"The Oak and the Ash" (6/9) by Parda August 2004
CHAPTER 4 - DIGGING
===== FORT WILLIAM, SCOTLAND =====
The ringing of the doorbell downstairs awakened Jennifer from a light doze.
On the TV screen in the corner of the bedroom, Dr. Who and his lovely
assistant were busy repairing the Tardis once more. Tom was sound asleep,
snoring slightly, his head nodding on his chest, a single white strand of
hair crossing the bald spot at his crown. This was his favorite show, but
he'd fallen asleep again. He slept a lot these days, but that was less
worry than when he was awake, when she was never quite sure what he would
do, what with his troubles these last few years.
Miriam's quick footsteps sounded in the hallway below, and then came her
brisk voice followed by a man's deeper tones. Jennifer carefully eased her
hand from Tom's and stood. The furnace man had said he'd stop by today, to
do a check before winter came. She left the room and met Miriam at the
bottom of the stairs. "He's waiting in the front room, Mom," Miriam said.
"Thank you," Jennifer said. "I left the telly on; your father should be
fine, but ..."
"Don't worry, Mom. I locked the front door. We don't want him wandering
again, do we?"
"No," Jennifer replied. They'd spent six hours searching for him on a dark,
rainy night, only to find Tom in a nearby park, soaked through and
shivering. He'd been searching for Pansy, their Cocker Spaniel who had died
three years ago. "Thank you," Jennifer told Miriam again, with a grateful
smile and a hug. "I'm so glad you moved back home, you and Tommy. I don't
know what I'd do without you."
Miriam shrugged but smiled, too. "Once Ed moved out ..." She shrugged
again. "I'm glad I'm here, too. Tommy doesn't miss his dad so much since
he has his grandparents now." She patted Jennifer on the shoulder then
said, "I'll go start lunch," and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jennifer glanced at herself in the mirror hanging in the hall, fluffed her
curls--all white now, she'd given up dyeing them years ago--and straightened
her blouse, then went to talk to the furnace man about what needed to be
done. He was looking at the family photographs on the wall, and he turned
immediately when she entered the room. Jennifer froze one step from the
door, because it wasn't the furnace man. It was Connor MacLeod, the
Immortal.
A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his unlined face was
watchful under short gray hair. The glasses, Jennifer knew, were
unnecessary, the hair color artificial. Alex had mentioned her husband's
attempts to "age." She'd also mentioned her own attempts to stop aging.
Both attempts had failed.
"Jennifer Corans?" Connor asked.
Jennifer knew instantly by his use of her professional name instead of her
married name that Connor MacLeod had come to see her, and not Tom. Damn.
She didn't want to talk to Connor MacLeod, not at her home. But was this
about his former lover Cassandra, or was this about his current wife, Alex?
Maybe Cassandra was dead, or maybe something else was wrong. Jennifer
needed to find out more. "Yes," she answered, then waited expectantly for
him to give her his name and let her know why he'd come.
"I'm Connor MacLeod," he said, and she nodded encouragingly, but he stopped
talking to look her up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly. Jennifer
forced herself not to move under that stare. She took the opportunity to
look him over, noting his worn blue jeans and the brightly patterned wool
sweater in blues and teals and grays, probably hand-woven by the look of it,
and expensive, no doubt. A dark gray coat lay over his left arm. Gray
leather hiking boots, easy on the feet and impervious to the wet, completed
his outfit.
Alex had explained about the Game (Cassandra, somehow, had not seen fit to
mention it, not once in ten years' time), and so Jennifer knew that Connor's
clothes had been chosen for comfort and ease of movement, an important
consideration when he might have to fight for his life at any time. But
where, Jennifer wondered, did he keep his sword? Cassandra hadn't carried
one; she depended on her hypnotic powers of the Voice for protection (and
the Voice was another little detail that Cassandra had never mentioned to
Jennifer, and Jennifer knew why: Cassandra had undoubtedly used the Voice on
her, at least one time, maybe more). Alex had said Connor took his sword
everywhere, all the time. Was it in his coat? Obviously not in his jeans.
