Date: Wed, 14 Sep 1994 12:57:45 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: aloha chapter 3 (p25-30) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland "Stop. Turn here." The cabbie looked at him, a sharp glace, intelligence glinting in his eyes Duncan felt a stirring of unease as the cab turned neatly down the side street..almost an alley, really, that he had indicated. He remembered the street being much wider, much grander....but everything was on a smaller scale, back then. The temple, whole soaring towers loomed in his memory, seemed short, squat, to his disappointed eye...but it was intact, at least, huddling at the feet of its newer, taller cousins. He thrust a handful of paper money at the driver and stepped from the cab. "Wait." The driver nodded. Tipped his cap back, and leaned agaisnt his seat, looking for all the world like a throughly bored man humoring a crazy client. Still, there was something about him, something about his mannerisms, the way he held his body, even the way he slouched against the seat, that tickled Duncan's subconscious, hinted at something more..... Whatever it was, he'd worry about it later. He walked towards the temple, a dark hulking pile, now that he was closer. It was as tall as he remembered, a sharp edged shadow blotting out the lights from the surrounding streets, soaking up the light and reflecting nothing back from the rough finished stone that made up its outer, public walls. No lights. No sign of life. Had it been abandoned? Tthe sect of warrior monks destroyed? Or had the group simply died out, irrelevant to the concerns of the modern world, as youth turned to television for their entertainment, to rock stars for their role models? A litter of paper, crumpled scraps, debris, brushed agaisnt his shoes as he climbed the broad, shallow stone steps that led to the great door. No one came here any more. No one maintained this entrance. They were gone. Scattered. Dust. He raised his hand to the scarred and pitted metal plate, set in the great door. Tried the handle. It was locked. He remembered how it had gleamed, polished each day by the young boys, the acolytes... He stood. Alone. Remembering. The ghosts of his friends laughed at him, boisterous, loud. A soft touch of moisture, on his face, his hands. The pattering of rain, sweeping across the alley, darkening the stone, as if it were bleeding. He laid his palm on the rough, wet surface. Closed his eyes...remembering.... Felt the rough skin of the sharks, scraping along his side, his arms. Fought for consciousness, gasped and choked and stuggled to breathe as the sharks battered at the framework of bamboo and woven grasses that held him captive, pushing him to the night dark surface for a moment, for a long precious minute, as he sucked in air, swallowed water and spume, and choked again. He must have died, and come back. He had no idea where he was, no way to see anything beyond the few feet of water right around him, in the brief moments he fought to the surface for air. The moon was up, its soft white glow illuminating the tips of the waves that played around him. The cage was collapsing, twisting into a shattered mass of splintering bamboo, the woven grasses binding his hands and legs were loosening in the water, loosening as he twisted his arms, kicked and struggled to pull the grasses apart, to free himslef from the clinging jetsam, to stay on the surface...to live... He sank as he concentrated, loosened one hand, kicked again and freed his legs, feeling the binding grass clinging, trailing as he kicked and pulled himself again towards the surface, grabbed blindly at a long slender piece of bamboo and thrust it at the sandpaper rough side of a shark that skimmed past him, twirling him like a leaf in the water. His makeshift spear glanced off the side of the animal, but it contorted and pulled away, stung unexpectedly by its no longer passive prey. His bamboo stick was blunted, broken. He flailed, reaching desperately for another weapon, as he felt the rough hide of one more shark rasping against his arm. He thrashed and swung his fist at its face, punching it between its eyes, his shoulder wrenching at the angle, at the shock of meeting hard bone so abruptly. He *pushed* it away, with his mind. He blinked, his eyes stinging from the salt, bliniked and tried to see, clearly, around him. Only the waves, tossing him gently up and down, were visible in the pale glow from the sky. No sharks. No land. No stars, even, in the sky. A light haze of clouds obscured the heavens, hid the essential map from his questing eyes, just let the fuzzy moonglow through. He saw a few more pieces of the cage that had held him, bobbing and floating near by. He reached and gathered as many shreds of bamboo as he could find, used the bouyancy to help hold him up, to cling to to rest a bit, at the night faded into dawn and a gray tinge lightened the eastern sky. How far had he floated, in the night? How far from his island? How far into the sea? He squinted in the growing light, gathered all his shreds of bamboo as compactly as he could and held himself up, his arms shaking with the strain, to try and see beyond the short horizon of the waves. He thought he glimpsed a darker line, what could be land, against the horizon to his right. He concentrated, tried to fix the position in his mind, tried to estimate the height and timing of the waves, then surged up, throwing himself out of the water at the peak of the next swell, his eyes straining to see, to confirm his desperate hope, to pick out details or at least reconfirm the smudge was there, was real, was not just some shadow or trick of light, some