An Original Sin, continues, part four...

The book is passed to the Balance.

Leith was dead. He'd died last night. If he'd known ahead of time, he would've put more effort into his last good brawl, savored his last drop of ale, killed a few more cursed MacDonalds
The Balance: "There's Historical angst!"

He hadn't felt such terrible fear since he'd watched his parents slaughtered during that longago midnight raid...
...Why was he here? Glencoe? No matter how deeply he tried to bury the memory of Glencoe, of the massacre, it waited, ever ready to condemn him. He need only close his eyes to relive the pain...
And so on and so forth.
Pillywiggin: "Does rape of history count?"

Even though he'd fought many a MacDonald in fair fight and bore them no love, he would not murder unarmed men, women, and children.
Pillywiggin: "But armed children... now that's different. We can kill them."

Mayhap one of his lesser sins had earned him this punishment— doomed to lug behind him a stubborn innocent who claimed to make men.
The Chronicler: "But women do make men... in a incubator sort of way, don't they?"

No matter. He'd do what he'd always done— survive.
Pillywiggin: "But he's dead! He's failed!"

He glanced around. A weapon.... Striding to the small table beside the bed, he studied the object that rested there— it had a solid, squarish base with numbers on it, with a smaller piece cradled on top. The top was connected to the base by a curled cord. It would have to do.
The Balance: "The battle telephone!"
Lady Miriam: "It's no weapon in a place where small children and grandparents have guns."

She ducked even though he came nowhere near her. "I don't believe you. There's never an excuse for violence. Any disagreement can be solved with reasonable discussion."
The Anthropologist: "See what happens when we kill all the men! The women get all fluffy and soft."

She looked a little uncertain about her insult, and well she should. He'd beaten men senseless for less. But how could he deny the truth? In her eyes he must seem both primitive and savage.
The Anthropologist: "That's quite an impressive feat of theory of mind considering how she lives six centuries after him. How is he able to do that?"

More likely it was the willing women he'd taken. He savored the memories. There'd been a lot of women in his life, all willing.
Big L: "More than just willing. Super willing."
The Anthropologist: "A couple were fading in and out of consciousness, but if they were awake, they'd be consenting."
The Anthropologist: "The point is that they're not of marriageable age anyway, so they count as willing..."

"Come wi' me, lass, so I can protect ye from danger. Ye need a strong man to fight for ye. Trust me."
The Chronicler notes how it's okay for him to be misogynistic because he's from the Past.

He smiled the smile that had convinced Mary McDougal a heated night spent in his arms was worth the loss of her questionable virginity.
Big L: "How questionable?"
The Chronicler notes that deflowering a virgin is a very Special act reserved for the Hero and the Heroine in these books, thus Mary can't possibly have been a Real Virgin, because she was clearly a Slut...

Fortune was helpless, with her fantasies of a world with no wickedness or violence.
Big L: "I hate her already."

"A peeping chick in a forest of hungry wolves," he muttered.
Sordan: "More animal metaphors. He likes those really too much."
The Anthropologist: "Maybe making sex toys a job they give to the people without social skills or much intelligence... An Ah, I see, you are the sex toy making caste."Big L: "Clearly an unclean caste."

A vexing combination of defiance and stubbornness with the body of an angel. He narrowed his gaze. The body of an angel with tousled hair the color of the vixen whose den he'd found last week, and eyes like a cloudless sky.
Sordan: "I'm really sure he likes animals too much now."
The Anthropologist: "She has a hair colour and an eye colour, she's a real person now."
Sordan: "Vixen-red hair and sky-blue eyes, no less."
The Anthropologist: "Surely that must clash."
Lady Miriam: "Satan has no taste."
Sordan: "He's also sucky in a number of other ways..."

And so we explain how much the Satan is sucky:
1) He can't stand gore.
2) His idea of micromanaging is just a combination of voyerism and stalking.
3) He thinks this is an original plot.

Lady Miriam: "Maybe it's because he has a 15 second memory like a goldfish."
The Anthropologist: "I like the mental image of him pacing in hell and when he turns, he forgets all that he was angsting about so angsts about it all over again."

