Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  He supposed he should have asked Kastagir what he was doing here, but he guessed the black man was getting a bit of his own back: chasing the white man.

  That night MacLeod worked at the thongs that bound the cage bars together: gnawing them with his teeth. His one thought now was to get out and make a run for it. All night he worked at the leathers, biting through them piece by piece, until, as the sun came up, he managed to work one of the bars loose. He pushed it aside and began to ease his thin frame through the gap. All around were sleeping forms of those who had not bothered to go into their huts, but preferred the airy doorways. Some of them were children, usually the first awake, and here and there a body or two was already stirring in the early heat. Chickens were beginning to peck at the hard earth, making noises around the sleepers.

  The large red disc of the sun crept gradually upwards over the edge of the plain. Ragged trees could be seen being stripped of bark by elephant, half a mile away. He made his way towards these Yellow Fever Trees, hoping to put the herd between him and sight of the village. MacLeod had not gone more than a dozen steps before a five-year-old voice called to him to come and play. He tried to quieten the child by waving his hands and smiling at it, but the youngster was eager and trotted towards MacLeod, at the same time shouting to its friends to come and play with the man from the cage.

  Soon, mothers were awakened, then fathers and as MacLeod raced around the encampment, the whole Zulu nation opened its eyes, jumped to its feet and formed an impassable black maze, within which MacLeod was trapped.

  They led him back to his cage, not in anger, but laughing and joking. They thought the whole episode, ending with MacLeod running around like a headless chicken, hilarious. The Zulu have a wonderful sense of humour. When they saw the chewed bonds, they told him cheerfully, that since he had already had his breakfast, he would not need any more before the fight that day. Kastagir came to see him.

  ‘Bad luck,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There won’t be another chance.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ said MacLeod, ‘in plenty of time.’

  ‘Is it my fault you’re in a cage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. At least you gave them some amusement before ... well, let’s hope for the best. If you win, they’ll let you go.’

  ‘They will?’

  ‘Yes - but your chances of winning are pretty slim, you must admit.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said MacLeod, slipping back into despondency again.

  They came for him at two o’clock that afternoon, just after the sun had passed the vertical. It was tremendously hot. The Zulu audience, which stretched back, wave on wave, sat in the shade of temporarily erected sunscreens. Cetewayo and his officers had a ringside seat of course, with attendants running here, there and everywhere. MacLeod, on seeing the mild-looking king, had to remind himself that this man had marched regiments of Zulus over the edges of cliffs, letting them fall to their deaths, simply to prove their loyalty to him. This was not a man to take at face value.

  The drums were being pounded, as usual, and MacLeod was led to the centre of the area they had marked out and, as Kastagir had warned him to expect, an assagai was thrust into his hands. He took the long-bladed, shorthandled spear (invention of Cetewayo’s uncle Chaka) and tested its cutting edge with his finger. It was not sharp. The weapon was designed for close-combat thrusting and stabbing, not cutting.

  The drums reached a feverish pitch and the tall lithe man MacLeod had seen the day before leapt into the ring and began dancing round him. There was a thunderous roar of appreciation from the crowd. This was their champion, and their champion carried a kind of heavyhandled knife with a moon-shaped double blade. A form of axe.

  MacLeod waited for his opponent to come to him, but the other man was not ready for him yet. He had not finished dancing around the area, showing off his magnificent ebony body. Finally, the drums stopped and the crowd went quiet. The two men squared up to one another.

  MacLeod held the assagai with both hands, like a sword, hoping to hurt his adversary in some way so as to try to get the axe.

  There was much weaving and leaping: gymnastics from both men. MacLeod found he had to be extremely agile to avoid blows from the axe, and though he could have stabbed his opponent several times, he tried instead to strike with the edge of the assagai blade, hoping that his strength would be enough to cut through the man’s neck. Once, he caught the Zulu on his shoulder, but the weapon did not even break the skin.

  The sweat was pouring from MacLeod’s back as they each feigned a rush, then went in together, to lock weapons. He let his own fall to the ground in an effort to get hold of the other man’s, but failed and thus left himself completely unarmed. The grinning Zulu attacked him with renewed vigour now and MacLeod had to ward off the blows with his hands, receiving many cuts.

