Up In the Valley, Down On the Mountain (gen, Narnia/Highlander)
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Methos, Duncan, Richie, Joe, Amanda, the
Valincourts or any of the characters from Highlander: the Series.
They are all the property of Davis/Panzer. I do not own any of the
characters from the tales of Narnia as they appear in here, nor do I
own Narnia itself. They all belong to the estate of Lewis. However,
I dare say that Aslan belongs to us. Or rather, if you think very
hard, we belong to him, whether we know it or not.
Written for the lyrics (thanks Shadowlight!) by Bebo Norman, titled
"Where the Angels Sleep". Also, thanks to Prince, who told me exactly
what it sounds like when doves cry. Because I had been wondering...
Longer than normal, I hope this makes up for my shorter ones in the
past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Up In the Valley, Down On the Mountain
by Amand-r, Daughter of Eve
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*For Mr. Beaver had warned them, "He'll be coming and going," he had
said. "One day you'll see him and another you won't. He doesn't like
being tied down--and of course he has other countries to attend to.
It's quite all right. He'll often drop in. Only you mustn't press
him. He's wild, you know. Not like a *tame* lion."
--C.S.Lewis, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe"
MAY:
The best thing he could say about the place that Mac had rented for
them was that it was big. After that, it all went downhill. Old, was
the first thing that came to mind, but saying that was like inviting
every cliched joke and snide comment he would ever get from the
Highlander, so he kept his mouth shut. Stuffy, was another, and
crowded with books and other various junk. That too was something he
normally wouldn't have minded, seeing as how most of the places he
inhabited tended to be at least one of the above.
So, with the thought that he would not be saying a word about any of
their surroundings, Methos searched the dusty-as-hell library for a
decent book he hadn't read in a while and wondered how the hell Mac
had gotten him out here...
When he had opened his eyes two days ago, Duncan MacLeod had been
standing over him like a nightmare harpy. That he hadn't sensed
Duncan wasn't unusual; he was living with the man. Temporarily, until
they finished fumigating his apartment. But to see Mac this close,
this early, had been a shock. He had sat bolt upright, thoroughly
knocking heads with the other Immortal.
After a little bit of squalling, and screaming about boundaries
(mostly on his part), Duncan had given him the strangest look. It
might have been a 'wise' look, except that Methos was usually on the
other end of such non-verbal exchanges. Or so he had liked to tell
himself. This time it had been different. He had felt an
unmistakable wave of *something* most strange about to happen, and it
had.
"You need a vacation," Mac had said to him, sagely, picking the
remnants of the spilled coffee mug from the floor.
It had been sublime. "That much is obvious," Mac had continued. "I
should think that a summer in the countryside would do you wonders."
Methos had been so speechless at the intelligence of this child, of
the tenacity with which MacLeod pursued the rental of a villa on the
English Countryside, and the ease with which he had cajoled Methos
right in the place where he had wanted him that there had been no
option but to pack things up in satchels and trunks, and well, *go*.
Methos fingered an old copy of Beowulf and wondered idly what he was
going to do with himself. Mac had stocked the larder to brimming with
everything they would need, plus little bonuses for his companion:
bacon, beer, various forms of junk food that he favored. There were
bags of tortilla chips, synthetic puffs painted with florescent
cheese, packages that vaunted the fabled corn and nut combination, and
soft drinks like jeweled liquor in their oblong bottles.
Methos felt the pull away from these things. The first few days he
rode out into the countryside with a horse he had rented from a local
and jumped the rock barriers that still separated neighboring lands.
He walked out in the orchard, away from Mac, away from anybody, hands
in pockets, as the dew just started to coat the long blades of grass
and leaves that trembled in the morning breeze.
For the first time in millennia, Methos realized as he felt the animal
under his legs, or reached up with one hand to pluck the ripest apple
from its tender stem, he liked being alone. It was something he had
treasured once in his boyhood, and had lost, like childish dreams of
being a hero, or even more childish dreams of wanting one's mother.
Methos had let go of all of his boyhood dreams not because he had
decided that they were worth nothing, but because he had been forced
to forget them, as many children had in the ancient past, when
confronted with the sword and early blood.
Where had it gone, this innocence? Was it even innocence? Methos
wasn't sure. He knew that innocence could never be regained once it
was shorn, like a newborn's first haircut. Locks cut from a child for
the first time changed everything.
He wandered out into the tall grass, chasing rabbits and field foxes,
thinking to himself that it was a merry romp, and continued to hunt
with the neighbor's bull mastiff, Scout, all afternoon, looking for
edible dandelions and other such trivial things until Mac called him
to dinner.
Books were there still, and there were journals to be written, the
latest album brought fresh from the city to dance to. There were cool
evenings on the verand swing, striking up conversations with the
estate's live-in hostess, a massive tabby named Esmerelda. There were
still nights of a little drink -not too much- and a little fire, for
the house was cold and dank. Then at the first crack of dawn he was
out the door, apple in his hand, or perhaps a hunk of fresh cheese,
journal in his pocket, looking for leaves and daises to press and send
to Amanda, or even a few sketches of birds or badgers to jam into a
growing stack of papers he was neglecting. There was a little brook
to explore, picking out toads and crayfish. There were butterflies to
snatch and examine without disturbing the dust of their fragile wings.
And most of all, long walks that led nowhere are all, eventually
winding back to the house and its open doors that let in the flies and
drove Mac nuts.
Mac was one of the last things on Methos's mind.
TWO MONTHS LATER:
He had to escape. This weekend they were besieged by guests. First
Joe, who Methos didn't really mind, had rolled in, but he had brought
Richie, and that was okay too. Duncan had hinted that Amanda would
soon follow. When the Valincourts had pulled into the drive six hours
ago, Methos was sure that needed to camp out in the unused wine cellar
for a few days.
It was too soon, too soon to see them all. It was too soon to have
them trampling the vineyards in the early mornings, swinging from the
apple trees in the afternoon. It was too soon for them to cross his
path on the way to the barnyard from the servant's house. It was too
soon to hear them carousing in the last delicious remnants of the
night, when all that should be heard was the dulcet quiet of the
summer in which animals slumbered and foxes hunted for mice out in the
fields.
Methos clutched his book to his chest, thinking that it was all over.
He would never get it back. They would never understand, none of
them. He backed away from the dining room, from them all, and they
barely noticed.
Why this boyish childishness? Methos tried to analyze the situation
as he watched Mac pour Gina another glass of wine, and Richie hollered
something over the table at Joe. His sense of practicality failed,
and it was for the first time in years that he was astonished to find
that his throat hurt, and Gina was decidedly blurry. Everyone was
decidedly blurry.
