The Fiery Cross

by Diana Gabaldon

  reason Jamie was now up at the whisky spring, deciding which barrels were sufficiently aged as not to poison anyone.

  The goose grease disposed of, there was a good bit of dark broth left in the bottom of the kettle, aswirl with bits of crackled skin and shreds of meat. I saw Mrs. Bug eyeing it, visions of gravy dancing in her brain.

  "Half," I said sternly, reaching for a large bottle.

  She didn't argue; merely shrugged her rounded shoulders and settled back on her stool in resignation.

  "Whatever will ye do with that, though?" she asked curiously, watching as I put a square of muslin over the neck of the bottle, in order to strain the broth. "Grease, aye, it's a wonder for the salves. And broth's good for a body 'AT the ague or a wabbly wame, to be sure-but it wilina keep, ye know." One sketchy eyebrow lifted at me in warning, in case I hadn't actually known that. "Leave it more than a day or two, and it'll be blue with the mold."

  "Well, I do hope so," I told her, ladling broth into the muslin square. "I've just set out a batch of bread to mold, and I want to see if it will grow on the broth, too."

  I could see assorted questions and responses flickering through her mind, all based on a growing fear that this mania of mine for rotten food was expanding, and would soon engulf the entire output of the kitchen. Her eyes darted toward the pie safe, then back at me, dark with suspicion.

  I turned my head to hide a smile, and found Adso the kitten balanced on his

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  hind legs on the bench, foreclaws anchored in the tabletop, his big green eyes watching the movements of the ladle with fascination.

  "Oh, you want some, too?" I reached for a saucer from the shelf and filled it with a dark puddle of broth, savory with bits of goose meat and floating fat globules.

  "This is from my half," I assured Mrs. Bug, but she shook her head vigorously.

  "Not a bit of it, Mrs. Fraser," she said. "The bonnie wee laddie's caught six mice in here in the past two days." She beamed fondly at Adso, who had leaped down and was lapping broth as fast as his tiny pink tongue could move. "Yon cheetie's welcome to anything he likes from my hearth."

  "Oh, has he? Splendid. He can come and have a go at the ones in my surgery, then." We were presently entertaining a plague of mice; driven indoors by cold weather, they skittered along the baseboards like shadows after nightfall, and even in broad daylight, shot suddenly across floors and leaped out of opened cupboards, causing minor heart failure and broken dishes.

  "Well, ye can scarcely blame the mice," Mrs. Bug observed, darting a quick glance at me, "They go where the food is, after all."

  The pool of broth had nearly drained through the muslim, leaving a thick coating of flotsam behind. I scraped this off and dropped it on Adso's saucer, then scooped up a fresh ladle of broth.

  "Yes, they do," I said, evenly. "And I'm sorry about it, but the mold is important. It's medicine, and 1-"

  "Oh, aye! Of course it is," she assured me hurriedly. "I ken that." There was no tinge of sarcasm in her voice, which rather surprised me. She hesitated, then reached through the slit in her skirt, into the capacious pocket that she wore beneath.

  "There was a man, as lived in Auchterlonie-where we had our hoose, Arch and me, in the village there. He was a carline, was Johnnie Howlat, and folk went wary near him-but they went. Some went by day, for grass cures and graiths, and some went by night, for to buy charms. Ye'll ken the sort?" She darted another glance at me, and I nodded, a little uncertainly.

  I knew the sort of person she meant; some Highland charmers dealt not only in remedies-the "graiths" she'd mentioned-but also in minor magic, selling lovephilters, fertility potions ... ill wishes. Something cold slid down my back and vanished, leaving in its wake a faint feeling of unease, like the slime trail of a snail.

  I swallowed, seeing in memory the small bunch of thorny plants, so carefully bound with red thread and with black. Placed beneath my pillow by a jealous girl named Laoghaire-purchased from a witch named Geillis Duncan. A witch like me.

  Was that what Mrs, Bug was getting at? "Carline" was not a word I was certain of, though I thought it meant 11,Aritch,11 or something like it. She was regarding me thoughtfully, her normal animation quite subdued.

