Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘It’s not so much a matter of luck, as skill.’

  ‘I am stronger this time,’ said the Kurgan.

  Ramirez sniffed. ‘So I’ve noticed. An Italian cheese would have difficulty in keeping up with you. Perhaps you rot faster, from the heart outwards?’

  As he was speaking, the Kurgan sprang forwards to shatter a bench with his sword. But Ramirez was faster and had jumped to the foot of the spiral staircase.

  ‘The highlander,’ grunted the Kurgan. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘You’re too late. I’ve prepared him for you.’

  ‘You waste your time.’

  ‘I think not.’

  They crossed swords then and the fight began. Heather crouched down, in the corner, avoiding the blows that whistled past her head. She was terrified. Who was this monster? What did he want with her Conner? Suddenly, the Kurgan reeled backwards, clutching his throat. Blood spurted through his fingers and came gushing from his mouth. He spat globules of it into Ramirez’s face. When he took his hand away for a second, Heather could see that the Spaniard’s sword had sliced deeply into the giant’s neck. If she did not believe in immortals before, she did now. That stroke would have felled an ordinary man.

  Ramirez said, ‘Almost, Kurgan. You are losing your head.’

  The Kurgan’s voice came through in a kind of bubbling croak.

  ‘No, Ramirez. That was your only chance. It’s your head that will roll across the floor.’

  The swords met again, with the Kurgan gargling out in some strange language that Heather could not understand. The fireplace was destroyed as the blades crashed down on the brickwork. Hot stew spilled out, over the earthen floor and a sheep sank to its knees when the Kurgan’s sword sliced through one of its hind legs. It bleated, pitifully, for some time, until a second blow, meant for Ramirez, split its Skull The rest of the animals scuttled here and there, some trying to scale the walls of the tower and others running out through the open doorway.

  As the fight continued, a sleeting blizzard began outside and added to the confusion, the wind driving the wet snow through the doorway and filling the tower with swirling flakes. Ramirez, to gain the advantage of height, leaped onto the stone steps leading to the watchtower, and the Kurgan gradually forced him upwards, fighting past the windows through which the sleet was funnelled. The visibility in the room had dropped with the storm and Heather could only dimly perceive the actions of the two men as they battled on the stairs. She saw Ramirez kick out and his foot landed on the throat of the Kurgan. The big man grunted, obviously in pain,

  ‘Hurts, does it?’ cried Ramirez with satisfaction in his voice and kicked again.

  They were fighting about twenty feet from the ground at this time, and the Kurgan overbalanced and fell crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap. He lay still. Thank the Lord, for that, thought Heather. She hoped every bone in his body was broken and that he. would not even be able to lift a finger.

  Her hopes were short-lived. The Kurgan stirred even as she was thinking and was back on his feet before Ramirez could reach the bottom of the stone staircase, ‘You cannot win,’ gurgled the Kurgan, holding his throat. ‘I am the strongest.’

  Ramirez cried, ‘My cut has improved your voice. You warble, my friend. Not exactly like the sweetest bird, but definitely an improvement.’

  ‘Still jesting,’ growled the Kurgan.

  ‘I have lived too long to be serious.’

  ‘You have lived too long,’ confirmed the Kurgan.

  The great man swung his sword and it struck the masonry at the foot of the steps with tremendous force. The crumbling brickwork, already loose and lacking any adhesive mortar, began to give way. Blocks of stone tumbled from the walls and began thundering around Heather’s head. She screamed, pressing herself into the corner.

  ‘Run, Heather,’ cried Ramirez, in between parries. ‘Get out of here. Run. Run.’

  The Kurgan went berserk, his sword strokes smashing into the walls of the tower, the metal ringing out, sparks erupting. Each wild stroke brought down more masonry. The whole tower now was in danger of falling, with loose stones slipping out from underneath all the time. Blocks the size of a man’s chest rolled down the staircase or fell into the snow outside. The sky opened up to the two fighters and the blizzard joined in their furious battle, itself lashing and whipping as the swords bit into one another. Heather could see the dark clouds moving above the heads of the two figures that now fought on the very pinnacle of the staircase, the walls around them having dropped away and leaving them open to the raging elements.

