Where to begin? I suppose the first thing I'd like to tell you is that I forgive you. I'm aware that what happened wasn't your intention. As it wasn't the first time I was confronted by this type of trouble either, I'm fairly certain I was doomed anyway. You were the brother and the father I never had. You welcomed me into your life and introduced me to some excellent and fascinating people who became very dear to me. We certainly had our moments of difference, but that's par for the course. You also guided, defended, and relentlessly looked out for me. I'm no longer bitter or angry about what happened. Actually, it may have been a blessing in disguise. I was always searching for something on earth, never quite happy or settled in who I was. Like your shadow, I looked to you for all of life's answers and never really developed a mind of my own. It seems sad now, painful to bear, and even a bit pathetic.
I do wish that you had encouraged me to take greater advantage of my time on earth and enjoy it more, as opposed to focusing so much attention on training to defend myself. Sometimes I think I was ill-fated from the start and that it was only through wits, chance, and the generosity of others that I was able to survive as long as I did.
I know you meant well, Mac, but I am finally at greater peace with myself and my surroundings than ever before. I even have a beautiful woman in my life and we don't live under a veil of secrecy.
In an effort to occupy myself, I have taken to a great deal of reading and writing and particularly familiarized myself with the works of William Shakespeare. Bill, as I refer to him now, has given me a passport to worlds foreign to me and my limited experiences on earth. I especially came to like this fellow Hamlet, perhaps because I identified with him so closely. We were both confused young men, caught up in tragic circumstances, very torn and feeling betrayed.
I think back on our time together and can't help but feel as if our lives were littered with tragedy. Quite honestly, I don't know how you continue to bear it. I admire your perseverance and your courage. You are a man of great principle and you taught me a great deal. For this, I thank you.
Take care of yourself. While I have faith that in the end you will he "the one," I would certainly look forward to seeing you sooner. Give my best to everyone and toast me once in a While.
All the best, my friend.
Until next time,
Richie
What a fantastic opportunity this has been. I feel better already. I do hope these letters reach their intended recipients. My friend, the messenger, is a trustworthy sort, and I am therefore very confident. At this time I am reminded of a passage from that William Shakespeare play for which I have such an affinity. I will leave you with this:
"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?"
World Enough and Time
World Enough and Time II
World Enough and Time III
Natural Wonders
Holy Ground
The Man With No Name
Postcards From Athens
Night in Geneva
Postcards From Alexa
World Enough and Time
by Gillian Horvath
The love story of Methos and Alexa is like an iceberg in the Highlander world—only the tip rises above the surface of the series. Although Ocean Hellman, who portrayed Alexa so beautifully, appeared in only one episode, the impact of the character was felt throughout season 4. In "Timeless," when they meet. In "Deliverance," when Methos mentions to MacLeod that he left Alexa in Athens. In "Methuselah's Gift," when Methos is in pursuit of the Methuselah Crystals to save Alexa's life. And Head Writer David Abramowitz decreed that we would find a place in the show to let Methos have his moment of grief for her loss; that place was found in "Through a Glass Darkly," when Methos and MacLeod stand at Alexa's grave.
In creating these few scenes referring to Alexa's off-screen death, we found that we had created an offscreen life for her as well. Over six or eight months, beginning in December of 1995, Donna Lettow and I took turns writing a series of vignettes, known collectively as "Postcards from Alexa."
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. With a bone-weary sigh, the man who was calling himself Adam Pierson stripped off his mud-soaked clothes and dropped them on the floor of the hotel bathroom. The cuts and bruises had healed already; the clothes were a total loss.
He'd wanted to start their trip at the Grand Canyon, even though it meant driving more than twenty hours straight through while Alexa dozed in the back of the van. He'd wanted to be there at that moment when she stepped out of the van and saw the canyon spread before her, to see that look of wonder and awe as she tried to assimilate the broken landscape. He'd been there a dozen times over the years himself, and had yet to become immune to the absolute amazement he'd felt the very first time he'd seen it. Next to this work of Nature every human problem seemed small, and even he, with five thousand years of memories weighing on him, seemed young.
