Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [537]
“William Buccleigh MacKenzie,” she said promptly, and smiled at his look of surprise. “I went over that genealogy at some length,” she said dryly. “I could probably tell you every name on it.”
He took a deep breath, uneasiness curling at the back of his neck.
“Can you? What I’m wondering—do you know the name of the changeling’s wife—my six-times great-grandmother? Her name wasn’t listed on my own family tree; only William Buccleigh.”
Soft lashes dropped over the golden eyes as she thought, lips pursed.
“Yes,” she said at last, and looked at him. “Morag. Her name was Morag Gunn. Why?”
He only shook his head, too shaken to reply. He glanced at Brianna; the baby lay half naked in her lap, the soggy diaper in a heap on the seat beside her—and remembered the smooth damp skin and soggy clout of the little boy named Jemmy.
“And their son’s name was Jeremiah,” he said at last, so softly that Claire had to lean close to hear it.
“Yes.” She watched him curiously, then turned her head to look down the twisting road ahead, disappearing between the dark pines.
“I asked Geilie,” Claire said suddenly. “I asked her why. Why we can do it.”
“And did she have an answer?” Roger stared at a deerfly on his wrist without seeing it.
“She said—’To change things.’ ” Claire smiled at him, her mouth curled wryly. “I don’t know whether that’s an answer or not.”
70
THE GATHERING
It had been nearly thirty years since the last Gathering I had seen; the Gathering at Leoch, and the oath-taking of clan MacKenzie. Colum MacKenzie was dead now, and his brother Dougal—and all the clans with them. Leoch lay in ruins, and there would be no more Gatherings of the clans in Scotland.
Yet here were the plaids and the pipes, and the remnants of the Highlanders themselves, undiminished in fierce pride, among the the new mountains they claimed for their own. MacNeills and Campbells, Buchanans and Lindseys, MacLeods and MacDonalds; families, slaves and servants, indentured men and lairds.
I looked out over the stir and bustle of the dozens of encampments to see if I could find Jamie, and spotted instead a familiar tall form, striding loose-jointed through the scattered throng. I stood up and waved, calling out to him.
“Myers! Mr. Myers!”
John Quincy Myers spotted me and, beaming, made his way up the slope to our encampment.
“Mrs. Claire!” he exclaimed, sweeping off his disreputable hat and bowing over my hand with his usual courtliness. “I’m right uplifted to see ye.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I assured him, smiling. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, I usually reckon to come to a Gathering,” he said, straightening up and beaming down at me. “If I’m down from the mountains in time. Fine place to sell my hides; any little bits of things I have to get rid of. Speakin’ of which …” He began a slow, methodical rummage through the contents of his big buckskin pouch.
“Will you have been far to the north, Mr. Myers?”
“Oh, ’deed I have, ’deed I have, Mrs. Claire. Halfway up the Mohawk River, to the place they call the Upper Castle.”
“The Mohawk?” My heart began to beat faster.
“Mm.” He withdrew something from his bag, squinted at it, put it back, and rummaged further. “Imagine my surprise, Mrs. Claire, when I stopped at a Mohawk village to the south, to see a familiar face.”
“Ian! You’ve seen Ian? Is he all right?” I was so excited, I grasped him by the arm.
“Oh, aye,” he assured me. “Fine-lookin’ boy—though I will say it did give me a right turn to see him rigged out like a brave, and his face burnt dark enough that I might ha’ taken him for one, did he not hail me by name.”
At last he found what he was looking for, and handed me a small package wrapped in thin leather and tied with a strip of buckskin—a woodpecker’s feather thrust through the knot.
“He trusted me with that, ma’am, to bring to you and your goodman.” He smiled kindly. “Reckon as you’ll want to read that right promptly; I’ll meet up with ye a mite later, Mrs. Claire.” He bowed with solemn formality, and walked away, hailing acquaintances