Le Petit Prince

A look passes between Jamie and I. He puts a great deal into it – huge wordless things I have no hope of interpreting – but that doesn't matter right now. Just the look has made it clear that whatever is about to happen next, he needs me to support him in it.

I can only hope I will be able to support him half as well as he has been supporting me, these past few weeks. . .

"Weel lad," he says, sounding very carefully disinterested, "Are ye sure ye dinnae want tae reconsider that? We don't want people to be getting confused, now do we?"

"Confused, Monsieur?"

"Aye, well. . ." Jamie's eyes go very serious, "It doesnae say exactly that on yer birth certificate, now does it?"

The boy's huge brown eyes look back and forth several times between me and Jamie, visibly measuring us up. Then he lowers his gaze, yet at the same time draws the rest of himself up, in a strange sort of half-ashamed half-defiant attitude.

"Non, Monsieur."

Jamie doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but then continues, still in a carefully detached tone,

"If I were tae go an' ask the nuns for yer record, I wouldnae find annything of the sort, now would I?"

"Non, Monsieur."

In a very businesslike manner, Jamie begins applying bruise ointment to the boy's back.

"Fergus though, that's a name might help ye fit in here in the Highlands-"

Suddenly the boy is all eagerness, "Ooh. Do you think so, Monsieur?" he nods happily, "Yes. I shall be Fergus then. But what is your name?"

Jamie grins, "I'm James Fraser. But I'm on the run from the authorities too, ye ken, so the name I tell most people these days is James MacTavish. And either way, my friends call me Jamie."

The boy cocks his head sideways, digesting this.

"Oui. That is good. And your name Mademoiselle?" he turns wide eyes to me, "And your father's name also?"

I blink, and stammer, a little disconcerted at such vigorous directness, "W-well. . . uh. . . my name is Claire. Claire Beauchamp. My father's name was Henry."

He nods decisively. "Bien. Yes. I shall be Fergus Henri Fraser," he looks up at Jamie, "Yes?"

Jamie hums in approval, "Mm. Fine strong name, that. Now, does this hurt, lad?" He squeezes the boy's side, very gently, but Fergus still flinches and draws his breath in sharply. "Aye, ye'ev a cracked rib oor two, but nae fear," says Jamie, patting the boy's shoulder reassuringly, "We'll get ye taped up and settled in nae time at all."

In fact, it is nearly a quarter of an hour before the boy's back is dressed to Jamie's satisfaction. He's helping him back on with his shirt when he gestures casually at his still covered right wrist.

"What's the mattar there then, lad?"

Fergus shrugs, "I was born with it, Monsieur." Slowly, he begins to untie the knotted handkerchief, "Or, to say it correct, I was born without it." The cloth falls away, revealing an empty, smooth stump of a wrist, "The nuns all said it was a curse, that I should be born with no right hand." He gestures with his eyes at the square outside, "That was not good, but the priest here said it made me a devil child. I do not know what he meant, Monsieur, but I promise I did not mean to be."

"I believe ye, lad. T'was very wrong of them tae say such things over somthin' ye cannae control."

Fergus shrugs again, "It was not good, but it was better than what the street-men called me in Paris."

Jamie finishes helping him into shirt and coat, and reties the handkerchief around the empty wrist. "Oh? What was that then?"

Fergus hesitates, then gestures for Jamie to lean down. As he whispers in his ear, I see Jamie's eyes darken, his face going harder than I've ever yet seen it.

He throws me another long look, then stands and nods, "I promise ye, lad, they'll nevar call ye that again." He extends his left hand, and Fergus shakes it, very seriously, as though formally sealing a contract.

"But," Jamie raises a finger, "There is something else that mus' never happen again, as weel." He puts out his other hand, expectantly.

Fergus's head droops again, this time without the undercurrent of defiance. Slowly, he puts his hand in his pocket, withdraws something, and places it in Jamie's hand. I peer over, and see it is a small, crudely carved snake, all coiled up.

Jamie nods, and puts the thing in his pocket, "Aye, tha's one. . ."

He puts out an expectant hand again.

Fergus's eyes widen. Very, very slowly, he goes back to his pocket, and withdraws something else. Something much heavier this time. He places it most reluctantly in Jamie's hand, then sits back, dejected or disgusted, it is difficult to tell.

