The Cuckoo In The Grove

Jamie and I follow the footprints for as far as we can. It isn't far. Several meters into the stand of pines and oaks, the snow thins out, leaving only dry, hard, spindly grasses that don't keep traces well. Jamie stops near the last clear set of prints, and looks around, staring into the trees as though willing them to speak. I reset my grip on the shoulder strap of Fergus's bag, refusing to allow myself to descend into anxious worry.

"They must'ha seen something ta make them come this way, mo nighean. They must. There's nae other reason tae go inta these woods."

"Well, I don't see anything poisonous growing here, at least. . ."

"True," he plants his fists on his hips, "Oak an' fir couldnae do them much harm, nor the wild grasses neither. I just wish I knew why. . ." He seems to spot something behind a thick clump of hazel brush, and gestures for me to follow him. In fact he's seen something on the hazel, not behind it. He cups the long trailing end of one twig, and holds it out for me to see.

"Catkins, Sassenach," he says, voice awed, eyes baffled.

I feel very nearly the same way.

"What are spring flowers doing out in the middle of winter?"

"Dinnae ken. But it must be what they saw." He pushes past a few more layers of whippy, spindly twigs, then stops abruptly, lashing me with branches, and nearly making me run into him.

"Jamie!" I snap, annoyed, "What-"

"Huish!," he hisses, and reaches back to grab my arm and pull me up level with him.

"Ow! What – ohh."

All protests are cut off as I take in our surroundings.

Beyond the thick, enclosing hedge of hazel and fir, there is a circle of graceful ash trees, arching their branches over a still-green lawn of delicate clover. The only place that shows signs of frost is one dark spot in the center, where freezing snow made it through the protecting canopy, leaving behind a bruise when it thawed. The ashes themselves are bare and snow-wreathed in their upper branches, but their lower ones are astonishingly in flower, mimicking the look of snow, but with the heavy, heady breath of spring. It is distinctly warmer here, the air thick with the rich, damp scents of active, flourishing life. There are patches of golden primroses everywhere, with the coils of fiddlehead ferns showing here and there among them. Spikes of wild garlic show green and fresh next to the gray ridges of ash bark. Red and white clover flowers sprinkle the lawn as though with festive confetti, and little cushions of moss campion nestle in tree roots and on stones, and in the nooks of fallen branches.

But the most arresting thing is the utter, total profusion of lady's smock. The white, pink-veined flowers lie in heaps surrounding the clover lawn, and push up against the hazel hedge, like piles of shoveled snow, waiting for the warmth of spring. But the tall, thin, tangled plants are green now, giving off a spicy, herbal smell that intoxicates as much as it bewilders.

"Cuckoo flowers," Jamie breathes, "This. . . this must be a unicorn's glade."

"A what?" I whisper, still unsure if what I'm looking at can possibly be real.

"Fairyland, Sassenach. Where it's always Spring. Where a unicorn lives, and fairies dance under the stars."

"But that's. . ."

I'm about to say impossible.

I take another look around.

Nothing is impossible.

"Do you think the boys ate anything from here? All the plants look harmless to me. Primroses are edible, clover is edible, wild garlic is edible, lady's smock is edible. In fact, I believe ash flowers and fiddlehead sprouts are edible too. Campion. . . is non-toxic, I think. I don't know much about hazel, but there's only that one cluster of catkins, and I don't think they chewed on sticks. That's about all that's here, and I don't think any of it would hurt them. . ."

"Everything here could hurt them, Sassenach," says Jamie, still staring at the abundant flowers with a stunned, wondering expression.

"What?"

"It's Fairyland," he says, grabbing my arm again and shaking me slightly, "Eating anything in Fairyland c'n get ye cursed."

"Cursed? What are you talking about, Jamie?"

"Ye cannae take anything from Fairyland – no' a sip tae quench yer thirst, no' a bite tae quell yer belly, no' a rose petal, no' a leaf, no' a grain of pollen, or the Fae will come tae ye in yer sleep, an' steal yer soul. The only way out ov it is tae pay them in gold for whate'er ye took, and leave an offering at the same place ye took it."

"Jamie!" I pull my arm away from him, "I'm surprised at you. This is the same kind of superstitious guff that Father Bain was spouting!"

"Aye, demons is one thing, Sassenach, bu' I'll no' be defying the Fae while standin' on their oon doorstep!"

I gape at him, "You. . . believe all that?"

He clenches his fists, "Nae. No' believe. I ken it. Ye cannae live in Scotland long wi'out knowin', Sassenach. Knowin' there's somethin' moor than what we c'n see – things we cannae evar, evar understand."

I stand there, mouth open, unable to speak.

He's right.

I know he's right.

Craigh na Dun proves he's right.

Dammit.

"Alright," I say, finally, "Let's go, then."

To my further shock, he shakes his head, "No, this is the place - I'm sure of it, mo ghràidh."

"But. . . but if we can't take samples - and any we did take would be of perfectly harmless plants anyway – what are you thinking we can do, Jamie?" I sigh, exasperated, "There's nothing to do – let's just go. I'll test the plants we've gathered already, and if we haven't found a match you'll just have to take a guess. And. . . hope. Or. . . pray, I suppose. . ."

I shrug, and turn to go, but suddenly, he grabs my shoulder. Or, rather, the strap on my shoulder.

Fergus's food bag.