  The Zulu rushed him. MacLeod sidestepped and stuck out a foot. The other man saw it. Jumped. Turned and came in again. MacLeod was on him and there was a second struggle for the axe. The Zulu - lean and snaky - wriggled out of MacLeod’s grasp.

  At one point, MacLeod found himself on the floor with the axe descending on him. He moved his head a fraction and the blade buried itself in the earth by his cheek. Finally, out of desperation, MacLeod ran for his own weapon, snatched it from the ground, turned and slammed it point-first into the chest of the Zulu.

  There was an ‘Aaaahhhh . . .’ from the crowd. Cetewayo jumped to his feet. All eyes were on the transfixed opponent of MacLeod. The man staggered forwards, his mouth hanging open, clawed at the assagai with frantic fingers, took one last beseeching look at his king, then flopped to the ground and lay still.

  He was obviously dead.

  MacLeod was stunned. Hadn’t Kastagir said that this man was an immortal? Kastagir! MacLeod looked around for him, but it wasn’t until Cetewayo wanted to talk to MacLeod that he saw the Ethiopian. He was standing by the king.

  Kastagir cried, ‘Cetewayo thinks you are a fine warrior. He praises you.’ The king nodded, as if to confirm.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ replied MacLeod, sarcastically. ‘I could have killed him that way half an hour ago, if you hadn’t lied to me. You said the warrior was an immortal.’

  ‘A joke,’ smiled Kastagir, and though he obviously did not understand the words, Cetewayo nodded violently and shouted something in Zulu. The nation responded warmly.

  Kastagir said, ‘You know what great humorists us Zulus are.’

  They began to lead MacLeod back, towards his cage.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘I won the combat. I get to go free.’ Kastagir shook his head. ‘I lied about that too,’ he cried, in a cheerful voice.

  That night, under cover of darkness, Kastagir helped him escape and led him north, to some English troops. That was the last time MacLeod had seen him - until the incident on the New York subway.

  Chapter 24

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, a bright one, MacLeod made his way to the bridge in Central Park. Before he reached it he could see Kastagir leaning on the parapet, keeping a wary eye open for the Kurgan. As Kastagir had said, there was no point in fighting each other, until one of them had defeated the Russian.

  ‘Hey, Kastagir!’ called MacLeod.

  The black face creased into a grin. ‘MacLeod! It’s good to see you again. I was only thinking last night, after I left you, that it seems like a hundred years.’

  MacLeod grasped his hand and shook it. ‘It has been a hundred years - and you know what you did to me then, you bastard.’

  Kastagir laughed. ‘I remember. Look, are we going to walk?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They took each other’s arm and began to saunter through the shrubbery. They could have been two French courtiers of Louis XIV’s era, strolling through the gardens of Versailles.

  ‘How have you been?’ asked MacLeod.

  ‘Oh, not so bad. A few years here, a few years there. It’s a living.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Oh, b
y the way. I brought you some of this,’ said Kastagir. He reached inside his kaftan and brought out a bottle.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked MacLeod.

  ‘Boom-boom. ‘

  MacLeod shook his head.

  Kastagir seemed disappointed. ‘A big strong man like you shouldn’t be afraid of a little boom-boom.’

  But MacLeod knew well that anything given him by Kastagir had to be taken in the knowledge that there was more behind it than just a drink. It could be a practical joke - or it could be something more serious. MacLeod did not want to test it out.

  ‘You don’t trust me, MacLeod?’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘Very wise. I might be trying to poison you,’ laughed Kastagir. ‘Ah well,’ he shrugged and put the bottle back inside his kaftan.

  Some kids ran between them and their arms, unhooked, now remained that way. Both men glanced occasionally at the bushes, but knew that the Kurgan would be a little foolish to attack them while they were together, when he could take them one at a time.

  ‘So,’ said Kastagir. ‘The Gathering is here. Time has almost caught us, my friend.’

