I shook my head, thrusting back the wind-dried curls behind my ears. I didn’t know. Chances were, I never would know. But whether one could change the future or not – and it seemed we had – I was certain that I couldn’t change the immediate past. What had been done had been done, and nothing I could do now would alter it. Jack Randall would sire no children.
A stone rolled down the slope behind me, bouncing and setting off small slides of gravel. I turned and glanced up, to where Jamie, dressed once more, was exploring.
The rockfall above was recent. Fresh white surfaces showed where the stained brown of the weathered limestone had fractured, and only the smallest of plants had yet gained a foothold in this tumbled pile of rock, unlike the thick growth of shrubs that blanketed the rest of the hillside.
Jamie inched to one side, absorbed in finding handholds through the intricacies of the fall. I saw him edge around a giant boulder, hugging the rock, and the faint scrape of his dirk against the stone came to me through the still afternoon air.
Then he disappeared. Expecting him to reappear round the other side of the rock, I waited, enjoying the sun on my shoulders. But he didn’t come back into sight, and after a few moments, I grew worried. He might have slipped and fallen or banged his head on a rock.
I took what seemed forever to undo the fastenings of my heeled boots again, and still he had not come back. I rucked up my skirts, and started up the hill, bare toes cautious on the rough warm rocks.
“Jamie!”
“Here, Sassenach.” He spoke behind me, startling me, and I nearly lost my balance. He caught me by the arm and lifted me down to a small clear space between the jagged fallen stones.
He turned me toward the limestone wall, stained with water rust, and smoke. And something more.
“Look,” he said softly.
I looked where he pointed, up across the smooth expanse of the cave wall, and gasped at the sight.
Painted beasts galloped across the rock face above me, hooves spurning the air as they leaped toward the light above. There were bison, and deer, grouped together in tail-raised flight, and at the end of the rock shelf, a tracing of delicate birds, wings spread as they hovered above the charge of the earthbound beasts.
Done in red and black and ochre with a delicate grace that used the lines of the rock itself for emphasis, they thundered soundlessly, haunches rounded with effort, wings taking flight through the crevices of stone. They had lived once in the dark of a cave, lit only by the flames of those who made them. Exposed to the sun by the fall of their sheltering roof, they seemed alive as anything that walked upon the earth.
Lost in contemplation of the massive shoulders that thrust their way from the rock, I didn’t miss Jamie until he called me.
“Sassenach! Come here, will ye?” There was something odd about his voice, and I hurried toward him. He stood at the entrance of a small side-cave, looking down.
They lay behind an outcrop of the rock, as though they had sought shelter from the wind that chased the bison.
There were two of them, lying together on the packed earth of the cave floor. Sealed in the dry air of the cave, the bones had endured, though flesh had long since dried to dust. A tiny remnant of brown-parchment skin clung to the round curve of one skull, a strand of hair gone red with age stirring softly in the draft of our presence.
“My God,” I said, softly, as though I might disturb them. I moved closer to Jamie, and his hand slid around my waist.
“Do you think… were they… killed here? A sacrifice, perhaps?”
Jamie shook his head, staring pensively down at the small heap of delicate, friable bones.
“No,” he said. He, too, spoke softly, as though in the sanctuary of a church. He turned and lifted a hand to the wall behind us, where the deer leaped and the cranes soared into space beyond the stone.
“No,” he said again. “The folk that made such beasts… they couldna do such things.” He turned again then to the two skeletons, entwined at our feet. He crouched over them, tracing the line of the bones with a gentle finger, careful not to touch the ivory surface.
“See how they lie,” he said. “They didna fall here, and no one laid out their bodies. They lay down themselves.” His hand glided above the long armbones of the larger skeleton, a dark shadow fluttering like a large moth as it crossed the jackstraw pile of ribs.
“He had his arms around her,” he said. “He cupped his thighs behind her own, and held her tight to him, and his head is resting on her shoulder.”
His hand made passes over the bones, illuminating, indicating, clothing them once more with the flesh of imagination, so I could see them as they had been, embraced for the last time, for always. The small bones of the fingers had fallen apart, but a vestige of gristle still joined the metacarpals of the hands. The tiny phalanges overlay each other; they had linked hands in their last waiting.
Jamie had risen and was surveying the interior of the cavern, the late afternoon sun painting the walls with splashes of crimson and ochre.
“There.” He pointed to a spot near the cavern entrance. The rocks there were brown with dust and age, but not rusty with water and erosion, like those deeper in the cave.
“That was the entrance, once,” he said. “The rocks fell once before, and sealed this place.” He turned back and rested a hand on the rocky outcrop that shielded the lovers from the light.
“They must have felt their way around the cave, hand in hand,” I said. “Looking for a way out, in the dust and the dark.”
“Aye.” He rested his forehead against the stone, eyes closed. “And the light was gone, and the air failed them. And so they lay down in the dark to die.” The tears made wet tracks through the dust on his cheeks. I brushed a hand beneath my own eyes, and took his free hand, carefully weaving my fingers with his.
He turned to me, wordless, and the breath rushed from him as he pulled me hard against him. Our hands groped in the dying light of the setting sun, urgent in the touch of warmth, the reassurance of flesh, reminded by the hardness of the invisible bone beneath the skin, how short life is.
PART FIVE
“I Am Come Home”
30 LALLYBROCH
It was called Broch Tuarach, for the ancient cylinder of stone, built some hundreds of years before, that poked up from the hillside behind the manor. The people who lived on the estate called it “Lallybroch.” Insofar as I could gather, this meant “lazy tower,” which made at least as much sense as applying the term “North-facing Tower” to a cylindrical structure.
“How can something that’s round face north?” I asked as we made our way slowly down a long slope of heather and granite, leading the horses in single file down the narrow, twisting path the red deer had trampled through the springy growth. “It hasn’t got a face.”
“It has a door,” Jamie said reasonably. “The door faces north.” He dug in his feet as the slope dropped sharply, hissing through his teeth in signal to the horse he led behind him. The muscular hindquarters in front of me bunched suddenly, as the cautious stride altered to a tentative mincing, each hoof sliding a few inches in the damp earth before another step was risked. The horses, purchased in Inverness, were good-sized, handsome beasts. The wiry little Highland ponies would have made much better work of the steep slope, but these horses, all mares, were meant for breeding, not work.
“All right,” I said, stepping carefully over a tiny runnel of water that crossed the deer path. “Good enough. What about ‘Lallybroch,’ though? Why is it a lazy tower?”
“It leans a bit,” Jamie replied. I could see the back of his head, bent in concentration on the footing, a few tendrils of red-gold hair lifting from the crown in the afternoon breeze that blew up the slope. “Ye canna see it much from the house, but if you stand on the west side, you’ll see it leans to the north a bit. And if ye look from one of the slits on the top floor over the door, ye canna see the wall beneath you because of the slant.”