“YOU DID START OUT to tell me something about Laurence Sterne,” I murmured drowsily, much later.
“So I did.” Jamie stretched and settled himself, a hand curved proprietorially over my buttock. My knuckles brushed the hairs on his thigh. It was too hot to lie pressed together, but we didn’t want to separate entirely.
“We were talking of birds; he bein’ uncommon fond of them. I asked him why it was that in the late summer, the birds sing at night—the nights are shorter then, ye’d think they’d want their rest, but no. There’s rustling and twittering and all manner o’ carryings-on, all the night long in the hedges and the trees.”
“Are there? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Ye’re no in the habit of sleeping in the forest, Sassenach,” he said tolerantly. “I have been, and so had Sterne. He’d noticed the same thing, he said, and wondered why.”
“And did he have an answer?”
“Not an answer—but a theory, at least.”
“Oh, even better,” I said, in sleepy amusement.
He gave a soft grunt of agreement and rolled slightly to one side, admitting a little welcome air between our salty skins. I could see the gleam of moisture over the slope of his shoulder, and the prickle of sweat among the dark curly hairs of his chest. He scratched gently at it, with a softly agreeable rasping sound.
“What he did was to capture a number of the birds, and shut them up in cages lined with blotting paper.”
“What?” That waked me up a bit, if only to laugh. “Whatever for?”
“Well, not lined entirely, only on the floor,” he explained. “He put out a wee plate on the floor filled with ink and a cup of seed in the middle, so that they couldna feed without getting the ink on their feet. Then as they hopped to and fro, their footprints would show on the blotting paper.”
“Umm. And what, precisely, did that show—other than black footprints?”
The insects were beginning to find us, drawn by the musk of our heated flesh. A tiny zeeeeee by my ear prompted me to slap at the invisible mosquito, then reach for the gauze-cloth that Jamie had pushed back when he rose to find me. This was fastened to an ingenious mechanism—Brianna’s invention—fixed to the beam above the bed, so that when unrolled, the cloth fell down on all sides, shielding us from the bloodthirsty hordes of the summer nights.
I pulled it into place with some regret, for while it excluded mosquitoes, gnats, and the unnervingly large mosquito-hawk moths, it also unavoidably shut out some of the air and all sight of the luminous night sky beyond the window. I lay down again at a little distance on the bed; while Jamie’s natural furnace was a great boon on winter nights, it had its drawbacks in the summer. I didn’t mind melting in an inferno of blazing desire, if it came to that, but I had no more clean shifts.
“There were a great many footprints, Sassenach—but most of them were on one side of the cage. In all the cages.”
“Oh, really? And what did Sterne think that signified?”
“Well, he had the bright thought of putting down a compass by the cages. And it seems that all the night through, the birds were hopping and striving toward the southeast—which is the direction in which they migrate, come the fall.”
“That’s very interesting.” I pulled my hair back into a tail, lifting it off my neck for coolness. “But it’s not quite the time to migrate, is it, in late summer? And they don’t fly at night, do they, even when they migrate?”
“No. It was as though they felt the imminence of flight, and the pull of it—and that disturbed their rest. The stranger it was, because most of the birds that he had were young ones, who had never yet made the journey; they hadna seen the place where they were bound, and yet they felt it there—calling to them, perhaps, rousing them from sleep.”
I moved slightly, and Jamie lifted his hand from my leg.
“Zugunruhe,” he said softly, tracing with a fingertip the damp mark he had left on my skin.
“What’s that?”
“It’s what Sterne called it—the wakefulness of the wee birds, getting ready to leave on their long flight.”
“Does it mean something in particular?”
“Aye. ‘Ruhe’ is stillness, rest. And ‘zug’ is a journey of some sort. So ‘zugunruhe’ is a restlessness—the uneasiness before a long journey.”
I rolled toward him, butting my forehead affectionately against his shoulder. I inhaled, in the style of one savoring the delicate aroma of a fine cigar.
“Eau de homme?”
He raised his head and sniffed dubiously, wrinkling up his nose.
