A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [202]
Lionel Brown watched me apprehensively.
“What d’ye mean to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This was more or less true. It hadn’t been a process of conscious decision, though my course of action—or lack of it—had been determined. Jamie—damn him—had been right. I saw no reason to tell Lionel Brown that, though. Not yet.
He was opening his mouth, no doubt to plead with me further, but I stopped him with a sharp gesture.
“There was a man with you named Donner. What do you know about him?”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. His mouth hung open a little.
“Donner?” he repeated, looking uncertain.
“Don’t dare to tell me you don’t remember him,” I said, my agitation making me sound fierce.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he assured me hastily. “I recall him fine—just fine! What”—his tongue touched the raw corner of his mouth—“what d’ye want to know about him?”
The main thing I wanted to know was whether he was dead or not, but Brown almost certainly didn’t know that.
“Let’s start with his full name,” I proposed, sitting down gingerly beside him, “and go from there.”
In the event, Brown knew little more for sure about Donner than his name—which, he said, was Wendigo.
“What?” I said incredulously, but Brown appeared to find nothing odd in it.
“That’s what he said it was,” he said, sounding hurt that I should doubt him. “Indian, in’t it?”
It was. It was, to be precise, the name of a monster from the mythology of some northern tribe—I couldn’t recall which. Brianna’s high-school class had once done a unit of Native American myths, with each child undertaking to explain and illustrate a particular story. Bree had done the Wendigo.
I recalled it only because of the accompanying picture she had drawn, which had stuck with me for some time. Done in a reverse technique, the basic drawing done in white crayon, showing through an overlay of charcoal. Trees, lashing to and fro in a swirl of snow and wind, leaf-stripped and needle-flying, the spaces between them part of the night. The picture had a sense of urgency about it, wildness and movement. It took several moments of looking at it before one glimpsed the face amid the branches. I had actually yelped and dropped the paper when I saw it—much to Bree’s gratification.
“I daresay,” I said, firmly suppressing the memory of the Wendigo’s face. “Where did he come from? Did he live in Brownsville?”
He had stayed in Brownsville, but only for a few weeks. Hodgepile had brought him from somewhere, along with his other men. Brown had taken no notice of him; he caused no trouble.
“He stayed with the widow Baudry,” Brown said, sounding suddenly hopeful. “Might be he told her something of himself. I could find out for you. When I go home.” He gave me a look of what I assumed he meant to be doglike trust, but which looked more like a dying newt.
“Hmm,” I said, giving him a look of extreme skepticism. “We’ll see about that.”
He licked his lips, trying to look pitiful.
“Could I maybe have some water, ma’am?”
I didn’t suppose I could let him die of thirst, but I had had quite enough of ministering to the man personally. I wanted him out of my surgery and out of my sight, as soon as possible. I nodded brusquely and stepped into the hall, calling for Mrs. Bug to bring some water.
The afternoon was warm, and I was feeling unpleasantly prickly after working on Lionel Brown. Without warning, a flush of heat rose suddenly upward through my chest and neck and flowed like hot wax over my face, so that sweat popped out behind my ears. Murmuring an excuse, I left the patient to Mrs. Bug, and hurried out into the welcome air.
There was a well outside; no more than a shallow pit, neatly edged with stones. A big gourd dipper was wedged between two of the stones; I pulled it out and, kneeling, scooped up enough water to drink and to splash over my steaming face.
Hot flushes in themselves were not really unpleasant—rather interesting, in fact, in the same way that pregnancy was; that odd feeling as one’s body did something quite unexpected,