AUGUST 1995: SEACOUVER, DUNCAN'S LOFT
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Duncan hadn't been back from Europe very long before Richie showed up.
That didn't surprise Duncan very much, but what did surprise Duncan was the
guest Richie brought with him. Mikey was another immortal, but in Duncan's
day he would probably have earned the title "village idiot." In modern times,
he might be labeled "developmentally disabled."
He reminded Duncan of a very large, clumsy puppy. Well-meaning and friendly,
but a bit of a menace in a house. Duncan rescued his antique clock from Mikey,
but not before the hands had been removed.
"He was in the middle of nowhere, Mac," Richie said earnestly. "I couldn't
just leave him. When you find someone who's helpless, you gotta protect him,
right?" Richie guided Mikey out the door to go for a walk.
Duncan stared at the broken clock in his hands. The strong protect the
weak; the powerful help the defenseless. He believed that, he had taught
Richie that, he had tried to live that way. Only sometimes, it was difficult
to know just how to help.
He looked out the window. It was raining again, a light sprinkling. Duncan
remembered another day of rain, in another time.
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OCTOBER 1824: SOMEWHERE IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS
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Rain fell. Not the brief torrential downpour of a summer thunderstorm,
or the light misting of spring, but the slow steady relentless rain of autumn.
Leaves which last week had brightened the trees with orange and gold and
scarlet now lay sodden and faded on the forest floor. The wheel of the year
was turning, and the dark half was near.
Duncan MacLeod stared at the back of his horse's head and tried to ignore
the water which was dripping off the brim of his hat onto the tip of his
nose at the rate of approximately one drop every four seconds. There was a
small stream of cold water running down the middle of his back. His legs were
sore and chafed in wet buckskin, and his backside hadn't been this sore since
his father had caught him and his cousin Robert stealing sweetcakes his mother
had set out on the window ledge to cool. Even immortals get saddle sore.
If I were challenged by another immortal now, Duncan thought wryly, I'd
have to ask him to wait until I got off this horse and healed before we
could fight.
He tried to remember the last time he'd been this cold *and* this wet.
When he was with the Highland Regiment? No, it had been colder then and snowy,
but not it had not rained for days at a time. In the Highlands? Certainly
it rained a lot there, and it was cold, but at least he could go inside and
warm himself near the fire and share a bowl of stew and oatcakes. At least
he could until his father had banished him. He had been cold and wet enough
after that.
Duncan shook himself mentally and physically and watched the trail more
closely. The trail followed a small stream and grew steeper here, slippery
with wet leaves and mud. His horse picked her way carefully down the hill.
Normally she placed her feet gracefully, but she was tired too, and she
slid part way down the slope.
"Easy, girl." Duncan patted her neck, and then gently pulled her to a
halt. He dismounted and stretched, waiting for the familiar tingling of
healing to course through his abused legs and posterior before leading her
the rest of the way down.
The stream widened and slowed at the bottom of the hill, forming a small
pool. Duncan filled his water skin, and waited for the horse to drink her
fill. It was getting close to dark. If he built a shelter now he would at
least be able to sleep without getting dripped on.
"Let's go a little farther." He led the horse and walked on, looking for
a level spot not too close to the stream bank. Suddenly, he stopped, lifted
his head and sniffed the air. Through the smell of wet leaves and mold came
the faintest tang of wood smoke.
Duncan led the horse off the trail and tied her to a tree. She was content
to stand there and eat from her nose bag. As always, he felt the familiar
and reassuring pressure of his katana. He adjusted the knife tucked into
his boot, and loaded his pistol and his rifle.
The rifle was a treasured present from a pair of immortals, British soldiers
he'd met while fighting Napoleon. The immortals had been new ones, freshly
killed, and Duncan had found them lying in each other's blood. Each had been
killed defending the other. The green of their riflemen's jackets had been
almost totally hidden by mud and powder stains, and blood, old and new,
their own and others.
Duncan had dragged them off the battlefield and explained the rules of
the game to them. To be sure, one of them was a Sassenach, but his friend
was a tall red-headed Irishman, so Duncan figured the British one couldn't
be all bad. True warriors both. He had admired the rifles they used, which
shot much better than the standard issue musket, and the British lieutenant
had given Duncan his own rifle. Duncan envied them their luck in dying unobserved
on a battlefield and their companionship; most immortals started their new
life alone, completely cut off from their former lives.
His weapons secure, Duncan crept forward through the trees and followed
the faint scent of wood smoke. The trail became more clearly marked, well
traveled by boots, not moccasins. Closer to the stream, he saw smaller footprints,
a woman. Although he did not relax, he felt somewhat reassured. Where the
valley widened out there was a cleared field, corn stalks standing brown
and forlorn in the rain, a cow pasture, and the smell of at least one pig.
Up on the hill a little was a small log cabin and barn. When he heard
the sound of children's voices, he was relieved. While a single man might
not be very hospitable, a family would probably be more friendly. The prospect
of a hot meal was very enticing.
He went back and fetched his horse, and came down the path openly. It
was almost dark now, and the rain had not stopped. He called out when he
got to the split rail fence. "Good day to you!"
