While I never have or ever will write from a political position or with a sense of mission or agenda—I think that results in books that are mediocre at best and bad at worst—I do think there’s an important point in this with regard to current political attitudes.
I call it the ideolization of rape (though it happens with other social phenomena, as well). People focus on an issue that merits serious concern, which is admirable, but the effect is often to codify the issue rather than deal with it. Thus we get “rape isn’t about sex, it’s about power,” repeated as if it’s Holy Writ. An ideology becomes established as to how the phenomenon is perceived, described, and handled—and God forbid you disagree with an iota of its scripture.
The intent is commendable, but a side effect of the process is to depersonalize this most personal of incidents, to treat it as a universal and undifferentiated event, and—often—to pass unjust laws or take steps that lead to unintended consequences, because something is done in response to the ideology that then impacts individuals.
The point to be made here is that when rape occurs in one of my books, it’s a specific, individual, unique event, and so is the person to whom it happens, the person who perpetrates it, and the way(s) in which the—geez, I dislike the term “survivor,” but I dislike “victim” even more10—person who has suffered the event is, we hope, able to deal with it and perhaps regain their sense of self.
The novels following Outlander aren’t dealing with a central theme that involves rape, but there are two major incidents—one in Drums of Autumn and one in A Breath of Snow and Ashes—in which a major character is raped,11 and the effects of the crime reverberate through the book—and sometimes further. (Presumably this is one of the factors that make some people describe the series as a whole as “rapey.”)
The point is that rape is a unique occurrence. Every time. How it happens, when, to whom and by whom, and what happens next. What damage may be done, and—most important—what people do next. How do they retake possession of themselves? Because people do.
The current ideology may term people who weren’t murdered during the attack as “survivors,” but the cultural expectation seems to be that this is something that can’t be healed, that the person who’s suffered rape will in some way always be dramatically marked by it. Maybe so, and maybe no, as Jamie puts it.
I have fortunately never been raped,12 but I’ve talked to—and, more important, listened to—a great many people who have. Some of them have suffered terribly and have long-lasting, debilitating effects. For some, it was a brief experience that they wish hadn’t happened, much as they wish the stranger who turned left into their passenger door at an intersection hadn’t done so, but they were able to accept it merely as something that happened, rather than as a defining moment of either their life or their subsequent persona.
If you look at the three rapes in the series that are described in what might be called a personal, long-term way, you see how different they are. All very bad experiences for those involved, but very different in what happened and in how the people involved dealt with what happened.
To take just one small example, when Brianna is raped (by a man who in fact didn’t consider what he’d done to be rape, since he paid for it), she—like many women in such circumstances—was upset by the continuing thought that she should have fought to resist the attack.
Her father had, at roughly the same age, suffered a vicious rape in which he was prevented from fighting back and had ultimately found healing when his wife (as Jamie himself puts it in a later book) “drugged me and fornicated me back to life,” thus giving him an opportunity to fight, psychologically. Above all people, Jamie knows what his daughter feels like—and he knows what to do about it.
The point is that rape is not one-size-fits-all. I think that’s why my correspondents so often say they feel validated, heard, that someone gets it, etc. And I appreciate that more than I can say.
Excerpt from
Drums of Autumn
She jerked her head up, to find him watching her over his undrunk cider. He didn’t look upset, and the jelly in her backbone stiffened a little. She clenched her fists on her knees to steady herself, and met his eyes, straight on.
“I need to know whether it will help. I want to kill…him. The man who—” She made a vague gesture at her belly, and swallowed hard. “But if I do, and it doesn’t help—” She couldn’t go on.
He didn’t seem shocked; abstracted, rather. He raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip, slowly.
“Mmphm. And will ye have killed a man before?” He phrased it as a question, but she knew it wasn’t. The muscle quivered near his mouth again—with amusement, she thought, not shock—and she felt a quick spurt of anger.
“You think I can’t, don’t you? I can. You’d better believe me, I can!” Her hands spread out, gripping her knees, broad and capable. She thought she could do it; though her image of how it might happen wavered. In cold blood, shooting seemed the best, perhaps the only certain way. But trying to imagine this, she had realized vividly the truth of the old saying “Shooting’s too good for him.”
It might be too good for Bonnet; it wouldn’t be nearly good enough for her. In the night when she flung off her blankets, unable to bear even this slight weight and its reminder of restraint, she didn’t just want him dead—she wanted to kill him, purely and passionately—kill him with her hands, taking back by the flesh what had been taken from her by that means.
And yet…what good would it be to murder him, if he would still haunt her? There was no way to know—unless her father could tell her.
“Will you tell me?” she blurted. “Did you kill him, finally—and did it help?”
He seemed to be thinking it over, his eyes traveling slowly over her, narrowed in assessment.
“And what would be helped by your doing murder?” he asked. “It willna take the child from your belly—or give ye back your maidenheid.”
“I know that!” She felt her face flush hot, and turned away, irritated both with him and herself. They spoke of rape and murder, and she was embarrassed to have him mention her lost virginity? She forced herself to look back at him.
