Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [156]
“Do you think that’s wise?” I muttered, recalling Myers’s lurid stories about massacres, and the effects of firewater on Indians.
“I can give it to them or let them take it, Sassenach,” he said, a little testily. “There are three of them, aye?”
The older man passed the mouth of the bottle under his nose, nostrils flaring as though in appreciation of a rare bouquet. I could smell the liquor from where I stood, and was surprised that it didn’t sear the lining of his nose.
A smile of beatific content spread across the man’s craggy face. He said something to his sons that sounded like “Haroo!” and the one who had been rifling our bag came at once to join his brother, a couple of corn dodgers clutched in his fist.
The older man stood up with the bottle in his hand, but instead of drinking, took it over to where the bear’s carcass lay, black as an inkblot on the ground. With great deliberation, he poured a small amount of whisky into the palm of his hand, bent, and dribbled the liquid into the bear’s half-open mouth. Then he turned slowly in a circle, shaking drops of whisky ceremoniously from his fingers. The drops flew gold and amber where they caught the light, hitting the fire with tiny, sizzling pops.
Jamie sat up straight, dizziness forgotten in his interest.
“Will ye look at that, now?” he said.
“At what?” I said, but he didn’t answer, absorbed by the Indians’ behavior.
One of the younger men had taken out a small beaded pouch that held tobacco. Carefully packing the bowl of a small stone pipe, he lit it with a dry twig dipped into the flames of our fire, and drew strongly on the barrel. The tobacco leaf sparked and fumed, spreading its rich aroma over the clearing.
Jamie was leaning against me, his back against my thighs. I had my hand on his unwounded shoulder again, and could feel the shiver in his flesh start to ease as the warmth of the whisky began to spread in his belly. He wasn’t badly hurt, but the strain of the fight and the continued effort to stay alert were taking their toll on him.
The older man took the pipe and drew several deep, leisurely mouthfuls, which he exhaled with evident pleasure. Then he knelt, and taking another deep lungful of smoke, carefully blew it up the nostrils of the dead bear. He repeated this process several times, muttering something under his breath as he exhaled.
Then he rose, with no sign of stiffness, and extended the pipe to Jamie.
Jamie smoked as the Indians had done—one or two long, ceremonious mouthfuls—and then lifted the pipe, turning to hand it to me.
I lifted the pipe and drew cautiously. Burning smoke filled my eyes and nose at once, and my throat constricted with an overwhelming urge to cough. I choked it back, and hastily gave Jamie the pipe, feeling my face turn red as the smoke curled lazily through my chest, tickling and burning as it searched its way through the channels of my lungs.
“Ye dinna breathe it, Sassenach,” he murmured. “Just let it rise up the back of your nose.”
“Now … you … tell me,” I said, trying not to strangle.
The Indians watched me in round-eyed interest. The older man put his head on one side, frowning as though trying to puzzle something out. He popped up onto his feet and came round the fire, crouching to peer curiously at me, close enough for me to catch the odd, smoky scent of his skin. He wore nothing but a breechclout and a sort of short leather apron, though his chest was covered by a large, ornate necklace featuring seashells, stones, and the teeth of some large animal.
With no warning, he suddenly reached out and squeezed my breast. There was nothing even faintly lascivious about the gesture, but I jumped. So did Jamie, hand darting for his knife.
The Indian sat back calmly on his heels, waving his hand in dismissal. He clapped his hand flat on his breast, then made a cupping motion and pointed at me. He had meant nothing; he had only wanted to assure himself that I was indeed female. He pointed