Date: Thu, 28 Jul 1994 00:56:23 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CIRCLES, Part 4 of 5 (1/2) *This is a continuation of events begun in CHANGES, previously posted to HLFIC-L CIRCLES by Kevin H. Robnett Part Four - Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, antique dealer - - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - - The noise was deafening in the concourse, as graduates and friends rushed about, trying to cram several years of experiences into these last few moments. Richie, in his black robe, paced back and forth, waiting for everything to start. Gregor leaned against the wall, wearing a white robe, holding Richie's ceremonial hood over his right arm, as instructed. Beside him, a very pregnant Marla Russell was talking to her husband until she got tired of Richie's incessant actions. "Hold on, Ryan. Walking yourself into a mess is not going to speed things up! And don't fidget during the ceremony. Or I'll whack you like I did in International Studies," she reminded him. He still remembered the agony when she had pinched him to keep him awake. "Or Economics, or Business Law, or..." he added, only stopping when she unsheathed her nails in his direction. Surrendering, he begged, "O.K. I'll stop. What am I going to do without you?" "You can always call us in Washington," her husband said, well aware of the intimacy his wife and her study partner had developed over the years. An intimacy he shared in as well. "They only work the political aides twenty hours a day. The entrepreneurs get to work ten." Steven explosively exhaled as his wife elbowed him in the stomach. "You just make sure you come and visit regularly," Marla intoned, shaking her finger at Richie. "I know flights are every hour, seven days a week. Junior here needs his uncle Richie," she added, rubbing her stomach. "And we all know how well Red likes sleeping on lumpy couches," Gregor chimed in. In the background, over the chatter, the first strains of music could be heard. Laggers quickly rushed to find their spots as everyone else checked to make sure robes and such were in place. And then they were off, marching in twos into the coliseum, walking in parade to their seats. They filed in, the music ended stunningly, and everyone sat as the ceremony began. Richie spent the first few minutes after the prayer scanning the crowds. Gregor, sitting behind him, finally directed his attention to Angie and David, holding four empty seats between them. Marla followed his gaze, and waved. Angie waved back. Minutes later, a commotion in that section signaled the late arrivals. Duncan and Amanda led, Connor helping Dawson bring up the rear. Angie had tried to get floor seats, but there were still several steps the Watcher had to navigate. A fifth person was with them, but in the brouhaha, Richie couldn't make out who it was. The stranger left, looking for an unoccupied seat as clansmen and company settled into their places. During the presentation, Marla leaned over and whispered, "Is that the infamous Duncan sitting next to David?" At Richie's nod, she softly whistled. "All of you are such lookers!" "Good skin. It runs in the family," Richie whispered back, getting a little nervous as the moment they walked across the stage got closer. [Calm down, Richie. There's nothing to be nervous about...] < < < < < Saturday, September 9, 1995 < < < < < "...Calm down, Richie. There's nothing to be nervous about," Connor chided him. Richie still shifted from side to side, tugging at his outfit. "But I'm wearing a SKIRT, Connor!" Richie wailed, pulling at the cloth. He'd been complaining ever since waking up in the hotel this morning. The cold, the outfit. Connor looked like he wished he'd never brought Richie to Scotland. "It's called a kilt, laddie. An' you look smashing in it, if I do say so," Connor informed him, also dressed in MacLeod plaid and white shirt. He had forgone the cap matching the one on his companion's fiery crown, claiming no need to impress the pretty girls. "Here's the man I want you to meet," he said, indicating the car approaching them on the desolate little road. It was sleek and white, unidentifiable to Richie's eye, purring softly as pulled off the road next to Connor's car. An older man, similarly dressed as the two Immortals, emerged from the driver's side, the feathers in his bonnet twitching in the breeze. He was accompanied by a younger fellow, about Richie's apparent age. The two eyed each other warily, instinctively at odds. Connor introduced Richie to his friend, Chief Angus MacLeod, head of the clan. Angus in turn introduced his son, Dougal. The youth tossed his head, clearing the dark hair from his darker eyes, almost an insult to Richie's outstretched hand. But a look from the father, and Dougal was all smiles, shaking hands, even agreeing to guide Richie around. On that less than promising note, the quartet left the cars and climbed a small rise. As they approached the top, the martial sound of pipes and drums got louder, sending adrenaline surging. A quick look at Connor revealed his dreamy look, oblivious to the present and lost in the past. It was ignored by the father and unnoticed by the son. Richie wondered how much the old man knew. And then all