Date: Mon, 12 Sep 1994 02:54:31 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (p 13-18) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland The customs line was moving slowly. Too slowly. It meant they were checking everyone carefully. Duncan glanced over.... and around... the heads of the people in front of him...Things *had* changed. When he'd been here before, he'd towered over many of the people. Had stood out, just by standing up. No more. There were others here, foreigners lke himself, and young Japaese, who stood as tall as he did. Duncan pulled out his wallet, thumbed through the artificially aged certificates verifying his status as a dealer in antiques and weapons, admired the artful coffee stain, the fly smudge decorating one corner of the slightly wrinkled, many times folded paper, the crucial one permitting him to ship a sword, a sample of his wares, through the country. It looked good to him. As good as his last one, which had been authentic. He fished his passport from his pocket, held it ready in his hand as he approached the desk. The customs agent was bored, tired... The man glanced incuriously at his transit papers, asked Duncan to take out the sword. Duncan's neck prickled as the agent peered at the sheath. Didn't even ask to see the blade, and waved Duncan on, barely covering a yawn with his fist as he turned to the next passenger in line. Duncan turned his head, scanning the room. Caught the blank plastic stare of a pair of black sunglasses on an androgynous Japanese face....a figure half glimpsed, lost in the hurrying throng.... Duncan plunged through the crowd, elbowing his way through the slower moving packs of business travellers, families, tourists....Intent on cathing up to that figure, the darting shape that wriggled like an eel through the streaming flow of humanity blocking the passageway in front of him. Angry looks, rude comments, shouts, marked his progress through the jammed hallway. A police officer, with white gloved hands held aloft, pointed at him, gestured sharply, frowned. Duncan slowed his pace, shrugged an apology to the officer, bowing his head, briefly, in a gesture of respect and submission to his authority, and watched, frustrated, as the slender figure disappeared from his sight, lost among the bobbing heads. He followed, with no hope of catching him...her....wondering what had triggered that sudden sharp interest in him, and the equally sudden flight. For flight it was. Not just some hurried traveller, trying to make a connection. All his documents, his new identities, were made out to a James Winston, Canadian citizen. He had caught the flight at the last minute, paid cash for his ticket, hadn't booked it in advance...and Mr. Winston had not even existed, an hour before he boarded the plane. So no one could have been waiting for him....no one could have been watching....unless it was the sword....the katana... Could someone have been placed here, to watch for a man with a sword? An intriguing thought...unlikely though....far more likely that he had been followed, somehow, from Washington...that was an idea he didn't like at all.....and one he mulled over the implications of in his mind as he hailed a cab, watching for any furthur hints of surveillance...detecting nothing. The sound of the Nipponese language was all around him. He found phrases, images floating to his mind, readily available. As if he'd never left. He slipped into the cab, murmured the name of the hotel, and settled back,watching the neon lights flashing and reflecting on the chromed surface of the cars, reliving once again the final chapter in his life with Ko, the chapter that had ultimately brought him here, before. The headlights of oncoming traffic burned, flared, fire in the night..... ...Flames.... leaping in the darkness, as the men of the village closed in a tight circle around Duncan and Manu... Duncan dropped his grip from Manu's shoulder, grabbed for his hands, trying to stop him as the man thrashed on the sand, clawing at his own face, at his own skin, trying to pull off the burning, sizzling oil that still seared deep into his body... "Water. Bring me water." Duncan shouted, hoarsely, to the crowd. A boy sprinted away into the dark, a few others followed. But the men stayed where they were, silent except for an ominous rumble, a murmuring of intent, a growing gathering of rage....one Duncan had heard before.... Ko was beside him, suddenly, on the sand. Kneeling, patting salve across the still burning skin of her brother, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, across her face, dripping from her chin to mingle on Manu's body with the water the boys now brought, tossing it on him, as he screamed... The salve was snuffing the flames, but the water washed it off, diluted it, and did nothing to halt the burning, to douse the oil that still bubbled and steamed and seared Manu's flesh. "Stop them. Stop this. Now." Ko flung her arms out, shielding her brother with her own body from the boy's water, driving them away like whipped puppies with her ferocious look, her shouts. Duncan leaned back, his knees still buried in the sand, feeling the burning splatters of oil on his own face, his own hands, as well. From before. From Manu's attack on him. The attack that Duncan had turned back, far too