A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [227]
“She whose hearth I share,” he said, careful to avoid speaking her name. To speak it aloud might expose her to evil spirits nearby. “She is well?”
Turtle closed his eyes and raised both brows and shoulders. She was alive, and not in danger. Still, it was not for a man to say what might happen. Ian didn’t mention the child. Neither did Turtle.
Turtle had brought a gun, a bow, and his knife, of course. He took the knife from his belt and handed it to Ian, matter-of-factly.
“You will want the skins,” he said. “To wrap your son, when he shall be born.”
A shock went through Ian, like the shock of sudden rain on bare skin. Eats Turtles saw his face, and turned his head aside, avoiding his eyes.
“This child was a daughter,” Turtle said matter-of-factly. “Tewaktenyonh told my wife, when she came for a rabbit skin to wrap the body.”
The muscles in his belly tightened and quivered; he thought that perhaps his own skin would burst, but it didn’t. His throat was dry, and he swallowed once, painfully, then shook the moss away and held out his wounded hand for the knife. He bent slowly to skin the wolf.
Eats Turtles was poking with interest at the bloodstained remnants of the shattered stone, when the howl of a wolf brought him upright, staring.
It echoed through the forest, that howl, and the trees moved above them, murmuring uneasily at the sound of loss and desolation. The knife drew swiftly down the pale fur of the belly, dividing the two rows of pink nipples.
“Her husband will be nearby,” Wolf’s Brother said, not looking up. “Go and kill him.”
MARSALI STARED at him, scarcely breathing. The sadness in her eyes was still there, but had somehow diminished, overwhelmed with compassion. The anger had left her; she had taken back Henri-Christian, and held the fat bundle of her baby with both arms against her breast, her cheek against the bold round curve of his head.
“Ah, Ian,” she said softly. “Mo charaid, mo chridhe.”
He sat looking down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap, and seemed not to have heard her. Finally, though, he stirred, like a statue waking. Without looking up, he reached into his shirt and drew out a small, rolled bundle, bound with hair twine, and decorated with a wampum bead.
He undid this, and leaning over, spread the cured skin of an unborn wolf over the baby’s shoulders. His big, bony hand smoothed the pale fur, cupping for a moment over Marsali’s hand where it held the child.
“Believe me, cousin,” he said, very softly, “your husband grieves. But he will come back.” Then he rose and left, silent as an Indian.
37
LE MAîTRE DES
CHAMPIGNONS
THE SMALL LIMESTONE CAVE we used for a stable was home at the moment only to a nanny goat with two brand-new kids. All the animals born in the spring were now large enough to be turned out to forage in the wood with their mothers. The goat was still getting room service, though, in the form of kitchen scraps and a little cracked corn.
It had been raining for several days, and the morning broke cloudy and damp, every leaf dripping and the air thick with the scents of resin and soggy leaf mulch. Luckily, the cloudiness kept the birds subdued; the jays and mockingbirds were quick to learn, and kept a beady eye on the comings and goings of people with food—they dive-bombed me regularly as I made my way up the hill with my basin.
I was on my guard, but even so, a bold jay dropped from a branch in a flash of blue and landed in the basin, startling me. Before I could react, it had seized a fragment of corn muffin and darted off, so quickly that I could scarcely believe I’d seen it, save for the racing of my heart. Luckily I hadn’t dropped the basin; I heard a triumphant screech from the trees, and hurried to get inside the stable before the jay’s friends should try the same tactic.
I was surprised to find that the Dutch door was unbolted at the top and stood an inch or two ajar. There was