Текст книги "Written in My Own Heart's Blood"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 74 страниц)

“Oh, dearie me.” McEwan’s broad face creased in sympathy. “How—”

Roger lifted a hand. “You first,” he said, and cleared his throat again. “I’ll tell ye everything I know, but … you first. Please.”

McEwan pursed his lips and glanced aside, thinking, but then shrugged and lowered himself, grunting, to his own rude seat.

“I was a doctor,” he said abruptly. “In Edinburgh. I came up to the Highlands to shoot grouse with a friend. Do folk still do that, a hundred years hence?”

“Aye. Grouse are still tasty,” Roger said dryly. “It was at Craigh na Dun that ye came through, then?”

“Yes, I—” McEwan halted abruptly, realizing what that question implied. “Dear Lord in heaven, do ye mean to be telling me there are other places? Where … it happens?”

“Yes.” The hairs rippled on Roger’s arms. “Four that I know of; likely there are others. How many stone circles are there in the British Isles?”

“I’ve no idea.” McEwan was clearly shaken. He got up and went to the doorway, the jamb of it scorched and the lintel burned almost away. Roger hoped none of the stones above it would fall on the man’s head—at least not until he found out more.

Dr. McEwan stayed for a long time, staring out into the rain, which had gone the silvery gray of cat’s fur. Finally he shook himself and came back, mouth set in firm decision.

“Aye, nothing to be gained from secrecy. And I hope nothing to be lost by honesty.” This last was not quite a question, but Roger nodded and tried to look earnest.

“Well, then. Grouse, as I say. We were on the moor, just below that hill where the standing stones are. All of a sudden a fox shot out of the bracken, right by my foot, and one of the dogs lost his head and chased it. Brewer—that was my friend, Joseph Brewer—started after it, but he has—he had,” McEwan corrected, with an expression of mild irritation that made Roger want to smile, because he was so familiar with the feeling that dealing with the phenomenon caused, “a clubfoot. He managed all right with a special boot, but climbing and chasing …” He shrugged.

“So you went after the dog, and …” Roger shuddered involuntarily at the memory, and so did McEwan.

“Exactly.”

“Did the dog … go?” Roger asked suddenly. McEwan looked surprised and vaguely affronted.

“How should I know? It didn’t turn up where I did, I can tell ye that much.”

Roger made a brief gesture of apology.

“Just curious. We—my wife and I—we’ve been trying to puzzle out as much as we can, for the sake of the children.” “Children” caught in his throat, coming out in no more than a whisper, and McEwan’s expression softened.

“Aye, of course. Your son, you said?”

Roger nodded and managed to explain what he could, about Cameron, the letters … and, after a moment’s hesitation, about the Spaniard’s gold, for, after all, he’d have to give a reason for Cameron’s taking Jem in the first place, and his sense of Dr. McEwan was one of solid kindness.

“Dearie me,” the doctor murmured, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ll ask among my patients. Perhaps someone …” He trailed off, his face still troubled. Roger had the distinct impression that the sense of trouble wasn’t all down to Jem, or even to the staggering discovery that there were other—

He stopped, seeing plainly in his mind’s eye the soft blue glow surrounding McEwan’s fingers—and the look of surprised delight on his face. Cognosco te. I know you. Delight, not just shock. He and Buck weren’t the first time travelers this man had known. But the doctor hadn’t said as much. Why not?

“How long have you been here?” Roger asked, curious.

McEwan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Maybe too long,” he said, but then pushed that away, straightening up. “Two years, about. Speaking of too long, though …” He straightened, pulling the cloak over his shoulders. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour. I’ll need to go, if I’m to reach Cranesmuir by nightfall. I’ll come again tomorrow to tend your friend. We can talk a bit more then.”

He turned abruptly, but just as suddenly turned back and, reaching out, took Roger’s throat in his hand.

“Maybe,” he said, as though to himself. “Just maybe.” Then he nodded once, let go, and was gone, his cloak fluttering like bat wings behind him.



THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST

AFTER FRAGGLE ROCK, the telly went to the evening news, and Ginger reached to turn it off but stopped abruptly as Jem’s last year’s school picture flashed on the screen. She stared at the television, mouth half open, then looked incredulously at Jem.

“That’s you!” she said.

“Ken that fine,” he said crossly. “Turn it off, aye?”

“No, I want to see.” She blocked him as he lunged for the screen; Ginger was eleven and bigger than him.

“Turn it off!” he said, then, with cunning inspiration, “It’ll scare Mandy and she’ll howl.”

Ginger shot Mandy a quick glance—she had good lungs, did Mandy—then reluctantly turned the TV off.

“Mmphm,” she said, and lowered her voice. “Mam told us what happened, but she said we weren’t to trouble ye about it.”

“Good,” Jem said. “Don’t.” His heart was hammering and he felt sweaty, but his hands were going cold and hot and cold again.

He’d got away by the skin of his teeth, diving under the bushes planted at the top of the spillway and crawling down the concrete edging ’til he found a ladderway that went down into the water. He’d shoggled down it as far as he could and clung on so hard his hands went numb, with the black water rumbling inches under his feet and surging down the spillway past him, drenching him with cold spray. He could still feel his bones shake with it.

He believed he might throw up if he thought about it anymore, so he turned away and went to look into the wee girls’ toy chest. It was full of girlie toys, of course, but maybe if they had a ball … They did. It was pink but one of the good high-bouncy kind.

“We could go out to the garden, maybe, and have a bit o’ catch?” he suggested, bouncing the ball on the floor and catching it.

“It’s dark and rainin’ like the clappers,” Tisha said. “Dinna want to get wet.”

“Ach, it’s no but a saft drizzle! What are ye, made of sugar?”

“Yes,” said Sheena, with a simper. “Sugar and spice ’n everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails—”

“Come play dollies,” suggested Tisha, waggling a naked doll invitingly at him. “Ye can have GI Joe if ye want. Or would ye rather Ken?”

“Nay, I’m no playin’ dollies,” Jem said firmly. “Canna be doing wi’ the clothes and all.”

“I play dollies!” Mandy muscled her way between Tisha and Sheena, eager hands stretched out for a Barbie in a pink frilly ball gown. Sheena grabbed it away just in time.

“Aye, aye,” she soothed Mandy’s impending screech, “you can play, sure. Ye have to play nice, though; ye dinna want to spoil her dress. Here, sit down, pet, I’ll give ye this one. See her wee comb and brush? Ye can fix her hair.”

Jem took the ball and left. The upstairs hall had carpet, but the landing was bare wood. He popped the ball off it and it shot up and hit the ceiling with a smack, just missing the hanging light fixture. It bounced off the floor and he caught it before it could get away, clutching it to his chest.

He listened for a second, to be sure Mrs. Buchan hadn’t heard. She was back in the kitchen, though; he could hear the sound of her singing along to the radio.

He was halfway down the stairs when the bell over the front door went, and he looked over the banister to see who it was coming in. Who it was was Rob Cameron, and Jem nearly swallowed his tongue.



JEM PRESSED himself back against the wall of the landing, his heart pounding so loud he could barely hear Mrs. Buchan come out of the kitchen.

Should he go get Mandy? There wasn’t any way out of the house but by the stairs; he couldn’t drop Mandy out the lounge window, there wasn’t a tree or anything …

Mrs. Buchan was saying hello and she was sorry if the gentleman was wanting a room, because she was booked full every day this week. Mr. Cameron was being polite, saying, no, thank ye kindly, he was only wondering might he have a wee word …

“If ye’re selling anything—” she started, and he interrupted her.

“No, missus, nothing like that. It’s a few questions I have about the stones at Craigh na Dun.”

Jem was gasping for air. His lungs were heaving, but he’d pressed a hand over his mouth so Mr. Cameron wouldn’t hear. Mrs. Buchan didn’t gasp, but he could hear her take breath, then stop, deciding what to say.