There was a moment of silence, then a tall man walked out from behind
the woodpile. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and he casually balanced
an axe in his hands. "There's some might call it a good day," he replied noncommittally
in a voice with a decided Irish lilt. "And there's some might not."
Duncan saw a small movement at the cabin window, and realized that there
was a gun trained on him. Cautious people then, as well they should be, living
so far out.
"It's true the day's near over," said Duncan, deliberately thickening
his Scottish accent. "And there's some might not call the rain good, but
a true son of Erin would not object to a bit of rain." A son of Erin might
not, he thought, but a son of the Highlands can.
"While I might be a true son of Erin," replied the dark-haired man, "you
are not."
"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod," he proclaimed, answering the
challenge.
"A Scot, then."
"Aye, a Scot."
"At least you're not a Sassenach." He spat on the ground, then came closer,
the axe still loose and ready in his hands. "I am John Sullivan, late of
County Clare. We've no clans left in Ireland. Have you clans still in Scotland?"
His gray eyes narrowed and his tone was skeptical. The British had made sure
that the Irish had heard of what happened in Scotland after the Battle of
Culloden.
Duncan flushed. Eighty years later, it still hurt. "No," he admitted.
"But my grandfather named my father thus, and my father named me, and so
I name myself."
John Sullivan nodded, and apparently came to a decision. "Even for a true
son of Erin, it's a bit damp out. Would you care to come in and share a bite
to eat with us?"
Duncan dismounted, and offered his hand. "I'd be glad of it, especially
on a fine day like today."
"Indeed," laughed John as they shook hands. He led the way to the barn,
and Duncan rubbed down his horse and saw her settled. He changed into his
other set of clothes, which were merely damp instead of soaked. He washed
his face and hands and smoothed back his hair, then made his way to the
house.
It was quite dark by now, and John met him at the porch with a lantern
in his hand. "Come in, come in. Supper's nearly ready." Duncan started to
follow him into the warm lamplit room, then froze on the doorstep, his hand
automatically reaching to touch his katana. That familiar tightening, that
sensation of another presence, another immortal.
The wife? Had John married again, after the mother of the children had
died? But no, she was coming forward now, wiping her hands on her apron and
smoothing back her brown hair. It was not her.
"My wife Mary," John said, and Duncan murmured something. A baby was crying
in the bed in the corner, and Mary excused herself hurriedly. Duncan nodded
and then quickly scanned the room. Boys, a lot of them, all dark-haired like
their parents. Duncan tried to pay attention.
"This is our eldest, Johnnie, he's 16. And this is Michael, and then Seamus
and Pat the twins, and Kevin, and Liam." John finished the introductions,
and Duncan shook hands with each of them, from the solemn 16 year old down
to the giggling four year old. John smiled, thinking he was just being kind
to the boys and making them feel grown-up, but Duncan had a more serious
motive. Touch sometimes helped him locate an immortal in a crowded room, but
none of the boys was immortal.
"Is it just your family here then?" asked Duncan.
"There's another family about two miles down the creek, and another three
miles beyond that," John answered.
"No hired man to help out?"
"Don't need a hired man with my own lads about, right boys?" The six boys
nodded eagerly.
Mary came back with a little girl in her arms. "Take her, will you John?
I'll just get supper on the table."
John held the child somewhat gingerly, his arms awkward. Under a cap of
red-gold curls, her dark blue eyes stared at Duncan while she chewed on
her fist contentedly. Her other hand held tight to a rag doll. Duncan forgot
about dinner. He had found the other immortal.
Mary carried over a large platter of fried potatoes and said, "The food's
ready."
The family gathered around the table. The adults and Johnnie had stumps
to sit on. The little girl sat on her mother's lap while the younger boys
stood, Liam's nose barely clearing the table. Duncan bowed his head during
the blessing, wishing he could relax and enjoy the family atmosphere.
The food was plentiful, though plain. Duncan had no complaints, and neither
did the boys. They ate silently and quickly. Liam's lack of height was no
obstacle.
"Have you been here long?" asked Duncan when the first helpings had been
polished off, and the plates were being filled again for another go-round.
"We've been here about two years, and we've made a good start of it,"
John answered, exchanging smiles with his wife.
"Indeed you have. It's a fine homestead. And, truly, Mrs. Sullivan, it's
a pleasure to be eating home-cooked food again. I've not had such a tasty
meal in many months."
Mary smiled at the compliment, and lowered her gaze to her plate in embarrassment.
Her faded blue gown matched the blue of her eyes. Her face was kind, though
lined with hard work and many hours spent outdoors in wind and weather and
sun. The girl on her lap chewed contentedly on a slice of potato.
"Have you been traveling long, then?" asked John.
Duncan told them some tales of his (more recent) travels, and the Sullivan
family listened spellbound. Kevin even forgot to eat for a few minutes while
Duncan was telling a particularly exciting story about being chased by wolves.
"My goodness!" said Mary. "I'd been listening so I'd almost forgot there
were pies cooking." She handed the girl to John and got up to take the pies
from the hearth.
