Date: Tue, 14 Mar 1995 13:26:26 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Three of Hearts" Part 1 "Three of Hearts" Part 1 by Greg Palmer (gpalmer@xroads.com) Copyright (C) 1995, All Rights Reserved COBH, COUNTY CORK, IRELAND -- 26 May 1774. Gabriel wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and replaced his shabby, wide-brimmed felt hat. He stopped briefly to scratch the bridge of his freckled nose and then bent down to pick up his woven basket, which was half full of dirty potatoes. Balancing the heavy basket on his hip, he rubbed the stiff, aching muscles of his lower back and stared off into the distance. Letting out a sigh of satisfaction, he watched the sun set over the green foothills; a sinking semicircle of coppery light. He watched the sun recede until only red glow was visible over the western horizon. He took the large basket over to a nearby wooden barrel and dumped the contents into it. The potatoes rolled and thunked into the barrel. Ah, now I can go home; the wagon'll not be back. He smiled at the thought, overjoyed to be getting away from Mallory's infernal potatoes, for another night at least. He laughed out loud, imagining that fat, rich lout digging one of his own potatoes out of the ground with his soft white hands. He stared down at his own hands in the waning light. They were worn and callused. He was only twenty-eight, though his hands looked like those of a much older man. Bits of soil still clung to them, and the fingernails were caked with dirt. Sighing, he brushed off what he could on his breeches. Ah well, he could always wash up when he got home. He turned his back on the potato field and walked through it, towards the footpath that lead back to Cobh, his village. As soon as he set his feet on the path and started to walk, he began to whistle an old folk tune his mother had sung to him when he was a babe. She had passed when he was four. The rhythm of his feet on the dirt track naturally fell into step with the song. It was a good way to pass the time; he'd not be home for an hour yet. The forest was dark, but he'd followed this path thousands of times. Most of the men in his village had; because every one in Cobh worked for Mallory, in one way or another. Digging up his potatoes, working at the mill, or crewing Mallory's dozen fishing boats; those were the only ways to make a living in Cobh. Gabriel scowled and quickened his pace. He whistled faster to keep up with his steps. The black trees loomed and gathered above him, but he wasn't frightened. Rather the opposite: he felt as if he knew every tree on the path by name, and it would have been unimaginably rude if he'd been anxious around them. Most of the other men feared and mistrusted the wood after dark; they all knew that the Little People would tie them up and drag them away, screaming and kicking, if they found themselves alone in the forest too late at night. Gabriel thought they were fools, but was careful never to give his opinion a voice. The path twisted and looped through the forest, but always led him closer to Cobh. Soon, the forest ended, and he gazed down into the valley in which his village nestled itself, lit up in silver by the light of the full moon. The rolling hills were black and gray now, but in the sunlight they were a velvety-looking green: every shade and hue of beautiful green. The inky sea stretched off to the south. There isn't a country more beautiful than Ireland, he thought with pride. A person could almost miss the village in all the natural splendor of its setting. The village was a small one; only two hundred-or-so souls called it home. The path he walked on now led straight down through the middle of Cobh, past the pub, the dry goods store, the butcher's shop, and half a dozen others. The village was situated right by the sea, so Cobh served as a harbor and port for fishermen, of which there were quite a few living in the village. The mill straddled a small river close to the sea, near the docks. The stone church dominated a square at the far end of the street, easily the tallest building in the village. The steeple was rectangular, with an iron bell in the belfry that had been old in Gabriel's grandfather's grandfather's time. Spaced further out from the center of the village, houses were sprawled in random locations. Even in the meager light of the full moon, he could pick out his own easily, the sky blue one with the large chimney jutting out of the roof. Gabriel's father had built that house, and he'd been the envy of every man in Cobh for a long while after that. The Book warned Gabriel that pride went before a fall, but he couldn't help to feel a twinge of it when he saw his home. He quickly arrived in the village proper. The main street was deserted, as it often was after nightfall. As he neared the pub, his ears pricked as he heard Shannon's voice coming out of the open