Date: Mon, 26 Feb 1996 16:20:18 +0000 Reply-To: Vasna.Zago@COLORADO.EDU Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Vasna.Zago@COLORADO.EDU Subject: A Terrible Beauty 1/4 Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The characters are borrowed without permission from the television show Highlander: The Series. Rated PG. Thoughts/comments/flames should be directed to email: Vasna.Zago@Colorado.edu. Copyright November 23, 1995. Notes: Thanks to W. B. Yeats for writing "The Rose Tree" and "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" so that I could swipe them. A Terrible Beauty by Vasna Zago Duncan took a deep breath as he walked home from the University, smiling as he looked around at the sun shining strongly on the world. The fresh spring air was laced with the hint of lilacs. Sunshine warmed his face, driving away the last cold remnants of winter from his heart. The lecture had gone well, he mused, his thoughts meandering back over his talk that afternoon about the ornamental motifs in European armor. He was surprised how much he enjoyed being in the classroom; it was good to be using his mind in a scholarly way again. Just as he crossed the alley on Pierson he heard raised voices and saw a group of people further ahead. Squinting down the alley, he realized that two young men were bothering an old man, who was walking with a bag in his arms. One of the kids pushed the old man to the ground and the bag ripped, spilling groceries in the alley. Duncan broke into a run. Reaching the scene at full speed, he used his momentum to knock one of the punks to the ground. The kid got up and charged, but Duncan punched him and watched him crumple with deep satisfaction. He glanced at the old man, who was attempting to sit up, holding his head as a thin smear of blood stained his fingers. Duncan turned his attention to the other punk; he spun and kicked the kid forcefully in the chest. The young man collapsed in a heap. The first teenager staggered to his feet, hesitantly, and, as Duncan made a lunge towards him, scrambled off. The second kid followed almost instantly. Duncan smiled grimly and looked at the old man. "Are you okay?" he asked, leaning down and helping the man to his feet. He steadied the older gentleman, and started retrieving the scattered oranges that had rolled away when he fell. "Aye, laddie," the old man answered. "Just a wee bit shook up, I think. Thank God you happened to come along!" He straightened his tweed coat and patted his pockets absently before sticking out a gnarled hand. "Sean O'Grady, at your service," he said. He was small and compact, with pink cheeks, a twinkle in his elderly blue eyes and a jaunty air that shone through his frailty. "Duncan MacLeod," he responded, shaking the proffered palm. "at yours. Let me walk you home. Do you live nearby?" "Just around the corner, and I'd be grateful." O'Grady said distractedly and wandered off, leaving the younger man to hastily finish picking up the groceries and run after him. Duncan puffed up the four narrow and creaky flights of stairs to an attic apartment in a nearby Victorian rooming house. O'Grady got out his key and opened the door, blocking the exit of a cat as he inched the door open. "Not today, my beauty," he said to the white haired animal, who meaowed at him in response. "Would you like a cuppa?" O'Grady asked, placing a tea kettle on a hot plate in the tiny kitchen. Duncan eased past him, put down the sack of groceries and interrupted the man's activities. "Why don't you let me look at that cut?" "Ach, 'tis nothing," the old man answered, trying to shoo him out of the kitchen, but Duncan wouldn't be deterred. He turned on the tap and located a clean cloth before gently pushing O'Grady onto a stool and cleaning the scrape on his head. The old man fidgeted, but sat still long enough for Duncan to ascertain that, while messy, the abrasion was not serious. The tea kettle sang just as he was finishing up. As O'Grady poured the tea into two chipped mugs, Duncan took the opportunity to peek into the old man's refrigerator under the pretext of putting the groceries away. A quart of milk, a lump of cheese, half a loaf of bread and some apples occupied the lonely shelves. He closed the door thoughtfully, shaking his head, and allowed his host to lead him to the parlor. Stopping short, he let out a low whistle. The small, shabby room was packed with an overwhelming number of books. Hundreds of them lined both walls, filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves which sagged dangerously under their weight. The air was heavy with the smell of must and mildewed leather. Two padded red leather chairs were wedged in front of a desk which was scattered with enormous stacks of paper and piles of yellowing letters. A fireplace occupied one wall. On another, a gable window housed a small bird feeder. Several starlings and a finch were busy picking seeds out of the tray while two cats stared at them from the windowsill, riveted by the flutter of wings. Duncan blinked. He'd never seen so much stuff crammed into one room before. It almost made him dizzy just to look at it all. Did that pile of books just move? No, he thought, it was only a cat. As Duncan looked around, he realized with dawning horror that there were about a dozen felines inhabiting the minuscule apartment. O'Grady made small clucking noises to his furry friends as he entered the room and swept a pile of papers off one of the chairs, indicating to his guest to take a seat. Selecting a pipe from the