Origins - Chapter Ten
Again with the apologies (I should make an icon for it), for taking so long. But many thanks to
lastrega and
amand_r for being terrific betas. The last bit of the chapter, however, is unbeta'd because I was struggling with the ending, and in any event all faults and failures are mine.
So, onto Chapter 10, in which Joe and Methos go on a road trip, and everyone else equivocates...
Chapter 10
Joe had spent the last 45 minutes on the weekly conference call with all the other regional directors. It had been the same tedious nitpicking and territory-marking bullshit as it almost always was, leaving him vaguely irritated and worried about the future of their several-millennia-old institution. But, he rationalized to himself, human beings being what they were, no doubt there had been similar versions of the same conversations back in the day when the primary means of communication had been papyrus scrolls.
The sudden flurry of combat a few months ago that had sparked conjecture that The Gathering Was At Hand (again!) had died down and no one had even mentioned MacLeod, other than his name appearing among the weekly reports listing “Living Immortals - LCU” (Location Currently Unknown). And as badly as Joe wanted to bring pressure to find Mac, he was reluctant to generate any special attention either to himself or to MacLeod. Both of them had suffered more than enough from Watcher scrutiny and Joe had come to the reluctant conclusion that maybe Mac had been right to disappear like he had.
Maybe Methos had been mistaken, had been pushing too hard and for the wrong reasons. Of late, the irritating oldest Immortal had become reclusive himself and when he had bothered to come around at all, he had been placidly uncommunicative about Mac, or any other subject for that matter.
Joe signed off of the computer, making sure the security locks were in place so no one else could use it. He pushed himself to his feet with a heave, tottering there for a few minutes to make sure his balance was steady and to let the familiar first flush of the ache of his prostheses pass. With a sigh, he made his way out of his office and into the main floor of the bar. It was getting on towards the lunch hour and - Watcher business or not - there were chores to be done.
The bar was empty except for Manuel sweeping the floors and moving the chairs off the tables to get ready for opening. Joe turned to his right and headed into the kitchen just to make sure the staff had arrived and were getting ready to prepare the burgers and sandwiches his place was known for - along with the excellent live music and fine liquor he always kept stocked.
And making sure the bar was properly stocked was probably the most important job he had to do today, since it was Monday and the weekend usually used up large portions of his inventory. He turned the corner at the end of the bar and stopped, spotting a lean figure moving around in what was usually Joe’s proprietary space.
“Pierson!” he called gruffly, in no mood for the man’s liquor-mooching habits, and the last thing he wanted was a reminder of the ache of Mac’s absence and the Watchers’ ineptitude. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Taking inventory,” Methos answered absently, his eyes traveling the shelves as he made notes on a pad. “Isn’t Monday inventory day?” he asked, turning towards him at last with an utterly innocent expression on that not-at-all-innocent face.
“Riight,” Joe responded with a twist of his mouth, moving behind the bar to snatch the pad from Methos’ hand. He examined it with a weathered eye. “Hmm.” Contrary to expectations, it actually was a list, with numbers and everything. “It looks like I need to get some more Johnny Walker in, and the usual beer orders. And apparently somebody went on a vodka bender this weekend.” He paused and met Methos’ eyes a little sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Just thought I’d make myself useful.”
That cheery comment set off a few warning bells in Joe’s head. Of course in a pinch Methos was a staunch friend and invaluable ally, but most of the rest of the time his life’s governing creed was self-interest and path-of-least-resistance.
Joe carefully put the list down on the bar. “What is it this time?” he asked. “Access to restricted records?
Methos clutched his hand to his chest in mock distress. “You wound me! You think I would only do something nice in exchange for a favor?”
Joe just looked at him.
“Well,” Methos’ slow smile was the picture of child-like, sweet innocence, “I was actually just hoping to talk you into a road trip.”
“A road trip,” Joe repeated. “I assume this has something to do with finding MacLeod, that you think you know where he is?” It was half-question, half-statement since Methos was not known to take direct action without good reason.
But the man just shrugged, giving nothing away. “Just feeling restless, and the last time you and I traveled together we had some good times, didn’t we?”
“Good times?” Joe asked with a dubious look. “You sure have a funny definition of having a good time. We got shot at, ran out of gas, you got killed, we argued like an old married couple on the verge of divorce and I got you into a battle you didn’t want or need.”
“Yeah, well, at least it wasn’t boring. Besides,” Methos finally met his eyes directly, “all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, you can be very handy to have around in a pinch.”
Joe leaned on the bar, studying his ancient friend closely. “Is there some reason to think we might get in “a pinch”, as you call it, on this little road trip?”
“You never know,” Methos replied with a boyish twitch of mischief on his lips.
“This has to do with MacLeod, doesn’t it?”
Methos shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I just feel the urge to head into the great Southwest for no reason other than to see some nice sunsets.”
“The great Southwest, eh? You heard something I haven’t?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say I’ve got a feeling, and I may need someone to watch my back from… unknown elements. It’d also be good to know we’re not walking right into a nest of Immortal hotshot wannabes.”
“Ah,” Joe nodded in enlightened understanding. “You need me to track things as we go so you can avoid any unpleasant encounters while you follow your instincts, psychic impulses, secret tea-leaf-reading… whatever you want to call it, to find Mac. Why the extra push to find him now, though? He’s been gone for months.”
“Let’s just say I’ve been having some troubling dreams and that I think we won’t be the only ones looking for him.”
Joe looked around the bar to make sure there was no one to overhear, but even though they were alone, he instinctively leaned in and spoke softly. “You talking about rogue Watchers? Other Immortals? These… what’d you call them… Sidhe guys? What? Come on, Methos, I don’t like workin’ in the dark here.”
Methos shook his head and turned away, walking around the bar and settling onto a stool. He interlaced his long fingers and stared at his hands in a long silence before he finally spoke. “I’ve been searching for Mac through meditation for weeks, without much success, I’m afraid.”
“Meditation?” Joe asked incredulously. “I thought you said that was the absolute worst thing you could do, that it would attract other Immortals like flies to honey.”
“Not that kind of meditation,” Methos replied irritably. “When Mac meditates he broadcasts his Quickening. But there are ways, if you know how, to… I don’t know how to describe it… to put out feelers, kind of like a dog catching a scent in the air, finding a certain familiar presence, without serving as a homing beacon for folks who carry sharp, pointy weapons.”
Joe glared at him. “If you knew how to do that, why didn’t you figure out Kronos was on your trail and scurry to cover?”
“It doesn’t work like that!” Methos sighed in frustration. “Damn it, Joe, talking about our sense of each other is like describing color to a blind man. Let’s just say that my sense of Mac’s identity is particularly sensitive and I figured if I kept at it long enough, eventually he would fall back into old habits, start meditating again and I’d figure out where he is.”
“And did you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s ‘not exactly’ supposed to mean?”
“It means that while I was trying, I felt something else. Someone else. And they were also looking for Mac, and there was this…,” he paused, struggling for words. “This sense of urgency about it. So much so that even though it recognized me, it didn’t even pause, ignoring me like I was irrelevant, and that’s never happened before. As a matter of fact, they’ve been desperately trying to get my attention for some 4,000 years and I’ve been diligently ignoring them.”
“So you think they’re now looking for Mac instead of you.”
