“That they know what they may be getting into?” Mrs. Figg finished for him. “Well, that’s a fine sentiment, Dr. Hunter—”
“Friend,” he murmured.
“Friend Hunter,” she said, with a minimal roll of the eyes. “But I tell you two things. One, your young lady probably knows more about you than you do.” More laughter. “And two—speaking as a woman with some experience—I can tell you that nobody knows what being married’s going to be like until you find yourself in the midst of it.” She sat down with an air of finality, to a hum of approbation.
A good many things are said, and much thought given, and finally a silence falls. Claire, like many others, is thinking of her own marriages.
Frank. John. Jamie. Sincerity of intention wasn’t always enough, I thought, looking at the young people on the benches at the front of the church, none of them now looking at one another but staring at their folded hands, the floor, or sitting with closed eyes. Perhaps realizing that, as Mrs. Figg had said, a marriage is made not in ritual or in words but in the living of it.
A movement pulled me out of my thoughts; Denny had risen to his feet and held out a hand to Dottie, who rose as though mesmerized and, reaching out, clasped both his hands in hers, hanging on for dear life.
“Does thee feel the sense of the meeting clear, Dorothea?” he asked softly, and at her nod, spoke:
“In the presence of the Lord, and before these our Friends, I take thee, Dorothea, to be my wife, promising, with divine assistance, to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband so long as we both shall live.”
Her voice was low but clearly audible as, face shining, she replied:
“In the presence of the Lord, and before these our Friends, I take thee, Denzell, to be my husband, promising, with divine assistance, to be unto thee a loving and faithful wife so long as we both shall live.”
I heard Hal catch his breath, in what sounded like a sob, and then the church burst into applause. Denny looked startled at this but then broke into a brilliant smile and led Dottie, beaming on his arm, out through the congregation to the back of the church, where they sat close together on the last bench.
People murmured and sighed, smiling, and the church gradually quieted—but not to its former sense of contemplation. There was now a vibrant sense of expectation, tinged perhaps with a little anxiety, as attention focused on Ian and Rachel—no longer looking at each other but down at the floor.
Ian took a breath audible to the back benches, raised his head, and, taking the knife from his belt, laid it on the bench beside him.
“Aye, well…Rachel kens I was once married, to a woman of the Wolf clan of the Kahnyen’kehaka. And the Mohawk way of marriage is maybe none so different from the way Friends do it. We sat beside each other before the people, and our parents—they’d adopted me, ken—spoke for us, sayin’ what they kent of us and that we were of good character. So far as they knew,” he added apologetically, and there was a breath of laughter.
“The lass I was to wed had a basket on her lap, filled wi’ fruit and vegetables and other bits o’ food, and she said to me that she promised to feed me from her fields and care for me. And I—” He swallowed and, reaching out, laid a hand on his knife. “I had a knife, and a bow, and the skins of some otters I’d taken. And I promised to hunt for her and keep her warm wi’ my furs. And the people all agreed that we should be married, and so…we were.”
He stopped, biting his lip, then cleared his throat and went on.
“But the Mohawk dinna take each other for as long as they live—but only for as long as the woman wishes. My wife chose to part wi’ me—not because I hurt or mistreated her, but for…for other reasons.” He cleared his throat again, and his hand went to the wampum armlet round his biceps.
“My wife was called Wakyo’ teyehsnonhsa, which means ‘Works With Her Hands,’ and she made this for me, as a love token.” Long brown fingers fumbled with the strings, and the strip of woven shells came loose, slithering into his hand. “Now I lay it down, as witness that I come here a free man, that my life and my heart are once more mine to give. And I hope I may be allowed now to give them forever.”
The blue and white shells made a soft clicking noise as he laid them on the bench. He let his fingers rest on them for a moment, then took his hand away.
I could hear Hal’s breathing, steady now but with a faint rasp. And Jamie’s, thick in his throat.
I could feel all sorts of things moving like wraiths in the thick, still air of the church. Sentiment, sympathy, doubt, apprehension…Rollo growled very softly in his throat and fell silent, yellow-eyed and watchful at his master’s feet.