mantle, he tamped tobacco into it, settled comfortably in the other chair, struck a match, and began to puff in a satisfied way. As Duncan sat down, a grey tabby jumped into his lap, rubbed her head against his chest and began to purr. O'Grady smiled. "She's a flirt, that Maggie," he said affectionately. Duncan sneezed. "You have quite a collection of books!" he commented, his eyes beginning to water. He tried to push Maggie off his lap, but she laid back her ears and wouldn't be budged. "Why, yes, laddie," was Sean's pleased response. "Back when I used to be someone, don't you know, I was quite the scholar." Duncan got up under the pretext of looking at some of the volumes. The cat, voicing her displeasure, dug in her claws for a moment as she realized the warm lap she had just discovered was suddenly becoming vertical. Duncan stifled a yelp and winced as the cat thudded to the floor. He ran a finger along the crowded and dusty shelves. Leather-bound volumes with titles such as "Early Celtic Versecraft," "Cattle Raids and Courtships," "Celtic Mythological Influences on Modern Times," and "The Religious Songs of Connacht," stared out at him. A dog eared copy of The Mabinogian was open on the desk, copious notes penciled in the margins. Duncan noticed that it was in the original Welsh. "Wait a minute," he said, the pieces beginning to fit together. He turned and looked at the old man. "Sean O'Grady? THE Sean O'Grady?" Duncan asked excitedly. "The great pioneer in Celtic Mythology? But I thought he was, I mean, you were..." He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. The old man laughed merrily. "Well, I'm not gone yet, as you can see for yourself. I'm just getting on a bit. Go ahead, guess how old I am!" he said, winking at Duncan, who just smiled, shook his head and shrugged. "I was born in nineteen-sixteen. My Da fought in the Easter Uprising the year I was born, running messages for Connolly," he said proudly, falling silent for a minute before chanting softly: "'O words are lightly spoken" Said Pearse to Connolly 'Maybe a breathe of politic words Has withered our Rose tree; Or maybe but a wind that blows Across the bitter sea.'" O'Grady shut his eyes, as if listening to the far-off sounds of pipe and harp and Irish voices raised in song. Duncan leaned on the back of the chair and offered the second verse: "'It needs to be but watered,' James Connolly replied,' 'To make the green come out again, And spread on every side, And shake the blossom from the bud To be the garden's pride.'" The old man looked at Duncan with shining eyes before beginning the final stanza: "'But where can we draw water,' Said Pearse to Connolly. 'When all the wells are parched away? O plain as plain can be There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right Rose Tree.'" The two men smiled at each other in silence for a moment. O'Grady looked at Duncan. "You have the soul of an Irishman," he said. "And you have the heart of a poet," Duncan responded. "When did you get interested in mythology?" "Ma raised me on stories of Queen Medb, Cuchulainn and the Sidhe. And, of course, there was always my father's poetry. All that helped to keep the old songs alive. It's in my blood just as much as the smell of the sea hangs in the mist around Connemara. The veil is thin in the west of Ireland." O'Grady said softly. "Much as it is in the Scottish Highlands," Duncan replied, struck suddenly and deeply with a longing for the green hills and cool mists of his mountain homeland. "Wait a minute," he continued. "Your father was Patrick O'Grady, the poet?" "You can't have heard of him, lad!" Sean answered, astonished. "He gave up writing soon after I was born. We had moved to Ballina in County Mayo, just a stone's throw from the sea. Ma always said something happened to him in Dublin among the horror and the glory. I think a part of him went to the gallows with Pearse and Connolly." The old man sighed and hung his head. "He never wrote again." Duncan was silent, swept by the old man's words into a tide of memories. April, 1916, Dublin Duncan ducked as a bullet whizzed over his head, splatting into the wall behind him and sending shards of concrete flying in all directions. A young man stood in the center of the street, the gun still in his hand as he yelled "Bloody Shinners!" at the top of his lungs. A moment later, the lad crumpled to the cobblestones, shot through the heart by a nationalist bullet. Scrambling into a nearby alley to take cover, Duncan looked around, sickened and dismayed by the carnage in the city center. After almost six days of constant fighting, nearly 3,000 people lay dead. Black smoke hung heavy in the air, drifting around the rubble that used to be the proud center of Dublin. Duncan had felt drawn to the fighting here in Ireland; the themes of freedom from British oppression and home rule striking a close chord in his Scottish heart. He sighed, wondering why he continued to participate in wars. Most of the time they were nothing but pain and loss, the high ideals and noble causes obscured by the mud and blood of the trenches. And yet, years passed and he kept volunteering. Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn't been born a Scottish warrior. Settling back and closing his eyes, Duncan sighed and pulled his cap over his face. Might as well catch a few winks, he thought, there was no point in going anywhere until darkness fell and it was easier to make his way around the city. He was trying to make his way to Bolands' Mill to support the center of resistance held by Eamon de Valera. The other center, the General Post Office, was held by Pearse, Collins and Connolly. Duncan awoke a short time later to find himself staring down the wrong end of a trembling pistol. Attached to the gun was a young man of not more than twenty, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked positively terrified, Duncan thought. "Give me that," he said disgustedly, snatching the gun swiftly out of the young man's shaky grasp. The man took a startled breath and put his hands up in the air. Duncan smiled grimly to himself, wondering if he'd be so bold if he wasn't immortal. Maybe if he was Irish and this was his country, his fight. Stupidity in battle was often called heroism, he mused. This one certainly seemed to possess his fair share, Duncan thought, as he looked the young man up and down. "What's your business?" he asked, waving the gun in his direction. "I've got a message for Connolly," the lad answered, shaking even harder. "Don't do that!" said Duncan, exasperated. "Never give up information willingly. As it turns out, I happen to be on your side, but I might easily have been the British spy you took me for. Sit down." The young man crouched in the rubble, nodding. "How goes it?" he asked Duncan. "It could be better. We're outnumbered something fierce," Duncan replied. "The entire British Army is out there." "Any chance of making it through to Connolly before nightfall?" "Perhaps," Duncan said. "Is the message important?" "Galway's fallen," the young man replied, shaking his head. He slumped suddenly against the wall, putting his head in his hands. Much to Duncan's dismay, the young man began to cry. "Stop that," said Duncan, not knowing what else to say. It was unwanted, but not unexpected news. A lot more people were probably going to die before this country won it's independence. "Do you want to tell your grandchildren you wept through the most important day in the history of Ireland?" Sitting up and wiping his face fiercely with the back of his hand, the young man swallowed hard and stared at the rubble surrounding them, his face grim and determined. Duncan looked at him thoughtfully. "What's your name, lad?" The young man looked him up and down. "Patrick O'Grady, and I'm no lad, at least not to you," he replied stiffly. "Chin up, then, Patrick O'Grady," Duncan said. "Let's wait a bit and see if the fighting clears. The entire city of Dublin can't be against us!" "It may not be in person, but it is in spirit," the young man responded hopelessly. "What do you mean?" Duncan asked. "I mean that rumors are spreading through the city that the Sein Finn are responsible for this! Most people already think we're misguided lunatics. If we're successful, what do you think the families of those serving in the trenches are going to live on? Most of them are existing on pay warrants from the British Army, which is out there right now trying to crush us. No matter what happens, the Irish people are going to lose." O'Grady shook his head. "It's going to fail, fail utterly," he muttered before lapsing into silence. Duncan put a hand on O'Grady's shoulder. "Now's not the time to give up. Freedom is never free, you know," he said, shaking him gently. The young man looked at him and nodded, heartened by the words. After a few minutes of silence, O'Grady retrieved a notebook from his pocket, settled back against the wall, and began to write. Duncan peered over his shoulder with great interest. "Poetry," the young man offered. "What kind?" Duncan asked, digging in his pocket for a flask and handed it to the young man. "About all this," O'Grady replied, sweeping a hand around at the city before accepting the flask and lifting it to his lips. He took a swig, grimaced, and passed it back. "About our glorious rebellion. I'm not very good yet, but my wife thinks I have promise," he said, smiling to himself as some private memory crossed his mind. "Last year I had a small volume published. She says we should move to the west, where the wind and the sea can stir the soul." "And what do you say?" asked Duncan. As the young man looked at him, Duncan was pierced suddenly with a vision of this man in future days, older and wiser, surrounded by books and living in a cottage by the sea. "Maybe she's right, when we've won our freedom," the young man said. "No matter what happens, I don't think Dublin is going to be the place to raise a family, at least not for the next few years." Duncan nodded, understanding, and clapped O'Grady on the back. "Let's be off!" he said. "We've got to get you through to the Post Office." He began to creep along the wall, down the alley towards the city center. O'Grady followed close on his heels. "Watch your back," Duncan said, tossing a glance over his shoulder. Much to his horror, he saw a uniformed soldier slip out from around the wall at the other end of the alley and take careful aim at O'Grady's retreating back. With a cry, Duncan flung himself between O'Grady and the soldier, his world exploding with pain as the bullet tore into him. His companion managed to fire off a round and fell the soldier as Duncan crumpling to the ground, clutching his chest. He gasped with pain as the blood began to flow heavily, staining his shirt. Not again, Duncan thought, as numbness began to set in. Even though some logical part of his brain knew that he would not really die, another, more primal portion began to silently scream with terror, as it did each time he died. Duncan gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out