“Mama said you tried to kill Jack Randall in Paris, in a duel. What did you think you’d get back?”
He rubbed his chin hard, then drew in his breath through his nose and let it out slowly, eyes fixed on the stained rock of the ceiling.
“I meant to take back my manhood,” he said softly. “My honor.”
“You think my honor isn’t worth taking back? Or do you figure it’s the same thing as my maidenheid?” She mocked his accent nastily.
Sharp blue eyes swung back to hers.
“Is it the same thing to you?”
“No, it is not,” she said, through clenched teeth.
“Good,” he said, shortly.
“Then answer me, damn it!” She struck a fist on the straw, finding no satisfaction in the soundless blow. “Did killing him give you back your honor? Did it help? Tell me the truth!”
She stopped, breathing heavily. She glared at him, and he met her eyes with a cold stare. Then he raised the cup abruptly to his mouth, swallowed the cider in one gulp, and set the cup down on the hay beside him.
“The truth? The truth is that I dinna ken whether I killed him or no.”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise.
“You don’t know whether you killed him?”
“I said so.” A slight jerk of the shoulders betrayed his impatience. He stood up abruptly, as if unable to sit any longer.
“He died at Culloden, and I was there. I woke on the moor after the battle, with Randall’s corpse on top of me. I ken that much—and not much more.” He paused as though thinking, then, mind made up, he thrust one knee forward, pulled up his kilt and nodded downward. “Look.”
It was an old scar, but no less impressive for its age. It ran up the inner side of his thigh, nearly a foot in length, its lower end starred and knotted like the head of a mace,
the rest of it a cleaner line, though thick and twisted.
“A bayonet, I expect,” he said, looking at it dispassionately. He dropped the kilt, hiding the scar once more.
“I remember the feel of the blade strikin’ bone, and no more. Not what came after—or before.”
He took a deep, audible breath, and for the first time she realized that his apparent calmness was taking a good deal of effort to maintain.
“I thought it a blessing—that I couldna remember,” he said at last. He wasn’t looking at her, but into the shadows at the end of the stable. “There were gallant men who died there; men I loved well. If I didna know their deaths; if I couldna recall them or see them in my mind—then I didna have to think of them as dead. Maybe that was cowardice, maybe not. Perhaps I chose not to remember that day; perhaps I cannot if I would.” He looked down at her, his eyes gone softer, but then turned away, plaid swinging, not waiting for an answer.
“Afterward—aye, well. Vengeance didna seem important, then. There were a thousand dead men on that field, and I thought I should be one of them in hours. Jack Randall…” He made an odd, impatient gesture, brushing aside the thought of Jack Randall as he might a biting deerfly. “He was one of them. I thought I could leave him to God. Then.”
She took a deep breath, trying to keep her feelings under control. Curiosity and sympathy struggled with an overwhelming feeling of frustration.
“You’re…all right, though. I mean—in spite of what he—did to you?”
He gave her a look of exasperation, understanding mingled with half-angry amusement.
“Not many die of it, lass. Not me. And not you.”
“Not yet.” Involuntarily, she put a hand over her belly. She stared up at him. “I guess we’ll see in six months if I die of it.”
That rattled him; she could see it. He blew out his breath and scowled at her.
“Ye’ll do fine,” he said curtly. “Ye’re wider through the hip than yon wee heifer.”
“Like your mother? Everybody says how much I’m like her. I guess she was wide through the hip, too, but it didn’t save her, did it?”
He flinched. Quick and sharp as though she’d slapped him across the face with a stinging nettle. Perversely, seeing it filled her with panic, rather than the satisfaction she’d expected.
She understood then that his promise of protection was in good part illusion. He would kill for her, yes. Or willingly die himself, she had no doubt. He would—if she let him—avenge her honor, destroy her enemies. But he could not defend her from her own child; he was as powerless to save her from that threat as if she had never found him.
“I’ll die,” she said, cold certainty filling her belly like frozen mercury. “I know I will.”
“Ye won’t!” He rounded on her fiercely, and she felt his hands bite into her upper arms. “I will not let you!”
She would have given anything to believe him. Her lips were numb and stiff, rage giving way to a cold despair.
“You can’t help,” she said. “You can’t do anything!”
“Your mother can,” he said, but sounded only half convinced. His grip slackened, and she wrenched herself free.
“No, she can’t—not without a hospital, without drugs and things. If it—if it goes wrong, all she can do is try to save the b-baby.” Despite herself, her gaze flickered to his dirk, blade gleaming cold against the straw where he had left it.
Her knees felt watery, and she sat down suddenly. He snatched up the jug and slopped cider into a cup, pushing it under her nose.
“Drink it,” he said. “Drink up, lass, you’re pale as my sark.” His hand was on the back of her head, urging her. She took a sip, but choked and drew back, waving him off. She drew a sleeve across her wet chin, wiping off the spilled cider.
“You know what’s the worst? You said it wasn’t my fault, but it is.”
“It is not!”
She flapped a hand at him, bidding him be quiet.
