she didn't notice, being too absorbed in the story.
This had gone on for some months. Mary Ann had told Fanny Beardsley who she was, informed her of the fate of her predecessors, and the manner of her own death.
"He choked her," Fanny confided. "I could see the markth of his handth on her throat. Sshe warned me that he would do the thame to me, one day."
One night a few weeks later, Fanny was sure that the time had come.
"He wath far gone with the rum, you thee," she explained. "It wath alwayth worth when he drank, and thith time. . . "
Trembling with nerves, she had dropped the trencher with his supper, splattering food on him. He had sprung to his feet with a roar, lunging for her, and she had turned and fled.
"He wath between me and the door," she said. "I ran for the loft. I hoped he would be too drunk to manage the ladder, and he wath."
Beardsley had stumbled, lurching, and dragged the ladder down with a crash. As he struggled, mumbling and cursing, to put it into place again, there came a knock on the door.
Beardsley shouted to know who it was, but no answer came; only another knock at the door. Fanny had crept to the edge of the loft, to see his red face glaring up at her. The knock sounded for a third time. His tongue was too thick with drink to speak coherently; he only growled in his throat and held up a finger in warning to her, then turned and staggered toward the door. He wrenched it open, looked out-and screamed.
"I have never heard thuch a thound," she said, very softly. "Never." Beardsley turned and ran, tripping over a stool and sprawling full-length, scrabbling to his feet, stumbling to the foot of the ladder and scrambling up it, missing rungs and clawing for purchase, crying out and shouting.
"He kept thouting to me to help him, help him." Her voice held an odd note; perhaps only astonishment that such a man should have called to her for help-but with a disquieting note that I thought betrayed a deep and secret pleasure in the memory.
Beardsley had reached the top of the ladder, but could not take the final step into the loft. Instead, his face had gone suddenly from red to white, his eyes rolled back, and then he fell senseless onto his face on the boards, his legs dangling absurdly from the edge of the loft.
"I could not get him down; it wath all I could do to pull him up into the loft." She sighed. "And the retht ... you know."
"Not quite." Jamie spoke from the dark near my shoulder, making me jump. Hiram grunted indignantly, shaken awake.
"How the hell long have you been there?" I demanded.
"Long enough." He moved to my side and knelt beside me, a hand on my arm. "And what was it at the door, then?" he asked Mrs. Beardsley. His voice held no more than light interest, but his hand was tight on my arm. A slight shudder went over me. Wbat, indeed.
"Nothing," she said simply. "There wath no one there at all, that I could thee. But-you can thee the rowan tree from that door, and there watb a halfmoon rithing."
There was a marked period of silence at this. Finally, Jamie rubbed a hand hard over his face, sighed, and got to his feet.
"Aye. Well. I've found a spot where we can shelter for the night. Help me wi' the goat, Sassenach."
We were on hilly ground, spiked with rocky outcrops and small tangles of sweet shrub and greenbrier, making the footing between the trees so uncertain in the dark that I fell twice, catching myself only by luck before breaking my
314 Diana Gabaldon
neck. It would have been difficult going in broad daylight; by night, it was nearly impossible. Fortunately, it was no more than a short distance to the spot Jamie had found.
This was a sort of shallow gash in the side of a crumbling clay bank, overhung with a tattered grapevine and thatched with matted grasses. At one time, there had been a stream here, and the water had carved away a good-sized chunk of earth from the bank, leaving an overhanging shelf. Something had diverted the flow of water some years ago, though, and the rounded stones of what had been the streambed were scattered and half-sunk in mossy soil; one rolled under my foot and I fell to one knee, striking it painfufly on another of the beastly stones.
"All right, Sassenach?" Jamie heard my rude exclamation and stopped, turning toward me. He stood on the hillside just above me, Hiram on his shoulders. From below, silhouetted against the sky, he looked grotesque and rather frightening; a tall, horned figure with hunched and monstrous shoulders.
"Fine," I said, rather breathless. "Just here, is it?"
"Aye. Help me ... will ye?" He sounded a lot more breathless than I did. He sank carefully to his knees, and I hurried to help him lower Hiram to the ground. Jamie stayed kneeling, one hand on the ground to brace himself.
"I hope it won't be too hard to find the trail in the morning," I said, watching him anxiously. His head was bent with exhaustion, air rattling wetly in his chest with each breath. I wanted him in a place with fire and food, as fast as possible.
He shook his head, and coughed, clearing his throat.
"I ken where it is," he said, and coughed again. "It's only" The coughing shook him hard; I could see his shoulders braced against it. When he stopped, I put a hand gently on his back, and could feel a fine, constant tremor running through him; not a chill, just the trembling of muscles forced beyond the limits of their strength.
"I canna go any further, Claire," he said softly, as though ashamed of the admission. "I'm done."
"Lie down," I said, just as softly. "I'll see to things."
There was a certain amount of bustle and confusion, but within a half hour or so, everyone was more or less settled, the horses hobbled, and a small fire going.
I knelt to check my chief patient, who was sitting on his chest, splinted leg stuck out in front. Hiram, with his ladies safely gathered behind him in the shelter of the bank, emitted a belligerent "Meh!" and threatened me with his horns.
