Everybody loved him Claire, the heart and soul of him Knew him for who he was Needed to be
A bloody man A warrior born and bred But at home, at rest He was kindness itself Husband, Father, Chieftain Provider, Protector Laird
But to the children Who he sat upon his knee He was simply “Granda” As he told them stories Wiped away their tears As they vied for his attention As they plaited his hair
“Granda” As he lifted one upon his shoulders Held the smallest girl’s hand “Oh aye”, he said To each of them Crowding all around him Handing each a sweet Teaching them to swim To hunt To fish
Then looking up He sees Claire watching From her Surgery window Lovelight in her eyes Her secret smile Feels himself quicken Still burns for her A sudden need….. Returns the smile….with interest
“Oh aye”, he says again “Now off wi’ ye and play Yer Grannie needs me” They turn, running, tumbling, squabbling But he hears nothing But her soft, steady breathing As she reaches up Removes the spectacles from his tousled auburn head Takes him by the hand And leads him to their bed.
Let me say this, first and foremost…..over the entire five seasons of Outlander, we have seen many changes in both Claire and James Fraser, but Sam Heughan’s embodiment of Jamie, in these three episodes in particular, left me weak, wet and wanting. I was responding in a purely visceral way to a force of such powerful masculinity, the film critic in me was shoved brutally aside, along with the straggling farmers, cotters, misfits and miscreants. There was enough active grey matter still ticking over, paying attention to the story, but particularly during the field training and then the preparations and battle at Prestonpans, I was eager to lay down my body for the cause. His proud stance, looking back over his shoulder as he lays down the law to his Uncle Dougal…..My Artist’s eye traces the curve of muscled back, and buttock, the easy swing of kilt, that commanders voice, deep down in his belly….he watches, struts, bellows commands……the morning light shines upon his hair, flaming red windblown curls around his shoulders. The Gaelic war chant, as they march, turn, march and turn again….as Murtagh roars, as Jamie whispers words as soft as silk, coaxing the men to laughter, then turns it all around, putting the fear of god , death and James Fraser, into them. He is the epitome of every breathing woman’s dream…..fiercely beautiful, a living monument to nature’s gift….testosterone.
“There’s only two things they do with it”, Claire says to Brianna later in the story, “and one of them is to try to kill each other”, ….”and the other?” We gazed at each other with perfect understanding, “I’ll take care of your father, but Roger is up to you.”
And so amid the the eerie whining of the pipes, beat of drum and clash of metal, bodies formed in regimental blocks, marching….the deep baritone song of war, the thrust and lunge….there he stands, watching over them, correcting, commanding, challenging….terrifying his men to keep them safe…..reducing me, the observer, to my most primal female need….
I ache to be the one he reaches out for At the closing of a long hard day To give what needs giving when the blood lust is upon him Open myself entirely to his need Wrap arms and legs around, and rock him Till the voice of war recedes, until he spills his seed And lies, emptied of all the madness and ferocity A man child letting go, safely held, who knows In the hours while he sleeps, I will watch over him Watch the grim lines slowly fade from face and brow The corners of his mouth, relaxed, at peace Long lashed eyes, closed…..too tired to dream of war There’s nothing more he needs, as he lies heavily upon me The Warrior man child held, I keep him safe, for these few hours Until the battle pipes once more, summon him to fight As the dawning sun creeps over hill and moor, to morning’s light.
MargaretArlen Winter, Central Victoria, Australia 2020 (Claire’s words to Brianna, regarding testosterone, by Diana Gabaldon)
Two as one, now After all the long lonely years The heartache and sorrow Their love renewed In their marriage bed And come tomorrow Whatever fate throws in their way They will stay together ….. For they are bound By vows that held through time And space They are one, now Held in grace.
THIS IMAGE, THIS MOMENT in First Wife has stayed with me from the first viewing, and with each revisit, I am left with the same strong emotions.