He was still staring at her, his piercing eyes a flat gun-metal gray.
Cassandra had seen fit to mention his eyes, often, and now Jennifer knew
why.
"I know you," he said slowly. "We've met."
Jennifer never lied. "Yes, we have," she agreed then walked past him and
seated herself in the largest--and most imposing--chair in the room. Tom
usually sat in this chair. "Please, sit down," she invited Connor, but he
only half-sat, half-leaned on the arm of the upholstered chair in the
corner, her own usual seat.
"It was on New Year's Eve of 2012, at the party at your home," Jennifer told
him. "You had met my husband, Tom MacDonald, at the sheep trials that year,
and you invited Tom and me to your party." Connor still looked unconvinced,
and she added helpfully, "I wore a blue dress. We didn't stay very long."
She'd left within minutes of seeing Cassandra at the party and realizing
just which of the thousands of "Connor MacLeods" in Scotland her husband had
met. It had been awkward, but Jennifer couldn't deny it had also been
fascinating, to finally see the people--and the Immortals--she'd heard about
for so long.
Connor nodded as the memory clicked, and he slid all the way into the chair,
sitting down, but not--she noted wryly--relaxing. He had laid his coat
carefully on the arm of the chair, and was sitting poised on the edge of the
seat, leaning forward with his weight partially on his feet, looking
intense, focused, and ready for ... well, for anything.
He was making it hard for Jennifer to relax, too. Although, she reasoned,
Connor might not even realize she was finding him unnerving. And, to be
fair, if Cassandra hadn't described (in some detail) what Connor was capable
of, Jennifer wouldn't have been so wary. Connor hadn't actually done
anything beyond radiate impatient curiosity and continue to stare at her.
"Is that when you met my wife?" Connor demanded. "At the party?"
And be abysmally rude. "Yes, I met Alex at the party," Jennifer answered,
laying a slight emphasis on Alex's name. Alex was more than just "his
wife." Apparently, Alex wasn't the only one to have forgotten that.
"You must have made quite an impression on her," Connor said, leaning
forward with his elbows braced on his knees. "She found you four years
later and asked you to be her therapist. She even convinced you to come out
of retirement, and she's been paying you very well."
Indeed she had. "I'll pay you twice your normal rate," Alex had said on the
phone two months ago.
"I'm not seeing clients anymore, Mrs. MacLeod," Jennifer had replied.
"Three times."
"I'm retired," Jennifer had insisted, leaning back in the kitchen chair,
trying to ignore the bills covering the table.
"Four times."
Jennifer had shaken her head resolutely. She didn't need anybody else's
problems, not anymore. "I can recommend another therapist."
"One who knows about immortality?" had come the quick reply, and Jennifer
had closed her eyes as she sighed. Not that again. Not now. But,
"Please," the desperate voice on the other end of the line had said, and
Jennifer hadn't wanted to just abandon this woman, Cassandra's friend.
Jennifer had glanced at the number and address displayed on the phone
screen. "Mrs. MacLeod, I don't even live in Edinburgh."
"We can meet in Stirling," Alex MacLeod had replied quickly, obviously
having thought this out. "I'll buy you a train ticket and pay you the
quadruple rate for your travel time as well."
Six hours worth of quadruple pay? "I don't have an office," Jennifer had
objected, but it was a token protest, and both of them know it.
"I'll rent us a hotel room close to the train station," Alex had said
briskly. "Next Wednesday, noon?"
"But--"
"I'll buy us lunch."
"I--"
"I'll mail you the check and the ticket today," Alex had concluded, and so
it was done. The money had helped quite a bit, if not quite enough, what
with Tom the way he was and needing to be watched all the time, and heating
costs up again and food so expensive now ...
Connor's gaze flicked over the comfortable, yet shabby, sitting room, then
went straight back to Jennifer. "Why did she want you?"