"I'd best be quiet then," Duncan said. "I'd never forgive myself if I
were the cause of burned pies."
"Another story, please?" begged Kevin.
"Yes, please?"
"Please?"
"That's enough, boys," said John. "Maybe Mr. MacLeod will tell another
story later. Right now there's chores to be done." Mary started washing the
dishes, while Johnnie took the lantern and all the boys went out to the
barn to feed the animals. "Stay here and be comfortable, Mr. MacLeod," said
John. "The lads will see to your horse."
Mary placed the pies on the table, then took the baby back in her arms.
She sat down on her stool and cuddled the little girl close.
Duncan glanced away as she put the baby to the breast, thenasked, "She's
a bonnie lass, isn't she? How old is she?"
"She'll be two come Christmastide," answered John.
"Two, is it? She's a little wee thing."
"She's just a bit slow getting her growth, is all," Mary said quickly.
John looked uncomfortable.
"Ah, well, I don't know much about babies," Duncan said.
"Then you've none of your own?" asked Mary.
"No. None." It was awkward to ask about the child, but he needed to know.
"Such hair isn't common. Did your mother have hair of that color?"
"No. No, she was dark like me." Mary glanced at John, then continued.
"Actually, she's not our daughter. It was almost two years back, just a
few days before Christmas. We'd only been here a few months, and two men
stopped by. They'd found her in the woods, poor thing, just a blanket wrapped
around her, and no sign of who left her or how she got there. She was almost
frozen, and they certainly couldn't keep her.
"To be sure, we'd six of our own, but I had always wanted a little girl.
Liam was not quite weaned, so I still had my milk. She warmed up quick, and
how she grew! There was no stopping her then ..." Her smile disappeared and
her voice trailed off. She turned to John briskly. "Would you cut the pies
then? The boys will be here in a few moments, and Mr. MacLeod ought to have
a piece before they devour the whole of them."
John cut generous slices of the warm apple pie, and Duncan abandoned himself
for a few minutes to the simple pleasure of food. He and the little girl
finished eating at about the same time, for she looked up at her mother and
said, "A' done!" and then climbed down to toddle about the room.
"So is a girl easier to care for than the boys?" asked Duncan, as she
became absorbed in untying her father's bootlace.
"Boo'," she said proudly. "Da boo'."
"Ah, well, all children are busy enough. Deirdre there is a fine one.
We named her after John's mother, God rest her soul," Mary explained as
she crossed herself.
Deirdre, which means sorrow, Duncan thought.
"Deirdre was a sweet baby, didn't cry much, and is more biddable than
the boys were at this age. She only gave us that one scare this last summer."
She stopped, and when she did not continue Duncan looked questioningly at
John.
He coughed, and said, "Walked behind the mule she did, and it kicked her
right in the head. She went down and lay so still, we thought she were dead."
No doubt you did, thought Duncan.
"We even made a coffin for her, and the boys were out digging the grave,
when Mary said she could hear the colleen crying. I thought she were daft
at first, out of her mind with grief and imagining it, but she insisted,
and when we opened the coffin, there was little Deirdre, kicking her feet
and crying."
"I prayed to the Holy Mother," Mary said, "and you know, there was not
a mark on her, not a sign of that great bruise. It was a miracle, wasn't
it, John?"
"Aye," he agreed. "That's what we said then." His gaze fell on the little
girl who sat at his feet, and he became silent.
The troop of boys entered then, and the silence disappeared. Duncan found
himself eating another piece of pie, and enjoying a glass of whiskey, and
telling more stories of his travels. Finally the the night grew late, and
the boys were sent off to bed in the attic. Mary and John settled down with
Deirdre in the bed in the corner of the room, and Duncan went to sleep in
the barn in the soft sweet-smelling hay.
----------------------- 1995 -----------------------
Richie, Duncan and Mikey had a pleasant enough afternoon at thepark, although
picking up a truckload of spilled water bottles and rescuing Mikey from an
irate train operator soon convinced Richie that Mikey needed a safe place
to stay.
"I'll go talk to a couple of social workers," Richie said.
"Good idea," agreed Duncan.
Richie walked over to Mikey, who was absorbed in a map of train routes.
"Hey, Mikey, I'm going to go out for a while. I got some things to do, but
you can help Mac look after the place."
"I'm a good helper."
"I know you are. I'll see you later."
Mikey sat quietly for a time, enjoying the map, but when immortal Tyler
King came looking for his head, he panicked and ran.
Duncan drove through the streets looking for him, and finally found him
just as two police officers pushed a handcuffed Mikey into their squad car.
He watched helplessly as Mikey's eyes stared at him from the police car
window. There had been other eyes staring at him once.
----------------------- 1824 -----------------------
Duncan woke to the smell of wood smoke and coffee, and to four pairs of
eyes in varying shades of gray and blue trained on him. His hand was already
on the hilt of his katana, but he forced himself to relax and not leap to
his feet. The younger two were Kevin and Liam of course, and the twins'
names were (Duncan thought about it for a moment) ... Seamus and Pat.