effectively, on Manu. He felt hands on his shoulders, hands that lifted him up, pulled him away, as he fought to stay, fought to be with Ko. The hands were rough, hard. They smothered him, choked him, battered him unconscious as he struck out, dazed, confused, unsure what had happened..but sensing that his betrothal, that his life, that his love, were all gone, all lost, all torn from him by the savage anger of Manu and the catastrope he had brought on himself... He blinked, opened his eyes. It was morning. Sunlight glared down at him between the open spaces in the wooden cage that surrounded him. He was tied, caged, and alone in the jungle, near the edge of the village. He could see the corner of a hut, past a straggle of palm trunks. But no motion. No one around him, no children playing in the village, no women, gathering water, no men, strolling, gossiping.....No sign of Ko, his betrothed. His true love...his heart wrenched. Would he ever see her again? He tested the bonds that held him. They were tight, secure. Woven fibre, from the plants he had helped gather just yesterday, helping to prepare for the wedding feast. The wedding.....there would be no wedding, now...that was clear....what was not clear was exactly what would happen, next. He hoped that if they meant to kill him it would be in a way that would let his body be left far away from the village, far from prying eyes, when he reawakened... Far off, he heard the eerie mourning cry of the women, calling out to the spirits of the dead, asking for a safe welcome, for the newly dead. The cry rose and fell on the morning air, drifting, plaintive. Then all was still again. He waited, licking his dry lips, patient. He must have dozed. He became aware suddenly of people, all around him. Murmuring. Whispers on the wind. The cage he was in was lifted, his stomach lurching with the sudden motion, as he was carried back into the village, no one looking at him, their faces turned away, eyes not meeting his own. He tried to speak to them, to ask to explain, to apologize, to tell his side of the story. They looked away. The cage was dropped. Hard. Before the chief's hut. The remnants of the bridal feast were still visible, the festive fronds hung in limp tatters from the huts. Lay scattered across the ground, trampled, broken. Duncan shook his head, gathered his breath back, looked around at the impassive faces. The faces of his friends. His family... Ko stepped from her father's hut. She had smeared dust and ground shell paste on her face, in her hair, across her bare breasts and stomach. She carried a shell pointed dagger, in her hands. Her eyes...burned. Duncan looked at her, hope surging in his heart, briefly, dying at the expression on her face, at the burning fanaticism he saw in her eyes. Her father, the chief, stepped out, beside her. He too carried a shell dagger. He too had smeared the white shell paste across his face, his chest, his hair. He looked at Duncan. Their eyes locked. It was like looking into the heart of a volcano. Duncan felt his soul shrivel at the touch. The crowd backed silently away as Ko stepped towards Duncan. Two men, men Duncan had fished with, had laughed and tumbled and worked and played with, stooped down and reached into his cage, pulled his head up so he faced Ko, faced the chief, directly. Lumampnu raised both hands, raised his shell dagger, spoke. "I have lost a son today. The clan has lost its future, its next chief. A man from outside has come to us and stolen him away. Would have stolen our daughter, our healer, as well. Would have put his poisoned seed in our tribe. Would have tried to rule us, or kill us, all." The chief paused. The crowd responded. Wailed, shouted, cried out for vengeance. For death. Duncan's death. Duncan could not turn his head, but he felt the blast of hate almost like a physical blow, coming at him from behind. He stared, silently, at Lumampnu, his head gripped in the pitiless hands of his guards. Lumampunu gestured. The two guards pulled Duncan's head up, back, exposing his neck, forcing him to the edge of the cage, his eyes tearing as he stared directly into the sun. He heard the scuffing of footsteps on the sand, and saw Ko, looming over him, the knife in her hand. He could not speak. The men held his neck, his head, his jaw..he could only speak with his eyes, try to convey his sorrow, his love, his loss, to her....He felt tears sliding across his face, knew she would ascribe it to the sun, only the sun.... He saw a glistening, moisture, on her cheeks as well. Tasted one salty drop as it fell from her face, into his lips. He strained to break free, strained to speak one last time to this woman he loved, felt the veins in his neck bulging with the effort, felt his muscles cracking, popping as he tried to fight the stong, hard hands of the men holding him. He saw the dagger descending, the white sharp edges of the shell shapened to a razor keenness. Felt the almost painless touch of that edge, across his face. Felt blood welling up, in its wake. Felt the sting, the burn as air touched the cut. Felt the knife slide across his skin again, a long, gentle caress, scoring his face diagonally, once more. Closed his eyes, surrendering to his fate, to his death, at the hands of his lover, his beloved. Felt nothing more, but the