He was crying!
//Go up,// he told himself, wiping his face with the backs of his
hands, heading up the spiraling staircase and into the upper depths of
the house itself, away from the rousing game of drunken Trivial
Pursuit that was ensuing downstairs. He heard Richie call something
out to him but didn't bother to respond. Where to go? Up.
Methos creeped up until he came to a little door. He tried the handle
experimentally. No one had been up this far all summer. It was an
attic storage area, nothing much to see, really, he remembered the
lady saying to them the first day they had arrived and she had given
them the 'grand tour' while he had moped.
Methos swung open the door just far enough to slip in side, and shut
it soundlessly behind him. He pulled out the little flashlight he had
brought with him and turned it on, shining it into the bowels of the
room.
There were paintings in the corners, edged up against the walls and
covered with cloths. There were piles of old books, and trunks that
probably held things like moldering draperies from the forties.
Methos felt a sneeze coming on, and held his breath. There was a
small noise of mice scampering across the floor in hopes to escape the
sweep of his light.
"Adam!" came a noise from downstairs. "Adam are you up here?" Mac
and Gina were looking for him. He heard their heavy steps on the wood
outside. He glanced about for a place to hide, choosing to disappear
than force a confrontation.
In the far corner of the room, the flashlight found a tall standing
independent wardrobe. Methos considered it for a second, and then
flung open one door, examining the bottom of the insides to see if it
was filthy, and if it would hold his weight.
The inside was immaculate. A few old fur coats hung on the far side,
and the bottom was home to several small pads of sheepskin. He tested
the weight of himself by stepping in with one foot. At worst, it
would crack a little, and no one would really notice.
The floor of the wardrobe held his weight. He tried both feet,
grasping the sides of the wardrobe and applying his weight carefully.
No change. The voices were drawing nearer, and after one last wild
glance towards the direction of the door, Methos sat down inside the
wardrobe, drawing his legs up into the raised surface and shutting the
doors with his fingertips.
Once the door was completely shut, the wardrobe was quiet inside. The
walls of the standing chifferobe masked all noise, and he leaned
against the solid wall behind him. No one would imagine that he was
in here, hiding away from a small collection of people whom he
supposed were his friends. Methos didn't even have the presence of
mind to chuckle at himself. He laid his journal down on the floor of
the wardrobe under his knees and exhaled, digging his hands into the
lambskin without caution.
He encountered something hard and stiff. Pulling it out was easy, but
in the complete darkness of the wardrobe, his fingers were a little
perplexed with its shape. Curved and bent, it widened from one end to
the other. Attached to it was a sort of cord, tied to both ends.
Methos turned on the flashlight again to inspect what he was starting
to think was a powder horn.
It was a horn. Not for gunpowder, but for hunting. Its curved body
was made of ivory. It was probably worth a fortune. The rope
attached to the ends was a means of conveyance. Methos was no
stranger to this kind of horn; it was probably one of the oldest
instruments in the world. This one, gilded on the bands that held the
silken cord tight to it, was small and perfect, a royal hunting horn,
indeed, or perhaps something constructed in the wilds of India for
some old British Lord. How the hell had it ended up here?
Methos examined the crest on the side, that of a rearing lion, and old
scrolling script that was all but unintelligible. Barely.
He brought it to his lips, thinking to try it out, when he remembered
where he was and how he had gotten there in the first place. Methos
froze to listen for voices coming from the room. Nothing. He pushed
the door of the wardrobe, and it cracked open enough for him to be
able to hear anyone still calling for him. There were no more
footsteps and voices. Mac and Gina must have returned to their games
downstairs with the rest of their visitors.
All alone then, Methos brought the horn up to his lips once again,
and, sucking in a little breath, blew lightly into the mouth end, not
enough for a full blast, but enough to hear its tone.
The sound that came out of the horn was truly loud. In fact, it was
too loud for the air that he had blown in. Methos jolted in the small
compartment and dropped the horn in his lap like it was on fire. The
noise reverberated through the wardrobe when it should have been
dampened by the wood, and he tucked the horn back under the sheepskin
where it had come from.
Then he leaned back and contemplated the strangeness of his own
situation. //You aren't in here because you're suddenly afraid of
people,// he told himself. //It has to do with something about this
whole 'being alone' business, doesn't it? What is it that drives you
to playing with musical instruments inside a piece of furniture?//
Methos had no answer. He was hoping that sleep would have a
suggestion.
***
There was a fresh breeze of what smelled suspiciously like lavender,
and a little bit of honeysuckle. Methos opened his eyes and blinked
in the light.
//What light?// he told himself. //You were in the wardrobe. Unless
you've taken to sleepwalking in your old age.//
He was in the middle of some forested area. Not too much forest, for
the area upon which he stood was exposed to the sun. But off into the
woods, he could see dappled patches of sunlight peeking through the
full verdant trees. There was the smell of nearby water, a brook or a
stream.
Methos knew he was no longer on the property of the estate he and Mac
had rented; he knew every inch of that land. He cast strange looks to
the sky, which was a lovely shade of blue, and the grass that grew
wild and tall about his feet.
Methos made his way towards the source of the water, listening for the
sound of the lap of it on rocks, knowing that if he followed the
stream, he might very well run into not only someone, but perhaps a
homestead and a way of getting home.
//Home.// He hadn't called anything that for a while. Why did he
refer to the villa as that?
He was about to ponder once again his love of the countryside, and his
sudden need to be away from people and all their trappings, when he
was suddenly shot through with the idea that *something* was out
there, and that it wasn't human. Nothing new, really, seeing as how
he was in the middle of the woods; there had to be hundreds of
thousands of living critters everywhere, right?
He scanned the banks of the brook, trying to see perhaps a watchful
but cautions deer or some other creature that might have possibly made
him stop for the sensation.
He was decidedly not prepared for the lion his eyes met down towards
the bank, lounging in the soft grass and watching him intently,
patiently.
It made no noise, and made no move, so he was spared a few seconds of
observation before panic attempted to grip him. The things was large,
as lions are apt to be, with a full tan mane, and a golden muzzle that
matched its paws in complete definition and hue. Only the eyes seemed
odd, cool and crisp, waiting.
//Lions are not good things,// he thought to himself. //You do
remember what they used to do to men in Africa, don't you?//
Methos backed away from the creature, which merely cocked its head at
him, as if he were contemplating something much deeper than the way
his face would taste crunching in its mouth.
*Come here, son of Adam,* Methos heard. He looked around for a
voice, for someone else, which was foolish, he knew inside, because
the voice had come from the lion.
//Lions don't talk,// he told himself. He continued his back away
technique, thinking that now would have been a good time to have his
sword. He had slain more than several lions with his Ivanhoe, as it
had been necessary at times.
