Today is the first Sunday of Advent! As many of you may know, Catholics observe a four-week season of spiritual contemplation, preparation and anticipation of Christmas, called Advent. (Yes, I’m a Roman Catholic. Surely you knew that, if you’ve been reading my books.
Barbara Schnell, who runs the German-language version of this website, suggested to me that it might be nice to share the season with all of you, by posting an excerpt from WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD for each of the four Sundays of Advent. I thought that was a great idea–so whether in English or German, we hope you’ll enjoy this small Advent gift–and may the season find you blessed.
A HUNDREDWEIGHT OF STONES
June 16th, 1778
The forest between Philadelphia and Valley Forge
Ian Murray stood with a stone in his hand, eyeing the ground he’d chosen. A small clearing, out of the way, up among a scatter of great lichened boulders, under the shadow of firs and at the foot of a big red-cedar; a place where no casual passerby would go, but not inaccessible. He meant to bring them up here—the family.
Fergus, to begin with. Maybe just Fergus, by himself. Mam had raised Fergus from the time he was ten, and he’d had no mother before that. Ian himself had been born about that same time, so Fergus had known Mam as long as he had, and loved her as much. Maybe more, he thought, his grief aggravated by guilt. Fergus had stayed with her at Lallybroch, helped to take care of her and the place; he hadn’t. He swallowed hard and walking into the small clear space, set his stone in the middle, then stood back to look.
Even as he did so, he found himself shaking his head. No, it had to be two cairns. His Mam and Uncle
Jamie were brother and sister, and the family could mourn them here together—but there were others he might bring, maybe, to remember and pay their respects. And those were the folk who would have known Jamie Fraser and loved him well, but wouldn’t ken Jenny Murray from a hole in the—
The image of his mother in a hole in the ground stabbed him like a fork, retreated with the recollection that she wasn’t after all in a grave, and stabbed again all the harder for that. He really couldn’t bear the vision of them drowning, maybe clinging to each other, struggling to keep—
“A Dhia!” he said violently, and dropped the stone, turning back at once to find more. He’d seen people drown.
Tears ran down his face with the sweat of the summer day; he didn’t mind it, only stopping now and then to wipe his nose on his sleeve. He’d tied a rolled kerchief round his head to keep the hair and the stinging sweat out of his eyes; it was sopping before he’d added more than twenty stones to each of the cairns.
He and his brothers had built a fine cairn for their father, at the head of the carved stone that bore his name—all his names, in spite of the expense—in the burying-ground at Lallybroch. And all the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.
Fergus, then. Or…no, what was he thinking? Auntie Claire must be the first he brought here. She wasn’t Scots herself, but she kent fine what a cairn was, and would maybe be comforted a bit, to see Uncle Jamie’s. Aye, right. Auntie Claire, then Fergus. Uncle Jamie was Fergus’s foster father; he had a right. And then maybe Marsali and the children. But maybe Germain was old enough to come with Fergus? He was almost eleven, near enough to being a man to understand, to be treated like a man. And Uncle Jamie was his grandsire; it was proper.
He stepped back again and wiped his face, breathing heavily. Bugs whined and buzzed past his ears and hovered over him, wanting his blood, but he’d stripped to a loincloth and rubbed himself with bear-grease and mint in the Mohawk way; they didn’t touch him.
“Look over them, O spirit of red cedar,” he said softly in Mohawk, looking up into the fragrant branches of the tree. “Guard their souls and keep their presence here, fresh as thy branches.”
He crossed himself and bent to dig about in the soft leaf-mold. A few more rocks, he thought. In case they might be scattered by some passing animal. Scattered like his thoughts, that roamed restless to and fro among the faces of his family, the folk of the Ridge—God, might he ever go back there? Brianna. Oh, Jesus, Brianna…
He bit his lip and tasted salt, licked it away and moved on, foraging. She was safe with Roger Mac and the weans. But Jesus, he could have used her advice—even more, Roger Mac’s.
Who was left for him to ask, if he needed help in taking care of them all?
