He came to the surface and screamed at Ramirez, who was rowing easily towards the shore. ‘Help!’
He went under again, thrashing and kicking. Green water went past his eyes - and bubbles - lots of white bubbles from his struggles. Again he rose, the panic in him still working his limbs like threshers.
‘Help. Help me. I’m drowning.’
Ramirez’s words floated back, lazily. ‘You can’t drown, you fool.’
Conner started to sink again.
Ramirez shouted, ‘You’re immortal.’
Conner gulped down water and slowly sank to the bottom of the loch, the murky fluid getting colder and colder. Fish, unimpressed and not in the least curious, swam by him. He touched the primal sediment on the bottom and it came up in clouds, obscuring his vision. Then the fish became interested. The stir he was causing was uncovering interesting scraps of food. There were rocks on the bottom. He clutched at one and pushed himself upwards. He reached the surface again, bobbed, and then went down, without taking a breath. This time he did not go all the way down to the bottom, but floated somewhere midway. The current began to take him along and after a while, though there was a pain in his lungs, he realized that they were not going to explode. His head was clear. He felt - alive.
I must be dying slowly, he thought. I’m light-headed. My mind has gone onto another plane. My spirit has left its shell. That wasn’t so bad. He had thought dying would be a painful thing. Yet, it was just like going to sleep with a bad cold in the chest. That was all. No real agony.
He clutched at some underwater reeds when they came within reach and pulled himself along the bottom, towards the shore. Maybe he wasn’t dead? Maybe people didn’t actually die from drowning? Perhaps that’s what everyone believed would happen and they died of fear instead?
Fear stopped their hearts. Actually, you could breathe under water. He was doing it. Men were like fish, if they allowed themselves to be. Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez was going to get a shock. Then he was going to get something else and even though Conner’ had discovered that men could survive underwater, the Egyptian-Spanish buffoon would find that he was not immune to a Scot’s claymore.
When Conner pulled himself gradually from the water, Ramirez had his back to him. The highlander crept over the rocks towards his adversary, drawing his sword at the same time. The Spaniard was talking to himself.
‘Well, now. I wonder what he’s saying to the little fishes?’
Conner came up right behind him and held up his weapon, ready to strike. He put all his strength behind the blow - and struck the empty log where Ramirez had been sitting.
There was a sword at his throat. The same silly little weapon that Ramirez always carried. But it was sharp. And no doubt, had balance.
‘Crude and slow, clansman,’ remarked Ramirez. ‘Your attack was no better than that of a clumsy child. You’ll have to do better.’
The shorter sword wound itself around his own and the next moment his claymore was sailing through the air, to land with a clatter amongst the rocks.
‘What do you say to that?’
Conner was dumbfounded. ‘How did you do it?’
Ramirez grinned at him.
Conner cried, ‘This is the Devil’s work.’
‘You have a peculiar fixation with that fellow which I find hard to understand,’ said Ramirez. ‘Perhaps you were kicked in the head by a demon as a child? That would explain some things.’
Conner sat down and stared at the ground. There were many things he wanted explained. But he was damned if he was going to ask Ramirez. He sulked, while the Spaniard picked a leaf from a bush and tossed it onto the water, watching it float away.
Ramirez said, ‘You cannot die, MacLeod. Accept it.’
‘I hate you,’ he replied, vehemently.
The other laughed. ‘Good! That is the perfect way to start.’
He paused, then, ‘An ordinary man would have drowned - wouldn’t he?’
‘Aye,’ he replied, reluctant to let Ramirez have anything.
‘Then you are no ordinary man. Nor am I. You are immortal, like me. Unless. . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless you lose your head.’
‘What - my temper?’
‘It’s always wise to keep that. No, I mean if you are beheaded, then you will die.’
‘You just said we are immortal.’
‘If we keep our heads firmly on our shoulders, we are. It’s our one weakness. Our Achilles - “ he twisted his mouth, wryly, , - neck.’
‘Who?’
Ramirez sighed, seeing his wit had been wasted.
