In A Name

Castle Leoch's infirmary is tucked into the far end of the family wing. It's a substantial hike from the side entrance in the guest wing Jamie leads me through. I am still a bit broody on the way, my shoulders still dully sore from Father Bain's beating, and my emotions still sparking raw from whatever that vision was on the way back.

A fetch, Jamie had said. A living ghost.

I shake my head. Impossible.

Right?

With all that has happened to me lately, the word "impossible" is rapidly losing all meaning. . .

Is anything impossible? Really truly impossible?

I reset my grip on my toolbox, Jamie thankfully letting me be.

He leads us silently through Leoch's long corridors and staircases. We've been walking a good five or ten minutes before I remember that this is my first foray into the family wing since my formal meeting with Colum. I perk up a little at that, my curiosity suddenly involved. I've grown mostly familiar with the guest wing and the main bulk of the house, the kitchens, and nearly all of the farm's outbuildings, but beyond that brief meeting with Himself, I've not seen anything of this part of the house.

Architecturally, over here isn't much different, so far as I can tell at first glance – the wall coverings, tile and carpeting are somewhat nicer, and the halls and doorways are a little bit wider, but if these things mean this wing is older - and thus has been updated more recently - or if the family wing simply receives more financial attention than the guest wing does, is more than I can immediately discern. What is instantly obvious is that there are many, many more children living in this section of the house than in the guest wing. Toys, clothes, books, dishes, babies' bottles, pots of paint, lumps of chalk, rocks, leaves, sticks, and art and science projects litter the halls. Instead of the smell of polished wood, books, and antique carpet that I have become used to, over here smells of laundry and dishes in every stage of cleanliness, bits of the outdoors brought indoors, muddy shoes, damp overcoats, a multitude of what I assume must be small animal pets, a great range of cleaning products, fresh Horlicks, stale cocoa, and, very distinctly, the food that the kitchens served for tea yesterday - but has not yet been aired out of the rooms today. All of the "good" books and fine china in evidence are on noticeably higher shelves, there are far fewer vases of fresh flowers scattered around, and I cannot detect a single scented oil diffuser anywhere.

I smile, suddenly completely relaxed. The rest of Leoch is a house. A place for business most of the time, and sometimes for fun too. A residence. A working farm. Perfectly functional, and quite livable. Notably impressive, and welcoming, in its own way. There is an entire wing for guests, after all.

But this wing. . .

This wing, is a home. The atmosphere is cozy, despite its size, and nothing here exists solely to impress anyone. Except, perhaps, the many collections of chunky clay sculptures that line most available window sills.

My smile widens indulgently. Has there ever been a parent of an even mildly decent description who hasn't displayed their child's artistic endeavours with exactly this level of pride? I know my parents did, in utter despite of the fact that my sculptural talents could at best be described as crudely primitive.

Jamie opens a door at the end of a long passage, and gestures me into the infirmary at last.

I can see at a glance that this is a fully kitted out suite of rooms – a very nice fully supplied miniature hospital – and even though the scatter of domestic detritus does seem to have penetrated into the "waiting room" area, the consulting rooms look and smell exactly as white and sterile as Dr. Woolsey's office did at home.

Suddenly, Jamie stands up straighter. Something around his eyes relaxes, and his expression becomes one of total peace and confidence. It is as if a strange weight has fallen away from him, leaving him finally free.

He looks so thoroughly in his element that I catch my breath.

James Fraser is always an impressive sight. A completely happy, bright, contented Jamie is something I never realized I needed to see. . .

Something in me yearns to be the one to bring that set to his shoulders, and that look to his face.

He points at a small sink, and makes us both wash our hands before taking me any further.

I wipe my hands dry, pick up my toolbox again, and follow him around the corner.

Unsurprisingly, Colum is already waiting for us, in the first and largest of the small side rooms. What does surprise us – or me, at least - is that he is already laid out on the examination table, on his stomach, wearing nothing but a small towel draped across his middle.

I blink a little, unsure of what to do next. Whatever age of the world I happen to be in, naked men are hardly my forté. . .

He looks up at our approach, and gestures imperiously across the narrow hall.

"Ah. Heer ye are then. My walker is in there, Mrs. Beauchamp."

His mouth twists slightly with pain then, and he looks ruefully over at Jamie,

"Twitched ma back, lad. See to it, will ye?"

"Of course, Uncle."

With a small sigh, Colum settles back into the thickly cushioned table, gesturing with his head in a strange mixture of peremptory conceit, blank medical detachment, and sweetly childlike relief.

Jamie ignores him, fussing in the corner with wraps and compresses, ointments, massage oils, and the like.

I nod faintly, but neither one of the men are paying me any mind.

With some effort, I turn my attention to the pair of prosthetic leg braces waiting for me across the hall.

I give myself a brief shake, and force myself to focus.