  "He was a filthy wee mannie, Johnnie Howlat was. He'd no woman to do for him, and his cot smelt of dreadfiil things. So did he." She shivered suddenly, in spite of the fire at her back.

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  "Ye'd see him, sometimes, in the wood or on the moor, pokin' at the ground. He'd find creatures that had died, maybe, and bring back their skins and their feet, bones and teeth for to make his charms. He worela wretched auld smock, like a farmer, and sometimes ye'd see him comin' doon the path wi' something pooched up under his smock, and stains of blood-and other things-seepin' through the cloth."

  "Sounds most unpleasant," I said, eyes fixed on the bottle as I scraped the cloth again and ladled more broth. "But people went to him anyway?"

  "There was no one else," she said simply, and I looked up. Her dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on mine, and her hand moved slowly, fingering something inside her pocket.

  "I didna ken at first," she said. "For Johnnie kept mool from the graveyard and bone dust and hen's blood and all manner of such things, but you"-she nodded thoughtfully at me, white kerch immaculate in the fire-glow-"ye're a cleanly sort."

  "Thank you," I said, both amused and touched. That was a high compliment from Mrs. Bug.

  "Bar the moldy bread," she added, the corners of her mouth primming slightly. "And that heathen wee pooch ye keep in your cabinet. But it's true, no? Ye're a charmer, like Johnnie was?"

  I hesitated, not knowing what to say. The memory of Cranesmuir was vivid in my mind, as it had not been for many years. The last thing I wanted was for Mrs. Bug to be spreading the rumor that I was a carline-some already called me a conjure-woman. I was not worried about legal prosecution as a witchnot here, not now. But to have a reputation for healing was one thing; to have people come to me for help with the other things that charmers dealt in ...

  "Not exactly," I said, guardedly. "It's only that I know a bit about plants. And surgery. But I really don't know anything at all about charms or ... spells."

  She nodded in satisfaction, as though I had confirmed her suspicions instead of denying them.

  Before I could respond, there was a sound from the floor like water hitting a hot pan, followed by a loud screech. Jemmy, tiring of his toy, had cast it aside and crawled over to investigate Adso's saucer. The cat, disinclined to share, had hissed at the baby and frightened him. Jemmy's shriek in turn had ftightened Adso under the settle; only the tip of a small pink nose and a flicker of agitated whiskers showed from the shadows.

  I picked Jem up and soothed his tears, while Mrs. Bug took over the brothstraining. She looked over the goose debris on the platter and picked out a leg bone, the white cartilage at the end smooth and gleaming.

  "Here, laddie." She waved it enticingly under Jemmy's nose. He at once stopped crying, grabbed the bone, and put it in his mouth. Mrs. Bug selected a smaller wing bone, with shreds of meat still clinging to it, and put that down on the saucer.

  "And that's for you, lad," she said to the darkness under the settle. "Dinna fill your wame too full, though-stay hungry for the wee moosies, aye?"

  She turned back to the table, and began to scoop the bones into a shallow pan.

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  "I'll roast these; they'll do for soup," she said, eyes on her work. Then without changing tone or looking up, she said, "I went to him once, Johnnie Howlat."

  "Did you?" I sat down, Jemmy on my knee. "Were you ill?" "I wanted a child."

  I had no idea what to say; I sat still, listening to the drip of the broth through the muslin cloth, as she scraped the last bit of gristle neatly into the roasting pan, and carried it to the hearth.

  "I'd slippit four, in the course of a year," she said, back turned to me. "Ye'd not think it, to look at me now, but I was
nay more than skin and bane, the color o' whey, and my paps shrunk awa to nothing."

  She settled the pan firmly into the coals and covered it.

  "So I took what money we had, and I went to Johnnie Howlat. He took the money, and put water in a pan. He sat me doon on the one side of it and him on the other, and there we sat for a verra long time, him starin' into the water and me starin' at him.

  "At last, he shook himself a bit and got up, and went awa to the back of his cot. 'Twas dark, and I couldna see what he did, but he rummaged and poked, and said things beneath his breath, and finally he came back to me, and handed me a charm."

