Dogs And Cats
When I wake up again, rain is pattering against my window, and all the chaos is gone from my mind. Whatever that thunderous place between waking and sleeping was, it appears to have left me now.
Thank all the gods that may or may not exist.
It is November 3rd, 2078, and last night I had supper with Colum Mackenzie, Laird of Leoch. He and his brother interrogated me, and I was snippy and snarky and probably totally insufferable in return.
No doubt I've messed everything up, but, that's what happened - I can't change it.
I'll deal with it.
My stomach rumbles. The little timepiece over the desk says 11 A.M. I haven't slept this late since I was sick with the 'flu. I'm far, far too late for breakfast, certainly - and if I don't kick into gear right quick, I'm going to miss lunch too.
Also, there are several conversations I need to have with Mrs. Fitz. . .
It's difficult to jump out of bed when you have a sore ankle, but somehow, I manage it. I speed through my visit to the toilet, then grab the first casual set of clothes from the pile, and hurriedly dress underneath my long flannel nightgown. I undressed underneath it last night too. I might be in a rush, but I was gone from this room long enough last night for Angus and Rupert to have placed a dozen cameras each in here, and after the challenge I issued to them yesterday, I'm not taking any chances. I don't have time to search for said cameras either. I drag a brush though the wild, untamable mess my hair always becomes when it rains, and quickly give up. The clothes Annie gave me included a headscarf or two. I pull out a silky dark blue square of cloth, and tie it over my hair.
It will have to do.
I only have to ask two of the bustling strangers in the halls in order to track down where Mrs. Fitz should be. They're both cheerful and helpful, friendly and genuine - showing no signs that they know I plagued and insulted the Laird and his War Chief last night. They must know, but they don't show it. I'm not quite sure what this means. Do they not care that I'm a screwup? Are they glad that I'm a screwup?
Either way, maybe - perhaps - I haven't messed things up entirely.
And maybe the residents of Castle Leoch are just instinctively more helpful to a person limping around on a crutch than the Peace Agents I've met. Which, granted, isn't difficult. . .
I make my way past the kitchens to a small side room that overlooks the gardens. It's the combination office, sitting room, and "mud room" in which, I am assured, Mrs. Fitz spends most of her brief free moments. She isn't here now. No matter. I'm here now, and she soon will be. I sit down to wait.
The couch and chairs are the usual soft upholstered style I've come to expect. The desk is made of wood - as most furniture seems to be here. One whole wall is a row of windows looking out over the grey, dark rows of the garden. Plot after plot of rich soil, well turned and snug for the coming winter. No doubt it is a flourishing enough place in summer, but there are only a few straggling patches of green now. Idly, I wonder if they grow alisanders. . . There is a green-painted door that lets out into the garden, and if it were not so wet and dreary a day, I would long to go exploring. Just beyond the door is an archway into a smaller, rougher room, with a tiled floor, heavy benches, and two plumbed-in washing vats next to a large cupboard containing dozens of empty vases. I assume this is the "mud room" - though there is a remarkable lack of mud. In the main room there are three full bookshelves, several potted plants, four hanging lamps, a fancy area rug, and cushions and draped blankets everywhere.
Taken as a whole, there are more luxuries in these two rooms than any two in any Skycity could possibly offer.
One corner of the main room has a plumbed in handwashing basin next to a little freestanding cooking pad. The cupboard next to them has a glass door, and I can clearly make out a teapot, teacups, and at least two dozen boxes of tea, sugar, and - wonder of wonders! - cocoa.
It's been 20 years since I've had chocolate. When I was little, Father used to trade somewhat regularly with the Southern Pacific Fleet - New Guayaquil being one of only three Skycities in the world at the time that cultivated a hybrid cocoa plant. One season we had a particularly good sugar beet crop, and traded almost all of it for three Export ships full of nothing but cocoa butter, cocoa powder, processed but unsweetened bars, roasted cocoa seed pieces, and several crates of fertile seeds and seedlings, to go into GenTech's seed library and labs. Father was paid in sacks of the chocolate powder, and five whole ten-kilo boxes of the solid processed bars. Most of it he sold, but mother kept enough that for ten years of special occasions, we had hot chocolate, chocolate cake, chocolate sauce, and once - most glorious of memories! - chocolate truffles.