"Mr. MacLeod, I--"
"Cassandra," Connor broke in, the name sounding like a curse. He nodded
slowly, putting it together. "You were Cassandra's therapist, and Alex
wanted to talk about immortality." He stood abruptly and went to the
window, staring at the row of time-darkened brick houses across the street,
then turned to face her. "Cassandra didn't talk to me much about her time
with you," he explained, and Jennifer supposed she shouldn't be surprised.
Cassandra had always been good at keeping secrets. She still was. Too
good.
"She never told me your name," Connor added, and then he smiled to himself,
a grim baring of teeth. "But I know she told you mine."
"Mr. MacLeod," Jennifer began again, "you know I can't discuss this with
you."
Connor resumed his ready-for-anything stance on the chair. "What have you
been telling my wife?"
"I can't discuss that with you, either."
Connor ignored her and kept right on going. "Did you tell Alex to leave
me?"
Of course she hadn't. That was Alex's decision, and Alex's choice. But
Jennifer absolutely would not discuss Alex's treatment with anybody, not
even her husband. Especially not her husband. Jennifer considered her
options. Tell Connor to get out of her house? He was, she knew, a stubborn
man, and he wasn't going to leave easily. Threaten to call the police? As
if that would frighten him. Ignore him completely? Frustration led easily
to violence. Well, she'd suggested to Alex--several times--that Connor come
along for a joint counseling session. Alex hadn't been ready for that, but
maybe Jennifer could turn this visit into a session for Connor. He
obviously had some issues to work through, and it might make things easier
for Alex.
"What makes you think Alex wants to leave you, Mr. MacLeod?" Jennifer asked,
turning the question back to him.
"Because she's gone!" he burst out, and he was up off his chair, pacing.
"When?" Jennifer asked, careful not to show any of her surprise. Alex had
given no hints of taking such a drastic step.
"Friday morning." He turned from the window to the wall and back again.
"But ... wasn't she supposed to leave this Friday?" Jennifer asked. "To
Spain?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But--" Connor came back to his chair and sat down.
"The way she left--" He took off his glasses and rubbed his hand on his
forehead, his eyes vulnerable, bewildered ... hurt. Jennifer ignored her
impulse to give him a hug. "She said she'd changed," Connor said, "but she
wouldn't tell me how, or why. She wouldn't talk at all. She just left."
He leaned forward, almost boyish in his earnest plea. "What's going on?"
"Mr. MacLeod," Jennifer began, but she couldn't divulge anything Alex had
told her. "I don't even know who I am anymore," Alex had said last week,
twisting a handkerchief around her fingers. "I always used to look down on
women who worried about their hair, their makeup, their weight ... what a
waste of time, I thought. How shallow. How meaningless. I was so
arrogant, because I was beautiful; I didn't have to worry. And now ... I'm
just like them. That's all I think about. But it doesn't help. None of it
helps. Not the skin creams, not the facials, not exercise or proper diet,
not staying out of the sun ... I can't stop time, no matter how hard I try."
She'd folded the handkerchief into a precise square then looked up, her
words coming slowly, inexorably: "I've tried so hard, and for so long, and
it makes no difference. I'm going to lose."
Alex, like Jennifer, was going to die. That was certain, but dying didn't
necessarily have to mean losing. Life wasn't a game; it was a journey with
a beginning and an end. Jennifer had been hoping to help Alex see that, but
Alex had some other issues to work through, and they hadn't gotten that far
yet. "You've been married before," Jennifer said to Connor.
"Twice."
"And with them...?"
He closed his eyes for a second, more a wince of pain than a blink. "Yeah,"
he muttered, sliding both hands down his thighs. Then he stared at her
again, direct ... accusing. "But Heather never ran."
Jennifer dredged up what she knew of Heather: Connor's first wife; blonde,
beautiful, good-natured; raped by an Immortal enemy; married for fifty
years ... and lived her life in a hut, far away from curious stares. Also,
Connor had been much younger then, and Heather had barely known
Cassandra at all. "What do you think Alex is running from, Mr. MacLeod?"
