Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (73 page)

“Bloody, bloody, bloody…” I realized that I was muttering senseless things and clamped my jaw tight. I knew it was too late, but there was nothing else to be done. Once more I reached up, fumbling into the dark, and this time found the other foot without trouble. Without trouble because the baby wasn’t moving.

A sense of remoteness came over me, and I closed my eyes and swallowed, feeling the solid stillness of a tiny body come into my hands. They call it stillbirth because it is. Not because the child is dead, but because everything—everything—goes quiet. A tiny, still girl. I knew she was gone, but stubbornness made me lift her and try to push breath into the still lungs, my fingers on the tiny chest, hoping against hope…but she was gone.

And yet the vivid joy of the first birth was still fizzing through my body—I could hear the baby yelling his indignation, and Susannah’s breath, a deep, slow panting, low voices and the crackle of the fire, the bubbling of water in the cauldron—but all of it was wrapped in silence, the beating of my own heart all I felt. It was peace, a deep peace, not yet sorrow, and I held the tiny body, and used my hem to wipe her—yes, her—tiny face, eyes closed, never to open. A moment longer, and then I placed her on a clout that Agnes had brought, and turned to take care of her mother.

“You have a son, Susannah,” I said softly. “Agnes—bring him, will you?” She did, biting her lip in concentration, not to drop him. He was a good size, considering his prematurity and the fact that he was a twin, but still weighed less than five pounds. I set him on Susannah’s chest and her arm came slowly up to hold him, cupping his head.

“It’ll be all right, darlin’,” she said to him, her voice ragged and deep from screaming. “Don’t take on, now.” Her eyes were closed, but she spoke to me. “The other one?”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, and squeezed her hand. “You have a son.”

She drew a breath that went all the way down to her ravaged womb.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she whispered.

The little boy was still making noises like an angry hornet, but she moved him to her breast and thumbed the nipple into his mouth, and the noise stopped abruptly.

Sweat was stinging my eyes, running down my neck. I sat back on my heels and wiped my face on my skirt. Susannah made a deep gasping sound and the swollen leg pressing against my shoulder stiffened. The afterbirth was coming; I took hold of the umbilical cord, this still attached to the still body on the hearth, and the placenta, quite large, tumbled out like a deer’s liver, dark and bloody. Susannah grunted again, and the second placenta slithered out.

“All right,” I said, gathering myself. “Agnes—put a quilt over your mother. Susannah, I’m going to knead your belly, to help your womb contract and make the bleeding stop. It—” I had turned to find a menstrual cloth from my kit, and as I turned back, I saw Jamie. He was on his knees on the hearth, looking down at the dead little girl, with an expression on his face that stopped my heart.

He looked up, feeling my glance, and we read the name in each other’s face.

Faith.
I nodded, my throat closing with a grief as sharp as it had been when I lost her. Jamie bowed his head, and reaching out, touched the tiny, wrinkled body, his hand nearly covering her. A tear fell and glistened on the back of his hand, another on the curve of her forehead, red in the firelight.

Moved by the deepest of memories, I leaned over and picked her up, holding her against my breast, tiny head cupped in my hand. In an instant, I was holding my lost daughter, grief knifing through me. I closed my eyes, knowing I had to put her down, had to go about my job, but unable to let her go, feeling the slow beating of my heart against the fading warmth of her fragile skin.

I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t let Faith go; they had taken her from my arms, finally. Left me empty, alone, in that place of cold stone.

Snot was running down my face, tickling my lip, and I rubbed at it with my sleeve, still holding the child to my breast, listening to my heart break again.

“Let me take her, Sassenach,” Jamie whispered, and held out his hands.

I swallowed hard. I had to let her go.

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.” And bowed my head over the little girl I’d lost, rocking back and forth on my knees, feeling my heart beat, in chest and ears and fingertips, trying to make up for the heart that would never beat again.