The lion seemed to find this sad. *We all must do what we must.* And
with a small batting paw motion: *You have done many things as you
have seen you must, Adam. For you are not a son of Adam, are you?*
The lion yawned. *No, you are of another's conception, though not of
a different maker.*
"No one made me," Methos said stubbornly. "And it's not Adam." He
was suddenly filled with the urge to continue on as his own self,
refusing to admit to this creature that was and was not the thing he
was seeing. He wasn't going to explain himself to a lion. That was
for children.
*If no one made you, than how are you here?* the lion asked sagely.
Methos faltered for a second. Indeed, he *had* been elsewhere, if he
remembered correctly. He frowned and sat down on a rock. Apparently
this lion was less than interested in his 'crunchy on the outside,
chewy in the inside' makeup.
"I was asleep, and then I was here," he gestured to the brook, the
grass, the trees above him. "There was no sun where I was. I wonder
just what time it is."
*It is all times and none,* the lion told him, sphinx-like from head
right down to its perfect paws that aligned themselves as surely as
the creature must have read his mind. *For here, you are in no time,
though it does pass here.*
"And where is here?" Methos sighed. It was getting easier and easier
to realize that this creature was not normal. Though it could still
eat him, he figured.
*You could be anywhere, though you are in the place of my fondest
choosing,* the lion told him. *You are in Narnia.*
Methos chuckled. The admission meant nothing to him, though he was
fairly sure that he was familiar with every location on the globe,
past and present.
The lion did not take to his laughter. It moved quickly, faster than
he would have thought, until it knocked him over, and Methos rolled
off the boulder and down the narrowing slope, stopping short of the
water by accidentally hitting his shoulder on a jutting rock. Pain
seared through his chest, and Methos felt the hot breath of death as
the lion leaned over him, its smiling jaw lolling open in amusement.
*You may stop worrying for your safety, Son of Adam. You are not
halfway up to my taste.* The lion rubbed his face a little with its
chin, and Methos smelled the deep forest and the sandy depths of the
desert. *You came, blowing the horn of Great Queen Susan, who once
ruled these lands, long long ago,* it told him. *Whoever blows that
horn, summons some kind of help, it has been said.*
Methos flashed back to the horn, remembered its sound in the little
wardrobe and the way he had wondered of its origin. The lion seemed
to understand this, but said nothing.
"Yes, but where are you from? How do you know me?" he demanded,
trying to roll over to a tolerable and dignified position.
*I encompass all things. You know this,* the lion told him, blinking
once, twice, and then settling down on the grass, lolling like a cat
and reaching out with one massive paw to drag him close. *Not just
here, but in that place where you abide.*
It was in that moment that suddenly Methos *knew*, he knew as he had
known what to do the first time he had taken a head: that the
lightning would come, and that this sensation would be the first of
many times. Many times in five thousand, in fact.
The lion was not all of its image, and yet so completely what it was.
Like Methos, it was more than the sum of its vision, yet so very much
more than Methos would ever be. He yearned for that knowledge of self
this creature possessed.
Methos rolled over into the grasp of the paw, burying his face in that
tawny mane, thinking that there was nothing at all that this creature
would do to him, no matter what he had done.
*All that you have been done has been of you own doing,* the lion
purred, *and you are the one who lives to see their resolution. But
these things cannot be undone by themselves. You must first admit
that you cannot solve all things with your own judgement.*
There. It had been said. Methos frowned, feeling the tears well up
again a little at the thought. "I cannot undo the things I am guilty
for," he began feebly. "Some of them are so old, I struggle to even
conceive of them in this time. All those who witnessed my most
terrible deeds are long dead."
The-creature-that-was-and-was-not-a-lion said nothing. Methos knew he
was making excuses. The creature knew it. It pushed him away with
one paw, a rejection of sorts. Methos felt a little stab of its claws
in his chest with that thrust.
*There are no excuses, and it would do you well to remember that.*
The bitter tint of the words seared his mind as he heard them. The
last thing he wanted to do was offend this creature, not only because
it could kill him, but also because he merely *didn't want to*.
"All right," he capitulated, drying the tears on his sleeve and
sitting up. "I am very sorry for the things I have done in the past.
That's not a secret. I would undo some of them if I could, but not
all of them, I suppose. I cannot do any more than that."
This seemed to satisfy the lion. *When the time comes, you will do
more than that,* it told him, blinking once before it resumed his
heavy gaze.
"And I have become so much less than I thought I was," Methos went on,
seeming cryptic even to himself. "There is something that I'm
missing, something hidden to me."
*All you profess to be hidden is inside,* the lion yawned. *You will
find it, for it was given only to you when you were born, long ago.*
Did this creature know him so that he was aware of his age? Methos
stammered for words. "I cannot remain alone forever, no matter how
much I like it," he started. "But the land has done something to me--
"
He stopped. The lion was gone. He searched for it, rising wildly and
spinning, trying to see through the trees. How could he leave him
like this? How could He do it? How did he even know it was a *he*?
//Lions like that, they are males,// his scientific part said. //But
when was the last time you sat down with one and lolled on a
riverbank?//
Methos had to face the facts. He had been deserted on the side of the
brook by a talking lion, one that had known his name. And now he was
stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing, not even his journal.
Just himself, just...
Himself.
And then he heard it, that roaring noise, and the lion was behind him.
He spun, covering his ears, wondering if this was the time that he was
to be eaten.
The lion had grown in size. Maybe it had been Methos's own
imagination. Perhaps things in Narnia were different, and creatures
all talked and changed sizes on a regular basis. Or perhaps this
wasn't a lion.
*I have defied the old magics and been reborn, youngling.* Methos
felt his bones grow old.
*I have created countless worlds, and watched the stars fall from the
heavens to rest at the end of the sea for eons before rising again to
the sky, new as just born babes.* Methos couldn't hold his muscles
stiff anymore. One of his hands began to shake.
*I have ripped the scales from a little boy to remake the flesh
underneath and wash away the sins of the past.* Methos sank down into
the grass and tried to look away from the growing light that
surrounded this creature.
*I am Aslan. I have many names, and many faces. I know you, Methos.*
Aslan the Lion padded towards his paralyzed form. *Now let us see
what we can do with you, Son of Adam.*
Methos felt a light feeling in his stomach, as if he were being
tickled. The he knew that one of those massive paws was ripping into
his flesh, and it didn't matter. All he saw were the spheres of
mystery in the eyes of this creature he had known through many times
and places.