By the time we ran out, Father was trading more with the Asian Fleet, which means I've also tried coconut ice cream, pickled bamboo shoots, and rice wine - but nothing ever compared to chocolate, in my opinion.
Yet even a clearly labeled tin of cocoa isn't the most luxurious thing in this room.
Across from the couch where I've settled myself, there is an enormous fireplace. It's over one and a half meters square, and almost one deep, with five or six logs in a flaming pile in the center. They are held up by a fancy wrought-iron basket I don't know the name for, and a whole heap of brilliant coals are glowing around the base of it.
I know what a fireplace is because on Skycity 15, most of our electric stoves and personal space heaters have a setting that will display a picture of a log fire while active. The fancier models have pictures that move, and some even project sound effects.
The real thing is, as I am so quickly and repeatedly learning, entirely different.
This fireplace is actually burning wood. One might as well make polysteel rope out of water tokens. Why take such a precious resource, and consume it just to make a cheap, utilitarian product?
Although. . .
I do admit, the warmth from the blaze is friendlier, softer, and somehow, warmer than that of a space heater. And those flames. . .
There is a sly, crinkling, almost insidious hissing from the fireplace, and a mesmerizing flickering so real that I cannot look away. There is a shape, a motion, a presence to this sort of fire that no electric contraption could possibly replicate.
I stare deeply into its reddish-orange dancing, thoroughly charmed.
It isn't until one of them moves that I realize the two fuzzy grey lumps sitting in front of the fireplace aren't stray cushions, or some sort of large furry house-slippers.
No. These things are alive.
Animals.
I don't know what kind of animals, but they do seem somewhat familiar. . .
The first one is a very dark grey, mottled all over with a muddy looking brown. After a long, sinuous stretch, he flips his head - something about both motions are so obviously male I don't question the "he" - and walks somewhat stiffly over to my couch. He proceeds to sniff up and down the cushions supporting my legs. The creature is ugly - with notched and shredded ears, a short, scrubby tail, and grizzled whitish fur around its nose and mouth - not to mention disfiguring scars all over its head and face, culminating with a dark fold of furred skin completely obscuring an obviously empty eye socket.
And yet. . . He has an air about him that renders him so polite and professional, I almost want someone to introduce us.
He finishes sniffing, and with a sudden coiled spring, is on the couch with me. Before I can react, he has curled himself into a ball, and laid down on my shins. A deep, rhythmic vibration starts in his tiny, furry chest. His one eye closes, and he goes back to sleep.
I haven't recovered from the shock of this when the other cat - cats! I knew I recognized them! - uncoils from his place and comes over to me.
This one is a paler, cleaner grey, with faint stripes of black across his flanks. His pace is smoother, more elegant than the first. Something about him also says he is male, but of a very different sort than his companion. The first one's eye was black - this one's eyes are golden yellow. The first one made sure of his welcome - this one looks at me with such condescension I'm certain he would snub the Queen herself. He flicks his ears, and I wonder what plane of reality this majestic fairy thing came from. . .
He makes his way slowly over to me, his attitude not at all businesslike, and only slightly formal. The look in his eyes is less investigative and more. . . more. . .
Seductive?
Yes. He's prowling.
I grin as I watch him, recognizing an almost Human soul inside this animated scrap of grey fur.
He approaches my couch without any of the first one's hesitation, and leaps onto it without so much as a by-your-leave. He stalks along the couch's arm behind my back, his long, soft tail flicking me smartly on the ear as he passes. Then he jumps over my shoulder and lands with a thud on my chest - right next to my bruised ribs. I huff in surprise, but he is unimpressed, sitting down on my thighs and beginning to wash his face with a paw.
I watch the proceeding, transfixed, confused, and quite bewildered.
Cats. . .
Knowing what they are does not in any way help me to know what to do with them. They're sitting on me. I can't move from this couch until they do. I try not to panic. They are small creatures - I can move them if I have to. And yet, I somehow know that if I did, it would offend them, and I am singularly reluctant to do such a thing to this pair of gentlemen.