"Ungrateful sod," I said, pulling back.
Jamie laughed, then broke off to cough, his shoulders shaking with the spasm. He was curled at one side of the depression in the bank, head pillowed on his folded coat.
"And as for you," I said, eyeing him, "I wasn't joking about that goose grease. Open your cloak, lift your shirt, and do it now."
He narrowed his eyes at me, and shot a quick glance in Mrs. Beardsley's di-
rr
The Fiery Cross 315
rection. I hid a smile at his modesty, but gave Mrs. Beardsley the smaR kettle from my saddlebag and sent her off to fetch water and more firewood, then dug out the gourd of mentholated ointment.
Jamie's appearance alarmed me slightly, now that I had a good look at him. He was pale and white-lipped, red-rimmed round the nostrils, and his eyes were bruised with fatigue. He looked very sick, and sounded worse, the breath wheezing in his chest with each respiration.
"Well, I suppose if Hiram wouldn't die in front of his nannies, you won't die in front of me, either," I said dubiously, scooping out a thumbful of the fragrant grease.
"I am not dying in the least degree," he said, rather crossly. "I'm only a wee bit tired. I shall be entirely myself in the morn-oh, Christ, I hate this!"
His chest was quite warm, but I thought he wasn't fevered; it was hard to tell, my own fingers being very cold.
He jerked, made a high-pitched "eee" noise, and tried to squirm away. I seized him firmly by the neck, put a knee in his belly, and proceeded to have my way with him, all protests notwithstanding. At length, he gave up struggling and submitted, only giggling intermittently, sneezing, and uttering an occasional smaU yelp when I reached a particularly ticklish spot. The goats found it all very entertaining.
In a few minutes, I had him well-greased and gasping on the ground, the skin of his chest and throat red from rubbing and shiny with grease, a strong aroma of peppermint and camphor in the air. I patted a thick flannel into place on his chest, pulled down his shirt, drew the folds of his cloak around him, and tucked a blanket up snugly under his chin.
"Now, then," I said with satisfaction, Aiping my hands on a cloth. "As soon as I have hot water, we'll have a nice cup of horehound tea."
He opened one eye suspiciously. "We wifl?"
"Well, you wil_l. I'd rather drink hot horse piss, myself." "So would I."
"Too bad; it hasn't any medicinal effects that I know of."
He groaned and shut the eye. He breathed heavily for a moment, sounding like a diseased beHows. Then he raised his head a few inches, opening his eyes. "Is yon woman back yet?"
"No, I imagine it will take her a little time to find the stream in the dark." I hesitated. "Did you ... hear everything she was teRing me?"
He shook his head.
"Not all-but enough. Mary Ann and that?" "Yes, that."
He grunted.
"Did ye believe her, Sassenach?"
I didn't reply immediately, but took my time in cleaning the goose grease out from under my fingernails.
"I did at the time," I finally said. "Just now-I'm not sure." He grunted again,this time,%rith approval.
"I shouldna think she's dangerous," he said. "But keep your wee knife about
316 Diana Gabaldon
ye, Sassenach-and dinna turn your back on her. We'll take watch and watch about; wake me in an hour."
He shut his eyes, coughed, and without further ado, fell fast asleep.
CLOUDS WERE BEGINNING to drift across the moon, and a cold wind stirred the grass on the bank above us.
"Wake him in an hour," I muttered, shiffing myself in an effort to achieve some minimal level of comfort on the rocky ground. "Ha, bloody ha." I leaned over and hoisted Jamie's head into my lap. He groaned slightly, but didn't twitch. 55
"Sniffles," I said accusingly to him. "Ha!
I wriggled my shoulders and leaned back, finding some support against the sloping wall of our shelter. Despite Jamie's warning, it seemed unnecessary to keep an eye on Mrs. Beardsley; she had obligingly built up the fire, then curled up among the goats and-being merely flesh and blood, and therefore exhausted by the day's events-had gone immediately to sleep. I could hear her on the far side of the fire, snoring peacefully among the assorted wheezings; and grunts of her companions.
"And what do you think you are, anyway?" I demanded of the heavy head resting on my thigh. "Vulcanized rubber?" My fingers touched his hair, quite without intent, and smoothed it gently. One corner of his mouth lifted suddenly, in a smile of startling sweetness.
It was gone as quickly as it had come, and I stared at him in astonishment. No, he was sound asleep; his breath came hoarse but even, and the long particolored lashes rested dark against his cheeks. Very soffly, I stroked his head again.
Sure enough; the smile flickered like the touch of a flame, and disappeared. He sighed, very deeply, bent his neck to nuzzle closer, then relaxed completely, his body going limp.
"Oh, Christ, Jamie," I said softly, and felt tears sting my eyes.
It had been years since I'd seen him smile in his sleep like that. Not since the early days of our marriage, in fact-at Lallybroch.
He'd always do it as a wee lad, his sister jenny had told me then. I think it means be's happy.
My fingers curled into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the solid curve of his skull, the warm scalp and the hair-thin line of the ancient scar acrossit.