thoughts and concerns were pushed out of his mind. Spread out below was the gathering. It assailed all his senses. His heart beat in time with the drums, the pipes sounding a chord that stirred his soul, mixed with the babble of happy voices. The rich smell of delicately spiced food started his mouth to water, as he imagined the feast that was prepared, meats and breads mixing into a heavenly scent. Down below, framed by imposing mountains and laid on a quilt of kelly green grass was a multitude of tents and tables, with constantly moving people dressed in their finest. Several different tartan meshed into a pleasing whole, complemented by white, everywhere white. White so clean and pure, it was only dreamed about. The wind puffed in his face, jostling his hair, carrying just a hint of sea spray. Cold and crisp, it was a punctuation to the scene. The wet grass beneath his feet cried out to be run on. In that split second, he felt truly alive. And at home. With a whoop, Connor took off, running like a stag toward the crowd. Not to be outdone, Richie did likewise, enjoying the rush of excitement as he tried to catch Connor. Behind, the other two continued to walk, Angus chuckling at the childish display, Dougal glaring at the crazy Americans. People stared as they approached at a dead run, hearts pounding. From the mass of Scots, a lass suddenly broke free, running toward Connor, meeting him yards up the slope. They collided, Connor grabbing her and swinging her around as she gleefully laughed. Once things had settled, Connor introduced Richie to Heather, who had somehow grown up in the last fifteen years. She begged everyone's pardon and dragged Connor off, explaining he owed her a dance. Away they ran toward the competitions. Angus also begged Richie's leave, having his own duties to perform that day, leaving him alone with Dougal. Superficially pleasant, the Scottish youth took every opening for a verbal thrust at the "American". The day progressed, the pipe and drum contests giving way to the athletic events. Richie was puzzled by the local girls, eagerly rushing up to be introduced, and just as suddenly disappearing, until he noticed Dougal giving small signs of discouragement. By mid-afternoon, Richie was fed up with his companion, glad when Dougal excused himself for the log tossing contest. Richie stayed out of politeness and curiosity during the preliminaries, but when Dougal kept winning, he decided to explore on his own. By this time, everyone seemed to know exactly who he was and who he was with. Old ladies lovingly handed him warm bread and tasty meat in exchange for a few words. He politely passed on the haggis. Men approached, pounding him on the back, and discussed politics like he was family. Two pretty girls taught him some dance steps after he watched Connor and Heather in competition, dancing over crossed swords on the ground. He ran into Angus once, who introduced him to his nieces, Margaret and Mary, both a tender six and charmed by the handsome stranger. He was beginning to enjoy himself when Dougal found him. "American, I have found you!" the Scot said, roughly grabbing Richie and dragging him to a tent. "Cousin Finley and his weasel of a brother have challenged us to a drinkin' contest. Dinna disappoint me, now." Richie found himself at a table, mugs of ale ready, surrounded by MacLeods, betting on both sides. By the fourth mug, the weasel was puking and the crowd was cheering. Finley passed out around the eighth and the crowd roared as money exchanged hands. Dougal and Richie, drunk to the gills, pounded each other on the back and left, stopping to soak their pounding skulls in the water trough for the horses. Dougal looked over Richie's shoulder and pointed. As Richie turned to look, the Scot had grabbed his bonnet and shouted, "Race ye!", running for all it was worth. It took a moment for Richie to focus on the pile of rocks in the distance, lower down the valley, looking a mile away. He had begun a step before stopping, closing his eyes and concentrating. Trying to find a specific heartbeat. Among the mountain rocks he found what he was looking for, the pounding heart he matched. The breathing he borrowed. Like a shot he was off, the alcoholic stupor lost in the emotions of the stag, running like the wind. His legs pounded the green grass, the distance between the runners slowly eroding away. The power of the Quickening raced through him, feeding energy to muscles and blood. As the power in him was moved, so too the powers of nature gathered. The wind rose as he caught up with Dougal, then slowly pulled ahead. From behind, Dougal gave a soft grunt, and suddenly, they were racing side by side, neither giving an inch. In a split second, or maybe an eternity, they no longer raced to beat the other, but instead ran together as one, each keeping pace as thunder called from the distance. The energy no longer need in competing spurred them to greater speeds, seeming to outrace life itself. All to soon, the rock cairn was reached, ending the experience. Both moaned and gulped air, pain and pleasure crashing together. They lay on the rocks, watching a sudden storm build in the valley. As the wind whipped their hair, Dougal explained about the Demon's Tower, a