Witchy Woman
Half in a dream, I shake the strange woman's hand.
"I'm Claire B-"
"Beauchamp, aye," she grins at me, her eyes dancing, "Ye'ev been the talk of Cranesmuir for days, pet."
"Oh. Have I? Sorry about that."
I fiddle with the sample vials I'm holding, unsure what to think, much less how to feel. But an almost eerie atmosphere has fallen over these plain and simple Leoch fields.
I don't think I like it. In fact, I think I'm frightened of it.
"Och, nae need tae be sorry. The rumours have been quite varied and entertainin'."
"Have they?"
"Aye. E'erythin' from Murtagh findin' an escaped wee lioness, tae ye were sleapin' in a pile o' leaves in the middle o' th'road, an' Dougal literally tripped ri' ower ye on his way hoom from campaignin', tae ye beein' heer tae offer dear auld Rupert a chance tae have a wee English rose named after 'im - ahgch! - there hasnae been such talk in town fer years, pet, tha' there hasnae."
"Oh," I say, deliberately vague.
"Ye positively willnae believe what Mrs. Hunt - she owns the general goods shop next door tae me, ye ken - what she said tae me when I towld her I was comin' oot this way. . ."
As she prattles on, my hackles continue to rise at this apparition of a woman, which is odd in itself, since - other than her inexplicable method of arrival - I can see no good reason to feel that way about her. She's being a bit over-familiar, perhaps, and entirely too suggestive, certainly, but neither of those is a threat to me, not from her, and especially not here and now.
Although that doesn't explain my sudden overwhelming feeling of. . . what is it I'm feeling? It isn't just vague eeriness, it's more than that. It isn't fear, nor jealousy, nor disgust, mostly. . . it isn't even primarily wariness. No. It's. . . it's. . .
Deja-vu.
Yes. That's it.
There's something, something about her that I'm sure I recognize. Something I've seen before. Heard before.
But from where? Or from who?
I prim up my mouth in a decidedly Central gesture, declining to engage in her overly voluble gossip.
At last she pauses her stream of words, and notices my reaction. Her lips twist, wryly, "Och! There's nae need tae get sae English ower it awl, pet!" She pats my arm and eyes me teasingly, I think in an attempt to be reassuring, but she only succeeds in setting off more of my instinctive alarm bells, "Th'most o' it is jus' mince - good-natured flights o' fancy erry'un kens isnae true, but iff'n it makes fer a good mid-mornin' chatter, whear's th'harm, aye?"
I narrow my eyes at her, "And. . . the rest of it?"
She laughs, "Pa-yoo-er jealousy tha' it wasnae they whoo were asked tae sit at High Table wi' The MacKenzie! Nowt tae fash ye, tae be shoor!"
I try and smile a bit, "So. . . Ms. Duncan. . . can I. . . help you, in some way?"
"Weel, I dinnae ken," she says, slyly, "I ha' this delivery order fer a quarter hectare's worth o' crop sensors, and a rental confirmation packet for a Reinhardt Crop Regulator, model-512 , but both are made out tae a. . . Geordie Mackenzie?"
I nod, "Geordie is one of my assistants in the manager's barn, yes."
"Sae eet's troo then, is et?" she grins, jumping in place a little, "Colum's gone and got himsel' a Sassenach Farm Manager?"
I try and shake off all the things that seem odd about this woman, and the strange feelings interacting with her is giving me, and deal with the situation as I would any normal meeting with a fellow worker and tradesman. I realize it is a test, of sorts. Today has been so easy - the fractured feelings and looming tensions of yesterday entirely gone from my mind. Today, I've been smoothly switching between Girlfriend Claire, Farm Technician Claire, and Farm Manager Claire - all with the unconscious ease of someone who is always safely and securely residing inside her own head. But, that's not entirely a surprise, given that my only companion has been Jamie. Out of everyone I've met here, he is the one I trust the most, hands down. Jamie has been as crystal-clear as his eyes when it comes to me, and it makes being with him breathtakingly simple and rejuvenating. No need to analyze or question his motives, or wonder about possible double meanings in the things he says. I just get to be, whoever I need to be, in the moment.
But now, with this unexpected encounter, it is as good a chance as any to see if I'm rejuvenated enough for Warrior Claire or Investigative Scientist Claire to come out and play too, and still leave my psyche in one piece.
"As I understand it, Ms. Duncan, that's not a very polite thing to call me."
She smiles, but her eyes harden, "Mrs. And I dinnae mean anythin' by it, pet."
I raise my chin, "Now that I find very difficult to believe."
"Doo ye now?"
"Yes. You strike me as the very model of a person who speaks their mind, Mrs. Duncan."
She throws her head back in a great shout of uninhibited laughter, "Weel yoo do have me thear, right enough, my duck!" She pats my arm again, "Nae offense, aye? All in th'spirit tha' 'tis meant?"
"Oh, no offense taken, to be sure, Mrs. Duncan," I say, very carefully polite and proper, "But to answer your question, yes, Colum has seen fit to ask for my services in managing his arable fields. Hence, our order for a crop regulator."
Just as suddenly as he disappeared, Jamie re-emerges, standing up in the brush. He makes a partial gesture towards me, but then he notices our visitor, and does not wave, nor call out.