"Me." The word was harsh with bluntness, raw with more pain.
Jennifer had to nod, because Connor was right. But not totally. "And?"
"Herself."
Right again. But again, not totally. "Can you think of anything else she
might be running from?"
Connor's eyes narrowed this time as he started thinking that through, but
Jennifer never got his answer, because footsteps on the stairs brought
Connor to his feet. Tom stopped in the doorway, his tall frame stooped now,
slighter, not nearly touching the top or the sides of the doorframe the way
he used to do. "Jenny?" he said, peering in.
"Yes, Tom, I'm here," Jennifer said, going to take his hand.
"I heard voices. Are the girls home from school yet?"
"Miriam's home, Tom," she said, not telling him in front of Connor that
Miriam and Dorcas had finished with school years before. "She's making our
lunch. Tommy won't be home until four."
"Who's this then?"
"It's Connor MacLeod, come for a visit. You met him at a sheepdog trial,
four years ago," Jennifer reminded him, and he nodded, but she knew it
wouldn't last. Tom didn't remember what he'd had for breakfast or where the
house was. Once, for a horrible moment last week, he hadn't even remembered
her.
Connor came over, his hand outstretched. Somewhere in the last few moments,
he'd put his glasses back on. "Tom. Good to see you again."
Tom shook Connor's hand firmly. "Connor. Still keeping sheep?"
"A few. Our son Colin is planning on taking over the farm in a few years.
He's in veterinary school now."
Tom nodded, and Jennifer said quickly, hoping to get him out of the room,
"Tom, why don't you go see how Miriam is in the kitchen?"
He turned to her, puzzled, and Jennifer knew with dismay that she hadn't
been quick enough. "Are the girls home from school?" he asked in surprise,
as he asked three and four times every day.
Connor immediately looked from him to her, and she saw it, there in Connor's
eyes, that look she'd seen before, that flare of confusion followed by
understanding and then pity as the truth of Tom's condition sank home. But
always before, except in the very young, the pity had been tinged with
empathy and fear, because even with the drugs they kept saying were "almost
ready", most people were haunted by the knowledge that "Someday, that might
happen to me."
But it could never happen to Connor MacLeod, and he had no reason to fear.
Jennifer didn't want his understanding or his pity. She didn't want him in
her home, calculating the worth of their small shabby house, bringing her
his problems, looking at the fading remnants of her and Tom's life, and
feeling pity for the pair of aged mortals who were going to die.
Jennifer took a deep breath to rid herself of the sudden, unexpected rage.
No wonder Alex was having problems. "Miriam!" Jennifer called as she gave
Tom a gentle push to move him down the hall.
The swinging door opened, and Miriam appeared with a dish towel in her hand.
"Oh, lor, I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't hear him come down the stairs." She
linked her arm through her father's and led him into the kitchen, saying,
"Come on, then. We'll make toast and cheese." Tom mumbled something as
they disappeared behind the swinging door.
Jennifer closed her eyes as she breathed out slowly and said a quick and
silent prayer. When she opened them again, Connor had his coat on and was
already standing near the door. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mrs.
MacDonald," he said.
Jennifer nodded curtly as she took out her key and unlocked the door. Her
troubles didn't come from him, and she didn't need the sympathy of an
Immortal to help her face death.
But he needed her. And so did Alex. Jennifer let out another slow breath
before she said, "Mr. MacLeod, if you wish, we can talk another time."
Another place.
He was already shaking his head. "You won't talk to me about Alex, and I
don't need therapy." His lip curled in quiet irony. "Not now, anyway. I
just needed to know who Alex had been talking to--and what you'd been
telling her."
Which was exactly what she couldn't share. "I'm sorry that I can't be more
helpful."
He shrugged that away. "You've given me enough to know you're good at what
you do. Hell," he said with a sudden grin, "you managed to fix Cassandra.