***
Duncan stretched in the morning sun and wandered out into the garden
to drink his coffee. Their guests would probably sleep until noon,
but he had always been an early riser. He had brewed the coffee,
wondering where Methos had gone the night before, and slipped on a
robe to go out into the sunshine for a little walk by himself.
This place did encourage serendipity, or even the tranquility of mind
he had once gotten at monasteries. Methos had taken to it; he had
made himself a fixture in the grass and the cobbled stone walls that
separated them from everyone else. Duncan often saw him only at
dinner. The rest of his time he had made himself scarce, riding on
their rented horse, or hanging high up in the branches of one of the
orchard trees, doing nothing at all.
This particular morning, however, Methos was sitting cross-legged in
the tall grass, watching the merry play of several of the field
bunnies. Duncan approached warily. When Methos did notice him it was
only in slight, and then he offered him a little space on the large
flat rock that was his current throne.
Mac plopped down next to him and sighed. Methos worked a long blade
of grass between his thumbs, brought it to his mouth and blew. There
was a shrill noise, and the rabbits scattered.
"I see you are feeling well," Mac ventured, combing a hand through his
damp hair. "I had worried for you last night when you didn't come
down to trounce us all at trivia."
Methos smiled, nodding his head and twisting the grass between two
fingers. "I was not feeling social," he said brightly, looking out
after the rabbits who had resumed their play a good distance further
from the noise as before. "It wasn't them. It was the sudden urge to
feel isolated."
"Ahhh," Mac replied, not feeling that he ad understood at all. Methos
stood, and Mac watched him stretch in the sun. He was wearing a pair
of faded dungarees, and a T-shirt that had seen better days. His feet
were bare. He'd been climbing trees again. When Methos started to
walk away, Mac wondered if it was a good idea to go in and make
breakfast. Then his friend turned and started talking as if Duncan
had been right behind him. The Highlander leapt at the cue and
scrambled to catch up.
"I was thinking last night, as I slept, that I was not so very lonely
as I used to be. Not because you were there, although you are indeed
a good friend," Methos said solemnly as they entered the orchard. Mac
felt the prickly grass under his feet and sipped from his mug. Methos
reached up and plucked an apple from its stem-harbour on the branch.
Then he shined it on his shirtfront and handed it to Mac.
"And then, you know, there are lots of things I was once lonely about.
I thought of those too," he said distractedly, carefully examining a
tree head to toe, then reaching up and hanging from a large branch.
He tested its weight with both hands, then swung back and forth, and
up.
"You thought while you were asleep," Mac stated. This was a
refreshing Methos. Almost boyish in nature, down to the cowlick that
protruded from the back of his head.
"Yes," came the reply. Methos was quickly disappearing from view, up
into the leaves. Mac tried to squint into the sun. "Well, I think
about lots of things." There was a pause, where Mac thought to say
something, and then, "I am not quite sure if I was asleep, really.
There are many things that happen to one when they're asleep." There,
Mac saw him, staring down at him, his lip protruding from his face a
little, a half-pout, half lost in thought. The leaves served to frame
his face.
Then Methos shrugged and turned back to whatever he was doing. "It
doesn't matter. The point is that I am not lonely anymore. Perhaps I
should sleep in wardrobes more often."
Mac smiled into his mug. "Is that where you were? Up in the attic?"
When an apple fell down at his feet, he picked it up and took that as
an affirmative. "Interesting. It must be left over from the
Professor."
There was a rustle of leaves over his head; the tree shook violently,
and then Methos hung upside down by his knees in front of him.
"Professor?"
"Yes," Mac answered, amused. Methos's face was reddening from hanging
upside down. His shirt fell into his face. "Professor Kirke owned
this house last. He died some time in the fifties, I suppose. The
house has had people in and out of it ever since. I do believe it was
almost destroyed, but something stopped it." He sipped his coffee.
"Perhaps it was divine intervention." Methos snorted and swung back
up into the tree. "What was in the wardrobe that made such a
wonderful bed? Old fur coats?"
Methos scoffed. "Hardly. Old lambskin that has seen better days, I
suppose. Something furry. I remembered it all so well just a few
minutes a go, and now it's so hard to remember." His face peeked out
from the tree. "What were we talking about?"
Mac shook his head. "You were telling me about your dream-thoughts
last night, as you slept in a musty old wardrobe instead of the large
bedroom you confiscated from me when we got here."
Another apple fell at his feet. He was going to need a bushel if
Methos was going to pick any more. Perhaps they could make pie...
"Well, I just decided that I'm not lonely anymore, and that I kind of
like being by myself." There was another pause, then another apple.
*Thunk.* "I had thought that being by oneself was a very lonely
business. Confronting old sins of the past in the dead, dark hours
after midnight and all." *Thunk.* "Well, it *isn't* so bad after
all. In fact, I rather *like* myself. Now, that is." *Thunk.*
Mac smiled at the mug, then up at the tree. "Well that is a good
thing, Methos." Three more apples fell from the tree:
*thunk...thunkthunk.*
Methos jumped down from a lower branch, and began retrieving the
apples from the ground. He used his already filthy shirt as a
makeshift carrier. They started back to the house together. Mac
thought that perhaps they would make bacon, then some fried apples and
brown sugar, and surprise their morning guests.
He stopped to glance at Methos. The eyes were a little rounder, they
face a little softer than when they had first come here. There was a
dark smudge across one cheek, and that hair ruffled in all directions
from the breeze. Something different. Something old. Something new.
The eyes were so young.
Methos was silent for a long while, his face curious, unguarded from
the sun, and the early squalling of the robins out in the orchard.
"You know, I think I'd like to be called Adam."
***
It was the unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling. He
stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed and then cried:
"I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here.
This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never
knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it
sometimes looked a little like this. Bree-hee-hee! Come further up,
come further in!"
---C.S.Lewis, "The Last Battle"
END
WHERE THE ANGELS SLEEP
Bebo Norman
I don't know why I always run
Is it fear of the fall, or fear of the touch?
And I don't know where the angels sleep
I don't know how to really love
I've never stood still long enough
And I don't know where the angels sleep
But I am alive and standing strong
I'm no farther forward, just farther along
I hold on to my pride and dig in deep
It's pulling me down, and I am no closer to release
And I don't know where the angels sleep
I don't know how to see you now
The friend from before is different somehow
And I don't know where the angels sleep
And I don't know when I'll love again
But I don't trust myself to just let you in
And I don't where the angles sleep
But I am alive and standing strong
I'm no farther forward, just farther along
I hold on to my pride and dig in deep
It's pulling me down and I am no closer to release
And I don't know where the angels sleep
It's taken ten thousand days to get stuck in my ways
And it offers no grace
I cannot stand this place
With love in my face
I walk away slowly
And I don't know where the angels sleep
No I don't know where the angels sleep
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
finis
Valincourts or any of the characters from Highlander: the Series.
