The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [564]
“That’s more or less what Aunt Jenny did, isn’t it? That’s what made that huge scar on his thigh.”
I nodded, wiping my palms unobtrusively over my knees. I didn’t normally suffer from sweaty hands, but the feel of the amputation saw was much too clear in my memory.
“I’d have to do two or three deep cuts. It would likely cripple him permanently—but it might work.” I tried to give her a smile. “I don’t suppose MIT taught you how to engineer a hypodermic syringe, did they?”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said calmly. “I don’t know if I can make a syringe, but I’d be really surprised if I can’t figure out something that does the same thing. How long have we got?”
I stared at her, my mouth half open, then shut it with a snap.
“A few hours, at least. I thought if we didn’t get any improvement with the hot poultices, I’d have to either cut or amputate by this evening.”
“Amputate!” All the blood drained out of her face. “You can’t do that!”
“I can—but my God, I don’t want to.” My hands curled hard, denying their skill.
“Let me think, then.” Her face was still pale, but the shock was passing as her mind began to focus. “Oh—where’s Mrs. Bug? I was going to leave Jemmy with her, but—”
“She’s gone? Are you sure she isn’t just out in the hencoop?”
“No, I stopped there when I came up to the house. I didn’t see her anywhere—and the kitchen fire is smoored.”
That was more than odd; Mrs. Bug had come to the house as usual to make breakfast—what could have induced her to leave again? I hoped Arch hadn’t suddenly been taken ill; that would just about put the cocked hat on things.
“Where’s Jemmy, then?” I asked, looking round for him. He didn’t normally go far away from his mother, though he was beginning to wander a bit, as small boys did.
“Lizzie took him upstairs to see Da. I’ll ask her to look after him for a while.”
“Fine. Oh!”
My exclamation made her turn back at the door, eyebrows raised in question.
“Do you think you could take that”—I gestured distastefully at the big glass jar—“outside, darling? Dispose of it somewhere?”
“Sure. What is it?” Curious, she walked over to the jar. The little rattlesnake had crawled out of its bag and was coiled up in a suspicious dark knot; as she extended a hand toward the jar, it lunged, striking at the glass, and Brianna jumped back with a yelp.
“Ifrinn!” she said, and I laughed, in spite of the general stress and worry.
“Where did you get him, and what is he for?” she asked. Recovering from the initial shock, she leaned forward cautiously and tapped lightly on the glass. The snake, who appeared irascible in the extreme, struck the side of the jar with an audible thump, and she jerked her hand away again.
“Kezzie brought him in; Jamie is meant to drink his blood as a cure,” I explained.
She reached out a cautious forefinger, and traced the path of a small droplet of yellowish liquid, sliding down the glass. Two droplets, in fact.
“Look at that! He tried to bite me right through the glass! That’s a really mad snake; I guess he doesn’t think much of the idea.”
He didn’t. He—if it was a he—was coiled again, tiny rattles vibrating in an absolute frenzy of animosity.
“Well, that’s all right,” I said, coming to stand beside her. “I’m sure Jamie wouldn’t think much of the idea, either. He’s rather strongly anti-snake at the moment.”
“Mmphm.” She was still staring at the little snake, a slight frown drawing down her thick red brows. “Did Kezzie say where he got it?”
“I didn’t think to ask. Why?”
“It’s getting cold out—snakes hibernate, don’t they? In dens?”
“Well, Dr. Brickell says they do,” I replied, rather dubiously. The good doctor’s Natural History of North Carolina made entertaining reading, but I took leave to doubt some of his observations, particularly those pertaining to snakes and crocodiles, of whose prowess he appeared to have a rather exaggerated opinion.
She nodded, not taking her eyes off the snake.
“See, the thing is,” she said, sounding rather dreamy, “pit-vipers