burning sting of the cuts on his face. Opened his eyes, puzzled. Saw Ko turn away. Felt his head, his face, lowered, so he once again faced the chief. Saw Lumampunu step towards his daughter, his knife in his hand. Saw his face, twisted with grief, suffused by rage, as he reached out and plunged the dagger into her chest. Ko held her arms wide, as if she welcomed the thrust, welcomed death. Duncan froze, in horror, in shock. Felt his heart tear, break, as Ko knelt at her father's feet, bowed down, collapsed...slid into a quiet heap on the sand. Saw the sand darkening beneath her. Saw her father raise the bloody knife for all the village to see. "She carried the seed of this outsider. Carried his evil inside her body. He had infected her spirit, her soul. She had to die, for us to be free from his taint. Now I have lost both my children. My future. Our future. Now we must claim our revenge. As a clan. As the people. As the family of those he killed, and corrupted." Lumampunu turned again to Duncan. Walked to the cage, and reached in. Slashed Duncan's chest, his arms, his face and neck. Stepped back. Duncan only realized it belatedly. Realized it as other villagers came swarming to his side, slashed at him again. Each man took one stroke. Each woman. The children...he didn't want to think about the children...some did. Some simply watched, silently. He was still alive, could still see...all the cuts were shallow, none to his eyes, his mouth... The men gathered around again, lifted the cage. To the beach. To the rocky coral outcrop, along the beach. To the very edge of the ocean, and beyond. Duncan's last glimpse of the villagers was as the cage was tossed into the sea. He felt himself flying out and down and into the warm salty water. Felt all the cuts on his body burn at once. Saw the tendrils of red floating up as he sank, drifted, bobbed up to the surface again. Saw the fins of sharks, circling. Saw it all disappear as the cage rolled, his face submerging in the ocean, his breath gurgling in his throat, the air in his lungs mixing with water as he lost consciousness and felt himself slipping away.... Duncan started awake...he was still in the cab. Still on the highway. Still in Tokyo..not in Tahiti, not in the ocean...The hypnotic effect of the oncoming headlights had lulled him to sleep for a moment. He sat still for a moment, gathered his thoughts, formed his tongue around the unfamiliar but so familiar language. Spoke to the cabbie. Asked him to change hotels. To take him to a monastary, instead. To the temple, where he had first learned of his ki, his center, as a warrior. * * * * * The hallway was filled with masks. African masks....old, musty, some with worm holes in the wood, others with tatters of feathers, of cracked dried frayed leather...of ragged woven reeds, framing their faces. Each was spotlighted, glowing in its own pool of light in the dusky hall. Carved, chisled, painted, stained, they covered the walls....the expressions placid, contorted, smiling, shreiking, cursing in silent, eternally frozen rage or pain...and the eyes, dozens of pairs of eyeholes, blank, dark, ominous...empty holes that followed Jonathan as he moved after Shonte. One dark wooden mask was covered with nails, hundreds of them, tiny, hand made, irregular in shape, their corroded flattened tips making a second mask, inches above the wooden suface of the first, paralelling it, its shape and contours...the distorted visage sneering down at him, its lips, eyelids, nostrils, cheeks, forehead, all pierced... Jonathan pulled his eyes away from it, uneasy....rested them instead on the simple carved white visage of a woman, with high piled black hair, red lips, a peaceful, almost beatific expression on her carefully polished and painted wooden face.....she looked Japanese...the high sweeping hair like those of the women he remembered from his youth.... "It's from Cameroon." Her voice was neutral. He looked away from the wall, looked at Shonte, as she stood, waiting again, the two dogs flanking her now. "It looked Japanese...." He shrugged, turned, examined the masks behind him on the opposite wall. They were larger, almost like shields. Some big enough to hide a whole man. Edged with grasses, fur... "Those are the gods, come to earth. For the special feasts, the rituals." Her tone was dry. Ironic. "It is an impressive collection." Jonathan was careful of his tone, now. " The pieces look old." "Yes....it is priceless. " She smiled. A simple statement of fact. "*If* I ever die, they will go to the Smithsonian. Until then, I enjoy them, myself. They let me remember, and keep in perspective, my past." She gestured, walked furthur down the hall, her black Adidas soundless on the highly polished wooden floor. Jonathan could feel the smooth, glossy wood, feel the intricate joints where the tiny pieces of parquetry were fitted together under his bare feet, as he walked after her. The dogs' nails clicked on the floor, like a shower of sharp pebbles. "Japanese....you are from there, no? And you intend to go back...to finish something...." This was dangerous ground. How much did he have to admit, to her? How much did she already know? How much could he put her off, without being caught in a lie...... =========================================================================