The Green Man

I listen to the low, warm hum of conversation in the Willow Tree dining room while Kee is clearing our table. The atmosphere here is entirely different than in any Skycity caf, but somehow, the feel is similar. I have always loved the protected openness, the public privacy, the communal individuality that a caf can provide, and such feelings pervade the air here, through and through.

It is almost as if the two-hundred year gulf between my time and now is bridged over, made as nothing, by the simple goodness of ordinary people.

Jamie smiles at Kee as she reaches for our plates, "Can ye bring the bill when ye bring out dessert, Kee?"

"Aye," she nods.

"An' I ken it isnae usual, but could ye see yer way clear tae a wee takeaway box?" he gestures down at his plate, which I now notice holds a good deal more leftovers than Jamie habitually leaves behind, "We have a new lad at home, y'see, an' he was mighty disappointed tae no' be invited tae come out wi' us taenight. So I promised tae bring him a wee nibble of everything we ordered, tae make him feel a part of things, ken?"

"Aye, we've all heard what the twa ov ye did for young Fergus," she smiles indulgently, "Ye stuck it tae auld Henbane good an' proper! He was right pished at how few of us showed up tae his service that Sunday, so he was."

I smirk at her name for the violent old priest, and chuckle at his continuing discomfiture.

"I dare say I can manage somethin'," she nods at Jamie's plate, "I'll bring a box when I bring the bill, aye?"

"Aye."

Jamie smiles after her as she walks away.

I look at him, heart melting.

"You didn't tell me you were going to do that for Fergus, Jamie."

"Aye, weel. . ." he half-smiles at me, "Sometimes there mus' be a few things just between the men, Sassenach." His eyes go very sober, "The lad has been through a lot. More than I expected – though less than I feared. He hasnae let the wee rucksack ye gave him out of his sight all week."

"He told you about what was in it?"

"Aye."

"And that none of it was stolen?"

He waves a hand, almost imperiously, "Oh aye. I ken that. Fergus is a man of his word. An' if he needs tae carry food about like a wee comfort blanket, I say let him. There are far worse coping habits." His mouth sets hard for minute, and then he changes the subject, "What did ye do for Story Night last night? I was sorry no' ta be there, but one of the cows had a rough calving and Marc needed me."

I nod, "Yes, Matt told them, and everyone understood. I read them a couple chapters of The Wizard Of Oz."

"How'd they like it?"

"Apparently Danny has seen part of a movie made from it, but none of the others had encountered it before. They liked it quite a bit, I think."

"You only think?"

"Well, boys that age, you know," I wave a hand a little vaguely, "It can be a tiny bit awkward for them to engage with story that has a girl protagonist. I'm pretty sure they liked Toto more than Dorothy."

"Agch," he huffs, "It's only because they havenae had many girl-led stories read tae them yet. Give them more of them – Anne of Green Gables, an' Alice in Wonderland, an' Jane Eyre an' Austen when they're ready – an' dozens of others in between – an' they'll warm up to the concept." He salutes me, with the casual, playful, yet deeply felt respect that most Scots seem to be able to project, "Ye'ev done good work, Sassenach, starting them off right."

I catch his hand in mine, pressing our palms together, and interlocking our fingers.

"Thank you. I've never been a mother before."

He squeezes my hand a little tighter, "Tha's no quite true. . . but regardless – by my lights, ye'er doin' grand so far."

Two hot tears prick in my eyes, for some reason I cannot understand. . .

Kee brings our dessert just then, along with the bill, and a strange trapezoidal box of thin white and red waxed cardboard, with elaborate Chinese symbols printed on each side.

"I found the Willoughby's auld store of these," she says, holding the box out proudly, "will that do?"

Jamie takes the thing, opens the flaps on top, and starts filling it with the bits he's saved from his dinner, "Aye – it's perfect." When he's done with the box, he scans the nearby slip of paper with his com, taps a few buttons, and hands the bill back to her, "There ye are, an' thanks."

"Thank ye, too. Enjoy yer dessert!"

She smiles, and disappears back towards the kitchens.

The walnut butter cake is excellent, but very rich. About a quarter of Jamie's slice, and over half of mine make it into the box for Fergus. We linger for a few minutes over the last of the wine, but soon after we are helping each other on with our coats, and then wandering through the cold, misty night back to the car, arm in arm.

"That was a wonderful dinner Jamie," I hum, content, "I got to try so many new things."

"Ye did? Even tho' t'wasnae Chinese food?"

"Oh, yes. I've had walnut cake before, but that spice glaze was brand new to me. And of course I've had Mrs. Fitz's Scotch eggs many times by now, but she never uses duck eggs – or Italian sausage, come to that. Spanish wine – I've never had that before. A warm salad – that was something new too. And it frankly never occurred to me that carrots could be glazed with honey, but they were delicious. And, uhm. . ." I pause a second, wondering exactly how odd this will sound to him, "Well, it's the first time I've had a steak."