I didn’t know how long it was that I stayed there, curled around the child, trying futilely to give her my heat, my life. There was nothing sudden, no sound, no movement. But in the midst of the searing grief, I slowly realized…something. It didn’t
happen;
it was already there. But I hadn’t felt it and now I did.

“Claire?” Jamie’s hand touched my shoulder and I seized it with my free hand and held on. Warmth, strength.

“Stay,” I said, to him and to her, breathless. “Stay.”

My heart. I was still feeling it, distinctly, slow and regular. I let go of Jamie’s hand, but he didn’t take it away. Holding the baby in one arm, I laid my other hand on her back, feeling. No sensation, nothing I could really say I felt—but there was something there.

I pressed lightly on her back, waited for the space of a breath, pressed again. And again. Hearing my own heartbeat in my ears, in the pulse of my blood. Pressed my heartbeat into her back, into her chest where it pressed against me.

Push.

My fingers were warm, and so was the child.
The fire,
I thought dimly. Crackle of fire and the sound of my heart. Thup-tup, thup-tup, thup-tup…And suddenly I heard Roger, telling me what Dr. McEwan had done, a hand on Buck’s breast, tapping slowly and patiently, over and over, in the rhythm of a beating heart.

Thup-tup…thup-tup…thup-tup…

There were more sounds in the room now, soft voices, the spitting of a cracking log, the wind under the eaves of the roof, the rushing sound of pines and the sloshing of water. Movement, warmth, life. Jamie’s hand, solid on my shoulder. I heard it all, I felt it all, but it was removed from me, happening in another world. All I was, was the sound of a heartbeat.

And in some enormity of time, I knew that there were two of us in that sound, a sharing of the beat of a heart, the knowledge of life. My finger tapping, slow and sure.

Thup-tup…thup-tup…

Malva
…I saw her in my mind’s eye, dead in the garden, and the smell of blood and the scent of birth. The tiny boy I’d taken from her body, barely alive. A blue spark in my hands, that dwindled and died.

A blue spark. I saw it, saw it and looked deep into it, willing it to stay, holding it safe in the palms of my hands.

Thup…My finger stilled, and the small sound answered.

Tup.

I gradually became aware of my own breath, and after that, felt the solidness of Jamie and realized that he was holding me upright, an arm around my middle, his other hand on my breast, above the baby’s head. I lifted my own head, nearly blind from the brilliant darkness I’d been in, and saw the silhouette of a girl against the fire, her body dark and thin through the white of her shift.

“I cut the cord for you, Mrs. Fraser,” Agnes said. “And I kneaded Mam’s belly like she told me. Do you want a cup of cider? Pa drank all the beer.”

“She would, lass,” Jamie said, and gently let me go. “But first bring a wee blanket for your sister, aye?”

IT WAS DARK
outside; the moon had set and dawn was some way off. It was cold, but the cold didn’t touch me.

I’d let him take the baby, at last. Felt his hands on mine as he took her, warm and sure, his face filled with light. He’d knelt carefully and given the baby to Susannah, placing his hand on the child in benediction.

Then he’d stood and wrapped me in my cloak and walked me outside. I couldn’t feel the ground beneath my feet, or see the forest, but the cold air smelled of pine and lay like a balm on my heated skin.

“All right, Sassenach?” he whispered. I seemed to be leaning against him, though I didn’t remember doing it. I’d lost track of where my body began and ended; the pieces seemed to be floating about in a loose sort of cloud of exaltation.

I felt Jamie’s hands tremble a little as he touched my face. From exhaustion, I thought. The same small, constant quiver seemed to be running through me from crown to sole, like a low-voltage current of electricity.

In fact, I’d passed clear through exhaustion and out the other side, as one does sometimes in moments of great effort. You know that your bodily energy has been used up, and yet there’s a supernatural sense of mental clarity and a strange capacity to keep moving, but at the same time, you see it all simultaneously, from outside yourself and from your deepest core—the usual intervening layers of flesh and thought have become transparent.

