Date:         Thu, 5 Jan 1995 00:29:52 -0500
Reply-To:     NancySSCH@AOL.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "N.L. Cleveland" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Final Repost Aloha Ch1.p 8-14

Aloha Chapter 1 C 1994 N.L. Cleveland (p 8-14)

That boy, Jari, had been defiant, angry. He'd laughed at the idea of going to
Father O'Malley's shelter, laughed and walked away. He was into the drug
trade, a runner, maybe a dealer.  Probably a user too. A wasted life, at 14.

<I can't save every lost kid who crosses my path, can I? Can I? >

He'd given the boy his phone number. Something about him had tugged at his
soul. Somehow, this one was worth trying harder for. But he couldn't force
him to come in. <If he wants to call, he can. He has my number. If he didn't
throw it away. The motivation has to come from within. No one else can give
it to him. Not me, not anyone. >

There, that feeling again. A tingling along the spine. Someone. Here.

Jonathan whirled, his sword poised to strike, to kill. The boy stood at the
edge of the water, watching him from the rocky beach. He had a small gym bag
over his shoulder, the fluorescent pink strap cutting into his deeply tanned
skin. He wore  baggy swim trunks, and dirty blue Adidas sneakers.

"Jari."   <Why is he here? Has he been the one watching?>

"I thought about what you said. I'd like to give it a try. Get off the
streets."

Jonathan lowered the blade. No one else was visible nearby. Windsurfers'
rainbow sails dotted the clear blue water, well beyond the lineof white
breakers foaming off shore. A few beachcombers wandered far down the rocky
sand that sketched the slender boundary between earth and sea. Still,
something or someone else was close. The lingering feeling of unease
remained, prickling at the edge of his consciousness.

"I'm glad to hear that. Can I drive you to the shelter?" He knew, even as he
made the offer that it was not what the boy wanted to hear.

Jari looked down, frowned. He scuffed a ragged sneaker against a rock. "You
don't understand, do you. That shelter is no good. They'll find me there, in
a second."

Jonathan walked towards the boy, sheathing the katana and holding the tip
pointed towards the grass, wiping the sweat away from his face with the back
of his other hand.  Jari flinched at his approach but didn't back away.

"Who will find you?"  This was the first test. Would the boy pass it? Would
he even understand it was a test?

Jari's eyes shifted focus, flickered sideways for a second, down the beach,
then back. "You know. The guys. The ones I work for.  They don't like to see
anybody leave." His voice was soft, almost inaudible, as if he were afraid of
being overheard.

Jonathan held out his empty hand, willing now to take the next step. Offering
more than his hand.  Jari hesitated, then took it and pulled himself up the
rock shelf onto the lawn. Jonathan felt the jumpy pulse, the cold slick sweat
of fear, or something else, covering the boy's skin. His suspicions surfaced
again. Cynicism was burned into his soul, now.  After what he'd seen, and
done himself, he expected nothing but treachery from anyone who hadn't proved
themselves, first.

"You never told me you worked for anyone, when we talked before." He had to
push it.  He had to know how far he could trust this piece of human flotsam
that had washed up on his lawn. Was there a child inside, or a hardened con
artist looking for a quick score. Or both?  And could the two ever be
separated?

Jari shook his hand free from Jonathan's, and backed away. He attempted a
sneer. "What did you think, I live on air?"

Jonathan turned abruptly and walked toward the open doorway of the house, the
sweat cooling and drying on his skin. He had no time for this false bravado,
this facade of toughness. He picked up his black kimono and pulled it loosely
over his shoulders. Jari trailed behind.  Jonathan could hear the boy's
footsteps, slow and cautious, like a wild animal half tamed, half ready to
run again. Jonathan paused at the doorway. Jari stopped, too, just out of
reach. Jonathan deliberately kept his back to him.

<Time to find out the lay of the land. > He was too impatient to continue
this verbal fencing. Too tired. Too bored. Too sick of the long search, the
endless parade of hardened children, their souls stunted and deformed by life
on the streets.

"Jari, I know what you do. I can offer you a way out, if you want." Jonathan
turned, to watch Jari's face. The boy's eyes were shadowed, opaque."But you
have to be honest with me. Can you do that?"  Now he had to decide. They both
did.