“And time is a factor, Joe. And for them, time has never been a factor. At least not until now.”
~~~~~~
Tal stood silent sentinel in the shadows of the main dun'a'queha, which had become de’Thalia’s almost-permanent residence. The oldest of the Sidhe spent most of her time here, kneeling at the center of the circle of monoliths, barely leaving to eat or sleep, and only then when Tal or another of the g’nagal deliberately roused her.
Tal still thought of the ancient being as “her”, even though the recovery from the injuries sustained during the rescue of Ce’Dane of the Mountains had required reversion back to neutral form. Thalia had taken female form so very long ago - before Tal was born, and he was among the oldest of the g’nagal, and she had been v’tah to more offspring than any other member of the Sidhe race. Her progeny were among the most creative, the most innovative and enduring, Ce’dane of the Mountains among the most prominent. It was he who had set Tal this task above all others, even though Ce’dane now spent virtually all his time in his quarters in a semi-conscious dream-state, the usually glowing ptal’ne dim and lifeless at the lack of movement to stimulate their light.
It wasn’t unusual for one of the Sidhe to retreat into their mind or memories, requiring the g’nagal to tend their most intimate needs just to sustain some semblance of life. But Ce’dane had always seemed… different. Tal once again pushed away his curious musings about his masters as irrelevant to the task at hand, but his mind had ever been undisciplined - a fault he had been attempting to overcome all his life. Curiosity and speculation were both rare and frowned-upon traits among his kind, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but wonder at how the minds of the Sidhe he served actually worked, what kept them going, what motivated them at all.
Without work, without purpose, without anyone or any goal to serve, what compelled them to survive? Was it just because they had no choice? Was it ego? They certainly believed, justifiably, that their race was singularly valuable in the universe. Few sentient creatures had an indefinite lifespan, Tal knew. Thousands upon thousands of fan in the past, the Sidhe had been adventurous enough to travel beyond their planet, seeking out other life, exploring the galaxy. Many had simply disappeared, never to be heard from again, but some had returned, eventually. Most had been insane - or at least thought by the others to be unbalanced. They never really belonged here again, and since the capacity for space travel had been deliberately deconstructed as the Sidhe retreated more and more into the power of their minds, those wanderers - having traveled the vastness of space for thousands of fan, eventually retreated into permanent sleep or used what remained of their spaceships to leave the planet once again. Now never to return, Tal thought sadly. For there would be nothing here if they did.
The cavern shuddered with a low, almost sub-audible rumble and the ferns all flickered to sudden life, filling the whole cavern with phosphorescent light. A few chunks of rock loosened from the walls and ceiling and clattered to the floor and d’Thalia’s head came up with a soft gasp. Tal moved quickly and clasped one shoulder to steady her, then handed her the container of nutrient liquid he had held for several sun cycles, just to be ready for this moment.
Her large, dark eyes slowly focused on his hand. “How long?” she asked, her voice a rough, dry rasp.
“Twenty-three cycles,” Tal answered softly after a brief pause. The question was unexpected. Time for the Sidhe was almost never a concern. But then, like everything else in their existence, that was changing dramatically. She pressed her wide mouth into a thin line of what Tal assumed was concern or frustration, then sipped at the liquid, her dark eyes still unfocused as though her thoughts were still caught in ka’queha.
He wanted to ask… but that would be utterly unheard of so he made an effort to cast his eyes downward and clear his thoughts, striving to be simply a receptacle for instructions, a model of obedience. He felt her eyes studying him.
“You want to know something,” she stated, sounding only mildly surprised. “What is it?”
Tal hesitated only a moment. If she inquired, it was his duty to respond, even though actual conversations between Sidhe and g’nagal were unheard of in his experience. “Did you find the one you seek?” he asked softly.
“I… found traces,” she sighed, then sipped again from her drink. “There are so very many minds crowding that planet and he is avoiding ka’queha, but his is a strong presence, leaving trace impressions on others wherever he goes. Following those impressions requires more concentration than I have ever before attempted, but I will succeed,” she stated firmly. She handed him the empty glass. “But for now I must rest.” She held out her long-fingered hand and Tal steadied her as she rose, towering above him as did all her kind.
They walked slowly towards her quarters, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder for support. He kept his silence.
“I know,” she said, so softly that that he wasn’t completely sure she had spoken, but it seemed the eldest of the Sidhe could sense the concern occupying his far less sophisticated thoughts. “There is little time left,” she said, her near-whisper carrying easily in the stone chamber.
~~~~~~
Greta used her iced tea straw to gently move the cubes around and around, only half listening to Sam grouse about his dad. The other half of her mind was observing - as it always had, ever since her dajajka took her along on the family’s various scams, teaching her what to look for, who were marks, who were threats. The whole seventh-daughter-of-a-seventh-daughter ‘psychic’ gig was a big part of the deal, of course - an easy scam with a well-rehearsed, proven spiel.
At least that’s what she had believed until she actually saw… well, visions was the only word that really fit - when Duncan MacLeod had plowed into her well-ordered life like a runaway train. Until then she had just thought of herself as an expert people-reader, easily spotting who was a deadhead, who was a dick, who was likely to be a knock. She had figured MacLeod for a knock, but boy, had she been wrong about that one. The man was fascinating and charismatic, but he was also downright weird and scary, almost physically forcing her to use whatever latent gift she had in a desperate attempt to save his Tessa, and thus turning her whole perception of herself upside-down. No doubt about it. MacLeod was trouble, with a capital ‘T’. And now he was here, intruding in her life again. Weird.
It was past the coffee shop’s morning rush. The booths, their well-worn baby-blue vinyl seating carefully repaired with duct-tape, were mostly empty and the battered wooden tables with tired chrome chairs held only a few older male patrons. Their dark-skinned, weathered faces bore the treads and roadways of a hard life in the desert sun as they sat drinking coffee and bullshitting each other and any casual passerby who dared engage them in conversation.
“Have you been paying attention to anything I’ve said?” Sam demanded irritably, his dark eyes fixing her with a piercing stare.
“Sorry,” she sighed, forcing her attention back to her companion. “This place you keep talking about, I don’t know if it will mean anything to me, or what you expect me to do about it even if it does.”
Sam leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “It’s supposed to be super-sacred ground, but it’s government land, so anybody can go on it. My dad will be pissed, but he can’t stop us if we want to set up a tour agency like all those spiritualist shops around Sedona that give guided tours. I could get folks there, you could lead séances and retreats … people pay good money for that crap! And it’d be good for business around here. Maybe this dump would actually get some real restaurants and hotels so the folks on the reservations could have some jobs. It’d be a good thing, Greta. For everybody!”
“I don’t know,” Greta equivocated. The whole deal didn’t really feel right, but she couldn’t have said why. “I’m not exactly a desert kind of person, you know? I’m a city girl, and schlepping around with snakes and lizards just isn’t for me. And I like your dad. He seems like a really good guy. If he thinks this place should stay private, then maybe he’s right.”
“He’s stuck in the past, mired in the old ways. If he had his way, we’d all still be weaving baskets, chasing buffalo and crapping in the dirt,” Sam replied in disgust. “We can actually help the people with this, and all he can think about is pretending that place doesn’t even exist. Besides, sometimes I think he’d be against anything I tried to do that was my own idea, just on principle.” Sam frowned, his handsome features marred by bitterness and frustration.
