Chapter 3. Keep your friends close 네 친구들을 가까이 하라

* 최초작성: 2022/01/25

** 현재 작업 중인 문서이며, 불시에 내용이 추가될 수 있습니다. 

 

3

KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE

우리는 다음 날 해가 지기 직전 Fraser's Ridge에 도착했고, 방문객이 기다리고 있는 것을 발견했다. 국왕 폐하의 군대의 도날드 맥도날드 소령과 트라이온 총독의 개인 기마병이 우리 집 현관 앞 계단에 앉아있었다. 무릎에는 내 고양이를 올리고 옆에는 맥주 잔이 놓인 채였다. 

"프레이저 부인! Your servant, mum," 그는 가까이서 나를 바라보며 상냥하게 말했다. 그는 자리에서 일어나려 했지만 안락한 자리를 떠나기를 거절한 Adso(아드소, 고양이)는 소령의 허벅지에 발톱을 박으며 거부해, 소령의 입에서 헉 소리가 나게 만들었다. 

"앉으시죠, 소령님," 내가 황급히 손을 저어보이며 말했다. 그는 얼굴을 찡그리며 몸을 낮췄고, 정중하게도 아드소를 덤불 사이로 던져버리지는 않았다. 나는 그의 옆 계단에 올라가 안도의 한숨을 쉬며 자리에 앉았다. 

"제 남편은 말들을 보러갔어요; 바로 올거랍니다. 누군가 당신을 환대해주셨나봐요?" 나는 맥주를 가리켰고, 그는 신속하게 소매로 맥주 항아리의 목을 닦으며 정중한 동작으로 내게 맥주를 권유했다. 

"오, 네, 부인," 그가 내게 말했다. "버그 부인께서는 대단히 저를 환대해주셨습니다."

무례하게 보이고 싶지 않아 맥주를 받아들었지만, 사실 맥주가 아주 잘 내려갔다. 제이미는 돌아갈 생각에 걱정스러워했고, 우리는 정오에 짧게 휴식을 취한 것 외엔 새벽부터 하루종일 안장 위에 있었다. 

"정말 좋은 맥주에요," 내가 눈을 반쯤 감은 채로 맥주를 삼키자, 소령이 미소를 지으며 말했다. "어쩌면 부인께서 만드신 거겠지요?"

나는 고개를 젓고 그에게 맥주 잔을 돌려주기 전에 한 모금을 더 삼켰다. "아뇨, 이건 리지가 한 거에요. 리지 웨미스가요."

"오, 당신의 하녀가요; 네, 당연하죠. 그녀에게 제 찬사를 전해주시겠습니까?"

"여기 없나요?" 나는 살짝 놀라 그의 등 뒤 문을 바라보았다. 하루 중 이 시간에는 나는 리지가 주방에서 저녁을 만들 것을 예상했었으나 그녀는 우리가 도착한 소리를 들었다면 밖으로 나왔을 것이다. 이제 와 알아차려보니 요리의 냄새가 나지 않았다. 당연하게도 그녀는 우리가 올 것을 예상하지 못했겠지만, 그래도...

"음, 아뇨. 그녀는..." 소령은 기억을 되살리며 눈썹을 찡그렸고, 나는 그가 맥주 항아리를 받았을 때 가득찬 상태였을지가 궁금해졌다; 이제는 2인치 정도밖에는 남지 않았다. "아, 맞아요. 그녀는 아버지와 함께 맥길리브레이네에 갔다고 버그 부인이 말했습니다. 그녀의 약혼자를 만나기 위해서겠죠?"

"네, 그녀는 맨프레드 맥길리브레이와 약혼했어요. 하지만 버그 부인은-"

"그녀는 스프링하우스(역; 주택 뒤에 비치해 음식물을 보관하는 장소)에 있습니다," 그가 작은 헛간이 있는 언덕 쪽을 향해 고개를 치켜들며 말했다. "치즈 때문이라고 하시던데요. 관대하시게도 제 저녁식사로 오믈렛은 어떠냐고 하시더군요."

"아..." 나는 승마의 먼지가 맥주로 인해 쓸려 내려가자 훨씬 더 이완되었다. 타버린 오두막집에 대한 흐릿한 기억으로 내 평화에 대한 감각은 심상치 않았지만, 그래도 집에 오니 좋았다. 

나는 버그 부인이 이미 그에게 우리가 다녀온 곳에 대해 말했을 거라고 생각했지만, 그는 아무 것도 모르는 것 같았다 - 혹은 무엇이 그를 Ridge로 불러오게된 것인지 모르거나. 당연했다; 모든 일은 제이미를 적절하게 기다리고 있었다. 여

“Ah . . .” I relaxed a bit more, the dust of the ride settling with the beer. It was wonderful to come home, though my sense of peace was uneasy, tainted by the memory of the burned cabin.

I supposed that Mrs. Bug would have told him our errand, but he made no reference to it—nor to whatever had brought him up to the Ridge. Naturally not; all business would wait appropriately for Jamie. Being female, I would get impeccable courtesy and small bits of social gossip in the meantime.

