Elizabeth shook her head. "You should not have been tramping around in the rain like that. But never mind; Denny and I have found the cold capsules, and we are all going to take them." She waited, hands on hips, for an argument.
Marchand said gravely, "Thank you, my dear. I think that is a very good idea."
"So do I," Tom Leath said. "I'm having one now with my Scotch. Would anyone care to join me?"
About seven o'clock Elizabeth took a cold capsule to Callum, who was still sleeping. Shaking him gently awake, she put the cold capsule in his hand. "Take this," she said. "It's one of the cold capsules, and I've brought you some water. How do you feel?"
Callum's shrug turned into a cough. "The same, I guess,'' he said. He tossed the capsule into his mouth and gulped most of the water from the tin cup. "I hate the flu.''
Elizabeth nodded. "We'll probably all get it. The rest of us took these cold capsules at dinner."
Callum looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "I've been trying not to think about Owen," he said. "I didn't stay long enough to get a good look at him, but. . . suppose he died of something contagious, and suppose that when I went into his tent, I caught it. . . ."
Elizabeth laughed gently. "In Britain they immunize babies against things like smallpox and diphtheria, don't they? They do in the States."
"Of course we do."
Elizabeth nodded. "I thought so. Have you had shots for typhoid?"
"Sure. As an archaeologist, of course you—"
"Tetanus?"
"Yes, but—"
"Okay, let's get really way out. Cholera?"
"Actually, yes. I took a holiday in Turkey last year."
"God, you're better off than I am," Elizabeth said. "They don't make you take cholera shots to come to Scotland. Anyhow, you see my point. You have been protected against everything we can think of. I mean, what else is there?"
He tried to smile. "Leprosy?"
"Right. That takes two to seven years' incubation, and it causes numbness. Take two aspirin and call me at the turn of the century." She relaxed a bit when he laughed. She was worried about him, and she wanted to be reassuring. She wanted them both to feel safe. It sounded logical enough. But she was still frightened.
Callum closed his eyes. "Then what killed Owen?"
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Callum, I think he was poisoned."
"What—by one of us? That's insane."
"I've been over and over it. Nothing else makes sense. So I think we ought to be very careful."
"And not take capsules offered us by fellow diggers?"
"It isn't me!" she hissed. "And you'll need those capsules to get your strength back. Somebody has to get us off this island fast, and you're the best sailor we've got."
"What if I'm a killer?" he teased.
She patted his hand. "Then you're too sick to be dangerous, aren't you?"
Elizabeth lay huddled in her sleeping bag that night with her copy of Wuthering Heights and a dwindling stack of tissues beside her. She told herself that with a runny nose, she could not afford to waste her few tissues on tears. Tomorrow would be Wednesday . . . wouldn't it? Cameron was coming on Saturday. And if it kept raining so hard until then, the seas would be dry and they could walk away from the island, she thought, half-asleep. The sound of coughing kept her awake far into the night, but she finally fell into a fitful sleep sometime past three o'clock. What woke her up again a few hours later was silence. She realized that she could no longer hear the clatter of rain on the roof.
Pulling her sweater on over her T-shirt, Elizabeth eased out of the sleeping bag and crept to the door. She pushed it open a few inches and saw the graying sky of dawn. There was mist, but no downpour. She took a deep breath of sea air and stretched. No more endless days cooped up in a tin can listening to war stories and British jokes! She decided to take the bucket down to the burn. The endless cups of tea had depleted their supply of water.
Tucking the metal handle into the crook of her arm, she made her way over the rocks and down the path to the meadow. She thought that it might be nice to stay out for a while, despite the cold, and perhaps to watch the sun rise over the stone circle. She even thought of offering up a prayer from within the confines of that ancient temple. Surely it had been meant for worship of some sort; man reserved his greatest efforts for offerings to his gods. And she felt that a prayer might make her feel better, if nothing else. Or a thank-you to somebody. Because the rain had stopped, so that they could try to escape by sea and the nightmare was over.
She washed her face and hands in the cold water of the burn, glad of the stinging numbness it brought to her skin. She would heat water and have a proper wash later, but this she needed to celebrate life. She scooped water to the brim of the bucket and, after a moment's thought, let it rush back into the stream again. She could leave the bucket there and get water when she was ready to go back to the Nissen hut. No need to carry a heavy bucket all the way to the standing stones, she thought, smiling. Water would be no offering to a god of Celts!
She did not know which way the ancient builders had intended for the circle to be entered. They had created a north-south avenue of small stones leading up to the circle, but no one seemed to know what its purpose had been. Some of these small stones were still visible, half-buried in the peat. The stones themselves made her think of black-robed figures gathered around a grave. She hesitated for a few minutes before walking into the circle, feeling afraid of the place for the first time. How different it was from before! How casual they had been only a few mornings before, when everyone had come down in a pack, intent on work and chattering among themselves after a hearty breakfast. The majesty of the stones had been there even then, but it had not been so imposing. Back then, even a word could have broken the spell. Now that she was alone and frightened in the early hours of dawn, she felt as if she were expected to say something. To whom? To the stones, or to those long-ago islanders who built them? Or to the old gods themselves?
She shivered. Stop it, she thought. It is peaceful here. And the day will be fine. You are safe.
She spent a long time walking inside the circle, looking at the slant of light over the mountains from first one stone and then another, and once she tried to find an alignment with the just-visible stone on the far island, but that made her think of Owen, and she turned her back on it, determined to think of something else.
As the sky grew lighter, she began to feel warmer and more at ease, and she was leaning against the largest stone, thinking of Cameron and of spending a few days on Skye after this was over, when she heard someone calling her name.
She felt a clutch of coldness, and her first thought was that it was Owen, not dead after all, who had staggered to the menhir and was calling to her for help, but a moment later she recognized the voice. It was Denny, trotting across the meadow, shouting for her.
She didn't feel like shouting back from the circle. Somehow it would be disrespectful. She stood up, walked to the center of the circle, and waved, unsmiling.
He saw her then, and he did not smile, either. She saw that he was pale, and his hands were clenched into fists.
"What is it?" she called out even before he reached the circle. She wished she didn't have to hear—whatever it was going to be. She had never seen Denny so solemn.
"So, you're all right," he said when he reached her. He peered into her face, as if he would decide that for himself. She nodded. "Everyone was still asleep, and I just wanted to get out for a bit. I took the bucket to the burn, in case you were looking for it."
"I looked there first. I thought ... I don't know."
She stared at him wide-eyed. "Did you think something had happened to me, Denny?"
He looked away. "Not exactly. I thought you might have taken the boat ..."