Greta reached, putting her own small, white hand over his large brown one. Being alienated from your own people was something she knew a lot about. They sat in silence for a moment, which got increasingly uncomfortable. Sam did ‘silence’ with a vengeance, creating this weird, charged aura that Greta could almost see in the air around them. “All right,” she said at last with a sigh. “Take me to this… place.” His whole face lit up with a pleased grin. “But if I get bitten by a snake and die, I’ll come back and haunt you!” she teased, shaking a finger under his nose. He was playfully attempting to bite her finger when the door over the entrance rang and Duncan MacLeod strode in, inevitably drawing every eye in the room.
Greta knew he had been working to refurbish some ancient truck that belonged to Sam’s dad, but the two of them had warily avoided each other for a couple of months now. Clearly they each had secrets to keep. She had changed her last name to avoid a certain arrest warrant back in Seacouver, so his own unexplained name change wasn’t something she felt she had the right to question, especially since the man scared her half to death. It was a strange fear, actually, when she let herself think about it, which wasn’t often. She had no concern that he might hurt her, but there was a sense of… she let her mind wander for a moment to find a word… fate. That was it. Some looming, dark fatalistic consequence that potentially could impact anyone within his immediate proximity. Weird again.
Mac - she reminded herself that was the name he went by - sat at the counter and ordered some coffee, his comments to the waitress making her blush and giggle. He sipped at his cup and turned in his seat to see who else was there, nodding to the group of retired guys occupying their usual booth, and his eyes at last met hers and stopped. He acknowledged her with a small nod, set his cup down, appeared to come to some kind of decision, and her heart sank as he stood and walked purposefully in their direction.
“Hey,” he greet gently, looking a little uncomfortable. “How are you guys getting along?”
“You mean after you stole my trailer?” Sam snapped, refusing to meet Mac’s gaze.
“We’re doing fine,” Greta assured him with a smile. “We found a little house for rent and it’s probably much more comfortable than that beat up old trailer,” she added with a hard look at Sam, then kicked him under the table for good measure. “It’s not your fault Sam’s dad thought he wasn’t coming back. Sit,” she finally invited, scooting over to make room.
“That’s okay, I…”
“Come on, she’ll bring your food over here,” Greta insisted, giving Sam another glare.
“Yeah,” Sam reluctantly agreed. “Join us.”
“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time that I was really sorry to hear about your lady friend. Tessa was her name, wasn’t it?” Greta said softly, getting a curious look from Sam. “She was Mac’s fiancé,” she said to Sam. “I knew her very briefly, just before she got killed by a mugger. You remember, I told you about that the first night we were here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam mumbled. “Sorry, man. Tough break.”
Mac nodded. “She was a very special lady, but you know… you have to move on, eventually.”
Greta nodded in agreement.
“You know, Greta,” Mac said softly. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence, and your showing up here is… unexpected. I know it’s not really any of my business, but I’ve been wondering what brought you here.”
“Sam brought me,” she replied pertly. “We hooked up when I was working at a fair in Northern California and he was working as a carnie. That life got pretty old pretty fast, and we kinda ran out of money…”
“Greta!” Sam growled.
“No shame in that,” Mac said evenly.
“Anyway, Sam had an idea for a business here, so here we are,” Greta shrugged.
“A business?” Mac asked. “Great! I know your dad will be glad to hear you’re moving ahead, using your education. He was very proud you got some college under your belt, Sam.”
“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “I never hear the end of the whole “you shouldn’t have left” speech, but,” he shrugged. “College wasn’t for me.”
“Experience has certainly been my best teacher - unfortunately,” Mac said with a rueful sigh and a shake of his head. “There have been times I felt like a rat in a maze, running into the same walls over and over again until I finally figured how not to repeat the same mistakes. But,” he added, looking hard into Sam’s eyes, “education really changed how I use that experience, how I interpret it, and it gave me a whole new set of tools to figure out things. What I read, the ideas shared and discussed with people I respected - that’s the real value of formal education, Sam,” he added quietly.
“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said with a shrug. “But it’s not for me, at least not now. I need to make some money,” he added stubbornly. “And I need to prove to my dad that I can do something on my own.”
Mac nodded. “I know how that feels,” he said softly. “Well, good luck to you both.” He rose and stuck out his hand, which Sam took after a moment’s rather churlish hesitation. Greta ducked her head to hide a smile. MacLeod’s innate charm was hard to resist, even for Sam, who was both jealous and suspicious of the stranger who had taken over his old living space, and who seemed to have found a place in his father’s heart. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?” he added, looking pointedly back and forth between Greta and Sam. Greta kept her face carefully neutral. However benign MacLeod’s motives, he was trouble, she knew. Trouble with a capital “T”.
Sam watched MacLeod leave, then turned back with an unhappy twist of his mouth. “Sanctimonious SOB,” he muttered into his coffee. “You’d think he was some kind of tribal elder dishing out unwanted advice.”
“Yeah, really nasty, the way he offered to help and all,” Greta agreed, getting a dark look for her effort at humor.
“We don’t need anybody’s help,” Sam snapped. “I’ll show you the site and then we can start making plans for some kind of,” he waved his hand vaguely, “séance, or whatever you do.”
“It’s not a séance,” Greta responded grimly. “I’m not even sure what I’ll be doing until I see the site. Maybe I’ll just do readings of people, or maybe some kind of special ceremony on the equinox and solstice dates, or something. Do you really think the place is… special?”
Sam pressed his lips together. “I know my father does, and… well, I dunno. It’s a weird place, for sure. Always creeped me out whenever they’d have a ceremony there.”
Greta sipped at her coffee, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tingling between her shoulder blades that sometimes heralded one of those ‘sight’ things that had bothered her ever since MacLeod had entered her life. Her enthusiasm about Sam’s little venture in psychic scamming was dimming to less than zero. Maybe it was MacLeod’s presence; maybe it was the notion of using an Indian holy site to make money… she shuddered involuntarily, almost spilling her coffee. Maybe it was just the late winter chill.
~~~~~
Joe forced his fingers to relax, stretching one hand at a time. For the past hour he had been gripping the wheel so tightly his muscles were beginning to ache all the way from his hands to his neck. He took a deep breath, deliberately sitting back instead of hunching over the wheel, as though squinting and peering through the windshield was somehow going to make a real difference in how well he maneuvered through the increasingly heavy snow. He checked the gas gauge, noting they had less than a quarter of a tank, and wondering how soon they were going to get to the next town. He glanced over to his traveling companion and almost growled aloud in irritation. The man was sound asleep, his head back, his mouth open, his whole body a study in uncaring relaxation. Easy for him. He wasn’t going to die - at least not permanently - if they got stranded or Joe managed to slide them off the mountainous road into some lonely crevasse.
“Hey!” he called, sparing one hand to whap his passenger on the shoulder. “Wake up!”
“What!” Methos grumbled, blinking owlishly and looking around. “Hey, it’s snowing. Pretty.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Joe groused. “It started about an hour ago and stopped being ‘pretty’ in about twenty minutes. Check the weather report, would you? I’m afraid to take my hands off the steering wheel.”
Methos fumbled around with the radio, but the reception was terrible and they only got bits and pieces of announcements, none of which seemed to have anything to do with the weather.