“Stones?” she said, and even he could tell she was faking puzzlement. “I dinna ken anything about stones.”

Rob made a polite laugh.

“I apologize, missus. I should have introduced myself, first. My name’s Rob Cameron—and—is something wrong, missus?” She’d not only gasped really loud, Jem thought she must have stepped back without looking and hit the wee table in the hall, because there was a thump and an “Ach!” and the splat of picture frames falling over.

“No,” Mrs. Buchan said, getting ahold of herself. “No. Had a wee turn, that’s all—I’ve the high blood pressure, ken. Get that wee bit dizzy. Your name’s Cameron, is it?”

“Aye. Rob Cameron. I’m cousin by marriage to Becky Wemyss. She told me a bit about the dancing up at the stones.”

“Oh.” That “oh” meant trouble for Becky Wemyss, thought Jem, who knew a lot about mothers’ voices.

“I’m a bit of a scholar of the auld ways, see. I’m writing a wee book … Anyway, I wondered if I could maybe talk to you for a few minutes. Becky said ye’d know more about the stones and the dancing than anybody else.”

Jem’s breathing slowed down, once he realized that Mr. Cameron hadn’t come because Mr. Cameron knew Mandy and he were here. Or maybe he did and was trying it on with Mrs. Buchan ’til he could make an excuse to use the loo and come poke round in search of them? He looked apprehensively up the half flight of stairs that led from the landing, but the lounge door above was closed, and while he could hear Mandy’s giggling fine through it, probably Mr. Cameron couldn’t.

Mrs. Buchan was taking Mr. Cameron back to the kitchen. Her voice when she’d said, “Come ben. I’ll tell ye what I can,” hadn’t sounded at all friendly. Jem wondered whether she might be going to put rat poison in Mr. Cameron’s tea.

Maybe Mrs. Buchan didn’t have any rat poison, though. He took a step one way, then the other, then back. He really, really wanted to run down the stairs and out the door and keep going. But he couldn’t leave Mandy.

His havering stopped at once when the kitchen door opened, but he could hear it was Mrs. Buchan’s step, and just hers, coming fast and light.

She turned up the stairs but started back when she saw him on the landing, a hand to her chest. Then she ran up to him and hugged him tight, whispering in his ear.

“Bloody heck, lad. What’re you—well, never mind, I was coming to find you. Ye saw him?”

Jem nodded, wordless, and Mrs. Buchan’s mouth pressed flat.

“Aye. I’m going to take ye out the door. Go left out the gate. Two houses down is Mrs. Kelleher. Knock and tell her I sent ye to use the phone. Ye call the polis and tell them the man that kidnapped you is here—ye ken the address here?”

He nodded. He’d seen the number when he visited before with Mam and Dad and remembered it because it was 669; Dad had said it should by rights be 666, but that was the number of the beast. Jem had asked whether it was Mr. or Mrs. Buchan that was the beast, and Mam and Dad both laughed like loons.

“Good,” said Mrs. Buchan, letting go of him. “Come on, then.”

“Mandy—” he started, but she shushed him.

“I’ll mind her. Come!”

He ran down the stairs after her, trying not to make any noise, and, at the door, she stood on her toes and held the little bell so it wouldn’t ring.

“Run!” she whispered.

He ran.



MRS. KELLEHER WAS an old lady and kind of deaf. Jem was out of breath and so scared that he couldn’t put his words together right, so it was a long time before she took him to the telephone, and then the lady at the police station put the phone down on him twice, because she thought he was some bampot wean who’d got hold of the phone and was playing tricks.

“I’m Jeremiah MacKenzie!” he bellowed, next time she answered. “I was kidnapped!”

“Ye were?” said Mrs. Kelleher, very startled. She grabbed the phone away from him. “Who’s this?” she demanded of it. Faint squawking—at least the police lady hadn’t hung up again. Mrs. Kelleher turned and squinted through her spectacles at him.

