Outlander is the first in a series of historical romance novels about a woman who travels back in time to 18th-century Scotland. A TV series based on Outlander premieres the second half of its first season today.
I wrote this satire a few years ago. I’ve always been impressed by the author’s great story-telling ability. She really keeps the reader turning pages. Her writing and editing skills, however, are a bit maddening.
For example, her repetitious use of certain phrases-- such as “cheek by jowl,” “cupping” [of breasts], and “a muscle twitched near his mouth” drive me crazy. Also, her inordinate references to the hero’s floggings and seasickness, among other misfortunes, swell the book to epic length. She really does seem to be making it up as she goes along, and if she’s forgotten she’s mentioned a scene or a phrase, well, she’ll just throw it into the pot again.
“Sassanach” is the hero Jamie’s nickname for Claire, the narrator. It means “Outlander,” a Scottish name for the English in the 1770s. Claire had been a WWII nurse, so now, amid the primitive conditions of the time period in the Highlands, she fancies herself a doctor.
A “kittle-hoosie” is a whorehouse. I think that takes care of the explanations, except for the fact that this parody includes spoilers.
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It was the seventeenth of September, and the Highland army had set up camp for the night on the crest of a hill near Calder. Torn from our beloved home at Lollybroch, directed by my knowledge of the future, and driven by our combined efforts to change the course of Scottish history, Jamie and I had joined, perforce, in the second Jacobite Rising, to be known by later scholars as “the ’45.” Oddly enough, the year was 1743, but that seemed beside the point, in view of what lay ahead of (or behind) me.
We woke to the soft drip-drip of rain upon our tent. Either that, or Jamie’s maimed hand was bleeding again, droplet by crimson droplet as it had that time it snowed, shortly after I had been tried for witchcraft, while Dougal Mackenzie had attempted to rape me, and long before Mrs.FitzGibbons would concoct her delectable squirrel pudding at Castle Leoch.
Jamie cupped my good breast in his maimed hand, and the hair on his head stuck out in all directions, as it often did under the circumstances, red and gold and amber and cinnamon, and smelling like nothing in this world could possibly smell unless it hadn’t been washed since the onset of puberty.
“Oh, my!” I cooed. “I seem to have lost my dress again!”
“And I, my kilt,” said Jamie. “What do you propose we do about it, Madam?”
“I believe that nothing less than an immediate call to arms is required,” I murmured, needlessly biting his lower lip. He responded by sinking his teeth into my left shoulder. At this rate, we were almost certain to die of blood poisoning before we could conclude our intimate encounter.
“Oh, Sasquatch, ye do break my heart wi’ the wanting of ye,” Jamie whispered. I recoiled yet again at the sound of the pet name he had bestowed upon me. You would think that an eighteenth-century Scotsman might have a firmer grasp of his native language. Even I, who had lived in that time and place for only two years, knew more Gaelic, which was precious little at best, the sum of my vocabulary being “Kindly direct me to the nearest ATM machine” and “God in heaven! Next time use a lubricant!”
Just then a craggy face appeared from outside the tent. “Who’s for eggs?” said gruff Murtagh cheerfully, his usual bonhomie undampered by the thought of imminent combat. As Jamie searched for his kilt, I moved about the encampment, taking breakfast orders. Kincaid desired his eggs over easy; Ross, easy over. Sorley wanted his poached, and Murray, ever the nitpicker, asked for his scrambled, wet. Gordon Brown continued to be a high-maintenance headache by demanding Eggs Benedict.
Murtagh was busy cooking up breakfast orders for thirty-two people when Jamie clapped a hand on his back and said, “Hurry up wi’ those eggs, man, or we’ll be late for battle!”
The battle was to start promptly at seven o’clock. Ian MacDougal was still slathering bacon grease on his bannocks when Jamie called the men to attention. “Now, men,” he said. “If any of ye need to use the rest room, now’s the time to do it. There’ll be nay opportunity for ye to go later. We’re nay going to stop the battle just because wee Owen MacTavish had twa cups o’ coffee.” Jamie glared at the offender, who was slurping his beverage languidly while filling in the Edinburgh Times crossword puzzle.
After much grumbling and complaints about the lavatory conditions, the Scots were off to fight. I busied myself with rolling bandages, and then, just as assiduously, unrolling them again.
