In The Devil's Kirkyard

When we get to the infirmary, it is in an uproar.

Jamie has to push past a wildly arguing Colum and Dougal just to get to the beds, and then, the first one is surrounded. I see several of Colum's staff, some people in black that I don't recognize, and on the far side of the consulting room, Leticia weeping, with only Murtagh trying to comfort her.

It takes Jamie a few seconds to settle the still moaning Fergus on the second bed, but then he closes his eyes, and I can see him gather himself.

"Silence!" he bellows through the clamour, "The God-dammed bloody lot of ye!"

The room goes quiet, out of sheer shock. Jamie doesn't give in to raging fury very often, and I must say, it is very effective when he does.

"Dougal?" he asks, voice clipped and cold, "What's happenin'?"

Dougal's own jaw is set hard, and his words come out flat, and emotionless, "Wee Hamish came in an hour ago, feeling sick, an' dizzy. He fainted about ten minutes later, and hasnae fully woke up since. Leticia called Father Bain," Dougal nods at the tight group of men dressed in black, who then part to reveal the priest, huddled among his attendants, clutching a crucifix to his chest, "An' there appears tae be a dispute as tae the next course of action tae take."

"Nae dispute," barks the priest, "The lad is possessed, an' the demon mus' be thrown out befoor it infects the lot of us!"

"Wi' what?" Jamie sneers, "Whisky an' spirits? Moanin' an' groanin' isnae a germ, an' faintin' isnae demons! These lads have been poisoned, an' I'll thank ye all tae go an'-"

"That devil child?" Father Bain points at Fergus and spits his next words viciously at him, "He probably gave it tae the young Laird tae begin wi'!"

"Oh? How by, exactly? Droplet infection? Demon possession isnae a diagnosis, it's a bloody superstition! Be off wi' yer damn prehistoric shite, an' let me work!"

Jamie comes round the bed then, arms pulled back, fists clenched, and a cold, intense fire in his eyes.

Things are about to go very, very bad. . .

"Have you ever seen a drunk man, Father Bain?" I ask, into the blistering silence.

The whole room turns to look at me, and even Jamie's righteous fury takes a pause.

"A-aye?" says the priest, shocked into something like curiosity.

"Then you also must know that certain kinds of head injury can result in being what is called "punch drunk", yes?"

"Aye, lass, but what-"

"And it naturally follows, does it not, that the symptoms of both afflictions, being similar, may lead to one being diagnosed as the other?"

He doesn't answer this time, but I push on, "And treating one like the other is almost never a good idea – in fact, it can lead to death in some cases – I'm sure you know that too."

The whole room blinks, submerged in confusion.

I gather to me all my Central authority, all my Beauchamp nobility, and every bit of pure, Claire-ish stubbornness I can find, and look Father Bain straight in the eye.

"Well then. Clearly poisoning and possession have the same symptoms in this case. But, if we treat one like the other, we may very well make the problem worse. It might be possession masquerading as poison. Or even the other way around. So, I suggest we let Jamie look over the boys, and give him a chance to at least assess the problem. And I promise you, Father," I say, with a chilly respect that is very nearly a threat, "If it turns out to be possession, I will be the first one to insist on your involvement. No one here knows anything about exorcisms."

I wait a heartbeat, but either no one picks up on the implied insult, or the sheer audacity of it lets it pass.

"But, in the meantime," I smile with all the sweet, overbearing hauteur of a Central dignitary, and gesture towards the waiting room area outside, "There is a family here in great distress, Father. I hear that prayer and supplication can help with that. And I know that priests are good at prayer. Are they not?"

"A-aye. Of course," says Father Bain, now totally bemused. Like all bullies, he's a coward at heart, and not any match at all for Warrior Claire in full Central mode. He finds himself obeying my gesture out of pure, dumbfounded bewilderment. He realizes what he's doing halfway across the room, of course, but he's committed to leaving now, and cannot gracefully stay.

