Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(93)

He barely heard the clunk of the canteen, dropped on the ground, and watched, blinking, as the houngan’s white-clad back wavered before him. A dark blur of face as Ishmael turned to him.

“Come.” The man disappeared into the veil of water.

“Right,” he muttered. “Well, then…” He removed his boots, unbuckled the knee bands of his breeches, and peeled off his stockings. Then Grey shucked his coat and stepped cautiously into the steaming water.

It was hot enough to make him gasp, but within a few moments he had got used to the temperature and made his way across a shallow, steaming pool toward the mouth of the cavern, shifting gravel hard under his bare feet. He heard whispering from his guards, but no one offered any alternative suggestions.

Water poured from the overhang but not in the manner of a true waterfall—slender streams, like jagged teeth. The guards had pegged the torches into the ground at the edge of the spring; the flames danced like rainbows in the drizzle of the falling water as he passed beneath the overhang.

The hot, wet air pressed his lungs and made it hard to breathe. After a short while he couldn’t feel any difference between his skin and the moist air through which he walked; it was as though he had melted into the darkness of the cavern.

And it was dark. Completely. A faint glow came from behind him, but he could see nothing at all before him and was obliged to feel his way, one hand on the rough rock wall. The sound of falling water grew fainter, replaced by the heavy thump of his own heartbeat, struggling against the pressure on his chest. Once he stopped and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, taking comfort in the coloured patterns that appeared there; he wasn’t blind, then. When he opened his eyes again, though, the darkness was still complete.

He thought the walls were narrowing—he could touch them on both sides by stretching out his arms—and had a nightmare moment when he seemed to feel them drawing in upon him. He forced himself to breathe, a deep, explosive gasp, and forced the illusion back.

“Stop there.” The voice was a whisper. He stopped.

There was silence for what felt like a long time.

“Come forward,” said the whisper, sounding suddenly quite near him. “There is dry land, just before you.”

He shuffled forward, felt the floor of the cave rise beneath him, and stepped out carefully onto bare rock. Walked slowly forward until again the voice bade him stop.

Silence. He thought he could make out breathing but wasn’t sure; the sound of the water was still faintly audible in the distance. All right, he thought. Come along, then.

It hadn’t been precisely an invitation, but what came into his mind was Mrs. Abernathy’s intent green eyes, staring at him as she said, “I see a great, huge snake lyin’ on your shoulders, Colonel.”

With a convulsive shudder, he realised that he felt a weight on his shoulders. Not a dead weight but something live. It moved, just barely.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and thought he heard the ghost of a laugh from somewhere in the cave. He stiffened and fought back against the mental image, for surely this was nothing more than imagination, fuelled by rum. Sure enough, the illusion of green eyes vanished—but the weight rested on him still, though he couldn’t tell whether it lay upon his shoulders or his mind.

“So,” said the low voice, sounding surprised. “The loa has come already. The snakes do like you, buckra.”

“And if they do?” he asked. He spoke in a normal tone of voice; his words echoed from the walls around him.

The voice chuckled briefly, and he felt rather than heard movement nearby, the rustle of limbs and a soft thump as something struck the floor near his right foot. His head felt immense, throbbing with rum, and waves of heat pulsed through him, though the depths of the cave were cool.

“See if this snake likes you, buckra,” the voice invited. “Pick it up.”

He couldn’t see a thing but slowly moved his foot, feeling his way over the silty floor. His toes touched something and he stopped. Whatever he had touched moved abruptly, recoiling from him. Then he felt the tiny flicker of a snake’s tongue on his toe, tasting him.

Oddly, the sensation steadied him. Surely this wasn’t his friend, the tiny yellow constrictor—but it was a serpent much like that one in general size, so far as he could tell. Nothing to fear from that.

“Pick it up,” the voice invited again. “The krait will tell us if you speak the truth.”

“Will he, indeed?” Grey said dryly. “How?”

The voice laughed, and he thought he heard two or three more chuckling behind it—but perhaps it was only echoes.

“If you die…you lied.”

Grey gave a small, contemptuous snort. There were no venomous snakes on Jamaica. He cupped his hand and bent at the knee, but hesitated. He had an instinctive aversion to being bitten by a snake, venomous or not. And how did he know how the man—or men—sitting in the shadows would take it if the thing did bite him?

“I trust this snake,” said the voice softly. “Krait comes with me from Africa. Long time now.”

Grey’s knees straightened abruptly. Africa! Now he placed the name, and cold sweat broke out on his face. Krait. A fucking African krait. Gwynne had had one. Small, no bigger than the circumference of a man’s little finger. “Bloody deadly,” Gwynne had crooned, stroking the thing’s back with the tip of a goose quill—an attention to which the snake, a slender, nondescript brown thing, had seemed oblivious.