The braces are frozen in a strange position – and it looks like a very uncomfortable one. I push the powerup button. With a small quiet whirr, the lower left leg starts to twitch with an unsettling clicking noise, and the rest of the device twists a centimeter or two to the right, before snapping back to its original position. A few seconds later, the motion repeats, then again, over and over.

I push the power button again, putting the device back in standby mode. The clicking and twitching stop - which should be a relief, but I wrinkle my nose – I have no idea if I'm going to be able to fix this.

I plug Davie Beaton's diagnostic interface into a small slot near the base of the left hip. It beeps and blinks at me a few times, so I assume it's doing its job – I leave it to it. Then I open the troubleshooting booklet, and try to determine which maintenance readout will let me match the source of the problem with the proper protocol for fixing it.

I sigh a few times – whoever assembled this user's manual very clearly did not have time traveling farm technicians in mind when they wrote it. I smirk. I can't blame them for that, of course, but a great many of the abbreviations used baffle me far more than do the OS or programming language.

It takes an hour filled with minor yet pivotal frustrations before the braces show signs of yielding to treatment, but, finally, they do. Not much turns out to be wrong – a minor software feedback loop cascaded into a function lock on the servomoters in the left knee. If I have read the owner's guide correctly, this is not an uncommon problem with a device of this complexity. Whether it is or not, thankfully it is remedied simply enough – I smile grimly as I open an access panel and flip three switches in a very specific order. That ought to reset the relevant sections, and the built-in software self-repair programs should deal with the rest of it.

I hope. . .

Either way, I've done as much as I reasonably can do.

I let my focus broaden for the first time in a while, and I catch the tail-end of a discussion between Jamie and his uncle.

"Oh aye, lad, why not? What's one more, after all? I only wish ye could'ha claimed the boy without antagonizing Father Bain."

Jamie harrumphs. "Somewhat difficult given the circumstances, I think yee'l agree?"

"Oh, I ken, but nevartheless, nevartheless. The Father isnae as bad as ye paint him-"

Jamie snorts, "Abuse is abuse, Uncle."

"Aye, but there's abuse an' then there's discipline. . ."

"Any beating that leaves somun' wi' cracked ribs has gone far beyond discipline-"

"But the boy did admit to thievery?"

Jamie sighs, "Aye, but he might'ha stole the very rafters of the church itself an' he wouldnae have deserved the thrashin' Father Bain was givin' him – nae-un deserves a brutal beating like that – no mattar what they've done. Ye ken they don't, Uncle."

Colum gives a long, uncertain sigh. "I dinnae suppose they do, lad. Ye ken, these things were so much simpler in days gone by."

Jamie's voice lowers incredulously, "Ye cannae mean ye miss the days when a beggars had their tongues cut off and ears gouged out, or when a woman might be beaten for flirting, or when children were nailed to the stocks in the open square, an' that was called a light sentence an' a mercy?"

"Nae, nae – no' exactly," Colum shifts a bit under Jamie's ministering hands, "Et's only that the auld way was clear. God – an' the men of God – were always right, an' what the Chieftain said was law, an' ye did what ye were told or ye paid the consequences. An eye for an eye. . . it wasnae always just, or kind -"

"Or even civilized!"

"Oh aye, I grant it, lad, I grant it – but it was sure." Colum sighs again, "There's so much uncertainty these days. So many grey areas, so much that we auld men simply dinnae understand. . ." he pauses thoughtfully, then goes on, "Nae doubt et's just the eyes of nostalgia – you see, I admit it freely! - but sometimes the auld way appeals tae me. No' for the brutality, but for the sheer comfort of knowing. Knowing where ye were. Ye see?"

Jamie pauses before replying, "I. . . suppose I do. Dinnae ken if I agree – in fact I'm fairly ceartain I don't, but I see what ye mean – in general." He turns away from Colum's table, wiping his hands vigorously with a cotton towel.

"So what does this boy of yours call himself?"

A soft smile crosses Jamie's face, "Fergus. Fergus Henri."

"Mm. French, you said?"

"Aye."

"Weel than. An' just how far d'ye intend to go with this?"

Jamie's head jerks in my direction, "Ask Claire. T'was she who rescued him first – I only swooped in last minute tae mek sure she was successful."

Colum raises his head and looks at me, his face impassive, but his eyes grim, "Weel lass? Ye have this boy – what d'ye intend ta do with him?"

I take a deep breath before replying. Since rescuing Fergus, I've been too caught up in other things to give any thought to the future, but I do so quickly now. In fact, I am mildly surprised at just how quickly I am certain exactly what I want to do.

"Well, if he consents to it, of course, I'd like to adopt him – officially, I mean. Papers signed, name changed, the whole thing."

