They were nearer. A raven swooped suddenly, flashing unnervingly near her head, and another screamed from above.
A sudden boom from the outcrop overhead nearly made her lose her footing, and she grabbed a handful of sapling sticking out of the rock face by reflex. Just in time, too, for there was a thump and a slithering noise above, and at what seemed the same instant something huge fell past in a shower of dirt and gravel, bouncing off the ledge next to her in an explosion of breath, blood, and impact before landing with a crash in the bushes below.
Blessed Michael defend us, said her father in Gaelic, crossing himself. He peered down into the thrashing brush belowJesus, whatever it was, it was still alivethen up.
Weh! said an impassioned male voice from above. She didnt recognize the word, but she did know the voice, and joy burst over her.
Ian! she called. There was total silence from above, save for the ravens, who were getting steadily more upset.
Blessed Michael defend us, said a startled voice in Gaelic, and an instant later her cousin Ian had dropped onto their narrow ledge, where he balanced with no apparent difficulty.
It is you! she said. Oh, Ian!
A charaid! He grabbed her and squeezed tight, laughing in disbelief. God, its you! He drew back for an instant for a good look to confirm it, laughed again in delight, kissed her solidly, and resqueezed. He smelled like buckskin, porridge, and gunpowder, and she could feel his heart thumping against her own chest.
She vaguely heard a scrabbling noise, and as they let go of each other, she realized that her father had dropped off the ledge and was half sliding down the scree below it, toward the brush where the deerit must have been a deerhad fallen.
He halted for a moment at the edge of the brushy growththe bushes were still thrashing, but the movements of the wounded deer were growing less violentthen drew his dirk and, with a muttered remark in Gaelic, waded gingerly into the brush.
Its all rose briers down there, Ian said, peering over her shoulder. But I think hell make it in time to cut the throat. A Dhia, it was a bad shot and I was afraid Ibut what the devI mean, how is it yere here? He stood back a little, his eyes running over her, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly as he noted her breeches and leather hiking shoes, this fading as his eyes returned to her face, worried now. Is your man not with ye? And the bairns?
Yes, they are, she assured him. Rogers probably hammering things and Jems helping him and Mandys getting in the way. As for what were doing here The day and the joy of reunion had let her ignore the recent past, but the ultimate need of explanation brought the enormity of it all suddenly crashing in upon her.
Dinna fash, cousin, Ian said swiftly, seeing her face. Itll bide. Dye think ye recall how to shoot a turkey? Theres a band o them struttin to and fro like folk dancing Strip the Willow at a ceilidh, not a quarter mile from here.
Oh, I might. Shed propped the gun against the cliff face while she drank; the deers fall had knocked it over and she picked it up, checking; the fall had knocked the flint askew, and she reseated it. The thrashing below had stopped, and she could hear her fathers voice, in snatches above the wind, saying the gralloch prayer.
Hadnt we better help Da with the deer, though?
Ach, its no but a yearling buck, hell have it done before ye can blink. Ian leaned out from the ledge, calling down. Im takin Bree to shoot turkeys, a bràthair mo mhàthair!
Dead silence from below, and then a lot of rustling and Jamies disheveled head poked suddenly up above the rose briers. His hair was loose and tangled; his face was deeply flushed and bleeding in several places, as were his arms and hands, and he looked displeased.
Ian, he said, in measured tones, but in a voice loud enough to be easily heard above the forest sounds. Mac Ian mac Ian !
Well be back to help carry the meat! Ian called back. He waved cheerily and, grabbing the fowling piece, caught Brees eye and jerked his chin upward. She glanced down, but her father had disappeared, leaving the bushes swaying in agitation.
Shed lost much of her eye for the wilderness, she found; the cliff looked impassable to her, but Ian scrambled up as easily as a baboon, and after a moments hesitation, she followed, much more slowly, slipping now and then in small showers of dirt as she groped for the holds her cousin had used.
Ian mac Ian mac Ian? she asked, reaching the top and pausing to empty the dirt out of her shoes. Her heart was beating unpleasantly hard. Is that like me calling Jem Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser MacKenzie when Im annoyed with him?
Something like, Ian said, shrugging. Ian, son of Ian, son of Ian the notion is to point out yere a disgrace to your forefathers, aye? He was wearing a ragged, filthy calico shirt, but the sleeves had been torn off, and she saw a large white scar in the shape of a four-pointed star on the curve of his bare brown shoulder.
What did that? she said, nodding at it. He glanced at it and made a dismissive gesture, turning to lead her across the small ridge.