Matters of Honor and Justice 2/3
Tim Laird-DAA Productions (doom1701@YAHOO.COM)
Fri, 1 Jun 2001 13:55:36 -0700
Matters of Honor and Justice 2/3
"Freedman's dead."
Joe Dawson wiped off the ring of moisture left by Duncan MacLeod's raised
glass, and continued. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I thought
you should know. He was taken two nights ago, in a small town in California."
"Whose Freedman?" Richie Ryan had just entered the bar, his motorcycle helmet
under his arm. He had been down in Oregon for the past few days, visiting a
high school friend. He must have just returned; he looked ragged and
windblown, like someone who had just ridden a few hours on a motorcycle.
"Pull up a chair, Richie," Joe told the young man as he began to fix him a
drink. "Have a good trip?"
"It rained the entire way down. My entire body looked like a raisin once I got
there."
Duncan chuckled quietly. "I said you should have taken my car."
Richie shook his head. "No way, Mac. This was a holy quest. A man and his
bike. The wind in my hair, the openness to the road..."
"The bugs in your teeth," MacLeod interrupted.
"Well, you know what they say," Richie laughed. "You can tell a happy biker
by..."
"By the number of insects stuck in his teeth." Joe shook his head. "You know
how many times I have heard that one?"
Duncan smiled. "You? I've been hearing that joke since before you were a
gleam in your father's eye, Joe."
Joe paused for a moment. Internally, he was taken aback. Not that he took
offense to Duncan's comments; surely, there was nothing to take offense over.
But was still difficult for Joe, as a man in his forties, to look at the thirty
year old before him and grasped that he had been alive before Grandpa Dawson,
or even Great-Grandpa Dawson. And then to glance at Richie, and realize that
he would still look like a kid even when Joe's grandchildren (if he were ever
so lucky) were on their deathbeds.
Perhaps someday, Joe thought, I will come to accept their immortality.
Of course, that would be the day he would have to leave the Watchers.
And, probably, be committed.
Richie set his glass down on the bar with a quiet thud, drawing Joe out of his
pensive trance. "Now what about this Freedman?"
Joe quickly glanced around the bar. It was a rather slow night. The only
patrons sat huddled around tables, more than likely out of earshot of the three
friends. "Jonathan Freedman was around two hundred years old."
"*Around* two hundred?" Richie asked. "I thought you guys kept better records
than that."
Joe continued without missing a beat. "He was a renown racist. Indians in the
early Americas, blacks during the late 1800's, Irish early this century, Jews,
African Americans again; it seemed that there was no one that he couldn't learn
to hate."
Richie had noticed Duncan's face change as Joe had listed off the man's
"accomplishments." He turned to his friend. "What's wrong, Mac? Have you run
into him before?"
"Once." There was pain in MacLeod's voice; pain that Richie had heard before.
It was the sullen tone that Duncan took on any time he was forced to remember
tragedies from his past. Richie heard that tone quite often over the past few
years. After living 400 years, Richie could understand that Duncan had quite a
few instances in his life that he would not wish to remember.
What will it be like, to have lived that long? Richie mused. The idea of
immortality had yet to truly sink into the young man. At first, it made life
seem like a game that he couldn't lose; he was playing Monopoly with an
infinite number of "Get out of jail free" cards. But, after watching Duncan
for the past year, and seeing the anguish in his face now, Richie began to
wonder, to question whether or not it seemed fair; fair to curse someone in
such a way.
Both Duncan and his cousin Connor had told Richie that the time of the
Gathering was upon them; that the remaining immortals were drawing together to
fight to the end, to fight for the Prize. But neither one could say how long
the Gathering would last. With new generations of immortals continuing to
appear, it could easily last for decades, maybe even centuries. What if I live
that long? Richie asked himself. Would he look back on his life as he feared
Duncan often did, dwelling on the pain, the anguish?
The loss?
"It was during the early 1800's," Duncan was saying, "while I was living with
the Indians." He paused for a moment, seemingly collecting himself. "He
killed eight in our tribe, including our Wicasa Wakan."