‘Never mind. Just remember it. There are others who know of your weakness - your one soft spot. If they come across you, they may try to take advantage of your poor swordsmanship.’
‘May? I take it you mean that oaf who tried to kill me five years ago?’
Ramirez shook his head as if he were dealing with a small child.
‘That was no oaf - that was the Kurgan - and he was playing with you. Oh, he would have taken off your head all right, if your cousins hadn’t got you away, but he’s no oaf with a blade. A blackhearted boor with a penchant for power, perhaps.’
‘You said may. There are those who may try to kill me. Why?’
‘All in good time. There are also those like me, bighearted generous fellows who love their comrades. Whether we shall survive until the Gathering, remains to be seen.’ He grinned, tilting back his ridiculous-looking hat with its floppy brim.
‘Tell me,’ said Conner, ‘how did it all happen. How did it happen, for God’s sake?’
‘Why does the sun come up?’ he made an expansive gesture towards the heavens. ‘Are the stars just pinholes in the curtain of the night? Who knows? What I do ‘know is that because you were born different men will fear you, try to drive you away - like the people of your village. Come - let’s go home to Heather’s cooking. . .’
Later that night they sat by the peat fire, as it spat out its blue-green flames, and talked more. Conner had many questions to ask, but Ramirez did not know all the answers. ‘I don’t even know all the questions,’ he admitted to the Scot. ‘If I did, I would be God Almighty and wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.’
‘But is decapitation our only weakness? What if the villagers had burnt me, that day?’ Ramirez said with a straight face. ‘I wouldn’t test it out. It’s the only weakness we know of - there may be more. Perhaps the fire would have burned through your bonds and you could have walked away. . .’
‘A lump of charcoal.’
Ramirez shrugged. ‘In any case, you’re not ready yet. We must get you ready. . . ah, the food.’
Heather had cooked the hash and was offering it to them. Until that point she had been outside and Ramirez had said that Conner was to say nothing to her - at least for a while. Conner put his arm around her waist.
‘What do you think of my bonny lass, Ramirez?’
‘She’s - very beautiful. You’re a lucky man.’
‘I am that,’ smiled Conner.
Heather flushed, and brushed his arm away. ‘Och, away with you,’ she said, ‘and eat your food before it goes cold.’
After Heather had gone to bed, Ramirez sat by the fire and began to read by its light.
Conner was curious. ‘What are you reading?’
The book had a worn leather spine, well-used, covered in fingerprints. ‘The Book Of The Sword - it’s by an Italian - Cesare Lorenzo de Orazio of Florence. In this book are the secrets of the sword-makers: how to refine the metal to a purity unmatched even by the Venetians; how to temper the blade to the hardness of diamond. It’s a fascinating work.’
‘Huh,’ said Conner, ‘my claymore’s good enough for me.’
‘But then, you’re only good enough for your claymore.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means, my friend, that like your rusty old blade, you are flawed in a dozen places. One good bash would break eithe
r of you.’
Conner stood up. ‘Oh? Is that so?’
‘Sit down, sit down. You’re not going to fight me in your own house are you? With Heather asleep upstairs? We’ll get plenty of opportunity to test your skill - though it shouldn’t take long. You can take that iron bar you call a sword and I’ll use my own weapon. We’ll see which holds out. By the way. . .’ The Spaniard’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘You must learn to conceal your special gift and harness your power, until the time of the Gathering.’
‘What Gathering?’
‘When only a few of us are left, we will feel an irresistible pull towards a far away land - to fight for the prize.’
Chapter 16
OVER THE NEXT few months Ramirez taught his pupil the real art of fencing and sword play. His skill with the weapon was beyond any measure that Conner could apply to it.
‘How did you learn all this?’ he gasped, one day, when Ramirez had disarmed him for the seventh time.
‘I’ve had a long time and many teachers myself. Teachers from lands which would mean nothing to you just names. . .’
Conner nodded. ‘And another thing.’
‘What?’