  ‘Has it?’

  MacLeod looked at the black man.

  ‘Do you think we should go on?’

  Kastagir smiled. ‘You’ve grown weary of life at last? It comes to us all, doesn’t it. A time when there is nothing new. Even when some fresh discovery is made in the eyes of the rest of the world, to us it’s still a great yawn. We’ve seen from swords to nuclear missiles, and many a year between. There’s nothing left of interest. Yet, we still want to live, isn’t that so, MacLeod?’

  The Scot nodded.

  ‘It’s the part I don’t understand. To be utterly weary and sick of it all - yet still to be reluctant to leave it.’ ‘More than just “reluctant. “,

  ‘Yes. We would fight to the utmost lengths of our skill to keep something we don’t really want.’

  Kastagir laughed. ‘You’re not in love then - at the moment?’

  ‘I was only in love once, ever, and that was enough. Not the loving, but the parting. I don’t wish to repeat the experience. ‘

  ‘She wasn’t good to you?’

  ‘She was my wife - and we were everything to one another. I am only half alive.’

  Kastagir was serious for a moment. ‘So. Yes, I know what you’re talking about. I too. . .’ But he clearly did not want to open himself to MacLeod.

  They walked on for a bit in silence. The park around them was full of families and loners, couples and groups of youngsters, infants and the elderly: all forms of human life. In a way it was not their world at all. They were aliens amongst these people, not because of their origin of birth, but because of the twist behind it.

  Kastagir slapped MacLeod on the back. ‘A hundred years. I think I see you every century. That’s pretty regularly, isn’t it, MacLeod?’

  ‘It’s a regular meeting,’ agreed MacLeod.

  Kastagir said, ‘The time before Zululand, was in Boston. Your famous duel - do you remember?’ MacLeod smiled.

  Kastagir said, ‘We had a party. 1793 it was.’

  ‘1783, not 93,’ said MacLeod. ‘And you were drunk.’ Kastagir waved a finger in his face.

  ‘So were you, I recall, my friend. At least I was sober enough not to insult the wife of a famous swordsman. . .’

  ‘I only insulted . . .’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ replied Kastagir.

  MacLeod did indeed know what the Ethiopian meant. Kastagir had been posing as some Eastern prince at the time and both had found themselves together at the party of a Bostonian Judge. The wine and brandy had been flowing quite freely, when MacLeod found himself pursued by the ugly wife of one of the first gentlemen of Boston - a wealthy shipowner by the name of Bassett.

  MacLeod did his best to get rid of the woman by fair means, but when she followed him into a bedroom, which he had chosen as an escape route and started to remove her clothes, he called her a name. She paled, told him he was no gentleman and went to fetch her husband.

  Mr Bassett entered the bedroom with a single glove in his hand. He marched up to MacLeod and struck him round the face with it.

  ‘Swords,’ said MacLeod, too drunk to add any words on either side of that single reference.

  ‘Time ?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Place?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Not good enough. Boston Common.’

  ‘Greed. ‘

  Somehow MacLeod found his way to the spot on Boston Common where they had agreed to stage the duel. He had with him no seconds and stated that he did not want any. All he wanted to do was get it over with so that he could either drink further and pass out, or go home to bed.

  Bassett had brought with him a doctor, two seconds and his man Hotchkiss. The duelling blades were brought forth and Bassett made his selection.

  Hotchkiss said, ‘The heavier blade, Mr Bassett, I implore you.’

  ‘I am fighting this duel, Hotchkiss, not you,’ came the impatient reply.

  The blade was tested for strength and whip. The seconds were inspecting the ground beneath the old oak (though it had been inspected a thousand times before the spot was a famous duelling ground). Having satisfied themselves that they had done their duty they signalled to Mr Bassett and to MacLeod, though the latter was paying little attention to them. He had been studying a jay on the bough of the oak, and thinking how beautiful it looked in the rays of the early-dawn sun.

  ‘Are you ready, sir?’ called Bassett.

  ‘Eh? What?’

  Mr Bassett sighed and said to his seconds, ‘See if the imbecile is ready.’