He rounds on me, more shocked than I've seen him in a while.

"Ye've nevar had a steak before taenight?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

I don't offer any explanations. He doesn't ask for any. He does, however, look at me long and curiously as he hands me into the Mustang. He pauses a long time after he gets in next to me, too. Then he asks, "What did'ye think?"

I shrug, "It was very good. I found the texture a bit odd, but the flavour was very nice. I still might choose Mrs. Fitz's creamy chicken stew over it if I was given the choice every day, but the steak tasted much more special and occasion-worthy anyway." I lean over and squeeze his arm, "Thank you for taking me for un-Chinese food, Jamie."

He laughs, "Ye'er greatly welcome, Sassenach," then he kisses my forehead cheerfully, "Now then, are ye up tae goin' to see Iona MacTavish this e'en?"

Apprehension blooms in my stomach. "She'll be asleep for hours by now, won't she? Or gone to bed, surely – or home."

"Nae nae – I called ahead special. We have an appointment for a candlelight palm-reading session in. . ." he glances quickly at his com, "Ten minutes. She lives over her shop too, so it wasnae a big ask – an' anyroad, she always does these things for courtin' couples around here," he shrugs, and amends, "Now an' again, at least. It can make for a moor interesting date night than usual, ken?" He takes my chilly hands and warms them between his own for a minute, "D'ye feel up tae going, or should I call an' cancel?"

I lean back in my cushy leather seat, and think very hard for a minute.

If I say no, then I miss out on a chance to talk to a fellow time traveler. And who knows if by tomorrow she'll even exist in this time? Anyone who can pop in and out of reality so casually isn't someone I want to miss the opportunity to talk to, if I can.

Then again, Jamie will be there the whole time. How much am I going to be able to say, really, or ask, for that matter?

Then again again. . .

"I think I want to see her, Jamie. Just to make sure she really is real."

He smiles, "Oh, she's real enough. Settle yer mind on that score."

"But. . ."

"I ken she winked out of existence for Murtagh and me last week, apparently – I still dinnae remember it that way, but if you say we didnae remember her, then we mus' not have done so – but heer, now, she's real, an' alive, and I talked tae her yesterday. She's no sprite – jus' an ordinary woman with The Sight. And an herb an' crystal shop. An' perhaps a wee bit of an obsession with incense. . ."

I smile, "If the few minutes I spent there with Annie and the girls is any indication, that last is certainly true. . ."

"An' if ye'er ever uncomfortable at any time, jus' squeeze my hand, an' I'll get you out of there, no questions asked."

Very briefly, I lean my head on his shoulder.

"You're a good man, Jamie Fraser."

He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and then turns the car keys in the ignition.

The drive across the square is so short I don't have time to change my mind more than twice.

The door of The Green Man opens with a cascading tinkle of bells. They ring again in reverse as Jamie softly closes the door behind us. I hug my arms around myself as I look around, trying to dispel the outdoor chill.

At first glance, everything is the same as it was a few days ago – half the shop full of the same ranks of shelves stuffed with dried herbs in bunches, jars and bags, and the other half crowded with the same heaps of rough and uncut stones in boxes, buckets, trays and bins. The same fill-your-own-pouch station full of tumbled crystals and tiny drawstring bags is there in the corner, and the full spectrum of softly gleaming polished stones and handmade jewelry is the same, all shut up in display cabinets along the side wall. The chaotically scattered piles upon piles of books are still here – none of which seem to be written in English, and all of which are old, musty, and smell faintly of decaying leather. There are even the same old enormous ceramic jars full of what look like ancient vellum scrolls.

I can smell the same spicy, herbal scents, as they blend seamlessly with the strange, almost peppery odours of both raw and polished gemstones. And over it all is the same smoky, heavy, resinous pall of incense that seems to have soaked into the very wood and plaster of the place, almost but not quite masking its older, baser smell of mildewed wallpaper and ancient cigar smoke.

It ought to be stuffy and oppressive, and last time I was here it certainly was, but on a cold winter night like this, it's almost cozy. There are dozens of candles scattered around, but just like in Leoch's main hall, upon closer inspection they all turn out to be plastic battery operated facsimiles of real candles, so there is no danger of hot wax or fire.

They do make for a flickering and eerie atmosphere however, and Jamie and I only slowly approach the central checkout counter.

I give a quiet gasp as we get closer, for here everything is different.

Last time, the register was surrounded by an array of locally made jewelry, some racks of cheap picture postcards and tartan print magnets, a box or two of brand-name candy, and a few display crates of ridiculously overpriced fancy imported herbal teas.

