See Change
Jamie and I exchange another oddly awkward look. He doesn't look unhappy, but confusion and shock are very evident. I can only guess what my expression is.
And as for what I'm feeling. . .
I don't think even the best psychiatrists in the world could accurately untangle what I'm feeling at the moment.
I stammer slightly, "W-well, uhm. . . you see-"
"And you mustn't be misled by popular media's depiction of soulmates," Iona says, hurriedly, "No romantic connection is required. All it really means is you are both here in this time and place for a reason – a purpose – and that you are each the ideal support for the other in that purpose. In fact, it is said that everyone has a soulmate, but most of them are born into different ages of the world – the later one so they can finish the work left undone by former. That's why it's so special when soulmates meet."
The stunned, baffled expression hasn't left Jamie's face, "But. . ." he glances quickly at me, "An' please dinnae take this wrong Sassenach, but. . ." he turns back to Iona, "How?"
She shrugs, "Well, no one really knows how. So few mated souls have been observed by properly trained readers that it is extremely difficult tae fully document auric entanglement – but it is theorized that at some point in your spiritual past the two of you. . . well. . . exchanged souls."
Jamie tries to interrupt, but she quickly adds, "Well, that's not the right term, exactly. Merged is closer," she points at Jamie, "You are still very much you," and then at me, "and you are also you – but you are each expressing a soul that has originated from two individuals instead of one. That's all."
Jamie runs two fingers over his forehead, "Spiritual past?"
"Yes."
"Meaning?"
"The commonly understood term is reincarnation, but I prefer tae say something like temporal re-imaging. And in this case I would add that there appears tae have been an intentional radical spectral reflection, tae the point of near total vibrational inversion."
We both look at her blankly.
She sighs a little, "Basically, the two of you have been reincarnated together so many times in the past, you have each put on the other's soul-expressions as your own."
"Put on?"
"Taken up - taken on. Inhabited. Enclothed. Or something like that."
"Wait," I speak up, "You said intentional?"
"Oh yes – the inversion is much too clean to have been imposed or accidental. At some point the two of you chose tae. . . well. . . bear each other's burdens, I suppose you might say. You each voluntarily gave your self tae the other. And you each accepted." She gestures broadly, "That's what being a soul mate. . . is. Well, soulmates that have met, anyway. . ."
"So. . . it never just. . . happens?"
"Dear me, no," she sounds quite shocked, "Such intimacy is always built, my dear. Nothing like that simply happens."
Gently, Jamie puts a hand over mine. His is shaking, very slightly. "But. . . how is it possible? At all, I mean tae say."
She shrugs, "No one knows. Not really. I mean, it might be patterned quantum displacement, but I doubt it." Matter-of-factly, she starts picking up scattered crystals and sorting them back into her box, "I chalk it up to the Discworld theory, myself."
"Which is?"
She shrugs again, "Things just happen. What the hell?"
Jamie barks a laugh. I look silently at the studied motions of her hands as she puts things away. The crystals are deliberately sorted by size and colour, the shallow water dish is poured out, the incense is thoroughly quenched, and the little brass spoon she used to initially measure out the incense is placed on a small wooden cradle that is itself on a handsome stone base shaped like a trio of mountains.
"The mountains are under the spoon," I say, before I can stop myself.
Iona blinks.
"Ye-es," she says, slowly, looking at me with the same strange sideways stare she used when she first started talking about stones.
Stones. . .
What. . .
Abruptly, Jamie gets up, "Weel – it's been an experience, an' no mistakin', Mistress MacTavish," he bows, formally, "But nevar let it be said any MacTavish didnae ken when they wearnae wanted – especially James MacTavish."
I blink up at him, "But. . ."
"Nevar fear Sassenach," he leans down and kisses me, briefly, "There are some things that ought tae be jus' between the women, aye? I saw a goodly stock of chamomile out there amongst the herbs, an' my crop failed this year, so I'll jus' go an' amuse myself, shall I?"
He slips out of the room with far more silence and grace than any man as big and imposing as he is has any right to possess.
I watch him out, open-mouthed. When I turn back to Iona, her eyes are laughing at me.
"That's a good one you have there, I hope you know."
"Oh, yes, I do," I say, but absently, for Iona's voice has completely changed. All night, it has been a Scottish voice, but a very mildly accented one, with only one or two vocal signifiers. Now it is suddenly, very clearly and fully, an American voice.
Such a thing isn't entirely impossible in this time and place – I have encountered scores of accents from at least a dozen countries at Leoch, after all – but such a dramatically noticeable shift isn't common, even considering people like Dougal, who often deliberately change their accent when they want to change the impression they're making.
No, this sounds different. Like she's suddenly dropped a pretense. . .
"Yes, you probably do. I mean, I'm here to study the historical impact of both of you, after all," she looks at me excitedly, "I've been back and forth over this time period at least a dozen times by now – for research, you know - but this is the first time we've actually met – can I ask you some questions?" She pulls out a small notebook and a pen, and puts on a pair of tiny, half-moon glasses that make her look suddenly schoolteacher-ish and absurd.
Scratch that. It's not her. This whole thing is absurd.
"R-research?"
"Oh, yes dear. I'm an author, you know. Well, I am in my real time. Well, mostly. I mean, I do other things too, but what most people know me for is my writing. Historical Romance. And adventure. But mostly romance." She rummages in a bag on the seat next to her, and pulls out a tissue to wipe her glasses. "And I got this idea for a time travel story – a nurse from World War 2 goes back in time to the Battle of Culloden – and I was deep into researching it, and, well, what with one thing and another I discovered that it's so much easier to travel forward in time than it is back in time, and so if I wanted to do any hands-on research, it would have be of the second battle of Culloden, and that's when I came across all these mentions of The Green Man and Red Sorcha, and, well, I've had to swap your roles a little bit," she puts her glasses back on and picks up her pad and pen again, "Or a lot, rather, seventeen-hundreds, you know – but you've just been a total inspiration, my dear, you really have – I'm ten books in, now – well, that and a lot of novellas and other side-projects, but ten main books, anyway - "
I stop her flow of words with a gesture, only barely able to keep up, "Wait. . . books?"