AT ONE STAGE, further along in the story, Bree asks Claire what Jamie is….Laird, Chieftain, Warrior, Soldier…..does he know what he is? And her mother, busily pounding herbs for a tincture, says “Oh yes, your father knows. He is a Man…..and that is no small thing.”
This scene was written for Television….it isn’t in VOYAGER, and it’s one of those perfect additions that compliment Diana’s Story….in fact adds to it, in such a beautiful way.
HERE IS A MAN torn apart by conflict, with his second wife Laoghaire, and the love of his life, his heart and soul, Claire, his newly returned to him, First Wife.
We all know what has gone before these photos….the shock, anger, both blaming the other, rage, passion, betrayal and above all else, fear….fear and misunderstanding. Jamie is SO afraid of losing Claire again, and yet, when wee Joanie cries out “Da”, “Ma”, her face contorted with anguish, Jamie walks away from Claire, and we see him here…..putting his fear aside, to tend to wee Joanie.
“Who’s that woman?” she asks of him, and he stands there, answering her. “She’s my wife, my first wife Claire…. I thought she was dead, but by the grace of god, she returned to me.” And wee Joanie, brilliantly portrayed by Layla Burns, lifts up her face to him, asking. “Wha’ about Ma?” Those words, the sorrow on her face, pierced my heart. And Jamie tells her, gently, patiently “Your mother and I didna have a bond, that keeps two people together.” And she says to him “And you do with this woman?” “Aye”, he says, “I do.”
THIS IS WHAT MAKES A MAN…..this ability to put aside every raging emotion that burns in his gut, his terrible fear that his soul mate will leave him, and comfort this small child. This child he read stories to, took fishing, embraced with love, as his own even though she was not his kin. And as he tells her to go find Marsali, he drops down onto the stairs,sitting for a moment, catching his breath. The little girl walks a few steps, then turning, flings herself into his arms, and he enfolds her against his big body, once more, comforting her.
AND THEN, ONLY THEN, does he return upstairs to Claire.
AN ACTOR HAS TO DIG DEEP, and this is to me what Sam Heughan is. Yes, he’s acting, but drawing from the deepest core of who he is, this rare, lovely, big hearted human. It is my belief that you cannot Act with this level of emotional integrity unless it’s a natural part of who you are.
TIME TRAVEL, The all pervading sense that it’s real, that in another space and time my Ancestors exist….that they live, going about their daily lives unaware that they are dead. I am in a constant state of emotional turmoil….my head cannot grasp the concept at the same time as I am buying into it completely. We all have, haven’t we?
AND THERE’S THAT BOX OF LETTERS ….Sent from Jamie and Claire across the span of two hundred years, where they finally arrive at Jamie’s old home Lallybroch, to be read by Bree and Roger, and eventually to their Grandchildren. An act of Faith.
Listening to An Echo in the Bone a few days ago, I once more felt the sharp sting of tears as I hear Jamie’s voice speaking across the void of time…..December 31, 1776 “My dear daughter, as you will see if ever you receive this, we are alive.” And yet, as Roger reads this to Brianna, we all know they are by now, surely dead. Those letters, some written on the paper Bree made herself with tiny inclusions of an insect’s wing, a small flower petal or leaf, still in good condition, real, held, touched with love and awe, and read as we do the books, over and over again. Bree sometimes feels the need to open the box when Roger’s away…..just to touch the same paper her parents have touched, to hold them close, sure as she opens the box that a soft whiff of medicinal herbs floats up and out through the opening lid….knowing the painful difficulties her beloved father has to endure to write to her specifically, with his maimed right hand. “It is the Feast of all Saints….pray for me.”…..and her tearful response…..”Bloody man, I knew you’d make me cry.”
I cannot wrap my head around how those letter arrive in the Twentieth Century, I understand the concept, I believe they have arrived, yet no matter how many times I hear or read this story I am left asking the same question….”how did that box of precious letters travel through time???”
