Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [294]
“Yes. It could be.” Roger was beginning to feel more like himself. He glanced curiously at Fiona.
“You always say ‘her.’ Why do you never say her name?”
Fiona’s curls lifted in the dawn wind as she turned to look at him. It was light enough now to see her face clearly, with its expression of disconcerting directness.
“Ye dinna call something unless ye want it to come,” she said. “Surely ye know that, and your father a minister?”
The hairs on his forearms prickled, despite the covering of shirt and coat.
“Now that you mention it,” he said, trying for a joking tone, and failing utterly. “I wasn’t quite calling my father’s name, but perhaps … Dr. Randall said she thought of her husband, when she came back.”
Fiona nodded, frowning. He could see her face clearly, and realized with a start that the light was growing. It was near dawn; the sky to the east was the shimmered color of a salmon’s scales.
“Christ, it’s almost morning! I’ve got to go!”
“Go?” Fiona’s eyes went round with horror. “You’re no going to try it again?”
“I am. I’ve got to.” The lining of his mouth was cotton-dry, and he regretted that Fiona had used all the coffee extinguishing him. He fought down the hollow-bellied feeling and made it to his feet. His knees were wobbly, but he could walk.
“Are you mad, Rog? It’ll kill ye, sure!”
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the tall cleft stone.
“No,” he said, and hoped to hell he was right. “No, I know what went wrong. It won’t happen again.”
“You can’t know, not for sure!”
“Aye, I do.” He took her hand from his sleeve and held it between his own; it was small and cold. He smiled at her, though his face felt strangely numb. “I hope Ernie’s not come home; he’ll have the police looking for you. You’d best hurry back.”
She shrugged, impatient.
“Och, he’s at the fishin’ with his cousin Neil; he’ll no be back till Tuesday. What d’ye mean, it won’t happen again—why won’t it?”
This was the thing that was harder to explain than the rest of it. He owed it to her to try, though.
“When I said I was thinking of my father, I was thinking of him from what I knew of him—the pictures of him in his airman’s kit, or with my mother. The thing is … I was born by that time. Do you see?” He searched her small, round face, and saw her blink slowly, comprehending. Her breath left her in a small sigh, of fear and wonder mingled.
“Ye didna only meet your Da, then, did ye?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head, wordless. No sight, no sound or smell or touch. There were no images at all to convey what it had been like to meet himself.
“I have to go,” he repeated softly. He squeezed her hand. “Fiona, I cannot say enough to thank you.”
She stared at him for a moment, her soft bottom lip thrust out, eyes glistening. Then she pulled loose, and twisting off her engagement ring, put it into his hand.
“It’s a wee stone, but it’s a real diamond,” she said. “It’ll maybe help.”
“I can’t take this!” He reached to give it back, but she took a step backward, and put her hands behind her back.
“Dinna worry, it’s insured,” she said. “Ernie’s a great one for the insurance.” She tried to smile at him, though the tears were running down her face now. “So am I.”
There was nothing more to say. He put the ring in the side pocket of his coat, and glanced at the great cleft stone, its black sides starting to glimmer as bits of mica and threads of quartz picked up the dawning light. He could hear the hum, still, though now it felt more like the pulsing of his blood; something inside him.
No words, and no need. He touched her face once lightly in farewell, and walked toward the stone, staggering slightly. He stepped into the cleft.
Fiona heard nothing, but the still, clear air of Midsummer’s Day shimmered with an echoed name.
She waited