Date:         Mon, 26 Feb 1996 16:20:31 +0000
Reply-To:     Vasna.Zago@COLORADO.EDU
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Vasna.Zago@COLORADO.EDU
Subject:      A Terrible Beauty 2/4

A Terrible Beauty, Part 2

     Duncan ran up the steps to the dojo and checked his watch.  The
cool spring twilight lingered in the air; he'd spent way more time
with Sean than he had intended, but the old man was just so full of
stories and so entertaining.  Best time he'd had in ages, Duncan
thought, as he hummed an ancient tune from his childhood and fished
for his keys.  Talking to the old man was as invigorating as sipping
the crystal waters that rippled in a Scottish stream.  Memories of
home continued to crowd around him, as they had done all afternoon, as
thick as the night that was beginning to descend.  Memories of a time
when he was young and mortal, and there was nothing to fear except a
cowardly death.  Families took care of each other in those times, and
even the most elderly performed a function vital to the well being of
the group.  They would never be put aside to rot in poverty, he
realized with a small spark of anger.
     How lonely Sean must be, Duncan thought, feeling more than a
little sorry for him, living all alone, bereft of the company of his
dear wife.No college students on Sunday afternoons anymore to remind
him of the vigors of youth.  No one to laugh and talk with and to
amuse with stories of Fionn Mac Cumhail, the glorious and cunning
Irish hero.  Just the old man and his cats in a dreary attic
apartment; the only thing to look forward to was the sweet solace of
death.  Duncan understood that feeling all too well; there were times
when his mind was focused more on rejoining his lost friends than on
the business of living.  There comes a point in everyone's life when
you realize that the ones you've lost outnumber the ones that remain.
     Duncan was reminded of the empty refrigerator and the watery tea,
and made a silent vow to return soon and bring the old man some food.
Or perhaps a new sweater.  The one Sean had been wearing today was
holier than St.  Brigid herself, Duncan thought, smiling to himself
and shaking his head.  Unlocking the door of the dojo, Duncan snuck
inside quietly and looked around for Richie, hoping he had gone home
already.  He didn't want a lecture about how late he was to ruin his
thoughtful mood.
     "You're late," Richie said, strolling out from the office to
greet him.  "That guy who was interested in the cuirass left about an
hour ago.He couldn't wait anymore."
     Duncan threw up his hands.  "Damn! I forgot.  I'll have to call
him back to apologize." He took off his trench coat and tossed it over
his arm, heading for the elevator.  "So, what kept you, Mac?" Richie
asked, following him into the lift.
     "Coming up?" Duncan asked facetiously, somewhat annoyed.
     "Uh, yeah, thanks," Richie answered, oblivious to Duncan's frown.
"I thought I'd stay for dinner.  But what have you been up to?  Your
class got over hours ago."
     "Anytime," Duncan muttered to himself, rolling his eyes before
addressing Richie directly.  "I met the most interesting man on the
way home from the university."
     "An immortal?"
     "No.  An old man named Sean O'Grady.  He's ancient now, but in
his prime he was one of the great scholars in Celtic mythology."
     "Ooo!  How riveting," Richie answered.  "No wonder you couldn't
tear yourself away."
     Duncan shot him a look as the lift reached the top and he opened
the door.  "It wouldn't kill you to improve your mind, you know."
     "And you should call when you're going to be late," Richie shot
back."I was worried about you, Mac.  You know Kearney's supposed to be
in town."
     Duncan stopped and looked at his young friend.  There was indeed
anxiety in Richie's face, which he was trying unsuccessfully to hide
under a scowl.  "I'm sorry, Richie," Duncan said, truly repentant.
