The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [311]
“That’s a deasil charm, a muirninn,” Jocasta said, with a satisfied nod. “Put it on the wean’s skirts, behind.”
“A charm?” Brianna glanced at Jemmy’s huddled form. “What kind of charm?”
“Against the fairies,” Jocasta said. “Keep it pinned to the lad’s smock—always to the back, mind—and naught born of the Auld Folk will trouble him.”
The hair on Brianna’s forearms prickled slightly at the matter-of-factness in the old woman’s voice.
“Your mother should ha’ told ye,” Jocasta went on, with a hint of reproval in her voice. “But I ken as she’s a Sassenach, and your father likely wouldna think of it. Men don’t,” she added, with a hint of bitterness. “It’s a woman’s job to see to the weans, to keep them from harm.”
Jocasta stooped to the kindling basket and groped among the bits of debris, coming up with a long pine twig in her hand, the bark still on it.
“Take that,” she commanded, holding it out toward Brianna. “Light the end of it from the hearth, and walk ye round the bairn three times. Sunwise, mind!”
Mystified, Brianna took the stick and thrust it into the fire, then did as she was bid, holding the flaming twig well away from both the makeshift cradle and her blue wool skirts. Jocasta tapped her foot rhythmically on the floor, and chanted, half under her breath.
She spoke in Gaelic, but slowly enough that Brianna could make out most of the words.
“Wisdom of serpent be thine,
Wisdom of raven be thine,
Wisdom of valiant eagle.
Voice of swan be thine,
Voice of honey be thine,
Voice of the Son of the stars.
Sain of the fairy-woman be thine,
Sain of the elf-dart be thine,
Sain of the red dog be thine.
Bounty of sea be thine,
Bounty of land be thine,
Bounty of the Father of Heaven.
Be each day glad for thee,
No day ill for thee,
A life joyful, satisfied.”
Jocasta paused for a moment, a slight frown on her face, as though listening for any backtalk from Fairyland. Evidently satisfied, she motioned toward the hearth.
“Throw it into the fire. Then the wean will be safe from burning.”
Brianna obeyed, finding to her fascination that she did not find any of this even faintly ridiculous. Odd, but very satisfying to think that she was protecting Jem from harm—even harm from fairies, which she didn’t personally believe in. Or she hadn’t, before this.
A thread of music drifted up from below; the screek of a fiddle, and the sound of a voice, deep and mellow. She couldn’t make out any words, but knew the sound of the song.
Jocasta cocked her head, listening, and smiled.
“He’s a good voice, your young man.”
Brianna listened, too. Very faintly, she heard the familiar rise and fall of “My Love Is in America,” somewhere below. When I sing, it’s always for you. Her breasts were soft now, drained of milk, but they tingled slightly at the memory.
“You have good ears, Auntie,” she said, tucking the thought away with a smile.
“Are ye pleased in your marriage?” Jocasta asked abruptly. “D’ye find yourself well-suited wi’ the lad?”
“Yes,” Brianna said, a little startled. “Yes—very much.”
“That’s good.” Her great-aunt stood still, head tilted to the side, still listening. “Aye, that’s good,” she repeated, softly.
Seized by impulse, Brianna laid a hand on the older woman’s wrist.
“And you, Auntie?” she asked. “Are you . . . pleased?”
“Happy” seemed not quite the word, in view of that row of rings in the case. “Well-suited” seemed not quite right, either, with her memory of Duncan, skulking in the corner of the drawing room the night before, shy and wordless whenever anyone but Jamie spoke to him, sweating and nervous this morning.
“Pleased?” Jocasta sounded puzzled. “Oh—to be married, ye mean!” To Brianna’s relief, her aunt laughed, the lines of her face drawing up in genuine amusement.
“Oh, aye, surely,” she said. “Why, it’s the first time I shall ha’ changed my name in fifty years!”
With a small snort of amusement, the old lady turned toward the window and pressed her palm against