“Eau de chevre, I think,” he said. “Though it might be something worse. Is there a French word for skunk, I wonder?”
“Le Pew.” I suggested, giggling.
The birds sang all night.
108
TULACH ARD
October, 1772
JAMIE NODDED at something behind him, smiling.
“I see we’ve help today.”
Roger looked back to see Jemmy stumping along behind them, his small fair brow furrowed in fierce concentration, a fist-sized rock clutched to his chest with both hands. Roger wanted to laugh at the sight, but instead turned and squatted down, waiting for the boy to catch them up.
“Is that for the new hogpen, a ghille ruaidh?” he said.
Jemmy nodded solemnly. The morning was still cool, but the little boy’s cheeks glowed with effort.
“Thank you,” Roger said gravely. He held out his hand. “Shall I take it, then?”
Jemmy shook his head violently, heavy fringe flying.
“Me do!”
“It’s a long walk, a ghille ruaidh,” Jamie said. “And your mother will miss ye, no?”
“No!”
“Grand-da’s right, a bhalaich, Mummy needs you,” Roger said, reaching for the rock. “Here, let me take . . .”
“No!” Jemmy clutched the rock protectively against his smock, mouth set in a stubborn line.
“But ye can’t . . .” Jamie began.
“Come!”
“No, I said ye must . . .” Roger began.
“COME!”
“Now, look, lad—” both men began together, then stopped, looked at each other, and laughed.
“Where’s Mummy, then?” Roger said, trying another tack. “Mummy will be worried about you, aye?”
The small red head shook in vehement negation.
“Claire said the women meant to be quilting today,” Jamie said to Roger. “Marsali’s brought a pattern; they’ll maybe have started the stitching of it.” He squatted down beside Roger, eye to eye with his grandson.
“Have ye got away from your mother, then?”
The soft pink mouth, hitherto clamped tight, twitched, allowing a small giggle to escape.
“Thought so,” Roger said in resignation. “Come on, then. Back to the house.” He stood up and swung the little boy up into his arms, rock and all.
“No, no! NO!” Jemmy stiffened in resistance, his feet digging painfully into Roger’s belly as his body arched backward like a bow. “Me help! Me HELP!”
Trying to make his own arguments heard through Jemmy’s roars without shouting, while at the same time keeping the boy from falling backward onto his head, Roger didn’t at first hear the cries from the direction of the house. When he finally resorted to clapping a hand over his offspring’s wide-open mouth, though, feminine calls of “Jeeeeemmmeeeeeeee!” were clearly audible through the trees.
“See, Mrs. Lizzie’s looking for ye,” Jamie said to his grandson, jerking a thumb toward the sound.
“Not only Lizzie,” Roger said. More women’s voices were echoing the chorus, with increasing notes of annoyance. “Mum and Grannie Claire, and Grannie Bug and Auntie Marsali, too, from the sounds of it. They don’t sound very pleased with you, lad.”
“We’d best take him, back, then,” Jamie said. He looked at his grandson, not without sympathy. “Mind, you’re like to get your bum smacked, laddie. Women dinna like it when ye run off on them.”
This threatening prospect caused Jemmy to drop his rock and wrap his arms and legs tightly round Roger.
“Go with YOU, Daddy,” he said coaxingly.
“But Mummy—”
“NO MUMMY! Want Daddy!”
Roger patted Jemmy’s back, small but solid under his grubby smock. He was torn; this was the first time Jem had so definitely wanted him in preference to Bree, and he had to admit to a sneaking feeling of flattery. Even if his son’s present partiality sprang as much from an urge to avoid punishment as from a desire for his company, Jem had wanted to come with him.
“I suppose we could take him,” he said to Jamie, over Jem’s head, now nestled trustingly against his collarbone. “Just for the morning; I could fetch him back at noon.”
“Oh, aye,” Jamie said. He smiled at his grandson, picked up the fallen stone, and handed it back to him. “Building hogpens is proper man’s work, aye? None of this prinking and yaffling the ladies are so fond of.”
