Date: Mon, 22 Jan 1996 17:23:16 EST Reply-To: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles: Bonny Portmore, chapter 3/4 Mass apologies, I know it's been ages since the last chapter!!! sync, Brian The MacKenzie Chronicles Bonny Portmore, chapter three by Brian Procopio Copyright 1995 Kaos Pictures, Inc. _______________________________________________________________________________ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep Saying "Where shall we shelter or where will we sleep?" For the Oak and the Ash they are all cutten down And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- January 4, 1994 Northeast Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ------------------------------------ As the hour grew late I had substituted a fine double malt Scotch for cocoa. Nice as the hot chocolate had felt, it was a pleasant change. It had been too long since I had had a chance to enjoy a nice drink and spend time digging up the buried ghosts of my past. The alcohol felt soothing to my sys- tem; it had existed under much too much stress in the past few months, and it had begun to show. Slowly but surely, my immortal condition and the coming Gathering were wearing me out little by little. I had taken on David's tutel- edge for just that purpose, thinking the step back would assist me in regaining my sense of focus, allowing me to relax a bit more, but that was not the case. I think, now, that what I really needed was a vacation. I know I am not the first immortal to wish for a time out in the Game, and I know that none of us ever get one as well. In addition to my graduate level courses at Temple, I had undertaken an activist's zeal to create a Temple ice hockey team over the course of the past year. If everything worked out, we could concieveably join the league next season. The endless meetings and propsals and negotiations that the project entailed, however, had provided still more pressure on my overworked system. Normally, such things did not bother me. However, I had been going full throt- tle for several straight decades by this point, and I knew it would be some time before normality ever showed itself in my life again. Of course, I was wrong on this count. It never did reappear, but that is part of my later tale. As I paused in my recollection, I meandered over to the low bar to refill my glass. My deepest problem, I realized, was in my fight with Marak. Try as I did, I could not escape the fact that I had *lost*. Soundly. Granted, I had been, for all intents and purposes, unarmed, but in and of itself that was part of the problem. The edge which I had worked so long to maintain had slipped, and I was not sure by how much. My soul rumbled uneasily each time my thoughts skimmed the surface of this issue, and I knew that, sooner or later, it would have to be faced. "So, you lost your cherry to a Queen, eh?" David smirked underneath a yawn. My eyes narrowed as I retook a seat across from him, a low growl uttering from my throat. "That's Queen Mary to you, Macleod, and yes, she was my first, but there's more to the story than that, lad," I scowled, trying to keep my features set in a straight face. The youngest Macleod and I were entering into that golden period that sneaks up on you very late in the evening when every- thing and anything appeared to be hysterically humorous, and my attempt failed as David's tightly set mouth began to curve upwards tenuously into a smile. With a sigh I began to laugh. Without the drink in my system, I doubted that my thoughts could have seemed so funny, but it was there and I was able to laugh freely for awhile. "She was more than a one night stand, Dave, she was.. an influence? I'll say, she helped me open my eyes to my choices. That night shaped me in many ways. I met death, I experienced life. I saw what freedom others had and how much I really did have. I realized then that all I had needed was the determination to carve my own niche in the world, away from the life of my family, my father, my clan..." I trailed off, momentarily, the sense of nostalgia coming through to me again. I shook it off as I continued. "Alas, though, you did not ask me of these things, they are but a buildup to the events surrounding my first Quickening..." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< August 3, 1569 London, England --------------- In the year after my departure, I was, somehow, able to struggle my way down through the land, depositing myself squarely in the squalour of London. Despite its beauty in certain well-kept areas both now and then, I still feel that London was, for all intents and purposes, overrated. Perhaps it is the Scot in me, I do not know. Eventually I was able to land a small position with a city-based acting troupe, mostly involved in the behind the scenes details and necessities of the company. You know, sweeping, cleaning, and the like. All of the crucial essentials which bored the living daylights out of my young and idealistic self. I worked constantly to hide my accent, and, to that end, achieved no small degree of success. To this day I feel that is one of my greatest traits as an immortal, the ability to mask my heritage in my voice. Eventually I was given a role in the chorus. Was it much? No. Was it my "big break?" Not exactly. Was it worth it? Definately yes. As the months flew by I was able to gain small speaking roles in the company's productions, and, if nothing else, became a regular. A rather easy- going one at that, might I add, partying often and at every opportunity. My own bed was seldom visted but for quick naps in the afternoon. There was a certain innocence about that time, more a lack of stress than a lack of sins, mind you, but an innocence all the same. I was young, independant, idealistic, doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. I would pause before calling that time the best of my life, but I still look back upon it fondly. So was my situation that I was to find myself stumbling home in a state close to intoxicated at some ungodly hour in some unholy alley far from my flat. Nowadays I would probably enter