A Happy and Blessed Easter (or other spring festival/contemplative occasion or feast involving eggs…) to you all!
HAPPY EASTER-EGG!
[Excerpt from (Untitled) BOOK TEN, Copyright © 2024 Diana Gabaldon]
They stopped for the night near a small creek, having passed the afternoon in silence, and made camp and ate, with no more than the occasional grunt of inquiry and acknowledgement while sharing out the last of the cheese, hard-cooked eggs, and soaking the last of the rock-hard journeycake in the last of the cider.
Finally, William cleared his throat, and Fraser looked at him, one bushy brow cocked.
“We’re following them, aren’t we?”
“There’s only the one road,” Fraser pointed out. “I’d prefer they not be following us. And they’ve at least a day’s head start, thank God.”
“True. But still.”
“Still?”
“That prayer,” William blurted. “To Saint Michael. ‘Defend us in battle.’ That wasn’t for the—the dead man and his sons; you said a prayer in Gaelic when we buried them.”
“Aye. It’s called “Soul Leading”— ye say it for a person who’s killed unexpectedly and maybe didna have time to consider his soul and set his mind for the journey onward.”
“Oh.” William found that oddly… not reassuring; there was nothing reassuring in the events of the day—but perhaps… consoling? The notion that one might actually be able to do something for a dead person, other than merely disposing of their remains, was novel, but somewhat comforting. Still…
“So the prayer to St. Michael. Was that for the family, too?”
Fraser made one of his subterranean noises, with what William thought was a tinge of humor.
“No, that one was for us, a bhalaich.”
It was nearly dark, and Fraser picked up one of the sticks they’d gathered, broke it in pieces and added them carefully to the fire. The flames swarmed the dry wood and flared high, throwing the man’s face into planes of light and shadow, tinted red.
“I ken ye’re a bonny fighter,” Fraser said casually. “Saw ye on the battlefield, aye? And I’ve seen the way ye move, and handle your sword.” He shoved the last piece of wood into its place and straightened up, turning to William.
“A battle’s not a war, ken?” he said quietly. He turned his head and lifted his chin, indicating the silent ruin in the darkness high above. “That’s war.”
[end section]
Visit my official webpage for Book Ten (still untitled) for more excerpts and the latest information about this new book that I am working on.
Photo above and its cropped version are mine, of bees working in my citrus trees. You can see the tiny oranges already forming at the base of the flowers’ pistils. (Click on images to enlarge them and see the details.)
This page was created on April 1, 2024, and the text above was also posted on my official Facebook and X/Twitter pages.
This webpage was last updated on Tuesday, April 2, 2024 at 3:45 p.m. by me (Diana Gabaldon) or my Webmistress.