You must be incredible."
Jennifer was smiling even as she said, "It's not that--"
"--that simple," he broke in. "I know." He took his time buttoning his
coat, and finally lifted his head to ask, "Do you think Alex will come
back?"
Jennifer gave him the only possible answer. "I don't know, Mr. MacLeod."
He nodded once and reached for the doorknob, and Jennifer added quickly, "I
do know she loves you, and it seems she feels she needs some time alone
right now."
"That's exactly what she said." His smile was half-amused, half-sad. "I
guess I should listen to her."
"That's always a good idea," Jennifer agreed, and Connor MacLeod nodded as
he opened the door.
===== EDINBURGH =====
The house was empty when Connor returned. "Get used to it, MacLeod," he
muttered, and he got himself a beer and went to sit in the library and stare
out the window at the garden. The chrysanthemums were still in bloom, but
they wouldn't last much longer. Frost was forecast for tonight; winter
would be here soon. Winter was coming earlier every year. He should mulch
the beds before he left for Denver on Friday. And maybe he should put in
some bulbs: snowdrops under the apple tree, more crocus along the garden
path--purple, white, or yellow? Alex had always liked spring flowers the
best.
Purple crocus, he decided, and he finished his beer and went to the garden
store.
===== SPAIN =====
"Hey, Dr. Johnson, look at this!" Sally called, and Alex picked her way
through the irregular checkerboard of one-meter squares laid out on the top
of the hill. Most of the squares were still untouched grass, but some
showed dirt. Sally and Tim's square had already been excavated down past
the plow zone. "Gold," Sally announced with satisfaction, leaning forward
to brush away the soil from a small gleaming circle.
Alex set her glasses more firmly on the bridge of her nose and leaned
forward to see. "Pretty," she commented. "Even if it isn't what we're
looking for." Arabic inscriptions curled gracefully around the edge of the
coin.
"Only fifteen hundred more years of dirt to go!" Tim said cheerfully. "The
Celts are a long way down yet." His eyes were shielded from the bright sun
by dark glasses, and he'd wrapped a blue bandana around his head to protect
his long hair from the wind and keep out the worst of the dust.
Alex smiled, sharing their enthusiasm. The early days of a dig were usually
good days, when people were still fresh and every square still held
possibilities. The end was good, too, as long as the site had been
well-chosen and people had the chance to get excited digging up finds. It
was the middle days that were the challenge, when the digging seemed
endless, the food had gotten monotonous, the weather inevitably turned bad,
and people started to rearrange tent assignments in the never-ending soap
opera of "who's sleeping with who."
At least at this dig, Alex didn't have to try to fit in with the crowd that
Connor usually seemed to end up with and then pretend she was interested in
their music or had seen the latest show. She didn't have to watch Connor
decline invitations to the beds of cheerful young interns. She didn't have
to endure the surprised looks and polite absence of comments from colleagues
whenever she introduced a younger-looking man as her husband. She didn't
have to overhear the speculation about how she had managed to convince him
to marry her and--even juicier--how she managed to keep him.
She could just be who she was: Dr. Alexandra Johnson, one of the senior
archeologists at the dig. One of the older people at the dig. She could
leave the heavier work to the younger and stronger crowd, and nobody thought
it odd. She could go to bed early instead of staying up drinking or going
into town, and that was just fine. She didn't even have to bother to dye
her hair.
Tim had gone back to screening the dirt in the sieve, and Sally carefully
lifted the coin from the earth and bagged it. Alex tucked her glasses into
her shirt pocket and went down the hill to the dining tent, looking forward
to getting out of the sun and the wind and having a nice cup of tea while
she read the reports from yesterday. Later, after dinner and tonight's
staff meeting, she'd send Connor an email and tell him about her day.
It wasn't much, and she knew it wasn't what he wanted, but it was all she
had to give him right now. Maybe later...
Or maybe not.
Alex didn't know.
==========
(continued in part 7)