They are all the property of Davis/Panzer. I do not own any of the
characters from the tales of Narnia as they appear in here, nor do I
own Narnia itself. They all belong to the estate of Lewis. However,
I dare say that Aslan belongs to us. Or rather, if you think very
hard, we belong to him, whether we know it or not.
Written for the lyrics (thanks Shadowlight!) by Bebo Norman, titled
"Where the Angels Sleep". Also, thanks to Prince, who told me exactly
what it sounds like when doves cry. Because I had been wondering...
Longer than normal, I hope this makes up for my shorter ones in the
past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Up In the Valley, Down On the Mountain
by Amand-r, Daughter of Eve
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*For Mr. Beaver had warned them, "He'll be coming and going," he had
said. "One day you'll see him and another you won't. He doesn't like
being tied down--and of course he has other countries to attend to.
It's quite all right. He'll often drop in. Only you mustn't press
him. He's wild, you know. Not like a *tame* lion."
--C.S.Lewis, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe"
MAY:
The best thing he could say about the place that Mac had rented for
them was that it was big. After that, it all went downhill. Old, was
the first thing that came to mind, but saying that was like inviting
every cliched joke and snide comment he would ever get from the
Highlander, so he kept his mouth shut. Stuffy, was another, and
crowded with books and other various junk. That too was something he
normally wouldn't have minded, seeing as how most of the places he
inhabited tended to be at least one of the above.
So, with the thought that he would not be saying a word about any of
their surroundings, Methos searched the dusty-as-hell library for a
decent book he hadn't read in a while and wondered how the hell Mac
had gotten him out here...
When he had opened his eyes two days ago, Duncan MacLeod had been
standing over him like a nightmare harpy. That he hadn't sensed
Duncan wasn't unusual; he was living with the man. Temporarily, until
they finished fumigating his apartment. But to see Mac this close,
this early, had been a shock. He had sat bolt upright, thoroughly
knocking heads with the other Immortal.
After a little bit of squalling, and screaming about boundaries
(mostly on his part), Duncan had given him the strangest look. It
might have been a 'wise' look, except that Methos was usually on the
other end of such non-verbal exchanges. Or so he had liked to tell
himself. This time it had been different. He had felt an
unmistakable wave of *something* most strange about to happen, and it
had.
"You need a vacation," Mac had said to him, sagely, picking the
remnants of the spilled coffee mug from the floor.
It had been sublime. "That much is obvious," Mac had continued. "I
should think that a summer in the countryside would do you wonders."
Methos had been so speechless at the intelligence of this child, of
the tenacity with which MacLeod pursued the rental of a villa on the
English Countryside, and the ease with which he had cajoled Methos
right in the place where he had wanted him that there had been no
option but to pack things up in satchels and trunks, and well, *go*.
Methos fingered an old copy of Beowulf and wondered idly what he was
going to do with himself. Mac had stocked the larder to brimming with
everything they would need, plus little bonuses for his companion:
bacon, beer, various forms of junk food that he favored. There were
bags of tortilla chips, synthetic puffs painted with florescent
cheese, packages that vaunted the fabled corn and nut combination, and
soft drinks like jeweled liquor in their oblong bottles.
Methos felt the pull away from these things. The first few days he
rode out into the countryside with a horse he had rented from a local
and jumped the rock barriers that still separated neighboring lands.
He walked out in the orchard, away from Mac, away from anybody, hands
in pockets, as the dew just started to coat the long blades of grass
and leaves that trembled in the morning breeze.
For the first time in millennia, Methos realized as he felt the animal
under his legs, or reached up with one hand to pluck the ripest apple
from its tender stem, he liked being alone. It was something he had
treasured once in his boyhood, and had lost, like childish dreams of
being a hero, or even more childish dreams of wanting one's mother.
Methos had let go of all of his boyhood dreams not because he had
decided that they were worth nothing, but because he had been forced
to forget them, as many children had in the ancient past, when
confronted with the sword and early blood.
Where had it gone, this innocence? Was it even innocence? Methos
wasn't sure. He knew that innocence could never be regained once it
was shorn, like a newborn's first haircut. Locks cut from a child for
the first time changed everything.
He wandered out into the tall grass, chasing rabbits and field foxes,
thinking to himself that it was a merry romp, and continued to hunt
with the neighbor's bull mastiff, Scout, all afternoon, looking for
edible dandelions and other such trivial things until Mac called him
to dinner.
Books were there still, and there were journals to be written, the
latest album brought fresh from the city to dance to. There were cool
evenings on the verand swing, striking up conversations with the
estate's live-in hostess, a massive tabby named Esmerelda. There were
still nights of a little drink -not too much- and a little fire, for
the house was cold and dank. Then at the first crack of dawn he was
out the door, apple in his hand, or perhaps a hunk of fresh cheese,
journal in his pocket, looking for leaves and daises to press and send
to Amanda, or even a few sketches of birds or badgers to jam into a
growing stack of papers he was neglecting. There was a little brook
to explore, picking out toads and crayfish. There were butterflies to
snatch and examine without disturbing the dust of their fragile wings.
And most of all, long walks that led nowhere are all, eventually
winding back to the house and its open doors that let in the flies and
drove Mac nuts.
Mac was one of the last things on Methos's mind.
TWO MONTHS LATER:
He had to escape. This weekend they were besieged by guests. First
Joe, who Methos didn't really mind, had rolled in, but he had brought
Richie, and that was okay too. Duncan had hinted that Amanda would
soon follow. When the Valincourts had pulled into the drive six hours
ago, Methos was sure that needed to camp out in the unused wine cellar
for a few days.
It was too soon, too soon to see them all. It was too soon to have
them trampling the vineyards in the early mornings, swinging from the
apple trees in the afternoon. It was too soon for them to cross his
path on the way to the barnyard from the servant's house. It was too
soon to hear them carousing in the last delicious remnants of the
night, when all that should be heard was the dulcet quiet of the
summer in which animals slumbered and foxes hunted for mice out in the
fields.
Methos clutched his book to his chest, thinking that it was all over.
He would never get it back. They would never understand, none of
them. He backed away from the dining room, from them all, and they
barely noticed.
Why this boyish childishness? Methos tried to analyze the situation
as he watched Mac pour Gina another glass of wine, and Richie hollered
something over the table at Joe. His sense of practicality failed,
and it was for the first time in years that he was astonished to find
that his throat hurt, and Gina was decidedly blurry. Everyone was
decidedly blurry.
He was crying!