"It's just that this O'Grady character was so fascinating.  You should
meet him."
     "Yeah, right, Mac.  Like I'm going to run off right now and spend
hours with some dried up old geezer, talking about imaginary dead
people."  Richie shook his head and waved a hand around.  "I gotta
go," he said breezily, heading for the door.  "I thought you were
staying for dinner," Duncan said, amused.
     Richie stopped.  "What are you having?" he asked.
     "Your favorite," Duncan said enticingly, waving a spoon at him.
"Pasta!"
     "Okay, you got me," Richie said, swinging around with a grin.  "I
guess it's better than corn flakes at my place."
     "You really need to learn how to cook."
     "Yeah, right," Richie replied.  "Why should I when I can eat over
here?"
     Duncan laughed.  "Let me ask you a question, Richie," he said as
he pulled out two plates.  "Who's the oldest person you know?"
     Richie looked at him.  "That's easy, Mac.  You!"  He grinned.
     "Very funny," Duncan said.  "I meant oldest mortal."
     "Umm, probably Dawson," said Richie after a moment's thought.
"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear that," Duncan said, shaking his
head.  "I meant old, Richie, as in elderly."
     Richie's face was a blank.  "Well, there was this old couple in
the projects when I was growing up, but nobody liked them much because
they were weird and their place smelled funny.  I mean, they had
something like seventeen different kinds of birds and the old man used
to hoard newspapers and bottles.  Nobody knew why, but when he died
they went in there to clean it out and it was filled with stacks of
old, yellowing newspapers and literally thousands of bottles.  It was
truly weird," Richie concluded, shaking his head.
     Duncan looked at him with amazement.  "You are unbelievable,
Richie," he said, shaking his head.  "If that's your only exposure to
elderly people, you need a refresher.  They provide us with a
continuity to the past."
     "Yeah, yeah," Richie answered, rolling his eyes.  "Sure, Mac.
Okay, who's the oldest mortal you ever knew?" he asked.
     "Well, I don't know if she was the oldest, but she certainly
seemed like it at the time," Duncan answered, his eyes softening at
the memory."She was the grandmother of the village where I grew up.
After our mothers kicked us out of the huts every day, this mob of
boys would find our way to her place, and she would tell us a story
and give us each a honey cake, before shooing us off to the hills for
races and mock battles."
     Richie leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms,
savoring this moment.  He'd rarely heard Mac talk about the past like
this.
 Usually, he lectured to prove a point, never to reminisce.  He had a
hard time even envisioning him as a boy.
     "She seemed so old," Duncan continued.  "I bet she was only 50 or
so, but to us boys she appeared as ancient as one of the Tuatha De
Danann themselves!"  He paused, lost in the memory.  "She made the
most wonderful honey cakes," he said.  "They tasted like the sun in
your mouth."  He shook himself and looked at Richie.  "My grandfather
was a terror, though," he said, smiling.  "He had lost an eye in a
fight years before and there was this huge scar running down his
cheek.  His body was a wreck, he hobbled around with a stick for a
cane and beat me with it every chance he could.He said it would
toughen me up," Duncan said with a chuckle.  "He scared the crap out
of me.  Still, I missed him when he died."  Duncan fell silent and
Richie looked thoughtfully at him.
     "You know, I can understand your interest in this old man,"
Richie said, "but don't put this off on me; I am not going over there
with you, Mac," he finished firmly, shaking his head.  "Of course
not," Duncan agreed.  "He'll be coming over here."
     Richie groaned.  "I do hate it when you get in these 'let's give
Richie a lesson' moods."
     Duncan smiled innocently and dropped the spaghetti into the
boiling water.