He hadn't counted on the driving rainstorm that had caught them as they crossed the Rockies, or the flat tire that had them almost in a ditch outside of Flagstaff. On the darkened road the fall rain was less a gentle shower than an aggressor, and he'd been soaked through in seconds changing the tire. He'd lost his footing as he struggled to push them out of the mud the van was mired in, and taken a tumble down a scraggly bank which seemed to have been planted strategically with briars. There was less damage to his body than to his mood—the perfect day he'd planned had been turned into a disaster, and even Alexa's attempts to turn it into a joke had fallen flat. It didn't matter, she said, but it did matter—they'd never get this day, their first day, back. They'd finished the drive in silence, and he'd stayed in the van, too mud-soaked to venture inside, while she'd checked them into their hotel. She'd handed him a key and disappeared into the next bungalow over, and he couldn't say he blamed her. His charm seemed to have abandoned him back in that muddy ditch. He didn't feel much like spending the night with himself, either. Pushing muddy hair out of his eyes, he reached for the shower knobs, then cursed fluently in a couple of dead languages. The quaint hotel, apparently designed for romantic getaways for couples, had foregone installing a shower in favor of a big whirlpool tub, and he stood shivering in the tiled bathroom while it filled slowly.
Finally lowering himself into the steaming water, he wasn't surprised when it turned brown immediately. He leaned over to try and scrub some of the mud and grit out of his hair, and succeeded only in getting filthy water running into his eyes. He blinked it away, then blinked again. Alexa was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a white robe with Coronet Hotel stitched on the pocket, looking warm and scrubbed.
"My room has a shower," she said quietly, by way of explanation.
"Maybe I should borrow it, he replied, painfully aware of what a sight he must be, with barely diluted mud smeared from head to toe. "I'll never get clean this way."
"You might try clean water," she answered wryly. She crouched down to his level, reached past him to pull the drain. He forced himself not to move as the muddy water drained away; her eyes stayed locked on his, a tiny smile playing on her lips. She was enjoying this, damn her! Bless her.
She turned the taps back on and sat on the edge of the tub as it started to fill. "Turn around," she said softly, and he did as he was told, drawing his knees up, leaning against the padded tub wall next to her. She nudged him forward with her knee, scooping up a handful of water to splash over him. He allowed himself to relax as the hot water rose around him, his head dropping forward as Alexa's tiny hands ladled water over his head in warm half-cupfuls. He could feel her fingers brushing against his skull, against the tops of his ears, as she went over his head seemingly strand by strand. Senses heightened, head bowed, he could see the ripples on the smooth surface of the water as he breathed, he could feel every
fiber of her terry robe where his shoulder brushed her thigh.
When the last handful of water over his head ran away clean, her hands dropped to his shoulders for a moment, then moved off. She shifted position to kneel behind him and reached past him for the soap, and when her hands returned they were cool and slick with lather. She made her way over his shoulders and down his chest, the last of the mud disappearing as she repeatedly cupped clean water over him and smoothed away the last of the soap. Her chest pressed against his back and her breath was warm against his ear as she leaned forward, her hands running down his arm from shoulder to elbow to wrist. She lifted his hand to soap between each finger, and he closed his eyes, feeling his breath catch at the touch of her hands against the sensitive webbing.
Then her finger traced a circle on the inside of his wrist, and his eyes flew open to see her staring at the Watcher tattoo, tracing its intricate design with one gentle finger.
"And here I thought you were some geeky travel writer with his college van." She raised his arm out of the water for a better look. "Didn't figure you for a guy with the kind of checkered past that includes a tattoo."