The boy gave a half nod. Cautious.

"Are you here because you want to leave that life behind, or to case my home
and let your friends in to steal?" He asked the question in neutral tone, and
waited. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Like a scientist poking at a specimen in a tray.
Looking for a response. Vaguely curious as to what it would be.

Jari's face crumpled, and flushed. Tears welled in his eyes, and he furiously
wiped  them away. "I thought you were different. I thought you were real."
The boy was shouting, using anger to cover his hurt. "Forget it. You're just
like all the rest. You just think I'm trash. You never meant anything. You
never gave a damn about me."  He spun and ran across the lawn, heading for
the beach, his head down and arms pumping.

<Damn.  That  struck home. >

Jonathan dropped the katana and ran after him. The slick wet dew on the grass
 slowed him, his bare feet sliding a bit as he he dug his toes in and pushed.
Jari slipped, at the edge of the sea wall. Jonathan stretched, managed to
grab his flailing arm and  keep him from falling onto the jagged lava chunks
 below. Anchored his feet firmly on the rough ground, and absorbed the boy's
weight.

"Let me go." Jari panted, trying to bite Jonathan's hand, kicking and
punching the air, as Jonathan held the boy away from him. Letting him work
out his anger and his hurt in the physical exertion. Letting him find peace,
in the only way the boy knew.

"Not until you calm down. Stop it, now." Jonathan spoke firmly, using the
calming tones his teacher at the dojo had, long ago, when in his shattered
youth he would rage about his parent's deaths. He waited, letting his ki, his
body's energy, flow toward the boy as he held him. Jari exhausted himself,
struggling, and then stood facing him, mingled sweat and tears gleaming on
his face. He glared at Jonathan.

<His  eyes. So like Aki's.>   Jonathan had a moment of doubt. <Could this be
my son?  >

No, it was impossible, there were too many inconsistencies. But his eyes
still pulled at Jonathan. There was a promise there, a possibility.

Maybe Jonathan didn't need to find *his*  son, just someone's son. Maybe this
was the purpose he'd been seeking. Redemption can come in many forms. Save a
life, to pay for a life. Maybe. It was something to cling to, anyhow.
Something to care about, to feel, in this sea of uncertainly and self-doubt
that threatened to drown him. A beacon. Hope. You can change a world, with
hope. Save a soul.

"So you aren't here to steal?"  <Time to gamble, now .>

Jari stood silently, his lower lip quivering, then turned his head away.

"Do you still want to stay?"  <Be calm, non judgmental. Let him decide.  >

Jari shrugged, then looked back at Jonathan. The boy's shoulders were hunched
together, like a turtle in its shell. Jonathan felt a pang of conscience, a
stirring of pity.

"Would you stay, if I invited you?"  <Am I crazy? I don't know this kid at
all. But I do know he's still just a kid. >

Jari's shoulders loosened. He nodded. Jonathan let him go. Jari stood, his
body leaning away, as if he were still half-ready to run.

"Please, come in."  Jonathan gestured across the lawn, towards the open
doorway. Jari relaxed visibly, and followed him toward the house. Jonathan
stooped to pick up his katana.

<Have I just made a terrible mistake? His body language is so confused.
Something else is going on. The tension is there, inside him. And the others,
whoever they are, are still outside. >

    * * * * * *

Duncan MacLeod shivered in the blast of frigid air. His linen shirt and pants
were no match for the arctic chill. <When they told me to dress for the
tropics, they didn't warn me the taxis would be like ice boxes. >

He glanced out the window, watching the scantily clad  pedestrians go by,
swimsuits and  sarongs, halter tops and Bermuda shorts the uniform of the day
in Honolulu.  Despite the cool temperature in the cab, he could feel the ice
around his heart starting to melt. The cold rigid wall starting to soften, to
relax. He was glad he'd come.
 I
<t's been too long since I've been in a warm climate. I should have left
Paris long ago. Left behind the memories. It's too easy to fall into bad
habits, lose my perspective on life and on the Game. >

He'd had a stable existence for so long, and now everything had changed. With
the death of Tessa Noel, his lover for the past 12 years, he no longer had a
reason to stay in Paris, or in Seattle. In fact, the memories that lingered
of their time together pushed him out from his familiar haunts. He was free
to roam again, to go back to the endless traveling that had been his pattern
in life for much of his 400 years on earth. But as he realized clearly now,
that traveling had only been because he was looking for something.