"Aye," Jamie nods, "An' tha's two."

He looks at the thing for a minute, then places it on the table next to me. It is a large, antique silver watch - well worn, well polished, and very expensive looking.

"Father Bain was right about one thing, wasn't he?" Jamie asks, turning back to Fergus.

All the blood has drained from the boy's face, and he answers with a very small, very scared voice,

"Oui."

Jamie nods, sternly, "An' is this all ye stole from him? Tell me the truth of it, lad."

Hesitantly, Fergus nods, his face and voice still pale.

"Yes. That is all. But. . . now he will kill me just the same. . ."

Jamie blinks, then roars an indignant laugh, "We didnae confront the wurst priest in the Highlands for ye, patch ye up an' make ye answer all our questions, only ta send ye back inta his clutches, lad!" He musses Fergus's silken brown curls, "Only promise me ye wilnae steal aught again – and I mean aught. No' a cake tae fill yer belly, nor a scrap tae wipe yer a-ah. . ." he pauses awkwardly for a second, but recovers, "Yer nose. Aye?"

After a long second of thought, Fergus nods, then holds out his hand to seal the compact.

"For as long as I may rely on you and upon Mademoiselle-"

"Madame," Jamie corrects him.

Fergus sends me an apologetic look, "Oui. For as long as I may rely upon you and Madame Claire, I will not steal. Not even a slice of bread to feed the birds. I promise Monsieur."

Jamie takes Fergus's hand, and smiles, "Weel, now that's settled, we must have ye up tae Leoch, an' right away too, isnae that right, Claire?"

"Of course," I dip my head solemnly in their direction, "With your permission, good sir, we will insist upon your presence at once. We can always send someone up here to fetch your things later."

Fergus, suddenly shy, smiles and blushes adorably.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, can this boy do anything that won't turn him into a mini Prince Charming? He even made admitting to being a pickpocket and thief the sweetest, cutest thing possible. . .

"Ye'el like it at Leoch, lad, nae doubt about it." Jamie grins companionably, "There's sae many kids livin' there, it qualifies as its own school district. They have official teachers, an' classrooms, an' a library, an' special extra courses – art, theater, sports, an' music, an' everything." He waves a hand towards the front of the ice cream parlour, "In fact, tha's why I'm heer taeday – my Beginner riding class jus' finished their exams tae go on tae Intermediate 1, an' I promised that when they all passed, I'd take them out fer ice cream."

As Jamie talks, Fergus slowly perks back up, glitter and life coming back into eyes briefly dulled by fear.

"Would ye like some too, lad?" Jamie asks, holding out his hand.

Brightly, Fergus nods, and takes Jamie's hand with confidence. He is moving rather slowly, what with a heavily bruised back, and some cracked ribs, but I have never met a boy of Fergus's age that wasn't constantly hungry, so that has to be part of it, I think. . .

With a somewhat creaky groan of my own, I remove the ice packs, stand, and follow them into the main room of the ice cream parlour.

Sitting indoors here is quite a bit different than sitting outdoors. Outdoors there are long wooden tables and benches, small metal tables and chairs, and white-painted trellises, and big potted plants, all arranged under very pretty awnings and umbrellas - while indoors is all black and white tile, shiny pink and purple leather seats, fluorescent lighting, and an odd smell of sweet milk, undercut sharply by cleaning fluid and disinfectant. It is a strangely appealing odour. . .

Jamie seats us, then calls a waitress over, and orders a three-scoop banana split for Fergus, prompting the boy to give his preferences for the ice creams.

"Strawberry, raspberry and walnut," Fergus says, with admirable dignity.

Than Jamie turns to me. I order something I've just noticed tucked away in the corner of the menu – as it is drawn on huge slate chalk boards hung up behind the bar counter.

"Hot cocoa?"

The waitress smiles, and makes a note.

"An' I'll have a plate of sliced fruit wi' yer caramel dippin' sauce, thankee Ellie."

She smiles even wider at that, "Oh, anything fer ye, Jammie Dodger!" she winks.

Jamie rolls his eyes, but she only laughs, "Och, dinnae be such a spoilsport, Wee Jamie! Ye ken I'm happily marrit!"

Jamie relents, giving her a somewhat rueful smile, "Oh, aye, I ken. But that doesnae stop some folks. . ."