We waited. Jamie’s hand twitched in mine, and I looked up at him. He was looking at Ian, intent, his lips pressed tight, and I knew he was wondering whether to stand up and speak on Ian’s behalf, to assure the congregation—and Rachel—of Ian’s character and virtue. He caught my glance, though, shook his head very slightly, and nodded toward the front. It was Rachel’s part to speak, if she would.
Rachel sat still as stone, face bleached as bone and her eyes on Ian, burning. But she said nothing.
Neither did she move, but something moved in her; I could see the knowledge of it cross her face, and somehow her body changed, straightening and settling. She was listening.
We all listened with her. And the silence kindled slowly into light.
There was a faint throb in the air then, not quite a sound, and people began to look up, called from the silence. A blur appeared between the benches at the front, and a hummingbird materialized, drawn through the open window, a tiny blur of green and scarlet hovering beside the coral trumpets of the native honeysuckle.
A sigh came from the heart of the church, and the sense of the meeting was made clear.
Ian rose, and Rachel came to meet him.
“THE SENSE OF the Meeting” is followed by “A Coda in Three-Two Time.” This is an account of three wedding nights: Dottie and Denzel, Ian and Rachel—and Jamie and Claire. You’ll find an annotated version of this coda elsewhere in this book.
PART 6: THE TIES THAT BIND
Back in America, Brianna has fled with her children to California, there to reckon the odds and make a fateful decision: whether to take Jem and Mandy through the stones in hopes of finding Roger or remain in hiding and try to discover the true nature of the threat to her family.
While thinking, she adds some notes to the time-traveler’s guide that Roger had begun compiling: a collection of all the information and speculations available regarding the nature of travel and what it might do to those reckless enough to undertake it. Going through the stones is plainly an enormous danger—how can she be thinking of doing such a thing, particularly with her children? And yet…
And yet…in the end, her decision doesn’t rest on any reckoning of relative dangers but on her clear perception that the family must be together, and as Roger can’t come to them…
IN SCOTLAND, ROGER is also searching for family—at present, for the owner of the RAF identity disks. Following the information given to them by Captain Randall, Roger and Buck head south, finding the dealer of odd bits and pieces from whom the soldier got the disks. Mr. Cumberpatch, the dealer, tells them he got the disks in trade from someone living near the wall—Hadrian’s Wall, that is.
As they take their leave, Roger sees a cracked and tarnished pendant with an undamaged garnet, and he buys it—just in case.
Camping in the rain, Buck and Roger talk about the possibility of finding Jerry MacKenzie, and on impulse Roger tells Buck the truth about his own parentage:
“Your father was Dougal MacKenzie of Castle Leoch—war chieftain of the clan MacKenzie. And your mother was a witch named Geillis.”
Buck’s face was absolutely blank, the faint firelight shimmering on the broad cheekbones that were his father’s legacy. Roger wanted suddenly to go and take the man in his arms, smooth the hair back from his face, comfort him like a child—like the child he could so p
lainly see in those wide, stunned green eyes. Instead, he got up and went off into the night, giving his four-times great-grandfather what privacy he could in which to deal with the news.
Roger wakes, coughing, and is surprised to realize that his throat doesn’t hurt. Neither does clearing his throat hurt. Perhaps—just perhaps—Dr. McEwan’s laying-on of hands has helped.
FROM CALIFORNIA, BRIANNA takes the children to Boston, seeking help from her mother’s oldest friend, Joe Abernathy. The Abernathys welcome the little family warmly, and over two bottles of wine, with Jem a sober spectator, Bree tells Joe the truth.
“Leave them, darlin’. Come talk to me in the den. Bring the rest of the wine,” he added, then smiled at Jem. “Jem, whyn’t you go up and ask Gail can you watch TV in the bedroom?”
Jem had a smudge of spaghetti sauce at the corner of his mouth, and his hair was sticking up on one side in porcupine spikes. He was a little pale from the journey, but the food had restored him and his eyes were bright, alert.
“No, sir,” he said respectfully, and pushed back his own chair. “I’ll stay with my mam.”