"There are only four of you. Where are Johnnie and Michael?" he asked.
Pat answered. "Feeding the pig. Mam wanted to know if you would like some
hot water to wash in."
"Can you tell us a story?" asked Kevin.
"When do you want to feed the horse?" asked Seamus.
"Have you ever killed a moose?" Liam wanted to know.
Duncan grinned. "Yes, later, now, and no." The boys were silent for a
few seconds trying to decipher his answer, then Pat grinned back and trotted
off to the house to fetch the hot water for Duncan. Kevin and Seamus went
to fetch water for the horse trough, and Liam struggled over with a bucket
of mash half a stall as he was.
It was a pleasant morning. Duncan told the boys a story as they curried
and fed the horse, and he washed and shaved with the luxury of warm water
and soap. Breakfast was a delicious meal of fried potatoes, beaten biscuits
with honey, thick slices of ham, and coffee sweetened with molasses.
The rain had abated during the night, but John invited Duncan to stay
another day and night. "You've been on the trail a long time now. Your horse
could use the rest. Besides, you'll not wanting to be traveling tonight,
of all nights." At Duncan's confused look, he added, "You've lost track
of the days, no doubt, being on the road so long. 'Tis All Hallow's Eve,
man."
Duncan was glad of the offer, for both he and the horse were tired, and
he would indeed prefer to be inside this night. Even though he had survived
many battles and faced many dangers, the stories he had heard as a lad stayed
with him. Tonight was the night when the souls of the dead roamed the earth,
looking for their final resting place. It was not a night to be traveling.
And of course there was the girl.
Duncan and John worked together splitting wood, and Duncan helped John
pull out a huge stump that needed the strength of two men and a mule to move,
plus the help of several boys. He saw Deirdre only briefly, as she trotted
behind her mother to help feed the chickens.
Lunch was served outside, for the sun had come out, and the autumn sunshine
made a pleasant change from the rain.
"What should we do about the lanterns, Mam?" asked Seamus, a worried look
on his face. "The pig ate up all the turnips."
Mary thought about it for a moment. They had always used turnips to make
the lanterns that helped the dead find their way. "Perhaps you could use
the pumpkins? We've enough of them, surely."
"That's a grand idea, Mam!" exclaimed Seamus. "They'll be easier to carve,
they're so much bigger."
The boys went off to carve the pumpkins, and Duncan retired to the barn
for a nap and some quiet. He liked the boys well enough, but after months
of traveling with only his horse for company, their constant questions and
chatter were more than he could handle.
His nap was brief however, for his solitude was interrupted by all six
boys solemnly trooping into the barn and arranging themselves in various
positions on the hay stacks.
For a wonder, they did not seem inclined to talk, so finally Duncan said,
"Do you often come to the barn on a fine afternoon?"
Seamus sighed gustily and blew chaff over Kevin's hair. They all looked
to Johnnie to answer, who stared at his foot digging into the hay for a
while before he finally said, "Our Da and Mam told us to be out and away
from the house."
Well, reflected Duncan, a husband and wife with seven children in a one
room cabin could surely do with a bit of privacy now and again.
"They're fighting about Deirdre," added Seamus.
"Hush your gob!" commanded Johnnie. "Mr. MacLeod doesn't need to be hearing
of that."
"Well, they are," Seamus insisted.
This was a different matter. Duncan rose. "You boys stay away from the
house, like you were told. I'm going for a walk."
He strolled over towards the house and leaned casually against a tree.
The clouds were thickening again, the air was chill without the sunshine.
He could make out voices, though the words were indistinct. John sounded
angry and upset, Mary defiant. He moved to a closer tree.
"Did you not see what happened, woman?" John's voice came through the
open window. "She fell and cut herself, and when you went to wipe the blood
away, there was no cut!" His voice rose in agitation.
"Hush now, John! Not so loud. You'll wake the baby."
"That's no baby," John's voice came slow. "Not a human one, anyway."
MacLeod blinked, remembering another time, another place, another called
"Demon!"
"What are you saying?" Mary demanded. "That's Deirdre! The child I've
nursed at my breast and held to my heart. You've known her since she was
two days old. You've sang her to sleep; you've held her hands when she started
to walk about. How can you say that about our daughter?"
"That's no daughter of mine."
["You're no' my son!] Another voice, another father.
"John!"
"That's no daughter of yours either." His voice became pleading, earnest.
"She's not been the same since this summer, Mary. You must admit that."
"She's just been slow getting her growth. The accident ..."
"She's not 'been slow', Mary. She's not grown at all."
"I prayed to the Holy Mother to bring our daughter back."
"Aye, you did then. Did you have time to pray to the Holy Mother just
now, when she fell? Was it the Holy Mother healed that cut?"
"Sweet Jesus ...," Mary moaned.
"What if it wasn't the Holy Mother that answered your prayer, but something,
*someone*, else? What if that isn't Deirdre back at all, but something else,
in her body? What then, Mary?"
"No. No!"
"This, this ... creature, is not our daughter."
"What are you doing? Put her down!"
"Deirdre died this summer, Mary. We should have buried her then. I'm going
to bury her now."
