The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [36]
“Liver disease,” I said to Brianna, taking no particular pains to lower my voice. “You can see the jaundice from here, can’t you?”
“Bilious humors,” MacLeod said loudly, snapping open his fleam. “An excess of the humors, clear as day.” Small, dark, and neat in his dress, Murray was not personally impressive, but he was opinionated.
“Cirrhosis due to drink, I daresay,” I said, coming closer and looking the patient over dispassionately.
“An impaction of the bile, owing to an imbalance of the phlegm!” Murray glowered at me, clearly thinking I intended to steal his thunder, if not his patient.
I ignored him and bent down to examine the patient, who looked alarmed at my scrutiny.
“You have a hard mass just under the ribs on the right, don’t you?” I said, kindly. “Your piss is dark, and when you shit, it’s black and bloody, am I right?”
The man nodded, mouth hanging open. We were beginning to attract attention.
“Mo-therr.” Brianna was standing behind me. She gave Murray a nod and bent to mutter in my ear. “What can you do for cirrhosis, Mother? Nothing!”
I stopped, biting my lip. She was right. In my urge to show off by making the diagnosis—and keep Murray from using his stained, rusty-looking fleam on the man—I had overlooked the minor point that I had no alternative treatment to offer.
The patient was glancing back and forth between us, plainly uneasy. With an effort, I smiled at him, and nodded to Murray.
“Mr. MacLeod has the right of it,” I said, forcing the words past my teeth. “Liver disease, surely—caused by an excess of humors.” I supposed one could consider alcohol a humor, after all; the folk drinking Jamie’s whisky last night had evidently found it hilarious.
Murray’s face had been tense with suspicion; at my capitulation, it went quite comically blank with astonishment. Stepping in front of me, Brianna seized advantage of the moment.
“There’s a charm,” she said, smiling charmingly at him. “It . . . er . . . sharpens the blade, and eases the flow of the humors. Let me show you.” Before he could tighten his grip, she snatched the fleam from his hand and turned to our small surgery fire, where a pot of water hung steaming from a tripod.
“In the name of Michael, wielder of swords, defender of souls,” she intoned. I trusted that taking the name of St. Michael in vain was not actual blasphemy—or if it was, that Michael would not object in a good cause. The men laying the fire had stopped to watch, as had a few people coming to the surgery.
She raised the fleam and made a large, slow sign of the cross with it, looking from side to side, to be sure she had the attention of all the onlookers. She did; they were agog. Towering over most of the gawkers, blue eyes narrowed in concentration, she reminded me strongly of Jamie in some of his more bravura performances. I could only hope she was as good at it as he was.
“Bless this blade, for the healing of your servant,” she said, casting her eyes up to heaven, and holding the fleam above the fire in the manner of a priest offering the Eucharist. Bubbles were rising through the water, but it hadn’t quite reached the boil.
“Bless its edge, for the drawing of blood, for the spilling of blood, for the . . . er . . . the letting of poison from the body of your most humble petitioner. Bless the blade . . . bless the blade . . . bless the blade in the hand of your humble servant. . . . Thanks be to God for the brightness of the metal.” Thanks be to God for the repetitious nature of Gaelic prayers, I thought cynically.
Thanks be to God, the water was boiling. She lowered the short, curved blade to the surface of the water, glowered significantly at the crowd, and declaimed, “Let the cleansing of the waters from the side of our Lord Jesus be upon this blade!”
She plunged the metal into the water and held it until the steam rising over the wooden casing reddened her fingers. She lifted the fleam and transferred it hastily to her other hand, raising it into the