“You don’t need to do that, honey,” she said. “Uncle Joe and I have grown-up things we need to talk about. You—”
“I’m staying.”
She gave him a hard look, but recognized instantly, with a combination of horror and fascination, a Fraser male with his mind made up.
His lower lip was trembling, just a little. He shut his mouth hard to stop it and looked soberly from her to Joe, then back.
“Dad’s not here,” he said, and swallowed. “And neither is Grandda. I’m…I’m staying.”
Joe is interested in the fact that Jem and Mandy are aware of each other, even at a distance, and wonders how far that phenomenon can work—and whether it might be of use in the family’s journey.
“I don’t think I can feel her when I’m at school,” Jem said, anxious to be helpful. “But I’m not sure, ’cause I don’t think about her at school.”
“How far’s the school from your place?” Uncle Joe asked. “You want a Pop-Tart, princess?”
“Yes!” Mandy’s buttery round face lighted up, but Jem glanced at Mam. Mam looked as if she wanted to kick Uncle Joe under the counter for a second, but then she glanced down at Mandy and her face went all soft.
“All right,” she said, and Jem felt a fluttery, excited sort of feeling in his middle. Mam was telling Uncle Joe how far the school was, but Jem wasn’t paying attention. They were going to do it. They were really going to do it!
Because the only reason Mam would let Mandy eat Pop-Tarts without a fuss was because she figured she’d never get to eat another one.
“Can I have one, too, Uncle Joe?” he asked. “I like the blueberry ones.”
REACHING HADRIAN’S WALL is only the first hurdle for Roger and Buck. The inhabitants speak an impenetrable Northumbrian dialect, more like Middle English than anything else, and are more than suspicious of outsiders. They persevere, though, and eventually find the small stone circle where they think Jerry must have passed through. Inquiring locally, they find proof that he did.
“Be those thy be-asts?” the boy asked, grinning at Roger. He pointed at the stones, explaining—Roger thought—the local legend that the stones were in fact faery cattle, frozen in place when their drover had too much drink betaken and fell into the lake.
“Sooth,” the boy assured them solemnly, making a cross over his heart. “Mester Hacffurthe found es whip!”
“When?” Buck asked sharply. “And where liveth Mester Hacffurthe?”
A week ago, maybe twa, said the boy, waving a hand to indicate that the date was not important. And he would take them to Mester Hacffurthe, if they liked to see the thing.
Despite his name, Mester Hacffurthe proved to be a slight, light-haired young man, the village cobbler. He spoke the same impenetrable Northumbrian dialect, but with some effort and the helpful intervention of the boy—whose name, he said, was Ridley—their desire was made clear, and Hacffurthe obligingly fetched the faery whip out from under his counter, laying it gingerly before them.
“Oh, Lord,” Roger said at sight of it—and, with a raised brow at Hacffurthe to ask permission, touched the strip carefully. A machine-woven, tight-warped strip some three inches wide and two feet long, its taut surface gleaming even in the dim light of the cobbler’s shop. Part of the harness of an RAF flier. They had the right stones, then.
Further inquiry leads them to a remote farm, where they believe Jerry may be being held prisoner. Despite vicious dogs and similarly antisocial farmers, they persist, stealing onto the premises on a moonless night.
“He’ll get out of it soon enough,” Roger whispered back. “He’s no need of it. Meanwhile, where the devil d’ye think they’ve got him?”
“Someplace that’s got a door ye can bolt.” Buck rubbed his palms together, brushing off the dirt. “They’d no keep him in the house, though, would they? It’s no that big.”
It wasn’t. You could have fitted about sixteen farmhouses that size into Lallybroch, Roger thought, and felt a sudden sharp pang, thinking of Lallybroch as it was when he had—he would—own it.
Buck was right, though: there couldn’t be more than two rooms and a loft, maybe, for the kids. And given that the neighbors thought Jerry—if it was Jerry—was a foreigner at best, a thief and/or supernatural being at worst, it wasn’t likely that the Quartons would be keeping him in the house.