Certainly more reluctant than I was to offend the pair of gentlemen I ate supper with last night. . .
"Ah, ye'er heer, dearie!" says Mrs. Fitz, bustling in, "Maryanna said ye were waitin' fer me, and heer ye are!"
"Yes - sorry to intrude! - I. . . slept in, I'm afraid. It's been a long couple of days! So I missed breakfast, and I did want to talk with you. . ."
"Say nae moor, dearie!" She comes up to the couch and tickles the lighter grey cat under the chin - much to his indignation. "Ye mus' be right hungry. I'll bring some lunch in heer fer us, dinnae fash! Th'moor the merrier!" She stumps busily out again.
I shake my head. There's no stopping Mrs. Fitz.
And she saw the cats sitting on me and didn't comment! Is this sort of thing normal for cats? If it is, how does anyone ever get anything done here? There must be a way to. . .
A loud series of staccato animal sounds comes from outside, and I see a tall figure in a wet raincoat walking up the garden path. A door into the mud room opens, the sharp sounds continuing. The tall figure and a wet, furry animal, larger than the cats, burst into the mud room, instantly spreading the tiles with spatters of dirt and rainwater.
All at once, I understand why it is called a mud room.
The furry animal continues - barking? Is that the name of that noise? - and jumping up against the tall figure as he shakes the water from himself.
"Down, Laoghaire!" says Jamie's voice, "Can ye no' be still?"
The animal barks again, and shakes itself too. Jamie takes off his raincoat and galoshes, then grabs a large square of grey cloth - a towel, Mrs. Graham called it - from a pile of them stacked underneath one of the washing vats. The dog - dog! That is a dog! To the life, just like the pictures I've seen! But unequivocally louder. . . The dog tries to jump and lick all over Jamie, but he pushes it away gently, starting to rub it down with the towel.
"Aye, I noo," he says, his accent deepening into a soothing purr, "Ye canna be still, but try et, foor me, will ye, pet?"
The dog barks once more, then whines, and licks his hand as he finishes with the towel. "Aye, tha's my girl, now come and sit ye by the fire an-" Jamie finally turns and sees me, "Sassenach!"
His face lights up in a way I am proud to have caused. "Good morning, Jamie," I smile back, all of my worries and self-doubts instantly forgotten, "Who's your friend there?"
He nudges the dog into the room, "This is Laoghaire, and she's a right silly bitch."
The word sounds shocking in this context, even though he says it fondly. What on earth does he mean by that?
I hold out a hand, in curiosity and welcome. She comes over to me and sniffs my fingers, then gives a sullen snort and goes to lay down next to the fire.
Jamie is still in the mud room, taking his time over cleaning up the smears of mud all over the tiles, "Usually taking her for a walk isnae such a messy enterprise, ye ken, but she wanted out and about so badly today, rainin' tho' it is, I couldnae tell her no."
I look over at the black and white shape by the fire, all fluffed out from his drying with the towel. "She must be very special to you," I say.
"Aye, she is. The very pick o' the litter! But she's nobbut a pup yet - and the last prize pup Mrs. Fitz is like to get out of auld Glenna."
He takes out a box, and pours some hard brown nubbin things into a bowl, and puts the bowl on the floor. At the sound, Laoghaire gets up from in front of the fire, and goes to him. Apparently, the nubbins are food, because she starts eating them. He stands and watches her.
"Glenna?"
"Aye, Laoghaire's dam. She's a wee bit long in the tooth to keep havin' pups, more's the pity. She's the best bitch Mrs. Fitz has had in over fifteen years."
"Best". . . so, "bitch" isn't an insult here? Or, is that only when talking about dogs?
"Glenna's the sweetest critter on God's earth," he continues, "and t'best mam He ever made. Near forty pups she's had, and every one a born herder. He broke the mould when He made auld Glenna, that He did." He runs a hand over Laoghaire's head, "Tha's why Leelee here is a bit on the spoiled side, ye see. Still livin' in the house at ten months, hand fed an' all - none o' Glenna's other pups had such treatment. But Leelee's like tae be the last, and Mrs. Fitz doesnae want tae give her up jus' yet. Truth is, I dinnae want tae either." He scratches behind her ears, and Laoghaire's whole back end wags in appreciation.
