The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [542]
Jamie skinned the thing while Roger built the fire. Watching from the corner of his eye, he could see that his father-in-law was making an unusually clumsy job of it; the numbness in his hands must be getting worse. Still, he went on doggedly, hacking at the corpse, stringing chunks of pale raw flesh onto a half-peeled twig with trembling fingers.
The job complete, Jamie extended the stick toward the budding fire and nearly dropped it. Roger grabbed for it, and felt through the stick the tremor that shook Jamie’s hand and arm.
“You all right?” he said, and reached automatically to feel Jamie’s forehead. Fraser jerked back, surprised and mildly affronted.
“Aye,” he said, but then paused. “Aye, well . . . I do feel a bit queer,” he admitted.
It was hard to tell in the uncertain light, but Roger thought he looked a good bit more than queer.
“Lie down for a bit, why don’t you?” he suggested, trying to sound casual. “Sleep if ye can; I’ll wake ye when the food’s ready.”
Jamie didn’t argue, which alarmed Roger more than anything else so far. He curled himself into a drift of leaves, moving his wounded leg with a care that told Roger just how painful it was.
The snakemeat dripped and sizzled, and in spite of a slight distaste at the notion of eating snake, Roger felt his stomach rumble in anticipation; damned if it didn’t smell like roasting chicken! Not for the first time, he reflected on the thin line that separated appetite from starvation; give the most finicky gourmand a day or two without food, and he’d be eating slugs and lizards without the least hesitation; Roger had, on the journey back from his surveying trip.
He kept an eye on Jamie; he didn’t move, but Roger could see him shiver now and then, in spite of the now-leaping flames. His eyes were closed. His face looked red, but that might be only firelight—no telling his real color.
By the time the meat had cooked through, it was full dark. Roger fetched water, then heaped armloads of dried grass and wood on the fire, making the flames dance and crackle, higher than his head; if the other men were anywhere within a mile, they should see it.
Fraser roused himself with difficulty to eat. It was clear that he had no appetite, but he forced himself to chew and swallow, each bite a dogged effort. What was it? Roger wondered. Simple stubbornness? A notion of vengeance against the snake? Or perhaps some Highland superstition, the idea that consuming the reptile’s flesh might be a cure for its bite?
“Did the Indians ken aught to do for snakebite?” Jamie asked abruptly, lending some credence to the last guess.
“Yes,” Roger answered cautiously. “They had roots and herbs that they mixed with dung or hot cornmeal, to make a poultice.”
“Did it work?” Fraser held a bit of meat in his hand, wrist drooping as though too tired to raise it to his mouth.
“I only saw it done twice. Once, it seemed to work perfectly—no swelling, no pain; the little girl was quite all right by evening of the same day. The other time—it didn’t work.” He had only seen the hide-wrapped body taken from the longhouse, not witnessed the grisly details of the death. Evidently he was going to get another chance to see the effects of snakebite up close, though.
Fraser grunted.
“And what would they do in your time?”
“Give you an injection of something called antivenin.”
“An injection, aye?” Jamie looked unenthusiastic. “Claire did that to me, once. I didna like it a bit.”
“Did it work?”
Jamie merely grunted in reply, and tore off another small morsel of meat between his teeth.
In spite of his worry, Roger wolfed his share of the meat, and the uneaten part of Jamie’s meal as well. The sky spread black and starry overhead, and a cold wind moved through the trees, chilling hands and face.
He buried the remnants of the snake—all they needed now was for some large carnivore to show up, drawn by the smell of blood—and tended the fire, all the time listening