The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [247]
Neither Roger nor Bree had made that transition, though. I could see it in the way they behaved, hear it in the echoes of their private conversations. Likely it was because they had each other; they could keep the other time alive, a small shared world between them. For me, the change was easier. I had lived here before, had come this time on purpose, after all—and I had Jamie. No matter what I told him of the future, he could never see it as other than a fairy tale. Our small shared world was built of different things.
How were Bree and Roger to manage, though? It was dangerous to treat the past as they sometimes did—as picturesque or curious, a temporary condition that could be escaped. There was no escape for them—whether it was love or duty, Jemmy held them both, a small redheaded anchor to the present. Better—or safer, at least—if they could wholly accept this time as theirs.
“The Indians have it, too,” I said to Roger. “The gralloch prayer, or something like it. That’s why I said I thought it older than the Church.”
He nodded, interested.
“I think that kind of thing is common to all primitive cultures—anyplace where men kill to eat.”
Primitive cultures. I caught my lower lip between my teeth, forbearing to point out that primitive or not, if his family were to survive, he personally would very likely be obliged to kill for them. But then I caught sight of his hand, idly rubbing at the dried blood between his fingers. He knew that already. Yes, I did, he’d said, when I’d told him he need not.
He looked up then, caught my eye, and gave me a faint, tired smile. He understood.
“I think maybe… it’s that killing without ceremony seems like murder,” he said slowly. “If you have the ceremony—some sort of ritual that acknowledges your necessity…”
“Necessity—and also sacrifice.” Jamie’s voice came softly from behind me, startling me. I turned my head sharply. He was standing in the shadow of the big blue spruce; I wondered how long he’d been there.
“Didn’t hear you come out,” I said, turning up my face to be kissed as he came to me. “Has the Colonel gone?”
“No,” he said, and kissed my brow, one of the few clean spots left. “I’ve left him wi’ Sinclair for a bit. The Committee of Safety, aye?” He grimaced, then looked at me and smiled. He pulled out a clean handkerchief, smoothed the long wisps of hair out of my face, and bound them neatly back with the folded kerchief, tied in a narrow band round my head.
“Oh, thank you!” I said in relief. He touched the back of my neck gently in acknowledgment, then turned to Roger.
“Aye, you’ve the right of it,” he said. “Killing’s never a pleasant business, but it’s needful. If ye must spill blood, though, it’s right to take it wi’ thanks.”
Roger nodded, glancing at the mixture I was working, up to my elbows in spilled blood.
“You’ll tell me the proper words for the next time, then?”
“Not too late for this time, is it?” I said. Both men looked slightly startled. I raised an eyebrow at Jamie, then Roger. “I did say it wasn’t for the pig.”
Jamie’s eyes met mine with a glint of humor, but he nodded gravely.
“Well enough.”
At my direction, he took up the heavy jar of spices: the ground mixture of mace and marjoram, sage and cayenne, parsley and thyme. Roger held out his hands, cupped, and Jamie poured them full. Then Roger rubbed the herbs slowly between his palms, showering the dusty greenish crumbs into the barrel, their pungent scent mingling with the smell of the blood, as Jamie spoke the words slowly, in an ancient tongue come down from the days of the Norsemen.
“Say it in English,” I said, seeing from Roger’s face that while he repeated the words, he did not recognize them all.
“O Lord, bless the blood and the flesh of this the creature that you gave me,” Jamie said softly. He scooped a pinch of the herbs himself, and rubbed them between thumb and forefinger, in a rain