"No! You cannot!" The anguish in the cry tore at Duncan's heart.
"I'm sorry, Mary." John came out of the cabin, carrying a sleeping Deirdre
wrapped in a blanket. Mary ran after him, pulling at the child and weeping.
John pushed her away, his face set and expressionless. The yard was slippery
from the rain, and she fell to the ground.
Deirdre woke and started to cry, but John mounted the mule and rode away
without a backward glance for his wife, lying weeping in the mud, or the
six boys who watched wide-eyed from the barn doorway. The rain started to
fall again.
Duncan swore viciously under his breath. "Johnnie, Michael! Take your
brothers inside the house and give them something to eat."
He walked over and picked up Mary. She was still crying soundlessly, and
the rain mingled with her tears. "Hush now," he said, "hush." He carried
her into the house and placed her gently on her bed. Deirdre's doll lay on
the coverlet.
He poured her a small cup of whiskey. "Drink this." He held it to her
lips until she swallowed it all. She lay down, and he drew the curtain around
the bed.
In the main room, the boys were standing around the table eating cold
cornbread.
"Good lads." Duncan sat on a stool and picked up a piece of cornbread
and tried to look unconcerned.
"Mr. MacLeod, where did Da go?" Kevin asked cautiously.
The cornbread was dry in his mouth. "I'm not sure." He did not like lying.
"Your Da thinks Deirdre's sick, and your mother's worried about her."
"She didn't look sick," Liam objected. "When I was sick, my nose was red
and puffy and slime came out of it."
Duncan smiled in spite of himself. "You can be sick different ways."
"Maybe he went to look for a doctor," Kevin said hopefully.
Johnnie looked sidelong at him, then down to his plate.
"Will he be gone long?" asked Liam.
"Maybe," answered Duncan. "Are you boys finished with the pumpkins?"
"Aye, we're almost done. You should see, Mr. MacLeod, Johnnie cut a face
in one," Michael said. "Let's go finish."
They started to file out the door. Johnnie was last in line, and Duncan
stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Your mother's going to need your
help. You'll have to make supper tonight, and be in charge of the boys."
Johnnie looked straight at him, his face set and expressionless, just
like his father's. "Where did Da take Deirdre? There are no doctors around
here."
"I don't know," Duncan answered, "but I'm going to go find out." He smiled
at Johnnie. "Go on then, I'll see to your mother now. You check on her in
a bit."
Duncan went over to the bed and peered in around the curtain. She was
lying motionless on her side, and at first he thought she was asleep, but
her eyes were dry-eyed and open. She clutched the little rag doll close
to her.
"He took my baby, Mr. MacLeod. He took my little girl."
"I know, Mrs. Sullivan."
"He said she wasn't human. He said there was a devil in her body. She
was no devil, she was a sweet little angel, a little faery." The tears began
again. "A faery child. My Nana told me stories of changelings, faery children,
left by the little people in the cradles of human babies." Her voice was soft
and wandering, then she sat up, her eyes fastened on him desperately.
"Could it be, Mr. MacLeod? Was she a faery child? Did they leave her behind
on the mountain when they went to ride on the Winter Solstice?"
Duncan seized the opportunity. "Mary, you know there was always something
different about Deirdre. She was always special."
"Yes, yes she was."
"The faery people love their children too. If one of them is lost, they
will search for the child." He looked straight at her. "I have been traveling
for a long time."
"You?" she gasped. Normally, she would have smiled at the tales of faery
children, and midnight rides in the mountains, but the whiskey and her fears
had changed that. She desperately*wanted* to believe.
"Did you see that Deirdre cut herself and was unharmed?" Mary nodded,
and Duncan took out his knife. He lay the sharp edge against his thumb,
and drew it across the skin. Blood welled up, then stopped.
Mary went pale, then reached out to wipe the blood away. The skin was
smooth, unharmed. She dropped his hand and lifted her blue eyes to Duncan's
brown ones. "How?" she whispered.
"It is the way of the faery folk. We cannot be hurt, and we do not die."
He took her cold hand back in his. "Mary, you needn't tell your husband about
me, 'tis not often we reveal ourselves, and most do not understand the way
you do."
"He didn't understand about Deirdre, did he? Aye, I'll not tell him."
"You have taken care of Deirdre, and we will always be grateful for that,
but it is time for her to return to her people. She must go home."
"Home," she breathed. "Will you take her home? Will you keep her safe?"
Duncan swallowed. "I will keep her."
"It's just that, Deirdre hates to be alone in the dark. Will you be with
her? There in the faery caves?"
"She will always be with me," Duncan promised.
"Can you take her this?" Mary held out the little rag doll. "It's her
favorite. She always likes to hold it when she sleeps."
Duncan took the doll and tucked it into his shirt. "I have to go and find
her now."
"Yes, go. But would you tell her, tell her, that her mother loves her?
Before she forgets, in the faery lands? I didn't get the chance to say ..."
Her voice broke. "I do not mind where she came from, she'll always be my little
girl."
["It matters not who bore ye. You are my son!"] Another Mary, another
mother.
