A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [371]
“Jem’s asleep,” she said softly, and he heard the surprisingly deep, slow breathing from the trundle. She put her hand back on his chest, the other somewhat lower.
A little later, drifting toward dreamland himself, he heard her say something, and tried to rouse enough to ask her what it was, but managed only a small interrogative “Mm?”
“I’ve always thought I do have a calling,” she repeated, looking upward at the shadows in the beamed ceiling. “Something I was meant to do. But I don’t know yet what it is.”
“Well, ye definitely weren’t meant to be a nun,” he said drowsily. “Beyond that—I couldna say.”
THE MAN’S FACE was in darkness. He saw an eye, a wet shine, and his heart beat in fear. The bodhrana were talking.
There was wood in his hand, a tipper, a club—it seemed to change in size, immense, yet he handled it lightly, part of his hand, it beat the drumhead, beat in the head of the man whose eyes turned toward him, shining with terror.
Some animal was with him, something large and half-seen, brushing eager past his thighs into the dark, urgent for blood, and he after it, hunting.
The club came down, and down, and upanddown, upanddown, upanddown with the waggle of his wrist, the bodhran live and talking in his bones, the thud that shivered through his arm, a skull breaking inward with a wet, soft sound.
Joined for that instant, joined closer than man and wife, hearts one, terror and bloodlust both yielding to that soft, wet thud and the empty night. The body fell, and he felt it go away from him, a rending loss, felt earth and pine needles rough against his cheek as he fell.
The eyes shone wet and empty, and the face slack-lipped in firelight, one he knew, but he knew not the name of the dead, and the animal was breathing in the night behind him, hot breath on his nape. Everything was burning: grass, trees, sky.
The bodhrana were talking in his bones, but he could not make it out what they said, and he beat the ground, the soft limp body, the burning tree in a rage that made sparks fly, to make the drums leave his blood, speak clearly. Then the tipper flew free, his hand struck the tree and burst into flame.
He woke with his hand on fire, gasping. He brought his knuckles to his mouth by instinct, tasting silver blood. His heart was hammering so that he could scarcely breathe, and he fought the notion, trying to slow his heart, keep breathing, keep panic at bay, stop his throat closing up and strangling him.
The pain in his hand helped, distracting him from the thought of suffocation. He’d thrown a punch in his sleep, and hit the log wall of the cabin square. Jesus, it felt like his knuckles had burst. He pressed the heel of his other hand against them, hard, gritting his teeth.
Rolled onto his side and saw the wet shine of eyes in the ghost of firelight and would have screamed, if he’d had any breath.
“Are you all right, Roger?” Brianna whispered, voice urgent. Her hand touched his shoulder, his back, the curve of his brow, quickly seeking injury.
“Yeah,” he said, fighting for breath. “Bad . . . dream.” He wasn’t dreaming of suffocation; his chest was tight, every breath a conscious effort.
She threw back the covers and rose in a rustle of sheets, pulling him up.
“Sit up,” she said, low-voiced. “Wake all the way up. Breathe slow; I’ll make you some tea—well, something hot, at least.”
He hadn’t any breath to protest. The scar on his throat was a vise. The first agony in his hand had subsided; now it began to throb in time to his heart—fine, that was all he needed. He fought back the dream, the sense of drums beating in his bones, and in the struggle, found his breath start to ease. By the time Brianna brought him a mug of hot water poured over something foul-smelling, he was breathing almost normally.
He declined to drink whatever it was, whereupon she thriftily used it to bathe his scraped knuckles