such an alleyway with my sword drawn, but, as I said, I possessed a certain innocence at that point in my life. For the next five minutes or so of it, anyway. Perhaps it was the young male full of testosterone syndrome, though it's possible that the alcohol had something to state about the entire event, but the thought of willingly handing over what little money I had to my assailant never crossed my mind. Such submissive thoughts seemed alien, and so it was that I resisted, even with the cold steel of a knife blade wedged firmly up against the small of my back. Lashing out with a miscalculated backhand, I was caught unbalanced and disoriented, the quickness of my own movement disa- greeing greatly with my inebriated state. My world spun for several split sec- onds, only to coalace into a focused blast of intense pain as a searing sheet of fire raced up my spine. I tumbled to the solid cobblestones beneath me, my head crashing violent- ly against them. It was possible that I had blacked out for a moment then, for I do not remember my money pouch being cut from my waist. I do remember the footsteps though, ringing out as they escaped down the narrow roadway. It was then that the realization that my demise was all too likely set in, as a lonely and inky darkness hovered into the alley, alighting several feet away from my prone form, settling comfortably in for the wait like a carrion bird. I felt a certain kinship with this midnight Death, a desire to be one with him, to let him take me away from the pain, the torture of the fatal wound. In my mind I talked to him, asked him to wash the salty taste of my own blood from my lips and mouth, begged him to heal me once more, to restore my life to what it once was. He watched me. Silently, he watched me. Watched the life run from my body in a deep burgundy stain which spread through my clothing. Silently watching. Silently waiting. Silently hungering for the end. His midnight shades came to me, enveloped me, and I welcomed the release they offered, sinking slowly into oblivion, away, apart, from all I knew or had known or would know. It worries me still, the ease with which I accepted this end. Perhaps I knew, unconciously, the penalty which my rejection of Death would hold for me in centuries to come. I know not what caused it then nor now. The Dark swallowed me whole, and I sat and dined at the table of Death. I drank the goblet offered me, deep down feeling each and every gulp from the cup drawing more blood from my dying mortal form. Was it Evil with whom I ate? Or was this the end which drew us all to Itself, the timeless death and the empty Dark of the Abyss? Either way the Feast welcomed me, called me to its table, bade me dine and satiate my hunger. I raised the meat of the Feast to my mouth and bit down, only to be re- warded with pain more powerful and all-consuming than any I have ever felt or will, a brilliant blast of light and energy and heat and warmth and love and terror and fear and hate and pity and every emotion and feeling and pure essence of life being lived and experienced at that moment the entire world over. I lived life, I died death, I loved, I ate, I was born, I killed, I drank the waters and the wines of the earth, all in the space of an instant. My senses overloaded, my eyes and ears closed themselves to everything and all. I screamed... Tears rose to my tightly-clenched eyes as the wave of life crested over me, pounding me with an unending stream of thoughts and dreams and energy. Never in my life have I experienced one such defining mo- ment, such clarity of existance. Despite the overload of pain which the blast carried with it, it still contained everything pure and natural and a pure essence of the breath of life. Will I ever glimpse it again? Perhaps, al- though I do not forsee myself being so fortunate again. The psychic ordeal began to fade from my system, despite my efforts to hold it back. I reached and groped for it as one does after being awoken during a pleasant dream, straining to recover the hence-broken strands of the carefully woven web of imagination and tie them back together again. In its wake, a dull, throbbing, ache cascaded through my bones and mind and eyes, drilling away at every sensory pore on my body. I felt as if I had walked the flames of Dante's Inferno, and I lay there crisp and blackened and brittle. Slowly I heard footsteps approach, a slight scrape of leather on stone, the rustle of fabric being tossed aside, the sliding of a well-honed sword from its sheath. As they feet approached closer the throbbing of my head increased tenfold, causing me to double over in pain. I realized then that, although very sore, my back was uncut, my spine unsevered. The tightness of a healing scar was all that remained. Then the voice spoke. It was an ageless voice, seemingly young yet weary of life, a traveled voice. It held a trace of something familiar, a taste of.. home. The voice of a Scotsman. All the same, it was a voice tinged with rage and anger, held in check, but still simmering all the same. "I am Connor Macleod of the Clan Macleod. Are ye friend or foe?" I opened my mouth to speak, and a croaking moan which sounded as if from the grave emerged. I felt an uncontrolable thirst attack my throat, and I could force no words out. The presence moved closer, I could feel the warmth of his breath upon my cheek, his hand cautiously held just above my body. When the voice spoke again it was filled with uncertainty at first, then an edge of compassion. "You do not know why you live, do you? What you are?" he questioned with the barest of whispers. "N-no...." I murmmured quietly. I blinked my eyes forcefully until they began to focus on the face before me, the long hair, the features of the man's face, the eyes... It was the eyes which held me, possessed me like those of Death not long before. I knew then that something was different about this man, a difference which I shared. "You are immortal now, lad." His gaze hardened slightly, holding me, as if the mere intensity of it could convince me that his words were true. "Come, come with me