Date: Fri, 9 Dec 1994 19:43:23 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch3.(p75-79) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland (comments, questions to Nancyssch@aol.com) The driver looked straight ahead and started the cab, moving slowly down the empty, quiet street. Duncan almost didn't hear the question, the words floating at him from out of the dark, the man's lips barely moving. "Namae wa?" The question was bald, almost rudely familiar. Hardly the tone a hired driver would ask of a paying customer. Unless he knew that customer well, already. "Who asks?" Duncan replied just as rudely, and reached into his bag, unzipping the compartment that held the sword. Touching the cool ivory handle, for reassurance. Just in case. The driver paused at the intersection, the cab's engine purring softly, the bright headlights of the passing cars washing light and dark shadows across his face. "The guardians of the temple ask. The clan Shikoto." Shikoto. A name Duncan had not heard for 200 years. The image of the man he'd known flashed before his eyes. Murami Shikoto, the leader of the clan, the head of the warrior monks he'd found shelter with. A deadly man, hereditary ruler of a dangerous family, a man feared by the shoguns and peasants alike. A man who defied custom and the emperor, who openly sought, and used, knowledge from the west. A man who let a hunted, desperate gaijin stumble on shaky legs into his walled fortress keep, and collapse, exhausted, breathless, and safe. Murami had slammed the doors in the faces of the soldiers who pursued Duncan, and had laughed in derision at the shogun's demands for Duncan's return, or his death. Duncan had sheltered there, tolerated by most on the order of their chief, but truly welcomed by Murami. The clan leader, cousin to the samurai Hideo who had originally helped Duncan, had spent countless hours picking Duncan's brain, pulling out more information than he'd known he possessed about life, custom, culture, warfare, politics, religion, and trade, in the western lands he'd lived in and passed through. Duncan had shared it willingly, for Murami had given him much in exchange. His life, for starters, a measure of his friendship, and the protected leisure to learn for himself more of the language and customs of Nippon. He'd also been invited to study some of the more prosaic martial arts, some basic sword play and the more commonly known defensive techniques of the ninja clan he'd found himself among. It had been illuminating, and valuable. Yet he had never truly relaxed, knowing he was living on sufferance, kept from being executed on sight by any man who met him only by the high thick walls and the reputation for utter ruthlessness of his host. Duncan had remained among the clan for nearly three months, then boredom and curiosity had combined one night and impelled him to try and take another look at the bustling capital city he had seen only as a series of obstacles or hiding places while a fugitive, pursued and harried as he fled the shogun's men. Now, rested, relaxed, full of confidence in his newly polished language and sword skills, he'd decided to slip out of the gates wrapped in the cloak of evening to walk the streets and find adventure...and he had, in short order, found a woman, sake, and a fight. Duncan flushed a bit, his cheeks heating as he thought of what an impetuous fool he'd been in that past. He hadn't realized that by going out alone he was offering deadly insult to his protector, as if flaunting all his help, all his defiance of the emperor's law and the shogun's power, as being meaningless, and unnecessary. Nor had he thought clearly ahead to about what would happen if the shogun's men did find and capture him. As they had. It was all coming back to him now. The soft rustle of the tatami mats as the woman he had chosen at the mansion of the geishas brought him the second steaming bowl of sake, its pungent heat already warming his stomach from his first drink. The delicate sound of the hidden flutes, playing their monochromatic laments for faded summer and forgotten youth, while snow fell gently on the roofs and streets of the town, wrapping the noisy bustle of the city in a muffled blanket of white. He remembered the easy relaxation he'd felt , as he'd leaned back and closed his eyes, the young geisha's strong limber fingers digging deep into the muscles at the back of his neck, loosening them, putting him into a state almost like waking sleep...and then the sudden tearing sound as the fragile rice paper walls of the private room he'd rented for the evening were kicked in simultaneously from all four sides and the dozen armed warriors had burst in, swords at the ready. Involuntarily he shook his head. It hurt to remember how the soldiers had thrust their swords, careless of who they hit. Hurt to remember the girl, the woman, screaming in fear, and then her cry dying in her throat as she died too...a bright slender steel blade protruding from her back. He had fought, of course. Killed more than a few of them, right there, and maybe more had died later. But his skills, no matter how well polished by his time in the temple, no matter how augmented by his anger and his grief at the unnecessary and untimely death of his companion, were still no match for a dozen of the shogun's best guards. In the end he had fallen himself, pierced by as many blades as men were crowded into the room, each eager to have a part in the death of the foreigner. He had been dimly grateful that none of them had tried to behead him. It would let him come back and deal with them, again, he thought. Let him have a second chance at giving them a taste of what they'd handed to an unarmed woman. Death. By steel. His last fading vision of that room had been of their grinning faces looking down at him, and then their grins dropping away as their faces turned in sudden consternation towards one of the shattered walls. That had been all he remembered of his adventure outside. He had died, then. And come back to life, and consciousness, face to face with Murami. There was always a moment of disorientation, of ragged aching pain at finding his soul thrust back into his body, that left Duncan confused and helpless, on the cusp between life and death. He stared up at Murami, trying to collect his thoughts, to remember where he was, or should be, and how he had gotten there. Nothing made much sense, least of all the surroundings, or what he could see of them. He felt his sword lying across his chest and tightened his fingers on the hilt. Now stars shone clearly overhead, and the wet chilly air of Edo's winter cut into his lungs. He was outside, in the snow, his body cool and stiff. Murami knelt down beside him, and touched a hand to Duncan's face. He traced a line of dried blood across Duncan's cheek, where Duncan vaguely remembered a knife slicing deep, to the bone. Nothing remained of the cut, save the crusted red powder. Not