Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘I’m - sorry, Heather. I was thinking of something else.’

  He put her down and went to the rainbarrel to dunk his head. The water was cool and by the time he had dried himself, his former fears had fled. He took her by the hand and accepted the bottle of ale, swilling it down as he walked. She then passed over the pie.

  They walked up the path leading to the croft with him munching on the crust and trying to tell her about the morning’s work. Halfway to the top of the slope he swept her off her feet and rolled in the grass, pulling her to him behind a rock.

  ‘Conner MacLeod, what are you doing?’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she cried, but stroked his hair as if he were a puppy. ‘In the open, with all the world to see.’

  ‘There’s nane but the hoggies,’ he said, indicating some sheep nearby, ‘and they’re not looking.’

  She laughed and kissed him. They began to move, rubbing against each other, through their clothes. Heather began to breathe heavily.

  ‘You can do that to me forever, if you like, my Lord.’

  It was the “forever” she wanted an answer to. He buried his head between her small breasts and she held it there, tightly.

  ‘Will you, Conner? Will you?’

  ‘Aye blossom, I will . . .’

  They were interrupted by the sound of a horse’s hooves and suddenly something went flying over the top of the pair of them. The horseman reined his mount and wheeled, to look down on them.

  ‘Hello,’ said the stranger, brightly.

  They stared at him in amazement. He had on a wide brimmed hat, with a high plume that waved gently in the breeze. Over his shoulders was a cloak of peacocks’ feathers, the colours of which flashed in the morning sunlight. A scarlet waistcoat, black satin breeks and high leather boots completed his attire. In the broad belt was a short sword the like of which Conner had never seen before. It had a white, ornate hilt, a third the length of the blade.

  ‘Greetings!’ cried the rider and swept his hat off to Heather in a gallant flourish. ‘I am Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Chief Metallurgist to King Charles the Fifth of Spain.’

  The incongruity of his dress with his surroundings suddenly struck the pair of them as very amusing and they laughed in unison. The man looked at them sternly enough for them to cease.

  ‘I’m at your service,’ he said.

  Heather turned to Conner. ‘Who.. ?’

  Conner jumped to his feet. ‘What do you want?’

  Ramirez pointed straight at Conner’s chest. ‘You.’

  The way in which he said it sent a shiver down Conner’s spine.

  ‘You’re Conner MacLeod?’

  ‘Maybe I am and maybe. . .’

  ‘You are Conner MacLeod.’ Conner said nothing. It was not a question this time.

  The Spaniard continued. ‘You were wounded in battle five years ago and driven from your village, Glenfinnan.’

  Heather said, ‘Conner?’

  The highlander took her gently by the wrist. ‘Heather, go up to the croft.’

  She looked at him defiantly. ‘I’ll stay right here.’

  ‘Do as I say woman,’ he said, fiercely.

  Her arm went rigid beneath his grasp. He had never spoken to her in that tone of voice before, not even when they had quarrelled. Nor had he called her ‘woman.’ He saw the hurt in her eyes.

  ‘Heather - there are some things it’s better for you not to know.’

  A summer storm was gathering over them now and the valley had darkened. Heather glanced at Ramirez and then back at Conner.

  ‘I’ll go if you ask me to,’ she said.

  ‘Please Heather?’

  She walked away then, striding past Ramirez on his horse and shooting him a look which would have shrivelled him to nothing had the wish behind it been fulfilled.

  He smiled at her and touched his hat. When she was out of sight Ramirez reached down with his arm.

  ‘Come up behind me,’ he said.

  Conner hesitated for a moment, then accepted the hand. The horse with the double load began to walk up the slope and past the croft, with Conner clutching the stranger Ramirez and getting a mouthful of peacocks’ feathers every time it stumbled. Who was this foreigner, thought Conner? A Spaniard with a funny handful of names, aye, but what did he want? He was a buffoon, who dressed in the clothes of a madman, but Conner sensed that beneath the gay, flamboyant dress there was a man with strength, both physical and spiritual. There was a will of steel, and a sense of purpose.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. ‘Up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To show you who you are.’

