The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [668]
There was an odd whirr overhead and a peculiar, hollow-sounding thump!, succeeded by sudden and utter silence.
Startled, Roger raised his head a few inches, and saw the pig standing a few feet before him, its jaw hanging open in what looked like sheer astonishment. Jamie was standing behind it, smeared from forehead to knee with blood-streaked mud, and wearing an identical expression.
Then the boar’s front legs gave way and it fell to its knees. It wobbled, eyes glazing, and collapsed onto its side, the shaft of an arrow poking up, looking frail and inconsequential by comparison to the animal’s bulk.
Jemmy was squirming and crying underneath him. He sat up slowly, and gathered the little boy up into his arms. He noticed, remotely, that his hands were shaking, but he felt curiously blank. The torn skin on his palms stung, and his knee was throbbing. Patting Jemmy’s back in automatic comfort, he turned his head toward the wood and saw the Indian standing at the edge of the trees, bow in hand.
It occurred to him, dimly, to look for the wolf. It was nosing at the pig’s carcass, no more than a few feet from Jamie, but his father-in-law was paying it no mind at all. He too was staring at the Indian.
“Ian,” he said softly, and a look of incredulous joy blossomed slowly through the smears of mud, grass, and blood. “Oh, Christ. It’s Ian.”
109
THE VOICE OF TIME
AS LIZZIE HAD NO MOTHER to see to her proper “fitting out” for marriage, the women on the Ridge had grouped together to provide things like petticoats, nightgowns, and knitted stockings, with a few of the more talented ladies piecing quilt blocks. When a quilt-top was completed, everyone would come up to the “Big House” to see to the actual quilting—the laborious stitching together of quilt-top and backing, with whatever might be available in the way of batting—worn-out blankets, stitched-together rags, or wool-combings—laid in between quilt-top and backing for warmth.
I had neither great talent nor great patience for sewing generally, but I did have the manual dexterity for small, fine stitches. More importantly, I had a large kitchen with good light and enough room for a quilting-frame, plus the services of Mrs. Bug, who kept the quilters well supplied with mugs of tea and endless plates of apple scones.
We were in the midst of quilting a block pattern Mrs. Evan Lindsay had pieced out in creams and blues, when Jamie appeared suddenly in the door to the hallway. Caught up in an absorbing conversation about the snoring of husbands in general and theirs in particular, most of the women didn’t notice him, but I was facing the door. He seemed not to want to interrupt, or to attract attention, for he didn’t come into the room—but once he’d caught my eye, he jerked his head urgently, and disappeared toward his study.
I glanced at Bree, who was sitting next to me. She’d seen him; she raised an eyebrow and shrugged. I popped the knot—jerking the knotted end of my thread up between the layers of fabric, so it wouldn’t show—stabbed my needle through the quilt-top, and got up, murmuring an excuse.
“Give him beer to his supper,” Mrs. Chisholm was advising Mrs. Aberfeldy. “A great deal of it, and well-watered. That way, he’ll have to wake to piss every half-hour, and can’t get started wi’ the sort of rumption that shakes the shingles loose.”
“Oh, aye,” Mrs. Aberfeldy objected. “I tried that. But then when he comes back to bed, he’s wantin’ to . . . mmphm.” She flushed red as the ladies all cackled. “I get less sleep than I do with the snorin’!”
Jamie was waiting in the hall. The moment I appeared, he grabbed me by the arm and hustled me out of the front door.
“What—” I began, bewildered. Then I saw the tall Indian sitting on the edge of the stoop.
“What—” I said again, and then he stood up, turned, and smiled at me.
“Ian!” I shrieked, and flung myself into his arms.
He was thin and hard as a piece of sun-dried rawhide, and his clothes smelled of wood-damp and earth, with a faint echo of the smoke and