Geillis notices my attention shift, though, and turns from me, fixing her eyes on him, as he slowly wades though the unruly thickets of green and brown.
"Mmmf," she makes a Scottish sound somewhere in between a grunt and a groan, "Please Claire, please tell me ye'ev tasted yonder great sweet block o' tablet! Oor a'least say tha' he's tasted ye?"
I have no idea what a 'block of tablet' is, but her implications are thoroughly clear.
"A lady doesn't kiss and tell," I say, as neutrally as possible.
"Och, sae there's been kissin' then?" she says, hopefully.
I try, but I can't quite hold back a smirk. Kissing indeed! What Jamie and I have done might be called "kissing" in the same sense that a Skycity might be called a "personal transport vehicle".
Geillis sees my expression, interprets my silence, and crows aloud.
"Ooo, ye dinnae ken what a relief that is tae me, pet," she grins, and loops her arm through mine, "I couldnae believe the good God made a man like our Jammie tae be a celibate."
Now that's a name of his I haven't heard. . .
"Jammie?"
"Aye, hasnae he towld ye? He has th'most delicious initials. James Alexander Malcolm MacTavish. JAMM, for short, ye ken? All the girls in town call him Jammie Dodger - an' jus' look at the wee strawberry biscuit!", she gestures at him, still half a field-width away from us, "'Tis a perfect nickname, aye? Dinnae ye jus' wan'tae dunk him in yer tea? An' then nibble 'til ye cannae see straight?"
Well. . . actually, yes. Yes, I do. But I can hardly say that. Not here, not now, in this company. I fall back to a Skycity over-literal response.
"He doesn't like tea."
At this, Geillis gives me a very quick, very strange double-take that I decide to ignore.
"Besides," I continue, "I'd call his colouring cinnamon before I called it strawberry."
She sighs, "Aye, he's a grand red stag, tha's true enough."
I pull my arm away from hers, and plant my fists on my hips, "So he's a stag now too? Is there an end to this. . . lascivious litany of yours?"
She jerks a long, shapely thumb in his direction, "When eet's tha' great Viking god we're talkin' aboot? Nevar, pet. Nevar evar."
She hasn't been at all quiet this entire time, and as Jamie approaches us, she doesn't lower her voice in the least, "Ee's been heer three years now, with nary a rumour of a lass - oor a lad, oor whoe'er else he may care tae fancy, until taeday. Imagine it! Three years!"
"I've been heer four years, Geillis, an' ye ken I can hear ye, aye?" Jamie hands me the two specimen vials he's still carrying, and gestures for me to give him the three empty ones I'm holding.
"Aye, a bit of a waste if ye didnae, Jammie my lad!"
He puts the empty vials in his pocket, and draws himself to his full height, "It's yer time yer wastin', Mrs. Duncan. An' mine."
She blithely waves him off, "Wastin' time, he says! When I've been worrit sick fer ye, day and night an' all - bein' so deid scairt tha' all yer repression was goin' tae explode ye inta smithereens one o' these fine days!"
Jamie scoffs, shaking his head, an exasperated look on his face, "Small danger o' that."
"Och, aye, ye were in danger of it laddie!" she shakes a finger at him, "An' eef ye had, where would us pore women be then?"
He rolls his eyes, "Ye'd be in t'same place ye were before, Mrs. Duncan. Marrit. Tae a man who isnae me."
He takes a step closer to her, bringing all his imposing bulk to bear while trying to make his point. She doesn't even seem to notice, pointing up at him and snapping like a tent flap in a gale.
"Aye. Marrit. No' blind."
"Well, ye soon will be if ye dinnae take care."
"Aw, pish. Auld wives tales an' ancient grumblin' Catholics cannae keep me from enjoyin' meself."
"Och, aye? An' what aboot auld Arthur?"
"Aye, he's been known tae enjoy himself too, on occasion. What of it?"
"Agch, ye'er Hell's own handbasket, Geillis Duncan!" Jamie has finally raised his voice, but she only laughs.
"Now that's a term fer it I havenae heard! Go on, then. I like how ye think."
"Not that this isn't a fascinating subject," I interrupt, desperately holding back my own frantic desire to laugh at their exchanges, "But Mr. MacTavish and I have a number of fields to test before we take our lunch break, and I would very much like to at least see the crop regulator today."
Slowly, Geillis concedes the battle, at least for the moment, crossing her arms and tossing her head like a naughty five-year-old, thwarted in her torment of a baby chicken.
"Och, Mr. MacTavish, is it? I hoop ye'ev been practicin' yer knot-tyin' techniques, Jammie, my lad - they may come in useful."
With this she winks, whirls, and strides off, back through the brush and into the woods.
We both stare after her, making good and sure she's gone before we say anything.
"Who. . . in the world was that, Jamie?"
"Geillis Duncan," he says, flatly.
"So I gathered."
He sighs, "Local business owner, wife o' Cranesmuir's Procurator Fiscal, inveterate gossip. . . and reputed worshiper of every sex god and goddess Humankind has evar invented."
"Is that so?" I deadpan, "You astonish me."
He hands me back one of the empty vials, still warm from its sojourn in his pocket, "Go walk yer field, mo Sorcha. I'll meet ye back here."