‘If the immortals are to fight for the prize - though you say you don’t know exactly what that is - then we will have to fight each other. Why are you helping me?’
Ramirez leaned on his sword and looked out over the uplands with a wistful expression on his face.
‘Good question. I’m not sure - but I have a feeling that I shan’t be there. It’s just a feeling mind, but it’s strong. I shall be one of those that fall by the wayside. I think I’ve lived too long already. There are no more surprises.’
‘Are you afraid of death?’
‘I’ve no great fondness for it, but I’m sure it has a good use. Sometimes I think we’re the unlucky ones - the freaks of nature that have to suffer longer than ordinary men. Now,’ he said, sheathing his sword, ‘we must go for our run, along the beach.’
Conner made a face. ‘I hate all this running.’
‘You have a gift - and it’s enclosed within that body of yours. The least you can do is keep the container in prime condition. Swordsmanship is a matter of fitness as well as skill. Hard work. No talent is worth anything without hard work.’
He flicked Conner’s claymore up into the air and the Scot caught it, immediately attacking Ramirez, hoping to catch him off guard. Ramirez blocked the blow and kicked Conner’s legs from under him. Furious, the Scot leapt to his feet and rained blows on the Spaniard’s head, which were all parried. Then he was disarmed again.
‘Never lose your temper,’ said Ramirez, quietly. ‘If your head comes away from your neck - it’s all over.’ He sheathed his sword again.
‘Come on. To the beach - ‘ he began running down the hillside and Conner reluctantly followed.
‘Come on MacLeod, why am I always in front? Can’t you beat an old man? I’m twenty times older than your grandfather... .’
The insults always had their effect, despite the fact that Conner knew why Ramirez used them. It spurred him on to greater efforts, the words pricking at him, wounding his pride. A clansman’s pride was a tender thing, not difficult to pierce, and Ramirez remorselessly jabbed at it with his sharp insults. He ran, and ran, and ran.
After the run along the beach, with the salt air filling his lungs and the spray cooling his face, Conner felt better. Although the race had been won by Ramirez, yet again, he was beginning to gain on the Spaniard. He was beginning to see and feel some results of the training.
They fought again, in the woodland near the shoreline, using the trees as shields. At one point Conner thought he had avoided a blow rather expertly, only to have the thin tree behind which he had ducked come crashing down on him.
He looked up at Ramirez in despair. The Spaniard laughed. ‘You’ll get there, MacLeod. Don’t look so disheartened. You continually over-extend your thrust. We’ll cure that - with balance.’
‘Balance, balance,’ grumbled Conner. ‘Always balance. ‘
‘Always,’ confirmed Ramirez. ‘I’m glad to see you’re thinking about it at last.’
They ran back up the hillside, to the croft. Ramirez was there long before him and Heather was waiting, smiling, as Conner came panting up to the well.
‘Conner?’ she said, as he was leaning, exhausted, against the stone wall.
‘Heather, please. ‘
She shrugged and went indoors. After a while he followed, to find Ramirez eating.
‘Food,’ said the Spaniard. ‘Sit. Build up your strength.’
Conner slumped into the wooden chair and began to eat. He was beginning to wish he had never met the Spaniard and was wishing him to hell.
‘If it came to the two of us,’ he asked, after they had finished the meal, ‘would you take my head?’
Ramirez got up and came to Conner’s chair. He drew his sword and offered it to the Scotsman, then went down on one knee, lowering his head. Conner sat there stupidly holding the blade while Heather looked from one man to the other. All Conner had to do was a single stroke and he would be rid of the man. He tossed the sword onto the table and Ramirez climbed to his feet again.
‘Does that answer your question?’
‘No. What if you’re wrong. What if you do live until the Gathering?’
Ramirez said, ‘We must fight - until only one remains. That’s all I know. If you don’t fight then you will not be the one.’
Heather said, ‘All this talk. I don’t understand it. You’re friends. A hoggie with one eye could see that. Practise your sword fighting all you like, if you must, but no more of this talk of killing each other. Why don’t you hug, like brothers, and show your feelings - instead of pretending that you’re enemies. Come on, the pair of you.’