“Speaking of yaffling . . .” Roger lifted his chin in the direction of the house, where the cries of “JEEMEEEEE!” were now taking on a distinctly irritated tone, tinged with panic. “We’d best tell them we have him.”
“I’ll go.” Jamie dropped the rucksack off his shoulder with a sigh, and raised one eyebrow at his grandson. “Mind, lad, ye owe me. When women are in a fret, they’ll take it out on the first man they see, whether he’s to blame or not. Like enough I’ll get my bum smacked.” He rolled his eyes, but grinned at Jemmy, then turned and set off for the house at a trot.
Jemmy giggled.
“Smack, Grand-da!” he called.
“Hush, wee rascal.” Roger gave him a soft slap on the bottom, and realized that Jem was wearing short breeks under his smock, but no clout under them. He swung the boy down onto his feet.
“D’ye need to go potty?” he asked automatically, falling into Brianna’s peculiar idiom.
“No,” Jem said, just as automatically, but with a reflexive kneading of his crotch that made his father take him by the arm, firmly steering him off the path and behind a convenient bush.
“Come on. Let’s have a try, while we wait for Grand-da.”
IT SEEMED RATHER a long time before Jamie reappeared, though the indignant cries of the searchers had been quickly stilled. If Jamie had got his bum smacked, Roger thought cynically, he appeared to have enjoyed it. A slight flush showed on the high cheekbones, and he wore a faint but definite air of satisfaction.
This was explained at once, though, when Jamie produced a small bundle from inside his shirt and unwrapped a linen towel, revealing half a dozen fresh biscuits, still warm, and dripping with melted butter and honey.
“I think perhaps Mrs. Bug meant them for the quilting circle,” he said, distributing the booty. “But there was plenty of batter left in the bowl; I doubt they’ll be missed.”
“If they are, I’ll blame it on you,” Roger assured him, catching a dribble of warm honey that ran down his wrist. He wiped it off and sucked his finger, eyes closing momentarily in ecstasy.
“What now, ye’d give me up to the Inquisition?” Jamie’s eyes creased into blue triangles of amusement as he wiped crumbs from his mouth. “And after I shared my plunder with ye, too—there’s gratitude!”
“Your reputation will stand it,” Roger said wryly. “Jem and I are persona non grata after what happened to her spice cake last week, but Himself can do no wrong, as far as Grannie Bug is concerned. She wouldn’t mind if you ate the entire contents of the pantry single-handed.”
Jamie licked a smear of honey from the corner of his mouth, with the smug complacency of a man permanently in Mrs. Bug’s good books.
“Well, that’s as may be,” he admitted. “Still, if ye expect to blame it on me, we’d best wipe a bit of the evidence off the laddie before we go home.”
Jemmy had been addressing himself to his treat with single-minded concentration, with the result that his entire face gleamed with butter, daubs of honey ran in amber trails down his smock, and what appeared to be several small globs of half-chewed biscuit were stuck in his hair.
“How in hell did you do that so fast?” Roger demanded in amazement. “Look what ye’ve done to your shirt! Your mother will kill us both.” He took the towel and made an abortive attempt to wipe some of the mess off, but succeeded only in spreading it farther.
“Dinna fash,” Jamie said tolerantly. “He’ll be so covered wi’ filth by the end of the day, his mother will never notice a few crumbs extra. Watch out, lad!” A quick grab saved half a biscuit that had broken off as the boy made an attempt to cram the last pastry into his mouth in a single gulp.
“Still,” Jamie said, biting thoughtfully into the rescued biscuit-half as he looked at his grandson, “perhaps we’ll souse him in the creek a bit. We dinna want the pigs to smell the honey on him.”
A faint qualm of unease went over Roger, as he realized that Jamie was in fact not joking about the pigs. It was common to see or hear pigs in the wood nearby, rooting through the leaf-mold under oaks and poplars, or grunting blissfully over a trove of chestnut mast. Food was plentiful at this season, and the pigs were no threat to grown men. A small boy, though, smelling of sweetness . . . you thought of pigs as only eating roots and nuts, but Roger had a vivid memory of the big white sow, seen a few days before, with the naked, blood-smeared tail of a possum dangling from her maw as she champed placidly away.