"*Wicasa Wakan*?" Richie asked.
"The tribe's spiritual leader. He was killed on holy ground."
MacLeod wasn't sure why he had added that last sentence. The effect of it,
though, was plain and immediate; Dawson winced, and rage began to fill Richie's
eyes. Even though the rules did not apply to mortals, the thought of
mercilessly killing someone while he worshipped was still seen as a heinous
act.
"He claimed he was purifying the land; clearing it of the barbarians. When I
encountered him, he rambled on about white men being the only real Americans.
It took all I had not to strike him down right there."
Joe's eyebrows furrowed quizzically. "You had the chance?"
"Freedman was a coward," MacLeod replied. "He was adequate with his rifle,
dangerous but unskilled with a sword."
"Why didn't you take his head?" Dawson asked.
"He didn't understand who or what he was." Duncan shook his head. "He thought
that he just couldn't die. He had no idea of the Game, the Rules; he even
spoke of having children someday.
"I was taken aback that day, even if it was for just a second. I guess it was
the first time that I realized that not all immortals realize why they are what
they are; that not all of us had the opportunities that I had. When Connor
took me in, and as he told me of how Ramirez had done the same for him, I guess
I had felt that someone would do the same for all other immortals.
"It wasn't until I saw Freedman in the clearing that day; listened to his
ravings, that it hit me. How many immortals are there with no clue? No
training? Some of them no doubt are taken very young by those who do know.
Those that survive must develop deep calluses over their souls, trying to
comprehend why they were seemingly indestructible, while everyone around them
was so fragile."
Duncan took a sip from his drink. Richie thought he saw his friend's eyes
welling up; trying to push out the slightest hint of a tear. MacLeod took a
deep breath and continued. "If the situation had been different, I would have
taken him in. Trained him. Taught him of the rules, and of holy ground, and
of the gathering. But I was torn. On the one hand, he was a murderer; but he
had the right to know who he was."
"So what did you do?" Richie was clinging to MacLeod's every word, more like a
child on his father's knee than someone learning the dark secrets of a friends
past.
"I let him go." Duncan pushed himself off of the bar stool and began to turn
toward the door.
Joe put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "What about the other Indians?
Didn't they want justice?"
Duncan simply cocked his head back in the direction of the bar. "They got what
they needed."
A single vehicle drove down the long, unbroken stretch of highway in northern
California, its headlights the only thing penetrating the stormy darkness for
miles. The only sound within the cabin was the repetitive thump of the tires
against the seams in the concrete. The driver stared blankly down the expanse
of road. There was just the slightest hint of confusion on his face.
Two nights beforehand, he had woken up in an old field, covered with dew; the
sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. He felt his chest and
stomach; the wounds he expected to find had disappeared. Instinctively, he
felt at his neck. His head was still attached.
For some reason, that meant something to him. More than the obvious, that is.
He pushed himself to his feet, moving slowly at first expecting severe pain or
even loss of ability in his legs. Surprisingly, he stood up without
difficulty. He surveyed the battlefield through the barely lit haze. His
opponent was no longer in sight. Could he have survived, as well, he thought?
It didn't seem likely, but, then, neither did anything else at that moment...
He tried to remember the battle. It had something to do with honor, and
something about a child. A child? he thought, my child? That didn't seem
right. His opponent had been a skilled swordsman. The man had struck several
wounds into his abdomen and legs. Or had he struck his opponent? Nothing
seemed clear.
A ray of light reflected against a metal object protruding from the ground. It
swayed slightly in the breeze. My sword, he thought. He walked over to it and
grabbed it's leather wrapped handle. As he bent to begin pulling it, another
gleam caught his eye. Another sword lay prostrate a few feet away. Its ivory
handle, its slim, lightweight blade; the katana seemed familiar to him, like he
had held it before as well.
With the double edged sword still in his hand, he walked the few steps over to
the katana and bent to pick it up off the ground. As he did, a strand of hair
fell down across his forehead. He reached up to brush it away-and stopped
suddenly. That wasn't right. He hadn't brushed a hair away in over a hundred
years...