  Suddenly, one of Ramirez’s lunges broke through the Kurgan’s guard and the Spaniard buried his blade in the giant’s stomach. The Kurgan screamed, but gripped the Samurai blade in his strong left hand and held it there. Another block of stone fell close to Heather. She screamed, just as the Kurgan wrenched the sword out of his own body and threw it to the ground.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Hurts..’

  Then he looked down, to where the scream had come from.

  ‘Who is the woman?’

  ‘She’s mine,’ said the now unarmed Ramirez.

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  The Kurgan’s sword lashed out and a deep cut appeared on Ramirez’s chest.

  ‘You try some pain;’ said the Kurgan.

  Ramirez stood, quite still. Heather could not see his face, but she realized that he could not escape. He was trapped. Lightning came out of the clouds and stuck the stonework between the two men. They seemed to absorb it, as if it were nothing but gentle sunshine.

  ‘Tonight you sleep in Hell,’ said the Kurgan. ‘There can be only one.’

  The sword flashed again, and something fell beside Heather. At first she thought it was another stone, with a grass clump, growing from it. Then she saw the eyes staring at her, blindly, and screamed. It was the head of Ramirez. His hair was black against the snow that had covered the floor in a thin layer and the stump of the neck was still twitching. She vomited, violently.

  The Kurgan began to descend the staircase, slowly at first, but then more quickly when she jumped to her feet and stumbled over the fallen blocks to get to the door. She ran towards a group of distant pines, as lightning began crashing down onto the ruined tower and impeding the Kurgan’s progress. She stopped and looked back, thinking that the bolts must surely destroy the man, but though he paused each time he was struck, he still continued to follow her. He seemed invulnerable to the charges, even gathering in strength each time he was hit.

  God was surely on her side, trying to stop this beast from reaching her, but His efforts were not forceful enough. The monster came on.

  She struggled through the thick snow, still trying to escape and thought she might make the trees, where she could disappear into the darkness beyond, but a rough hand gripped her shoulder and threw her to the ground.

  ‘Hello, pretty. . .’ growled the Kurgan.

  She screamed and he dragged her back to the tower. Once within the walls he picked up Ramirez’s head and held it in front of her face.

  ‘There’s your lover,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you make love to him?’

  She tried to claw at the Kurgan’s face, but he merely laughed.

  ‘Oh, I forgot. He hasn’t got his body with him. You’ll have to make do with me. I’m better than he is anyway...’

  He tore her dress open to the bare skin and threw her on the ground, where she shivered.

  ‘Now,’ he said, getting on top of her. ‘A small prize, for Ramirez.’ His stinking breath made her retch and she lay there as the animal grunted, forcing himself inside her. There was great pain, both physical and mental... All she wanted was for him to finish and leave, before. Conner returned.

  When Conner came back from the hunt, he found Heather sitting beside Ramirez’s body. She had placed the head at the top of the torso, but Conner could see that they were separate bodily parts.

  ‘What happened?’ he cried, throwing down the carcass of the young deer. He
took her into his arms. ‘Are you all right, my bonny? Are you hurt?’

  She shook her head and clung to him, tightly.

  ‘No, Conner. I’m no hurt. I hid in the woods. But Ramirez is dead. . .’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I can see.’

  ‘It was a big man - in black. Ramirez called him the Kurgan. He fought like a madman. I thought it was the very Devil himself. Is he, Conner? Is he the Devil?’

  He hugged her to him. ‘He may as well be. Thank God you’re safe.’

  ‘I ran, when the fighting started. He looked for me afterwards, but I was well hidden. Now he’s gone, thank God.’

  Conner’s mouth tightened. ‘He killed my friend. One day I’ll make him eat his own weapon for that. If he’d harmed you. . .’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ she said, quickly.