  Mr Jones came up to him.

  ‘Mr Bassett wishes to know if you are ready, sir?’

  ‘Of course I’m ready, sir. I’m the one who’s been kept waiting. ‘

  ‘Then will you please take the sword.’

  He was offered the remaining blade - an epee. Bassett had taken the foil.

  ‘On guard!’

  The two blades crossed. There was a flurry from the blade of Mr Bassett, a slight pain in MacLeod’s heart, as the thin blade went through it (though it was considerably dulled by the amount of alcohol that was flowing through the organ at the time) and the uninjured gentleman began to walk away.

  MacLeod fell over, climbed back on to his feet and called to his opponent, whose back was now to him.

  ‘Hi! What about this duel?’

  Bassett stopped in his tracks and turned around, a look of amazement on his face. His seconds too, were staring pop-eyed.

  Hotchkiss said, ‘Oh my God. You must have missed him, Mr Bassett.’

  Bassett growled, ‘I can assure you, Hotchkiss, that I did not miss. I saw my blade go through his chest. It has not hit a vital organ, that is all. We shall have to do it again.’

  MacLeod staggered forward to cross blades again and his wig fell over his eyes.

  ‘Jesus,’ he cried. ‘I’ve gone blind!’

  Mr Bassett’s blade again went slickly and cleanly through his heart. MacLeod dropped to the ground. Bassett began to walk away, wiping the blade of the foil. MacLeod climbed to his feet. Hotchkiss shrieked. The seconds whirled. MacLeod said, ‘Hi! Now what. . .’

  Bassett stamped his foot in frustration. He stepped forward again and once, twice, three times, ran the body of MacLeod through with his foil. MacLeod fell over and then climbed back to his feet.

  ‘Now...’

  Bassett tried several more places of penetration, getting more and more frustrated all the time. He was also getting angry with Hotchkiss, who was dancing around on the periphery of his vision.

  ‘That’s it, Mr Bassett, there and there. Yes! Oh, no. He’s back on his feet, sir. Try again. There. No there. Just below the collarbone. Very good, sir. No, not working I’m afraid...’

  The seconds were becoming appalled by the carnage that was not a carnage.

  Finally, MacLeod yelled, ‘Stop, sir. I beseech you. I am
getting tired and a little sober. One or the other will have to go. I apologize for calling your wife a bloated wart-hog and I bid you good day.’

  He turned on his heel and began to walk away. Hotchkiss grabbed a pistol from one of the seconds and pushed it into the hands of Bassett.

  ‘Shoot him sir.’

  Bassett ignored him, throwing down the foil in disgust. ‘Must shoot him, sir,’ cried Hotchkiss, dancing around his master. ‘Before he gets out of range.’

  ‘Hotchkiss, stop it. Please leave me alone.’ But the servant was not to be put off. He was thoroughly agitated by this time. He wanted blood. MacLeod’s blood. His master deserved it.

  ‘Shoot him sir. Have to shoot him.’

  Bassett said, ‘Hotchkiss, I swear...’

  Hotchkiss ran a little way after MacLeod and pointed. ‘In the back, sir. Quickly. Shoot. Shoot.’

  Mr Bassett indeed fired at that point, but the yelp of pain was not from MacLeod, but from Hotchkiss, who began doing a very different dance around the Common, clutching his rump.

  ‘Ow, sir!’ he shrieked. ‘Sir. . .’

  ‘Yes, that was some duel,’ said Kastagir. ‘I could tell that to my grandchildren, if I had grandchildren.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of my weaknesses, Kastagir, just when I need to recall my strengths,’ said MacLeod.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that immortality, the way we possess it, has robbed us of a more traditional concept of immortality life through our offspring.’

  ‘You think that a weakness in us?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  They walked on in silence for a while, suddenly aware that they had little to say to each other even after a hundred years - especially after a hundred years. Too little, and too much, happens over such a great expanse of time. They had no reference points with each other. They had recalled a brief meeting between them - two brief meetings if the duel was to be counted - and now they had nothing to say to one another.