"You have no idea." He looked at the tattoo with new eyes, trying to see it as she saw it, as a sign of a troubled youth. She raised the wrist toward her mouth and he shuddered slightly, anticipating the kiss, then shuddered again as she surprised him with no kiss, instead blowing gently on the exposed wrist until the bathwater evaporated, then all but imperceptibly, running the tip of her tongue around the tattooed circle.
The inside of the wrist, jammed with veins and nerves, is one of the most dangerous places on the body to be tattooed—hence the Watcher ritual. And hence his reaction as her tongue touched the sensitive skin. He turned in the tub, scooped her up in both arms, and pulled her in on top of him. Her robe turned into a sponge as he settled her in his lap and kissed her, holding on until he could feel her breath go short. He pulled back a fraction of an inch then, looking into her eyes, and there it was—the look of wonder and awe he had wanted so much to see. Here, in this tub, in this bathroom, they were looking at a work of nature older than either of them.
Maybe their first day wasn't ruined, after all.
Postcards From Alexa
World Enough and Time II
by Donna Lettow
Alexa had tried to tell him a little rain didn't matter, but you know the way men are. And it was very hard not to laugh when he returned to the van, stiff and scratched and covered head to toe in mud, although she suspected his pride was bruised more than his butt—no, bum—was. Bum. Just the sound of his voice spoke of all the adventure and exotic far away places she'd thought she'd never see. Not until she met Adam...
When they'd pulled out of Seacouver yesterday after tearful goodbyes to Joe and a solemn promise to write, she was brimming with excitement, but after nearly eighteen hours, the road had taken its toll on her. She had harbored a faint hope they would stop for the night at some cozy hotel in northern Utah, maybe even one with a honeymoon suite... she'd flushed a bit at the thought. But Adam had his own plans. His heart was set on being at the Grand Canyon as the sun rose. She reminded him with a gentle laugh that the Canyon had been there longer than either of them and it would still be there tomorrow. Adam said nothing, just smiled and gazed at her with those bottomless eyes that pleaded "but we've got so much to do..." Alexa melted, allowing him to build a cozy nest for her in the back of the VW.
Her body was exhausted and crying out for rest, but her mind was racing and she couldn't sleep. Mile after mile, long into the night, she watched him drive, his face silhouetted in the glare of oncoming lights. For the first time in many months, Alexa allowed herself to think—about her life, about her past... and about her future. Funny how less than a week ago her life was set, an endless cycle of doctors' offices and shifts at Joe's. A safe, mindless routine, comforting in its sameness. No need to think, no reason to plan, just wait for the inevitable. Her mother would have been proud—a quiet death borne stoically, not bothering, not beholding to anyone.
Then Adam came...
And suddenly her life had value to someone, although she would never understand why someone as wonderful... as magical as Adam could care about her, could want to climb the slow, painful mountain with her. He had offered her the world. And she, who had never been more than 50 miles from home in her whole life, accepted it. "First stop," Adam had chattered excitedly as they packed his microbus the previous morning, "the Grand Canyon. You'd never believe a bit of rock could be so beautiful." Alexa could believe anything he said. "After that, Bourbon Street in New Orleans, up the Atlantic Coast to Washington, then a little piece of West Virginia that only God and I know about. By then my friends will have your passport waiting in New York and we'll be off to the wonders of Egypt!" Alexa had sensed that even a landfill would be wonderful, if she could see it with him. Later, in the back of the van, she had only wished her sense of geography hadn't been so poor—that she'd realized just how far away the Canyon was.
Far away from home...
The rain had started well after midnight and the only sound was the incessant patter of rain on the plastic roof, the swish of the wipers, and Adam's breathing. Occasionally she could hear him humming a snippet of some song. He seemed so far away, this man she barely knew but had given the rest of her life to. She looked out the window—no moon, no stars, no signs of life, just the inky black of the rainy night— and suddenly felt cold and alone. And afraid. Alexa never allowed herself to be afraid, it was counter-productive and a waste of time. But in the van in the dark a few tears came unbidden and she choked back a little sob. Adam quickly turned in the driver's seat, full of concern, but Alexa buried her head in her pillow. It wouldn't do for him to hear her crying. Better to let Adam think she was sleeping.