  ‘It’s as well, for I would’ve chased him to the ends of the earth.’

  They buried Ramirez in an unmarked grave beneath the floor of the tower the next day. The earth was hard, but not iron-tough like the ground on the outside. Heather said a prayer over the spot and, privately, cursed the Kurgan for what he had done to the Spaniard and to her. Now she was glad for what Ramirez had told her that these immortal men could not father children.

  While he had been out hunting, Conner had thought quite seriously about what Ramirez had told him of his own experiences, but whenever he considered leaving Heather, his heart sank. Eventually, he made the decision that, as long as she needed him, he would stay with her. The Kurgan never returned to the Southern Uplands of Scotland, and Conner and Heather lived a peaceful life, if full of privation, in their croft.

  Over the years Conner watched his Heather grow older, the hard life making her age much more rapidly than a lady of more wealthy birth. She, in her turn, obviously saw that he was indeed going to remain as he was: youthful, energetic and full of vigour. Yet she said nothing. Sometimes he, forgot the gulf between them and arranged long walk into the hills, impatient to reach the summit of this or that place, only to find her dragging herself along with laboured breathing, way behind him. It was at these time he felt sad for them both.

  One day, when her hair had turned white and her face had begun to crease into a leathery appearance, he found her lying by the milk bucket in the stall. He carried her frail body into the croft and laid it on the bed he had fashioned for them both with his own hands. She smiled up at him and stroked his hair, the way a mother would do to a son.

  ‘Ah, my bonnie lad,’ she said, ‘you will not grieve too much for your Heather, promise?’ He hugged her to him.

  ‘Lassie, lassie,’ he cried, weeping into her bosom, ‘don’t leave me so soon. I’m afraid - I need you here.’

  She pushed him from her sagging breasts and said, ‘Look at me. I’m an old woman. You’re still in your prime, Conner MacLeod. I don’t want to live any more. We’ve had our time together, and wonderful it was. Don’t spoil it with regret. God gave us each other - you were his gift to me. Now I have to go and thank Him, for I am as grateful as a woman should be that has known real love.’

  ‘You’ll get better, you’ll see. I’ll care for you real well. You’ll get better, lassie.’

  She took his head in her hands. ‘No, I must go. Don’t you see? It has to happen some times. I can’t stay forever. I’m not like you. I’ll wait for you, Conner, my lad. We’ll see each other again. A thousand - ten thousand years is but a moment in the lace that I am going. Don’t forget me, Conner MacLeod. There will be other women. . .’

  ‘Never,’ he cried fiercely.

  ‘. . . there will be other women, and I can’t tell you a lie, I’m jealous of them already. But as long as I stay in some corner of your heart, I’ll not let that jealousy turn to poison. I’m as weak as any other woman, Conner – I want my own to be my own - so don’t you forget your Heather, though you live until the sun itself dies.’

  He touched her cheek. Her voice became very weak, as she said, ‘You stayed - you stayed with your Heather, though she became an old woman.’

  ‘No so old. I love you now as much as on the first day we met.’

  ‘And I love you.’

  She was fading fast now. She said, ‘I don’t want to die. I want to stay with you.’ ‘I want that too. Do - something for me - Conner?’

  What my bonny?’

  ‘In the years - to come - will you light a candle to remember me - on my birthday?’

  ‘Aye love. I will.’

  ‘I wanted - to have your children. . .’ She had suddenly turned very pale and

  Conner climbed onto the bed with her and lay by her side.

  ‘Hold my hand, Conner. Hold it tightly.’

  He did so, pressing his cheek against hers and soon the warmth began to go out of her. He stayed there until the night came and then he went out to the ruined tower and stood by the grave of Ramirez.

  ‘Well, old friend,’ he said, ‘I think I envy you now. I’m putting my Heather in here beside you, so you can look after her for me. His voice grew a little impassioned.

  ‘You look after her for me, you hear, peacock?’