against the pain. O'Grady fell to his knees at Duncan's side and picked up his hand, bewildered. Duncan was barely breathing and the young man watched in terrified awe as death relentlessly approached. Duncan's eyes blinked; he tried to focus on the young man's face and grabbed his shirt front, pulling him closer. O'Grady, in fright, tried unsuccessfully to push him away, his hands slippery with Duncan's blood. Duncan opened his mouth to speak, to try to tell the young man to get out of the city, to take his young family to the west, out of the horror that Dublin had become, but blackness engulfed him, and, unable to speak, he drew a last, rattling breath. Sobs began to wrack the young Irishman as he shakily attempted to pry Duncan's rigid, dead fingers off his shirt. He started to panic as he heard the raised voices of soldiers echoing in a nearby street. Scrambling back down the alley, he looked for a place to hide until he could make his way home to where his wife waited, all thoughts of Pearse, Connolly and the glorious resistance driven from his mind. Horrified, he looked at the blood smeared on his hands and, sickened by the gore, bent over and began to retch. Patrick O'Grady's foreboding that the rebellion would be crushed had been true, Duncan thought. The Post Office fell after one short week; the fifteen leaders carted away, destined for public execution. The treatment these sons of Erin received at British hands would sway public sentiment from apathy to outrage. The rebellion would bloom again. In a few short weeks all would be changed, changed utterly; a terrible beauty was born. Drawn back to the present, Duncan looked at Sean O'Grady with growing amazement, humbled yet again by the inexorable action of time. Duncan shook his head; the bright young man he had met in Dublin had grown old, and now his elderly son was gazing at him. Not for the first time, Duncan was reminded of a stone in the liquid stream of time. Sometimes, though, he wasn't quite sure whether he was the rock or the river. Duncan admitted to himself that he really didn't like to think much about the progress of time. It seemed that when ever he thought about it, he was only reminded of how many people he had lost. Darius, Fitz and Tessa existed now solely in his mind; never again would he hear the sounds of their laughter or feel the touch of their hands. It was too sad, he thought, wondering how many more times his heart would be broken before the Game was won or lost. Duncan shook his head, collected himself and addressed Sean. "How long have you been in America?" "Oh, long time. After I graduated from Trinity College in the early forties, I came across to take a job teaching at the University here. I retired in 1981. But sit down, laddie, your tea's getting cold," O'Grady said with a smile, stabbing his pipe at the chair. "Incredible," Duncan murmured. He sat, his mind awhirl with images of Ireland: the rugged coastline as it sweeps down to the sea, the ever-changing sky, swirled in shades of grey and blue as the clouds laid shadows across the proud green land. He thought of the way the sun danced on Loch Shiel by the village where he was born, it's deep cold waters lapping on the pebbled shore. He could almost hear the distant laughing of the children in his village as they roamed the hills; the smell of turf fires suddenly strong in the air as the ragged highlands sheep wandered around the stone huts. I had no idea that I missed my homeland this much, Duncan thought, the sudden desire to see it again creating a physical ache in his throat. Maggie hopped back into his lap, reclaiming her position and jarring him back into the present. He looked around the small apartment, his eyes coming to rest on the mantelpiece. "Is that your wife?" Duncan asked, indicating a photograph of a pretty young woman. Sean followed his eyes; his face became remote and sad when he looked at the picture. "Aye, that's my Mary, God rest her soul." O'Grady said and sighed. "She's been gone nigh on to twenty years now. I miss her something terrible." He pulled a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his jacket and mopped his rheumy eyes. A small silence descended, each man lost in his own thoughts about loved ones who had passed beyond the veil. "Any children?" Duncan asked. "No, much to our sorrow," Sean replied. "Mary couldn't have any, so she ended up adopting the waifs from the college. We'd have a few over every Sunday and she would fix a proper dinner. The students just adored her, and so did I. Ach, those were lovely times!" he finished with a wan smile. Collecting himself, Sean looked at Duncan. "But, MacLeod, now that's a fearsome Scottish name! Do you know many of the old tales?" "A few," Duncan answered, leaning back and getting comfortable. Knowing the Irish proclivity for a good long chat, he had the feeling he'd probably be here for a while. "But I'd rather hear some from you." "Well, then," O'Grady said with a mischievous grin. "A man like yourself would probably want to hear some of the Tain Bo Cualnge, wouldn't you?" "The Cattle Raid of Cooley?" Duncan smiled. "That would be grand," he said, his Scottish brogue slipping out a bit. "Well now," O'Grady said, settling in and puffing on his pipe. "You know that Queen Medb of Connacht and her husband, King Ailill, were lying in bed of an evening, and the talk turned, as it does at times, to which one of them had the finest possessions..." End of Part 1 =========================================================================