Thought of Rachel came to him, and the tightness in his chest eased a little. Aye, if he had Rachel…she was younger than him, nay more than nineteen, and being a Quaker, had very strange notions of how things should be, but if he had her, he’d have solid rock under his feet. He hoped he would have her, but there were still things he must say to her, and the thought of that conversation made the tightness in his chest come back.
The picture of his cousin Brianna came back, too, and lingered in his mind: tall, long-nosed and strong-boned as her father…and with it rose the image of his _other_ cousin, Bree’s half-brother. Holy God, William. And what ought he to do about William? He doubted the man kent the truth, kent that he was Jamie Fraser’s son—was it Ian’s responsibility to tell him so? To bring him here, and explain what he’d lost?
He must have groaned at the thought, for his dog Rollo lifted his massive head and looked at him in concern.
“No, I dinna ken that either,” Ian told him. “Let it bide, aye?” Rollo laid his head back on his paws, shivered his shaggy hide against the flies and relaxed in boneless peace.
Ian worked a while longer, and let the thoughts drain away with his sweat and his tears. He finally stopped when the sinking sun touched the tops of his cairns, feeling tired but more at peace. The cairns rose knee-high, side by side, small but solid.
He stood still for a bit, not thinking anymore, just listening to the fussing of wee birds in the grass and the breathing of the wind among the trees. Then he sighed deeply, squatted and touched one of the cairns.
“Mo gragh, a mathair,” he said softly. My love is on you, mother. Closed his eyes and laid a scuffed hand on the other heap of stones. The dirt ground into his skin made his fingers feel strange, as though he could maybe reach straight through the earth and touch what he needed.
He stayed still, breathing, then opened his eyes.
“Help me wi’ this, Uncle Jamie,” he said. “I dinna think I can manage, alone.”
[end section] — Copyright 2012 Diana Gabaldon (no reproduction or reposting please–though you’re certainly welcome to post links to this, if you’d like to.)
Happy Advent to you, too!
Anglicans lit the first candle today. I thought of my Mum as I watch the children at church gathered round. And this passage brought tears to my eyes, thinking of how we remember.
But, this is also a time of looking forward, so I look forward to Christmas, and later in the year, another great book.
All best to you and yours from Windsor, ON.
Sarah
What a small world – I am also from Windsor, Ontario! Cheers to a fellow Diana fan!
Me, too, ladies! Although now I live in Phoenix. Diana, thank you for this posting. Being Jewish, of course, I do not follow this practice, but it is coming up on Hanukkah shortly, and candles will be lit then as well. Peace to all
In case no one has yet enlightened you, many protestants also observe advent. It is the second busiest season of the year for my husband, who is a Roger with some definite Jamie qualities…..he’s a United Methodist minister. Have resisted all the MOBY postings, being patient for it to ALL be new. Thank you for this advent gift.
That was the first thing that crossed my mind, Carol, when I read her bit about Catholics observing Advent! I, too, am Methodist, although I am quick to say my beliefs include more than just the Methodist doctrine.
I loved this excerpt…. although I am going to have to read more on this website, to discover what other stories have been published about Jamie and Claire, because I wasn’t sure what this book is?
I only recently discovered this amazing WONDERFUL series, and have read books 1-7 in a month’s time! And to think, I have to wait almost a year before book 8 comes out?! ARghhh… lol. So I am hoping there ARE other stories I can read to pacify my ponderings on this fantastic story.
I really need to stop reading these as I am only on book 6 but I do believe this…JAMIE FRASER NEVER DIES!
I’ve read all thats out so far, and I’m still with you on hoping this!
I think I will cry if/when Jamie and/or Claire die. And I’m not a crier!
Thanks, Diana. At our local Catholic Church, the priest blessed all the Advent wreaths (about 25 wreaths) & candles that people had made & brought from home, in addition to the one for the church. Ours got blessed, too.
Have a blessed Advent!
This is beautiful. Oh, Ian…! My heart aches for him.
Thank you for this most generous gift, Diana.