Looking for family. Looking for someone to love, to need and to be needed by.
Looking , in a sense, he realized as well,  to replace the family he'd lost
when his clan had stoned him out of his youthful home 400 years ago, the tiny
Scottish village he'd lived in since he was a babe, shunning him as a demon
and a witch because he'd come back from the dead after being killed as a
young man, in  battle.

He didn't enjoy excavating that scene from his past, but he knew how much it
had defined him. Only recently had he been able to trust anyone besides his
cousin and fellow Immortal, Conner, and his mentor Darius, to share the story
of what had happened when he'd first become an Immortal. The bitter loss and
hurt still lingered, the total rejection by all those he had loved, all those
he had called family, and friends.  Tessa had been his first mortal
confidant. And she had helped him to see how much his childhood had shaped
him, and how much he had lost when his clan and family had rejected him,
banned and condemned him and cast him out. She had shown him how the love and
acceptance he'd grown up in  had molded his character and defined his outlook
on life, and how  much he had been hurt when it had all  been snatched away
so abruptly.

He understood now why he had this driving need to be a part of the world, a
participant instead of just a spectator, sharing in the feelings, in the pain
and the joy and the agony of life, instead of just watching coolly from the
shadows. That was one thing that set him apart from so many of the other
Immortals he'd met and known. So many of them were unwilling to join in to
the mortal's play, to let themselves care for and share in the passions that
drove humanity, that gave meaning and purpose to these all too brief mortal
lives. He'd wondered why they held back, held themselves apart.

Oh, he knew that answer, too. Knew it from the way his own heart ached in
loss and sorrow when he thought of Tessa, her shining eyes and wit, her
laughing voice and joyful, vibrant spirit, all stilled abruptly, senselessly,
by a mugger's casual murdering bullet. He knew the price he paid, for caring.
But it was worth it. It was. It had to be. Otherwise, what was the point,
what was the purpose, in continuing to live, in continuing to fight other
Immortals for the right to survive. What was the point for him in playing the
Game, to try to be the last one. If he couldn't feel, if he couldn't love, he
might as well not even be alive.

But it still hurt. Opening his heart to love meant opening it to loss. And
even Immortals needed time to grieve. And to heal. And to begin again.

<I needed a change of scene. Maybe I'll buy a place here. I can at least take
some time to look around, after the auction. >

The auction. The first he'd been to in months. He had been a dealer in rare
collectibles and fine antiques, before Tessa's death, the tangible objects
from the past giving him a comfort beyond their aesthetic or monetary value,
reminding him of the past times he'd lived through, and helping anchor him in
a world that seemed to move and change faster and faster with each passing
year. He was in Honolulu now by private invitation for one of the most
selective auctions of the season. Anything less could never have stirred him
from his inertia, dragged him from his somber apathy, and brought  him here,
half way across the Pacific.

"Royal Hilton, sir." The cabbie turned towards him, hand out for the fare.
The meter showed $25.40, Duncan dug out three tens. "Keep the change."

He swung open the door, stood and lifted out his one piece of luggage, a long
black ballistic nylon bag. Nothing but a katana and a change of clothes. He
hadn't planned on staying here more than a day, originally, but the sight and
smell of the lush vegetation that had welcomed him in the flowering gardens
at the airport had reawakened a part of him he'd almost forgotten, bringing
back memories of days and nights spent on the tropical paradise of Tahiti,
long before it had been "discovered" by the west. Some 200 years before, if
he remembered right...

<That woman....he hadn't thought of her in years...what had been her name?>
Koanchati...daughter of a chief, and rightfully proud of her own
accomplishments as a healer, and a dancer.