“Did ye see a barn, before the light went?” Buck whispered, changing to Gaelic. He had risen onto his toes, as though that might help him see above the tide of darkness, and was peering into the murk. Dark-adapted as Roger’s eyes now were, he could at least make out the squat shapes of the small farm buildings. Corncrib, goat shed, chicken coop, the tousled shape of a hayrick…
“No,” Roger replied in the same tongue. The goose had extricated itself and gone off making disgruntled small honks; Roger bent and retrieved his cloak. “Small place; they likely haven’t more than an ox or a mule for the plowing, if that. I smell stock, though…manure, ken?”
“Kine,” Buck said, heading abruptly off toward a square-built stone structure. “The cow byre. That’ll have a bar to the door.”
It did. And the bar was in its brackets.
***
The door swung open as Buck set down the bar, and light shot out of the lantern’s open slide. A slightly built young man with flyaway fair hair—the same color as Buck’s, Roger thought—blinked at them, dazzled by the light, then closed his eyes against it.
Roger and Buck glanced at each other for an instant, then, with one accord, stepped into the byre.
He is, Roger thought. It’s him. I know it’s him. God, he’s so young! Barely more than a boy. Oddly, he felt no burst of dizzying excitement. It was a feeling of calm certainty, as though the world had suddenly righted itself and everything had fallen into place. He reached out and touched the man gently on the shoulder.
“What’s your name, mate?” he said softly, in English.
“MacKenzie, J. W.,” the young man said, shoulders straightening as he drew himself up, sharp chin jutting. “Lieutenant, Royal Air Force. Service Number—” He broke off, staring at Roger, who belatedly realized that, calmness or no, he was grinning from ear to ear. “What’s funny?” Jerry MacKenzie demanded, belligerent.
“Nothing,” Roger assured him. “Er…glad—glad to see you, that’s all.”
Time is short, and the farmer and his family may wake at any moment. They leave, heading as fast as possible for the stone circle by the lake—Jerry’s only means of escape.
“Take this; it’s a good one. When ye go through,” Roger said, and leaned toward him, trying to impress him with the importance of his instructions, “think about your wife, about Marjorie. Think hard; see her in your mind’s eye, and walk straight through. Whatever the hell ye do, though, don’t think about your son. Just your wife.”
“What?” Jerry was gobsmacked. “How the blo
ody hell do you know my wife’s name? And where’ve ye heard about my son?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Roger said, and turned his head to look back over his shoulder.
“Damn,” said Buck softly. “They’re still coming. There’s a light.”
There was: a single light, bobbing evenly over the ground, as it would if someone carried it. But look as he might, Roger could see no one behind it, and a violent shiver ran over him.
“Thaibhse,” said Buck, under his breath. Roger knew that word well enough—spirit, it meant. And usually an ill-disposed one. A haunt.
“Aye, maybe.” He was beginning to catch his breath. “And maybe not.” He turned again to Jerry. “Either way, ye need to go, man, and now. Remember, think of your wife.”
Jerry swallowed, his hand closing tight around the stone.
“Aye. Aye…right. Thanks, then,” he added awkwardly.
Roger couldn’t speak, could give him nothing more than the breath of a smile. Then Buck was beside him, plucking urgently at his sleeve and gesturing at the bobbing light, and they set off, awkward and lumbering after the brief cooldown.
Bree…He swallowed, fists clenched. He’d got a stone once, he could do it again…. But the greater part of his mind was still with the man they had just left by the lake. He looked over his shoulder and saw Jerry beginning to walk, limping badly but resolute, thin shoulders squared under his pale khaki shirt and the end of his scarf fluttering in the rising wind.
Then it all rose up in him. Seized by an urgency greater than any he’d ever known, he turned and ran. Ran heedless of footing, of dark, of Buck’s startled cry behind him.
Jerry heard his footsteps on the grass and whirled round, startled himself. Roger grabbed him by both hands, squeezed them hard enough to make Jerry gasp, and said fiercely, “I love you!”
The Companion to the Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, an Echo in the Bone, and Written in My Own Heart's Blood Page 33