The timeless, peaceful silence of these upper fields is doubly impressive after such a loud interruption. Back at the runabout, both of us are reluctant to break it.
The next five fields are each bounded on all four sides with low stone walls, a single gate opening onto each enclosure. They are smaller fields than common for Leoch, but they are also noted in the books as being some of the oldest under tilth here. For over six hundred years, these very plots of earth have produced wheat, barley, and oats - the staple grains of this land, the building blocks of its society, and the very props of its history.
Taking samples from them, I feel like some mystical blend of an archeologist and a surgeon, peeling back layers of time itself, to view the still-beating heart of a beautiful piece of living history - a rare, precious past, whose future has been placed in my hands.
I linger so long at the final field in this section, Jamie is waiting for me at the runabout, having finished walking all four walls long before I could pull myself away.
"I wonder how they've managed to keep this set of fields under plough," I say, dreamily gesturing at the long upper strip receding to our left as Jamie drives us to our final set of fields for today, "A tractor could barely fit through those narrower gates, let alone a seeder or a harvester."
Jamie smiles, "They dinnae use a tractor, Sassenach."
I look at him, questioning.
"Horses, ye ken," he says, his eyes gently admonishing me, "A horse-drawn plough, seeder, harrow, an' all - they can make it through those gates very well."
"Oh," I say, conjuring up in my memory several of the books on farming history I read in school. Yes. Horses did used to play quite a role in farming, didn't they? "Well, that's more your township than mine."
"Township? Ye mean province?"
I blink, slightly surprised. This is essentially the first time I've got my idioms crossed ever since fixing the Rover. I consider that rather impressive, what with a two hundred year gap between me and everyone here. Thank heaven it was in Jamie's presence, and not Dougal's.
"Province. Yes, that is what I mean. But even so, I can't see how those fields make any profit. The effort put into them must very nearly equal anything got out of them."
"Ahh, but ye see, those fields grow gold an' silver, Sassenach," he says, his eyes twinkling.
I chuckle, "Gold and silver?"
"Aye, people rent them. Them an' the untilled sward between them an' the trees there," he says, pointing.
"Rent them? Who?"
"Oh, that upper section has been very popular over the years. Movie directors, historians, experimental archaeologists, LARPer conventions, Ren Faire organizers, historical reenactors, tourists - it pays Colum tae jus' announce it whenever the horses will be doing anything at all in those fields. E'en if it's just a day's harrowin', like as no' more cameramen will show up than ye can shake a stick at. Put the ploughman in any one of a dozen period costumes, and his entire day's work could end up as b-roll in a score of television dramas - every second of which is owned by Leoch Farms, and ye can bet yer boots Colum exacts full payment for their use."
"Oh, I see." I'm unsure what "television" is, but what he means is clear enough.
Silence falls between us again. An uncomfortable silence, this time.
"Where did she appear from, Jamie?" I ask, knowing I don't need to explain who "she" is.
He shrugs, "There is a path through the woods there that does connect up tae the road down tae Cranesmuir. It's a five minute walk from the path tae that corner field, if ye ken where ye'er going, a'course. But what she was doing there now, taeday, when she intended tae drive 'round tae deliver yer device anyway. . . I dinnae ken. Best no' tae ask, I expect."
We've pulled up at the last section of fields, and he makes to get out. I stop him, holding on to his shoulder with an intensity that surprises us both.
"You'll tell me if I ever go overboard like that, won't you Jamie?"
He blinks, "What are ye on about?"
"Well, you may have noticed, but I do happen to like flirting with you," I look away from him, suddenly inexplicably ashamed of myself, "And kissing you, and teasing you, and. . . " I stroke my hand across his nearest palm, combing my fingers though his, ". . . touching you. But I'll stop in a minute if you ever feel uncomfortable, I hope you know tha-"
The rest of my words are lost in his jacket as he crushes me to his chest. One of his hands cups my head, and he speaks into the tangles of my hair.
"Th'lasses like me, Claire. So do more than a few lads. And I ken what for." His fingers tighten and release against me, "But, ye ken the real reason they call me Jammie Dodger is I'm always findin' ways to avoid them, aye? I dinnae encourage it. Jus' the opposite. I dinnae like tae be hunted. Like as if my life were some manner of game fer some'un else tae play, wi' my pelt as the prize." He pushes me away just far enough that he can look in my eyes, "James Fraser has enough, and more than enough of that tae deal with. Jamie MacTavish doesnae need it too."
I nod, "I know - I understand. That's what I mean, Jamie. I don't want you to think I like you just because. . . I mean, I don't know that I'll ever be. . . ready for. . . I don't know that I'll ever want. . . to. . ."
And, just like that, Time Traveler Claire comes out to play. I don't know what took her so long, but she arrives in my mind like a screeching, freezing storm, full of destructive winds and icy daggers. She is cold, cruel, brutal, and deeply, deeply honest.
How unfair is it of me, to offer anything at all to Jamie - sweet, kind soul that he is - when I have no idea how long I will be here? When I only stay here at Leoch specifically because I'm looking for something to do to improve the future, and then go home? How awful is it to have given him any part of myself? To expect any part of him in return?
What have I been thinking?
What on earth are we doing?
