The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [246]
“Just in time!” I said, and nodded toward the barrel. “No, don’t dump it in, it has to be measured—roughly.” I’d used ten double handsful of oatmeal, ten of rice, ten of barley. Half that, then—fifteen. I shook back the hair from my eyes again, and carefully scooped up a double handful of the basin’s content, dropping it into the barrel with a splat.
“All right, are you?” I asked. I gestured toward a stool with my chin, beginning to work the fat into the mixture with my fingers. Roger was still a trifle pale and tight around the mouth, but he gave me a wry smile as he sat.
“Fine.”
“You didn’t have to do it, you know.”
“Yes, I did.” The note of wryness in his voice deepened. “I only wish I’d done it better.”
I shrugged, one-shouldered, and reached into the basin he held out for me. “It takes practice.”
Roger had volunteered to kill the pig. Jamie had simply handed him the maul and stood back. I had seen Jamie kill pigs before; he said a brief prayer, blessed the pig, then crushed the skull with one tremendous blow. It had taken Roger five tries, and the memory of the squealing raised gooseflesh on my shoulders even now. Afterward, he had set down the maul, gone behind a tree, and been violently sick.
I scooped another handful. The mix was thickening, developing a greasy feel.
“He should have shown you how.”
“I shouldn’t think there’s anything technically difficult about it,” Roger said dryly. “Straightforward enough, after all, to bash an animal on the head.”
“Physically, perhaps,” I agreed. I scooped more fat, working with both hands now. “There’s a prayer for it, you know. For slaughtering an animal, I mean. Jamie should have told you.”
He looked faintly startled.
“No, I didn’t know.” He smiled, a little better now. “Last rites for the pig, aye?”
“I don’t think it’s for the pig’s benefit,” I said tartly. We lapsed into silence for a few moments, as I creamed the rest of the fat into the grain mixture, pausing to flick away occasional bits of gristle. I could feel Roger’s eyes on the barrel, watching the curious alchemy of cookery, that process of making the transfer of life from one being to another palatable.
“Highland drovers sometimes drain a cup or two of blood from one of their beasts, and mix it with oatmeal to eat on the road,” I said. “Nutritious, I suppose, but less tasty.”
Roger nodded, abstracted. He had set down the nearly empty basin and was cleaning dried blood from under his nails with the point of his dirk.
“Is it the same as the one for deer?” he asked. “The prayer. I’ve seen Jamie say that one, once, though I didn’t catch most of the words.”
“The gralloch prayer? I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
Roger worked industriously on a thumbnail, eyes fixed on his hand.
“I wasn’t sure if he thought it right for me to know it. Me not being a Catholic, I mean.”
Jamie had been rather taken aback by the discovery that his new son-in-law was a Presbyterian, but had seemed reassured when Roger made no demur over being married by a priest, or over Jemmy’s christening. He had quite given up watching Roger narrowly while saying grace at meals.
I looked down into the mixture, hiding a smile.
“I don’t think it would make a difference. That particular prayer is a lot older than the Church of Rome, if I’m not mistaken.”
A flicker of interest lit Roger’s face, the buried scholar coming to the surface.
“I did think the Gaelic was a very old form—even older than what you hear these days—I mean… now.” He flushed a little, realizing what he had said. I nodded, but didn’t say anything.
I remembered what it was like; that feeling that one was living in an elaborate make-believe. The feeling that reality existed in another time, another place. I remembered, and with a small shock, realized that it was now only memory—for me, time had shifted.
Now was my time, reality the scrape of wood and slick of grease beneath my fingers, the arc of