"Me, too," I whispered to him.
SPAWN OF SATAN
RS. MACLEOD and her two children had gone to stay,%vith Evan Lindsay's wife, and with the leaving of the MacLeod brothers with
Mthe militia, plus Geordie Chisholm and his two eldest sons, the congestion in the big house was eased substantially. Not nearly enough, though, Brianna reflected, considering that Mrs. Chisholm remained.
The problem was not Mrs. Chisholm as such; the problem was Mrs. Chisholm's five younger children, all boys, and referred to collectivelyby Mrs. Bug-as "the spawn of Satan." Mrs. Chisholm, perhaps understandably, objected to this terminology. While the other inhabitants of the house were less forthright than Mrs. Bug in stating their opinions, there was a remarkable unanimity among them. Three-year-old twin boys would have that effect, Brianna thought, eyeing Jemmy with some trepidation as she envisioned the future.
He was at the moment giving no indication of a potential for future ramu
page, being half-asleep on the rag r g of Jamie's study, where Brianna had retired in the faint hope of fifteen minutes' semi-solitude in which to write. Residual awe of Jamie was sufficient to keep the little warts out of this room, for the most part.
Mrs. Bug had informed eight-year-old Thomas, six-year-old Anthony, and five-year-old Toby Chisholm that Mrs. Fraser was a notable witch; a White Lady, who would undoubtedly turn them into toads on the spot-and no great loss to society, she gave them to understand-should any harm come to the contents of her surgery. That didn't keep them out-quite the opposite; they were fascinated-but it had so far prevented them breaking much.
Jamie's inkstand stood to hand on the table; a hollow gourd, neatly corked with a large acorn, with a pottery jar of neatly sharpened turkey quills beside it. Motherhood had taught Brianna to seize random moments; she seized this one, and a quill, flipping open the cover of the small journal in which she kept what she thought of as her private accounts.
Last night I dreamed about making soap. I haven't made soap yet, myse6r, but Fd been scrubbing the floor yesterday, and the smell of the soap was still on my hands when I went to bed. It's a nasty smell, something between acid and ashes, with a horrible faint stink from the bog fat, like something that's been deadfor a long time.
I was pouring 'water into a kettle of wood ash, to make lye, and it was turning to lye even as I poured. Big clouds ofpoisonous smoke were coming up from the kettle; it was yellow, the smoke.
318 Diana Gabaldon
Da brougbt me a big bowl of suet, to mix witb the lye, and there were babies'fingers in it. I don't remember tbinking there was anytbing strange about tbis-at the time.
Brianna. had been trying to ignore a series of crashing noises from upstairs, which sounded like several persons jumping up and down on a bedstead. These ceased abruptly, succeeded by a piercing scream, which in turn was followed by the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a loud slap, and several more screams of assorted pitches.
She flinched and shut her eyes tight, recoiling as the sounds of conflict escalated. A moment more, and they were thundering down the stairs. With a glance at Jemmy, who had been startled awake, but didn't seem frightenedmy God, he was getting used to it, she thought-she put down the quill and stood up, sighing.
Mr. Bug was there to tend the farm and livestock and repel physical threats; Mr. Wemyss was there to chop firewood, haul water, and generally maintain the fabric of the house. But Mr. Bug was silent, Mr. Wemyss timid; Jamie had left Brianna formally in charge. She was, therefore, the court of appeal, and judge in all conflicts. Herself, if you would.
Herself flung open the study door and glowered at the mob. Mrs. Bug, red in the face-as usual-and brimming with accusation. Mrs. Chisholm, ditto, overflowing with maternal outrage. Little Mrs. Aberfeldy, the color of an eggplant, clutching her two-year-old daughter, Ruth, protectively to her bosom. Tony and Toby Chisholm, both in tears and covered with snot. Toby had a red handprint on the side of his face; little Ruthie's wispy hair appeared to be oddly shorter on one side than the other. They all began to talk at once.
Red savages!"
My baby's beautiful hair!" "She started it!"
". . . Dare to strike my son!"
"We was just playin' at scalpin', ma'am. . . EEEEEEEEEEE!" ... and torn a great hole in my feather bed, the wee spawn!"
"Look what she's done, the wicked auld besom! "Look what they've done!"
15 "Look ye, ma'am, it's only ...
IA! 95
Brianna steped out into the corridor and slammed the door behind her. It was a solid door, and the resultant boom temporarily halted the outcry. On the other side, Jemmy began to cry, but she ignored him for the moment.
She drew a deep breath, prepared to wade into the melee, but then thought better of it. She couldn't face the thought of the interminable wrangling that would come of dealing with them as a group. Divide and conquer was the only way.
"I am writing," she declared instead, and looked narrow-eyed from face to face. "Something important." Mrs. Aberfeldy looked impressed; Mrs. Chisholm affronted; Mrs. Bug astonished.
She nodded coolly to each one in turn.
The Fiery Cross 319
"I'll talk to each of you about it later. Aye?"
She opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it very gently on the three pop-eyed faces, then pressed her back against it, closed her eyes, and let out the breath she had been holding.