“Go to your grannie,” he said to the boys, raising his voice. His eyes were fixed on the coon, which had fluffed itself to twice the normal size and was hurling insults at Bluebell, completely ignoring its audience. Jem and Germain reluctantly but obediently came to stand beside me, a safe distance away—or at least I hoped so. I repressed the urge to make them move farther off.
The gun went off with a sharp bang! that made Mandy scream. I didn’t, but it was a near thing. Bluey dropped to all fours and seized the raccoon, which had been knocked out of the tree by the shot. I couldn’t tell whether it was dead already, but she gave it a tremendous, neck-breaking shake, dropped the bloody carcass, and let out a high, warbling oo-hooo! of triumph.
The boys scrambled forward, yelling and pounding Fanny excitedly on the back. Fanny herself was openmouthed, stunned. Her face had gone pale, what could be seen of it behind a mottling of black powder smoke, and she kept looking from the gun in her hands to the dead raccoon, plainly unable to believe it.
“Well done, Frances.” Jamie patted her gently on the head and took the gun from her trembling hands. “Shall the lads gut and skin it for ye?”
“I … yeth. Yes. Please,” she added. She glanced at me, but instead of coming to sit down walked unsteadily over to Bluey and fell to her knees in the leaves beside the dog.
“Good dog,” she said, hugging the hound, who happily licked her face. I saw Jamie glance carefully at the dog as he stooped to pick up the blood-splotched carcass, but Bluey made no objection, merely woofling in her throat.
After the noise of the hunt—if one could call it that, and I supposed one could—the forest seemed abnormally silent, as though even the wind had stopped blowing. The boys were still excited, but they settled down to the absorbing business of skinning and gutting the raccoon, insisting that Fanny come admire their skill. With the loud part over, Mandy joined in enthusiastically, asking, “What’s that?” as each new bit of internal anatomy was revealed.
Jamie sat down by me, set the rifle at his feet, and relaxed, watching the children with a benevolent eye. I was less relaxed. I could still feel the echo of the rifle shot in my bone marrow, and was both surprised and disturbed at the feeling.
I looked away and breathed deep, trying to replace the bright smell of fresh blood with the mellower scents of the forest and the musk of fungi. That last thought made me glance down at my basket, where the fleshy raw red of the Fistulina hepatica showed in gashes through the layers of damp leaves. My gorge rose suddenly, and so did I.
“Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came from behind me, startled. “Are ye all right?”
I was leaning against an aspen tree, gripping the paper-white trunk for support, trying not to hear the noises of disembowelment going on a few yards away.
“Fine,” I said, through numb lips. I closed my eyes briefly, opened them to see a trickle of half-dried sap running from a crack in the aspen’s trunk—the dark red of dried blood—let go, and sat down heavily in the leaves.
“Sassenach.” His voice was low, urgent, but pitched softly so as not to alarm the children. I swallowed heavily, once, twice, then opened my eyes.
“I’m all right,” I said. “A little dizzy, that’s all.”
“Ye’re as white as that tree, a nighean. Here …” He reached into his sporran and came out with a small flask. Whisky, and I gulped it gratefully, letting it fill my mouth and sear away the taste of blood.
Cries and laughter from the children—I glanced over his shoulder and saw that Bluey was rolling ecstatically in the discarded viscera, the white parts of her coat now stained a dirty brown. I leaned over and threw up, whisky and bile coming up the back of my nose.
“A Dhia,” Jamie muttered, dabbing at my face with his handkerchief. “Did ye eat any mushrooms yourself, lass? Are ye poisoned?”
I waved the cloth away, taking deep breaths.
“No. I’m all right. Truly.” I swallowed again. “Can I—” I reached for the flask, and he thrust it into my hand.
“Sip it,” he advised, and rising, went down to the children, whom he sorted in quick order. The meat and skin were packed into my basket, the remnants shoveled behind a tree out of my sight, and the children sent down to the distant creek with firm instructions to wash themselves and the dog.
“Your grannie’s a bit tired from the walk, mo leannan,” he said with a quick glance at me. “We’ll just rest here for a bit ’til ye come back. Amanda, stay by Frances and mind her, aye? And you lads keep a sharp eye out; it’s no a good idea to prance through the woods smelling o’ blood. Ye see any pigs, get the girls up a tree and sing out. Oh—ye’d best have this,” he said, picking up the rifle and handing it to Jem. “Just in case.” He gave Germain the shot pouch and watched as they made their way down the slope toward the sound of water, more subdued now but still giggling and arguing as they went.
“So, then.” He sat down beside me, eyeing me closely.
“Really, I’m all right,” I said—and I did in fact feel much better physically, though there was still a deep quiver in my bones.
“Aye, I can see ye are,” he said cynically. He didn’t push further, though, just sat beside me, forearms resting on his knees, relaxed—but ready for anything that might happen.
“Je suis prest,” I said, trying to smile despite the thin layer of cold sweat that covered my face. “I don’t suppose you have any salt in your sporran, do you?”
“Of course I do,” he said, surprised, and reaching in withdrew a small twist of paper. “Is it good when ye’re peely-wally?”
“Maybe.” I touched a finger to the salt and put a few grains on my tongue. The taste was cleansing, rather to my surprise. I followed it with a cautious sip of whisky and felt remarkably better.
“I don’t know why I asked,” I said, handing him back the twist. “Salt is supposed to lay ghosts, though, isn’t it?”
A faint smile touched his mouth as he looked at me.
“Aye,” he said. “So what’s haunting ye, Sassenach?”
It would have been easy to brush it off, ignore it. But quite suddenly, I couldn’t do that any longer.
“Why doesn’t the dog trouble you?” I said bluntly.
His face went blank for a moment, and he looked away, but only to think. He blinked once or twice, sighed, and turned back to me, with the air of one girding his loins for something unpleasant.
“She did,” he said quietly. “When I heard the howling that first night, I thought—well, ye’ll maybe ken what I thought.”
“That—perhaps her master had come with her? Had—maybe put her on your trail?” My own voice was little more than a whisper, but he heard me and nodded slowly.
“Aye,” he said, just as softly. I saw his throat move as he swallowed. “To think that I’d maybe brought something home …”
I swallowed, myself, but had to say it.
“You did.”
His eyes met mine and sharpened, a dark blue nearly black in the shade of the chestnuts. His mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything for a minute.
“When she came alone,” he said at last, “and came to me, looking for shelter, for food … and then when the bairns took to her at once, and she to them …” He looked away, as though embarrassed. “I thought she maybe was sent, ken. As a—a sign of forgiveness. And maybe, by taking her in, I could …” He made a small helpless gesture with his maimed hand.