//Go up,// he told himself, wiping his face with the backs of his
hands, heading up the spiraling staircase and into the upper depths of
the house itself, away from the rousing game of drunken Trivial
Pursuit that was ensuing downstairs. He heard Richie call something
out to him but didn't bother to respond. Where to go? Up.
Methos creeped up until he came to a little door. He tried the handle
experimentally. No one had been up this far all summer. It was an
attic storage area, nothing much to see, really, he remembered the
lady saying to them the first day they had arrived and she had given
them the 'grand tour' while he had moped.
Methos swung open the door just far enough to slip in side, and shut
it soundlessly behind him. He pulled out the little flashlight he had
brought with him and turned it on, shining it into the bowels of the
room.
There were paintings in the corners, edged up against the walls and
covered with cloths. There were piles of old books, and trunks that
probably held things like moldering draperies from the forties.
Methos felt a sneeze coming on, and held his breath. There was a
small noise of mice scampering across the floor in hopes to escape the
sweep of his light.
"Adam!" came a noise from downstairs. "Adam are you up here?" Mac
and Gina were looking for him. He heard their heavy steps on the wood
outside. He glanced about for a place to hide, choosing to disappear
than force a confrontation.
In the far corner of the room, the flashlight found a tall standing
independent wardrobe. Methos considered it for a second, and then
flung open one door, examining the bottom of the insides to see if it
was filthy, and if it would hold his weight.
The inside was immaculate. A few old fur coats hung on the far side,
and the bottom was home to several small pads of sheepskin. He tested
the weight of himself by stepping in with one foot. At worst, it
would crack a little, and no one would really notice.
The floor of the wardrobe held his weight. He tried both feet,
grasping the sides of the wardrobe and applying his weight carefully.
No change. The voices were drawing nearer, and after one last wild
glance towards the direction of the door, Methos sat down inside the
wardrobe, drawing his legs up into the raised surface and shutting the
doors with his fingertips.
Once the door was completely shut, the wardrobe was quiet inside. The
walls of the standing chifferobe masked all noise, and he leaned
against the solid wall behind him. No one would imagine that he was
in here, hiding away from a small collection of people whom he
supposed were his friends. Methos didn't even have the presence of
mind to chuckle at himself. He laid his journal down on the floor of
the wardrobe under his knees and exhaled, digging his hands into the
lambskin without caution.
He encountered something hard and stiff. Pulling it out was easy, but
in the complete darkness of the wardrobe, his fingers were a little
perplexed with its shape. Curved and bent, it widened from one end to
the other. Attached to it was a sort of cord, tied to both ends.
Methos turned on the flashlight again to inspect what he was starting
to think was a powder horn.
It was a horn. Not for gunpowder, but for hunting. Its curved body
was made of ivory. It was probably worth a fortune. The rope
attached to the ends was a means of conveyance. Methos was no
stranger to this kind of horn; it was probably one of the oldest
instruments in the world. This one, gilded on the bands that held the
silken cord tight to it, was small and perfect, a royal hunting horn,
indeed, or perhaps something constructed in the wilds of India for
some old British Lord. How the hell had it ended up here?
Methos examined the crest on the side, that of a rearing lion, and old
scrolling script that was all but unintelligible. Barely.
He brought it to his lips, thinking to try it out, when he remembered
where he was and how he had gotten there in the first place. Methos
froze to listen for voices coming from the room. Nothing. He pushed
the door of the wardrobe, and it cracked open enough for him to be
able to hear anyone still calling for him. There were no more
footsteps and voices. Mac and Gina must have returned to their games
downstairs with the rest of their visitors.
All alone then, Methos brought the horn up to his lips once again,
and, sucking in a little breath, blew lightly into the mouth end, not
enough for a full blast, but enough to hear its tone.
The sound that came out of the horn was truly loud. In fact, it was
too loud for the air that he had blown in. Methos jolted in the small
compartment and dropped the horn in his lap like it was on fire. The
noise reverberated through the wardrobe when it should have been
dampened by the wood, and he tucked the horn back under the sheepskin
where it had come from.
Then he leaned back and contemplated the strangeness of his own
situation. //You aren't in here because you're suddenly afraid of
people,// he told himself. //It has to do with something about this
whole 'being alone' business, doesn't it? What is it that drives you
to playing with musical instruments inside a piece of furniture?//
Methos had no answer. He was hoping that sleep would have a
suggestion.
***
There was a fresh breeze of what smelled suspiciously like lavender,
and a little bit of honeysuckle. Methos opened his eyes and blinked
in the light.
//What light?// he told himself. //You were in the wardrobe. Unless
you've taken to sleepwalking in your old age.//
He was in the middle of some forested area. Not too much forest, for
the area upon which he stood was exposed to the sun. But off into the
woods, he could see dappled patches of sunlight peeking through the
full verdant trees. There was the smell of nearby water, a brook or a
stream.
Methos knew he was no longer on the property of the estate he and Mac
had rented; he knew every inch of that land. He cast strange looks to
the sky, which was a lovely shade of blue, and the grass that grew
wild and tall about his feet.
Methos made his way towards the source of the water, listening for the
sound of the lap of it on rocks, knowing that if he followed the
stream, he might very well run into not only someone, but perhaps a
homestead and a way of getting home.
//Home.// He hadn't called anything that for a while. Why did he
refer to the villa as that?
He was about to ponder once again his love of the countryside, and his
sudden need to be away from people and all their trappings, when he
was suddenly shot through with the idea that *something* was out
there, and that it wasn't human. Nothing new, really, seeing as how
he was in the middle of the woods; there had to be hundreds of
thousands of living critters everywhere, right?
He scanned the banks of the brook, trying to see perhaps a watchful
but cautions deer or some other creature that might have possibly made
him stop for the sensation.
He was decidedly not prepared for the lion his eyes met down towards
the bank, lounging in the soft grass and watching him intently,
patiently.
It made no noise, and made no move, so he was spared a few seconds of
observation before panic attempted to grip him. The things was large,
as lions are apt to be, with a full tan mane, and a golden muzzle that
matched its paws in complete definition and hue. Only the eyes seemed
odd, cool and crisp, waiting.
//Lions are not good things,// he thought to himself. //You do
remember what they used to do to men in Africa, don't you?//
Methos backed away from the creature, which merely cocked its head at
him, as if he were contemplating something much deeper than the way
his face would taste crunching in its mouth.
*Come here, son of Adam,* Methos heard. He looked around for a
voice, for someone else, which was foolish, he knew inside, because
the voice had come from the lion.
//Lions don't talk,// he told himself. He continued his back away
technique, thinking that now would have been a good time to have his
sword. He had slain more than several lions with his Ivanhoe, as it
had been necessary at times.