Harmless, and predicable.

Now, however, the checkout area is positively overflowing with an extremely disconcerting collection of taxidermy animals.

Mice, rats, cats, frogs, owls, red and blue songbirds, lizards, snakes, fish, and dozens more things I cannot identify all stare dully at us as we approach the counter. I shiver, more creeped out than I can properly communicate. Jamie pulls me close and puts an arm around me. I huff a mirthless laugh, because I can feel him shivering too – in fear or distaste I do not know, and don't care to ask.

It's probably both.

I hope it's both. . .

I've only ever heard of taxidermy before. Other than a basic definition of the practice and a small line drawing in the encyclopedia entry, I've never even imagined what such creatures would look like. But now I know why every mention of it in my natural history books was so vague, and why they so strongly stressed the fact that "Nowadays doing any such thing to an animal of any kind is strictly outlawed." The ranks of glassy, lifeless eyes are bad enough, the many rows of shellacked, artificial looking teeth doubly so, but I am almost certain there are patchwork animals among this collection – half-and-half monstrosities, dead parts preserved and sewn together, in a gruesome mockery of life.

Their dank, horrible smell reaches me, and I am nearly sick, until I see the crowning prize amongst the horror, set proudly on a shelf behind the register – a gigantic lizard thing, fanged mouth half-open, clawed feet spread wide, long, scaly tail coiled menacingly as if to strike.

Seeing it is such a shock that the sheer adrenaline forces my stomach to behave.

I gape at it in speechless disgust, but Jamie reads out the words painted on the wooden plaque hanging beneath it.

"Speak, Goddess! Since 'tis Thou that best canst tell,
How ancient Leagues to modern Discord fell;
Whence 'twas, Physicians were so frugal grown,
Of others Lives, and lavish of their own;
How by a Journey to th' Elysian Plain,
Peace triumph'd, and old Time return'd again."

He slips a hand reassuringly into mine, and squeezes my fingers to remind me we can leave any time I want. I huddle closer to him, but don't squeeze back.

Not yet.

Then, a voice comes from the dimly lit doorway behind the counter.

"His shop the gazing vulgar's eyes employs,
With foreign trinkets and domestic toys.
Here mummies lay, most reverently stale,
And there the tortoise hung her coat of mail;
Not far from some huge shark's devouring head,
The flying-fish their finny pinions spread.
Aloft in rows large poppy-heads were strung,
And near, a scaly alligator hung.
In this place drugs in musty heaps decay'd,
In that dried bladders and false teeth were laid."

A small woman steps forth as she recites these words, an electric candle lighting itself in her hands, and illuminating her face while throwing weird, wavering shadows over it. She gestures for us to follow her behind the counter. When we do, she holds back the curtain of small, shiny beads for us to enter the softly lighted room beyond.

She continues to recite as we sit on heavily cushioned benches set around a low, circular table.

"An inner room receives the num'rous shoals,
Of such as pay to be reputed fools;
Globes stand by globes, volumes on volumes lie,
And planetary schemes amuse the eye.
The sage in velvet chair here lolls at ease,
To promise future health for present fees;
Then, as from tripod, solemn shams reveals,
And what the stars know nothing of foretells.
Our manufactures now they merely sell,
And their true value treacherously tell."

She sits down across from us, sets her candle next to a large, clear crystal ball, and then looks over at us and smiles.

Somehow, the pleasant normality of her dimples and laugh lines breaks the spell. Her part of it, anyway. She's just an ordinary woman in extraordinary circumstances.

Just like me. . .

"Well, my dears," she says, hefting a gently steaming teapot from the tray next to her, "Dragon's Blood tea?" she pours two small cups without waiting for us to answer, "It's sovereign good for hearts inflamed with passion." She smiles down at the cups as she pours, and Jamie and I share a suddenly awkward glance. Then she hands a cup to each of us, which we both dutifully take. Jamie sets his down untasted, but I take a sip of mine. It's woodsy, and fragrant, though a little too bitter for my preference, but I decide a warm and steadying drink is more than welcome at the moment. . .

This back room is just as cluttered and chaotic as the rest of the shop, but here the walls are covered with star charts, posters of galaxies, planetary photographs, and shelf after shelf of carved stone globes. I can't make out the patterns very well in this dim light, but as far as I can see, only the clear crystal one on the table has no colour to it or engraving on it.

Without further word or even a look at us, Iona sets a small wooden tray full of compacted white sand in front of her. Then she reaches for a brass disc perforated with a sweeping, coiled pattern, and a small jar of what is clearly incense. I just catch sight of the label – "True Vervain".