He's getting attached. I'm getting attached.
I can't help it. . . he probably can't either.
I feel wretched. But. . . I can't stop now. . .
I am a terrible, terrible person.
I try to fight back the scalding blush of shame that's overtaken me, "But that's no excuse, not if you feel like I'm. . . playing with you."
"Well, are ye?" he says, practically.
"No! Not. . . like that." No. What I'm doing is far, far worse than merely leading you on, my lad. . . "But. . . but, I am. . ."
"Aye?"
I burrow back into his jacket front, "I am. . . having fun."
His arms go around me, and he speaks softly next to my ear, "An' does that make this jus' a game tae ye, then?"
"No."
No. This is not a game. This is a disastrous collision of worlds, destined to eventually explode both of us into atoms. Oh, Jamie. . . for two hundred years you've been dead, why did I have meet you now?
"An' d'ye still wan'tae be my girlfriend?"
"Yes."
Heaven help me, that's God's honest truth.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, "Then have all the fun ye want, Sassenach."
I look up at him, "But. . . what about you?" I have to give him an out. I must. He has to have a chance to be free of me - to stay free of me. . .
He laughs, sharply incredulous, "D'ye really think I'm no' having fun? D'ye seriously believe a man who's earned the name "Jammie Dodger" by avoiding lasses would spend as much time as I have wi' ye, if I didnae want tae?"
"But. . . listening to her, Jamie, I realized that I. . . I have. . . from the minute I met you, I have. . ."
Give him the out, Beauchamp! Give him the best reason in the world to not want you anymore. Give him the chance to live his life, how he wants, in his own time. Do it now!
"Aye? Have what?"
"I've objectified you. Unashamedly stared at you. Touched you without permission. Thought about you like I have no right to do. . . when we. . . we might never even. . ."
And oh, my lad, my lad, that isn't even the half of it.
He smiles broadly, "So? Thoughts arenae actions. Consent can be non-verbal. It isnae like I've been complainin', now has it? An' if ye think ye'er the only one of us who may oor may no' have been struggling no' tae objectify. . ." he groans and curses roundly in Gaelic, "A plague on Geillis Duncan an' her gossipin' tongue! That she should have made ye feel like one of those silly lasses in Cranesmuir!"
If only that were all Geillis has brought upon me today. . .
He tangles his fingers in the hair behind my ears, and suddenly I am terrified of what he is about to say.
"Ye never jus' look at me, Claire, ye. . . make me feel worth lookin' at. Like ye see something in me nae'un else evar has. Like ye. . . need me. . . an' like ye still would, e'en if I looked like auld Alec. Ye tease me like it doesnae matter that I've been thrown more lines than a ten pound salmon, or grabbed at so often I wilnae even go tae a pub anymoor, an' hardly dare wear my kilt in public. Ye talk to me like, ifrinn, ye kiss me like. . ."
"Yes?"
He is destroying me in more ways than I can count, but God forgive me, I don't want him to stop. . .
"Like this is moor than. . . just fun."
It isn't the answer he wants to give. It isn't the answer I want to hear.
But it's where we are, and I must deal with it.
I sigh deeply, heart torn in two hundred pieces, scattered across the years, "It is more, Jamie. I just don't know how much more, yet. . ."
Give him the out again, Beauchamp! Do it!
". . . but after four years on the run, I don't think I'd blame you if. . . if you wanted a sure thing. . ."
Because I'm very, very not that, my lad. . . The only thing sure about me is heartbreak.
He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheekbone, "D'ye really think I havenae had a relationship in four years jus' because I've been on the run? Nae. . . I've been waitin'. Jus' like any man of sense. Waitin' fer the right one tae take a chance on. That sort o' waitin'. . . it's worthwhile."
I'm screaming inside, with how wrong, how right, how impossible this all is. . . and how real, how perfect, how utterly, utterly horrible. . .
"So it doesn't bother you that you might. . . we might. . . wait. . . forever?"
Does forever count when one of us has already been dead for two centuries?
"Agch. A week is hardly forever, mo leannan. And look how far we'ev gotten in that time. There are promises between us, an' plans. That's moor than enough, for now. We have time. There's nae need tae panic, and less need tae rush. And no need at all tae listen tae anything Geillis Duncan says."
Promises and plans. Promises I will keep. And plans I will fulfill.
But after that. . . I will. . .
No.
No, no no no no.
My head whirls, like I've just stepped back from the edge of an abyss.
Maybe it makes me the worst person imaginable, but I can't give him up yet. Not just yet. It has only been a week.
We have time. Surely, we have time.
Or I have time.
Or time has me. . .
With a great silent wrench of my heart, I banish Time Traveler Claire, and Girlfriend Claire reaches out to touch Jamie's cheek. I brush my thumb just under his eye, and let my fingers sweep around the curve of his ear, pushing back a fall of his curls at the same time. The easy, vibrant, living feeling he always brings out in me wells up in my heart, and pours from my eyes, filling the space between us. The sharp, fiery blue of his own eyes soften as he looks at me, and he smiles with such a dear, sweet, homey glow to him, I know it would be worse than murder if I pushed him away from me now. . .
Damned if I do. Damned if I don't.
How can I choose between hell and hell?