Ellie only giggles at that, and goes off to fill our orders.

My attention wanders to the front of the shop. I can see the whole outdoor dining area through the huge frontage windows. Jamie's graduating class is out there, apparently playing a game of hide-and-go-seek, or something similar. Laoghaire's leash is tied to one of the metal tables, and most of the children give her a pat as the pass by her in the course of their play.

Fergus notices my interest, and begins watching them as well. His focus doesn't waver, even after our food and drinks arrive. For ten minutes straight, he takes bites of banana split without seeming to notice in the least what he is eating, his eyes are so fully and so hungrily devouring the scene of raucous but innocent play before him.

I remember the nuns, not more than an hour ago, hushing up the orphan's very natural enthusiasm for being in a new place.

While his shirt was off, Fergus had looked adequately, if perhaps not over-generously, well-fed. But the wide staring of his eyes speaks to a hunger no food of any sort or amount will be able to satisfy.

Jamie notices this too, and when the banana split has disappeared, he gets up, goes to the door, and calls Hamish in to us.

He then proceeds to introduce the two boys as if they were full-grown men.

"Fergus, this is Hamish MacKenzie – a wee cousin of mine. He's heir tae The MacKenzie himself – an important person in these parts."

Fergus nods, solemnly.

"Hamish, this is young Fergus. He'll be staying with us from now on. He's quite a history, an' no right hand. Now what d'ye say tae that?"

Hamish gives Fergus a long appraising look, "No right hand at all?" he asks, not unkindly.

Fergus shakes his head, and holds up his handkerchief-covered wrist, "Non. I was born without one, you see."

Hamish looks curious, but doesn't ask anything further. He considers this for quite a few seconds. Then he says, "My father cannae use 'is legs."

"Neither one?"

"No. Neither one. He mus' wear a robot to walk – like Wallace does in The Wrong Trousers."

"Cool!"

Fergus is very impressed.

Hamish nods in vigorous agreement, "Yes, an' if I ask him for ye, he might be able tae get ye a hand like that."

Fergus's eyes go wide, "Do. . . you think so?" he gasps, "Truly?"

Hamish nods, "Oh yes. An' if he can't, I c'n allus do it when I'm the MacKenzie."

Fergus turns dreamy, stunned eyes towards the children still frolicking outside.

"Aye, come play with us," says Hamish, happily, "We'll play Hands Off – an' ye'll ha' the advantage – wi' only one hand. Won't the others be jealous!" He takes Fergus by an elbow, and starts to lead him outdoors.

Jamie taps Hamish on the shoulder, "When ye'ev introduced him, come back in here tae us, Hamish."

He nods in agreement, and both boys disappear outside.

Jamie says nothing for a few minutes after the boys are gone, focusing instead on the small piles of apple and pear slices in front of him.

Finally, he looks over at me, a glint in his eyes -

"I can see perfectly well ye have questions, Sassenach. Go ahead an' ask 'em now."

"Well, only one really," I concede, "Why did you make the boy change his name? Claudel Ferguson sounded perfectly reasonable to me."

Jamie laughs very softly, and gives a rueful half smile.

"Claudel Ferguson is a French footballer the Rangers traded for last season. He's maybe the biggest name in all of football for the past five years or so - an' he won his last team the World Cup two seasons ago. I might as well go tae France and tell folks my name is Robert The Bruce. Iss'no' entirely impossible, of course, but is it likely? So I gave the lad a chance tae change it." He gives a dismissive wave, "Besides, around here a name like that is almost as bad as bein' called Johnathan Randall."

I flinch violently at hearing my married name in such a context. Fortunately, Jamie seems to think it a perfectly natural response.

"Is it really?"

"Oh, aye. I dinnae wonder the lad heard the name and picked it up, but we have a longstanding rivalry wi' the Rangers up here. Even jus' being called Claudel would do him nae good at all."

"But then. . . why did he say it was his name?"

"It probably did him just as well as any other," Jamie shrugs, "Ye heard how willing he was tae change it once I prompted him. I doubt he has an official name – or that he knows it if he does. He'll pick up any name that lets him fit in. Or even just feel like he fits in."

I shudder. How lonely the poor boy's life must have been until now. . .

"I do have another question, I think. . ."

He gestures for me to go ahead.