In a phone conversation with my eldest son today, he asked as he always does, what I was doing….so I told him I’d been searching for photos of handmade paper and an appropriate box for the piece I was writing tonight. That got us, mainly me, talking about Ancestry….about the very few precious details I have found out very recently. And mentioning Outlander and the idea of time travel, I found myself too choked up to speak….I was trying to tell him that because of this extraordinary story, I feel my Ancestors near me, in a way I never had before. I suggested to him that perhaps they still exist in their own bubble of time…..My Grandmother and Great Grandmother, Little Tailors in London…..the three generations of Scottish Sea Captains…..of course I carry them with me, they live on through me…..but I meant more. Are they still doing what they did, even though I’ve read the dates of their deaths. I couldn’t go on, as my son spoke gently to me, patient, perplexed, puzzled. He’s not been seduced by this strange, mysterious story…..that asks so many questions of us….leaves us caught up in its perfect, elusive mystery.
THE BOX OF LETTERS is an ongoing Enchantment. THE SEDUCTION AND ENCHANTMENT OF OUTLANDER
IN JUST ONE MOMENT AS HE REACHES OUT TO TAKE HER HAND HE WILL LIFT HIS GAZE EYES BOLD WITH WANTING AS HE SOFTLY SAYS THE WORDS “WILL Y’ COME TO BED WI’ ME, THEN” HIS BREATH HELD FOR SECONDS UNTIL SHE ANSWERS “YES”
ALL DOUBT, ANGER, JEALOUSY FALL AWAY AS THEY RISE FROM THE TABLE MOVE AS ONE EYES FIXED NOW EACH UPON THE OTHER SURRENDERING TO TRUST LETTING IMAGES EMERGE AND SETTLE THEM REMEMBERING HOW IT WAS BEFORE…..BETWEEN THEM
DISROBING SLOWLY SHE SEES THE PULSE BEAT IN HIS THROAT AND TAKES COURAGE FROM IT UNFOLDS ANOTHER LAYER NOW SHE IN SHIFT HE IN SHIRT THEY SMILE SHYLY CAREFUL WITH EACH OTHER THESE REBORN LOVERS
AND ALL THE HUNGRY ACHING YEARS OF LONELINESS AND NEED SLIP SOFTLY TO THE FLOOR AMONG THE LAYERS OF THEIR CLOTHING NOWHERE NOW TO HIDE THEY LIFT THEIR EYES NAKED, BOLD YET SHY THEY SMILE
AND SMILE, REMEMBER HOW IT WAS BETWEEN THEM IT …WILL ….BE ….ALL ….RIGHT AS THEY SMILE AND SMILE TASTE THE AIR BETWEEN THEM TAKING THAT FINAL STEP TOWARDS SURRENDER SHE FEELS HIS WARMTH SURROUND HER EMBRACE HER MOVES TOWARDS THE JOINING TWO, BECOMING ONE ONE BODY, ONE SOUL ONE LOVE, ONE LIFE HER BELOVED HUSBAND HIS CHERISHED WIFE
RETURNING REMEMBERING REJOICING RENEWING VOWS UNSPOKEN NOTHING NOW WILL BREAK THE TIES THAT BIND THEM
Shaped by the gods of Art Sculpted by them They look back down at him From the Heavens And smile their secret smiles He has pleased them This earthly god of Love As he gasps with pleasure Upon his Marriage Bed