"Let me see in there, Sassenach," he says, lifting it from me and opening it to rummage around, "When Fergus was showin' me befoor, I thought I saw. . ." his hand comes out holding two bars of chocolate, "Here we are."

He removes their outer paper labels, revealing the inner, gold-coloured foil wrappers. Then, he takes a knife from his pocket, and steps cautiously into the glade.

The lightest wind picks up, wafting the scent of snow across the scene of impossible spring.

Jamie approaches one of the ash trees, and crouches down in front of it. He murmurs something long and complicated in the Gàidhlig, and then half unwraps the two chocolate bars, leaving the candy visible, but set in two glittering nests of gold. Then, with one quick, smooth motion, he slices the top off a plant of wild garlic.

In less than three strides he's back with me, dragging me away from the place as fast as we can humanly go.

"Wh-why - did you - take the - the garlic?" I pant, nearly needing to run to keep up with him.

"Tis'nae garlic," he says, pushing some long fir branches out of my way, "'S lily o' th'valley. . ."

He doesn't say anything else until we're back in the car, and driving away. I toss the keys to him, and get in the passenger seat, my lap full of sample bags. I've just finished labeling them when he glances over at me.

"Ye' dinnae think I'm an utter fool now, d'ye, Sassenach?"

I take another long look at the lily of the valley sample, wondering again how I could have made such a misidentification. . .

"A fool? No. Or if I do, we can both share the title," I tap the bags on my lap, "We're both people of science, Jamie. People of facts, and reality, and good, solid common sense. But. . . well." I shrug, and quote, "'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio.'"

He nods, and turns us onto Leoch's long gravel drive.

A few minutes later we're at the Manager's barn, Geordie waiting anxiously for us.

"What-" he starts, but stops at a gesture from Jamie.

"Later," he says, "Let Claire do her work now. . ."

I get down to it in the lab, with two very willing assistants. . .

Matching the poison with the boys' blood toxin samples takes only slightly longer than I predicted it would, and the full antidote write-up takes less time than any of us could possibly have hoped.

It was the lily of the valley. . .

Jamie grabs the two vials of specially formulated antidote from the synthesizer, and holds them aloft with a gesture of triumph.

"Three cheers for Claire Beauchamp!" He hugs me to him, and kisses me soundly on the forehead.

"Let's make sure it works before we celebrate, yes?"

"Yes," says Geordie, grinning while hurrying us back into our hastily-shed coats, "An' I'm comin' wi' ye, if ye don' mind."

Jamie claps him on the shoulder in response, then takes my arm, and we all hurry back to the infirmary.

Father Bain is still in the waiting room area, praying in a highly theatrical manner, surrounded by his attending priests, Colum's personal staff, Murtagh, and Dougal. Jamie barely gives a glance to them though, and hurries in to the boys.

The attending squad of stablehands are still here, but beyond them is Leticia, sitting solemnly next to Hamish, and Colum, his prosthetic off, his hands folded, perched on a high folding stool between the beds, angled so he can look at both boys equally.

Jamie pauses in his rush.

"I changed places wi' Murtagh," says Colum, gesturing regally, "I. . . needed. . . tae be heer."

Jamie nods shortly, shrugging off his coat and going over to the sink to wash his hands, "I understand, Uncle."

Colum takes a long look at Fergus.

"Aye. I suspect ye do. It's a good thing ye'ev done for the lad. The twa ov ye."

He includes me with a glance, and a twitch of his eyebrows.

"Only the decent thing," says Jamie, pulling a dose of the antidote into a syringe, and coming around to Fergus's bedside.

"He'll be a good legacy to ye, lad," Colum whispers, nodding as Jamie injects the antidote. Then he looks over at Hamish, and nods again as Jamie injects him too, "There is more tae heredity than blood."

He looks up, and makes eye contact with Leticia, "An' moor tae love than a name."

Jamie nods, and whispers agreement, but is obviously focused solely on the boys, and if and when the antidote will take effect.

It is a long, long few minutes, with Jamie fussing over them, taking their pulses, listening to their breathing, his eyes flashing with blue fire every time there is even the tiniest change.

Finally, as he gently brushes back the hair from Hamish's forehead, the boy's eyelids flutter, and he takes a deep, distress-free breath.

Leticia leaps forward with a cry, and clutches her son to her chest.

I pretend not to notice the shining moisture around Colum's eyes.

"Call Dougal to us, please. . ." he says, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

I call Dougal in, and then go and sit with Jamie by Fergus's side. He has drawn the privacy curtain between the beds, giving his uncles as much space as possible, and Fergus as much quiet as can be reasonably expected. He holds Fergus's hand, and combs his fingers through the boy's long brown curls.

"Why hasn't it worked yet?" I ask, eyes burning, heart thudding so hard against my ribs I think it might burst.

If it doesn't work, I'll have had Fergus for even less time than I was pregnant. . .

"Probably body weight. Depends on how much he ate, an' how well he'll react tae the-"

"Papa?" Fergus rasps though dry lips, "What happened?"

Jamie smiles, even as he suddenly cannot keep from weeping, "Ye were ill, lad."

Very carefully, he lifts our son, and hugs him close, "But ye're better now."

I bolt to the nearest bathroom, slamming the door behind me and hunching over the sink, nearly hyperventilating in my efforts not to faint from relief.

Eventually, I collapse onto the closed toilet, holding my head in my hands.

This mothering thing isn't for the faint of heart. . .

It is only then that I finally let myself cry.