I could do social gossip, but needed to be prepared for it; I hadn’t a natural knack.

“Ah . . . Your relations with my cat seem somewhat improved,” I hazarded. I glanced involuntarily at his head, but his wig had been expertly mended.

“It is an accepted principle of politics, I believe,” he said, ruffling his fingers through the thick silver fur on Adso’s belly. “Keep your friends close—but your enemies closer.”

“Very sound,” I said, smiling. “Er . . . I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

He shrugged, intimating that any wait was irrelevant—which it generally was. The mountains had their own time, and a wise man did not try to hurry them. MacDonald was a seasoned soldier, and well-traveled—but he had been born in Pitlochry, close enough to the Highland peaks to know their ways.

“I came this morning,” he said. “From New Bern.”

Small warning bells went off in the back of my mind. It would have taken him a good ten days to travel from New Bern, if he had come directly—and the state of his creased and mud-stained uniform suggested that he had.

New Bern was where the new royal governor of the colony, Josiah Martin, had taken up his residence. And for MacDonald to have said, “From New Bern,” rather than mentioning some later stop on his journey, made it reasonably plain to me that whatever business had impelled this visit, it had originated in New Bern. I was wary of governors.

I glanced toward the path that led to the paddock, but Jamie wasn’t visible yet. Mrs. Bug was, emerging from the springhouse; I waved to her and she gestured enthusiastically in welcome, though hampered by a pail of milk in one hand, a bucket of eggs in the other, a crock of butter under one arm, and a large chunk of cheese tucked neatly underneath her chin. She negotiated the steep descent with success, and disappeared round the back of the house, toward the kitchen.

“Omelettes all round, it looks like,” I remarked, turning back to the Major. “Did you happen to come through Cross Creek, by chance?”

“I did indeed, mum. Your husband’s aunt sends you her kind regards—and a quantity of books and newspapers, which I have brought with me.”

I was wary of newspapers these days, too—though such events as they reported had undoubtedly taken place several weeks—or months—previously. I made appreciative noises, though, wishing Jamie would hurry up, so I could excuse myself. My hair smelled of burning and my hands still remembered the touch of cold flesh; I wanted a wash, badly.

“I beg your pardon?” I had missed something MacDonald was saying. He bent politely closer to repeat it, then jerked suddenly, eyes bulging.

“Frigging cat!”

Adso, who had been doing a splendid imitation of a limp dishcloth, had sprung bolt upright in the Major’s lap, eyes glowing and tail like a bottlebrush, hissing like a teakettle as he flexed his claws hard into the Major’s legs. I hadn’t time to react before he had leapt over MacDonald’s shoulder and swarmed through the open surgery window behind him, ripping the Major’s ruffle and knocking his wig askew in the process.

MacDonald was cursing freely, but I hadn’t attention to spare for him. Rollo was coming up the path toward the house, wolflike and sinister in the gloaming, but acting so oddly that I was standing before conscious thought could bring me to my feet.

The dog would run a few steps toward the house, circle once or twice as though unable to decide what to do next, then run back into the wood, turn, and run again toward the house, all the while whining with agitation, tail low and wavering.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said. “Bloody Timmy’s in the well!” I flew down the steps and ran for the path, barely registering the Major’s startled oath behind me.

I found Ian a few hundred yards down the path, conscious, but groggy. He was sitting on the ground, eyes closed and both hands holding his head, as though to keep the bones of his skull from coming apart. He opened his eyes as I dropped to my knees beside him, and gave me an unfocused smile.

“Auntie,” he said hoarsely. He seemed to want to say something else, but couldn’t quite decide what; his mouth opened, but then simply hung that way, tongue moving thoughtfully to and fro.

“Look at me, Ian,” I said, as calmly as possible. He did—that was good. It was too dark to see whether his pupils were unnaturally dilated, but even in the evening shadow of the pines that edged the trail, I could see the pallor of his face, and the dark trail of bloodstains down his shirt.

Hurried steps were coming after me down the trail; Jamie, followed closely by MacDonald.

“How is it, lad?”

Jamie gripped him by one arm, and Ian swayed very gently toward him, then dropped his hands, closed his eyes, and relaxed into Jamie’s arms with a sigh.

“Is he bad?” Jamie spoke anxiously over Ian’s shoulder, holding him up as I frisked him for damage. The back of his shirt was saturated with dried blood—but it was dried. The tail of his hair was stiff with it, too, and I found the head wound quickly.

“I don’t think so. Something’s hit him hard on the head and taken out a chunk of his scalp, but—”

“A tomahawk, do you think?”

MacDonald leaned over us, intent.

“No,” said Ian drowsily, his face muffled in Jamie’s shirt. “A ball.”

“Go away, dog,” Jamie said briefly to Rollo, who had stuck his nose in Ian’s ear, eliciting a stifled squawk from the patient and an involuntary lifting of his shoulders.