I know it's ridiculous to feel jealous of an animal, but, in that moment, I do. At least, it's not jealously exactly, but more a feeling of distance, and resenting it. Jamie is so close to every aspect of life here, so easy in his skin - and here am I, the fumbling and awkward, capital-O, Outlander, so out of my depth that I'm still slightly unsure if the animal I'm looking at actually is a dog or not.
"Why would you have to?"
"Weel, a sheep dog isnae a house dog, ye ken. An' I'm no' a shepard. Once she's trained up, she'll be workin' all day, and no' in the stables and barn wi' me. No more friendly walks in the middle o' the day, and she'll be off tae the kennels at night! Aye, it'll be nowt but sleep and sheep for her soon enough. . ."
I know what a sheep is, though I've never seen one in person. They are the Multi-Purpose Cultivated Animal for the Southern Atlantic Fleet, just like chickens are the North Atlantic's MPCA, and pigs are the Southern Pacific's. But I had no idea sheep had a specific dog named after them. . . or were they named after the work?
I had always thought that dogs were useless animals, only surviving on Cold Islands because people liked them. That they can sometimes help us Humans care for other animals is quite a revelation to me.
Jamie picks up a chair from across the room and plunks it down next to my couch. As he sits, he notices the cats still sitting on my legs, and he greets them like people.
"Alec, ye auld cheetie! Sae this is where ye'ev been hidin' all mornin'!" He pokes the darker-furred cat in the shoulder, "I needed yer help wi' Firebrand, and here ye are, lazin' aboot, like a bum wi' nae job tae doo!"
Alec grunts, and shakes his head sleepily.
"Aye, fer shame tae bee sleepin' on t'job!"
Jamie's accent has again deepened in soft affection. He turns to the lighter grey cat.
"Et tu, Adso? Dinnae ye remember we had a date this mornin'? I was tae bring th'milk and ye were too bring yer own sweet self. And heer ye'ev stood me up foor oor wee Sassenach! Ye'ev wounded me Adso! Tae th'quick!" He holds out a hand near the cat's head, but Adso disdainfully ignores it, turning his head and washing behind his ears in scorn.
"Aye, p'rhaps I agree wi' ye," says Jamie, ingratiatingly, "Gi'en t'choice between nowt but coos an' my auld mug oot in t'barn, and the fire and Claire in heer, weel. . . ye'er right, I'd choose t'same as ye." He has brought his hand closer and closer to Adso's head while murmuring these words, and finally, Adso condescends to notice him, and pushes his face delicately against Jamie's fingers.
"He's of the Caste of Vere de Vere, ye understand," he says to me, "The very Cat of Vere de Vere."
I'm not quite certain what Jamie is getting at. "The. . . what?"
"Aye, 'ee's full o' himself, the wee moggy," says Jamie, moving on to petting Adso behind one ear, "A barn cat, born and bred, with nowt to 'is name, yet there 'ee sits, knowin' 'ee's God's oon whiskers, thankee verrah much! But we have an understandin'." Jamie strokes down Adso's spine and tail, and the cat preens under the attention.
Since it's clear Jamie knows what to do with these cats, I confide in him. "They came over and sat on me! And they won't leave! What do I do?"
He laughs, softly, but long, "Nowt tae do, Sassenach. Jus' let 'em be. When ye need tae leave they'll ken it, and move on their oon."
"Oh," I say, still a bit unsure.
"Did ye no' have a pet of yer own growin' up?"
"Oh. Um, no." I'm not sure what else to say. I know for sure I can't tell him that the closest thing anyone I've ever known has had to a "pet" is one guy I knew in school who would paint faces on sugar beets and bring them to class.
"That's tae bad. The wee critters obviously like ye."
"But. . . why do they like me? I'm a perfect stranger to them!"