Colum's eyes widen a little, "Oh aye? An' are ye aware that as a non-citizen, ye cannot legally carry such a suit though even the first stages of official-"

"No," Jamie interrupts, "But she can co-sign on as second petitioner in my adoption suit." His voice is tightly controlled, but the look he sends over to me is both thankful and exultant, "Even if it means we must wait until the English finally leave Scotland, neither Claire nor I intend tae offer the lad annything less than full an' official adoption." He throws down his towel with finality, "An' now, Uncle, I've done all I can wi' massage."

"Still hurts. . ." Colum grumbles morosely.

"I ken. Ye have a few key meridians off. Yee'l need a jab or two for me tae deal with 'em properly - but I must go an' get my acupuncture kit furst – I didnae expect we'd need it taeday, but ye do. . ."

And so saying, he stalks down the hall and out of the infirmary. Distantly, I hear a door close behind him.

The silence left behind between Colum and me is wretchedly uncomfortable.

Colum breaks it with a gruff, low voice that doesn't ease the atmosphere at all,

"He's no' for ye, lass."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

His brow hardens, "He's no' for ye, lass. Dinnae try an' tell me ye dinnae ken what I mean. The two of ye – ye're dating, aye?"

I nod, and reply haltingly, "Y-yes. . ."

"Then, he's no' for ye. Ye ken?"

I have no words for this, so I don't react.

"Oh, ye c'n let him down easy, of course, but just you let him down soon. An' quickly, please."

"I. . . I don't. . ."

"An' I will say, it's a new approach. Tryin' ta adopt a child wi' the man – none of t'other chits has tried anything of t'sort – they all tried tae get at him through his cock, a'course – an' one oor two of the wiser ones tried his stomach, naturally – but ye're the furst tae actually get any sort o' hold on 'im, so I mus' congratulate ye on yer novel tactics." His expression hardens even further, "But still, ye may consider yerself warned - he's no for ye, lass."

My jaw clenches as I process this.

"Isn't that," I say, tightly, "For him to decide?"

Surprisingly, Colum's eyes soften a little at this. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and gives a small, imperious gesture at me.

"C'mere lass," he says, so softly he almost sounds conspiratorial about it.

Hesitantly, I cross the hall, stopping just inside the doorway of Colum's room.

"Closer," he gestures again, "Look at m'legs." He grimaces a little then, clearly in pain, and rests his head back upon his crossed arms.

I slowly step deeper into the room, unable to resist such morbid curiosity as I possess from leading my eyes to Colum's lower half.

The sharp white line of the towel ends just below his buttocks, and stretching out beyond that are two twisted, wrinkled, wasted bits of contaminated driftwood, rolling back and forth, back and forth, upon a dead beach surrounding a Hot Island. The brown, prematurely aged skin wraps the brittle, malformed bones in a frail, dusty-looking covering, leaving the wasted sinews and muscles standing out with obscene clarity. The anklebones of both feet have collapsed, and the toes of each are either painfully curled up, or unnaturally splayed out. It is impossible to imagine such things as legs, much less as living limbs attached to an animate creature.

"Quite something, aren't they?" says Colum, his voice eerily noncommittal.

"Yes," I say, matching his bland tone, but it isn't what I feel at all.

"Aye. Now then. When a man has felt such a death in his bones since he was very young, he gets to know the shape of death – the smell of it, the sound, the colour – ken?"

He glances over at me, and I nod.

"He gets to thinking about his legacy too – what, and who, he'll leave behind, and in what state. . ."

He sighs a little, and clears his throat.

"I'm hardly a fool, Mrs. Beauchamp. I ken what my son is."

I blink, and draw my breath in sharply, but before I can say anything, Colum continues, "He's a child, that's what he is. And he's goin' tae be such for many years yet – more years, maybe, than I have left to my own ledger. Oh yes. I've known that for a very long time indeed."

He looks straight at me then, the whole enormous family drama written clearly in his eyes.

"In the normal order of things, yes, of course wee Jamie could choose his own woman." He gestures expansively with one hand, "An' if she were a widow, an' older than him, or even a Sassenach, it wouldnae be a thing of any mattar – save pr'aps tae his mam, or his brothers an' sister. An' any reasonable mam or sibling would come 'round – given that the woman was a good woman – kind, an' generous, and true."

My mouth twists, reacting to the bitter undernote in Colum's voice, "But?"

"But, in this case. . . weel, what would ye have me do, Mrs. Beauchamp? Leave the governing of a large and difficult Clan in the hands of a mere boy? No! He must have a guardian until he comes of age, at least, and a steady, clearheaded advisor who will stay by him a good deal longer than that!"

"I still don't understand what this has to do with me, Mr. MacKenzie. . ."