“Who was it ye were wanting to call, lad? Ye’ve got the polis by mistake.”

He really wanted to hit something, but he couldn’t hit Mrs. Kelleher. He said something very bad in Gaelic, and her mouth fell open. She’d let the phone fall away from her ear, though, and he grabbed it.

“The man that kidnapped me is here,” he said, as slow as he could. “I need somebody to come! Before—” Inspiration struck. “Before he hurts my little sister! It’s 669 Glenurquhart Road. Come right away!” Then he put the phone down, before the lady could ask him questions.

Mrs. Kelleher had plenty of those, and he didn’t want to be rude, so he asked could he use the loo and locked the door against her, then hung out the upstairs window, watching for the police.

Nothing happened for what seemed forever. The raindrops started to drip off his hair and eyelashes, but he was afraid of missing anything. He was rubbing the water out of his eyes when all of a sudden the door of 669 flew open and Rob Cameron came running out, jumped in a car, and drove off with the tires squealing.

Jem almost fell out the window but then rushed back and barreled out of the bathroom, nearly knocking Mrs. Kelleher over.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kelleher!” he yelled over his shoulder, taking the stairs three at a time, and shot out the front door.

There was a lot of screaming and crying going on inside the Buchans’ house, and he felt his chest go so tight he couldn’t breathe.

“Mandy!” He tried to call, but her name came out in a whisper. The front door was hanging open. Inside, there were girls everywhere, but he picked Mandy out of the muddle in the lounge instantly and ran to grab her. She wasn’t crying, but she latched on to him like a leech, burying her black curly head in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” he told her, squeezing the stuffing out of her in relief. “It’s okay, Man. I gotcha. I gotcha.”

His heart started to slow down a little, and he saw that Mrs. Buchan was sitting on the sofa, holding a towel full of ice cubes to her face. Some of the ice had fallen out and was lying on the rug at her feet. Tisha and Sheena were holding on to their mother and crying, and Ginger was trying to pat her mam’s hair and comfort her sisters at the same time, but her face was dead white and tears were running silently down it.

“Mrs. Buchan … are ye all right?” Jem asked timidly. He had an awful feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Somehow, he was sure this was his fault.

Mrs. Buchan looked up at him. One side of her face was puffy and the eye on that side was swollen half shut, but the other one had fire in it, and that made him feel a little better.

“Aye, fine, Jem,” she said. “Dinna fash, girls! It’s well enough; no but a black eye. Quit your caterwauling, will ye? I canna hear myself think.” She gave a small, good-natured shake to detach the clinging girls, pushing and patting at them with her free hand. Then there was a knock on the doorjamb, and a man’s voice from the front hall.

“Police, here! Anyone to home?”

Jem could have told Mrs. Buchan what happened once you called the police. Questions, and questions, and more questions. And if there were things you couldn’t tell the police … At least Mrs. Buchan wouldn’t let them take Jem or her to the police station to answer questions, insisting that she couldn’t leave the girls on their own. By the time the police gave up, Mandy and Sheena were both asleep on the couch, curled up together like a pair of kittens, and Ginger and Tisha had made everyone tea, then sat yawning in the corner together, blinking now and then to keep awake.

A few minutes after the police left, Mr. Buchan came home for his supper, and all the explaining was to do all over again. There really wasn’t much to it: Mrs. Buchan had sat Mr. Cameron down in the kitchen and told him a bit about the dancing—it wasn’t secret, most folk who’d lived in Inverness for a long time knew about it—but she’d left the radio playing while they were talking, and all of a sudden the newscaster was saying the name “Robert Cameron” and how Robert Cameron was wanted for questioning in the kidnapping of a local boy, and—

“And then the wee bastard jumps up, and so do I, and he must have thought I meant to stop him—I was betwixt him and the door, anyroad—and he belts me one in the eye, pushes me into the wall, and he’s away off!”