A chunk of biscuit seemed to be stuck in his throat. He picked Jemmy up, despite the stickiness, and tucked him giggling under one arm, so the little boy’s arms and legs dangled in the air.
“Come on, then,” Roger said, resigned. “Mummy won’t like it a bit, if you get eaten by a pig.”
FENCE POLES LAY piled near the stone pillar. Roger dug about until he found a splintered piece short enough for convenience, and used it to lever a big chunk of granite up far enough to get both hands under it. Squatting, he got it onto his thighs, and very slowly stood up, his back straightening one vertebra at a time, fingers digging into the lichen-splotched surface with the effort of lifting. The rag tied round his head was drenched, and perspiration was running down his face. He shook his head to flick the stinging sweat out of his eyes.
“Daddy, Daddy!”
Roger felt a sudden tug at his breeches, blinked sweat out of his eye, and planted his feet well apart to keep his balance without dropping the heavy rock. He tightened his grip and glanced down, annoyed.
“What, lad?”
Jemmy had tight hold of the cloth with both hands. He was looking toward the wood.
“Pig, Daddy,” he whispered. “Big pig.”
Roger glanced in the direction of the little boy’s gaze and froze.
It was a huge black boar, perhaps eight feet away. The thing stood more than three feet at the shoulder, and must weigh two hundred pounds or more, with curving yellow tushes the length of Jemmy’s forearm. It stood with lifted head, piggy snout moistly working as it snuffed the air for food or threat.
“Shit,” Roger said involuntarily.
Jemmy, who would normally have seized on any inadvertent vulgarity and trumpeted it gleefully, now merely clung tighter to his father’s leg.
Thoughts raced through Roger’s mind like colliding freight cars. Would it attack if he moved? He had to move; the muscles of his arms were trembling under the strain. He’d splashed Jem with water; did the boy still smell—or look—like something on the pig’s menu?
He picked one coherent thought out of the wreckage.
“Jem,” he said, his voice very clam, “get behind me. Do it now,” he added with emphasis, as the boar turned its head in their direction.
It saw them; he could see the small dark eyes change focus. It took a few steps forward, its hooves absurdly small and dainty under its menacing bulk.
“Do you see Grand-da, Jem?” he asked, keeping his voice calm. Streaks of fire were burning through his arms, and his elbows felt as though they’d been crushed in a vise.
“No,” Jemmy whispered. Roger could feel the little boy crowding close behind him, pressed against his legs.
“Well, look round. He went to the stream; he’ll be coming back from that direction. Turn round and look.”
The boar was cautious, but not afraid. That was what came of not hunting the things sufficiently, he thought. They ought to be gutting a few in the wood once a week, as an object lesson to the rest.
“Grand-da!” Jemmy’s voice rang out from behind him, shrill with fear.
At the sound, the pig’s hackles sprang suddenly erect in a ridge of coarse hair down its spine and it lowered its head, muscles bunching.
“Run, Jem!” Roger cried. “Run to Grand-da!” A surge of adrenaline shot through him and suddenly the rock weighed nothing. He flung it at the charging pig, catching it on the shoulder. It gave a whuff! of surprise, faltered, then opened its mouth with a roar and came at him, tushes slashing as it swung its head.
He couldn’t duck aside and let it go past; Jem was still close behind him. He kicked it in the jaw with all his strength, then flung himself on it, grasping for a hold round its neck.
His fingers slipped and slid, unable to get a firm grip on the wiry hair, stubbing and sliding off the hard rolls of tight-packed flesh. Christ, it was like wrestling an animated sack of concrete! He felt something warm and wet on his hand and jerked it back; had it slashed him? He felt no pain. Maybe only saliva from the gnashing jaws—maybe blood from a gash too deep to feel. No time to look. He thrust the hand back down, flailing blindly, got his fingers round a hairy leg, and pulled hard.