Slowly, everyone follows him into the waiting room, Murtagh last of all, helping a still weeping Leticia, though she is quieter now.

"Come back soon, mo goistidh," says Jamie, leaning over Hamish and inspecting his eyes, "We need ye heer, aye?"

Murtagh grunts, and closes the door between us.

Warrior Claire falls away from me in a sickening rush, leaving behind a very frightened, extremely anxious mother, who almost wishes she was Letitia at this moment.

At least then I could cry. . .

Jamie works over Hamish in silence for a few minutes, and then says, almost meekly, "Thank ye, Sassenach. I would not have handled that nearly as. . . neatly."

He smiles wryly at me, but I don't answer beyond a nod, letting him focus.

I'm in too much of a state to speak for a little bit anyway. . .

Eventually, Jamie gives Hamish an injection, and sets him up on a saline drip. He goes back around to Fergus, and gives him the same things. Then, he leans on the foot of the beds, one fist gripping each railing, and heaves a great sigh.

"Damn an' blast that bloody priest!" he shoves himself away from the beds, and grips his hair in his hands, "Jesus, Mary an' Bride, I had a thought what this could be befoor that hell-preacher drove it from my mind!"

I shake free of my worry to ask a question that's been nagging at me since we got here - "And, it's definitely poison?"

"Agch," he growls, "Of course it's poison, thank ye very much."

"All right, all right," I raise a hand defensively, "I only meant to ask if it couldn't be venom. Or a rapid-onset bacterial infection, maybe. Or anemia. Poison isn't the only scientific option, you know."

"Agh – I ken, an' I'm sorrae, Sassenach," he sits heavily in a nearby chair, and stares off into space, "Evary time I'm in the presence of that man I feel like I'm in the Devil's own kirk. . ." He looks over at me sharply, "Fergus did mention the boys he was playin' with this morning, yes?"

"Yes, but-"

"Was one of them a Tammas, or a Lindsey?"

"Yes, he mentioned both, but-"

Jamie claps his hands, barks a harsh laugh, and strides over to the door, calling insistently for Murtagh. The man appears a moment later, looking several different types of worried.

But Jamie ignores that, "Go an' find Tammas Baxter an' Lindsay Macneill, an' bring them here tae me, Murtagh. Be insistent wi' them, please. Very insistent."

Murtagh's eyebrows go up, "Oh? Important that ye talk tae them, is it?"

"Aye, very."

"Weel, alright then."

Murtagh nods and goes, the worry not leaving his face, but determination joining it.

Silence returns to the infirmary, broken only by our two boys' low, subdued moaning, and the distant ringing sound of Father Bain's prayers.

Jamie lets the silence hang for a minute, then turns to me.

"There's an auld ruin of a place, not a mile from here, in the hills west a ways," he nods his head in that direction, "A monastery it was, way back. Nowadays it's called The Black Kirk. Folks say it's haunted by the Devil himself, an' that his demons play in the kirkyard by moonlight. Goin' there an' pissin' on the doorstep has been a stunt an' a challenge for local boys for centuries. Often they'll eat somethin' growin' there too – tae steal the power of the place, ken?" He growls, frustrated, "An' that's where the demon stories come from – boys comin' home sick, raving, thrashin' about – but it isnae possession, it's poison. There's dozens of auld things from medieval times still growin' up there, an' more wild things than c'n be counted, an' chances are even tae good that any random thing ye pick was nevar meant tae be eaten atal. Yer chances are fair tae even that it'll be poisonous, an' I wouldnae like tae tell ye jus' how many of those are more than likely tae be fatal."

I choke a little, but manage to speak anyway, "Alright. But how do we know they- " I look over at Fergus and Hamish, and can't finish the sentence.

"Hamish has been warned for years against goin' there - strictly - more strictly even than most other boys around here, but what with the Gathering, an' Yule, and so many other boys bein' here, an' him bein' the Chieftain's son, I make no doubts he finally couldnae resist it. Especially if. . ."