He heaves a great sigh, "Dougal is a warrior, an' a fine one – but a warrior he is, an' no' at all cut out tae be a man of peace. One day he may have a go at changin' his spots, but he won't do so for Hamish, that I know. We don't need a man of war leading this Clan, an' that's a fact. The only other man I trust enough tae leave this Clan to is wee Jamie – he kens what they need, an' how tae lead them, an' he'll show Hamish how tae do it – next best thing tae me being here, ken?"

"Yes. . ." I say, still baffled, and prompting him to continue.

"Well, even if ye put aside the many useful partnerships Jamie could make by takin' a wife from one of our brother Clans – Grant or McCullough would be most advantageous – d'ye really think a Clan like MacKenzie would consent tae bein' ruled by a Sassenach? Even no' permanently, as a wife of a steward Chief?"

Understanding suddenly slams into me, and I burst out laughing. Blindly, I reach for one of the folding chairs over by the counter. By the time I get myself in hand, I've dragged it around to the head of Colum's bed, and manage to flop bonelessly into it, still chuckling spasmodically.

"An' what, pray tell," says Colum, coldly, "Is sae very funny?"

"Sorry," I say, running a hand over my face to try and regain some composure, "It's only that I happen to know that after the Clan Restoration Act, more than seventy Clans which hadn't had a Chieftain for generations, tracked one down through genetic testing, and do you know what? Well over half of the men and women they found were born and bred outside of Scotland. Almost a whole tenth of modern Clan Chieftains are Sassenachs, Colum MacKenzie. Including, if I'm not mistaken, the current Chieftain of Clan McCullough!"

I wave away the red bloom of rage I see growing in Colum's eyes, "No, no – don't you see? "Sassenach" is a state of mind. Where you're born doesn't matter. Who you're born to doesn't matter. If you want to be Scottish, you can be. It isn't about heredity so much as inclination. A rose by any other name, you see?"

"Blood," Colum growls, "Tells."

"Yes." I nod sagely, "It certainly does. But there is a lot more to the equation than that."

He only looks at me suspiciously.

"And anyway, aren't you being a bit premature?"

"What?"

"Well, dating is dating, of course, but marriage is a long way off, if Jamie and I are looking at marriage at all."

He looks at me, aghast, "Ye mean ye. . ."

I roll my eyes, "I've been here, what, six weeks? I like the man, of course I do, but marriage? We're still several steps short of being sexual partners, let alone married."

Shocked confusion covers Colum's face, "Then. . . then what is all this about adoptin' a child, an' being foster parents to him?"

"Oh that!" I slap my knee, "That isn't a grand plan any more than my dating Jamie is. He told you what happened?"

He nods.

"Then that's the whole of it. My single motive was to save a child from a vicious beating, Jamie came along and helped me do so. Anything more than that is just two ordinary adults dealing with the consequences of their choices. We could hardly leave the boy at the orphanage, could we? And petitioning for full adoption just seems like the decent thing to do, doesn't it?"

He nods again, blankly, "Aye. It does."

A devious impulse rises in me, some small part of my soul craving to pay Colum back for his assumptions.

"And besides," I say, casually, "If I use my maiden name, I don't think the petition will even be delayed past Transition."

"Oh, aye? What's yer maiden name, then?"

"Claire Moriston."

I watch closely as disbelief replaces Colum's confusion.

"And, you know, it's funny. I only looked up my old name because I vaguely remembered my father mentioning something about my Scottish ancestry one year during an international sporting event – can't even remember what it was, now. Or what he said." I shrug, "But the network site I found that gave me information about Clan Moriston, also gave me a bunch of information about Clan Fraser. And one Miss Davina Porter in particular. It said she was mother of the only known surviving male line of descent for that branch of the clan. And that she was English."

I grin a little, and look Colum directly in the eyes, "Which means that our "Wee Jamie" is just as much English as I am Scot."

He doesn't exactly smile at this, but I do see a distinct twinkle in his eyes as he appreciates the irony.

"And any Clan that couldn't accept being led by one or the other of us – or both – or even anyone like us – mixed, striped, mottled and spotted as we all are – doesn't deserve to survive in this modern world."

Colum harrumphs. A grudging agreement, if it is agreement at all, but I don't care. I've said my say, and shaken his impressions, if nothing else.

"Reminds me," he says, gruffly, "Some mail came for ye today. Great manila envelope. I gave it to Mrs. Fitz – ye can get it from her just as soon as ye're done wi' my wee device."

He glances across the hall to where the long-forgotten braces are sitting, waiting for me to finish what maintenance I can do for them.

It is clearly a dismissal, and I go back to my job, kneeling down to scan a readout just as Jamie returns. He is instantly back in conversation with his uncle, spouting specifics about acupuncture and energy meridians as easily and naturally as I speak about tractor engines.

I push a few buttons on the leg braces, and bask in the warm, easy flow of Jamie's voice.

Not for me, eh?

We'll have to see about that. . .