The pig fell sideways with a squeal of surprise, throwing him off its back. He hit the ground on hands and one knee, and his knee struck stone. A bolt of pain shot from ankle to groin, and he curled up involuntarily, momentarily paralyzed from the shock.
The boar was up, shaking itself with a grunt and a rattle of bristles, but facing away from him. Dust rose from its coat and he could see the corkscrew tail, coiled up tight against its rump. A second more, and the pig would turn, rip him from gut to gullet, and stamp on the pieces. He grabbed for a rock, but it burst in his hand, nothing but a clod of dirt.
The gasp and thud of a running man came from his left, and he heard a breathless shout.
“Tulach Ard! Tulach Ard!”
The boar heard Jamie’s cry and swung snorting round to meet this new enemy, mouth agape and eyes gone red with rage.
Jamie had his dirk in his hand; Roger saw the gleam of metal as Jamie dropped low and swung it wide, slashing at the boar, then danced aside as it charged. A knife. Fight that thing with a knife?
You are out of your fucking mind, Roger thought quite clearly.
“No, I’m not,” Jamie said, panting, and Roger realized that he must have spoken aloud. Jamie crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and reached his free hand toward Roger, his eyes still fastened on the pig, which had paused, kneading the ground with its hooves and clashing its teeth, swinging its head back and forth between the two men, estimating its chances.
“Bioran!” Jamie said, beckoning urgently. “Stick, spear—gie it to me!”
Spear . . . the splintered fence-pole. His numbed leg still wouldn’t work, but he could move. He threw himself to the side, grabbed the ragged shaft of wood, and fell back on his haunches, bracing it before him like a boar-spear, sharp end pointed toward the foe.
“Tulach Ard!” he bellowed. “Come here, you fat fucker!”
Distracted for an instant, the boar swung toward him. Jamie lunged at it, stabbing down, aiming between the shoulder blades. There was a piercing squeal and the boar wheeled, blood flying from a deep gash in its shoulder. Jamie threw himself sideways, tripped on something, fell, and skidded hard across the mud and grass, the knife spinning from his outflung hand.
Lunging forward, Roger jabbed his makeshift spear as hard as he could just below the boar’s tail. The animal uttered a piercing squeal and appeared to rise straight into the air. The spear jerked through his hands, rough bark ripping skin off his palms. He grabbed it hard and managed to keep hold of it as the boar crashed onto its side in a blur of writhing fury, gnashing, roaring, and spraying blood and black mud in all directions.
Jamie was up, mud-streaked and bellowing. He’d got hold of another fence-pole, with which he took a mighty swing at the rising pig, the wood meeting its head with a crack like a well-hit baseball just as the animal achieved its feet. The boar, mildly stunned, gave a grunt and sat down.
A shrill cry from behind made Roger whirl on his haunches. Jemmy, his grandfather’s dirk held over his head with both hands and wobbling precariously, was staggering toward the boar, his face beet-red with ferocious intent.
“Jem!” he shouted. “Get back!”
The boar grunted loudly behind him, and Jamie shouted something. Roger had no attention to spare; he lunged toward his son, but caught a flicker of movement from the wood beyond Jemmy that made him glance up. A streak of gray, low to the ground and moving so fast that he had no more than an impression of its nature.
That was enough.
“Wolves!” he shouted to Jamie, and with a feeling that wolves on top of pigs was patently unfair, reached Jemmy, grabbed the knife, and threw himself on top of the boy.
He pressed himself to the ground, feeling Jemmy squirm frantically under him, and waited, feeling strangely calm. Would it be tusk or tooth? he wondered.
“It’s all right, Jem. Be still. It’s all right, Daddy’s got you.” His forehead was pressed against the earth, Jem’s head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder. He had one arm sheltering the little boy, the knife gripped in his other hand. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the back of his neck bare and vulnerable, but couldn’t move to protect it.
He could hear the wolf now, howling and yipping to its companions. The boar was making an ungodly noise, a sort of long, continuous scream, and Jamie, too short of breath to go on shouting, seemed to be calling it names in brief, incoherent bursts of Gaelic.
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.”