The lion seemed to find this sad. *We all must do what we must.* And
with a small batting paw motion: *You have done many things as you
have seen you must, Adam. For you are not a son of Adam, are you?*
The lion yawned. *No, you are of another's conception, though not of
a different maker.*
"No one made me," Methos said stubbornly. "And it's not Adam." He
was suddenly filled with the urge to continue on as his own self,
refusing to admit to this creature that was and was not the thing he
was seeing. He wasn't going to explain himself to a lion. That was
for children.
*If no one made you, than how are you here?* the lion asked sagely.
Methos faltered for a second. Indeed, he *had* been elsewhere, if he
remembered correctly. He frowned and sat down on a rock. Apparently
this lion was less than interested in his 'crunchy on the outside,
chewy in the inside' makeup.
"I was asleep, and then I was here," he gestured to the brook, the
grass, the trees above him. "There was no sun where I was. I wonder
just what time it is."
*It is all times and none,* the lion told him, sphinx-like from head
right down to its perfect paws that aligned themselves as surely as
the creature must have read his mind. *For here, you are in no time,
though it does pass here.*
"And where is here?" Methos sighed. It was getting easier and easier
to realize that this creature was not normal. Though it could still
eat him, he figured.
*You could be anywhere, though you are in the place of my fondest
choosing,* the lion told him. *You are in Narnia.*
Methos chuckled. The admission meant nothing to him, though he was
fairly sure that he was familiar with every location on the globe,
past and present.
The lion did not take to his laughter. It moved quickly, faster than
he would have thought, until it knocked him over, and Methos rolled
off the boulder and down the narrowing slope, stopping short of the
water by accidentally hitting his shoulder on a jutting rock. Pain
seared through his chest, and Methos felt the hot breath of death as
the lion leaned over him, its smiling jaw lolling open in amusement.
*You may stop worrying for your safety, Son of Adam. You are not
halfway up to my taste.* The lion rubbed his face a little with its
chin, and Methos smelled the deep forest and the sandy depths of the
desert. *You came, blowing the horn of Great Queen Susan, who once
ruled these lands, long long ago,* it told him. *Whoever blows that
horn, summons some kind of help, it has been said.*
Methos flashed back to the horn, remembered its sound in the little
wardrobe and the way he had wondered of its origin. The lion seemed
to understand this, but said nothing.
"Yes, but where are you from? How do you know me?" he demanded,
trying to roll over to a tolerable and dignified position.
*I encompass all things. You know this,* the lion told him, blinking
once, twice, and then settling down on the grass, lolling like a cat
and reaching out with one massive paw to drag him close. *Not just
here, but in that place where you abide.*
It was in that moment that suddenly Methos *knew*, he knew as he had
known what to do the first time he had taken a head: that the
lightning would come, and that this sensation would be the first of
many times. Many times in five thousand, in fact.
The lion was not all of its image, and yet so completely what it was.
Like Methos, it was more than the sum of its vision, yet so very much
more than Methos would ever be. He yearned for that knowledge of self
this creature possessed.
Methos rolled over into the grasp of the paw, burying his face in that
tawny mane, thinking that there was nothing at all that this creature
would do to him, no matter what he had done.
*All that you have been done has been of you own doing,* the lion
purred, *and you are the one who lives to see their resolution. But
these things cannot be undone by themselves. You must first admit
that you cannot solve all things with your own judgement.*
There. It had been said. Methos frowned, feeling the tears well up
again a little at the thought. "I cannot undo the things I am guilty
for," he began feebly. "Some of them are so old, I struggle to even
conceive of them in this time. All those who witnessed my most
terrible deeds are long dead."
The-creature-that-was-and-was-not-a-lion said nothing. Methos knew he
was making excuses. The creature knew it. It pushed him away with
one paw, a rejection of sorts. Methos felt a little stab of its claws
in his chest with that thrust.
*There are no excuses, and it would do you well to remember that.*
The bitter tint of the words seared his mind as he heard them. The
last thing he wanted to do was offend this creature, not only because
it could kill him, but also because he merely *didn't want to*.
"All right," he capitulated, drying the tears on his sleeve and
sitting up. "I am very sorry for the things I have done in the past.
That's not a secret. I would undo some of them if I could, but not
all of them, I suppose. I cannot do any more than that."
This seemed to satisfy the lion. *When the time comes, you will do
more than that,* it told him, blinking once before it resumed his
heavy gaze.
"And I have become so much less than I thought I was," Methos went on,
seeming cryptic even to himself. "There is something that I'm
missing, something hidden to me."
*All you profess to be hidden is inside,* the lion yawned. *You will
find it, for it was given only to you when you were born, long ago.*
Did this creature know him so that he was aware of his age? Methos
stammered for words. "I cannot remain alone forever, no matter how
much I like it," he started. "But the land has done something to me--
"
He stopped. The lion was gone. He searched for it, rising wildly and
spinning, trying to see through the trees. How could he leave him
like this? How could He do it? How did he even know it was a *he*?
//Lions like that, they are males,// his scientific part said. //But
when was the last time you sat down with one and lolled on a
riverbank?//
Methos had to face the facts. He had been deserted on the side of the
brook by a talking lion, one that had known his name. And now he was
stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing, not even his journal.
Just himself, just...
Himself.
And then he heard it, that roaring noise, and the lion was behind him.
He spun, covering his ears, wondering if this was the time that he was
to be eaten.
The lion had grown in size. Maybe it had been Methos's own
imagination. Perhaps things in Narnia were different, and creatures
all talked and changed sizes on a regular basis. Or perhaps this
wasn't a lion.
*I have defied the old magics and been reborn, youngling.* Methos
felt his bones grow old.
*I have created countless worlds, and watched the stars fall from the
heavens to rest at the end of the sea for eons before rising again to
the sky, new as just born babes.* Methos couldn't hold his muscles
stiff anymore. One of his hands began to shake.
*I have ripped the scales from a little boy to remake the flesh
underneath and wash away the sins of the past.* Methos sank down into
the grass and tried to look away from the growing light that
surrounded this creature.
*I am Aslan. I have many names, and many faces. I know you, Methos.*
Aslan the Lion padded towards his paralyzed form. *Now let us see
what we can do with you, Son of Adam.*
Methos felt a light feeling in his stomach, as if he were being
tickled. The he knew that one of those massive paws was ripping into
his flesh, and it didn't matter. All he saw were the spheres of
mystery in the eyes of this creature he had known through many times
and places.
***
Duncan stretched in the morning sun and wandered out into the garden
to drink his coffee. Their guests would probably sleep until noon,
but he had always been an early riser. He had brewed the coffee,
wondering where Methos had gone the night before, and slipped on a
robe to go out into the sunshine for a little walk by himself.
