Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

At this cue, Rodrigo came in, Azeel a pace or two behind him. She looked as though she were wading into a pool filled with crocodiles, but Rodrigo’s manner was cool and dignified. He wore his best black suit, with immaculate white linen that shone like a beacon in the grubby brown light of the barn.

There was a palpable ripple of interest—and a just-as-palpable hostility at sight of him. Grey felt it like a jab in the stomach. Christ, was he going to get Rodrigo killed, as well as himself?

And they don’t even know what he is yet, he thought. He’d been told—often enough to believe it—that the fear of zombies was so great that sometimes even the rumor of it was enough that a crowd would fall upon the suspected person and beat them to death.

Well, best get on with it. He wasn’t armed, save for the regimental dirk at his belt. Nothing was going to get them through this but words, so best start talking.

This he did, presenting his compliments (that got the breath of a laugh—encouraging…) and stating that he came as the friend and representative of Malcolm Stubbs, whom they knew. Nods of wary approval. He came (he said) also as the representative of the King of England, who intended to overthrow the Spaniards in Cuba and take the island.

This was pretty bold, and Azeel stammered a little as she said it for him, but it went over quite well; it appeared that the crowd was quite united with the king in this desire.

“My friend, Se?or Stubbs, has asked your help in this endeavor,” Grey said, looking deliberately from one side of the barn to the other, speaking to all of them. “I have come to counsel with you and to decide how best to accomplish our desires, so that—”

“Dónde está el Se?or Malcolm?” Cano interrupted him. “Por qué él no está aquí?”

That didn’t need interpretation, but for the sake of protocol, he let Azeel translate it before replying that, alas, Se?or Malcolm had been arrested and was imprisoned in Morro Castle. Hence he, John Grey, had come to carry out Se?or Malcolm’s plan.

A small rumble of doubt, a shuffling of bare feet in the dust.

“For your assistance in this matter, Se?or Malcolm promised you your freedom. I promise this, too.” He spoke as simply as he could, hoping that this would carry sincerity.

Exhalations, quiet murmurs. They were worried—and were more than right to be, he thought. The barn was hot, packed with so many men, and damp with their sweat and the exudations of the drying tobacco leaves. Sweat was seeping through his linen.

Suddenly the other man—Hamid, it must be—said something abrupt and jerked his chin at Grey. The man was bearded, and it occurred to Grey that perhaps he was a Mussulman.

“This gentleman wants to know how you will accomplish the things you speak of,” Azeel said, glancing at Grey. “You are only one man. Do you have soldiers, weapons?”

Grey wondered what the views of the Prophet were with regard to zombies…because it was clear that he was going to have to use Rodrigo.

Rodrigo himself stood close beside his wife, his face calm and unmoving, despite the weight of eyes upon him, but Grey saw him straighten a little and take a deep breath.

“Tell Se?or Hamid”—and Grey bowed to the bearded man—“that I am indeed one man…but I am an Englishman. And I am a man of my word. To show that this is true, I have brought my servant, Rodrigo Sanchez, who will tell them why they may believe me and trust what I say.”

Heart thumping audibly in his ears, Grey stepped back and inclined his head toward Rodrigo. He saw Rodrigo squeeze Azeel’s hand lightly, and drop it, before he moved forward.

Unhurried, composed, civilized in a way that these men had never known, Rodrigo picked up a wooden bucket standing near the wall, carried this to a central spot in the light of the lantern, turned it upside down, set it on the floor, and sat down. Very slowly, Azeel moved to stand behind him, her eyes fixed on the men in the shadows.

Rodrigo began to speak, his voice deep, soft but carrying. There was an audible intake of massed breath from the audience, and a ripple of horror moved through the barn. Azeel turned to Grey.

“My husband, he says…” Azeel’s voice trembled, and she stopped to clear her throat. Then she straightened and, putting her hand on her husband’s shoulder, spoke clearly.

“He says this: ‘I have been dead. I died in the hands of a houngan, and I woke in my grave, smelling the rot of my own body. I could not move—how should I move? I was dead. And then, years later, I felt the air on my face and a hand on my arm. The houngan pulled me from my grave and told me that I was indeed dead. But that now I was a zombie.’?”

Grey felt the ripple of horror that moved through the room, and heard the intake of massed breath, the shocked murmur that had broken out at this. But Azeel put both hands on Rodrigo’s shoulders and glared over his head, turning her eyes from one side of the room to the other.

“I tell you—listen!” she said violently. “Escuchen!”

Grey saw Cano jerk back a little, whether from affront or shock, he couldn’t tell. But the man gave an explosive snort and over the murmuring in the shed said loudly, “Háblanos!” The murmurs stopped abruptly, and Azeel turned her head to look at Cano, the light of the lantern gleaming on her skin, in her eyes.

“Háblame,” she said softly to Rodrigo. “Sólo a mí. Háblame.” Speak to me. Only to me.

Rodrigo’s hand rose slowly and rested on hers. He raised his chin and went on, Azeel translating softly for Grey as he spoke:

“I was dead, and a zombie, in the power of an evil man, in the power of hell. But this man—” He moved his head a little, indicating Grey. “This man, he came for me. He came alone, into the high mountains, and he walked into the cavern of Damballa, the great serpent—”

At this, exclamations and agitations broke out in such a confusion of noise that Rodrigo was obliged to stop speaking. This he did and went on sitting there, unmoved as a statue.

God, he’s beautiful. The thought sparked for a moment in Grey’s mind and then vanished as Rodrigo raised a slow hand, palm out. He waited, and the noise died away in a smother of shushings.

“In the cavern of serpents, this man walked—alone—through the dark and through demons. He turned the houngan’s magic back upon himself, and then he came out of the cave and he took me back. By his own power, he raised me from death.”

There was a moment’s silence, as Azeel’s soft words vanished among the hidden leaves and the dark bodies. Then Rodrigo nodded, once, and said simply, “Es verdad.”

It’s true.

Utter silence for a long moment, and then a murmur, another. Wonder. Doubt. Amazement. Grey thought the language had changed; they weren’t all speaking Spanish but some other language—or perhaps languages. African tongues. He caught the word “houngan,” and Cano was looking sharply at him, eyes narrowed.

Then the bearded man spoke gruffly to Grey in English, jerking his chin at Rodrigo.

“Tell your zombie to go outside.”