fantasy conjured by his brain to feed his eager desire, his wish... Yes. Something was there. Something with a different texture, a different look, than the glittering water all around him. The sun peeked over the horizon, and the waves danced with tips of pink fire, now. But the vision, the island...stayed dark, stayed solid, promising refuge, safety, life....if he could only reach it. He started swimming, clinging to the remanants of the bamboo, holding his head and shoulders above the water, kicking steadily towards the quadrant of the sky he thought he needed to head in. Staring ahead, straining to see, as the swells tossed him up and down, another glimpse, another confirmation of his direction. The sun, so innocent and pink, climbed higher in the sky. Brightened. Threw sharp hot spears of light at him, tipped with diamonds, cutting at his eyes. The water washed over his back, cooling it, then magnifying the burning action of the sun...then cooling it again. He could feel his skin, already darkened by months of exposure to the tropical sky, darkening, burning, shriveling in the constant bath of tepid salty water. His head ached, from the constant light, glittering and flashing motion all around, dizzying him. His mouth was dry. So dry. And salty. He spat out the salt water that kept dribbling in. Spat it out, and kept up his slow, steady progress. Kicked. Stared ahead. Strained to see. He awoke, abruptly. Coughed. Gagged on the water in his nose, his mouth. He'd falled asleep, his head had drooped, dipped into the sea. He glanced wildly around. How long had he been swimming, kicking his pile of debris...unaware? How far had he come, and in what direction? The water was calmer now, the waves not so high. The sun was coming low towards the far horizon, setting in a dusky glow of orange. He could see nothing, nothing but water. He rose on his arms, pushed and kicked up from the ocean's surface. Stared hungrily, eagerly around. Still nothing. He thought back, to the angle of the sun when he'd started this morning. Calcuated where his island, his smudge of land would be. Prayed that he'd gotten it right. Kicked out, in that direction. Praying to his father's Christian god, to his clan's ancient ones, to the god of the Arabs, to the dieties of Ko's tribe, to the spirits of the water, of the wind, of the trees. Kicked through the night, as the stars shone down from the sky. Noted his position, for future reference, using the stars as he'd been taught, in his few lessons from the ship's navigator. Used them to correct his course, when he noticed he was drifting to one side. Corrected it even more, as he thought back to his mindless progress, that day. Rested. Exhausted. Watched as dawn crawled out of night, watched as the clouds parted to reveal the already bright, hot, yellow sun, glaring down at him from just above the horizon. Kicked on, his muscles protesting against the repetitious motion. Squinted, against the glare. Prayed. Kicked. Let the water that sloshed and splashed his face, that tickled his nose and edged between his lips...let it in, now. Let his lips part and let the moisture in, let it sooth his parched, cracked skin, caress his mouth, his tongue...felt it burn....let himself swallow....felt it slide down his throat, promising relief...bringing death....not caring anymore... Raised his reddened, swollen face to the sky, pryed open his salt caked eyes and glared wildly around, searching for the smudge, the promise of land....the elusive, chimerical promise, the false promise..... Gave up hope. Cursed his gods. Cursed all the gods. Kept kicking. Let his mouth hang open and swallowed, mindlessly, the tepid salty water that splashed in. Felt it sloshing in his stomach, *felt* it absorbing into his cells, poisoning his body....sending wild dreams, fever hallucinations....saw mermaids, golden tresses glittering in the sun, calling out, crying in sweet high voices, beckoning him on....blinked and fought back to rationality...saw that the mermaids were just clumps of yellow seagrass, drfting among the waves, the sweet voices were the crys of gulls, flying high above him. He *reached* out to them...but they were gone, before he had realized they were there. He kicked onwards, ever onwards. Saw a vision, of giant whales, spouting gusts of water, surface and slide by...mountains in the ocean, huge dark beasts, sides caked with barnacles. Saw ancient, wrinked skin, a dark, knowing eye, look into his...*felt* contact, with a mind so different, yet akin. Felt the slow moving, peacful rhythms of that mind, attuned to the depths, to the flow and ebb of the vast ocean currents. Floated within it, too weak to try and assert his will... Felt his body being nudged, pushed, through the water. Felt it distantly, as an observer, a watcher at a play. Saw himself, a tiny pale stick figure, floating limp in the water, face barely above the surface....kicking weakly, every few moments. Felt a flash of pity for the small, helpless creature...and an urge to help. *Felt* his consciousness meld, merge with the alien rhythms of the pod...swam, in harmony, among the leviathans of the deep. One of them. One of the pod. Saw himself, nudged and pushed and shoved. Saw the floating body move towards the dry place, towards the interruption in the flow, the edge of the universe of the sea. Felt it...felt *his* body roll, his face slide beneath the waves, felt himself pulled, yanked abruptly from the slow, langorous alien rhythms, back into himself. Back into his shuddering frame, searing lungs, bursting heart. Back into himself. In time to die. - - - - - Hot. Dry. Grit, cutting into his face. In his mouth. His nose. His