dramaturgy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dramaturgy) wrote2004-02-04 09:09 pm
dramaturgy) wrote2004-02-04 09:09 pm
Entry tags:
The Fiery Cross -- Diana Gabaldon
"Thig a seo!" he called, putting out his right hand to me. "Thig a seo, a Shorcha, nighean Eanruig, neart mo chridhe." Come to me, he said. Come to me, Claire, daughter of Henry, strength of my heart. Scarely feeling my feet or those I stumbled over, I made my way to him, and clasped his hand, his grip cold but strong on my fingers.
I saw him turn his head; was he looking for Bree? But no -- he stretched out his other hand toward Roger.
"Seas ri mo làmh, Roger an t'òranaiche, mac Jeremiah MacChoinnich!" Stand by my hand, Roger the singer, son of Jeremiah MacKenzie. Roger stood stock-still for a moment, eyes dark on Jamie, then moved toward him, like one sleepwalking. The crowd was still excited, but the shouting had died down, and people craned to hear what was said.
"Stand by me in battle," he said in Gaelic, his eyes fixed on Roger, left hand extended. He spoke slowly and clearly, to be sure of understanding. "Be a shield for my family -- and for yours, son of my house."
Roger's expression seemed suddenly to dissolve, like a face seen in water when a stone is tossed into it. Then it solidified once more, and he clasped Jamie's hand, squeezing hard.
Jamie turned to the crowd then, and began the calling. This was something I had seen him do before, many years before, in Scotland. A formal invitation and identification of tenants by a laird, it was a small ceremony often done on a quarter-day or after the harvest. Faces lighted here and there with recognition, many of the Highland Scots knew the custom, though they would not have seen it in this land before tonight.
"Come to me, Geordie Chishold, son of Walter, son of Connaught the Red!"
"Stand with me, a Choinneich, Evan, Murdo, you sons of Alexander Lindsay of the Glen!"
"Come to my side, Joseph Wemyss, son of Donald, son of Robert!"I smiled to see Mr. Wemyss, flustered but terribly pleased at this public inclusion, make his way toward us, head proudly raised, fair hair flying wild in the wind of the great fire.
"Stand by me, Josiah the hunter!"
Was Josiah Beardsley here? Yes, he was; a slight, dark form slid out off the shadows, to take up a shy place in the group near Jamie. I caught his eye and smiled at him; he looked hastily away, but a small, embarrassed smile clung to his lips, as though he had forgotten it was there.
It was an impressive group by the time he had finished -- nearly forty men, gathered shoulder-close and flushed as much with pride as with whisky. I saw Roger exchange a long look with Brianna, who was beaming across the fire at him. She bent her head to whisper something to Jemmy, who was submerged in his blanket, half-asleep in her arms. She picked up one of his wee paws and waved it limply toward Roger, who laughed.
"...Air mo mhionnan..." Distracted, I had missed Jamie's final statement, catching only the last few words. Whatever he had said met with approval, though; there was a low rumble of solmn assent from the men around us, and a moment's silence.
Then he let go of my hand, stooped, and picked up a branch from the ground. Lighting this, he held it aloft, then threw the blazing brand high into the air. It tumbled end over end as it fell straight down, into the heart of the fire.
"The Frasers of the Ridge are here!" he bellowed, and the clearing erupted in a massive cheer.
I saw him turn his head; was he looking for Bree? But no -- he stretched out his other hand toward Roger.
"Seas ri mo làmh, Roger an t'òranaiche, mac Jeremiah MacChoinnich!" Stand by my hand, Roger the singer, son of Jeremiah MacKenzie. Roger stood stock-still for a moment, eyes dark on Jamie, then moved toward him, like one sleepwalking. The crowd was still excited, but the shouting had died down, and people craned to hear what was said.
"Stand by me in battle," he said in Gaelic, his eyes fixed on Roger, left hand extended. He spoke slowly and clearly, to be sure of understanding. "Be a shield for my family -- and for yours, son of my house."
Roger's expression seemed suddenly to dissolve, like a face seen in water when a stone is tossed into it. Then it solidified once more, and he clasped Jamie's hand, squeezing hard.
Jamie turned to the crowd then, and began the calling. This was something I had seen him do before, many years before, in Scotland. A formal invitation and identification of tenants by a laird, it was a small ceremony often done on a quarter-day or after the harvest. Faces lighted here and there with recognition, many of the Highland Scots knew the custom, though they would not have seen it in this land before tonight.
"Come to me, Geordie Chishold, son of Walter, son of Connaught the Red!"
"Stand with me, a Choinneich, Evan, Murdo, you sons of Alexander Lindsay of the Glen!"
"Come to my side, Joseph Wemyss, son of Donald, son of Robert!"I smiled to see Mr. Wemyss, flustered but terribly pleased at this public inclusion, make his way toward us, head proudly raised, fair hair flying wild in the wind of the great fire.
"Stand by me, Josiah the hunter!"
Was Josiah Beardsley here? Yes, he was; a slight, dark form slid out off the shadows, to take up a shy place in the group near Jamie. I caught his eye and smiled at him; he looked hastily away, but a small, embarrassed smile clung to his lips, as though he had forgotten it was there.
It was an impressive group by the time he had finished -- nearly forty men, gathered shoulder-close and flushed as much with pride as with whisky. I saw Roger exchange a long look with Brianna, who was beaming across the fire at him. She bent her head to whisper something to Jemmy, who was submerged in his blanket, half-asleep in her arms. She picked up one of his wee paws and waved it limply toward Roger, who laughed.
"...Air mo mhionnan..." Distracted, I had missed Jamie's final statement, catching only the last few words. Whatever he had said met with approval, though; there was a low rumble of solmn assent from the men around us, and a moment's silence.
Then he let go of my hand, stooped, and picked up a branch from the ground. Lighting this, he held it aloft, then threw the blazing brand high into the air. It tumbled end over end as it fell straight down, into the heart of the fire.
"The Frasers of the Ridge are here!" he bellowed, and the clearing erupted in a massive cheer.
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I have so much love for those characters. <3
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/yummy goodness*:D
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Is it just me, or have they been getting steadily less plot-driven?
Sorry, that was an awfully bitchy entry, wasn't it? :D