“How soon do we get to the next town?” Joe asked grumpily. His ancient companion had been less than helpful throughout the trip, alternating between irritatingly cheerful and downright uncommunicative, and his notion of directing them where he wanted to go was a vague wave indicating “that way.”
Methos mumbled something unintelligible as he spread out a well-used map on his lap, his long fingers tracing a vaguely southwestern track from Seacouver towards… Joe didn’t know. Reno? Las Vegas? Maybe Mac was taking refuge at the holy ground of some Elvis chapel somewhere.
“Well,” Methos intoned, leaning down to peer at the small print, “I think we’re in the Umpqua National Forest.”
“Umpqua?” Joe snorted. “Great. Just what I want on my tombstone - ‘Froze to Death in Umpqua’.”
Methos spared him a narrow-eyed glance. “And the next town is in about 10 miles, I guess. A place called Chemult.” He straightened up with an all-suffering sigh and began the laborious process of folding the map. “You sure are grumpy,” he noted with a small sniff. “We can stop there if you want. I must admit I’m getting a little tired.”
“You’re getting tired?” Joe snapped. “You’ve been sleeping most of the day while I’ve been driving through a blizzard!”
“No need to get snippy,” Methos admonished haughtily, then grabbed for the dashboard when the SUV’s rear wheels broke loose in a skid as Joe rounded a particularly tight corner. “Easy there! You’re going too fast!”
Joe grimly wrestled the car back into a straight line and carefully kept going. “You wanna do this, big shot?” he growled. “I’d be happy to relinquish the driver’s seat. It only takes a minute to disable the special controls, you know.” Joe felt Methos’ steady gaze on him and he had to make a real effort not to make a snide comment about Methos’ immortality since it would only ratchet up the tension between them even further.
“You are a better driver than I am, Joseph,” Methos admitted in a surprisingly sincere tone. “And I’m sleeping in the car a lot because I’m not really sleeping at night. I’m sorry it has put most of the driving burden on you.”
Joe spared a quick glance to his right, a little surprised at the tone of sincerity when he had expected sarcasm. They had both been out of sorts since the trip began over a week before. Methos would be up early every day, giving only vague directions without explanation, then sometimes changing his mind but never explaining why.
“What’s going on, Methos?” Joe asked quietly after a moment of tense silence.
“It’s… hard,” was the answer. “I’m trying to meditate, to go just deep enough to catch any trace of MacLeod, but not so deep as to attract unwanted attention. Most of the time it doesn’t really work. I’m catching only vague glimpses, and much of it not from MacLeod at all, but from… them.”
“Them? You mean… those alien thingies? The Sidhe?”
“Yeah,” Methos answer was edged with bitterness. “Those alien thingies.”
“Sorry,” Joe offered. “Didn’t mean to imply that you… you know what I mean.”
“We are alien,” Methos admitted. “But we are also very human. That’s how they made us. That’s why they made us sterile,” he added bitterly. “So they could control the population. We’re like mules, born and bred to serve their purposes.”
“Actually, the whole mule analogy works pretty well, especially for MacLeod,” he quipped, looking over with a small grin. “Don’cha think?”
Methos met his gaze, and Joe was glad to see the tension and grim lines soften a little as he returned a reluctant smile. “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed.
“So, you gonna keep me in the loop about what you learn in your little,” Joe waved vaguely with one hand, “soirees in the netherland? Or you keeping all that to yourself, leaving me to hang around - just to serve your purposes?”
“Touché,” Methos responded, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the accuracy of the barb. “I don’t know a whole lot more than what I’ve already told you,” he added in a voice so soft it could barely be heard above the swish of the windshield wipers. “Just that they’re looking, he’s resisting, and time is getting short. Fortunately, I have one tool they don’t. That shared Quickening from Bordeaux gives me a leg up, so even when he’s avoiding meditating I can still get a general sense of direction. I’m sorry I’ve been so vague, Joe, but the stakes are so bloody high and half the time I feel like I’m just guessing.”
Joe felt a little of the tension that had bedeviled his neck and shoulders for the last several days finally let go. “Well, old friend,” he said in relief as he suddenly spotted the neon lights of a roadside motel up ahead through the heavy curtain of falling snow. He carefully pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. “I’ll match your guesses and MacLeod’s stubbornness against some ageless alien Immortal any day of the week.”
~~~~~
Even though Spring wasn’t far away, the possibility of real warmth seemed a distant dream as MacLeod trotted through the pre-dawn chill, every breath burning as he inhaled and forming an icy plume as he exhaled. The cold, dry air chapped his lips and even after a long warm-up and four miles of steady running, no sweat had accumulated under his several layers of clothes. But his muscles were pumped and the sky was just beginning to lighten, exposing the stark beauty of the dramatic desert landscape. This was the best part of the day, he thought as he watched a hawk spring away from a nearby crag, its great wings beating the air and casting a powerful shadow against the vibrant colors of dawn. The bird’s screeching cry echoed against the nearby cliffs and Mac’s heart soared as he watched the bird quickly find a current of air stirred by the rise in temperature at the sun's steady approach.
He paused, hands on his hips as he let his heart slow and his breath return to normal. He watched the hawk rise, becoming a dark blot against the colorful desert dawn. He frequently seemed to end up in this same spot before turning to back toward town. It was a narrow, well-worn track that dead-ended at a tangled crop of shrubbery and rocks. Mac figured there must be some kind of waterhole on the other side that attracted local animals that used the trail, but while his innate curiosity had almost led him to cut through the brush and clamber over the rocks just to see, it would have been a shameful use of the 600-year-old katana he always carried, and it would have violated an implied taboo. Wic had said this whole area was sacred to his people, and even though Duncan had once been a member of a Lakota Sioux tribe, that was almost two centuries ago and he doubted that Wic would be comfortable with him tramping around in their sacred grounds.
But sacred it was, he was sure. There was a certain feel to the very earth here - a low, sub-audible harmonic that soothed and comforted his sometimes-chaotic Quickening. There was always a strong temptation to sink to his knees here in the red dust, relax and open his mind to the vast space around him, but he closed his eyes and instead deliberately pushed the need away. If Methos believed his meditations were causing ripples of violence among his kind, it wasn’t worth it, no matter what a relief it was to sink into that peaceful place…
“We’re here, Duncan…. We need you.”
His eyes snapped open and he looked around for the source of the whisper he had heard.
“The time has come to save us all, my son. It’s your destiny,” the voice cajoled, sounding oddly strained and urgent.
“What?” he turned again, but there was nothing - nothing but the whisper of wind through the rocks. Even the hawk was silent. But he knew that voice. It was the voice of the woman in his dreams, claiming to be his mother. But how…?
“I make my own destiny,” he answered firmly into the empty wind. “Who are you?!”
The sun suddenly burst free from of the distant hills. Giant rays of color streamed through the clouds as the bright light cast enormous shadows from the high standing mesas in the distance.
“We are…” the voice began, but the sound faded to a murmur that became a part of the soft moan of the desert wind, until Duncan wondered if he had actually heard anything at all.
.....to be continued
~~~~~~~
Romany words and phrases that Greta uses:
Dajajka - Mother (in Romany)
Deadhead - A mark who is unlikely to bet much money.
Dick - A police detective.
