The Outlandish Companion Page 12

In the ensuing confrontation, a number of things are revealed, including the fact that the Reverend is convinced that Jamie was responsible for the traumatic events that stole his sister’s wits; Jamie, he thinks, was “the Hieland man” whom his sister left her home to find, in the midst of the Rising. Despite Claire’s assurances that Margaret’s lover was in fact a friend of Jamie’s, Ewan Cameron, the Reverend is adamant in his hate.

  This is sufficiently disturbing to Claire. Somewhat more disturbing is the knowledge that Geillis Duncan has been in correspondence with the Reverend as a scholar of Celtic prophecies, with particular reference to the “Fraser Prophecy,” a mysterious prediction left by the Brahan Seer, to the effect that a ruler “of Lovat’s line” will one day lead Scotland.

  Obsessed as Geillis Duncan is with the rulers of Scotland, this knowledge gives Claire a sickening feeling that she knows where Geilie might have gone—at least in general terms. “Lovat’s line” consists of the descendants of Simon, Lord Lovat, chief of clan Fraser, who was executed following the Rising. While Lovat left a number of children, the direct line died out in the 1800s—or so Geilie thought, until she saw the pictures of Brianna, and realized that Lovat did indeed have a direct descendant, living in the future.

  Whether Geilie wishes to find Brianna for some sinister purpose, or only to use her photograph as an anchor point for her travel through the stones, the conclusion that the witch of Rose Hall is embarked on a journey to the future seems inescapable.

  Claire’s questions are interrupted, though, by the unexpected appearance of Mr. Willoughby. Considerably the worse for wear from days of hiding in the jungle, the Chinese man has not emerged to seek assistance from Claire— but to confront the Reverend.

  “Most holy fella,” he said, and his voice held a tone I had never heard in him before; an ugly taunting note.

  The Reverend whirled, so quickly that his elbow knocked against a vase; water and yellow roses cascaded over the rosewood desk, soaking the papers. The Reverend gave a cry of rage, and snatched the papers from the flood, shaking them frantically to remove the water before the ink should run.

  “See what ye’ve done, ye wicked, murdering heathen!”

  Mr. Willoughby laughed. Not his usual high giggle, but a low chuckle. It didn’t sound at all amused.

  “I murdering?” He shook his head slowly back and forth, eyes fixed on the Reverend. “Not me, holy fella. Is you, murderer.”

  “Begone, fellow,” Campbell said coldly. “You should know better than to enter a lady’s house.”

  “I know you.” The Chinaman’s voice was low and even, his gaze unwavering. “I see you. See you in red room, with the woman who laughs. See you too with stinking whores, in Scotland.” Very slowly, he lifted his hand to his throat and drew it across, precise as a blade. “You kill pretty often, holy fella, I think.”

  In the confrontation that follows, the Reverend draws a case knife, and is killed by Mr. Willoughby, who strikes him on the head with the bag containing his heavy jade “healthy balls.”

  Yi Tien Cho disappears into the Caribbean night, and Claire, unable to stay in the room with Campbell’s body, goes upstairs to Geilie’s workroom, looking for clues as to her whereabouts—or Ian’s. What she finds there is sinister: the stolen photograph of Brianna, in the center of a charred pentacle. Is Geilie intending merely to use the image as a focus for her time travel—or has she some more threatening motive? In either case, plainly the witch of Rose Hall has left, and Claire needs to find Jamie, as soon as possible.

  Stumbling through the blackness outside, Claire returns to the shore, hoping to find Jamie and his men near the boat. Instead, she meets with something else—a crocodile, from which she is rescued by several slaves, who kill the beast. Given the stress of recent events, Claire is only mildly taken aback to find that the leader of the slaves is Ishmael—the man rescued from the Bruja; the slave kidnapped—from Rose Hall, evidently—by the pirates.

  The connection between the Bruja and Rose Hall is more or less clear; evidently the pirate captain had retrieved and delivered the seals’ treasure for Geillis, along with a consignment of young Scottish boys. Whether as part of the agreed-upon price, or only by whim, the Bruja had taken Ishmael—Geilie’s cook—as the ship departed. Why, though, has he come back?

  The answer to that question emerges quickly. Half-fainting, Claire is taken to one of the slave huts to recover from her encounter with the crocodile, and wakes to find a voodoo ceremony beginning— featuring an oracle: the missing Margaret Campbell.