And if those are my only choices, is it so wrong to indulge in a little heaven on the way?
"And you'll tell me if I. . . overstep?"
"Aye. Jus' as I expect ye tae tell me if I do."
I raise my eyebrows, "I think I have, actually. . ."
He laughs, softly, "Well, there we are, then," he nods at the waiting fields behind me, "Let's finish this, aye?"
I grab a bag of vials and follow him, already more finished than he has any notion of.
We walk these last plots in silence. It is a different kind of silence than has been between us yet. This is the silence of uncertainty. Of doubt. Of wavering, underlying, niggling fear.
I hate it. But there's not much I can do about it, except pray, wordlessly, fervently, to whatever gods may or may not exist.
The last vials are labeled, and set safely in the bed of the runabout, when I finally think of something I can say aloud.
"Can I drive back to the barn, Jamie?"
"A'course," he gestures at the pilot seat, "Heer. Take minute tae sort yerself."
I hop in. And he's right. It takes a few minutes for me to figure out the controls, and how my hands and feet and head must interact with them. But after that, it's easy, the tiny electric engine humming as we skirt along the grey lines of fencing that lead off into the distance, towards house and barn and garage. . .
There is still a sting of doubt between us. An acidic flavour of worry and shame.
Our only chance is to talk past it.
"Why don't you like to drive, Jamie?"
He shrugs, "Och, driving's no' so bad. Only it pales in comparison tae ridin', ye see."
"Riding?"
"Horses, ye ken."
"Oh. That does make sense."
He nods, and subsides back into silence.
Well, so much for Attempt One. Now for Attempt Two.
"So, are you ever going to tell me about your third brother?"
"Ian?" he grunts, "What about him?"
"Well, you've told me about two of the three "venturesome lads" you grew up with, and I'm curious about the third, is all."
"Oh." He smiles warmly, clearly thinking fondly of past years, "Ian Murray - our next-door neighbor's lad. But he used tae spend more time wi' Bobby an' me then ever he did at home. An' with Rob too, when he came along. But Ian's only four months older than me, an' so t'was natural we'd stick taegether like burrs. Bobby took tae him grand too, and Rob looked up tae all of us, but tae me. . . weel Ian an' I were like pups from t'same litter. We ken each other, aye?"
I nod.
"'There is a friend tha' sticks closer than a brother'," he quotes, "That's us. Oor a'least it was us lads." He chuckles a bit, "He hated my sister."
"Oh?"
He grins, slyly, "Aye, an' it was mutual. So mutual, in fact, that finally they decided tae get married."
"Oh? Oh." I laugh, "I see! That kind of hate."
"Aye. Five years ago, that was. Their wedding was jus' about th'last time I was hoome. . ." he shakes his head, forcefully refusing to be melancholy, "So now I say I grew up wi' three brothers - because Ian is, and doubly so."
"That's so sweet."
"Och! I almost forgot tae tell ye!" He pulls a personal info-screen out of his inner jacket pocket, "I got some stunnin' video of the wee fox kits, Sassenach. There were three, no' two, and speakin' o' sweet. . ." He taps away at the touch-screen, "If ye tell me yer comm number, I'll send ye a data link."
"I don't have a comm, Jamie," I say, quietly.
"Ye dinnae have a comm? Erry'un has a comm!"
"Well, I don't. You were there when Murtagh brought me in. What you saw is what I have - save by the grace of Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie. . ."
"Och, aye, a'coorse. I forgot. The Watch."
I blink. I can't say yes - that would be a lie. I can't say no - I've already told him the story I told Colum, before we made our promise of truth. Denying it now would only bring more awkwardness into a situation already hopelessly complicated. And if I say nothing, it looks odd.
But what can I say?
"I. . . just need to get a new one," I say, finally, with a little too much haste.
"Aye. . ." he nods, looking at me a bit strangely. But, he lets the moment pass, thankfully. "Dinnae fash. It'll keep."
Silence falls again.
With his usual easy physicality, he leans sideways a bit, and puts an arm around me. I inhale sharply and flinch away from him like I never have before. He jerks his arm back and pounds the bench-seat between us.
"All right now, stop the car!"
I do, but the sharpness in his voice makes me jump, and I twist the little runabout into a skid, sliding us a few meters sideways before coming to a stop.
He doesn't even deign to notice.
He turns to me, a harder, more demanding look on his face than I've seen from him yet, "Now, Claire. I ken ye dinnae kno' me like ye'd prefer, sae let me tell ye - I'm stubborn as a mule, and as thick-skulled, or worse. I ha' the de'il's oon temper, an' a tendency no' tae ken my own strength when I'm riled. I c'n be a possessive, jealous, selfish bastard sometimes, an' I dinnae always think with my brain, I admit. But I have my pride, an' by God, a fair notion o' justice." He grips me firmly by the shoulders, "Sae ye'ed best believe me when I tell ye, ye'er goin' tae tell me what's wrong - an' if ye say 'nothing', I swear, I'll no' apologize for what I doo next."
His grip on me tightens so much I flinch again. He lets go of me then, the look on his face not softening, but giving me time, and space, and the chance to think.
I desperately compose myself, brace my hands against his chest, and look him full in the face.
"She broke the spell, Jamie."