###


     It was a warm, sunny spring afternoon when Duncan proudly ushered
Sean into the dojo.  One man was using the punching bag while two
others sparred intently on a center mat.  Sean stopped in the doorway
and looked around, nodding.  "Very nice, laddie," he said, looking at
Duncan.  "Quite impressive."  O'Grady walked slowly across the
hardwood floor, totally oblivious to the fact that he was about to be
decked by the punching bag as it swung back from a blow.  Duncan raced
over and caught the bag, took Sean's arm and steered him in the
direction of the office.  "Richie's in here," he said.  "I've wanted
to introduce you two for several weeks now."  Sean nodded, still
smiling, and allowed himself to be led to the back.
     Richie stood up as Duncan and Sean reached the door.  "Sean, this
is my good friend Richie Ryan," Duncan said, waving a hand around and
smiling broadly.
     "Nice to meet you!" Richie said loudly and extended a hand.
     "Nice to meet you, too, laddie!" Sean yelled back.  "Hard of
hearing, are you?"
     Duncan covered a smile with a cough.  Both friends looked at him
blankly.
     "Er, uh, no," Richie answered.  There was a small silence.
     "Richie manages the dojo for me," Duncan offered helpfully.
"Does he now," Sean said, nodding.  "Do you go to the University?"
     "No," Richie said.  "I've never quite found the time."  Another
silence settled on the room.  Sean shifted from one foot to the other.
"Richie, did you know Sean's father fought in the Irish Rebellion of
1916?" Duncan tried again, nodding.
     "Wow, really," Richie said, trying to sound interested.  The
three men stood around uncomfortably for a few moments.
     "Um, Sean," Duncan said, clearing his throat, "I thought you
might enjoy looking at some of the antiques upstairs.  I have one or
two Celtic pieces that are very nice."  "Really, laddie!" Sean said
with a grin.  "And I suppose you'll be showing me Fionn Mac Cumhail's
hurley stick?"
     Duncan smiled.  "That I will," he teased, imitating his friends
Irish accent.
     "Well, now, that'd be something I'd like to see, even if you are
giving me a bit of the blarney," Sean said, smiling.  "Lead on,
MacDuff!"  "Uh, it's MacLeod," Richie corrected.  "Duncan MacLeod."
     Sean drew himself up to his full height and looked at the boy.
"I know that," he said.  "I was making a joke."  Richie's face was
blank."Shakespeare?"  There was a pause.  "Macbeth?"  Sean sighed.
"You really need to get out more, laddie," he said, shaking his head
as he walked out the door.
     Duncan shot Richie a pleading look, and Richie glared at him and
shrugged.  Sighing, he threw down the pen he had been fiddling with
and prepared to follow the two men upstairs.  It was going to be a
long afternoon.


###

         Duncan paused at the entrance of Joe's bar, checking out the
crowd.It looked fairly regular for a Thursday evening.  About two
dozen people were clustered around the various tables, drinking and
chatting.  He saw Richie at the bar, talking with Dawson.  Richie was
waving his hands around excitedly and Joe was smiling.  "Hey, Dawson,"
he said as he walked up to the bar.  "Richie."
     "MacLeod," Joe replied, nodding.  "Good to see you.  What can I
get for you?"
     "Guinness," Duncan answered, swinging a leg over the bar stool
and looking at Richie.  "And what's so funny?" he said, poking Richie
in the arm.  His young friend put a hand over his mouth, literally
wiped the smile off his face, and shrugged.
     "Guinness?" Joe muttered to himself as he poured the draft.
"What's the interest lately in this Irish Tar?" Duncan glared at him
briefly before returning his stare to Richie, who was beginning to
look slightly uncomfortable.  Joe continued, "The kid here thinks it's
pretty amusing how much time you've been spending with this old man.
What's his name?" he asked, placing a full mug in front of MacLeod.
     "Sean O'Grady," Duncan replied, still looking at Richie.  He
raised his eyebrows.  "Amusing, huh?"
     Richie swallowed.  Mac was beginning to get that dangerous aura
he adopted when he was being ribbed too much and Richie didn't want to
cross that particular line right now.  He spread his hands.  "Um,
well, you know Mac, you've been going over there two and three times a
week for the past month now.  I mean, what's the fascination?"
     Joe's head swiveled over to look at Duncan, like he was following
a tennis match.  "Is that so, MacLeod? You've been spending that much
time with him?"
     "You should know, Dawson," Duncan answered evenly, taking a swig
and wiping the foam off his lip with the back of his hand.  "You're my
Watcher, aren't you?"
     "Yeah, well, you know how it is," Joe answered, pushing a rag
around the counter.  "Face it, MacLeod, sometimes you're just not that
interesting."
     Duncan cocked an eyebrow at him, astonished, before grinning and
shaking his head.  "The truth is, you two, he's an enjoyable guy," he
said.
 "It's kind of nice to get a different perspective on things once and
a while."
     "Yeah, right, Mac," Richie said.  "Ninety year old guys are a
barrel of laughs."
     "Seventy-nine, Richie," Duncan corrected.  "He's only
seventy-nine."
     "Whatever," Richie said offhandedly and shrugged.  "Any way you
look at it, Mac, he's old," he finished, picking up his beer and
crossing over to sit at a nearby table to listen to the band.
     "The truth is, MacLeod," Joe said, "From what I can gather from
what Richie told me, you've got some kind of nostalgia thing going on
and are indulging it with this old man."
     "Nostalgia?" Duncan said blankly.
     "Don't think I haven't noticed that you've been ordering Guinness
for the past month and humming those little Scottish tunes.  Why don't
you get up on stage and give us a rendition of 'Danny Boy'?" Joe
grinned.  "Break out the kilt while you're at it!"
     Duncan scowled fiercely while Joe crossed his arms and leaned
back casually.  "Listen MacLeod, you can't intimidate me with that
look.  I've seen it too many times.  Besides, I'm not passing judgment
on you.  If you want to take a trip down memory lane, it's fine with
me.  I just don't see the point."
     Duncan took a swallow of the stout, looked around the room and
sighed.
 "Do you ever feel like taking a break, Dawson?  You know, stop the
world?"
     "Most people call that a vacation," Joe answered.
     "Most people don't have others chasing them with swords," Duncan
responded.  "But, yeah, I've tried them.  The only problem is, the
Game doesn't stop whether I'm here or in Tahiti.  You know, it's
funny, even Holy Ground isn't really a respite; the Game is always
waiting.  But, for some reason, when I'm talking with Sean and he's
telling me one of the old stories, time seems to stop and all I can
see is Scotland."  Duncan bowed his head and shrugged, almost
embarrassed that he had admitted such a weakness to his friend.
     Dawson looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, and then
nodded, understanding completely.  "I guess we all need to be able to
go home," he offered softly.  "Even if it's only in our minds."
     Duncan looked up and met Joe's gaze.  He was surprised to find it
filled with tender compassion.  The two men smiled at each other.