now. I leave this land in an hour's time. Sail with me to the land of the French, ......" At this he paused, looking at me for an answer, for identification. "MacKenzie. Brian of MacKenzie," I offered. Connor's face soured a tad. "Eh, MacKenzie. Ah well, tis better to travel England in the company of a MacKenzie than in that of no Scots at all," he chuckled, a strange, magical laugh. "Come, Brian of MacKenzie, let us leave London now." He offered me his hand, to which I accepted. _______________________________________________________________________________ "Ach, have ye nay handled a sword in your life, lad?" Connor scolded, his eyes dark and fiery. It was a look which I had seen all too often in the days of my training. He swung his blade at me again, beginning to lose pa- tience with his student. I brought my own weapon up to catch his, narrowly avoiding the blow. Macleod stepped in with his foot, driving his shoulder into my chest and throwing me to the damp sand at my feet. "Is that the best fight you can muster, MacKenzie?" he questioned, adding a sarcastic lear to his pro- nunciation of my forename. "Is that how easy you'll surrender your immortal life?" He brought the blade of his katana to my neck, eyeing my reaction carefully. My answering gaze smouldered. It had been that way for too much of the weeks we had spent together. Neither of us were ready for the student- mentor relationship which was so essential to my training. Connor was con- fused, doubtful, questioning everything which Ramirez, his teacher had taught him. Ramirez, Connor confessed, was slayed by the Kurgan, a powerful dark knight who had intended to fight Connor instead. Looking back on the situation now, I can visualize the battle which the elder Scot struggled with deep in- side. It was a question of self-worth, and of the value of the lessons of a dead man. Macleod was in need of self-searching, a cleansing. Not, mind you, an impetuous young immortal to train. In some ways we were a little too close in age, and it showed in my general lack of respect towards him. I had left Scotland to escape control, I was not really in the mindset to have it again. Disgusted, Connor turned his back on me, sheathing his blade at his side and striding off into the sand dunes. Humiliated, I sat and gazed out at the seas before me for several minutes, pondering my next course of action. Slowly I rose to my feet once more and gathered my sword. I breathed in slowly, my system calming itself and focusing. Is that how I'd face my end? Connor will see how I'd face my end... Setting my eyes on the distant form of my Scottish mentor, I began to jog slowly in his direction. As the distance dwindled I began to pick up the pace, running on lightly-touching toes, forming my attack in my mind. I bel- lowed in anger and rage and fear and confusion, venting my all in the running leap I took towards Connor, my sword whipping around in a furious strike. At the last second my target ducked, spinning towards and below me, his blade arcing in a deadly slice, catching me across my midsection. My momentum carried me into and through the blade, cleaving a bright red gash across my stomach. Macleod and I both stumbled in shock. Gurgling my own blood I collapsed there on French soil, gazing up at my mentor in hurt and pain and confusion, seeing a look of abject sorrow and angst etched on his features. "I'm sorry... I...," he trailed off as the Void claimed me for the second time... _______________________________________________________________________________ With a resounding gasp of air I reclaimed conciousness, trashing about the bed in a bewildered, relieved tummult. Instantly Connor was at my side, laughing, nearly crying, holding my face in his hands, looking for... absol- ution? forgiveness? and finding it there. An apology babbled from his lips, but I didn't care or hear anymore, slinking my way back down into a deep, if more restful, unconciousness. _______________________________________________________________________________ "A messenger came while you were... asleep," Connor stated simply. "Oh?" I sat up a little more, straining my eyes to see my mentor's form seated in the corner of the sparsely-furnished room. "Do you take no heed of what I taught you, Brian? Or just selectively?" Connor interrogated, his voice once more seething, as it was on the beach. He leaned forward, his face caught in a glimmer of candlelight, a mask of anger... no, remorse, on his features. "I told you to sever all ties with your mortal family," he explained. "Don't you remember that?" I did, and he knew it. It happened only two days after our arrival in France. To "save" me from the torture which he had endured at the hands of his own clansmen, Connor instructed me to pen a letter to my family, saying goodbye forever. Explaining that I had set off to explore Europe or some such notion, so, at a later point, Connor and I could stage a death, thus ending my ties with the MacKenzie clan forever. At the time I still felt indebted to my res- cuer, so I did pen the letter of which he referred to now, but *that* letter was never sent. Instead a letter arrived on MacKenzie lands, addressed to my mother, telling her of my sucess in London and explaining my desire to, perhaps some day, visit again. "What did the messenger have to say?" I asked quietly. Connor released a long, pent-up sigh. He stared out of the window in silence. "Connor, tell me." "Your father and brothers are dead." It was said so quietly that I came close to attributing it to my imagination. It was such a harmless collection of letters, really, just a mere six words... "Fath... a-all?... that m--" I stammered in panic and grief and confusion as the tears began to moisten my eyes. "Yes, Lord MacKenzie. *That* is what it means." _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ Well, that's all for this chapter, join us for the exciting conclusion to "Bonny Portmore" soon!! Sync, Brian "Every man dies. Not every man really lives." ---William Wallace, Braveheart =========================================================================