I so love your books, but can`t bear to cheat by reading your daily ezcerots trying to keepmy eyes veetes until MOBY is publise. wishing you health, happiness and love at this time of year, for tge joy you give me.through your writing, i wish you the same tenfold.x
I too want to remain excerpt free! Thank you for warning us. Best wishes for the holiday season!
Protestants also use the Advent wreath to mark the weeks of the season. We began the season today in Armadale, Scotland, by receiving gifts for children in need, then proceeded to the lighting of the candle. I love this part of the season.
We Methodists in the US are blessed by the Advent wreath, as well. We celebrated it here in Carrollton, GA , where there are many people of Scottish descent, like my family-God’s blessings to all near and far during this speacial time
Being baptized Anglican, we also have the Advent Calendar etc. I think it’s a beautiful start to the “Christmas” season. Think of those you love and will see, and those you love and won’t.
Have a wonderful Advent Season.
(Beautifully written excerpt from your book, waiting for it is hard to do, but I’m managing. I’m reading all the other, again.)
Thank you for the Advent gift. Beautifully written!
Oh, how I do love Ian. What a dear man he has become. He is his Uncle Jamie made over, really.
I look forward to everything you write. This is wonderful.
Thank you for sharing. I was raised Lutheran and we celebrated Advent, lit a candle, read from the bible, and had the calendar.
I enjoyed the focus in preparation for Christmas.
May your Advent and Christmas be blessed.
Diana — Thanks for the Advent candle and the words. As usual, you touch my heart and soul with them!!!
Thank you Diana. Your writing is the perfect Advent gift you can give us.
Thanks Diana, we grew up with the Advent Wreath … it was a German family tradition in our home. I loved helping my Mum to gather the greens to make our wreath every year. The look of the wreath changed over the years as my Mum found something she liked better or would make the wreath more sturdy … but the essential ingredients were always there … the greens, purple ribbon, white Christ candle, pink and purple candles. It sat in the very centre of our dinner table. The Advent Wreath supplies never got put away with the rest of the Christmas paraphernalia … it had a special place in her china hutch.
Enjoy your Advent Season.
P.S. I have learned alot about my Catholicism from reading your Outlander series.
How wonderful to read your scenes and people again – all the heat, desolation, confusion, strength. Thank you so much for your gift to us on this first Sunday of Advent.
X O Irene
Hi Diana,
Happy Advent from England! It’s mostly Christians who celebrate Advent here-I don’t count the pictures with chocolates behind the numbers! Thank you for the very touching excerpt. I love reading your books and hope to get to Scotland one day!
Merry Christmas from
Elaine Pannell
Southampton
Diana. So moving and what a great idea. Look forward to the rest of the Sundays in Advent. I have come to an age when these are the truely meaningful things of The Christmas Season. Thank you so much
Many blessings of the season to you and yours. As always, thank you for the gift of your words.
Diana.
I know very little about Catholicism, and what little I began with has been enormously supplemented by the things I’ve read about in your novels. Your dialog is so rich, and your words so informative. It can’t change me, but it certainly engenders a healthy and deep respect for your devotion to your faith, as well as to you in general.
Ian’s silent thoughts as he toils through anguish in this piece are beautiful and so insightful. His grief is palpable. I feel like reading anything you write is comparable to a tall glass of chilled water at the end of a long day of hot, arduous work.
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing the excerpts from your book…wishing you and yours a very blessed Christmas season.
I am not Catholic but I love the beauty of the traditions and ceremony. As I travel, I pass a cathedral or beautiful chapel, I enter with reverance and light a candle in remembrance of departed loved ones. It gives me comfort to do this. Thank you for reminding me of the purpose and beauty of Christmas. Key West, Florida.
Thanks for your books. I really love them. Many protestant churches light advent candles, too. I am so glad the season lingers on for a month that way.
Advent is a lovely season and when my children were small I had a number of traditions to help them understand the magnitude of the coming gift in spite of the materialistic world’s emphasis on Santa and jingle bells. I still have an advent wreath on my table and my children have passed on the journey of Mary and Joseph and the Kris Kindle traditions to their children. Thank you for this gift – I look forward to the coming teasers and eventually the whole story.