Duncan's eyes burned with unshed tears, and he blinked them back. "Aye,
I'll tell her," he said gruffly. "But, she'll always know that, deep down."
He turned to go, and Mary called out to him shyly, "Mr. MacLeod ..." He
stopped and looked back at her, wishing to be away from this place, away
from this, and knowing that he could not leave yet. "Do you think, perhaps,
... Will I have another daughter?"
"You know I cannot answer that. Besides, 'tis not a faery folk you should
be asking that of."
She nodded. "Aye, you've the truth of it. I'll pray to the Holy Mother.
I know they say that the faery folk have no souls, but I'll pray for you,
and for Deirdre, too."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan."
"God bless you, Mr. MacLeod."
He had no answer to that. He had done what he could to ease her sorrow,
but he knew there could be no faery caves for Deirdre, or for himself.
As he left the cabin Mary was on her knees beside the bed. Her head was
bowed over her rosary, seeking comfort and solace in familiar prayers to
another mother who knew what it was to lose a child.
At the barn the older boys were putting the final touches on the two pumpkins.
Liam and Kevin were sliding down the haystacks.
Kevin jumped off the haystack and ran to him. "Mr. MacLeod! Do you see?
Look at the face on this pumpkin! Johnnie carved it so the light can come
out."
Duncan admired the pumpkins and then helped the boys place them on the
porch and light their candles, while Patrick brought out a plate of cornbread
and a cup of milk.
"Now the dead will find their way," said Seamus. "And they'll have a bit
to eat on their journey."
"Indeed they will," agreed Duncan. He took a deep breath. "Boys, listen
to me." They looked at him expectantly. "I'm going to look for your father
and Deirdre. If Deirdre needs to see a doctor, then I'll take her to one
and your father will come home. Your mother is feeling better now, but she'll
need your help for a while, and so will your father. Do you understand?"
A chorus of "Yes, sirs," answered him.
"Good. Let's go back to the barn. Johnnie and Michael, will you saddle
my horse? Liam, will you help Kevin fill the water skins? Seamus and Pat,
give me a hand with the saddlebags."
With the boys' eager help, Duncan was soon ready to go. He squatted down
in front of Liam.
"Will you tell me a story before you go?"
"I'm sorry, Liam, but I don't have time. You'll have to remember the stories
I told you."
"Oh, I will, Mr. MacLeod!"
Duncan gave him a hug, and then gave one to Kevin too. He stood, and casually
tousled the twins' hair, then clapped Michael on the back. Johnnie looked
at him, and asked, "Is Deirdre going to be all right, Mr. MacLeod?"
"I don't know. I'm going to try to help."
Johnnie offered his hand self-consciously, and Duncan shook it, man to
man. "Your parents are indeed blessed, to have such fine lads." He led his
horse out of the barn and mounted.
"Take care of our sister, Mr. MacLeod!" Johnnie called as he rode off
into the rain. "Take care of Deirdre!"
Duncan cursed again under his breath, but waved to the boys watching from
the barn door. It was almost dark now, and a dim light glowed in the little
cabin, but he saw no movement there. He had tried to repair the damage to
the family, to ease the pain of loss and provide some way of understanding,
but he knew the hardest part was still ahead of him. On the cabin porch,
the yellow light of the pumpkins offered guidance for lost souls.
----------------------- 1995 -----------------------
After Richie and Duncan got to the police station and finished the paperwork,
they went to Mikey's cell. He was sitting on the floor, rocking back and
forth and reciting odd facts about obsolete railroads. He didn't respond to
Duncan at all.
"Talk to him, Richie." Duncan moved back and watched in concern as Richie
tried to reach Mikey. Mikey just sat and rocked.
----------------------- 1824 -----------------------
It was far into the night before Duncan came upon John sitting alongside
a tiny creek that fed into the stream. John did not notice him, but sat with
his arms wrapped around himself and rocked back and forth. The mule was
tied to an oak tree, but there was no sign of Deirdre.
Duncan had headed upstream, back the way he had come yesterday, away from
the other farmsteads that John had mentioned. But the rain and the dark had
conspired against him, for he had not found John's trail at all until the
rain stopped and pale moonlight shone through the bare branches.
Duncan dismounted and said quietly, "Mr. Sullivan."
John glanced at him, his eyes were distant and haunted. Then he looked
away. "I could not kill it, Mr. MacLeod."
At first, Duncan thought that John meant he had not been able to bring
himself to try, but then he saw the darkness of blood on John's clothes,
and that hope died.
"I thought I would be kind." He gave a small whimper of laughter. "I wanted
it to be quick, and I could not bear to have its eyes upon me. Its eyes were
so much like our Deirdre's. I was holding it on my lap, and I brought the
knife up to stab it in the heart. There was so much blood," he whispered.
"I set it down and went to get the shovel to bury it, but when I turned
around, it was alive! Looking at me again, with her eyes!" He shuddered.
"At least, now I *knew* it wasn't human."
"I found a rock then, and bashed its head. It cried out 'Da, Da!' before
I could silence it." He looked at Duncan, standing there in the moonlight.