Knock - Someone likely to convince a mark that they were being swindled.
lastrega and
amand_r for being terrific betas. The last bit of the chapter, however, is unbeta'd because I was struggling with the ending, and in any event all faults and failures are mine.
So, onto Chapter 10, in which Joe and Methos go on a road trip, and everyone else equivocates...
Chapter 10
Joe had spent the last 45 minutes on the weekly conference call with all the other regional directors. It had been the same tedious nitpicking and territory-marking bullshit as it almost always was, leaving him vaguely irritated and worried about the future of their several-millennia-old institution. But, he rationalized to himself, human beings being what they were, no doubt there had been similar versions of the same conversations back in the day when the primary means of communication had been papyrus scrolls.
The sudden flurry of combat a few months ago that had sparked conjecture that The Gathering Was At Hand (again!) had died down and no one had even mentioned MacLeod, other than his name appearing among the weekly reports listing “Living Immortals - LCU” (Location Currently Unknown). And as badly as Joe wanted to bring pressure to find Mac, he was reluctant to generate any special attention either to himself or to MacLeod. Both of them had suffered more than enough from Watcher scrutiny and Joe had come to the reluctant conclusion that maybe Mac had been right to disappear like he had.
Maybe Methos had been mistaken, had been pushing too hard and for the wrong reasons. Of late, the irritating oldest Immortal had become reclusive himself and when he had bothered to come around at all, he had been placidly uncommunicative about Mac, or any other subject for that matter.
Joe signed off of the computer, making sure the security locks were in place so no one else could use it. He pushed himself to his feet with a heave, tottering there for a few minutes to make sure his balance was steady and to let the familiar first flush of the ache of his prostheses pass. With a sigh, he made his way out of his office and into the main floor of the bar. It was getting on towards the lunch hour and - Watcher business or not - there were chores to be done.
The bar was empty except for Manuel sweeping the floors and moving the chairs off the tables to get ready for opening. Joe turned to his right and headed into the kitchen just to make sure the staff had arrived and were getting ready to prepare the burgers and sandwiches his place was known for - along with the excellent live music and fine liquor he always kept stocked.
And making sure the bar was properly stocked was probably the most important job he had to do today, since it was Monday and the weekend usually used up large portions of his inventory. He turned the corner at the end of the bar and stopped, spotting a lean figure moving around in what was usually Joe’s proprietary space.
“Pierson!” he called gruffly, in no mood for the man’s liquor-mooching habits, and the last thing he wanted was a reminder of the ache of Mac’s absence and the Watchers’ ineptitude. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Taking inventory,” Methos answered absently, his eyes traveling the shelves as he made notes on a pad. “Isn’t Monday inventory day?” he asked, turning towards him at last with an utterly innocent expression on that not-at-all-innocent face.
“Riight,” Joe responded with a twist of his mouth, moving behind the bar to snatch the pad from Methos’ hand. He examined it with a weathered eye. “Hmm.” Contrary to expectations, it actually was a list, with numbers and everything. “It looks like I need to get some more Johnny Walker in, and the usual beer orders. And apparently somebody went on a vodka bender this weekend.” He paused and met Methos’ eyes a little sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Just thought I’d make myself useful.”
That cheery comment set off a few warning bells in Joe’s head. Of course in a pinch Methos was a staunch friend and invaluable ally, but most of the rest of the time his life’s governing creed was self-interest and path-of-least-resistance.
Joe carefully put the list down on the bar. “What is it this time?” he asked. “Access to restricted records?
Methos clutched his hand to his chest in mock distress. “You wound me! You think I would only do something nice in exchange for a favor?”
Joe just looked at him.
“Well,” Methos’ slow smile was the picture of child-like, sweet innocence, “I was actually just hoping to talk you into a road trip.”
“A road trip,” Joe repeated. “I assume this has something to do with finding MacLeod, that you think you know where he is?” It was half-question, half-statement since Methos was not known to take direct action without good reason.
But the man just shrugged, giving nothing away. “Just feeling restless, and the last time you and I traveled together we had some good times, didn’t we?”
“Good times?” Joe asked with a dubious look. “You sure have a funny definition of having a good time. We got shot at, ran out of gas, you got killed, we argued like an old married couple on the verge of divorce and I got you into a battle you didn’t want or need.”
“Yeah, well, at least it wasn’t boring. Besides,” Methos finally met his eyes directly, “all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, you can be very handy to have around in a pinch.”
Joe leaned on the bar, studying his ancient friend closely. “Is there some reason to think we might get in “a pinch”, as you call it, on this little road trip?”
“You never know,” Methos replied with a boyish twitch of mischief on his lips.
“This has to do with MacLeod, doesn’t it?”
Methos shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I just feel the urge to head into the great Southwest for no reason other than to see some nice sunsets.”
“The great Southwest, eh? You heard something I haven’t?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say I’ve got a feeling, and I may need someone to watch my back from… unknown elements. It’d also be good to know we’re not walking right into a nest of Immortal hotshot wannabes.”
“Ah,” Joe nodded in enlightened understanding. “You need me to track things as we go so you can avoid any unpleasant encounters while you follow your instincts, psychic impulses, secret tea-leaf-reading… whatever you want to call it, to find Mac. Why the extra push to find him now, though? He’s been gone for months.”
“Let’s just say I’ve been having some troubling dreams and that I think we won’t be the only ones looking for him.”
Joe looked around the bar to make sure there was no one to overhear, but even though they were alone, he instinctively leaned in and spoke softly. “You talking about rogue Watchers? Other Immortals? These… what’d you call them… Sidhe guys? What? Come on, Methos, I don’t like workin’ in the dark here.”
Methos shook his head and turned away, walking around the bar and settling onto a stool. He interlaced his long fingers and stared at his hands in a long silence before he finally spoke. “I’ve been searching for Mac through meditation for weeks, without much success, I’m afraid.”
“Meditation?” Joe asked incredulously. “I thought you said that was the absolute worst thing you could do, that it would attract other Immortals like flies to honey.”
“Not that kind of meditation,” Methos replied irritably. “When Mac meditates he broadcasts his Quickening. But there are ways, if you know how, to… I don’t know how to describe it… to put out feelers, kind of like a dog catching a scent in the air, finding a certain familiar presence, without serving as a homing beacon for folks who carry sharp, pointy weapons.”
Joe glared at him. “If you knew how to do that, why didn’t you figure out Kronos was on your trail and scurry to cover?”
“It doesn’t work like that!” Methos sighed in frustration. “Damn it, Joe, talking about our sense of each other is like describing color to a blind man. Let’s just say that my sense of Mac’s identity is particularly sensitive and I figured if I kept at it long enough, eventually he would fall back into old habits, start meditating again and I’d figure out where he is.”
“And did you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s ‘not exactly’ supposed to mean?”
“It means that while I was trying, I felt something else. Someone else. And they were also looking for Mac, and there was this…,” he paused, struggling for words. “This sense of urgency about it. So much so that even though it recognized me, it didn’t even pause, ignoring me like I was irrelevant, and that’s never happened before. As a matter of fact, they’ve been desperately trying to get my attention for some 4,000 years and I’ve been diligently ignoring them.”
“So you think they’re now looking for Mac instead of you.”
“And time is a factor, Joe. And for them, time has never been a factor. At least not until now.”