This place did encourage serendipity, or even the tranquility of mind
he had once gotten at monasteries. Methos had taken to it; he had
made himself a fixture in the grass and the cobbled stone walls that
separated them from everyone else. Duncan often saw him only at
dinner. The rest of his time he had made himself scarce, riding on
their rented horse, or hanging high up in the branches of one of the
orchard trees, doing nothing at all.
This particular morning, however, Methos was sitting cross-legged in
the tall grass, watching the merry play of several of the field
bunnies. Duncan approached warily. When Methos did notice him it was
only in slight, and then he offered him a little space on the large
flat rock that was his current throne.
Mac plopped down next to him and sighed. Methos worked a long blade
of grass between his thumbs, brought it to his mouth and blew. There
was a shrill noise, and the rabbits scattered.
"I see you are feeling well," Mac ventured, combing a hand through his
damp hair. "I had worried for you last night when you didn't come
down to trounce us all at trivia."
Methos smiled, nodding his head and twisting the grass between two
fingers. "I was not feeling social," he said brightly, looking out
after the rabbits who had resumed their play a good distance further
from the noise as before. "It wasn't them. It was the sudden urge to
feel isolated."
"Ahhh," Mac replied, not feeling that he ad understood at all. Methos
stood, and Mac watched him stretch in the sun. He was wearing a pair
of faded dungarees, and a T-shirt that had seen better days. His feet
were bare. He'd been climbing trees again. When Methos started to
walk away, Mac wondered if it was a good idea to go in and make
breakfast. Then his friend turned and started talking as if Duncan
had been right behind him. The Highlander leapt at the cue and
scrambled to catch up.
"I was thinking last night, as I slept, that I was not so very lonely
as I used to be. Not because you were there, although you are indeed
a good friend," Methos said solemnly as they entered the orchard. Mac
felt the prickly grass under his feet and sipped from his mug. Methos
reached up and plucked an apple from its stem-harbour on the branch.
Then he shined it on his shirtfront and handed it to Mac.
"And then, you know, there are lots of things I was once lonely about.
I thought of those too," he said distractedly, carefully examining a
tree head to toe, then reaching up and hanging from a large branch.
He tested its weight with both hands, then swung back and forth, and
up.
"You thought while you were asleep," Mac stated. This was a
refreshing Methos. Almost boyish in nature, down to the cowlick that
protruded from the back of his head.
"Yes," came the reply. Methos was quickly disappearing from view, up
into the leaves. Mac tried to squint into the sun. "Well, I think
about lots of things." There was a pause, where Mac thought to say
something, and then, "I am not quite sure if I was asleep, really.
There are many things that happen to one when they're asleep." There,
Mac saw him, staring down at him, his lip protruding from his face a
little, a half-pout, half lost in thought. The leaves served to frame
his face.
Then Methos shrugged and turned back to whatever he was doing. "It
doesn't matter. The point is that I am not lonely anymore. Perhaps I
should sleep in wardrobes more often."
Mac smiled into his mug. "Is that where you were? Up in the attic?"
When an apple fell down at his feet, he picked it up and took that as
an affirmative. "Interesting. It must be left over from the
Professor."
There was a rustle of leaves over his head; the tree shook violently,
and then Methos hung upside down by his knees in front of him.
"Professor?"
"Yes," Mac answered, amused. Methos's face was reddening from hanging
upside down. His shirt fell into his face. "Professor Kirke owned
this house last. He died some time in the fifties, I suppose. The
house has had people in and out of it ever since. I do believe it was
almost destroyed, but something stopped it." He sipped his coffee.
"Perhaps it was divine intervention." Methos snorted and swung back
up into the tree. "What was in the wardrobe that made such a
wonderful bed? Old fur coats?"
Methos scoffed. "Hardly. Old lambskin that has seen better days, I
suppose. Something furry. I remembered it all so well just a few
minutes a go, and now it's so hard to remember." His face peeked out
from the tree. "What were we talking about?"
Mac shook his head. "You were telling me about your dream-thoughts
last night, as you slept in a musty old wardrobe instead of the large
bedroom you confiscated from me when we got here."
Another apple fell at his feet. He was going to need a bushel if
Methos was going to pick any more. Perhaps they could make pie...
"Well, I just decided that I'm not lonely anymore, and that I kind of
like being by myself." There was another pause, then another apple.
*Thunk.* "I had thought that being by oneself was a very lonely
business. Confronting old sins of the past in the dead, dark hours
after midnight and all." *Thunk.* "Well, it *isn't* so bad after
all. In fact, I rather *like* myself. Now, that is." *Thunk.*
Mac smiled at the mug, then up at the tree. "Well that is a good
thing, Methos." Three more apples fell from the tree:
*thunk...thunkthunk.*
Methos jumped down from a lower branch, and began retrieving the
apples from the ground. He used his already filthy shirt as a
makeshift carrier. They started back to the house together. Mac
thought that perhaps they would make bacon, then some fried apples and
brown sugar, and surprise their morning guests.
He stopped to glance at Methos. The eyes were a little rounder, they
face a little softer than when they had first come here. There was a
dark smudge across one cheek, and that hair ruffled in all directions
from the breeze. Something different. Something old. Something new.
The eyes were so young.
Methos was silent for a long while, his face curious, unguarded from
the sun, and the early squalling of the robins out in the orchard.
"You know, I think I'd like to be called Adam."
***
It was the unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling. He
stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed and then cried:
"I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here.
This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never
knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it
sometimes looked a little like this. Bree-hee-hee! Come further up,
come further in!"
---C.S.Lewis, "The Last Battle"
END
WHERE THE ANGELS SLEEP
Bebo Norman
I don't know why I always run
Is it fear of the fall, or fear of the touch?
And I don't know where the angels sleep
I don't know how to really love
I've never stood still long enough
And I don't know where the angels sleep
But I am alive and standing strong
I'm no farther forward, just farther along
I hold on to my pride and dig in deep
It's pulling me down, and I am no closer to release
And I don't know where the angels sleep
I don't know how to see you now
The friend from before is different somehow
And I don't know where the angels sleep
And I don't know when I'll love again
But I don't trust myself to just let you in
And I don't where the angles sleep
But I am alive and standing strong
I'm no farther forward, just farther along
I hold on to my pride and dig in deep
It's pulling me down and I am no closer to release
And I don't know where the angels sleep
It's taken ten thousand days to get stuck in my ways
And it offers no grace
I cannot stand this place
With love in my face
I walk away slowly
And I don't know where the angels sleep
No I don't know where the angels sleep
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
finis