###


     Duncan looked around at the thick fog drifting among the gnarled
and ancient trees, creating ghostly shapes as it curled around the
moss-covered trunks.  The thick grass felt soft beneath his feet.  He
smiled at the comely lass beckoning to him across the bridge, her long
red hair flowing around her like mist.  She opened her mouth and a
bird emerged, it's wings making a ringing sound as it flew directly at
him.  "What?" he said, confused.  "I don't understand." She opened her
mouth again and the tone continued, louder this time.  Surfacing to
consciousness, he realized with a groan that the phone was ringing.
Reaching for the receiver he glanced at the clock.  2:00 am.He fumbled
for the light.  Who the hell would be calling at this hour?  "Hello?"
he mumbled into the phone, his voice thick with sleep.
     "Duncan? Is it you?" O'Grady's voice cut into the last vestiges
of the dream.  "You don't sound like yourself, man."
     "Sean? Are you okay? What's wrong?" Duncan asked, suddenly
worried.
     "Nothing's wrong," he answered.  "Why would anything be wrong?"
     "Well, it's two o'clock in the morning, Sean," Duncan said,
trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
     "Ah, yes.  Best time of the day for thinking, don't you know.
You're weren't sleeping, were you?"  Duncan stifled his response.
"What can I do for you?" he said, as evenly as he could manage.
     "I was hoping you could take me to the bookstore tomorrow.  My
order's in, you know, and I'm anxious to see if that young lad at
Trinity College has his facts straight."
     "Yes, I already promised I'd take you, remember?" Duncan said,
rubbing his eyes.
     "Did you?" Sean answered, sounding confused.  "Ah, that's right,
you did.  I don't think my memory's what it used to be.  Well, much
thanks, laddie, I'll be off then.  See you bright and early!"
     Duncan sighed and shook his head as he hung up the phone and
turned out the light.  Wriggling around in the bed to get comfortable
again, he punched the pillow and shut his eyes.  If he tried really
hard, he might just be able to catch up to that red-haired woman.