~~~~~~
Tal stood silent sentinel in the shadows of the main dun'a'queha, which had become de’Thalia’s almost-permanent residence. The oldest of the Sidhe spent most of her time here, kneeling at the center of the circle of monoliths, barely leaving to eat or sleep, and only then when Tal or another of the g’nagal deliberately roused her.
Tal still thought of the ancient being as “her”, even though the recovery from the injuries sustained during the rescue of Ce’Dane of the Mountains had required reversion back to neutral form. Thalia had taken female form so very long ago - before Tal was born, and he was among the oldest of the g’nagal, and she had been v’tah to more offspring than any other member of the Sidhe race. Her progeny were among the most creative, the most innovative and enduring, Ce’dane of the Mountains among the most prominent. It was he who had set Tal this task above all others, even though Ce’dane now spent virtually all his time in his quarters in a semi-conscious dream-state, the usually glowing ptal’ne dim and lifeless at the lack of movement to stimulate their light.
It wasn’t unusual for one of the Sidhe to retreat into their mind or memories, requiring the g’nagal to tend their most intimate needs just to sustain some semblance of life. But Ce’dane had always seemed… different. Tal once again pushed away his curious musings about his masters as irrelevant to the task at hand, but his mind had ever been undisciplined - a fault he had been attempting to overcome all his life. Curiosity and speculation were both rare and frowned-upon traits among his kind, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but wonder at how the minds of the Sidhe he served actually worked, what kept them going, what motivated them at all.
Without work, without purpose, without anyone or any goal to serve, what compelled them to survive? Was it just because they had no choice? Was it ego? They certainly believed, justifiably, that their race was singularly valuable in the universe. Few sentient creatures had an indefinite lifespan, Tal knew. Thousands upon thousands of fan in the past, the Sidhe had been adventurous enough to travel beyond their planet, seeking out other life, exploring the galaxy. Many had simply disappeared, never to be heard from again, but some had returned, eventually. Most had been insane - or at least thought by the others to be unbalanced. They never really belonged here again, and since the capacity for space travel had been deliberately deconstructed as the Sidhe retreated more and more into the power of their minds, those wanderers - having traveled the vastness of space for thousands of fan, eventually retreated into permanent sleep or used what remained of their spaceships to leave the planet once again. Now never to return, Tal thought sadly. For there would be nothing here if they did.
The cavern shuddered with a low, almost sub-audible rumble and the ferns all flickered to sudden life, filling the whole cavern with phosphorescent light. A few chunks of rock loosened from the walls and ceiling and clattered to the floor and d’Thalia’s head came up with a soft gasp. Tal moved quickly and clasped one shoulder to steady her, then handed her the container of nutrient liquid he had held for several sun cycles, just to be ready for this moment.
Her large, dark eyes slowly focused on his hand. “How long?” she asked, her voice a rough, dry rasp.
“Twenty-three cycles,” Tal answered softly after a brief pause. The question was unexpected. Time for the Sidhe was almost never a concern. But then, like everything else in their existence, that was changing dramatically. She pressed her wide mouth into a thin line of what Tal assumed was concern or frustration, then sipped at the liquid, her dark eyes still unfocused as though her thoughts were still caught in ka’queha.
He wanted to ask… but that would be utterly unheard of so he made an effort to cast his eyes downward and clear his thoughts, striving to be simply a receptacle for instructions, a model of obedience. He felt her eyes studying him.
“You want to know something,” she stated, sounding only mildly surprised. “What is it?”
Tal hesitated only a moment. If she inquired, it was his duty to respond, even though actual conversations between Sidhe and g’nagal were unheard of in his experience. “Did you find the one you seek?” he asked softly.
“I… found traces,” she sighed, then sipped again from her drink. “There are so very many minds crowding that planet and he is avoiding ka’queha, but his is a strong presence, leaving trace impressions on others wherever he goes. Following those impressions requires more concentration than I have ever before attempted, but I will succeed,” she stated firmly. She handed him the empty glass. “But for now I must rest.” She held out her long-fingered hand and Tal steadied her as she rose, towering above him as did all her kind.
They walked slowly towards her quarters, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder for support. He kept his silence.
“I know,” she said, so softly that that he wasn’t completely sure she had spoken, but it seemed the eldest of the Sidhe could sense the concern occupying his far less sophisticated thoughts. “There is little time left,” she said, her near-whisper carrying easily in the stone chamber.
~~~~~~
Greta used her iced tea straw to gently move the cubes around and around, only half listening to Sam grouse about his dad. The other half of her mind was observing - as it always had, ever since her dajajka took her along on the family’s various scams, teaching her what to look for, who were marks, who were threats. The whole seventh-daughter-of-a-seventh-daughter ‘psychic’ gig was a big part of the deal, of course - an easy scam with a well-rehearsed, proven spiel.
At least that’s what she had believed until she actually saw… well, visions was the only word that really fit - when Duncan MacLeod had plowed into her well-ordered life like a runaway train. Until then she had just thought of herself as an expert people-reader, easily spotting who was a deadhead, who was a dick, who was likely to be a knock. She had figured MacLeod for a knock, but boy, had she been wrong about that one. The man was fascinating and charismatic, but he was also downright weird and scary, almost physically forcing her to use whatever latent gift she had in a desperate attempt to save his Tessa, and thus turning her whole perception of herself upside-down. No doubt about it. MacLeod was trouble, with a capital ‘T’. And now he was here, intruding in her life again. Weird.
It was past the coffee shop’s morning rush. The booths, their well-worn baby-blue vinyl seating carefully repaired with duct-tape, were mostly empty and the battered wooden tables with tired chrome chairs held only a few older male patrons. Their dark-skinned, weathered faces bore the treads and roadways of a hard life in the desert sun as they sat drinking coffee and bullshitting each other and any casual passerby who dared engage them in conversation.
“Have you been paying attention to anything I’ve said?” Sam demanded irritably, his dark eyes fixing her with a piercing stare.
“Sorry,” she sighed, forcing her attention back to her companion. “This place you keep talking about, I don’t know if it will mean anything to me, or what you expect me to do about it even if it does.”
Sam leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “It’s supposed to be super-sacred ground, but it’s government land, so anybody can go on it. My dad will be pissed, but he can’t stop us if we want to set up a tour agency like all those spiritualist shops around Sedona that give guided tours. I could get folks there, you could lead séances and retreats … people pay good money for that crap! And it’d be good for business around here. Maybe this dump would actually get some real restaurants and hotels so the folks on the reservations could have some jobs. It’d be a good thing, Greta. For everybody!”
“I don’t know,” Greta equivocated. The whole deal didn’t really feel right, but she couldn’t have said why. “I’m not exactly a desert kind of person, you know? I’m a city girl, and schlepping around with snakes and lizards just isn’t for me. And I like your dad. He seems like a really good guy. If he thinks this place should stay private, then maybe he’s right.”
“He’s stuck in the past, mired in the old ways. If he had his way, we’d all still be weaving baskets, chasing buffalo and crapping in the dirt,” Sam replied in disgust. “We can actually help the people with this, and all he can think about is pretending that place doesn’t even exist. Besides, sometimes I think he’d be against anything I tried to do that was my own idea, just on principle.” Sam frowned, his handsome features marred by bitterness and frustration.