  What does that mean, thought Conner. I know who I am. I’m Conner MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod, from Glenfinnan. What else was there to know?

  What secrets about himself could the stranger reveal that he, Conner, did not already know?

  ‘I know who I am - a man, like you.’

  ‘A man, yes. Like me, yes. But not like other men. We are different, MacLeod. Surely you feel that?’

  Doesn’t everyone feel themselves to be special in some way? He said as much.

  Ramirez replied, ‘You should have died, MacLeod. You should be dead. Doesn’t that bother you in any way?’

  ‘I try not to think about it. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘You should think about it. It is the essence of your existence.’

  The stranger’s replies were intriguing but unsatisfying. Perhaps even frightening. If he was not like other men, then he was like something else. What?

  ‘I’ve no devil in me,’ he said. ‘I’m not the spawn of Hell.’

  Ramirez laughed. ‘Is that what they told you? No, MacLeod, not Hell.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Who knows? I don’t have all the answers. One in every thousand is born with a hair lip. Or a cast in the eye. One man or woman, in every million is born a genius. Who knows why? I don’t pretend to have an audience with God.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And one in every fifty million is born like you and I, with a special gift, which comes to flower within us at random points within our lives.’

  ‘One in every fifty million?’

  ‘I chose that number because it sounded large. I don’t really know the real figure. You ask too many questions. You must wait.’

  Overhead the dark thunderclouds were moving in like a floodtide. Ramirez glanced up at them.

  ‘Not the spawn of Hell,’ he murmured, ‘but there is one of us who might fit that description.’

  ‘What?’ asked Conner.

  ‘All in good time,’ was the reply.

  Ramirez took him up, to a high point on the hill. There was a tall rock there, a tor, onto which they stepped from the side of the mountain after leaving the horse to graze. Thunder rumbled overhead and a qualm went through Conner. What was he doing, here on this high place, with a storm impending? Who was this Ramirez? What did he want?

  ‘Shouldn’t we be sheltering,’ he said to Ramirez, ‘instead of exposing ourselves like this?

  There’s a storm coming.’

  As if to confirm his remark there was a flash on the far side of the valley, followed by a crash of thunder.

  ‘Not likely,’ said the Spaniard. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for some weeks. I watched it come up from the south, this morning. Now, I want you to stand with your arm above your head.’

  A ware of the danger of such an action Conner turned to jump back onto the hillside. Ramirez drew his peculiar-looking sword.

  ‘You’ll do it, or I’ll cut you down where you stand.’

  He flicked out his arm and Conner reached up to feel a small slit in his vest. Ramirez raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Eh?’ he said. The blade flashed by Conner’s cheek. He felt the coldness of the steel, but this time there was no cut.

  ‘Arm up,’ ordered the Spaniard. Conner did as he was told.

  A few seconds later, lightning forked out of the sky and fou
nd, in Conner’s arm and body, a rod through which it could earth itself. Conner was alive with static electricity. It crackled around and through his body making his clothes smoke and lighting up his whole being with dancing, arcing flashes. Every nerve jangled. He was vibrating, vibrant. Evanescent colours snaked before his eyes. Transient white flares exploded in his brain. He could see the hills breathing, hear the Earth suck wind into its lungs. The valley pulsed below him, the mighty hearts of the mountains pounded out a beat that timed with the rhythms of blood in his temple.

  ‘The sensation you’re feeling,’ cried Ramirez, ‘is the Quickening. ‘

  The sky expanded and lanced, and lanced again. Conner’s mind rang with a single phrase? the quick and the dead. The quick - and the dead.

  He fell to the earth at the end of the charge. He felt weak at first, but then, by degrees stronger, revitalised.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered, hoarsely. The bolt of lightning that had struck him should have left him a charred lump on the pinnacle of the rock. Instead it had filled him with a new kind of strength. He climbed to his feet and the lightning struck again tearing the breath from his lungs.

  Ramirez shouted, ‘We are the same, MacLeod.’

  The rain came down, lashing at Conner’s body. Thunder crashed through the heavens.

  ‘We are brothers,’ came the cry.