eyes. Sand. Fingers curled. Dug into it. Toes flexed. Pushed. Knees slid, scrabbled for purchase, shoved his chest, his body, forward. Up. Higher. Away from the soft, gentle caress of the sea. He crawled, flat on the ground, using elbows, fingers, knees, toes. Shoving himself forward, up, away from the sea. Crawled out of the brightness, into the dark. The shady, welcome dark. His fingers found a trunk, the rough corrugated stem of a palm. He clung to it. Hugged it. Wrapped his arms around it and sobbed. Once. Shuddered and held on. Waiting for his strength to return. For his vision to clear. For his stomach to stop its queasy rebellion. Lay in the dark, and slept. _ _ _ _ _ Swimming, endlessly swimming. Swimming up to the glittering roof of the world, breaking through, leaping and falling back from the dry place, back into the universe, back into the pod...... The pod.... His legs kicked, reflexively. He awoke. Saw the green, smelled the moist scent of mouldering leaves, ripe breadfruits...and rolled to his side, nauseous, retching. Pulled himself up, sat, looked around. Felt the salt scale on his face, saw it flaking white on his arms, his chest. Leaned forward, grabbing the tree for help, and stood. Took a few tentative steps, fighitng dizziness, dehaydration. Walked deeper into the jungle. Listening. Smelling. Tracking water. He found a stream. A tiny trickle, dribbling through a deep slender cut in the forest floor. He knelt, scooping up the precious sweet water, sucking it from his cupped hands, drinking greedily. Washing out the salt, washing away the scale from inside his body, then outside. Stood. Among the living, once more. The breadfruits didn't smell so bad, now. He was actualy hungry. He reached up and picked one from a nearby tree. Chewed through the rough outer skin and swallowed chunks of the tough fruit, whole. Looked around. Felt a peculiar sense of deja vu. This stream, this trickle of water.... That tree, the angle of its trunk...he moved around it, saw the shattered glass still glittering on the path...the glass from the bottle Manu had thrown at him, days, weeks ago....Thrown at him, in another lifetime. An eternity ago. He was back. Back wherehe had started from. Back on the island....where he was known to be dead. Where Manu and Ko lay, dead. He had to leave. To go, set out on the vast ocean again. He flinched at the thought, the memory of his last attempt....But his time, he would be prepared. He glanced around. Few from the village ever ventrued this far. This was as good a place as any to make his preparations from. But first, he needed tools. Supplies. A boat, and a way to carry water. He would wait until dusk, then visit the village. Pay his last respects to the people who had once been his friends, and were now his bitter enemies. Pay his last respects to Ko. And her family. His fingers clenched. He tasted his rage, his bitter blasted love. He considered killing her father. Killing the chief. No. It was pointless. What was done, was done. More death would do nothing to bring her back...and the man had suffered, as well. Had looked as if he were stabbing himself, when he killed his daughter. Killed his last remaining child. Duncan sighed. Knelt, with his head in his hands, and mourned. Mourned for all the might have beens....felt all his loss and grief, for the first time, fully, without the distraction of trying to keep alive, himself. Mourned. And vowed never to love like this again. Never to let himself be hurt, so deeply. Never again. From now on, he would always hold a bit of his heart in abeyance, keep his passion in check. Never relax, never let his guard down, like he had with Ko. He sat, though that endless day, and grieved. Replayed the scenes of thier love, of their life together, over and over in his mind. Stored them away, like treasures, to be held locked in his heart. Forever. He looked up, from his inner landscape. Saw the darkening sky, through the canopy of tropical foliage. It was time. He rose, and headed down the faint path, following its track back to the village, back to where his heart lay, dead and buried, along with his love. He heard the murmurs of voices, smelled the cooking fires, long before he could see the village itself. He crouched, edging cautiously through the palms, through the hanging, low growing foliage that provided him with cover and let him come almost to the edge of his old hut, unseen. He peered through the brush. No one was around. He slipped quickly into his hut, saw that no one had disturbed anything. His bed, his clothes, all as they had been. He pulled on his old breeches, covering his bare skin. Feeling the rough wool itching, the cut of the cloth awkward, tight, constraining, after months of wearing nothing but leaves. He turned, the shirt bundled in his hand, preparing to leave. Heard screams, shouts, from the village beyond. The clash of metal. Guns. Firing. He pushed out of the hut, into a scene of horror. Women and men struggled, in the flickering light of the cooking fires, the tawny bare skin of the islanders dark against the pale white shirts of...sailors? Children scrambled, crying, running aimlessly, as their parents battled for their lives. Died. Duncan grabbed a small naked girl, snatched her up from the ground, where she had fallen, snatched her from under the swinging cutlass of a wild eyed white man, and shoved her behind him, shoved her into the jungle, shouted at her to run, to hide. Not to look back. Turned and faced the man. Smelled whiskey, raw, on his breath. Faced his shining sword. His own hands empty. Faced death. =========================================================================