Greta reached, putting her own small, white hand over his large brown one. Being alienated from your own people was something she knew a lot about. They sat in silence for a moment, which got increasingly uncomfortable. Sam did ‘silence’ with a vengeance, creating this weird, charged aura that Greta could almost see in the air around them. “All right,” she said at last with a sigh. “Take me to this… place.” His whole face lit up with a pleased grin. “But if I get bitten by a snake and die, I’ll come back and haunt you!” she teased, shaking a finger under his nose. He was playfully attempting to bite her finger when the door over the entrance rang and Duncan MacLeod strode in, inevitably drawing every eye in the room.
Greta knew he had been working to refurbish some ancient truck that belonged to Sam’s dad, but the two of them had warily avoided each other for a couple of months now. Clearly they each had secrets to keep. She had changed her last name to avoid a certain arrest warrant back in Seacouver, so his own unexplained name change wasn’t something she felt she had the right to question, especially since the man scared her half to death. It was a strange fear, actually, when she let herself think about it, which wasn’t often. She had no concern that he might hurt her, but there was a sense of… she let her mind wander for a moment to find a word… fate. That was it. Some looming, dark fatalistic consequence that potentially could impact anyone within his immediate proximity. Weird again.
Mac - she reminded herself that was the name he went by - sat at the counter and ordered some coffee, his comments to the waitress making her blush and giggle. He sipped at his cup and turned in his seat to see who else was there, nodding to the group of retired guys occupying their usual booth, and his eyes at last met hers and stopped. He acknowledged her with a small nod, set his cup down, appeared to come to some kind of decision, and her heart sank as he stood and walked purposefully in their direction.
“Hey,” he greet gently, looking a little uncomfortable. “How are you guys getting along?”
“You mean after you stole my trailer?” Sam snapped, refusing to meet Mac’s gaze.
“We’re doing fine,” Greta assured him with a smile. “We found a little house for rent and it’s probably much more comfortable than that beat up old trailer,” she added with a hard look at Sam, then kicked him under the table for good measure. “It’s not your fault Sam’s dad thought he wasn’t coming back. Sit,” she finally invited, scooting over to make room.
“That’s okay, I…”
“Come on, she’ll bring your food over here,” Greta insisted, giving Sam another glare.
“Yeah,” Sam reluctantly agreed. “Join us.”
“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time that I was really sorry to hear about your lady friend. Tessa was her name, wasn’t it?” Greta said softly, getting a curious look from Sam. “She was Mac’s fiancé,” she said to Sam. “I knew her very briefly, just before she got killed by a mugger. You remember, I told you about that the first night we were here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam mumbled. “Sorry, man. Tough break.”
Mac nodded. “She was a very special lady, but you know… you have to move on, eventually.”
Greta nodded in agreement.
“You know, Greta,” Mac said softly. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence, and your showing up here is… unexpected. I know it’s not really any of my business, but I’ve been wondering what brought you here.”
“Sam brought me,” she replied pertly. “We hooked up when I was working at a fair in Northern California and he was working as a carnie. That life got pretty old pretty fast, and we kinda ran out of money…”
“Greta!” Sam growled.
“No shame in that,” Mac said evenly.
“Anyway, Sam had an idea for a business here, so here we are,” Greta shrugged.
“A business?” Mac asked. “Great! I know your dad will be glad to hear you’re moving ahead, using your education. He was very proud you got some college under your belt, Sam.”
“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “I never hear the end of the whole “you shouldn’t have left” speech, but,” he shrugged. “College wasn’t for me.”
“Experience has certainly been my best teacher - unfortunately,” Mac said with a rueful sigh and a shake of his head. “There have been times I felt like a rat in a maze, running into the same walls over and over again until I finally figured how not to repeat the same mistakes. But,” he added, looking hard into Sam’s eyes, “education really changed how I use that experience, how I interpret it, and it gave me a whole new set of tools to figure out things. What I read, the ideas shared and discussed with people I respected - that’s the real value of formal education, Sam,” he added quietly.
“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said with a shrug. “But it’s not for me, at least not now. I need to make some money,” he added stubbornly. “And I need to prove to my dad that I can do something on my own.”
Mac nodded. “I know how that feels,” he said softly. “Well, good luck to you both.” He rose and stuck out his hand, which Sam took after a moment’s rather churlish hesitation. Greta ducked her head to hide a smile. MacLeod’s innate charm was hard to resist, even for Sam, who was both jealous and suspicious of the stranger who had taken over his old living space, and who seemed to have found a place in his father’s heart. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?” he added, looking pointedly back and forth between Greta and Sam. Greta kept her face carefully neutral. However benign MacLeod’s motives, he was trouble, she knew. Trouble with a capital “T”.
Sam watched MacLeod leave, then turned back with an unhappy twist of his mouth. “Sanctimonious SOB,” he muttered into his coffee. “You’d think he was some kind of tribal elder dishing out unwanted advice.”
“Yeah, really nasty, the way he offered to help and all,” Greta agreed, getting a dark look for her effort at humor.
“We don’t need anybody’s help,” Sam snapped. “I’ll show you the site and then we can start making plans for some kind of,” he waved his hand vaguely, “séance, or whatever you do.”
“It’s not a séance,” Greta responded grimly. “I’m not even sure what I’ll be doing until I see the site. Maybe I’ll just do readings of people, or maybe some kind of special ceremony on the equinox and solstice dates, or something. Do you really think the place is… special?”
Sam pressed his lips together. “I know my father does, and… well, I dunno. It’s a weird place, for sure. Always creeped me out whenever they’d have a ceremony there.”
Greta sipped at her coffee, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tingling between her shoulder blades that sometimes heralded one of those ‘sight’ things that had bothered her ever since MacLeod had entered her life. Her enthusiasm about Sam’s little venture in psychic scamming was dimming to less than zero. Maybe it was MacLeod’s presence; maybe it was the notion of using an Indian holy site to make money… she shuddered involuntarily, almost spilling her coffee. Maybe it was just the late winter chill.
~~~~~
Joe forced his fingers to relax, stretching one hand at a time. For the past hour he had been gripping the wheel so tightly his muscles were beginning to ache all the way from his hands to his neck. He took a deep breath, deliberately sitting back instead of hunching over the wheel, as though squinting and peering through the windshield was somehow going to make a real difference in how well he maneuvered through the increasingly heavy snow. He checked the gas gauge, noting they had less than a quarter of a tank, and wondering how soon they were going to get to the next town. He glanced over to his traveling companion and almost growled aloud in irritation. The man was sound asleep, his head back, his mouth open, his whole body a study in uncaring relaxation. Easy for him. He wasn’t going to die - at least not permanently - if they got stranded or Joe managed to slide them off the mountainous road into some lonely crevasse.
“Hey!” he called, sparing one hand to whap his passenger on the shoulder. “Wake up!”
“What!” Methos grumbled, blinking owlishly and looking around. “Hey, it’s snowing. Pretty.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Joe groused. “It started about an hour ago and stopped being ‘pretty’ in about twenty minutes. Check the weather report, would you? I’m afraid to take my hands off the steering wheel.”
Methos fumbled around with the radio, but the reception was terrible and they only got bits and pieces of announcements, none of which seemed to have anything to do with the weather.