He nods, "Aye, that she did."
"The spell that was. . . shielding us. . . from. . ."
I have to say it, and I can't. I have to let him go, and I can't.
"I have a mountain of a secret, Jamie," I whisper.
"Aye," he strokes one of my hands, tenderly, "I noo."
Of course he does. He's nobody's fool. I brought up secrets this morning, when we agreed to truth. No one would do that unless they had a secret. Or many.
"It's the kind of thing that. . . that I can't tell anyone. It. . . looms over me. Most of the time. Yesterday in your workshop you. . . distracted me from it, a little. Or, maybe it was the threat of a depressive episode that distracted me, and you distracted me from that," I laugh, humourlessly, "There was a lot of distraction, anyway."
"Ye really cannae tell me?" He grips my hand much like he did my first day here. Reassuringly.
I shake my head, "No. Maybe someday. Maybe. But not now. It. . . it's. . . the kind of thing that. . . comes between me and other people." I dig my fingers into his jacket, "When she broke the spell, it all came back. To loom over me again." I turn away from him, hoping he won't notice the shame in my eyes, "So there it is. Between us."
"An' sae now ye'er afraid."
He says it so softly, hearing it shouldn't be a shock. But it is. Adrenaline courses though me, and I snap my eyes back to his.
"Yes," I hiss, "Of. . ." I reach out and cup his jaw, running my fingers through his curls, just like I wanted to that first morning I awoke in his arms, "Of. . . hurting you."
The kiss is wilder, more desperate, more insistent and demanding than any kiss I've ever been given before. He takes my breath, my mouth, and all my rational thoughts, plummeting me into a place in my soul I've never been to before, not even with Frank. A dark, burning, sweet-scented place, primal and luxurious. Voluptuous. Seductive. . .
When he finally pulls back, I'm a wreck. A Skycity, crashed into the radioactive ocean of him, hopelessly lost.
"Fifteen," he growls, gripping my hair, "An' did ye really think I didnae ken at all what I getting inta wi' ye? The strength of it? The risk of it? Why do ye think I didnae come near ye for almost a week? I was. . . for two days I was terrified of myself - the things I thought of doin', for yer sake! It took two whole days for me get myself under a wee bit o' control. . ." He half-smiles, ruefully, "An' then I thought tae give ye some more time tae settle in - time tae get used tae things heer, wi'out me. . ." he moves his mouth over mine again, making me gasp, "Distractin' ye. . ." His expression darkens, eyes tightening, "Only then, Murtagh told me what Dougal was doin' tae ye an'. . . an' I felt. . ." he pulls my forehead to his, "I felt aggrieved, Claire. Wronged. Like someone had. . . profaned what was mine. Mine."
I know I should feel indignant at such a declaration. But I have no idea what I am feeling at the moment. . .
"An' I ken I had no right at all tae feel like that, an' even now I don't. Ye belong tae yerself, always have," he lets go of my hair, "But ye ken what my feelin' like that means, don't ye?"
I shake my head, "No."
"It means that nothing can come between us, Claire. I dinnae mean nothing will try. I dinnae mean we won't let things come between us now and again. But we have something, an' it's stronger than those things."
"Are. . ." I swallow, "Are you sure?"
His lips twist, almost sneering.
"I'm certain Dougal must think ye'er a spy. Are ye?"
"No."
"Are ye a murderer? Or accused? On the run, like me?"
"No."
"Are ye sick? Wastin' away? Dyin'?"
"No."
"An' ye arenae secretly the Queen of Belgium oor summat like that?"
I shake my head, beginning to be bewildered, "Not to the best of my knowledge. . ."
"Alrigh', then are ye a changeling? A witch? A fairy?"
I half-laugh, "No."
"A selkie? A water-horse?"
I laugh fully, "No! What. . . ?"
"Then I cannae think what there could be that we couldnae weather," he cradles my head again, and runs a thumb across my lips, "I may no' ken what we are, exactly, but I do ken that I. . . Claire, it. . . it isnae about. . . mo chridhe, it doesnae matter if we nevar. . ." he sighs, and leans his forehead against mine, "It's about being together, aye?"
"Spell or no spell?"
"Spell or no spell."
"No matter the obstacles?"
"No mattar at all."
"You like me that much?"
He grins and shakes his head, "Aye. I like ye that much, Claire Beauchamp."
I start the runabout again. After I get us straightened out, I take his hand, and hold it all the way back to the barn.
We are in so much trouble. So much. But if he's willing to take the risk, then I'm willing to brave the pain. Maybe it won't be so bad. We're both strong. Maybe we can both survive this. Maybe we can both make it through. . .
And maybe I'm still given to wishful thinking.
But it's all I have. . .
There is quite a commotion waiting for us back at the Manager's Barn. Two large vans, and about eight or nine smaller vehicles are parked in a haphazard line from the guest wing of the house, all the way past the kitchen gardens, right up next to the manager's garage. There are at least a score of people milling about the cars, shifting and unpacking all manner of luggage.
"That's Gwyllyn Pritchard's van," says Jamie, pointing at the larger of the two maroon-and-gold painted buses, "He's lead singer of The Cuckoos In The Grove, ye ken. They're a day or two early."