  Chapter 14

  BRENDA WYATT WAS not a woman who permitted the intrusion of strange events into her life, without making some effort to discover just what the hell was going on. There was a steely determination about her character which made most men duck for cover. Except for those like Bedsoe, who were either masochists or intending to run once she turned and beckoned.

  The morning after the swordfight on the construction site, Brenda was dressing herself thoughtfully, before going into the laboratory. Her mind swam with questions. What the hell were two grown men doing, fighting with a weapon that was as out of date as snuff boxes? It seemed they wanted to kill each other. Why didn’t they just buy revolvers and shoot it out, like any other respectable gangsters?

  Yet, somehow, this MacLeod was not of the gangster mould. Oh, sure, she could be wrong. She’d been wrong before about people, but. . . oh, hell, what was the use of guessing? Perhaps they were just a couple of nuts, escaped from the asylum? The big one - Jesus, yes - he looked maniac enough to fit into any psycho ward. If she could get a look at that file on Nash . . . Brenda pulled on her tights. Her pet cat looked on, flexing its claws.

  ‘You dare,’ warned Brenda. ‘It’s the only pair you haven’t laddered.’ She threw a pillow at the animal and it slunk out looking disgusted.

  At lunch time, she left the lab and went up to Frank Moran’s office. Moran was on the phone.

  ‘Yeah? Well there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about it, pal.’

  He gestured for Brenda to take the chair, raising his eyes to heaven. She smiled.

  Moran put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. ‘You see what I’m up against?’

  She arched an eyebrow. Moran said, ‘His Vietnamese neighbour ate his dog.’ The hand came away and Moran sighed an ‘Ah’ into the instrument.

  As he was talking, Brenda leaned over the desk, looking at a file. She lifted the corner of the cover. Moran’s hand came out.

  ‘That’s confidential. . .’ Then back into the phone, ‘Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m sorry, what else can I say? Dog is a delicacy out there. They keep cows as pets. You eat beef, don’t you?’

  The conversation went on, and eventually Moran put the phone down.

  ‘How are you? How’s things over at Forensics?’

  ‘Dull,’ she replied.

  ‘How about some lunch?’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  Moran said, ‘Who pays?’

  She shrugged. ‘You know it’s my turn - or you wouldn’t have asked.’

  He laughed. ‘And you wouldn’t have come up here if you didn’t want something? What is it?’

  She gave him a lopsided smile. ‘Frank, sometimes I despair of your faith in human nature. I came to give, not to receive.’

  He gave her a disbelieving look and she put on her innocent expression. She said, ‘The hairs in the Moretti case - ‘

  ‘Ah huh?’

  ‘They matched up.’

  He slammed a fist into his palm. ‘What did I tell you? Hah. Right again, Moran.’

  He held open the door for her and she walked through. When they were halfway across the office, Brenda cried, ‘Oh damn, I left my purse.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You go on ahead, Frank, I’ll meet you outside.’

  ‘Okay.’ He called across the office. ‘Garfield. Brenda and I are going to lunch.’ Then he walked through the outer doors. Brenda went back into his office and opened the file on his desk. It was not the one she wanted. She looked around, quickly. There was a stack of them on top of the cabinet. She took them down and flicked through them. The Nash file was the third one down. Opening it up, she was confronted with a picture of MacLeod.

  ‘Highlander,’ she murmured, ‘alias Russell Nash.’ She flicked through the other documents and then replaced the file. The phone rang on the desk. That would probably be Frank, calling from downstairs to find out where she was. She let it ring and rushed out of the office.

  When she arrived downstairs, Frank said, ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Oh, I had to make a call. Sorry.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, I tell you what, I’m going for the lobster today. Can you stand it?’

  ‘Not puppy dog?’ she queried. ‘I understand it’s all the fashion in downtown restaurants at the moment.’ He made a face at her.

  While Brenda was doing her investigating, the object of her enquiries was himself doing some research - into her background. He had been to the public records office at City Hall and spent the morning poring over worthless information. One small interesting piece had still to be followed up. Her father, Peter Wyatt, had been (still was?) interested in ancient weapons.