Murtagh comes back in then, dragging two protesting boys by their earlobes.

"Heer ye have a Lindsay Macneill - " Murtagh pushes one boy towards Jamie with a very firm, but not unkind shove, "An' heer ye have a Tammas Baxter," he gives a second shove to the other boy. "Try tae leave them in one piece, lad, their mothers are verra fond of them."

Murtagh grins wickedly, and promptly leaves again.

A kindly, mischievous twinkle enters Jamie's eyes for a moment, but he quickly quashes it, and sets his face hard against the boys. He stands, crosses his arms, and looms like only a two-meter tall Scotsman can loom.

"Now then, lads," he says, nodding seriously, "I ken the twa ov ye went tae The Black Kirk once, an' came back unharmed – an' I ken ye'ev spent yer days evar since darin' other boys tae go an' do the same thing, like it's naught but a game." He puts a hand on each boy's shoulder, making sure they are looking at the two boys in the hospital beds, "But this is no game, lads. This is slow, fatal poison. An' if ye lie tae me about it, it'll be murder." He spins them both around, and makes them look up at him, "Ye wilnae have meant tae. But that's what it'll be. D'ye ken what it is I'm telling ye?"

Both boys nod, solemnly.

"Alright. Now then," he makes direct eye contact with each one of them in turn, "Did either of ye dare Hamish or Fergus tae go tae The Black Kirk?"

Very, very quietly, they both whisper, "Yes."

They nod their heads, and squirm uncomfortably, but Jamie visibly relaxes. His whispered "Thank you" sounds like a sigh.

"Ye dared both of them?"

They nod.

"Did ye see them go?"

They nod again.

"Did either of ye go with them? Or anyone else go with them?"

They shake their heads.

"Alright," Jamie waves a hand, "Ye can go. But remember this next time ye think ye'er just playin' dares. Aye?"

"Yes sir, Jamie sir," the boys chorus quietly, and then practically sprint out of the room.

As soon as they're gone, Jamie sits back down on the chair, and grips his hair, growling in frustration again.

"What?" I ask, surprised, "I thought that was the confirmation you needed!"

"Oh, it helps, aye, but it doesnae narrow things down at all. There's dozens of things up there that might hurt ye if ye ate them, like I said, an' wi'out knowing which, or how much they ate, or exactly how long ago, or how much they've absorbed, it's almost random chance which antidote they need, or how much tae give them. I c'n tell a lot by the symptoms, bu' nowise near enough." He scrubs his hands over his face, "'Tis a fearful guess tae have tae make – sometimes the cure is worse than the disease in these cases – 'specially if you get it wrong."

We both look over at Fergus and Hamish – who are much quieter now, thanks to Jamie's treatment, but still in obvious pain and distress. It is quite clear that neither of them would survive if Jamie gets it wrong.

Something occurs to me. . .

"Jamie. . ." I say, slowly, "I have all sorts of purification and isolation apparatus out in the Manager's barn – and I don't want to brag, but, I am something of an expert in figuring out plants. What if we – well you - ran a full bloodwork lab on the boys, and then we went up to this Black Kirk and gathered samples of everything they might have eaten? I could tell you which one matched their blood-chem, and the toxicity levels and concentration, absorption rate – everything."

He looks up, wild hope in his eyes, "Ye could?"

"Yes," I nod confidently, "It would only take a few minutes per plant."

He practically leaps up, and starts gathering things from a nearby cupboard – supplies to do a blood-lab, I'm assuming, "Let's no' waste any time, then. Call Murtagh back in, would ye?"

I do. He comes even more reluctantly this time.

"What is it lad?"

"Tell Geordie tae bring over some lads from the stables, aye? Five or six, at the least. They're tae stand here, in this room, and prevent anyone from approaching the beds – save yourself, and Leticia – until Claire and I get back. Aye?"

"Wh-what-"

"Dinnae ask questions, please, mo goistidh. I'll explain later. I need six men, blocking off access tae the beds. Will ye do this for me? For us?"