  This is why Ishmael has come back; to retrieve his oracle, the thing that gives him power over the other slaves. For an oracle Margaret Campbell truly is; as Claire listens in horrified fascination, she hears the loas—the spirits of the dead, the avatars of voodoo deities—speak through the lips of the Scottish woman. Among the loas summoned is that of Bouassa, a famous maroon, who raised a slave rebellion—and died for it, tortured to death. Ishmael asks the loa’s blessing on some enterprise—and Bouasssa grants it, with a bitter laugh.

  Her mouth closed, and her eyes resumed their vacant stare, but the men weren’t noticing. An excited chatter erupted from them, to be hushed by Ishmael, with a significant glance at me. Abruptly quiet, they moved away, still muttering, glancing at me as they went.

  Ishmael closed his eyes as the last man left the clearing and his shoulders sagged. I felt a trifle drained myself.

  “What—” I began, and then stopped. Across the fire, a man had stepped from the shelter of the sugarcane. Jamie, tall as the cane itself, with the dying fire staining shirt and face as red as his hair.

  He raised a finger to his lips, and I nodded. I gathered my feet cautiously beneath me, picking up my stained skirt in one hand. I could be up, past the fire, and into the cane with him before Ishmael could reach me. But Margaret?

  I hesitated, turned to look at her, and saw that her face had come alive once again. It was lifted, eager, lips parted and shining eyes narrowed so that they seemed slightly slanted, as she stared across the fire.

  “Daddy?” said Brianna’s voice beside me.

  Shocked and mesmerized, Claire and Jamie listen to the voice of their daughter, speaking through Margaret Campbell’s blood-smeared lips. “Don’t let Mama go alone, ”she tells Jamie. “Go with her.”

  But go where? With the vanishing of the loa, Ishmael sends Margaret away in the care of his women, and tells Jamie and Claire to leave themselves, at once. Jamie informs him that they are going nowhere without Ian.

  Ishmael’s brows went up, compressing the three vertical scars between them.

  “Huh,” he said again. “You forget that boy; he be gone.”

  “Gone where?” Jamie asked sharply.

  The narrow head tilted to one side, as Ishmael looked him over carefully.

  “Gone with the Maggot, mon, ”he said. “And where she go, you don be going. That boy gone, mon,” he said again, with finality. “You leave, too, you a wise man.”

  Pressed for the whereabouts of Mrs. Abernathy (the Maggot) and Ian, Ishmael reluctantly reveals that they have gone to Abandawe—a name Claire recognizes. It is a secret cave on the island of Hispaniola, carved by an underground river—a magic place, Ishmael assures them.

  “You ain’ gone do the magic, what the Maggot do. That magic kill her, sure, but it kill you, too.” He gestured behind him, toward the empty bench. “You hear Bouassa speak? He say the Maggot die, three days. She taken the boy, he die. You go follow them, mon, you die, too, sure.”

  Despite this chilling warning, there is no choice; they must go to Abandawe, and hope they are not too late.

  Jamie turned, then stopped suddenly, and I whirled about to see what he had seen. There were lights in Rose Hall now. Torchlight, flickering behind the windows, upstairs and down. As we watched, a surly glow began to swell in the windows of the secret workroom on the second floor.

  “It’s past time to go, ”Jamie said. He seized my hand and we went quickly, diving into the da
rk rustle of the canes, fleeing through air suddenly thick with the smell of burning sugar.

  Leaving the scene of the crocodile’s fire, they sail downriver with their helpers, leaving in their wake a bloody slave uprising. Rose Hall is burning, and the lights of distant fires at other plantations wink into life against the dark mountains.

  The trip to Hispaniola is undertaken at once, leaving the confusion of Jamaica, its slave risings and manhunts, behind. Arriving on Hispaniola with Lawrence Stern and the Scottish smugglers, Jamie and Claire take Stern as a guide to the hidden cave of Abandawe, leaving the others to sail a short distance away in order to avoid attracting attention.

  Outside the cave, Claire hears the sound of standing stones, of a time passage, and has a sudden vision of Geillis Duncan, eyes green and gleaming in sardonic welcome. The Frasers leave Stern on guard outside the cave, and go down into darkness, after the witch and her hostage.