  Mrs. Bug straightened up and turned round. She came close, and laid her hand on Jemmy's silky head, very gently.

  "He said to me, Johnnie did, that here was a charm that would close up the mouth of my womb, and keep a babe safe inside, until it should be born. But there was a thing he'd seen, lookin' in the water, and he must tell me. If I bore a live babe, then my husband would die, he said. So he would give me the charm, and the prayer that went with it-and then it was my choice, and who could say fairer than that?"

  Her stubby, work-worn finger traced the curve of Jemmy's cheek. Engaged with his new toy, he paid no attention.

  "I carried that charm in my pocket for a month-and then I put it away."

  I reached up and put my hand over hers, squeezing. There was no sound but the baby's slobbering and the hiss and pop of the bones in the coals. She stayed still for a moment, then drew her hand away, and put it back in her pocket. She drew out a small object, and put it on the table beside me.

  "I couldna quite bring myself to throw it away," she said, gazing down at it dispassionately. "It cost me three silver pennies, after all. And it's a wee thin easy enough to carry along when we left Scotland." 91

  It was a small chunk of stone, pale pink in color, and veined with gray, badly weathered. It had been crudely carved into the shape of a pregnant woman, little more than a huge belly, with swollen breasts and buttocks above a pair of stubby legs that tapered to nothing. I had seen such figures before-in museums. Had Johnnie Howlat made it himself? Or perhaps found it in his pokings through wood and moor, a remnant of much more ancient times?

  I touched it gently, thinking that whatever Johnnie Howlat might have been, or might have. seen in his pan of water, he had no doubt been astute enough to have seen the love between Arch and Murdina Bug. Was it easier for a woman, then, to forswear the hope of children, thinking it a noble sacrifice

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  for the sake of a much-loved husband, than to suffer bitterness and self-blame for constant failure? Carline he may have been, Johnnie Howlat-but a charmer, indeed.

  "So," Mrs. Bug said, matter-of-factly, "it may be as ye'll find some lass who's a use for it. Shame to let it go to waste, aye?"

  HOGMANAY

  HE YEAR ENDED clear and cold, with a small, brilliant moon that rose high in the violet-black vault of the sky and flooded the coves and trails of the mountainside with light. A good thing, as people came T

  from all over the Ridge-and some, even farther-to keep Hogmanay at "the Big House."

  The men had cleared the new barn and raked the floor clean for the dancing. jigs and reels and strathspeys-and a number of other dances for which I didn't know the names, but they looked like filn-were executed under the light of bear-oil lanterns, accompanied by the music of Evan Lindsay's scratchy fiddle and the squeal of his brother Murdo's wooden flute, punctuated by the heartbeat thump of Kenny's bodhran.

  Thurto Guthrie's ancient father had brought his pipes, too-a set of small uillearm pipes that looked nearly as decrepit as did Mr. Guthrie, but produced a sweet drone. The melody of his chanter sometimes agreed with the Lindsays' notion of a particular tune, and sometimes didn't, but the overall effect was cheerfijl, and sufficient whisky and beer had been taken by this point in the festivities that no one minded in the least.

  After an hour or two of the dancing, I privately decided that I understood why the word "reel" had come to indicate drunkenness; even performed without preliminary lubrication, the dance was enough to make one dizzy. Done under the influence of whisky, it made all the blood in my head whirl round like the water in a washing machine. I staggered off at the end of one such dance, leaned against one of the barn's uprights, and closed one eye, in hopes of stopping the spinning sensation.

  A nudge on my blind side caused me to open that eye, revealing Jamie, holding two brimming cups of something. Hot and thirsty as I was, I didn't mind what it was, so long as it was wet. Fortunately it was cider, and I gulped it.

  "Drink it like that, and ye'll founder, Sassenach," he said, disposing of his own cider in precisely similar fashion. He was flushed and sweating from the dancing, but his eyes sparkled as he grinned at me.