"Aye, a'course, but-"

"Evarything else mus' wait – I'm sorrae, bu' it must." He swipes an alcohol pad across Hamish's arm, and extracts a blood sample. He unwraps another syringe, and does the same to Fergus. Then he goes over to the counter, and starts laying out indicators, and labeling test tubes. He's so intent on his work that Murtagh doesn't try to ask anything more. In a moment, he goes.

I also don't interrupt Jamie's concentration, instead going over to hold Hamish's hand, and kiss Fergus on the top of his head.

My stomach twists at the thought that it may be for the last time. . .

The next few minutes take years to pass.

"That's that, Sassenach," says Jamie, at last, wrapping up the bloodwork results in two neat packages, "Let's go-"

Geordie comes into the room then, leading a veritable squadron of stablehands. Jamie puts the two carefully labeled packages into Geordie's hands.

"Thank ye, lad. Now deliver these tae the Manager's barn, an' wait there for us, aye?"

Jamie has grabbed my arm, led us into the passage, and out through a back door before Geordie has time to respond.

Our feet crunch grimly through the snow, neither of us saying anything. I am shivering heavily by the time we reach the garage. Jamie hands one of the random jackets kept there to me, and takes one himself.

"Brr. They walked two whole miles in this?"

Jamie shrugs, "They're young. An' were dressed for it. Plus it wasnae so cold when the sun was high an' before the wind was up." He opens a car with a click, and hands me into the driver's side.

"Would ye mind drivin' Sassenach? I wantae look some things up on my com – the most likely plants – confirm some symptomatic indications – aye?"

"Yes, of course," I scan the buttons and controls, confirming that I know them all, "But I don't know how to get there. . ."

"It's easy, I'll show ye."

It is easy, and after the first couple of tricky turning spots, he barely has to show me.

The wooded, hilly place stands out against the late afternoon sky like a Skycity over the sea. The dark outlines of earth and trees heave up against the horizon, practically creaking and groaning with presence. Long bars of setting sunlight cast themselves upwards through the mist, and reflect in blues and purples all across the snowy shadows.

It is no surprise to me at all that the place is thought to be haunted.

Haunted by all the ghosts and goblins that a close-knit, creative, hard-living culture, obsessed with their often cruel, unfeeling history can conjure up. . .

I drive between two massive, yet very tumbledown and moss-eaten pillars, and pull to a stop when I feel the crunch of gravel and the bump of cobblestones beneath the tyres.

Jamie looks up from his com, "We here then?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He gets out without another word, and is instantly scanning all the rocks and old wall fragments for anything our boys may have eaten. There is much less snow here, but still a hard, frozen crust lies over everything, making pretty much the entire place look the very definition of unappetizing. I can't imagine what. . .

"Is that a yew tree?" I point, and Jamie looks over.

"Aye, well spotted, mo nighean." He goes over and cuts a sample into a bag. Then he takes a tissue out of his pocket, and uses it to extract something from the dirt without having to touch the thin, frozen, scraggly stalk. He puts it carefully into another bag, murmuring, "Monk's hood – though we call it wolfsbane around here." He seals the bag, and hands both to me, "It isnae likely tae be that – the symptoms don' really match. But it's as well tae be sure."

"Certainly," I say, scanning the looming woods, and stamping my feet to try and keep warm, "How about that?" I point again, this time at a clump of white berries I more than recognize.

"Mistletoe," says Jamie, cutting a spray, and putting it in a third bag. "Not bad, but I still dinnae think-"

"What's that?" I ask, going over to look at something I've spotted past a wide breach in ancient curtain wall, "It looks like. . ."

It looks like a smooth brown rock, but in this scene of hard, frozen white, and dingy, dirty blacks and grays, clean, unmarked brown stands out.

It turns out it isn't a rock at all. It is Fergus's canvas rucksack, and there are two sets of footprints broken through the snow nearby, leading deeper into the woods. . .