“You talked about cowardice; you know what it is. Well, I was a coward. I should have fought, I shouldn’t have let him…but I was scared of him. If I’d been brave enough, this wouldn’t have happened, but I wasn’t, I was scared! And now I’m even more scared,” she said, voice breaking. She took a deep breath to steady herself, bracing her hands on the straw.
“You can’t help, and neither can Mama, and I can’t do anything either. And Roger—” Her voice did crack then, and she bit her lip hard, forcing back tears.
“Brianna—a leannan…” He made a move to comfort her, but she drew back, arms folded tight across her stomach.
“I keep thinking—if I kill him, that’s something I can do. It’s the only thing I can do. If I—if I have to die, at least I’ll take him with me, and if I don’t—then maybe I can forget, if he’s dead.”
“Ye willna forget.” The words were blunt and uncompromising as a blow to the stomach. He was still holding the cup of cider. Now he tilted back his head and drank, quite deliberately.
“It doesna matter, though,” he said, setting down the cup with an air of businesslike finality. “We shall find you a husband, and once the babe’s born, ye willna have much time to fret.”
“What?” She gaped at him. “What do you mean, find me a husband?”
“You’ll need one, aye?” he said, in tones of mild surprise. “The bairn must have a father. And if ye willna tell me the name of the man who’s given ye a swollen belly, so that I might make him do his duty by ye—”
“You think I’d marry the man who did this?” Her voice cracked again, this time with astonishment.
His voice sharpened slightly.
“Well, I’m thinkin’—are ye maybe playin’ wi’ the truth a bit, lass? Perhaps it wasna rape at all; perhaps it was that ye took a mislike to the man, and ran—and made up the story later. Ye were not marked, after all. Hard to think a man could force a lass of your size, if ye were unwilling altogether.”
“You think I’m lying?”
He raised one brow in cynicism. Furious, she swung a hand at him, but he caught her by the wrist.
“Ah, now,” he said, reprovingly. “Ye’re no the first lass to make a slip and try to hide it, but—” He caught the other wrist as she struck at him, and pulled them both up sharply.
“Ye dinna need to make such a fuss,” he said. “Or is it that ye wanted the man and he threw ye over? Is that it?”
She swiveled in his grip, used her weight to swing aside, brought her knee up hard. He turned only slightly, and her knee collided with his thigh, not the vulnerable flesh between his legs she had been aiming for.
The blow must have bruised him, but didn’t lessen his grip on her wrists in the least. She twisted, kicking, cursing her skirts. She hit his shin dead-on at least twice, but he only chuckled, as though finding her struggles funny.
“Is that all ye can do, lassie?” He broke his grip then, but only to shift both her wrists to one hand. The other prodded her playfully in the ribs.
“There was a man
In Muir of Skene,
He had dirks
And I had none;
But I fell on him
With my thumbs,
And wot you how,
I dirkit him,
Dirkit him
Dirkit him?”
With each repetition, he dug a thumb hard between her ribs.
“You fucking bastard!” she screamed. She braced her feet and yanked down on his arm as hard as she could, bringing it into biting range. She lunged at his wrist, but before she could sink her teeth in his flesh, she found herself jerked off her feet and whirled through the air.
She ended hard on her knees, one arm twisted up behind her back so tightly that her shoulder joint cracked. The strain on her elbow hurt; she writhed, trying to turn into the hold, but couldn’t budge. An arm like an iron bar clamped across her shoulders, forcing her head down. And farther down.
Her chin drove into her chest; she couldn’t breathe. And still he forced her h
ead down. Her knees slid apart, her thighs forced wide by the downward pressure.
“Stop!” she grunted. It hurt to force sound through her constricted windpipe. “Gd’s sk, stp!”
The relentless pressure paused, but did not ease. She could feel him there behind her, an inexorable, inexplicable force. She reached back with her free hand, groping for something to claw, something to hit or bend, but there was nothing.
“I could break your neck,” he said, very quietly. The weight of his arm left her shoulders, though the twisted arm still held her bent forward, hair loose and tumbled, nearly touching the floor. A hand settled on her neck. She could feel thumb and index fingers on either side, pressing lightly on her arteries. He squeezed, and black spots danced before her eyes.
“I could kill you, so.”
The hand left her neck, and touched her, deliberately, knee and shoulder, cheek and chin, emphasizing her helplessness. She jerked her head away, not letting him touch the wetness, not wanting him to feel her tears of rage. Then the hand pressed sudden and brutal on the small of her back. She made a small, choked sound and arched her back to keep her arm from breaking, thrusting out her hips backward, legs spread to keep her balance.
“I could use ye as I would,” he said, and there was a coldness in his voice. “Could you stop me, Brianna?”
She felt as though she would suffocate with rage and shame.
“Answer me.” The hand took her by the neck again, and squeezed.
“No!”
She was free. So suddenly released, she pitched forward onto her face, barely getting one hand down in time to save herself.
She lay on the straw, panting and sobbing. There was a loud whuffle near her head—Magdalen, roused by the noise, leaning out of her stall to investigate. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position.
He was standing over her, arms folded.
“Damn you!” she gasped. She slammed a hand down in the hay. “God, I want to kill you!”
He stood quite still, looking down at her.
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 62