Shortly after ten, I could feel, rather than see, him standing behind me. I gasped. My darling’s head had been blown clean off his body by an errant cannonball. How I wished I had my box of medicines handy to treat this wound! I ran through the list of herbs that might serve in such a crisis. Dried fiddleheads, juniper berries, marigold leaves. Jamie merely patted my hand and said, “I’ll do,” with that exacerbating Scots terseness I knew and loved so well.
In no time, however, I had him stitched up. I was, after all, not only an accomplished healer, but also a licensed taxidermist.
I looked at him as he drew his hands raggedly through his hair. Out flew larch, oak, and aspen leaves, as well as bits of kelp, accompanied by a dazzling spray of sea-salt.
“I dinna ken, Sasquatch, why ye no faint deid awa’ at the sight o’ me,” Jamie muttered, ashamed of his scars, as well as his personal hygiene. He had not yet had his daily flogging, nor his daily vomit, but then, we were miles from a ship.
I handed him a firkin of brandy. “Here, drink this. Doctor’s orders,” I added, mischievously.
A muscle twitched near his mouth, indicating amusement. Either that, or he had an incipient case of Bell’s Palsy, I reflected. I watched as the sun glinted off Jamie’s hair, roan and scarlet and copper. His thick plait, held fast at the tip by a green ribbon, grew thick and taut as I leaned over the fire, my décolletage barely containing me. The braid stood upright as I stowed a delicate handkerchief away between my breasts for later use.
Fragrant pine needles flew out in a halo around his auburn hair as he bent to kiss me. Unfortunately, some of them flew up my nose, as well, necessitating my shy withdrawal of the handkerchief for a dainty sneeze. I teased his mouth with the edge of the handkerchief, and he, aware of its recent nesting place, shuddered elegantly and fell against my bosom. The green hair ribbon burst open, the plait unraveled, and his hair lay limp.
“Och, the money we could hae raised for the Stuarts if ye ran a kittle-hoosie,” Jamie sighed. “But that’s past—or future—business. The men will be returning from battle soon, and we have only a wee time left.”
We sighted a cluster of gorse bushes nearby, lying cheek by jowl together. We dashed to the camouflage of the useful foliage, and there wiled away the time, doing what we did best, rehashing the latest rugby match between the Borders and the Ospreys.
And soon, inevitably, the sun set on the day of the Highlanders’ glorious victory against the English at Gladsmuir. Only time would tell what lay ahead (or behind) at Culloden.
I wrote this satire a few years ago. I’ve always been impressed by the author’s great story-telling ability. She really keeps the reader turning pages. Her writing and editing skills, however, are a bit maddening.
For example, her repetitious use of certain phrases-- such as “cheek by jowl,” “cupping” [of breasts], and “a muscle twitched near his mouth” drive me crazy. Also, her inordinate references to the hero’s floggings and seasickness, among other misfortunes, swell the book to epic length. She really does seem to be making it up as she goes along, and if she’s forgotten she’s mentioned a scene or a phrase, well, she’ll just throw it into the pot again.
“Sassanach” is the hero Jamie’s nickname for Claire, the narrator. It means “Outlander,” a Scottish name for the English in the 1770s. Claire had been a WWII nurse, so now, amid the primitive conditions of the time period in the Highlands, she fancies herself a doctor.
A “kittle-hoosie” is a whorehouse. I think that takes care of the explanations, except for the fact that this parody includes spoilers.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the seventeenth of September, and the Highland army had set up camp for the night on the crest of a hill near Calder. Torn from our beloved home at Lollybroch, directed by my knowledge of the future, and driven by our combined efforts to change the course of Scottish history, Jamie and I had joined, perforce, in the second Jacobite Rising, to be known by later scholars as “the ’45.” Oddly enough, the year was 1743, but that seemed beside the point, in view of what lay ahead of (or behind) me.
We woke to the soft drip-drip of rain upon our tent. Either that, or Jamie’s maimed hand was bleeding again, droplet by crimson droplet as it had that time it snowed, shortly after I had been tried for witchcraft, while Dougal Mackenzie had attempted to rape me, and long before Mrs.FitzGibbons would concoct her delectable squirrel pudding at Castle Leoch.
Jamie cupped my good breast in his maimed hand, and the hair on his head stuck out in all directions, as it often did under the circumstances, red and gold and amber and cinnamon, and smelling like nothing in this world could possibly smell unless it hadn’t been washed since the onset of puberty.
“Oh, my!” I cooed. “I seem to have lost my dress again!”
“And I, my kilt,” said Jamie. “What do you propose we do about it, Madam?”