"It used Deirdre's voice!" His cry was full of rage and pain. "It stole
my child, it stole my daughter, and used her to steal my love." His face
twisted in the grimace of a man determined not to cry. Duncan heard the anguish
of love stolen, love betrayed, and finally understood some of his own father's
pain.
He went to squat beside John. "Where is it now, John?"
"I came down here to wash my hands." He looked at them, clean and wet,
then plunged them into the water again. "I have to wash off the blood."
"John, where is the body now?" Duncan persisted.
John shook his head.
"Where?"
Finally, he pointed behind them, up the hill. "I couldn't kill it with
a rock either. It woke up when I was burying it. I hit it with the shovel,
again and again, then just kept shoveling dirt on it, until I couldn't hear
it crying anymore." He wrapped his arms around himself and started rocking
back and forth again.
Duncan felt sick. He knew that Deirdre was buried alive up there on the
hill, alone in the dark and the cold, but he had to help John and send him
home before he went to her.
"John, listen to me." There was no response. Duncan grabbed him by the
shoulders and stopped him from swaying. His eyes were empty. "Listen! You
were right. That was not a normal child. It was never meant to be a part
of your family. You were right."
John stopped swaying. "I was right? But ..."
Duncan continued, "You did what you had to do to protect your wife and
sons. It was not an easy thing, but you were right."
His eyes cleared somewhat, then fear struck at him. "But, it's alive still,
up there! It'll come after me, it's a devil!" Another fear struck him. "And
tonight, there's lost souls about ..."
"No." Duncan's reply was quick and forceful. "I have heard of this before,
I know what to do to stop it. And tonight is the night to send it to where
it belongs."
"You've heard of others like this?" John was incredulous.
"Yes, in Scotland. All the stories our grandmothers tell, do you not think
that some of them are true?"
"But this is ..."
"I know, 'tis unbelievable. But trust me, I will take care of this. You
need have no worry. You did right."
John nodded, dazed. Like his wife, he desperately *wanted* to believe.
"Come now," Duncan said briskly. "You're soaked through." He helped John
take off his wet and blood-stained shirt, then gave him the extra one from
his saddlebags.
Another thought struck John. "What will I tell Mary? And the boys?"
"I told the boys that Deirdre was sick and I would take her to a doctor.
After a while, you can tell them that she has died. Your wife believes that
Deirdre is in the land of the faeries."
"The * faeries?*"
"A changeling child, returned to its home. 'Tis easier for her that way.
You need just nod if she mentions it." Duncan helped John mount the mule.
"Go home to your wife now. She needs you." And you need her, he thought,
watching as the mule carried John back home. Duncan turned and climbed the
hill.
He did not have far to go. A fresh pile of earth and mud lay heaped as
high as his waist several hundred yards uphill from the stream. Duncan saw
that he was not the only one to have felt sick; the shovel lay near a drying
pool of vomit.
Duncan dug quickly at first, then more slowly as he neared the bottom
of the pile. The moonlight had faded as the clouds moved in again, but the
first gray streaks of light in the eastern sky helped him see as he dropped
the shovel and started digging with his hands.
There, finally, under the mud, was smooth human skin. He pulled her out,
and wiped the mud from her nose and mouth. She took a deep shuddering breath
and revived, and then started to cry loudly. Wet leaves clung to her hair.
"Hush now," Duncan crooned. Although Duncan was warm from his exertions,
the air was chill and damp, and Deirdre was soon shivering violently. He
stripped the wet and muddy shift off her and wrapped her inside his shirt,
held close to his own bare skin. When he handed her the little rag doll he
had tucked into his saddlebag, her hysterical crying subsided into whimpers
and hiccups.
Duncan sang snatches of a half-forgotten Gaelic lullaby, and rocked her
in his arms. He wiped more of the mud from her face, and brushed the hair
from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, little one. There's no place for you."
At his voice, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes were dark
in the dim light, her expression solemn. He was glad when she closed her
eyes.
He had sometimes called immortality a gift, but there are some gifts that
should not be opened, especially not too soon. Immortality had given him
lifetimes, but no matter how many lifetimes Deirdre lived, she would never
grow beyond the age she was now. She would never talk, never be able to take
care of herself. She would always be dependent on some family to take care
of her. For a few months they might, until they realized something was wrong,
and then fear of the unknown would drive them to be rid of her, in whatever
way they could.
"There's no time for you," Duncan whispered, and Deirdre's body went limp
as she fell asleep in his arms, her arm curled about the rag doll. He held
her close, savoring this one brief moment. He had promised her family he
would take care of her, and Duncan MacLeod was a man of his word.
----------------------- 1995 -----------------------
Tyler King found them at a railroad switching station on their way to
St. Simon's. Then the police found Richie and Mikey while Duncan and Tyler
were settling their differences in an abandoned warehouse.
When Duncan emerged victorious, he found his car, a police car with a
smashed windshield, one unconscious police officer, and one police officer
with a broken neck. Richie and Mikey were nowhere in sight, but he found
them soon enough farther down the railroad track.