Adam... She wondered if he knew she'd lied to him. She'd had maybe a year to live in Seacouver—with the treatments, the pills, the needles, the tests. Cut off from them, who knew? A couple of months, maybe more. Maybe less. Her doctors thought she was crazy, but they could only offer her a longer death. Adam had offered her a chance at a dazzling life, no matter how brief the candle. She would see Egypt before she died. And maybe Greece—she'd always wanted to see Greece. Maybe if she asked, Adam would take her there.... She would see Greece with Adam. Comforted by visions of Adam/Adonis, Alexa finally slept.
When she awoke an hour or so later, she was truly alone. The rain coming down in buckets on its roof, the van was empty and listing to one side. "Adam?" she called out. From outside the van she heard a strained "Out here," then a clank of metal, a thunk, and a muttered "Oops." Alexa opened the van's side door and started to step out. "No, no," she heard Adam warn. "Wouldn't do that if I were you. Nasty bit of weather we're having."
Alexa stepped down from the van and looked around. The VW was mired in a ditch by the side of the road, one tire flat. "A little rain won't kill me," she told him. "Let me help." Poor Adam. He looked like a drowned kitten, his hair plastered to his head, water running in his eyes as he attempted to push the van from the ditch.
"Wouldn't want you to think it wasn't raining," he said sheepishly.
"Let me at least get you an umbrella."
"Too late for that, I'm afraid." He wiped his eyes, looking a little haggard. "Besides, a little rain won't kill me, either. How about you drive while I push from here?"
Alexa climbed into the driver's seat. Her feet barely touching the pedals, she started the engine and stepped on the gas, but the VW made no attempt to move. "Adam," she called out the window, "nothing's happening."
"Are you sure you've got the parking brake off?" Yes, the parking brake was off. She tried it again. The engine roared but still nothing. She could hear his frustration. "Did you put it into gear? It's a clutch car." Oh. She shifted into first and stomped the gas pedal with all her strength. The van rolled backwards, then leaped forward onto the highway shoulder.
"Adam, we did it!" There was no response. She opened the dr
iver's door. "Adam? Adam!" After a long moment, when she began to fear she'd killed him, she saw him drag himself out of a patch of briars by the ditch.
"Go back inside, Alexa," he said carefully. "I'll change the tire."
When he finally got back in the van ten minutes later looking like a broken toy, she couldn't help but giggle. His hair was caked in mud, rainy streaks punctuating the mud-smeared face. His long coat was torn and stuck through with brambles. He glared at her wearily. "Not funny, Alexa."
She couldn't help it. All the tension, all her fear and sadness, and all the feelings she had for this man, feelings that might actually be love if she allowed that, all came spilling out at once and she laughed. She laughed at the little mud-caked clump of his hair that stuck up like Alfalfa's, the twig sticking up out of his collar, and especially the dollop of mud on the tip of his nose. She laughed until it hurt.
"That will be quite enough," Adam enunciated each word, closing the driver's side door with more of a bang than necessary. He didn't look at her. Like a scolded puppy, Alexa retreated to the farthest corner of the passenger seat.
* * *
They rode on for another hour in silence—to Alexa it seemed like days—before he stopped the van outside a quaint motel. "Are we here?" she asked brightly.
Adam shook his head. "We'll never make it in time. Might as well pack it in, get some sleep. Start out again tomorrow." It wasn't so much his face as the droop of an ear, the sag of a shoulder that told her how incredibly disappointed he was. She was sure he was disappointed in her, as well.
"Why don't you get us some lodgings?" He indicated the lobby. "I'm afraid I'm not very presentable at the moment." He made an attempt at a wry smile.
An Evening at Joe's Page 10