I pull the runabout up to the lab entrance of the barn, and get out to open the large roll-up door.
"Gwyllyn? That doesn't sound Scottish."
"He isnae. He's Welsh. Married tae a Scottish lass, though."
"Oh."
The door growls as it opens, and creaks to a halt. I reach inside and grab us two of the cart-tables, so we can start unloading the bags of sample vials.
"An' what's wrong wi' his bein' Welsh?"
"Nothing, of course. I just expected a Scottish band would have a Scottish lead singer," I shrug, "Live and learn."
"Colum's proud he's Welsh. Somethin' tae doo with harps an' bards an' the Middle Ages, I dinnae ken. An' I dinnae much care, either, tae be honest. His music is good tae listen tae - tha's all that matters tae me." He puts the last bag of vials on his cart.
"Excellent philosophy, in my opinion."
We've just finished transferring the bags to the refrigerated drawers beneath the analysis station, when a loud peal of laughter comes from the office, and a second later, an even louder and very impatient Geillis comes whirling into the lab.
"Heer ye twa luvbirds are! Been talkin' tae Mrs. Pritchard while I waited fer ye. Ye were an awful long time. Did ye hafta christen evary field oon t'way back, oor was it jus' one, an' ye were goin' fer some kind o' reacord?"
Jamie sighs, and shakes his head at this, not giving her any other answer.
"I'll see ye on Friday," he says, turning to me. He pats my shoulder, and is back out to his runabout and gone before Geillis can say anything else.
"Weel!" she quips, with an extended drawl, "I ken when I've been snubbed!" Then she laughs, as though even this is most hilarious thing Jamie could have possibly done.
I've never met anyone quite so relentlessly Scottish as this. The people I met on Cold Island 12 were far different from anyone I'd ever met on a Skycity, of course, and their modes of speech were unique, but they were nowhere near this forceful about it. Even in this time period, with its heavier accents and much more liberal use of Gaelic, Geillis stands out. Dougal purposefully dials it back most of the time. Jamie maintains a fairly even balance between a charming, accessible burr, and his broad, free-rein brogue. In speech, Colum is a mixture of the two, probably because he hand-picks every turn of phrase to present the most impressive face to the outside world as possible. Mrs. Fitz's speech is formal, but accessible. Annie's is a bit rough and hard for me to follow, but she's too cheerful for her meaning to be at all mysterious. Willie and Geordie's speech is of a more haphazard type, Angus and Rupert's is more casual, Murtagh. . . Murtagh baffles me a bit. With words, he is as deliberate as Colum, as cunning as Dougal, as kind and as open-hearted as Jamie, and. . . yes, just as relentless as Geillis. But all of it is tempered with something else - a gruff, blunt something that, in reality, isn't at all rough or unrefined. I haven't spent enough time around him to identify just what it is yet. But it's clearly not the same thing as whatever is up with Geillis. Her mode of speaking is so immediate, so present, so in-your-face. . . It's untempered. Over-the-top. It gives her a juvenile, almost childish presence, even though she is clearly nothing of the kind.
Just who is this woman?
She stops laughing, plants her hands on her hips, and grins at me, "Weel, dinnae stand thear gawpin', pet. Come an' see th' wee crop regulator."
She flounces out of the lab, unquestioningly assuming that I'll follow her.
Which, of course, I do.
"Wee" turns out to be a highly inaccurate term for the crop regulator. It's a behemoth of thing, so wide it's just barely able to fit into the large gap left between the tractors and the maintenance trucks. It looks like something straight out of Core Township - all pipes and tanks and sensor towers and gauges and dials.
But, for all that, it also looks familiar. A few days testing it out, and I'm certain I'll get the hang of it.
"Can ye e'en work this wean, Claire, pet?" Geillis asks, leaning up against a nearby tractor as I survey the regulator from every side.
"Oh, yes," I say, "The last lab I worked at was testing new algorithms for a machine not unlike this one."
"An' ye a farmar!" she snorts.
"Botanist, actually."
"Agch, an' sae what was a botanist dooin' testin' oot a gurt sleekit pile like this'un?"
I smile, and scoff a little, "I wasn't there testing regulators - I was making root vegetable hybrids that could withstand a more acidic growing environment - our projects overlapped in the testing phase."
She makes a low muffled sound, but says nothing. This is sufficiently out of character that I look over at her. She has both hands clapped over her mouth, and is red from suppressed laughter.
"What?" I ask, genuinely baffled.
"Och, sorrae, pet. Eet's jus'. . . ye make eet sae easy tae tease ye."
"What did I say?"
"Ne'r'mind," she shakes her head, getting herself under control, "Doo ye ha' any machine tha' c'n pull this beast? It took my four-wheeler jus' tae get eet heer, an' I wouldnae like tae think o' it oot in the fields twenty-foor se'en wi' it."
"Well, that tractor you're leaning on has a hybrid-plasma drive. That ought to do the trick, don't you think?" I pull off my jacket and scarf, and roll up my sleeves, "But you're right. It could use a bit of a checkup first."