  They are in time—but barely; Geillis is completing her elaborate preparations, gemstones laid out in a pentagram of protection, a glittering trail of diamond dust joining the points of her pentacle—and Ian, bound and gagged, laid across the pattern, ready for sacrifice.

  Neither bargaining nor confrontation is of any use; telling Claire that she will have to “take the girl” but will leave her the man, Geilie sprinkles Ian with brandy, holding Jamie and Claire at bay with a loaded pistol. Jamie lunges at her, and she fires; Jamie drops, his face a mask of blood.

  Moved beyond any thought of self-preservation, Claire seizes the ceremonial axe Geillis has brought for her sacrifice— and swings.

  The shock of it echoed up my arm, and I let go, my fingers numbed. I stood quite still, not even moving when she staggered toward me.

  Blood in firelight is black, not red.

  She took one blind step forward and fell, all her muscles gone limp, making no attempt to save herself. The last I saw of her face was her eyes; set wide, beautiful as gemstones, a green water-clear and faceted with the knowledge of death.

  Jamie is not dead, as Claire feared. He is wounded, but able to walk. With Young Ian, they make their stumbling way back out through the cave’s labyrinth, pursued by a rising wind that seems to make the cave behind them breathe.

  Finding Lawrence outside, they find their way through the island’s jungles, toward the beach where they mean to rendezvous with their friends. Along the way, Young Ian tells them what little he knows of his own experience; Geillis Duncan apparently had been hunting a mythical stone “that grows in the innards of a boy.” One catch, though; the boy must be a virgin, unsullied by carnal touch.

  Thanks to his earlier experiences in Edinburgh, Ian no longer qualified for this distinction—a failing that had saved his life, so far. A thrifty Scot, though, Geillis saw no reason for waste; first taking him to her bed, she had then saved him for later use as a sacrifice to protect her travel.

  AT THE BEACH, the Frasers find not only their friends, but a scene of desperate pursuit; the rebellious slaves of the Yallahs River had swarmed aboard the ship Bruja, taking it for their escape. Succeeding in reaching the open sea, they were spied— and pursued—by the Porpoise, on watch for any such attempt.

  Unskilled in navigation and seamanship, the slaves have managed to reach Hispaniola, but panicked by the Porpoise’s pursuit, have run the Bruja aground. The man-of-war is shelling the wreck and its fugitives; fleeing slaves disappear into the jungle, others are blown to bloody fragments on the sand.

  The melee is taking place some distance from the Frasers’ rendezvous, but they cannot escape unseen. Their only hope is to run for it, hoping that the Porpoise will be delayed sufficiently by its engagement to allow them to get away. Too late, though; the Bruja has been destroyed, and the man-of-war seeks other prey.

  FLEEING BEFORE A rising wind, the smaller boat is more agile, and manages to stay ahead of the Porpoise for some time. They cannot outrun the man-of-war, though; especially with the increased wind filling the big ship’s sails. More than bad weather is in store; the greenish sky and howling wind portend a Caribbean hurricane. In the maelstrom, the Porpoise is swamped; losing her topmast, she heels over and is dragged down, with the loss of all hands.

  The smaller boat does not escape unscathed, though; coming through the hurricane, she limps along with a damaged superstructure. A broken spar falls from above, knocking Claire overboard, unconscious. She comes to herself, choking and gagging, with Jamie supporting her, clinging to a bit of drifting spar. Injured, and drifting in and out of consciousness, Claire has no idea where they are, and no means of saving herself—save Jamie’s grip on her hands.

  The wave subsided and the wood rose slightly, bringing my nose above water. I breathed, and my vision cleared slightly. A foot away was the face of Jamie Fraser, hair plastered to his head, wet features contorted against the spray.

  “Hold on!” he roared. “Hold on, God damn you!”

  I smiled gently, barely hearing him. The sense of great peace was lifting me, carrying me beyond the noise and chaos. There was no more pain. Nothing mattered. Another wave washed over me, and this time I forgot to hold my breath.

  The choking sensation roused me briefly, long enough to see the flash of terror in Jamie’s eyes. Then my vision went dark again.

  “Damn you, Sassenach!” his voice said, from a very great distance. His voice was choked with passion. “Damn you! I swear if ye die on me, I’ll kill you!”

