Jamie wiped the hair out of his eyes, panting.
"Bad as wolves," he said. "I'd told Colum about that pack already; they're the ones that chased Cobhar into the loch two days ago. Best he has them shot before they kill someone." He looked down at me as I knelt next to the fallen priest, inspecting. The rain dripped from the ends of my hair, and I could feel my shawl growing sodden.
"They haven't yet," I said. "Bar a few toothmarks, he's basically all right."
Father Bain's soutane was ripped down one side, showing an expanse of hairless white thigh with an ugly gash and several puncture marks beginning to ooze blood. The priest, pasty-white with shock, was struggling to his feet; plainly he wasn't too badly injured.
"If you'll come to the surgery with me, Father, I'll cleanse those cuts for you," I offered, suppressing a smile at the spectacle the fat little priest presented, soutane flapping and argyle socks revealed.
At the best of times, Father Bain's face resembled a clenched fist. This similarity was made more pronounced at the moment by the red mottling that streaked his jowls and emphasized the vertical creases between cheeks and mouth. He glared at me as though I had suggested that he commit some public indecency.
Apparently I had, for his next words were "What, a man o' God to expose his pairsonal parts to the handling of a wumman? Weel, I'll tell ye, madam, I've no notion what sorts of immorality are practiced in the circles you're accustomed to move in, but I'll have ye to ken that such'll no be tolerated here—not sae long as I've the cure of the souls in this parish!" With that, he turned and stumped off, limping rather badly and trying unsuccessfully to hold up the torn side of his robe.
"Suit yourself," I called after him. "If you don't let me cleanse it, it will fester!"
The priest did not respond, but hunched his round shoulders and hitched his way up the garden stair a step at a time, like a penguin hopping up an ice floe.
"That man doesn't care overmuch for women, does he?" I remarked to Jamie.
"Considering his occupation, I imagine that's as well," he replied. "Let's go and eat."
After lunch, I sent my patient back to bed to rest—alone, this time, in spite of his protestations—and went down to the surgery. The heavy rain seemed to have made business slack; people tended to stay safely inside, rather than running over their feet with ploughshares or falling off roofs.
I passed the time pleasantly enough, bringing the records in Davie Beaton's book up to date. Just as I finished, though, a visitor darkened my door.
He literally darkened it, his bulk filling it from side to side. Squinting in the semidarkness, I made out the form of Alec MacMahon, swathed in an extraordinary get-up of coats, shawls, and odd bits of horse-blanket.
He advanced with a slowness that reminded me of Colum's first visit to the surgery with me, and gave me a clue to his problem.
"Rheumatism, is it?" I asked with sympathy, as he subsided stiffly into my single chair with a stifled groan.
"Aye. The damp settles in my bones," he said. "Aught to be done about it?" He laid his huge, gnarled hands on the table, letting the fingers relax. The hands opened slowly, like a night-blooming flower, to show the callused palms within. I picked up one of the knotted appendages and turned it gently to and fro, stretching the fingers and massaging the horny palm. The seamed old face above the hand contorted for a moment as I did it, but then relaxed as the first twinges passed.
"Like wood," I said. "A good slug of whisky and a deep massage is the best I can recommend. Tansy tea will do only so much."
He laughed, shawls slipping off his shoulder.
"Whisky, eh? I had my doubts, lassie, but I see ye've the makings of a fine physician."
I reached into the back of my medicine cupboard and pulled out the anonymous brown bottle that held my supply from the Leoch distillery. I plunked it on the table before him, with a horn cup.
"Drink up," I said, "then get stripped off as far as you think decent and lie on the table. I'll make up the fire so it will be warm enough."
The blue eye surveyed the bottle with appreciation, and a crooked hand reached slowly for the neck.
"Best have a nip yourself, lassie," he advised. "It'll be a big job."
He groaned, with a cross between pain and contentment, as I leaned hard on his left shoulder to loosen it, then lifted from underneath and rotated the whole quarter of his body.
"My wife used to iron my back for me," he remarked, "for the lumbago. But this is even better. Ye've a good strong pair of hand's, lassie. Make a good stable-lad, ye would."