With precise and obviously ritualistic movements, she spoons some of the powdery incense over the brass disc, and with a small, flat stamp clearly made for the purpose, tamps it firmly down. Then she lifts the brass disc, leaving behind a swirling, circular pattern of incense on the sand. Delicately, she strikes a match, and touches the flame to one end of the labyrinthine trail. The stuff begins to burn, slowly filling the room with its soft, heavy odour.

Then she pours some clear, cold water into a shallow ceramic dish, and very carefully floats seven pressed and dried leaves and flowers across the surface. The only three I recognize are clover, primrose, and pasque flower. Then, she takes a handful of raw, cloudy grey crystals, and places them very deliberately around the central seeing-stone.

She sighs then, slowly and deeply, and finally looks at us again.

"Well. Now we're ready, dears. Is there anything specific you're wanting tae know tonight?"

Jamie promptly shakes his head, but I catch my breath a little, only just stopping myself from asking about time travel.

Several seconds too late, I shake my head too.

She peers closely at me in response, "Are you sure now?"

I nod, much more firmly this time.

Her eyes crinkle up in curiosity, "Haven't I seen you somewhere, dear? You look familiar. Have you been in the shop before?"

I scarcely know how to respond. I can hardly tell her that the last time I was here, she didn't exist. . .

Or can I?

"My friends and I stopped by for a few minutes several days ago but. . . um. . . if you recognize me, it's probably from the night of Gwyllyn's concert."

"Mm," she waves Gwyllyn away, "Maybe so, but what I really want tae know is – were there any things you were interested in, in the shop? Anything speak tae you?"

I blink, now entirely off-kilter, "Well. . . there was a little carnelian pendant-"

"Oh dear me, no!" she interrupts, "Not carnelian, of all things. . ." she looks at me with an odd sideways stare, "Amethyst, perhaps, or at an outside chance garnet, or. . ." her eyes narrow again, in confusion this time, "Yes, carnelian is there too, and rose agate. . . well, what do you know. . ."

She lifts a handful of crystals out of a nearby box, and begins to arrange them around the seeing-sphere and dish of floating flowers, murmuring to herself as she does so.

"Mars and Saturn, who would have thought? And Ursa and Jupiter, well I never. . ."

It is a few minutes before I feel comfortable interjecting a question, "What. . . uhm. . . what is strange about any of that?"

"Well dear," she says, her fingers tapping the table contemplatively, "Your core aura is ultramarine – and that doesn't seem to match your projected aura – which is red, and magenta, tending towards violet - and that is very strange."

"Um. . ."

"Which means – your innermost soul and outer life are virtually two different people, but you are presenting as fully integrated and completely energetically functional – which then means there must be another spiritual component. . ." she stops, then gestures peremptorily at Jamie, "Let's see your hand, young man – your dominant hand, now."

Jamie holds out his left hand. She peers at it briefly, then gestures at me, "Now yours, dear."

I hold out my left hand, but she shakes her head, "No dear, your dominant hand."

"B-but I'm left handed. . ."

"Are you? Now that's really odd. . ." she gestures for me to hold out both hands, which I do.

"Ahh, that must be part of it," she smiles knowingly, "You've had your hand read tae you before, but it wasn't your left, was it?"

"N-no. . ."

I desperately attempt to remember everything Mrs. Graham ever told me. . .

"A classic mistake. Most palm-readers assume right-hand dominance, and so most people's auras are focused there – which can be quite a problem for left-hand dominants, seeing as that projects any ley power you may gather into the past instead of into the future. It thoroughly disrupts any predictive scrying, and usually tangles all auric energies – but fortunately you seem to have been spared that. . ."

She gestures for Jamie's hand again.

After another, slightly longer at his palm, she brings out another handful of crystals, and arranges them as she did the others – in spiraling, concentric circles around the clear crystal ball, and the water dish holding the seven dried flowers.

"Yes," she murmurs, "Sapphire and aquamarine, with a nod to yellow quartz, moss agate, and. . ." she gives a small ironic smirk, "Iona marble. That's Venus, the Moon, the Sun, and the Earth. Your core aura is orange, but your projected aura is cyan and green, tending towards gold. Well, that about settles it. Only. . ." she brings out yet another handful of crystals, "Let me try one last thing. . ."

These she ranges in a line between Jamie and I, and waves her hand slowly over them a few times. At last, her hand pauses, and picks up a small gem of dark red that seems to be edged with an odd deep green.

"Your convergence stone is Alexandrite. I'd say that's pretty conclusive, wouldn't you?"

"Weel," says Jamie flatly, and I can tell he's holding back a lot of frustration, "That would depend on what, exactly, we were concludin', would it no'?"

I nod, in emphatic agreement with him.

"Oh, didn't I say?" Iona smiles sweetly at both of us, "The two of you are soulmates."