“How soon do we get to the next town?” Joe asked grumpily. His ancient companion had been less than helpful throughout the trip, alternating between irritatingly cheerful and downright uncommunicative, and his notion of directing them where he wanted to go was a vague wave indicating “that way.”
Methos mumbled something unintelligible as he spread out a well-used map on his lap, his long fingers tracing a vaguely southwestern track from Seacouver towards… Joe didn’t know. Reno? Las Vegas? Maybe Mac was taking refuge at the holy ground of some Elvis chapel somewhere.
“Well,” Methos intoned, leaning down to peer at the small print, “I think we’re in the Umpqua National Forest.”
“Umpqua?” Joe snorted. “Great. Just what I want on my tombstone - ‘Froze to Death in Umpqua’.”
Methos spared him a narrow-eyed glance. “And the next town is in about 10 miles, I guess. A place called Chemult.” He straightened up with an all-suffering sigh and began the laborious process of folding the map. “You sure are grumpy,” he noted with a small sniff. “We can stop there if you want. I must admit I’m getting a little tired.”
“You’re getting tired?” Joe snapped. “You’ve been sleeping most of the day while I’ve been driving through a blizzard!”
“No need to get snippy,” Methos admonished haughtily, then grabbed for the dashboard when the SUV’s rear wheels broke loose in a skid as Joe rounded a particularly tight corner. “Easy there! You’re going too fast!”
Joe grimly wrestled the car back into a straight line and carefully kept going. “You wanna do this, big shot?” he growled. “I’d be happy to relinquish the driver’s seat. It only takes a minute to disable the special controls, you know.” Joe felt Methos’ steady gaze on him and he had to make a real effort not to make a snide comment about Methos’ immortality since it would only ratchet up the tension between them even further.
“You are a better driver than I am, Joseph,” Methos admitted in a surprisingly sincere tone. “And I’m sleeping in the car a lot because I’m not really sleeping at night. I’m sorry it has put most of the driving burden on you.”
Joe spared a quick glance to his right, a little surprised at the tone of sincerity when he had expected sarcasm. They had both been out of sorts since the trip began over a week before. Methos would be up early every day, giving only vague directions without explanation, then sometimes changing his mind but never explaining why.
“What’s going on, Methos?” Joe asked quietly after a moment of tense silence.
“It’s… hard,” was the answer. “I’m trying to meditate, to go just deep enough to catch any trace of MacLeod, but not so deep as to attract unwanted attention. Most of the time it doesn’t really work. I’m catching only vague glimpses, and much of it not from MacLeod at all, but from… them.”
“Them? You mean… those alien thingies? The Sidhe?”
“Yeah,” Methos answer was edged with bitterness. “Those alien thingies.”
“Sorry,” Joe offered. “Didn’t mean to imply that you… you know what I mean.”
“We are alien,” Methos admitted. “But we are also very human. That’s how they made us. That’s why they made us sterile,” he added bitterly. “So they could control the population. We’re like mules, born and bred to serve their purposes.”
“Actually, the whole mule analogy works pretty well, especially for MacLeod,” he quipped, looking over with a small grin. “Don’cha think?”
Methos met his gaze, and Joe was glad to see the tension and grim lines soften a little as he returned a reluctant smile. “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed.
“So, you gonna keep me in the loop about what you learn in your little,” Joe waved vaguely with one hand, “soirees in the netherland? Or you keeping all that to yourself, leaving me to hang around - just to serve your purposes?”
“Touché,” Methos responded, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the accuracy of the barb. “I don’t know a whole lot more than what I’ve already told you,” he added in a voice so soft it could barely be heard above the swish of the windshield wipers. “Just that they’re looking, he’s resisting, and time is getting short. Fortunately, I have one tool they don’t. That shared Quickening from Bordeaux gives me a leg up, so even when he’s avoiding meditating I can still get a general sense of direction. I’m sorry I’ve been so vague, Joe, but the stakes are so bloody high and half the time I feel like I’m just guessing.”
Joe felt a little of the tension that had bedeviled his neck and shoulders for the last several days finally let go. “Well, old friend,” he said in relief as he suddenly spotted the neon lights of a roadside motel up ahead through the heavy curtain of falling snow. He carefully pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. “I’ll match your guesses and MacLeod’s stubbornness against some ageless alien Immortal any day of the week.”
~~~~~
Even though Spring wasn’t far away, the possibility of real warmth seemed a distant dream as MacLeod trotted through the pre-dawn chill, every breath burning as he inhaled and forming an icy plume as he exhaled. The cold, dry air chapped his lips and even after a long warm-up and four miles of steady running, no sweat had accumulated under his several layers of clothes. But his muscles were pumped and the sky was just beginning to lighten, exposing the stark beauty of the dramatic desert landscape. This was the best part of the day, he thought as he watched a hawk spring away from a nearby crag, its great wings beating the air and casting a powerful shadow against the vibrant colors of dawn. The bird’s screeching cry echoed against the nearby cliffs and Mac’s heart soared as he watched the bird quickly find a current of air stirred by the rise in temperature at the sun's steady approach.
He paused, hands on his hips as he let his heart slow and his breath return to normal. He watched the hawk rise, becoming a dark blot against the colorful desert dawn. He frequently seemed to end up in this same spot before turning to back toward town. It was a narrow, well-worn track that dead-ended at a tangled crop of shrubbery and rocks. Mac figured there must be some kind of waterhole on the other side that attracted local animals that used the trail, but while his innate curiosity had almost led him to cut through the brush and clamber over the rocks just to see, it would have been a shameful use of the 600-year-old katana he always carried, and it would have violated an implied taboo. Wic had said this whole area was sacred to his people, and even though Duncan had once been a member of a Lakota Sioux tribe, that was almost two centuries ago and he doubted that Wic would be comfortable with him tramping around in their sacred grounds.
But sacred it was, he was sure. There was a certain feel to the very earth here - a low, sub-audible harmonic that soothed and comforted his sometimes-chaotic Quickening. There was always a strong temptation to sink to his knees here in the red dust, relax and open his mind to the vast space around him, but he closed his eyes and instead deliberately pushed the need away. If Methos believed his meditations were causing ripples of violence among his kind, it wasn’t worth it, no matter what a relief it was to sink into that peaceful place…
“We’re here, Duncan…. We need you.”
His eyes snapped open and he looked around for the source of the whisper he had heard.
“The time has come to save us all, my son. It’s your destiny,” the voice cajoled, sounding oddly strained and urgent.
“What?” he turned again, but there was nothing - nothing but the whisper of wind through the rocks. Even the hawk was silent. But he knew that voice. It was the voice of the woman in his dreams, claiming to be his mother. But how…?
“I make my own destiny,” he answered firmly into the empty wind. “Who are you?!”
The sun suddenly burst free from of the distant hills. Giant rays of color streamed through the clouds as the bright light cast enormous shadows from the high standing mesas in the distance.
“We are…” the voice began, but the sound faded to a murmur that became a part of the soft moan of the desert wind, until Duncan wondered if he had actually heard anything at all.
.....to be continued
~~~~~~~
Romany words and phrases that Greta uses:
Dajajka - Mother (in Romany)
Deadhead - A mark who is unlikely to bet much money.
Dick - A police detective.
Knock - Someone likely to convince a mark that they were being swindled.