The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [683]
110
MAN OF BLOOD
I CRUMBLED DRY SAGE LEAVES in my hands, letting the gray-green flakes fall into the burning coals. The sun hung low in the sky above the chestnut trees, but the small burying-ground lay already in shadow, and the fire was bright.
The five of us stood in a circle around the chunk of granite with which Jamie had marked the stranger’s grave. There were five of us, and so we laid the circle with five points. By common consent, this was not only for the man with the silver fillings, but for his four unknown companions—and for Daniel Rawlings, whose fresh and final grave lay under a mountain-ash, nearby.
The smoke rose up from the small iron fire-pot, pale and fragrant. I had brought other herbs as well, but I knew that for the Tuscarora, for the Cherokee, and for the Mohawk, sage was holy, the smoke of it cleansing.
I rubbed juniper needles between my hands into the fire, and followed them with rue, called herb-of-grace, and rosemary—that’s for remembrance, after all.
The leaves of the trees nearby rustled gently in the evening breeze, and the twilight lit the drifting smoke, turning it from gray to gold as it rose up and up into heaven’s vault, where the faint stars waited.
Jamie lifted his head, touched with fire as bright as the blaze by his feet, and looked toward the west, where the souls of the dead fly away. He spoke softly, in Gaelic, but all of us knew enough by now to follow.
“Thou goest home this night to thy home of winter,
To thy home of autumn, of spring, and of summer;
Thou goest home this night to thy perpetual home,
To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber.
The sleep of the seven lights be thine, O brother,
The sleep of the seven joys be thine, O brother,
The sleep of the seven slumbers be thine, O brother,
On the arm of the Jesus of blessings, the Christ of grace.
The shade of death lies upon thy face, beloved,
But the Jesus of Grace has His hand round about thee;
In nearness to the Trinity farewell to thy pains,
Christ stands before thee and peace is in His mind.”
Ian stood by him, close, but not touching. The fading light touched his face, fierce upon his scars. He said it first in the Mohawk tongue, but then in English, for the rest of us.
“Be the hunt successful,
Be your enemies destroyed before your eyes,
Be your heart ever joyful in the lodge of your brothers.”
“Ye’re meant to say it over and over again, a good many times,” he added, ducking his head apologetically. “Wi’ the drums, aye? But I thought once would do, for now.”
“That will do fine, Ian,” Jamie assured him, and looked then toward Roger.
Roger coughed and cleared his throat, then spoke, the husk of his voice as transparent and as penetrating as the smoke.
“Lord, make me to know mine end,
And the measure of my days, what it is;
That I may know how frail I am.
Behold, Thou has made my days as an hand-breadth;
And mine age is as nothing before Thee.
Hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear unto my cry;
Hold not Thy peace at my tears:
For I am a stranger with Thee,
And a sojourner, as all my fathers were.”
We stood in silence then, as the darkness came quietly around us. As the last of the light faded and the leaves overhead lost their brilliance, Brianna picked up the pitcher of water, and poured it over the pot of coals. Smoke and steam rose up in a ghostly cloud, and the scent of remembrance drifted through the trees.
IT WAS NEARLY DARK as we came down the narrow trail back to the house. I could see Brianna in front of me, though, leading the way; the men were a little behind us. The fireflies were out in great profusion, drifting through the trees, and lighting the grass near my feet. One of the little bugs lighted briefly in Brianna’s hair and clung there for a moment, blinking.
A wood at twilight holds a deep hush, that bids the heart be still, the foot step lightly on the earth.
“Have ye thought, then, a cliamhuinn?”