"Yes. Lots of books."
"You write historical books – about the future?"
"Historical fiction, yes. About the past. Inspired by the future."
"Inspired by - me? And Jamie?"
She nods, so excited she's almost star-struck, "Yes, and we've never actually met until now – oh, I kept hoping, of course, but-"
I reach across the table and grip her arms, "So, you know what's going to happen? At Culloden? To Jamie? Or. . . or me?" Strange memories I don't remember acquiring flood over me, "You said. . . Red Sorcha? Is that me? Do I go to Culloden? Do I die at Culloden? Does Jamie? Do. . . both of us?" A red mist of terror comes up before my eyes, and the screaming sounds of battle rise in my ears. The past and future merge like galaxies, and swirl like summer mist over the northern sea. . .
Red.
Red light, red sky, red blood, red soul, Red Sorcha.
Redcoats.
Red Jamie.
Which of us is who? And when?
A pair of small thumps bring me back to the here and now.
I've shaken Iona's wrists so hard, I've made her drop her notebook and pen. Slowly, I unclench my fingers, and let her go. Equally slowly, she picks them back up.
"The only futures that are certain are the ones written in books, my dear. In fiction books. I mean, I've lived this exact day at least half a dozen times, and this is the first time you two have visited me. History is always changing – all over the place."
I laugh, mirthlessly, "Right. And we just don't notice?"
"Of course not," she smiles, "Watch this."
She gestures for me to follow her, and I do, to the bead-hung doorway of this little side-room. She scribbles something on her notepad, and then points silently at the awful huge lizard-thing sitting on the shelf nearby.
Shockingly, as I watch, it fades and dissolves, as if it had never been.
Then, Iona points to the low shelves right across from the register counter.
And, again as I watch, the lizard-thing reappears, quietly and undramatically coalescing atop the shelves, just as if it had always been there.
Like she can read my mind, Iona whispers, "Now watch this, dear. Not only has it moved, it was always over there." She steps forward a little, and raises her voice, "Wee Jamie?"
"Aye?" comes a voice slightly muffled by the intervening shelves.
"Would you mind bringing us some of that chocolate pu-erh tea I've got out there? There's a box of it right under the stuffed alligator."
Jamie appears from around the shelves, and turns unerringly towards the newly moved lizard-thing.
Just as if it has always been there.
He brings us the box of tea with a smile, and then goes back to whatever he was doing.
In a daze, I follow her back to the low table, and watch as she makes us a fresh pot of tea.
I've taken several fortifying sips from the cup she hands me before I can formulate a coherent question. And even then, I only just manage it.
"But. . . how?"
She smiles, and gestures at her pad and paper, "It's my Gift, dear."
"Gift?" my staggered mind starts to whir, trying to remember. . . "Geillis said something about Gifts, but she was very vague."
"Ah yes, Geillis," Iona suddenly gets very solemn, "She would be vague, poor dear."
I don't have the time or mental energy to unpack what that could mean. . .
"So, what is a Gift?"
Iona takes a sip of her tea, and says companionably, "Well, you no doubt know that Craigh na Dun is a focus of ley power, right?"
"Y-yes. . . clearly."
"Right. Well the only way to get through them safely is to have a properly focused aura that is resonating in tune with them – and that means that once you are though, the focus stays." She leans forward, her voice very serious now, "To Travel, is to be given power." She gestures at her pad and paper again, "It manifests in different ways for everyone, of course – usually onto the Token you have to bring through the stones with you, but not always. What was your Token?"
"An. . . enameled steel bottle."
She nods contemplatively, as if evaluating my choice.
"Possible. Do you have everything else you brought?"
"Yes."
"Well, keep it all near you, wherever you go, that's my advice."
"But. . . but. . ." I take a gulp of tea, trying to marshal my thoughts into something less resembling breakfast porridge, "I haven't had any "manifestations of power" or whatever – only strange visions and impossible things from totally separate pasts I can't remember."
She perks up at this, "Oh, really? Tell me about those."
Briefly, I outline my experience with Fraser's Beech.
She puts down her cup, and says, dreamily, "Echoes. How interesting. Your Token must be a real Artifact. Though, I suppose that was only to be expected with a mated soul."
"Iona," I sigh, "I really don't understand any of what you just said. . ."
She smiles at me, "My friends call me Diana. And you don't have to understand yet. When it's time, you will."
"But I don't have a Gift – or not one that I notice, anyway. . ."
"That's what I mean, dear. That's what I've been trying to tell you – why we're even having this conversation." She lowers her eyes, and runs her fingers lightly over the rim of her teacup, "It certainly didn't start until after you came through the stones, and you probably have to be close for it to work particularly well, but. . . well. . ." She glances across the shop in the direction Jamie went, "You're mated souls, my dear. And, you see, Gifts are not bestowed on bodies, they're given to souls. Gifts are a focus of energy – they need another focus of energy to attach to in order to work, you see? And the two of you - your souls have merged. He is expressing your inner soul, and you are expressing his – you have, in a sense, become each other."
I stare at her, light dawning slowly in my mind.
"Yes," she says, solemnly, "Whatever Gift Craigh na Dun was going to give to you, it has, in this timeline at least, given it to Jamie instead."