Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [292]
“Fool is right,” he muttered to himself.
Fiona went first into the circle; she would not let him come with her or watch. Obediently, he turned his back, letting her do whatever she intended. She had a plastic shopping bag, presumably containing items for her ceremonial. He had asked what was in it, and she had tersely told him to mind his own business. She was nearly as nervous as he was, he thought.
The humming noise disturbed him. It wasn’t in his ears but in his body—under his skin, in his bones. It made the long bones of his arms and legs thrum like plucked strings, and itched in his blood, making him want constantly to scratch. Fiona couldn’t hear it; he’d asked, to be sure she was safe before letting her help him.
He hoped to God he was right; that only those who heard the stones could pass through them. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Fiona—though as she’d pointed out, she’d been in this circle any number of times on the fire feasts, with no ill effect. He sneaked a look over one shoulder, saw a tiny flame burning at the base of the big cleft stone, and jerked his head back around.
She was singing, in a soft, high voice. He couldn’t make out the words. All the other travelers he knew of were women; would it truly work for him?
It might, he thought. If the ability to pass through the stones was genetic—something like the ability to roll one’s tongue into a cylinder or color-blindness—then why not? Claire had traveled, so had Brianna. Brianna was Claire’s daughter. And he was a descendant of the only other time-traveler he knew of—Geillis the witch.
He stamped both feet and shook himself like a horse with flies, trying to rid himself of the humming. God, it was like being eaten by ants! Was Fiona’s chanting making it worse, or was it only his imagination?
He rubbed violently at his chest, trying to ease the irritation, and felt the small round weight of his mother’s locket, taken for luck and for its garnets. He had his doubts about Geillis’s speculations—he wasn’t about to try blood, though Fiona seemed to be supplying fire—but after all, the gems could do no harm, and if they helped … Christ, would Fiona not hurry? He twisted and strained inside his clothes, trying to get out of not only his clothing but his skin.
Seeking distraction, he patted his breast pocket again, feeling the locket. If it worked … if he could … it was a notion that had come to him only lately, as the possibility posed by the stones had matured into actual planning. But if it were possible … he fingered the small, round shape, seeing the face of Jerry MacKenzie on the dark surface of his mind.
Brianna had gone to find her father. Could he do the same? Jesus, Fiona! She was making it worse; the roots of his teeth ached, and his skin was burning. He shook his head violently, then stopped, feeling dizzy; the seams of his skull felt as though they were beginning to separate.
Then she was there, a small figure grasping his hand, saying something anxious as she led him into the circle. He couldn’t hear her—the noise was much worse inside; now it was in his ears, in his head, blackening his sight, driving wedges of pain between the joints of his spine.
Gritting his teeth, he blinked back the buzzing darkness, long enough to fix his eyes on Fiona’s round and fearful face.
Swiftly he bent and kissed her, full on the mouth.
“Don’t tell Ernie,” he said. He turned away from her and walked through the stone.
A faint scent came to him on the summer wind; the smell of burning. He turned his head, nostrils flared to catch it. There. A flame flared and bloomed on a nearby hilltop, a rose of Midsummer’s fire.
There were faint stars overhead, half shadowed by a drifting cloud. He had no urge to move, nor to think. He felt bodiless,