"What did he whisper to you? About what he was called in Paris?"

Jamie's face darkens at the memory. He looks quite reluctant to tell me, but eventually he says, slowly, "He said they used tae call him "hoor-boy". Moor because he was raised by hoors in a brothel, I take it, and no' because. . . well, y'know. . ."

I cringe with pity and disgust.

"Yeah. But still. . ."

"Aye. Still. . . He's terribly roughed up an' bruised of course, an' no' just his body, poor lad. He's been no end buffeted by life, if I ken the signs a'tall." Jamie shrugs lightly, "But a good six months at Leoch will work wonders, ye'el see. Warm food an' a safe bed'll be the best therapy for the boy, I've nae doubt in the world." He takes a big bite of his caramel and apples, "By the look an' manner of him, I daresay he's been neglected a great deal moor than he's been abused. No' that that's any better, a'course – s'just a bit easier tae fix, ye ken."

I nod, and take a sip of my cocoa. My mind wanders back to Coira, Annie, Ev and Mai. They're such dear girls, I know they'll take Fergus into their hearts at once. I wonder where they are right now. This morning feels like it was at least a decade ago. . .

"What did ye want then, Uncle Jamie?" asks Hamish, reappearing at our table.

"Ah," says Jamie, reaching into his inner pocket and extracting a wallet, "Furst, go ovar there an' buy four of those little round ball-bearing puzzle games, an' five of those chunky wooden yo-yos," he hands Hamish a small handful of largish coins, "Hop now!"

Hamish, accordingly, hops.

A large section of the far wall is covered with a display of brightly coloured toys and games, right next to a few "one coin per play" video-game stands that I think I actually vaguely recognize. . .

Hamish is only a minute or two, and the bag of cheap toys is upended in the middle of our table. Jamie selects one of the round wooden things he called "yo-yos" and swiftly removes the wires holding it to the stiff cardboard backing. Then he reaches into his pocket again, and pulls out the big silver watch. Using the same wires, he attaches it to the backing instead of the yo-yo. Then he gives it to Hamish to hold, and sweeps the rest of the toys back into the bag.

"Now then, lad," says Jamie, conspiratorially, "Tell wee Jim and Heather and Fran tae stay heer and play wi' Fergus, an' take these toys and hand them out tae the rest of the gang." He hands Hamish the bag, then taps the card holding the watch, "But ye take that one, an' be sure tae hold it in yer pocket so's naeun' c'n see it, aye?"

Hamish nods.

"An' then, lead the gang ovar tae the church, go in, and each put yer toy in the donation box. If yer asked, ye'er donating somethin' tae the new orphans, aye?"

Hamish nods again.

"But ye'el need tae mek sure ye'er two oor three places back in line, an' ye're tae slip the watch inta the box gentle an' quiet-like. Understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Jamie."

"Dinnae call attention tae yerselves, dinnae linger, and bring yerselves back all in one piece, ken?"

"Aye, I ken."

"Right. Be off wi' ye, then."

With that, Hamish puts the watch deep in his pocket, takes a firm hold of the paper bag, and goes out to the other children.

The whole crowd of them have made it across the square, disappearing one by one into the church, before I have finished looking admiringly at Jamie.

"Ach," he says at last, a warm blush rising on his cheeks, "S'only a simple wee plan, Sassenach."

"I know," I say, and finish the last sip of my cocoa. I slide my hand across the table, and he takes it, firmly. "But it was well thought of."

He runs his thumb gently across my knuckles, "Thankee, lass."

We don't say anything more for a while, simply enjoying sitting there, holding hands, in the sweet, sharp smell of the ice cream parlour, surrounded by pink and purple, black and white, old and new. A gentle, peaceful harmony descends around us, and I think, just for a moment, that this is how I would like to spend the rest of my life.

In Scotland. . .

With this man. . .

Almost soundlessly, Hamish appears next to our table once again.

"All done, Uncle Jamie!" he grins.

Jamie grins in return, and hands him a small felt bag that clinks gently, "Grand job, lad. Heer, play some Pac-Man if ye like. . ."

He pockets the coins eagerly, "Did ye ken Uncle Dougal's in town? He saw the lot of us as we were comin' back from the church, an' he's heading over here now," Hamish lowers his voice almost to a whisper, "An'. . . he looks mad. . ."