A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [365]
She leaned against him and put her arms round him, still vibrating with laughter. She smelled of oranges and burning, and the light of the setting sun rippled in her hair.
Finally, she stopped, and lifted her head from his shoulder.
“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,” she said, and kissed him. “You did good, Reverend. Let’s go home.”
PART EIGHT
The Call
58
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
ROGER TOOK THE DEEPEST breath he could, and shouted as loudly as he could. Which was not very damn loud. Again. And again.
It hurt. It was aggravating, too; the feeble, choked sound of it made him want to shut up and never open his mouth again. He breathed, shut his eyes, and screamed with all his might, or tried to.
A searing flash of pain shot down inside his throat on the right, and he broke off, gasping. All right. He breathed gingerly for a moment, swallowing, then did it again.
Jesus, that hurt.
He rubbed a sleeve across his watering eyes and braced himself for another go. As he inflated his chest, fists curling, he heard voices, and let the breath out.
The voices were calling to each other, not far from him, but the wind was away and he couldn’t make out the words. Likely hunters, though. It was a fine fall day, with air like blue wine and the forest restless with dappled light.
The leaves had just begun to turn, but some were already falling, a silent, constant flicker at the edge of vision. Any movement could look like game in such surroundings, he knew that well. He drew breath to call out, hesitated, and said, “Shit,” under his breath. Great. He’d rather be shot in mistake for a deer than embarrass himself by calling out.
“Ass,” he said to himself, drew breath, and shouted, “Halloooo!” at the top of his voice—reedy and without volume as it was. Again. Again. And yet again. By the fifth time, he was beginning to think he’d rather be shot than go on trying to make them hear him, but at last a faint “Halloooo!” drifted back to him on the crisp, light air.
He stopped, relieved, and coughed, surprised not to be bringing up blood; his throat felt like raw meat. But he essayed a quick hum, then, cautiously, a rising arpeggio. An octave. Just barely, and it was a strain that sent shooting pains through his larynx—but a full octave. The first time he’d managed that much of a range in pitch since the injury.
Encouraged by this small evidence of progress, he greeted the hunters cheerfully when they came in view: Allan Christie and Ian Murray, both with long rifles in hand.
“Preacher MacKenzie!” Allan greeted him, grinning, like an incongruously friendly owl. “What are you doing out here all on your owney-o? Rehearsing your first sermon?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Roger said pleasantly. It was true, in a way—and there was no other good explanation for what he was doing out in the woods by himself, lacking weapons, snare, or fishing pole.
“Well, best make it good,” Allan said, wagging his head. “Everyone will be coming. Da’s had Malva hard at it from dawn to dusk, sweeping and cleaning.”
“Ah? Well, do tell her I appreciate it, will ye?” After a good deal of thought, he’d asked Thomas Christie whether the Sunday services might be held in the schoolmaster’s home. It was no more than a rude cabin, like most on the Ridge, but since lessons were held there, the main room was somewhat more commodious than the average. And while Jamie Fraser would certainly have allowed the use of the Big House, Roger felt that his congregation—what a daunting word—might well be uneasy at holding their services in the house of a Papist, accommodating and tolerant though said Papist might be.
“Ye’re coming, are ye not?” Allan was asking Ian. Ian looked surprised at the invitation, and rubbed an uncertain knuckle beneath his nose.
“Och, well, but I was baptized Romish, eh?”
“Well, ye’re a Christian, at least?” Allan said with some impatience. “Or no? Some folk do say as how ye turned pagan, with the Indians, and didna turn back.”
“Do they?” Ian spoke