  MacLeod went to the library and picked up the fiche catalogue. He took out the appropriate fiche and put it into the viewer. Wendell. Williams. Ah, Wyatt - a whole string of them. But not Peter Wyatt. Someone more interesting: Brenda J Wyatt. ‘A Metallurgical History Of Ancient Sword-Making.’

  MacLeod went to the shelf indicated by the code on the fiche. There were two copies. He took one out, noting with interest the photograph of a slightly younger looking Ms Wyatt on the dustcover.

  He took the book back to his apartment and began reading it. A quarter way through the first chapter, he raised his eyes from the page. The last thing he had read was: . . . the balance of the weapon… He recalled a conversation that had taken place five centuries ago.

  ‘Sometimes, MacLeod,’ Ramirez had said, ‘the sharpest blade is not enough.’ He had taken his own blade out of its sheath and put it across one finger.

  ‘B-a-l-a-n-c-e-‘

  In the tropical fish tank, one of the guppies disturbed the surface of the water with a flick of its tail.

  Chapter 15

  RAMIREZ PULLED ON the oars and the boat slid easily over the still waters of the loch. Conner, still baffled by the Spaniard’s intentions and not fully convinced of his reasons for seeking him out, was wondering why they were out there. More lightning? The sky was clear and as blue as a kingfisher. How far could he trust this glib intruder? Well today he had his own sword. If this Spaniard tried more of his tricks, he would need more than a well-balanced blade to save him.

  Conner recalled, not without a twinge of pique, how smoothly Ramirez had worked himself into Heather’s good graces. She liked the man. The previous evening he had sat by the peat fire and told her stories, of strange people and foreign lands, that had had the eyes starting out of her head. She had been hypnotized by his soft, magnetic voice and gestures. His manners she had found charming. Never mind that he had tried to have Conner fried to a crisp. He was a charming man.

  Still,
it was a good day. He stood up and surveyed the scenery, studying the way the pine forests swept down to the edge of the loch, and the snowy tips of the tallest mountains. A good day.

  ‘Watch it . . .’ Ramirez was rocking the boat, gently. ‘Balance. . .’ said the other.

  Conner cried, ‘I don’t like boats.’ He gripped the gunwhales with both hands.

  ‘Why not?’ enquired his companion.

  ‘I don’t like water. I’m a man, not a fish.’

  Ramirez sighed. ‘And you complain endlessly.’

  From beneath his peacock-feather cloak, the Spaniard drew a silver box. He opened the lid and took a pinch of powder, sniffing it.

  ‘Here,’ he said, offering some to Conner.

  Conner glowered at him. ‘You look - you act like a woman, you stupid haggis.’

  Ramirez nodded. ‘Haggis? What is haggis?’

  ‘A sheep’s stomach stuffed with meat and barley.’

  ‘And what do you do with it?’

  Conner replied scathingly , ‘You eat it.’

  A shudder went through his companion and the man took another sniff of his ochre powder. ‘How revolting,’ he said. Then his head went back and he gave a tremendous sneeze. The boat rocked violently, almost tipping Conner into the water. The Scot panicked and tried to sit down but the craft was rolling so much it was all he could do to maintain his present position.

  ‘Be still, for God’s sakes,’ he cried. ‘You’ll tip us over.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I can’t swim, you Spanish peacock.’

  Ramirez picked up the oars and began to row. He looked at Conner thoughtfully, before replying, ‘I’m not really Spanish. I was born Egyptian.’ Conner fought to keep his feet.

  He shouted, ‘You said you were from Spain.’ Ramirez declined to reply.

  Conner screamed, ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘And you,’ said Ramirez, the Egyptian-Spaniard, ‘have the manners of a goat. You smell like a dung-heap and have no knowledge, whatsoever, of your potential. NOW!’

  He tipped the boat well over to the lee. ‘Get out,’ he said.

  Conner felt himself falling overboard and his fear of the water made him claw at the air as if to find a safety-hold there. When he hit the surface, the coldness of the loch drove the air out of his lungs. He breathed in. Water.