They laugh benignly from above Ahhhhhh, they say With smirks of self satisfied praise Just look what we have done Just look what we have made This Perfect God Of Love
“THE BODY OF A WARRIOR THE MIND OF A GENTLEMAN AND THE SOUL OF A BARBARIAN”…..Diana Gabaldon
WOUNDED
BLOOD SMEARED
AND REEKING OF SWEAT
HE WAS FEARLESS AND BOLD
WHEN FIRST WE MET
FORCED ME WITH THREATS
AND CHALLENGING HIM
AT THE POINT OF HIS SWORD
I GAVE IN
I WENT THEN
WENT ON HIS HORSE
WRAPPED IN HIS PLAID
DAZED AND EXHAUSTED
HEAD WRACKED WITH PAIN
EARS STILL RINGING
WITH THE SCREAMS OF THE DEAD
TRAPPED IN THE HELL
OF MY COMING
NUMBED WITH THE
STONES STILL RINGING
UNWILLINGLY HELD IN HIS HEAT
HIS YOUNG BODY CLEAVING
WAKING, THEN SLEEPING
THE HUGE HORSE BENEATH ME
THE ROCKING RYTHM
HIS ARMS AROUND ME
HIS LEG MUSCLES TENSING
FLEXING, RELAXING
THROUGH THE LONG, COLD NIGHT
ON THAT LONG, LONG RIDE
SOAKED WITH RAIN
WARMED BY HIS HEAT
WRAPPED IN HIS PLAID
WE WERE ALREADY ONE
BEFORE WE WERE WED
ON THAT FIRST LONG JOURNEY
FROM THE PLACE OF THE DEAD
UNWILLINGLY BOUND LOST, THEN FOUND BY THE TIME WE DISMOUNTED ME SPLATTERED WITH MUD HE COVERED IN BLOOD I LONGED FOR HIS HEAT THE STRENGTH I HAD KNOWN ON THAT LONG, LONG JOURNEY BRINGING ME HOME I CRAVED HIS WARMTH I CRAVED HIS SMELL WITH NO WORDS SPOKEN MY BODY COULD TELL HE FELT THE SAME…. UNWILLINGLY, I BELONGED TO HIM THEN AND I STILL DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HIS REAL NAME
DESOLATION AND SORROW
GNAWING HUNGER
GRIEF AND RAGE
AND THE CUTTING WEIGHT
OF HIS PRISON CHAINS
HUMILIATION, DESPAIR
ALL ETCHED THERE
IN HIS BEAUTIFUL FACE
RELIEF FROM PAIN
AN ELUSIVE THING
TIL THE LABOUR IS DONE
AT THE END OF THE DAY
HE SEEKS OBLIVION
AT THE FALL OF NIGHT
WHEN HIS SOUL ROAMS FREE
SEEKING HIS WIFE
IN DREAMS SHE COMES
TO HIS STONE COLD BED
FREES HIS WRISTS
CRADLES HIS HEAD
TAKES HIM IN
GIVES HIM COMFORT
WARMS HIS ACHING BONES
WHISPERS HIS NAME
SHE BRINGS HIM HOME
THE FEEL OF HER SKIN
THE SMELL OF HER HAIR
PLEASURE IN DARKNESS
HE CALLS OUT HER NAME
IN THE COLD GREY DAWN
HE REACHES ONCE MORE
FOR THE WARMTH OF HER BODY
SUCCOUR AND GRACE
FEELS BENEATH HIM
THE STONE COLD FLOOR
CRIES LIKE A CHILD
FOR SHE WAS ONLY A DREAM
ALIVE IN THE NIGHT
NOW GONE FROM HIM
SORROW AND GRIEF
PAIN AND RAGE
THE LINES CUT DEEP
IN HIS BEAUTIFUL FACE
AND ALL THROUGH THIS DAY
HE REMEMBERS THE NIGHT
WHEN HE LAY IN THE ARMS
OF HIS BELOVED WIFE
THE WAY SHE TOUCHES HIM
LONG FINGERS
CARESSING
LIGHTLY
AS HE IN TURN
REACHES OUT
AND CUPS HER CHEEK
SO, SO TENDER
ARE THESE LOVERS
WITH EACH OTHER
THEY’VE BORNE THE PAIN OF LOSS AND SEPARATION EACH ONE BARELY LIVING WITHOUT THE OTHER RETURNED ONCE MORE THROUGH TIME AND SPACE THEY FIND THEMSELVES RENEWED, REBORN IN EACH OTHERS FACE
AND ALL IS WELL
NOW
BETWEEN THEM
ALL IS WELL…..
THE CHIMING BELL
OF ENDLESS TIME
RINGS FOR THEM
AND ALL, AND ALL
IS WELL