  Then he went and got a spade and dug a grave next to that of the Spaniard’s. The rest of the night, by the light of an oil lamp, he fashioned a coffin from pinewood, into which he placed the corpse Finally, he chipped a cross from one of the stones of the tower and laid it across both graves.

  ‘You can share it between you,’ he said. ‘I’ll not mind you sharing.’

  For the next two years he worked around the croft, then, tiring of the life decided to see some of the world: He went down to Edinburgh and stayed there ten years, learning to read and write and generally gathering knowledge to himself. Then he moved on to London.

  Wherever he went he found he had to move on every few years, because newly made friends began to look sideways at him and comment on his ability to remain youthful…

  There were wars - always wars - in which he fought and of which he wearied, though he tried to choose the side of right. Often, he could not see the proper cause and tried to stay out of the bloodshed as much as he was able”

  There were other women, too, but he held back any strong emotion. He chose those he knew would tire of him early and leave him for some of her young man.

  In the eighteenth century he began to travel more widely, visiting the Far East and experiencing other cultures. Twice, he met up with people like himself. On one of those occasions he had to fight and decapitate his opponent with the Samurai sword left by Ramirez in the weeds below the tower.

  Many times, he wished he were a normal man and unable to stop the aging process which was the lot of normal men. He did not want to die - but he did not always want to live.

  Chapter 19

  BRENDA WYATT WAS of course intrigued by Nash, alias MacLeod - or was it MacLeod, alias Nash? - and the reasons behind the decapitations and sword fights that were taking place on the New York streets. What she had not realized, and was not prepared to admit to herself, was the fact that she had a more than professional interest in the handsome antique dealer. She kept telling herself that the gory puzzle and the figures behind it were what attracted her enquiring mind.

  The Saturday after the fight on the construction site, Brenda went shopping and just happened to walk in the direction of NASH ANTIQUES. After buying a few groceries and wandering around a large department store where the clothes were just what .she wanted but not what she could afford, she found herself having coffee in a restaurant opposite the antique shop.

  She observed a few customers, coming and going, and then finally the man himself arrived and went inside. She finished her coffee quickly, paid, and went across the street.

  There was nothing unusual about the facade of the place on Hudson Street

  . It was much like any other antique shop. If it was a front for some illegal activity, then it was a very successful one. She had witnessed several purchases over the last hour. And a front for what? Why do people kill each other? If it
was a drugs racket, the goods being smuggled in with or in antiques, why settle disagreements with broadswords and ancient blades? Why not just bump each other off in the way gangland killings were usually managed - an accident or just a good, old-fashioned bullet in the brain? Why all this re-enacting of 18th-century duelling? She imagined Nash saying something to her like, ‘We belong to an historical society, interested in the art of duelling with the sword, only we like it to be authentic. We go all the way…’

  She entered the shop and looked around. Nash was nowhere to be seen, but there was a woman sitting behind a desk and she looked up.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The woman was quite attractive for someone in her forties, and Brenda felt an unreasonable flash of pique go through her. Was this woman personally involved with Nash? Then she kicked herself, mentally, for being so stupid. That was the kind of macho thought a man might have on seeing a perfectly innocent situation. She worked I for Nash, that was all.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Russell Nash.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I’m Rachel Ellenstein. Can I be of assistance? I’m sure I can. . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. I particularly wished to speak to Mr Nash. Could you fetch him for me, please?’

  The telephone rang at that moment and the woman called Rachel said, ‘Excuse me,’ lifted the receiver and spoke briefly into the instrument, before turning to Brenda again.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Nash is not here at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Brenda arched a brow. ‘Then who was that I saw walk in here a few moments ago? Perhaps it was a Mr MacLeod?’

  Rachel looked a little startled and began to fiddle with some papers on her desk.

  ‘May I call Mr Nash at home?’ said Brenda, trying another tack. ‘I have to talk to him today.’

  Rachel was a little red by this time, but she seemed to become less flustered after glancing towards the door at the rear of the shop.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

  Brenda retorted, ‘No, I don’t suppose it would be, since he’s obviously in a back room somewhere.’