Home. He pushed aside thoughts of Hugh, of Glencoe. He couldn't allow them to sour his memories. Home was the mountains, the glens, the heather. The women. He closed his eyes, remembering— heather like a purple sea flowing across the mountain, and Dora MacKay lying in its midst smiling up at him. After that day, heather had always owned a warm spot in his heart... and other places.
The Anthropologist: "He doesn't just fuck the animals, also the vegetation."
Lady Miriam: "He's Scottish, he'll die when he sees the sun."
Big L: "He'll get his moobs sun burnt."
Lady Miriam: "They'll go all dry red and crinkly, and fall off."

Love of women. He glanced at Fortune. Powers had cast him into this time with this woman for a reason. Virgin. She was a virgin. Could the powers want him to...?
Lady Miriam: "The elipsis is a major recurring character."

Teaching this woman the joys of love would be like drinking too much ale. It made a man feel wondrous that night, but exacted a painful vengeance the next morning. He exhaled sharply.
The Anthropologist: "His penance is to fuck a hot chick? What religion is he in?"
The Chronicler: "Not just that. His penance for fucking lots of hot chicks is to fuck another hot chick."
Big L: "How can I get into his personal hell?"
The Balance: "He's a bit of a Christian."
The Anthropologist: "He's the kind of Christian who fucks virgins for a penance?!"

Of course, if it were easy it would not be adequate atonement for all the times he'd sinned. Still, something about his penance seemed passing strange.
The Anthropologist: "In 2300 all of humankind would be based on this brain-damaged man..."
Pillywiggin: "Maybe to him thinking is a headache with pictures."
The Anthropologist: "If your thoughts were as painful as that, you would stop thinking too."

"Because I can." He smiled. " 'Tis one of the good things about being a primitive person. I do what I want—"
Big L: "Mwahahaha!"
Sordan: "Raypes!"
The Anthropologist: "All he needs to know now is what a train track is sO he can tie her to it."

"Ye canna hide from life, Fortune. Hiding doesna save the bird from the hunter."
The Anthropologist: "You'll find that it does."

"It's a wedding gown, and it's too long." She stared at the trailing folds of white material as though she still stood naked...
The Chronicler: "Why is she wearing a wedding gown?"
The Balance: "It was all he could find."
Lady Miriam: "I fear for humanity."

"Aye, 'tis a wee bit long, and I'd prefer ye in red."
The Anthropologist: "Clash! Why do romance novelists never have any decent colour sense?"

"Red is a passionate color, lass." He stared pointedly at her hair. "I admire passion in a woman."
The Anthropologist: "I like the fact that he's talking to her hair."
Big L: "Well, we haven't had any other description of her, so she's just eyes and hair right now."

"I bet you do." She tottered shakily back to the bed on the strange high-heeled shoes...
The Balance: "Surely it's easier for her to be barefoot."

A woman in his own time would be kicking, screaming, and calling him foul names. But Fortune would not resort to such demonstrations. Kicking would be violence, and screaming would not be a calm, reasonable thing to do. Lucky for him, but sad for Fortune. Every lass should spend some time kicking and screaming. It was the womanly thing to do.
The Chronicler: "Whose thoughts are those? He can't be grasping the whole more-peaceful-calm-reasonable business and she doesn't call herself Fortune and... ARGH!"
The Anthropologist: "The author forgot again."

There is now talk of the feelings of the British and Irish, how each national group is only allowed one emotion.
The Scotish allowed drunken anger. The Italians have their Passion, The Americans have Enthusiasm. The British have sarcastic belligerence...
Lady Miriam: "Who gets guilt?"
The Chronicler: "Catholics. The Vatican, maybe."
Sordan: "New Mexico has very special Catholics."
The Anthropologist: "Azraelite Catholics."
There is more talk of voodoo rituals, Books of Hours, the Belfast Times' Saints Tips and the many uses of Catholic saints.

Her hiss reminded him of a tiny outraged snake...
Animal metaphors!
Big L: "We should start skipping."

The Book is passed to the Anthropologist.
Pillywiggin: "Anthropologists are magical!"