The sweet wafting scent from a clump of white ginger blooming along the
walkway to the hotel  tickled his nostrils, and stirred long buried thoughts.
His eyes dazzled by the cascade of red bougainvillea flaming across the white
plaster wall, glowing in the noonday sun, he remembered....

    * * * * *

The red hibiscus blossom over her ear was Koanchati's only adornment. The
sweet smell of crushed flowers rose from her hands.  She sat cross legged on
the woven mat floor, sorting the  medicinal leaves and roots and stems she
had gathered that day into small mounds. Duncan lay on his side, watching
her, one hand playing with the rippling silk cascade of her long dark hair.
Filtered light coming through the palm leaf walls of the hut dappled his bare
skin, as he held his arm next to hers, comparing their dark and pale bronze
hues.

"Duncan, please, you'll mix the piles." Koanchati smiled and turned back to
her task. Duncan groaned in pretended pain and flopped down on his back.

"If I was not the healer, I could not choose my mate, as I have chosen you.
You should be grateful to these plants." She mocked him gently with her
smile.

"Woman, you break my heart, drive me mad with desire, and then only have time
to sort your herbs? I should have stayed on that schooner.  I could at least
get a game of cards going with the other sailors."

Koanchati  turned to look at him, her eyes wide with curiosity.  "Cards? What
is cards? Is this another of your odd customs you will not tell me about? "

Duncan considered.  "Do you gamble here?"  She looked at him, confused. "Bet,
wager, take chances on how things will be, try to guess the future, as a
game, and pay winnings to the person who guesses best."  He gestured,
enthusiasm transforming his face as he remembered some memorable wagers.

Enlightenment dawned in her eyes. "Of course we gamble. Everyone gambles.
Life is a gamble." She laughed, delighted at his comic expression. "Beyond
that, we guess how many fish the nets will catch, who will have the smallest
or largest, will the next child be a boy or a girl, everything can be guessed
about. Why?"

He sat up, grinning. "So I won't be breaking custom if I teach you whist,
then? I can make cards from these palm leaves. Give me something to do, with
the men here. Maybe I can win back my pocket watch" He picked up a large palm
leaf and traced a small rectangle with his pocket knife, began cutting it
out.

Koanchati put one hand lightly on his wrist.  "And what are you going to
wager against the pocket watch? Me? " She shifted her weight slightly and
Duncan felt her arm brush lightly across his chest.  "There are no refunds on
bride prices. Not if the husband is satisfied. And you could at least wait
until the marriage is held, before trying to get your watch back." She
pretended outrage, her eyes smiling at the shared joke.

All thoughts of the card game vanished from his mind, as Koanchati ran her
fingers up and down his bare back.

"You will be satisfied, no?" Her voice teased him, seductive. Duncan  trapped
her hand, swung around and faced her, as they leaned together into a long,
passionate kiss.

   * * * * *

"Hey, buddy, move it."  A horn beeped. Duncan snapped back to the present as
another cab pulled up next to him and the middle aged cabbie leaned out the
window.

 "You're blocking the sidewalk. I got fares to unload." The accent was pure
Bronx, the deep tan and orchid lei were pure Hawaiian. Duncan shook his head,
coming back entirely to the gleaming chrome and glass of the late 20th
century surrounding him.

"Sorry." Duncan stepped aside as the door swung open and a tall, slender
Asian woman with a smooth shining fall of dark hair, wearing dark sunglasses,
bright red lipstick and a tight red silk mini dress, eased neatly out of the
cool dark cab.

<Nothing like Ko. She's too polished and hard. She looks like she just
stepped out of Vogue.  I wonder what it would take to get past that cool
exterior. >

The woman turned to him. "Are you the bell captain?  Or do you usually gawk
at strangers in public?" Her voice was melodious, husky and warm, like silk
shimmering  in the air. Sarcasm gave it a bitter edge.

"I was just leaving. I'm sorry if I stared. You reminded me of someone I once
knew. " Duncan spoke curtly, and turned to go. <Damn, this hadn't been such a
great idea after all. >  Too many memories were coming back, and he felt too
vulnerable to them all. You can't leave your ghosts behind. They follow you
forever. And after 400 years, there are a lot of ghosts.
=========================================================================