“I’ll have a look in the light, but it may not be too bad,” I said, observing this. “He walked some way, after all. Let’s get him up to the house.”

The men made shift to get him up the trail, Ian’s arms over their shoulders, and within minutes, had him laid facedown on the table in my surgery. Here, he told us the story of his adventures, in a disjoint fashion punctuated by small yelps as I cleaned the injury, clipped bits of clotted hair away, and put five or six stitches into his scalp.

“I thought I was dead,” Ian said, and sucked air through his teeth as I drew the coarse thread through the edges of the ragged wound. “Christ, Auntie Claire! I woke in the morning, though, and I wasna dead after all—though I thought my head was split open, and my brains spilling down my neck.”

“Very nearly was,” I murmured, concentrating on my work. “I don’t think it was a bullet, though.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“I’m not shot?” Ian sounded mildly indignant. One big hand lifted, straying toward the back of his head, and I slapped it lightly away.

“Keep still. No, you aren’t shot, no credit to you. There was a deal of dirt in the wound, and shreds of wood and tree bark. If I had to guess, one of the shots knocked a dead branch loose from a tree, and it hit you in the head when it fell.”

“You’re quite sure as it wasn’t a tomahawk, are ye?” The Major seemed disappointed, too.

I tied the final knot and clipped the thread, shaking my head.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a tomahawk wound, but I don’t think so. See how jagged the edges are? And the scalp’s torn badly, but I don’t believe the bone is fractured.”

“It was pitch-dark, the lad said,” Jamie put in logically. “No sensible person would fling a tomahawk into a dark wood at something he couldna see.” He was holding the spirit lamp for me to work by; he moved it closer, so we could see not only the ragged line of stitches, but the spreading bruise around it, revealed by the hair I had clipped off.

“Aye, see?” Jamie’s finger spread the remaining bristles gently apart, tracing several deep scratches that scored the bruised area. “Your auntie’s right, Ian; ye’ve been attacked by a tree.”

Ian opened one eye a slit.

“Has anyone ever told ye what a comical fellow ye are, Uncle Jamie?”

“No.”

Ian closed the eye.

“That’s as well, because ye’re not.”

Jamie smiled, and squeezed Ian’s shoulder.

“Feeling a bit better then, are ye?”

“No.”

“Aye, well, the thing is,” Major MacDonald interrupted, “that the lad did meet with some sort of banditti, no? Had ye reason to think they might be Indians?”

“No,” said Ian again, but this time he opened the eye all the way. It was bloodshot. “They weren’t.”

MacDonald didn’t appear pleased with this answer.

“How could ye be sure, lad?” he asked, rather sharply. “If it was dark, as ye say.”

I saw Jamie glance quizzically at the Major, but he didn’t interrupt. Ian moaned a little, then heaved a sigh and answered.

“I smelt them,” he said, adding almost immediately, “I think I’m going to puke.”

He raised himself on one elbow and promptly did so. This effectively put an end to any further questions, and Jamie took Major MacDonald off to the kitchen, leaving me to clean Ian up and settle him as comfortably as I could.

“Can you open both eyes?” I asked, having got him tidied and resting on his side, with a pillow under his head.

He did, blinking a little at the light. The small blue flame of the spirit lamp was reflected twice over in the darkness of his eyes, but the pupils shrank at once—and together.

“That’s good,” I said, and put down the lamp on the table. “Leave it, dog,” I said to Rollo, who was nosing at the strange smell of the lamp—it was burning a mix of low-grade brandy and turpentine. “Take hold of my fingers, Ian.”

I held out my index fingers and he slowly wrapped a large, bony hand round each of them. I put him through the drill for neurological damage, having him squeeze, pull, push, and then concluded by listening to his heart, which was thumping along reassuringly.

“Slight concussion,” I announced, straightening up and smiling at him.

“Oh, aye?” he asked, squinting up at me.

“It means your head aches and you feel sick. You’ll feel better in a few days.”

“I could ha’ told ye that,” he muttered, settling back.

“So you could,” I agreed. “But ‘concussion’ sounds so much more important than ‘cracked heid,’ doesn’t it?”

He didn’t laugh, but smiled faintly in response. “Will ye feed Rollo, Auntie? He wouldna leave me on the way; he’ll be hungry.”

Rollo pricked his ears at the sound of his name, and shoved his muzzle into Ian’s groping hand, whining softly.

“He’s fine,” I said to the dog. “Don’t worry. And yes,” I added to Ian, “I’ll bring something. Do you think you could manage a bit of bread and milk, yourself?”

“No,” he said definitely. “A dram o’ whisky, maybe?”

“No,” I said, just as definitely, and blew out the spirit lamp.

“Auntie,” he said, as I turned to the door.

“Yes?” I’d left a single candlestick to light him, and he looked very young and pale in the wavering yellow glow.

“Why d’ye suppose Major MacDonald wants it to be Indians I met in the wood?”

“I don’t know. But I imagine Jamie does. Or will, by now.”