Ramirez looked at Conner and opened his arms. Conner stared at the table.
‘Conner!’ said Heather.
He looked at her and her mouth was set in a firm line. He climbed to his feet, clumsily knocking over the chair as he did so. He bent to pick it up.
‘Never mind that,’ said Heather.
Conner walked forward and the two men hugged. ‘Brothers,’ said Ramirez.
‘Brothers. ‘
‘There,’ said Heather, brightly, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now help me clear this mess from the table. . .’
Two days later they again raced on the beach while a stag looked on from the edge of the woodlands. ‘Let yourself feel the stag,’ shouted Ramirez over his shoulder. ‘His heart - beating - and - his blood coursing. Feel it . . .’
Conner concentrated and after a few moments he felt the joy, the exhilaration of high speed. He felt all his tiredness drop away from him and a fresh new energy enter his limbs, his chest. The stag’s heart was his heart, the stag’s lungs were his lungs - the secret of the highland beast’s speed was now his.
‘I feel it,’ he screamed into the wind.
‘Come on!’ cried Ramirez.
‘I feel him!’
‘Come on. . .’
‘I’m coming.’
For the first time since they had met, Conner passed the Spaniard.
‘Come on, Haggis.’
Ramirez laughed. ‘I’m close,’ he shouted.
The Spaniard drew up alongside the Scot and the two of them challenged the wind. Unidentifiable joy filled their hearts. This was life.
‘This - is the Quickening,’ shouted Ramirez.
At the end of the run they both fell into the water and after splashing around, began to fence furiously in the shallows, with Ramirez crying, ‘Yes, yes. All it took was the right frame of mind. Now, pendejo. Now.’
The blades clashed. Salt spray was everywhere, in their eyes and hair. It ran in rivulets down their backs. They sank to their ankles in the shifting sands and still they fought on, neither gaining an advantage over the other.
‘You have it,’ cried Ramirez. ‘Very good. Balance. Balance. ‘
Parry. Thrust. Lock
. Part.
Conner felt part of it all - the elements, the sea, the earth.
‘Shall we see what you’ve become?’ cried Ramirez, and he went into the attack. They locked swords. Conner took a step back, feinted, and then whipped the Spaniard’s sword from his grasp. It flashed through the air, to land point-first in the beach. He laid his blade on Ramirez’s throat. They stood like that for a few moments. Then Conner put aside his sword, and reached out with his hand.
‘Brothers,’ he said.
Chapter 17
JEDBURGH WAS AT the crossroads to the Southern Uplands, just north of the Cheviot Hills. Once a month was market day and people came from miles around to barter and trade. Even the English, for the border was not so far away, would bring up their cattle and sheep. Heather loved market days. They were so full of life and noise. And goods were available that were not normally easy to get hold of. Cloth - fabrics that would not find their way up to the villages in the hills. With one man on each arm, she steered the trio from stall to stall, exclaiming at the objects for sale with delight.
Ramirez obviously found her artlessness irresistible and spent most of his time arguing with Conner over whether he should buy this or that for Heather.
‘It’s my job to buy her presents,’ said Conner, firmly.
‘I see. I’m not allowed to show my appreciation for her hospitality, I suppose? I’ve just got to go on, pigging myself with her cooking and not a thank you permitted?’
‘You can thank me,’ said Conner.‘
But there’s a difference,’ insisted Ramirez.
‘What? What difference?’
‘You’re ugly. And how am I going to win her away from you, if I can’t shower her with gifts? I haven’t any youth left to offer her, so it’s got to be money that attracts her.’
Heather jerked his arm. ‘Oh, come on, sir. You’re not old. You have a very stately profile. Distinguished.’ Ramirez smiled down at her.
‘Well, thank you my dear. Perhaps the money isn’t needed after all, in which case it should be spent. And I can’t think of a better way of spending it than. . .’
Highlander Page 9