"Weel, I understand why auld Alec here likes ye."
"You do?"
"Aye. He could tell yer foot was hurtin'."
I look at the cat sleeping across my ankles. "He could. . . tell?"
"Aye. Ye ken he was born wild - no' even a barn cat is auld Alec. Feral as they make 'em. But he loves his fellow creatures, he does. He walked inta the barn one day, an' sat down next tae Ginny - one o' our brood mares - while she was recoverin' from a colic. The next day he was in Falcon's box stall, curled up by the water bucket. And Falcon was nosin' him and whickerin' and acting all settled and happy, where usually he was so skittish he couldnae stand the wind tae go past 'is stall. And it went on like that - Alec would ken it whenever one o' the horses needed him, and he'd go and sit wi' them until their pain left them. He may be a cat, but auld Alec is a better horseman than I or any Human will ever be."
He strokes Alec's head, fondly.
"But. . . I'm not a horse, Jamie."
He smiles, "Nae, ye'er no', but on the rare occasions Alec decides tae indulge in a visit tae a fireplace, he can only survive the strictures of civilization if he can imagine all us Humans are his beloved horses. Fer a cat born wild, it's quite a change from barn tae house, ye ken."
"So. . . he came and sat on me because he thought I was a horse?"
"Mebbe," he says, kindly, "And mebbe he jus' kent ye were hurtin', and did after his nature."
I consider that for a minute. "And. . . Adso? Was he just doing according to his nature?"
"Aye. A'course." Jamie slides off his chair and kneels next to me, much like he did yesterday, "Adso is of the Caste of Vere de Vere - an arristocrat - royalty even. A cat of ivory towers and solid gold wine goblets, and jeweled embroidery glimmering in scented candlelight. It doesnae matter where he's from, that's who he is - real class." Jamie leans towards me, a soft smile on his face, "I ken he jus' recognized ye as one o' his own. . ."
I shake my head, amused, "Flatterer."
He leans a bit closer, "Nae, 'tis only the truth, Sassenach."
"But you don't know that, Jamie."
"I ken yer eyes are exactly the same colour as his."
"That doesn't mean we're the same-"
"I ken I'm always kneeling before ye. . ."
I'm just about to close the short distance between our lips, when a black and white ball of fur suddenly wedges itself between Jamie and my couch, forcing us apart.
"Laoghaire! Ye daft numptie clotheid of a dug!"
I laugh, "Well, at least one of the animals here feels like most of the Humans do!"
He lifts Laoghaire bodily away from him, and regards me, a confused look on his face, "What do ye mean, Sassenach?"
"Oh. . ." I sigh, all my self-doubt returning in a rush, "Last night was terrible, and I'm sure at least ninety percent of the people here must hate me now. . ."
"Tha's. . . no' what I've been hearin'. . ."
"Indeed, it isnae!" says Mrs. Fitz, finally returning with a huge tray piled with our lunch, "Sorrae it took sae long dearie - I was called on three errands, and there was alsoo a talcum powder emergency. . ."
I laugh at the very thought of what such a thing could possibly be, "No worries, Mrs. Fitz! Jamie's been keeping me company."
"Aye, and Adso, Alec and Laoghaire have as well," says Jamie.
"Tha's good then," says Mrs. Fitz, handing each of us a plate loaded with bread, meat, cheese, and vegetables cut into strips, "And ye, young lady, are most ceartainly no' hated by most o' us."
I take a huge bite of bread and cheese, and mumble around it, "Bu las nit wuz awful!" I quickly chew and swallow, "I not only put my foot in my mouth, I put several other appendages there too! There's no way the whole household isn't talking about the brash Sassenach and her over-bold tongue."
"Aye, that they are, dearie," says Mrs. Fitz, matter-of-factly, "An' to a man they're saying it did their hearts good tae see ye standing up tae Colum. There's none left here does so near often enough, save Dougal, and they say he couldnae hardly keep 'is eyes off ye all night! Bewitched, they're sayin' he is!"
I snort, but Jamie nods encouragingly at me, "Aye, the news 'round the stables is tha' both Colum and Dougal were impressed wi' ye from the start, and Colum intends tae give ye a job here on the farm."