"Richie!" Duncan called.
"Mac! Oh, boy, am I glad to see you. Come on, let's get Mikey up to St.
Simon's before there's any more trouble. Come on!"
"You forgot your coat," Duncan said grimly. He drew Richie away from Mikey,
and said quietly, "Mikey can't go to St. Simon's."
"It wasn't his fault, Mac. He was scared. You'd understand if you'd been
there."
"I was." Duncan explained what he had found. "You can't hide him, and
he can't spend the rest of his life in a cell. He's *immortal*. What are
we supposed to do?"
"Damn, damn, damn, damn." Richie was close to tears as the realization
hit him. "There is no place for him."
Duncan nodded. "I'll do it." He walked over to Mikey, who started backing
away from him.
"No, Mac! Wait, Mac," Richie ran up to them. "Wait, I'll do it." He faced
Duncan and said quietly, "It's my responsibility." Richie took Mikey's arm.
"Come on Mikey, let's go in the tunnel."
Duncan watched as they walked away together. He could only guess at what
was happening in the tunnel, but when the train roared by and the lightning
started he did not need to wonder anymore.
As the lightning continued and Richie endured the assault of another person's
life and memories violently fusing with his own, Duncan remembered another
innocent.
----------------------- 1824 -----------------------
Slowly and gently Duncan lay Deirdre down on a blanket on the forest floor.
She murmured in her sleep and clutched the rag doll more tightly to her.
With one finger he brushed a red-gold curl away from her face. He straightened,
and his face was as set and determined as John Sullivan's had been.
The downward stroke of his sword was blazingly fast, but she woke at the
whispered sound, and he was not fast enough to avoid the last glimpse of
dark blue eyes which opened and looked up at him trustingly.
In the fleeting moment of quiet before the quickening began, he dropped
to his knees beside the body. "Mary, forgive me," he begged, and was not
sure if he spoke to her mother or to his, or to the Holy Mother herself.
Then the lightning struck. Duncan had taken the quickenings of many immortals,
some old, some young, but always their memories had been filtered through
language, stored in some orderly fashion. Deirdre's quickening was raw, pure
and primal emotion, a dizzying succession of feelings, sensations, and perceptions,
out of focus and curiously distorted.
– A young boy's face (Liam's?), laughing and playing peek–a–boo.
– A mother's arms around you, holding you close and warm and safe, the
taste of warm milk in your mouth.
– Hunger so intense your body knots with the need of it.
– Fear and delight as large hands lift you high in the air.
– The curious new feeling of mud between your toes.
– Terror and rage in a small dark box, kicking and kicking and screaming
until at last the light returns and mother is there.
– Sharp blinding pain in your head, then darkness.
– The soft fur of a cat under your hand.
– Da's arms around you and a pain in your chest.
– No air, no air, can't breathe, can't cry, can't kick, can't move, I
want my mother! I want my mother! I WANT MY MOTHER!
– Rage and terror and fear and cold and dark and alone in the dark, alone
in the dark and the cold.
As the lightning slowed and died away, he took some comfort in the last
sensation from Deirdre's memories: strong arms holding her close and a voice
singing snatches of a Gaelic lullaby.
He had promised her mother that Deirdre would not be alone, and she was
not. She was with him now, a part of him forever. He would take care of
her always.
At the cabin, John Sullivan looked out the window, his face gray with
exhaustion and streaked with tears, and an empty bottle of whiskey by his
side. 'Curious,' he thought. 'There's not usually lightning this time of
year.' On the porch, the candles in the pumpkins sputtered, and went out.
As the sun rose on that autumn morning, a patch of brightness in a cloudy
sky, Duncan used the fire started from the quickening to build a funeral
pyre. He placed her in the flames, her blood-soaked rag doll by her side.
She would not be cold or in the dark. Duncan watched as the fire burned, then
watched as the flames sputtered and died when the rain came again and mingled
with the tears on his face.
----------------------- 1995 -----------------------
When Richie emerged from the tunnel, subtly changed as always from a quickening,
Duncan saw in his eyes a depth of pain that matched his own. He knew that
even though Richie would always look like a fresh-faced youth of 18, his
eyes would be ancient.
Duncan swallowed, and as he often did, tried to justify and explain what
had happened, both for his sake and for Richie's. "Darius once said to me,
'An act of mercy is not always an act of kindness.'"
Richie looked away, uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, I'm not feeling very kind
or merciful right now."
"I know." At Duncan's tone, Richie looked at him sharply, and Duncan nodded.
"They're safe with us now, and nobody can hurt them any more. Sometimes that's
the only kind of protection we can give."
Side by side, the two immortals walked down the railroad track.
|
For she comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than she can understand.
|
|
DISCLAIMERS: The
characters of Duncan MacLeod, Richie Ryan, and Mikey are not my creations.
They are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer. They are used
without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended and this story
was not written for profit. The Sullivans, however, belong to me.
Many thanks to my sister who helped me with this story and has graciously
forwarded Highlander information to me over the last few years.
Feedback is very much appreciated and may be sent to darkpanther@erols.com.