Mr. Buchan was giving Jem a hard look now and then and seemed like he wanted to start asking questions, but instead he said they’d all go into the town and have a fish supper as it was so late, and everyone started feeling better at once. Jem could see the looks going back and forth between the Buchans, though, and he kind of wondered whether Mr. Buchan maybe meant to drop him and Mandy off at the police station on the way back. Or maybe just leave them by the side of the road.



THE GHOST OF A HANGIT MAN

THE HEAVENS OPENED, and Roger was soaked to the skin by the time he got back to the MacLarens’ cottage. Amid cries of dismay from Mrs. MacLaren and her ancient mother, he was hastily stripped, wrapped up snug in a ragged quilt, and stood to steam before the fire, where his presence greatly impeded the preparations for supper. Buck, propped up on pillows with the two smallest MacLarens curled up in sleep on the bed beside him, lifted a brow at Roger in inquiry.

Roger moved his hand slightly, in a tell-you-later gesture. He thought Buck looked better; there was color in his face, and he was sitting upright, not slumped into the bedding. For a brief instant, Roger wondered what would happen if he were to lay his own hand on Buck. Would it glow blue?

The thought sent a shiver through him, and Allie, one of the MacLaren daughters, pushed the trailing edge of his quilt away from the fire with a squeak of alarm.

“Take care, sir, do!”

“Aye, do,” said Grannie Wallace, pulling the blackened iron spider—this spitting hot grease—well away from his bare legs and making shooing motions. “Take a spark, and ye’ll go up like tinder.” She was blind in one eye, but the other was sharp as a needle and gave him a piercing look. “Tall as ye are, ye’d likely set the rooftree afire, and then where should we all be, I’d like tae know!”

There was a general titter at that, but he thought the laughter had an uneasy note to it and wondered why.

“Moran taing,” Roger said in polite thanks for the advice. He moved a foot or so farther from the hearth, fetching up against the settle on which Mr. Angus MacLaren was sitting, mending his pipe stem. “Since ye speak of rooftrees—there’s a wee croft just over the hill that’s been burnt out. Cooking accident, was it?”

The room went silent, and people froze for an instant, all looking at him.

“Evidently not,” he said, with an apologetic cough. “I’m sorry to make light—were folk killed, then?”

Mr. MacLaren gave him a brooding sort of look, quite at odds with his earlier geniality, and set the pipe on his knee.

“No by the fire,” he said. “What led ye up there, man?”

Roger met MacLaren’s eye directly.

“Searching for my lad,” he said simply. “I dinna ken where to look—so I look everywhere. Thinkin’ what if he’s got away, what if he’s wandering about by himself … maybe taking shelter where he can find it …”

MacLaren took a deep breath and sat back, nodding a little.

“Aye, well. Ye’ll want to keep well away from that croft.”

“Haunted, is it?” Buck asked, and all heads swung round to look at him—then swung back to Mr. MacLaren, waiting for him to give the answer.

“It might be,” he said, after a reluctant pause.

“It’s cursed,” Allie whispered to Roger under her breath.

“Ye didna go in, sir, did ye?” said Mrs. MacLaren, the permanent worry crease deepening between her brows.

“Och, no,” he assured her. “What was it happened there?” McEwan hadn’t had any hesitation about going into the croft; did he not know whatever they were concerned about?

Mrs. MacLaren made a small “Mmp!” noise and, with a shake of her head, swung the cauldron out on its bracket and began to scoop out boiled neeps with a wooden spoon. Not her place to speak of such goings-on, said her primly sealed mouth.

Mr. MacLaren made a somewhat louder noise and, leaning forward, got ponderously to his feet.

“I’ll just be going to check the beasts before supper, ken,” he said, and gave Roger an eye. “Perhaps ye’d like to come along and be oot the way o’ the lasses and their doings.”

“Oh, aye,” Roger said, and, with a small bow to Mrs. MacLaren, hitched the quilt up higher over his shoulders and followed his host into the byre. He caught Buck’s eye in passing and gave him a brief shrug.