“I’m fine,” I said, and I laughed. Let my forehead fall against his chest and breathed for a moment, feeling all my pieces come to rest, whole again, as the enchantment of the last hour faded into peace.

“Jamie,” I said, a few moments later, raising my head. “What color is my hair?”

This was an absurd question; it was the depth of the night and we were standing in a pitch-black forest. But he made a small noise of appraisal and lifted my chin to look.

“All the colors o’ the earth,” he said, and smoothed the hair from my face. “But here, all about your face—it’s the color of moonlight,
mo ghràidh.
”

RACHEL WOKE SUDDENLY, COMPLETELY
alert but with no idea what had woken her. She moved, turning her head to see if Ian was awake. He was; his hand clamped across her mouth and she froze. It was dark in the cabin, but there was light enough from the banked fire for her to see his face, eyes dark with warning.

She blinked, once, and with a tiny nod he removed his hand. He lay quite still and so did she, though her heart thumped hard enough that she thought it would wake Oggy, snuggled between them.

Thumping hard enough that she couldn’t hear anything, either—Ian was listening, though. His long body hadn’t moved, and yet he seemed to have coiled up, somehow, like a snake gathering itself. She shut her eyes, concentrating.

There had been wind all night; berries from the big red cedar that guarded the house had been thumping on the roof at intervals. But Ian would have recognized that sound…

Suddenly Ian moved, rising onto one elbow; she heard him breathe in, sharply, and by reflex did the same.
Tobacco.
In the next instant, he’d slid out of bed and padded naked to the door.

She let out her breath with a sense of relief; a friend, then. Soft voices on the porch, then Ian stuck his head back in, smiled briefly at her, and snatching a folded blanket from the top of the chest closed the door behind him.

Oggy, disturbed by the sense of movement, stirred and made snuffling noises. She rose with haste in order to make use of the chamber pot before he roused all the way; he wasn’t a patient child.

Her shawl round her shoulders and the baby at her breast, she stole up to the window by the door. It was covered with an oiled hide, tacked down against drafts, so she couldn’t see anything, but sounds came through from the porch fairly well.

Not that it did her much good. The visitors—she made out at least two different voices, besides Ian’s—were Indians, and speaking in their own language. Perhaps Standing Heron Bradshaw and a friend from the Cherokee villages, come to help hunt the catamount that had been seen near the creek. That was a merciful thought; the more men there were, the safer they’d be. Presumably.

She was just about to go and check the porridge in the pot, in case the visitors needed breakfast, when she heard a word that froze her in her tracks and made her squeeze Oggy so hard that he emitted a small, surprised
hoof!
and stopped feeding for an instant.

He latched on to her breast again with instant ferocity, but she barely noticed. Not Cherokee. Not at all. They were Mohawk, and the word that had caught her ear was
“Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa.”

SHE DIDN’T WAIT
to put the child down or dress. When she stepped out onto the porch, the boards were icy under her bare feet, and the light was just beginning to fade into view. So were the interested faces of not two but three Mohawks, all of whom looked at her and nodded politely.

One of them said something that made Ian cough and glance sideways at her. He was wearing the blanket wrapped about his waist, and the sight of his bare chest, the nipples gone small and hard with cold, made her own nipples do something in sympathy that made Oggy choke and cough, spluttering milk all down the front of her shift. The Indians looked away as though nothing had happened.

“Thy friends are welcome, Ian,” she said, trying not to grit her teeth. She smiled at them. “Will they eat with us?”

They understood English, for all three at once went into the cabin. Ian made to follow them, and she grabbed his arm with her free hand.

“What’s happened?” she said, low-voiced.

“A massacre,” he said, and she saw now that he was upset, his face tight with worry. “There was an attack on a settlement—only a few houses, but all Whigs. It was Joseph Brant and some of his men. But then some fighters from Burk Hollow made a raid on a Mohawk settlement. In revenge.” He tried to turn toward the door, but she tightened her grip enough to stay him, not caring if she bruised him.