story of love and fairies, swords and evil. A good fairy had built this for his human love, but an evil one came and killed them all. The story Richie had heard first hand from Connor. Many voices gave a silent prayer for Ramirez's soul, and that of Connor's dead love, Heather, buried up the mountain. Dougal went on to explain that the MacLeods and fairykind had a special relationship, one in which fairies, or demons, have guarded the clan for ages. He went on to spin another tale as the winds whipped the clouds above them into a frenzy. They were ready to return to the crowd when a little girl raced up from the other direction. Richie recognized her as Dougal's cousin, Mary, as she pointed back toward the beach, her voice drowned out by the roar of distant thunder. Dougal sent her back to the crowd for help as he motioned for Richie to follow. They ran to the cliff edge overlooking the ocean. Dougal carefully leaned over, Richie holding him in the swiftly changing gusts of wind. The Scot motioned to his left, and soon both were on the ground, looking at Margaret on a small ledge several feet down the cliff. Try as they might, neither could reach her outstretched hands. Dougal suggested having Richie hold his legs, but the Immortal was already over the precipice, holding on until he could gently drop to the small perch. Digging his hands into the cliff side, he yelled at Margaret to climb up his body. Once passed his head, Dougal grasped her wrists, pulling her to safety. Within seconds, Dougal was again leaning over the edge, stretching toward Richie, lightning illuminating the sky behind him. Richie slowly pulled himself up by his handholds, but in the wind and the rain, they gave way, dropping him to the ledge. This final landing was enough, sending the ribbon of dirt plummeting to the surf below. In that instant, Richie looked straight into Dougal's soul. "Find me" It was too much to ask that the Scot heard him. Suddenly, the cliff edge sped away as gravity claimed Richie for its own. He lay on a pillow of air, calm as he fell, hearing one word above the thunder and crash of the water. "R I C H I E!" > > > > > Saturday, May 13, 2000 > > > > > "Richie, get up," Gregor said, pushing him from behind. Richie, dazed, noticed the whole row was standing up and moving toward the stage. In the background, he heard names being called, matched with people walking across the stage. Standing next to him, Marla turned back and mock whispered, "See what I mean? Couldn't pay attention if his life depended on it." And then they were off, following the line toward the stage. All nervousness vanished as he climbed the steps, finally having something his own. "Richard Allen Ryan, Bachelor of Business Administration." He was gushing as he walked those twenty steps, shaking hands with the president and chancellor, grabbing the diploma, and raising his hands in victory for the photographer at the end of the walkway, the moment forever recorded in light and dark. *Greg must be rubbin' off on you, honey* From somewhere deep inside his head, an Immortal gave a very convincing imitation of a popping cork. And clinking glasses. [Are you sure its imaginary?] And once again, Richie was in his seat, this time glancing at the piece of paper and comparing it to the one in Marla's hands. A check of the audience showed all his friends with smiles and thumbs up. Gregor positively glowed behind him, shaking his shoulders. The rest of the ceremony passed too quickly, and suddenly they were standing, launching their caps into the air. In the press of bodies that followed, Richie acted as a wedge, plowing through the mass, followed by Marla, Steve, and Gregor. The Russells were eager to meet the elusive Duncan MacLeod they had heard so much about. Or as Marla put it... "If you don't introduce me to that Greek god, I will personally rip your head off!" Richie was unsure what the hormones in her body were actually doing, but Marla was the type who usually backed up her threats. Including the time she made him eat Portuguese food. With a grimace at the memory, he introduced the Russells to Duncan, stepping away as everyone chatted with everyone else. Moving through the crowd, Richie vainly tried to find his current bed mate, Janice, and her family. Her brother had graduated today with a Bachelor of Arts, and they probably were together on the other side of the coliseum. He spotted her as she struggled through the crunch of bodies. "I thought I'd never find you, handsome," she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him for a kiss. Bringing up the rear were Dr. and Mrs. Taylor, and Butch, her brother, looking like the portrait Janice had on her wall. Introductions were made, and a commitment for brunch the next day settled before Janice and her family left. "I know we both have different plans for supper, but I hope we can all get together tomorrow. By the way, you should have a surprise waiting for you at home," she teased, not giving another hint. And the she was gone, her perfume lingering in the air. He stood there and watched her leave, then the rest of the crowd as it thinned after a time. By then, the buzz approached. =========================================================================