  "Piffle," I said. With a bit of cider as ballast, the room had quit spinning, and I felt cheerful, if hot. "How many people are in here, do you think?"

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  "Sixty-eight, last time I counted." He leaned back beside me, viewing the milling throng with an expression of deep content. "They come in and out, though, so I canna be quite sure. And I didna, count the weans," he added, moving slightly to avoid collision as a trio of small boys caromed through the crowd and shot past us, giggling.

  Heaps of fresh hay were stacked in the shadows at the sides of the barn; the small bodies of children too wee to stay awake were draped and curled among them like so many barn kittens. The flicker of lantern light caught a gleam Of silky red-gold; Jemmy was sound asleep in his blanket, happily lulled by the racket. I saw Bree come out of the dancing and lay her hand briefly on him to check, then turn back. Roger put out a hand to her, dark and smiling, and she took it, laughing as they whirled back into the stamping mass,

  People did come in and out-particularly small groups of young people, and courting couples. It was freezing and frost-crisp outside, but the cold made cuddling with a warm body that much more appealing. One of the older MacLeod boys passed near us, his arm round a much younger girl--one of old Mr. Guthrie's granddaughters, I thought; he had three of them, all much alike to look at-and Jamie said something genial to him in Gaelic that made his ears go red. The girl was already pink with dancing, but went crimson in the face. "What did you say to them?"

  "It doesna. bear translation," he said, putting a hand in the small of my back, He was pulsing with heat and whisky, alight with a flame of joy; looking at him was enough to kindle my own heart. He saw that, and smiled down at me, the heat of his hand burning through the cloth of my gown.

  "D'ye want to go outside for a moment, Sassenach?" he said, his voice pitched low and rich with suggestion.

  "Well, since you mention it ... yes," I said. "Maybe not just yet, though." I nodded past him, and he turned to see a cluster of elderly ladies sitting on a bench against the wall, all viewing us with the bright-eyed curiosity of a flock of crows. Jamie waved and smiled at them, making them all burst into pink-faced giggles, and turned back to me with a sigh.

  "Aye, well. In a bit, then-after the first-footing, maybe."

  The latest spate of dancing came to an end, and there was a general surge in the direction of the tub of cider, presided over by Mr. Wemyss at the far end of the barn. The dancers clustered round it like a horde of thirsty wasps, so that all that was visible of Mr. Wemyss was the top of his head, fair hair almost white under the glow of the lanterns.

  Seeing it, I looked round for Lizzie, to see whether she was enjoying the party. Evidently so; she was holding court on a hay bale, surrounded by four or five gawky boys, who were all behaving very much like the dancers round the cider tub.

  "Who's the big one?" I asked Jamie, calling his attention to the small gathering with a nod of my head. "I don't recognize him." He glanced over, squinting slightly.,

  "Oh," he said, relaxing, "that will be Jacob Schnell. He's ridden over from Salem with a friend; they came with the Muellers."

  "Really." Salem was a good long
ride; nearly thirty miles. I wondered whether the attraction had been the festivities alone. I looked for Tommy

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  Mueller, whom I had privately marked out as a possible match for Lizzie, but didn't see him in the crowd.

  "Do you know anything about this Schnell lad?" I asked, giving the boy in question a critical look. He was a year or two older than the other boys dancing attendance on Lizzie, and quite tall. Plain-featured but good-natured-looking, I thought; heavy-boned, and with a thickness through the middle that foretold the development of a prosperous paunch in middle age.

  "I dinna ken the lad himself, but I've met his uncle. It's a decent family; I think his father's a cobbler." We both looked automatically at the young man's shoes; not new, but very good quality, and with pewter buckles, large and square in the German fashion.

  Young Schnell appeared to have gained an advantage; he was leaning close, saying something to Lizzie, whose eyes were fixed on his face, a slight frown of concentration wrinkling the skin between her fair brows as she tried to make out what he was saying. Then she worked it out, and her face relaxed in laughter.

  "I dinna think so." Jamie shook his head, a slight frown on his face as he watched them. "The family's Lutheran; they wouldna let the lad marry a Catholic-and it would break Joseph's heart to send the lass to live so far away.)