I shoo her back a bit, and open the bonnet of the 2071 John Deere 811 Liger. A fine machine, I have no doubt. But I've only rarely worked on an electric/plasma hybrid engine before, and never this one specifically. I survey it rapidly, trying to get my bearings. One of my hands is hovering over the front grating, and as I turn away to go get a multi-tool, my fingers get too close to the edge of metal. A sharp, popping 'zap!' of static electricity jolts my hand, making me jump, and cry out.
Geillis raises her eyebrows, "Och. Tha's some good ley power ye have thear."
I shake my hand, trying to dispel the painful tingling ache, "Lay power? What's that?"
She shakes her head, slowly, "No' 'lay', pet. 'Ley'. It's the power of th'earth, an' of oor connection too it. Ye must'ha drawn some up when ye were oot walkin' the fields taeday."
"Hm. Suppose I must have." I'm not really paying attention to her. I stomp back to the worktables and grab a toolbox, a can of WD-40, and the nearest multi-tool.
"Aye. Ye ken, they used tae say that if ye were a channel fer the ley, it meant ye were a witch."
I laugh, "As far as I can see, anything used to make you a witch, Geillis." I select a spanner, and get to work on the tractor engine, "Too good a cook? Witch. Too many kids? Witch. Not enough kids? Witch. Too beautiful? Too ugly? Too smart? Too simple? Witch! Witch! Burn the witch! It's just another word for systemic oppression. All the magic and stuff was just the excuse - a convenient story for the powerful to tell while they exploited the weak."
Geillis crosses her arms and looks at me with a thoroughly unreadable expression on her face.
"Aye, mebbe so."
Then, her eyes light up with a thought, "Bu' tha's mus' mean tha' the real witches were th'ones whoo got away wi' it!"
I laugh loudly for a minute, and then shrug, "Well, it can't hurt to think so."
"Ye dinnae believe in magic, then?"
"I prefer things that don't need me to believe in them. Real things. Things that work."
"Ye dinnae think magic works, pet?"
A vision of the stones of Craigh na Dun dances before me. But even they aren't magic. . . not really.
Right?
"Not as such, no. But, now you mention it, it is rather impossible to be here, in this place, and not see something magical about it. Every day, every minute, something. . . not quite ordinary happens."
She grins, fondly, "Aye, Scotland is ri' oot o' th'storybooks, pet."
I shake my head, "No. That kind of magic is nothing like what's in the storybooks. No spells, no magic words, no robed figures with magic wands, no potions, no enchanted weapons. It's just an everyday indication that. . . well, there are things greater than us in this world."
"An' no mistake," she says, fervently.
I've never seen her face this serious.
All of a sudden, something about her seems eerily familiar again. . .
I reach into the toolbox for a different spanner. She gives a strange, quiet, strangled cry, and leaps towards me, pointing, "Wha's tha'?"
For a second I think she's pointing at the engine, and I'm at a loss to explain her reaction.
But then I see. She's pointing at the crook of my elbow, where I have a narrow, bean-shaped scar. All that remains of the AR-gel dialysis procedure all Skycity-born children undergo between the ages of two and five, before their white blood cells can adapt to the increased levels of radiation we all must live with in the future. . .
"Oh. . . that? That's a medical scar."
"Doesnae look like a medical scar," she looks up at me, her expression not at all teasing, "Can I ask wha' ye had?"
"Uhm. . ." I flounder for a second, "I. . . can't really remember. I was so young when it happened. Something to do with the kidneys, I think. Sorry."
Her brows draw together, "Nae need tae be sorry, my lamb."
Her choice of endearment brings me up short.
My Lamb. . .
Lamb. . .
And then, it strikes me.
All the crude humour, all the innuendo - the over-done Scottish accent, the flamboyant body language. . . it's armour.
Strip that away, and. . .
And she's a completely different person.
Thinking of her in that light, all at once it is clear, who she reminds me of. Why her presence sparked such deja-vu. The signs are only there in a few of her words and vocal cadences, and one or two of her gestures and expressions, but they're unmistakable. It's very subtle, and they don't appear every time, but now that I've noticed them, they're as plain as day. A certain emphasis on the long 'e' that's just a bit different than the rest of the Scots I've met here. Occasionally a slightly less round 'r'. How long she holds vowels at the ends of words. A tilt to her head, a motion she makes with her fingers while talking. . . None of it obvious, and nothing in any way bad or alarming. Nothing even strange. Just different. Slightly. So slight, I almost didn't notice.
I'm sure the similarity is unintended and unconscious. It can't possibly be anything else.
And of course, the age difference obscures things quite a bit. . .
But.
Behind her gossipy, raunchy exterior, Geillis Duncan has a look about her, a feel to her. . . there's no doubt about it.
She reminds me, quite distinctly, of Mrs. Graham.
The housekeeper whose Name is Chaos. . .
Before I can work out even the slightest implications of this, she is grinning and voluble again, and says, "Weel, pet, eet's high time I was off. Nae rest fer us workin' weemen, aye?"
"Not much, no."
"Bu' mos' like I'll see ye Friday night, aye? I allus come ower tae see the Cuckoos when they'ar heer. Ye'll be thear?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be there," I say, abstractedly.
"Ri'. Weel then. Eet's a date!" She winks and smiles wryly, whirls, and is gone.
I put down my spanner and look after her for a long while.
Yes. It's a date. With, apparently, all of my devils.
Mo leannan - my sweetheart