A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [427]
Ian made a tolerant Scottish noise and took up the flint and steel himself.
“I’ll do it. Do the nuts, aye?”
“Okay. Here, you should put your shirt back on.” Her own clothes had dried, and while she missed the comfort of Ian’s buckskin, the worn thick wool of her fringed hunting shirt was warm and soft on her skin. It was a bright day, but chilly so early in the morning. Ian had discarded his blanket while starting the fire, and his bare shoulders were pebbled with gooseflesh.
He shook his head slightly, though, indicating that he’d put on his shirt in a bit. For now . . . his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he struck flint and steel again, then disappeared as he muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?” She paused, a half-hulled nut in her fingers.
“Oh, it’s no but a—” He’d struck once more and caught a spark, glowing like a tiny star on the square of char. Hastily, he touched a wisp of dry grass to it, then another, and as a tendril of smoke rose up, added a bark chip, more grass, a handful of chips, and finally a careful crisscross of pine twigs.
“No but a fire charm,” he finished, grinning at her over the infant blaze that had sprung up before him.
She applauded briefly, then proceeded to cut the skin of the chestnut she was holding, crosswise, so it wouldn’t burst in the fire.
“I haven’t heard that one,” she said. “Tell me the words.”
“Oh.” He didn’t blush easily, but the skin of his throat darkened a little. “It’s . . . it’s no the Gaelic, that one. It’s the Kahnyen’kehaka.”
Her brows went up, as much at the easy sound of the word on his tongue as at what he’d said.
“Do you ever think in Mohawk, Ian?” she asked curiously.
He shot her a glance of surprise, almost, she thought, of fright.
“No,” he said tersely, and rose off his heels. “I’ll fetch a bit of wood.”
“I have some,” she said, holding him with a stare. She reached behind her and thrust a fallen pine bough into the kindling fire. The dry needles burst in a puff of sparks and were gone, but the ragged bark began to catch and burn at the edges.
“What is it?” she said. “What I said, about thinking in Mohawk?”
His lips pressed tight together, not wanting to answer.
“You asked me to come,” she said, not sharp with him, but firm.
“So I did.” He took a deep breath, then looked down at the yams he was burying in the heating ashes to bake.
She worked on the nuts slowly, watching him make up his mind. Loud chewing sounds and intermittent puffs of blue-gray feathers drifted out from under Rollo’s bush, behind him.
“Did ye dream last night, Brianna?” he asked suddenly, his eyes still on what he was doing.
She wished he had brought something coffeelike to boil, but still, she was sufficiently awake by now as to be able to think and respond coherently.
“Yes,” she said. “I dream a lot.”
“Aye, I ken that. Roger Mac told me ye write them down sometimes.”
“He did?” That was a jolt, and one bigger than a cup of coffee. She’d never hidden her dreambook from Roger, but they didn’t really discuss it, either. How much of it had he read?
“He didna tell me anything about them,” Ian assured her, catching the tone of her voice. “Only that ye wrote things down, sometimes. So I thought, maybe, those would be important.”
“Only to me,” she said, but cautiously. “Why . . . ?”
“Well, d’ye see—the Kahnyen’kehaka set great store by dreams. More even than Highlanders.” He glanced up with a brief smile, then back at the ashes where he had buried the yams. “What did ye dream of last night, then?”
“Birds,” she said, trying to recall. “Lots of birds.” Reasonable enough, she thought. The forest around her had been live with birdsong since well before dawn; of course it would seep into her dreams.
“Aye?” Ian seemed interested. “Were the birds alive, then?”
“Yes,” she said, puzzled. “Why?