“I believe that nothing less than an immediate call to arms is required,” I murmured, needlessly biting his lower lip. He responded by sinking his teeth into my left shoulder. At this rate, we were almost certain to die of blood poisoning before we could conclude our intimate encounter.
“Oh, Sasquatch, ye do break my heart wi’ the wanting of ye,” Jamie whispered. I recoiled yet again at the sound of the pet name he had bestowed upon me. You would think that an eighteenth-century Scotsman might have a firmer grasp of his native language. Even I, who had lived in that time and place for only two years, knew more Gaelic, which was precious little at best, the sum of my vocabulary being “Kindly direct me to the nearest ATM machine” and “God in heaven! Next time use a lubricant!”
Just then a craggy face appeared from outside the tent. “Who’s for eggs?” said gruff Murtagh cheerfully, his usual bonhomie undampered by the thought of imminent combat. As Jamie searched for his kilt, I moved about the encampment, taking breakfast orders. Kincaid desired his eggs over easy; Ross, easy over. Sorley wanted his poached, and Murray, ever the nitpicker, asked for his scrambled, wet. Gordon Brown continued to be a high-maintenance headache by demanding Eggs Benedict.
Murtagh was busy cooking up breakfast orders for thirty-two people when Jamie clapped a hand on his back and said, “Hurry up wi’ those eggs, man, or we’ll be late for battle!”
The battle was to start promptly at seven o’clock. Ian MacDougal was still slathering bacon grease on his bannocks when Jamie called the men to attention. “Now, men,” he said. “If any of ye need to use the rest room, now’s the time to do it. There’ll be nay opportunity for ye to go later. We’re nay going to stop the battle just because wee Owen MacTavish had twa cups o’ coffee.” Jamie glared at the offender, who was slurping his beverage languidly while filling in the Edinburgh Times crossword puzzle.
After much grumbling and complaints about the lavatory conditions, the Scots were off to fight. I busied myself with rolling bandages, and then, just as assiduously, unrolling them again.
Shortly after ten, I could feel, rather than see, him standing behind me. I gasped. My darling’s head had been blown clean off his body by an errant cannonball. How I wished I had my box of medicines handy to treat this wound! I ran through the list of herbs that might serve in such a crisis. Dried fiddleheads, juniper berries, marigold leaves. Jamie merely patted my hand and said, “I’ll do,” with that exacerbating Scots terseness I knew and loved so well.
In no time, however, I had him stitched up. I was, after all, not only an accomplished healer, but also a licensed taxidermist.
I looked at him as he drew his hands raggedly through his hair. Out flew larch, oak, and aspen leaves, as well as bits of kelp, accompanied by a dazzling spray of sea-salt.
“I dinna ken, Sasquatch, why ye no faint deid awa’ at the sight o’ me,” Jamie muttered, ashamed of his scars, as well as his personal hygiene. He had not yet had his daily flogging, nor his daily vomit, but then, we were miles from a ship.
I handed him a firkin of brandy. “Here, drink this. Doctor’s orders,” I added, mischievously.
A muscle twitched near his mouth, indicating amusement. Either that, or he had an incipient case of Bell’s Palsy, I reflected. I watched as the sun glinted off Jamie’s hair, roan and scarlet and copper. His thick plait, held fast at the tip by a green ribbon, grew thick and taut as I leaned over the fire, my décolletage barely containing me. The braid stood upright as I stowed a delicate handkerchief away between my breasts for later use.
Fragrant pine needles flew out in a halo around his auburn hair as he bent to kiss me. Unfortunately, some of them flew up my nose, as well, necessitating my shy withdrawal of the handkerchief for a dainty sneeze. I teased his mouth with the edge of the handkerchief, and he, aware of its recent nesting place, shuddered elegantly and fell against my bosom. The green hair ribbon burst open, the plait unraveled, and his hair lay limp.
“Och, the money we could hae raised for the Stuarts if ye ran a kittle-hoosie,” Jamie sighed. “But that’s past—or future—business. The men will be returning from battle soon, and we have only a wee time left.”
We sighted a cluster of gorse bushes nearby, lying cheek by jowl together. We dashed to the camouflage of the useful foliage, and there wiled away the time, doing what we did best, rehashing the latest rugby match between the Borders and the Ospreys.
And soon, inevitably, the sun set on the day of the Highlanders’ glorious victory against the English at Gladsmuir. Only time would tell what lay ahead (or behind) at Culloden.