"But that's impossible, Jamie!" I say, "Maybe the general populace here doesn't hate me, but Colum and Dougal do!"
"But why do ye think that, Sassenach?"
"Because they put cameras in my room, Jamie! I'd lay odds Mrs. Fitz put them there herself. And then they Mirrored the computer they gave me, and set Angus and Rupert to watch my every move. Including when I changed clothes, if possible!"
He starts back, shocked, then whirls on Mrs. Fitz, "D'ye mean tae. . . ? How dare they! TELL me ye didnae!"
She looks back at him, steadily grim, "A'coorse I didnae. Hospitality is a sacred trust. But Angus and Rupert asked fer my help tae place the cameras - and sae I did. Oor appeared tae, ye ken. I placed one wrong, and popped t'other in a jar o' water the second I could find good excuse tae do so."
"And I noticed something was up with the camera in my bedroom - the one she placed wrong - so I went ahead and did all the stuff I needed to do on the computer - searching for jobs, looking up words and things, and starting the process to get my ID card replaced, etc."
"Aye, and then what did ye doo?" says Mrs. Fitz, holding back laughter.
I look at her, shocked, "They told you? Of course, they must have, because you called me Mrs. Beauchamp right before supper, and at that point I hadn't told anyone except Jamie I was a widow. . . . but. . . they told you? How much, I wonder?"
She laughs aloud, "All o' it, dearie. I made them tell me evarything after ye searched fer poisonous mushrooms."
"After ye WHAT?" says Jamie, with a barely restrained bellow.
"Mirroring leaves signs on the mirrored device, Jamie." I say, "Most notably, new search windows will open with a quick double-stutter blip - almost like two windows were opened at almost the exact same instant. Which is, in fact, what is happening. I knew they had Mirrored my device. I went in and Mirrored them back though a Shadow window - that's the only way to effectively hide Mirroring - and it turns out they hadn't isolated my device properly. I could see the whole network, and all their activity. They were chatting about me, and talking about the cameras too, mentioning Mrs. Fitz and Dougal - you even got a mention." I grin at the memory, "So after I did the work I needed to do, I decided to mess with them a bit. I searched for poisonous mushrooms as a bluff, just to see what they would do, and then I hacked into their chat-app and told them off, and then I kicked the app off the server."
Mrs Fitz chuckles, "Ooch, Dougal got fair red in t'face after that, dearie."
"So, Dougal does hate me?"
She shrugs, "Mebbe 'ee does. Whoo can say?"
"But that's Dougal," says Jamie, "No' Colum."
"And are you going to sit here and tell me he doesn't have influence over Colum?"
"Nae," says Jamie, "But one thing I ken - Colum wouldnae - nevar, ye heer? - wouldnae put spy cameras on ye. Agh, he'd set Rupert and Angus on ye - tell them tae watch ye day and night - that he'd do. And mebbe he'd order this Mirroring business too, I dinnae ken much about that. But cameras in yer bedroom? Nae, he'd never do that - he's too proud o' his family reputation tae risk it."
"Which means - the cameras were all Dougal's idea, dearie."
"An' I doubt he's told Colum yet - seein' that his wing o' the house is still standin'."
"Aye, tae be sure, if Colum e're finds out, ye can bet there'll be hell tae pay. Hold it over him proper, an' ye can get the whip-hand on 'im, dearie."
All their unquestioning loyalty to me is making my head whirl. A completely unexpected lump rises in my throat. After eight years of war, I had forgotten that Humans like this existed.
"So jus' ye remember that when I tek ye up tae see Himself."
"To. . . what?" I blink. Wasn't that over?
"Aye, after ye finnish yer lunch, he'll be seeing ye." She takes in the confused look on my face, "Ye did say Dougal had promised ye an audience wi' the Laird, did he no'?"
"But. . . last night. . ."
"Last night was supper, dearie. No' an audience. Nae moor than a swarm o' bees is a meetin' wi' the Queen."
This leaves a surprisingly disturbing image in my mind, and I am silent for the rest of lunch.