And then a name came to mind. Duncan MacLeod.
It began to come back to him. He was John Freedman. Born in west
Massachusetts in 1752. He was immortal. The only way for him to be killed was
by taking his head, and with it, his power.
Freedman brushed the hair away from his forehead. It was a luxury MacLeod had
stolen from him a century before. He reached down for his katana, and grasped
it by it's ivory handle.
And pricked his finger.
Freedman stopped his reminiscing for a moment and removed his hand from the
steering wheel. The finger still ached. It had not bled long, but it left a
small scar.
And the scar still remained.
Freedman returned his hand to the wheel of the automobile. He still did not
understand what had happened. His head had been taken, his opponent
victorious. Yet, he had never heard of a quickening that had completely
transferred the personality of the defeated; it only gave the victor the
memory, the experience.
Even if such a thing were possible, his opponent had been mortal; he could not
take a quickening. At least, that was what Freedman had been taught.
His opponent's humanity had left Freedman with one more unexpected gift; his
own mortality. Freedman looked again at the scar on his finger. It had been
there for a day or more, yet did not heal. Freedman had been given something
that every immortal hoped for; normality.
Yet his own mortality left him with a decision he had never before considered.
He now had limited time left on this earth. He had never imagined that he
would have to face natural death, and never had he seen death so close. How
long did these mortals live? Thirty years? Fifty years? How could one live
out a lifetime of experiences in that small moment?
He had been forced to decide how he would spend his final time alive. Even
with Lisa and her unborn child within reach now, something else was foremost on
his mind. Unfinished business from 100 years ago. Revenge.
Duncan MacLeod.
Richie sat in the small office of the dojo that he ran for MacLeod, going over
a list of people that had requested beginners classes. "Business is booming,"
he muttered. With the current training staff, they could only handle maybe
half of the people; and it was always up to Richie to decide who comes, and who
goes.
No wonder Mac pawned the place off on me, he thought.
Richie sat down the stack of papers on the desk as he began to feel a familiar
buzzing within his head. The door creaked open slowly.
"Hi, Richie."
Duncan stood at the entrance to the office, looking as if he had just risen
from the dead. But as far as Richie knew, the last time MacLeod had done that
was about three weeks ago.
The highlander walked over to the coffee pot in the corner and poured himself a
cup. His face was more unshaven then usual. He was wearing the same outfit
that Richie had seen him in at Joe's the night before; it looked as if he had
slept in it.
And to top it all off, Duncan was wearing a baseball cap.
With his pony tail sticking out the back, it looked like one of those cheap gag
hats that you buy at a ballgame. Richie chuckled.
"What's wrong with you?" Duncan asked, obviously not approving of Ryan's newly
found source of amusement.
"Nothing," Richie said, suppressing a giggle. "Aren't you supposed to be in
class today?"
Duncan took a long swig of the steaming coffee. "I called in sick."
"I bet that's a first."
"I guess last night just disturbed me a little more than I had expected,"
Duncan continued. "In a way I am glad to hear the news. Perhaps now the dead
can rest in peace."
"You don't think that he still didn't understand?" Richie asked.
"He had a Watcher, so he had to of understood. Anyway, he has taken a few
heads over the past one hundred years; one quickening should be enough to get
him thinking that there was more to his kind than immortality."
"How many did he take?"
Duncan shook his head. "Joe says they don't really know for sure. At least
twenty. The rumor is that his first was an accident; he took it during a duel.
It was a quite a few years before I met him. Apparently, the immortal that
challenged him felt that he would be easy prey."
"But he wasn't."
"The older immortal was too self-confident. He got sloppy."
Duncan paused. It seemed that he had something else to share with Richie.
Finally, he said, "Another rumor is that the quickening killed him."
Richie looked confused. "What?"
"It was his first death. Joe says that it was the only time that they know of
that an immortal took a quickening before his first death. Whether he didn't
have the strength, or the knowledge, or the understanding yet, no one but him
knows. But it kind of gives you an idea of what a quickening could do to a
mortal, if it were possible."
