Free Drums of Autumn by Diana Gabaldon

putting his right arm around me, drew me down to rest against his shoulder. As always, I felt safe when I touched him. I went limp, cheek pressed against the dusty serge of his coat, and fell at once into that uneasy doze that is the consequence of a combination of utter exhaustion and the inability to lie down.
    I opened my eyes once to see the tall, lean figure of Duncan Innes, pacing alongside the wagon with his tireless hillman’s stride, head bowed as though in deep thought. Then I closed them again, and drifted into a doze in which memories of the day mingled with inchoate fragments of dreams. I dreamt of a giant skunk sleeping under a tavern’s table, waking to join in a chorus of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and then of a swinging corpse that raised its lolling head and grinned with empty eyes…I came awake to find Jamie gently shaking me.
    “Ye’d best crawl into the back and lie down, Sassenach,” he said. “You’re craicklin’ in your sleep. You’ll be slippin’ into the road, next thing.”
    Blearily assenting, I clambered awkwardly over the seat back, changing places with Bonnet, and found a place in the wagonbed next to the slumbering form of Young Ian.
    It smelt musty—and worse—in the wagon bed. Ian had his head pillowed on a packet of roughly butchered venison, wrapped in the untanned skin of the deer. Rollo had done somewhat better, his hairy muzzle resting comfortably on Ian’s stomach. For myself, I took the leathern bag of salt. The smooth leather was hard under my cheek, but odorless.
    The jolting boards of the wagon bed couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called comfortable, but the relief of being able to stretch out at full length was so overwhelming that I scarcely noticed the bumps and jolts. I rolled onto my back and looked up into the hazy immensity of the southern sky, studded thick with blazing stars. Lumen Christi, I thought, and comforted by the thought of Gavin Hayes finding his way safe home by the lights of heaven, fell once more fast asleep.
    I could not tell how long I slept, wrapped in a drugged blanket of heat and exhaustion. I woke when the pace of the wagon changed, swimming toward the surface of consciousness, drenched with sweat.
    Bonnet and Jamie were talking, in the low, easy tones of men who had found their way past the early awkwardness of first acquaintance.
    “You said that ye saved me for Gavin Hayes’ sake—and for your own,” Bonnet was saying. His voice was soft, barely audible above the rumble of the wheels. “What did ye mean by that, sir, and ye’ll pardon my asking—?”
    Jamie didn’t answer at once; I nearly fell asleep again before he spoke, but at last his answer came, floating disembodied in the warm, dark air.
    “Ye wilna have slept much last night, I think? Knowing what was to come to ye with the day?”
    There was a low laugh from Bonnet, not entirely amused.
    “Too right,” he said. “I doubt I shall forget it in a hurry.”
    “Nor will I.” Jamie said something soft in Gaelic to the horses, and they slowed in response. “I once lived through such a night, knowing I would hang, come morning. And yet I lived, through the grace of one who risked much to save me.”
    “I see,” Bonnet said softly. “So you are an asgina ageli, are you?”
    “Aye? And what will that be?”
    There was a sound of scraping and brushing leaves against the side of the wagon, and the spicy sap-scent of the trees grew suddenly stronger. Something light touched my face—leaves, falling from above. The horses slowed, and the rhythm of the wagon changed markedly, the wheels finding an uneven surface. We had turned into the small road that led to Bonnet’s creek.
    “ Asgina ageli is a term that the red savages employ—the Cherokee of the mountains; I heard it from one I had as guide one time. It means ‘half-ghost,’ one who should have died by right, but yet remains on the earth; a woman who survives a mortal illness, a man fallen into