even a scar. Murami's fingers were warm and dry as they brushed against Duncan's smooth, clammy skin. "So is this one of the secrets of the west? One you forgot to tell me?" Murami's voice was as cold as the air. "Is this why you left my protection? Because you never needed it at all?" He rose again, and turned away from Duncan's prone form. Duncan pulled his elbows under him and sat up, nausea shifting the contents of his stomach for a moment. His throat clamped shut reflexively. For future reference Duncan noted that sake did not sit well in a dead Immortal's digestion. He'd try not to to drink before he died, if he had a choice. Or at least not drink sake. Murami stood, his back to Duncan. Looking out over the city. The lights twinkled and glimmered in the still night air. Duncan glanced around and realized they were in a burial ground, outside the city limits. As his vision focused and his mind centered on the here and now, he also noticed that there was a grave, a dark scar in the snow covered earth, lying open near to him. He shivered, and wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to decide what to say to the man standing over him. At least none of the other members of the clan were evident. From the hoof prints churned across the snow covered ground, it appeared that there had been others here. Many others. But only Murami remained. And two horses, Duncan noted, as one snorted and stamped its foot, drawing his eyes to their shadowed forms. Two....one for the living man, one for the corpse. How convenient. Duncan could only assume that Murami had come to rescue him, too late to keep him alive once, but not too late to save his Immortal soul, and life. How else would his body not be sitting outside the shogun's walls, his head decorating a spike and his Quickening truly lost to the world. Thanks were certainly in order. But he could see, from the angry set to Murami's shoulders, that he would have to speak carefully. Or he might find himself dead again, and buried this time. "Honored sir." Duncan decided the more formal, the better. And he was rewarded with a slight easing of the rigid line of Murami's back, a sign showing him he might be on the right track. "I *am* grateful. I was a stupid idiot, to leave your protection. If you had not come, I would be truly dead. Thank you." Duncan stood, his chilled limbs creaking and protesting at the motion, his sodden, bloody clothes sticking to him wetly, then he put his hands together and bowed low to Murami's still turned form. The man knew what he did. He was reputed to have eyes in the back of his head. At the very least, he had acute hearing and an incredibly fine tuned kinesthetic sense. Duncan held the bow, waiting for Murami to acknowledge him. The man faced him, for a long, silent time, then reached out and touched his shoulder, lightly. Acknowledging him, and his existence. Perhaps not his humanity. There was an ineffable easing of the tension in the air and Duncan dared at last to look up. Murami's eyes were hooded, his expression reserved. What trust there had been between them, the easy jokes and understanding of two venturesome spirits, two like minds, had been strained past the breaking point. Never again would Duncan be able to call this man a friend. Never again would this man trust him enough to let down his formal guard. Duncan felt a small part of his soul wither within him. He had lost another relationship, to his immortality. The eternal price, for eternal life. "So, what are you? A sorcerer? A spirit? A spy?" There was no sound of fear in Murami's voice. No paralysis of will and intellect before the unknown. Merely an assessment of whether or not it could be used, or was a threat to him. Duncan shook his head, regretting again his own careless impetuosity that had sent him out on the fatal stroll. "I am no sorcerer. No spirit. No spy." He stressed that last, the most. " I am just a man. One who comes back from the dead when I die." Duncan spoke softly, humbly. He flushed at the disbelief in Murami's eyes, the hostility and cynicism that informed his smile, and flinched at the icy rasp of his tone as Murami replied. "Just a man who comes back from the dead from time to time. Nothing special, no. How many others are there like you? Do you have an army of undying men, back in your Scotland, your Highlands?" Duncan toyed with the idea of lying, of claiming to be the only Immortal. He wondered if Murami was angry enough to attempt to seek out any Japanese Immortals and try to kill them, just to find out if they could die. If he was angry enough to try and kill Duncan, for that matter. Best not to discuss how death could come to Immortals, then. "There are others like me. I do not advertise my difference. What is the point? Would you have me announce it to anyone I meet? Demonstrate my talent in a traveling circus perhaps?" Irony rippled lightly through Duncan's voice, as he faced the frosted eyes of the leader of the assassin's clan, wondering if he had just lost his battle for good judgment, for trying to rebuild some rapport, to his own pride. "I wondered how a gaijin could have made it to my walls." Murami's eyes seemed to look back, into the past, reviewing his memories. "None ever did before, although many have tried. The shogun always lets me know." Ice edged through his tone as he mused aloud. "I assumed you were either very lucky, or very good at running and fighting. Or both. Perhaps your only difference was surviving death a few times?" Duncan nodded. It wasn't something he enjoyed discussing, or thinking about. But yes. That had been the only reason he'd made it to the clan's stronghold. He'd been hunted from the moment he fled Hideo's home, tracked and killed the first time only miles from that temporary refuge, then left for dead after a bitter fight with a group of the local shogun's militia, while they took their wounded for medical attention and left their own dead temporarily guarding his corpse. He'd revived, and fled again, this time on horseback from one of the wandering mounts of the dead. None of the local peasants would touch the militia's horses, their breeding and markings too distinctive to try and disguise. So the extra mounts who'd escaped the scene of the battle had been let to wander, again until the militia returned with fresh men and horses, to chase them down. Except Duncan had been there first. He'd been caught again, twice more, and had died the first time pinned to a tree with a crossbow bolt through his chest, and then, days later, had drowned crossing a raging half frozen river to flee another group of pursuers. Yes, he was good at running, and at fighting, but no single man was good enough to escape alone the death sentence of an entire country. "I died three times trying to reach you. I would have died a fourth, except you let me in. I am grateful." But was his gratitude enough? =========================================================================