In the usual way, the cattle’s quarters were separated from the people’s by no more than a stone wall with a large space at the top, allowing the considerable heat—along with floating bits of straw and a strong scent of piss and manure—generated by several large cows to percolate into the ben. The MacLarens’ was a snug byre, well kept and piled with clean straw at one end, with three fat, shaggy red cows and a diminutive black bull who snorted fiercely at Roger, nostrils red-black in the dim light and the brass ring in his nose agleam.

The ben of the croft was far from cold—what with nine people crammed into it and a good peat fire on the hearth—but the byre was filled with an encompassing warmth and a sense of peace that made Roger sigh and drop his shoulders, only then realizing that they’d been up round his ears for what seemed hours.

MacLaren made no more than a cursory check of his beasts, scratching the bull between the ears and administering a comforting slap to a cow’s flank. Then he led Roger to the far end of the byre with a jerk of his head.

Ever since his conversation with Hector McEwan, Roger had had an uneasy feeling, caused by something he felt he had heard and not understood. And now, as MacLaren turned to speak to him, it was there suddenly, clear in his head. Cranesmuir.

“Twa strangers built the croft up there,” MacLaren said. “They came from nowhere seemingly; just one day they were there. A man and a woman, but we couldna tell were they man and wife, or maybe a man and his daughter, for he seemed a good bit older than she did. They said they came from the isles—and I think he maybe did, but her speech wasna like any islander I’ve heard.”

“Was she Scots?”

MacLaren looked surprised.

“Oh, aye, she was. She had the Gàidhlig. I’d have said she came from somewhere up northwest of Inverness—maybe Thurso—but there again … it wasna quite … right.”

Not quite right. Like someone out of their proper place, pretending.

“What did she look like?” Roger said. His voice was thick; he had to clear his throat and repeat himself.

MacLaren’s lips pursed but not in condemnation; it was the sort of soundless whistle of appreciation one gives at sight of something remarkable.

“Bonny,” he said. “Verra bonny, indeed. Tall and straight, but … er … not so straight in places, if ye take my meaning.” He ducked his head, half embarrassed, and Roger realized that his reluctance to talk in front of the womenfolk perhaps wasn’t due entirely to the scandalous nature of his story.

“I do,” Roger said, lowering his own voice to MacLaren’s confidential level. “Did they keep to themselves, then?” If they hadn’t, surely the whole district would have known about them and quickly discovered whether they were man and wife.

MacLaren frowned.

“Aye, they did … though he was friendly enough; I met him now and again, out on the moor, and we’d have a word, and I’d always come away thinkin’ as how he was a good wee fellow, and yet when I came to tell my Maggie about it, I couldna just charge my memory wi’ anything he’d said.”

MacLaren said somehow word got round that the woman was something that wee bit odd—a root doctor, but maybe would give you a bit more than a grass cure, if you found her alone in the house… .

There was no light in the byre save the dull glow from the hearth fire next door, but, even so, Roger could see that MacLaren had grown flushed and discomfited. Roger was beginning to feel uncomfortable himself, but not for the same reason.

Cranesmuir. He knew the name, had known it when McEwan said it. The MacLarens had said the healer came from Draighhearnach. Cranesmuir was in the opposite direction—and two miles farther on. Why was he going there tonight?

“There were stories. Always are, about a woman like that.” MacLaren cleared his own throat. “But she was good wi’ the grass cures—and wi’ charms, as well. Or so folk said.”

But then the man had gone, MacLaren said. No one knew where; they just didn’t see him anymore, and the woman went on as before, but now more of her visitors were men. And the women stopped taking their bairns up there, though they’d go sometimes themselves, quietly, in secret.

And then on the day before Samhain, as the sun was sinking and the great fires being built up for the evening, a woman from nearby had gone up to the lonely croft and run down again, screaming.

“She’d found the door o’ the croft standing wide, the woman and her things all gone—and a man hanging from the rooftree, stone dead wi’ a rope around his neck.”

The shock tightened Roger’s own throat. He couldn’t speak.