“Thy wife?” she said. “I see they came to give thee news of her. Was she in that settlement? Does she live?”

He didn’t want to answer, but to his credit, he did.

“I dinna ken. She was alive, when Looks at the Moon saw her—but that was near five months ago.” His eyes shifted past her and she knew he was looking toward the peak of the distant mountain, where a faint dusting of snow had appeared a week before. Works With Her Hands—and her children—were far to the north.
How far?
she wondered, and drew the shawl over Oggy’s round, bare head.

LOOKS AT THE
MOON
swallowed the last of his turkey hash and gave a loud belch of appreciation in Rachel’s direction, then handed her his plate before resuming the story he had been telling between bites. Fortunately, it was mostly in Mohawk, as the parts that had been in English appeared to deal with one of his cousins who had suffered following an encounter with an enraged moose.

Rachel took the plate and refilled it, envisioning the light of Christ glowing within their guests. Owing to an orphaned and penurious childhood, she had had considerable practice in such discernment and was able to smile pleasantly at Moon as she placed the newly filled plate at his feet, not to interrupt his gesticulations.

On the good side, she reflected, glancing into the cradle, the men’s conversation had lulled Oggy into a stupor. With a glance that caught Ian’s eye, and a nod toward the cradle, she went out to enjoy a mother’s rarest pleasure: ten minutes alone in the privy.

Emerging relaxed in body and mind, she was disinclined to go back into the cabin. She thought briefly of walking down to the Big House to visit Claire, but Jenny had gone down herself when it had become apparent that the newly arrived Mohawks would spend the night at the Murrays’ cabin. Rachel was very fond of her mother-in-law, but then she adored Oggy and loved Ian madly—and she really didn’t want the company of any of them just now.

THE EVENING WAS
cold, but not bitter, and she had a thick woolen shawl. A gibbous moon was rising amid a field of glorious stars, and the peace of heaven seemed to breathe from the autumn forest, pungent with conifers and the softer scent of dying leaves. She made her way carefully up the path that led to the well, paused for a drink of cold water, and then went on, coming out a quarter hour later on the edge of a rocky outcrop that gave a view of endless mountains and valleys, by day. By night, it was like sitting on the edge of eternity.

Peace seeped into her soul with the chill of the night, and she sought it, welcomed it. But there was still an unquiet part of her mind, and a burning in her heart, at odds with the vast quiet that surrounded her.

Ian would never lie to her. He’d said so, and she believed him. But she wasn’t fool enough to think that meant he told her everything she might want to know. And she very much wanted to know more about Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa, the Mohawk woman Ian had called Emily…and loved.

So now she was perhaps alive, perhaps not. If she did live…what might be her circumstances?

For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder how old Emily might be, and what she looked like. Ian hadn’t ever said; she hadn’t ever asked. It hadn’t seemed important, but now…

Well. When she found him alone, she would ask, that’s all. And with determination, she turned her face to the moon and her heart to her inner light and prepared to wait.

IT WAS MAYBE
an hour later when the darkness near her moved and Ian was suddenly there beside her, a warm spot in the night.

“Is Oggy awake?” she asked, drawing her shawl around her.

“Nay, lass, he’s sleeping like a stone.”

“And thy friends?”

“Much the same. I gave them a bit of Uncle Jamie’s whisky.”

“How very hospitable of thee, Ian.”

“That wasna exactly my intention, but I suppose I should take credit for it, if it makes ye think more highly of me.”

He brushed the hair behind her ear, bent his head, and kissed the side of her neck, making his intention clear. She hesitated for the briefest instant, but then ran her hand up under his shirt and gave herself over, lying back on her shawl beneath the star-strewn sky.

Let it be just us, once more,
she thought.
If he thinks of her, let him not do it now.

And so it was that she didn’t ask what Emily looked like, until the Mohawks finally left, three days later.