  Fortunately, Claire’s waking impression that she is in fact dead is quickly dispelled; regaining consciousness in a white room filled with light, she finds Jamie by her side. They have been washed ashore, where they were found and rescued, taken to a nearby house and cared for. But where are they?

  The appearance of their hostess, Mrs. Olivier, doesn’t help; an Englishwoman married to a Frenchman, she tells them they are on a plantation called Les Perles. But is Les Perles on Martinique? On Jamaica or one of the other English-owned islands, where they will be in danger from the Crown? On St. Thomas, on the Dutch-owned Eleuthera?

  Mrs. Olivier kindly inquires what their names might be, causing Jamie and Claire to exchange cautious glances; just where they are will determine who they are—that is, which island they are on will determine which of Jamie’s various identities will be safest. But—

  Mrs. Olivier smiled indulgently. “You are not on an island at all. You are on the mainland; in the Colony of Georgia.”

  “Georgia, ”Jamie said. “America?” He sounded slightly stunned, and no wonder.

  We had been blown at least six hundred miles by the storm.

  “America,” I said softly. “The New World.” The pulse beneath my fingers had quickened, echoing my own. A new world. Refuge. Freedom.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Olivier, plainly having no idea what the news meant to us, but still smiling kindly from one to the other. “It is America.”

  Jamie straightened his shoulders and smiled back at her. The clean bright air stirred his hair like kindling flames.

  “In that case, ma’am,” he said, “my name is Jamie Fraser.” He looked then at me, eyes blue and brilliant as the sky behind him, and his heart beat strong in the palm of my hand.

  “And this is Claire,” he said. “My wife.”

  THE END

  DRUMS OF AUTUMN

  heard the drums long before they came in sight. The beating echoed in the pit of my stomach, as though I too were hollow. I saw heads turn as the people fell silent, looking up the stretch of East Bay Street, where it ran from the half-built skeleton of the new Customs House toward White Point Gardens.

  The drums are attending a procession to the gallows. Among the spectators are Claire and Jamie Fraser, there not from morbid curiosity, but as moral support for one of the condemned—Gavin Hayes, who was once a fellow prisoner with Jamie in Ardsmuir Prison, in Scotland. Transported as a felon and later released from indenture, Gavin has fallen afoul of the English Crown for the last time.

  The attention of the onlookers is drawn from t
he noose and its dangling burden by something more exciting; another of the condemned prisoners has seized the distraction of Gavin’s death to make a run for his life, dodging away among the palmettos and the crowds on the thronged seafront.

  With all of Charleston roused in the hunt for the escaped man, circumstances seem too dangerous for the Frasers to linger. Jamie’s association with a condemned man is known, and he wants to invite no official curiosity—not with what the Frasers carry. Shipwrecked in Georgia two months before, they arrived in the New World with nothing save the remnants of their clothing—and a fortune in gemstones, salvaged from the cave of Abandawe on Hispaniola.

  While the Frasers are technically wealthy, the gems “might be beach pebbles, for all the good they were to us,” as Claire notes. Trade in the Colonies is conducted mostly by means of barter; there are few merchants or bankers in the South with the available capital to turn the Frasers’ fortune into money. With no more than a few shillings in ready cash, they must decide whether to stay in Charleston to look for a buyer, or head north immediately, toward the Cape Fear region of North Carolina, where there are many Highland immigrants—and where Jamie has kinfolk.”

  Deciding that the path of wisdom lies north, the Frasers and their companions— Jamie’s nephew Ian, his French foster son, Fergus, and his friend Duncan Innes— pause only long enough to bury Gavin Hayes. Coming out of the churchyard at night, though, they are startled to find a stowaway in their wagon: the Irish prisoner who fled the gallows earlier in the day.

  Introducing himself as Stephen Bonnet, the man begs their mercy and their help to escape the city. The roads out will be patrolled, he says; will Jamie help him, for the sake of Gavin Hayes, who was his friend as well?

  Jamie is skeptical; Bonnet is personable, but as Jamie later tells Claire privately, “The Crown doesna always hang the wrong man; most of those at the end of a rope deserve to be there.” Duncan is moved by drink and sentiment, though, and urges Jamie to help the Irishman, for Gavin’s sake. With some reluctance, Jamie agrees, and they smuggle Bonnet out of the city, parting from him in the dark near a distant creek, where he plans to meet with unknown associates.