MacLaren sighed, head bent. A cow had come up behind him, nudging gently, and he laid one hand on her back as though seeking support from the animal, who went on placidly chewing her cud.

“It was the priest who said we should cleanse the place with fire, for it had the smell of evil about it, and no one kent the man. We couldna tell was it just a poor fellow as took his life by despair—or was it murder.”

“I … see.” Roger forced the words through the burn in his throat, and MacLaren looked up suddenly at him. He saw the man’s mouth drop open, his eyes bulging, and realized that in the warmth he’d let the quilt slide back on his shoulders. MacLaren was looking straight at his throat, where the livid and unmistakable scar of hanging must show plain in the dim red light.

MacLaren backed away, or tried to, but there was nowhere to go. He plastered himself against one beast’s shaggy flank, making a low gobbling noise. The cow seemed annoyed by this and brought her hoof down solidly on MacLaren’s foot. The consequent anguish and fury at least brought MacLaren out of his fright, and when he had extricated himself—by means of thumps and curses—he turned bravely on Roger, jaw thrust out.

“Why come ye here, a thaibse?” he said, fists clenched but his voice low. “Whatever sin I might have done, I did naught to you. I’d nay part in your death—and I said they must bury your body beneath the hearthstone before they fired the place. The priest wouldna have ye in the kirkyard, aye?” he added, evidently fearing that the ghost of the hangit man had come to complain about the unsancitifed disposal of his mortal remains.

Roger sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. He could see several curious faces, attracted by MacLaren’s cries, peering into the shadows of the byre from the glow of the room beyond.

“Have ye got a rosary in the house, sir?” he said.



IT WAS A long and restless night. Grannie Wallace had snatched the children off Buck’s bed, as though fearing he might devour them the moment her back was turned, and put them to bed with her in the trundle, while the older children slept either with their parents or rolled up in quilts by the hearth. Roger shared the pariah’s bed with Buck, for while his ability to hold the rosary in his hand, kiss the crucifix, and then lead the family in saying the rosary had—barely—kept Angus MacLaren from throwing him out into the night and pissing on the gateposts to keep him from coming back in, it hadn’t made him much more popular.

He doubted Buck had slept much better than himself, for his ancestor had rolled out of bed at first light, declaring an urgent necessity to visit the privy. Roger had as hastily arisen, saying, “I’ll help ye,” and pulled on a still-damp shirt and breeks.

He was pleased to see that Buck didn’t actually appear to need help. He walked stiffly and limped a little, but his shoulders were square and he wasn’t gasping or turning blue.

“If they think ye’re a vengeful ghost, what the devil do they think I am?” Buck inquired, the instant they were clear of the cottage. “And surely to goodness ye could ha’ just said the Lord’s Prayer once and not dragged everyone through five decades o’ the rosary and ruined the supper!”

“Mmphm.” Buck had a point there, but Roger had been too much upset at the time to think of that. Besides, he’d wanted to give them time to recover from the shock. “It wasn’t ruined,” he said crossly. “Only the neeps a bit scorched.”

“Only!” Buck echoed. “The place still reeks. And the women hate ye. They’ll put too much salt in your porridge, see if they don’t. Where d’ye think we’re going? It’s that way.”

He pointed at a path on the left that did indeed lead to the privy, this sitting in plain sight.

Roger made another testy sound but followed. He was off-kilter this morning, distracted. No wonder about why, either.

Now? He wondered, watching the door of the privy close behind Buck. It was a two-seater, but he wasn’t minded to broach what he had to say under conditions of that much intimacy, no matter how private the subject matter was.

“The healer,” he said instead through the door, choosing the simplest place to start. “McEwan. He said he’d come back today to see to ye.”

“I don’t need seeing to,” Buck snapped. “I’m fine!” Roger had known the man long enough to recognize bravado covering fear, and replied accordingly.

“Aye, right. What did it feel like?” he asked curiously. “When he put his hand on you?”

Silence from the privy.

“Did ye feel anything?” he asked, after the silence had lengthened well past any time required for natural functions.