###

     "Here, put this on," Duncan said, extending a brand new cardigan
in Sean's direction.  "Laddie! You shouldn't have," Sean said, taking
the sweater and rubbing it between his hands.  "It's not even my
birthday or anything."
     "Do I need a reason to bring you a present?" Duncan asked.  "Go
maire tu's go gcaithe tu e!" he said in the old Irish.  "May you live
to wear it!"
     Sean put it on and buttoned it up with trembling fingers.
Whether hewas shaking from age or excitement Duncan wasn't sure.
O'Grady looked at him and grinned.  "I'm so pleased, laddie! You're
too good to an old man."
     "Don't be silly," Duncan said.  "But let's sit down and take up
where we left off last time.  You were telling me the difference
between a myth and a folk story."
     "Well," said Sean.  "My dear friend Joseph Campbell always said
that myths put us in touch with the experience of life.  He tended to
make a distinction between myth and folk tale, but I think that the
lines are not so clearly drawn.  I take an interest in whatever we are
telling ourselves with our stories."
     "You had mentioned some oral histories that you had taken,"
Duncan said.  "Did you ever run into any stories about mortals
becoming immortal?"
     Sean laughed.  "What do you mean, mortal immortals?  What kind of
nonsense is that?" he scoffed.
     Duncan blushed.  "I just meant that most of the things we've been
talking about have been about gods.  They're already immortal.  Aren't
there any myths about humans becoming immortal?"
     "Well, offhand, the only ones I can think of are the vampires
legends.
 Those are quite interesting, you know.  Gods are immortal and live in
a pure state.  These mortals become vampires and therefore immortal,
and they're doomed to everlasting hell.  The basic message is that
mortals are not supposed to become immortal; we lose our salvation by
attempting to be gods."
     "Yes, but I was sure I heard of something like that," pressed
Duncan."You're positive you've never heard of it?"
     "Well, laddie, mostly we're trying to tell ourselves what it's
like to have the human experience.  That experience includes death;
it's the great mystery.  So, to have a mythology about escaping death
would be quite rare.
 I mean, when you think about it, even vampires can be killed, so
technically they're not really immortal."  O'Grady was silent for a
minute, his brow furrowed.  "Wait, now.There was that old woman..." he
began, getting up and digging through a stack of yellowed papers on
the desk as he muttered to himself.
     "What old woman?" Duncan asked.  Sean ignored him and continued
to shuffle papers around.
     "Ah! Here it is!" O'Grady pulled out a notebook and thumbed
through the worn pages.  "I did take an oral history in the forties
from some people in a little village up the Highlands.  I remember
talking with an old woman; she told me a story her grandmother had
told her when she was a child.  Let's see here." Sean continued to
look through the pages of the book, trying to locate the exact
reference.
     Duncan reached out to grab the book but Sean glared at him and
clutched it tighter.  He sat down, chastized, and smiled nonchalantly,
folding his arms across his chest.
     "Yes, here it is.  Just a little tidbit," O'Grady said.  "This
woman's grandmother told of a story that had been passed down for more
than two hundred years.  Apparently there was a tale of a man being
killed in a battle and then coming back to life.  There was also some
nonsense about beheadings and lightening and stuff like that.  The
usual things that accompany such tales."
     "You don't think it might be true?" Duncan asked.
     Sean looked at him patiently.  "Laddie, we're talking myths and
legends here, not reality.  Of course it's not true.  The only thing
that interests me about stories like this is what we might be telling
ourselves by such a thing.  Obviously, there's the resurrection
aspect, so whoever got a hold of the tale was probably influenced by
the church.  I'm sure we're talking the death of the pagan religion
and the advent of Christianity, as exemplified by the resurrection of
the dead, the triumph of one belief structure over another."  "The
beheadings could symbolize the separation of the intellect from the
soul or Nature from Man," Sean continued.  "You know what's
interesting is the connection then, between the vampire legends and
this one, because they both advocate the unnaturalness of the state of
immortality for mortals beings."
     "Also, there's the powerful image of the living head of the
hero/god.Lots of the old tales have such elements.  The story of Bran
the Blessed, for example.  The head continues on after separation from
the body, imparting wisdom and knowledge for a time before it joins
it's body in death.  This gives us the link between the spiritual and
physical worlds."
     "But aren't these stories based in reality?" Duncan asked.
"There's that old saying that at the core of every myth is a kernel of
truth."
     "You're probably right, laddie," O'Grady said.  "Perhaps in this
instance there was someone who was in a coma after a battle and then
woke up.  To the superstitious people of his tribe it might appear
like he had come back from the dead."
     "Maybe," Duncan said, noncommittally.  He sighed, knowing he
wasn't going to be able to dig any more out of Sean without revealing
some truths of his own.  He looked at his friend and smiled, changing
the subject."Tell me the story of Deirdre of the Sorrows," he said.
     "Is t'isce deoch na sc'al," Sean said, a sly smile crossing his
face."A story requires a drink, don't you know."
     Duncan grinned, got up and went into the kitchen.  Returning with
an unopened bottle of port, he chuckled and looked at Sean.  "How do
you know when I've just bought a new bottle?" he asked, shaking his
head and reaching for two glasses.

End of Part 2
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