Will ye speak a word, Mac Dubh? Kenny Lindsay glanced inquiringly at Jamie, pulling his knitted bonnet down over his ears against the growing chill.
It was nearly nightfall, and no one wanted to linger. We would have to make
camp, somewhere well away from the stink of burning, and that would be hard enough, in the dark. But Kenny was right; we couldnt leave without at least some token of ceremony, some farewell for the strangers.
Jamie shook his head.
Nay, let Roger Mac speak. If these were Dutchmen, belike they were Protestant.
Dim as the light was, I saw the sharp glance Brianna shot at her father. It was true that Roger was a Presbyterian; so was Tom Christie, a much older man whose dour face reflected his opinion of the proceedings. The question of religion was no more than a pretext, though, and everyone knew it, including Roger.
Roger cleared his throat with a noise like tearing calico. It was always a painful sound; there was anger in it now as well. He didnt protest, though, and he met Jamies eyes straight on, as he took his place at the head of the grave.
I had thought he would simply say the Lords Prayer, or perhaps one of the gentler psalms. Other words came to him, though.
Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment. He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, and He hath set darkness in my paths.
His voice had once been powerful, and beautiful. It was choked now, no more than a rasping shadow of its former beautybut there was sufficient power in the passion with which he spoke to make all those who heard him bow their heads, faces lost in shadow.
He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and my hope hath He removed like a tree. His face was set, but his eyes rested for a bleak moment on the charred stump that had served the Dutch family for a chopping block.
He hath put my brethren far from me, and mine acquaintance are verily estranged from me. My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me. I saw the three Lindsay brothers exchange glances, and everyone drew a little closer together, against the rising wind.
Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends, he said, and his voice softened, so that it was difficult to hear him, above the sighing of the trees. For the hand of God has touched me.
Brianna made a slight movement beside him, and he cleared his throat once more, explosively, stretching his neck so that I caught a glimpse of the rope scar that marred it.
Oh, that my words were now written! Oh, that they were printed in a book! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock forever!
He looked slowly round from face to face, his own expressionless, then took a deep breath to continue, voice cracking on the words.
For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this bodyBrianna shuddered convulsively, and looked away from the raw mound of dirtyet in my flesh shall I see God. Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold.
He stopped, and there was a brief collective sigh, as everyone let out the breath they had been holding. He wasnt quite finished, though. He had reached out, half-unconsciously, for Brees hand, and held it tightly. He spoke the last words almost to himself, I thought, with little thought for his listeners.
Be ye afraid of the sword: for wrath bringeth the punishments of the sword, that ye may know there is a judgment.
I shivered, and Jamies hand curled round my own, cold but strong. He looked down at me, and I met his eyes. I knew what he was thinking.
He was thinking, as I was, not of the present, but the future. Of a small item that would appear three years hence, in the pages of the Wilmington Gazette, dated February 13, 1776.
It is with grief that the news is received of the deaths by fire of James MacKenzie Fraser and his wife, Claire Fraser, in a conflagration that destroyed their house in the settlement of Frasers Ridge, on the night of January 21 last. Mr. Fraser, a nephew of the late Hector Cameron of River Run Plantation, was born at Broch Tuarach in Scotland. He was widely known in the Colony and deeply respected; he leaves no surviving children. It had been easy, so far, not to think too much of it. So far in the future, and surely not an unchangeable futureafter all, forewarned was forearmed wasnt it?
I glanced at the shallow cairn, and a deeper chill passed through me. I stepped closer to Jamie, and put my other hand on his arm. He covered my hand with his, and squeezed tight in reassurance. No, he said to me silently. No, I will not let it happen.
As we left the desolate clearing, though, I could not free my mind of one vivid image. Not the burned cabin, the pitiful bodies, the pathetic dead garden. The image that haunted me was one I had seen some years beforea
gravestone in the ruins of Beauly Priory, high in the Scottish Highlands.