  Lizzie's father was deeply attached to her; and having lost her once, he was unlikely to give her so far away in marriage as to lose sight of her again. Still, I thought that Joseph Wemyss would do almost anything to insure his daughter's happiness.

  "He might go with her, you know."

  Jamie's expression grew bleak at the thought, but he nodded in reluctant acknowledgment.

  "I suppose so. I should hate to lose him; though I suppose Arch Bug might-"

  Shouts of "Mac Dubb!" interrupted him.

  "Come on, a Sheumais ruaidb, show him how!" Evan called from the far end of the barn, and jerked his bow authoritatively.

  There had been a break in the dancing, to give the musicians time to breathe and have a drink, and in the interim, some of the men had been trying their hand at sword dancing, which could be done with only the accompaniment of pipes or to a single drum.

  I had been paying little attention to this, only hearing the shouts of encouragement or derision from that end of the barn. Evidently, most of those present were no great hand at the sport-the latest gentleman to try it had tripped over one of the swords and fallen flat; he was being helped to his feet, red-faced and laughing, returning genial insults with his friends as they beat the hay and dirt from his clothes.

  'Mac Dubb, Mac Dubb!" Kenny and Murdo shouted in invitation, beckoning, but Jamie waved them off, laughing.

  "Nay, I havena done that in more time than I-"

  'Mac Dubb! Mae Dubh! Mac Dubb!" Kenny was thumping his bodhran, chanting in rhythm, and the group of men around him were joining in. 'Mac Dubb! Mac Dubb! Mac Dubb!"

  Jamie cast me a brief look of helpless appeal, but Ronnie Sinclair and Bobby

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  Sutherland were already heading purposeffilly toward us. I stepped away, laughing, and they seized him each by an arm, smothering his protests with raucous shouts as they hustled him into the center of the floor.

  Applause and shouts of approval broke out as they deposited him in a clear space, where the straw had been trampled into the damp earth far enough to make a hard-packed surface. Seeing that he had no choice, Jamie drew himself up and straightened his kilt. He caught my eye, rolled an eye in mock resignation, and began to take off his coat, waistcoat, and boots, as Ronnie scrambled to lay out the two crossed broadswords at his feet.

  Kenny Lindsay began to tap gently on his bodhran, hesitating between the beats, a sound of soft suspense. The crowd murmured and shifted in anticipation. Clad in shirt, kilt, and stockinged feet, Jamie bowed elaborately, turning sunwise to dip four times, to each of the "airts" in turn. Then he stood upright, and moved to take his place, standing just above the crossed swords. His hands lifted, fingers pointing stiff above his head.

  There was an outburst of clapping nearby, and I saw Brianna put two fingers in her mouth and give an earsplitting whistle of approbation-to the marked shock of the people standing next to her.

  I saw Jamie glance at Bree, with a faint smile, and then his eyes found mine again. The smile stayed on his lips, but there was something different in his expression; something rueful. The beat of the bodhran began to quicken.

  A Highland sword dance was done for one of three reasons. For exhibition and entertainment, as he was about to do it now. For competition, as it was done among the young men at a Gathering. And as it first was done, as an omen. Danced on the eve of a battle, the skill of the dancer foretold success or failure. The young men had danced between crossed swords, the night before Prestonpans, before Falkirk. But not before Culloden. There had been no campfires the night before that final fight, no time for bards and battle songs. It didn't matter; no one had needed an omen, then.

  Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, bent his head, and the beat of the drum began to patter, quick and fast.

  I knew, because he had told me, that he had first done the sword dance in competition, and then-more than once-on the eve of battles, first in the Highlands, then in France. The old soldiers had asked him to dance, had valued his skill as reassurance that they would live and triumph. For the Lindsays to know his skill, he must also have danced in Ardsmuir. But that was in the Old World, and in his old life.

  He knew-and had not needed Roger to tell him-that the old ways had changed, were changing. This was a new world, and the sword dance would never again be danced in earnest, seeking omen and favor from the ancient gods of war and blood.