Duncan forced himself to his feet. "I'm going to go shower. You want to go to
lunch later?"
"Sure," Richie replied. Just as Duncan was about to open the door, Richie
added, "Hey, Mac; I was wondering. Is all this - the Freedman stuff and all -
the reason you decided to take me in?"
A small smile shot across Duncan's face. It was a welcome sight that Richie
had not seen in a while. "Yeah, that was part of it." Duncan opened the
office door and began to walk out. "That," he added, "and it was the only way
to keep you from robbing me blind..."
"So, I never really understood;" Richie Ryan was asking as they left the small
downtown restaurant, "before an immortal's first death, just how immortal is
he?" Noticing the confused look on Duncan's face, he continued. "I mean,
Freedman was killed by a quickening, but he's the only case of that ever
happening, right?"
Duncan nodded as they began the short walk back to the dojo. "Before their
first death, immortals are weak, comparatively. Their ability to regenerate is
much slower, their disease fighting capability is significantly lower; it's
even rumored that some have had children.
"I've always thought that each death increases the strength of a person's
quickening. The first death has the largest effect; it is almost like it
awakens their immortality. They begin to recover quicker, they can sense the
presence of other immortals, and they can take more serious wounds without
actually dying."
Richie stopped for a moment. "Before a first death, they can't sense other
immortals yet, can they?"
Duncan shook his head.
"But a full immortal can sense them."
"Slightly," Duncan replied. "It isn't a real buzz, at least not like you're
used to. The buzz is caused by the quickenings of two immortals conflicting
with each other. An older immortal's quickening is strong enough to detect the
interference, while pre-immortal can't."
"What do you do when you find a pre-immortal, as you call them?"
Duncan chuckled. "Oh, usually take them in, begin to train them as best as
possible without letting them know about themselves."
"Like you did with me," Richie replied.
Duncan continued down the sidewalk. "Like I did with you."
Richie caught up with Duncan and continued. "Why don't you just tell them-me?
Why did you wait until somebody shot me before letting me know?"
"Well, with you, I was hoping you might grow, mature a little more first. If I
would have told you that first night Connor and I discovered you, what would
you have done? You were a petty thief. You think you would have stayed that
way if you would have known that you could rob a bank, take a half dozen
bullets, and walk away? I was still hoping for more time, but even in the year
we had, you grew into someone that could take such news responsibly."
"With me?" Richie asked. "You make it sound as if it were different with
others."
"Well," Duncan replied, "we could always be wrong."
"How could you be wrong?" Richie was astonished. "If you feel their buzz,
they have to be immortal."
"Richie, the quickening is not simply some 'immortal-only' quality. The
quickening is the power of life; of all life. Even mortals have a quickening;
it is what makes the difference between them and those they've buried. It's
just that the quickening of a mortal is so small in comparison to one of ours
that it usually isn't noticeable.
"Every once in a while, though," Duncan continued, "there is a mortal with a
strong enough quickening to be noticed. I don't know if they are born that way,
or if something happens to strengthen their quickening.
"The common idea is that there are two types of people in the world: mortals
and immortals; that there is some cosmic dividing line between one and the
other. I've always wondered, though, if perhaps it is more of a continuum; the
stronger a person's quickening, the more 'immortal' they are. Of course, there
has to be some point where a person is truly immortal rather than simply a
mortal with a strong quickening. If it is true, though, that each death
strengthens the quickening of a person, then who is to say that every immortal
didn't begin as simply a mortal with a very strong quickening? What if their
first death takes them over that dividing line?"
"You shouldn't take sick days," Richie said, turning down the street towards
the dojo. "You need to be somewhere where you can share this stuff with
someone that can understand it."
"Maybe you're right," Duncan replied. "It's too bad I don't teach
philosophy..."
=====
Tim Laird
-----------------------------
Nobody lives forever, so you might as well go out with a good caffeine buzz...
There's always hope, because it's the one thing that they haven't figured out how to kill yet...
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