door. Smiling, Gabriel hopped up the two wide wooden steps and passed into the light streaming from the open doorway. The Minnowburn Bridge Pub was very busy, as it was the only one in Cobh. The Minnowburn was not as full as it would be later that night, but there were still a good three dozen people there. The place was lit by oil lamps, and the light flickered from the sweet, warm breeze coming in the open door. Cricket Malloy, the blind old fiddler, was playing his squeaky instrument on a stool in the corner. The clientele of the pub was mostly a male crowd. He recognized most everyone in the pub, except for the few fishermen who were just stopping in on their way to other ports. He saw Brian Fenn, his friend since boyhood, sitting with some other locals he knew well. James Mallory and a few of his thugs sat at a table by the bar. Everyone had a mug of ale in front of him or her, and the raucous clamor of voices did its best to deafen him. He had always preferred silence and the sounds of nature; that was the main reason he took long walks alone in the wilderness. "Gabriel!" Shannon's exuberant voice greeted him. She set down the four mugs of ale she'd been carrying, two in each hand, and navigated her way through the tables full of boisterous, drunken men. Gabriel watched her approach from the doorway, a small smile on his face turning into a wide grin when she reached him. He hung his floppy hat on the hatrack and held out his arms. She embraced him warmly, the fresh smell of her curly red hair in his nose. Then she stepped back and pointed her finger at him, sternly, but still smiling. "Gabriel, you know I get worried when you're out after dark. It isn't *safe* in the forest after dark." He laughed. "Aye, but I've nothing to fear from the Little People out there in the woods. Quite a friendly lot, actually. Sometimes they use their fairy magic to help me with the potatoes. And just yesterday, one of them--" She giggled and put her hand over his mouth. "T'isn't wise to say such things!" She made a pretense of looking around the room. "See Pastor O'Malley over there in the corner? He's in a particularly foul mood tonight." Gabriel looked over and saw the scowling pastor, a glass of red wine in front of him, sitting alone at a corner table. "The good pastor takes his superstitions a bit too seriously, he does," he said. "Aye, and you don't need any more trouble from him," Shannon replied. "Do you remember the time when you were a lad, and you wandered off into the wood for three days? Looking for the glen of the Folk, you said. When Pastor O'Malley heard that, he went and told your father the devil had gotten into you! Said he had to `remove the demons from you'!" "I remember. Father just laughed and said, `Maybe so, but I've got a better way to cure the boy of his curiosity'." He winced and rubbed his backside, still remembering the thrashing the old man had given him thirteen years ago. He'd died a short two years later, from consumption in his lungs. A table of fishermen were calling out for more ale. "Love, would you mind running me out another keg while I serve these lads? I'm almost out, and we wouldn't want to keep the customers waiting!" Gabriel looked aghast. "Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed, clasping a hand to his breast. His tone became serious and looked at Shannon. "This is what you married me for, wasn't it?" "You...you *man*!" she called after him, above the din of the pub. He pretended not to hear her as he picked a lamp up off the bar and sauntered back into the storeroom. Kegs of ale lined one wall of the dark storeroom, and smoked fish hung from the ceiling. Barrels were stacked all over, containing different kinds of dried and preserved foods. Gabriel lit the lamp and set it atop of one of the barrels. Tipping one of the heavy wooden kegs on its side, he started to roll it out into the pub, but he knocked over an open barrel while he was trying to get control of the keg. Wheels of yellow cheese rolled out of the barrel and piled up near his feet. Cursing his clumsiness, he looked around to make sure no one was watching him. He tilted the barrel back up and carefully brushed the dirt and dust off each wheel, placing them all back in the barrel. Would you care for a bit of this fine cheese, Mister Mallory? The thought struck him as funny and he burst into silent laughter; it was a moment before he could contain it and continue with his task. He turned off the oil lamp, reminding himself to come back for it, and rolled the ale keg out onto the floor of the pub. He was so intent on watching the traitorous keg, he didn't notice the silence that had descended over the Minnowburn. He finally did, halfway to the bar. He hefted the keg onto its end and straightened himself up. He could hear the ale sloshing inside the keg. James Mallory stood in front of Shannon, a five-fingered white splotch on his fat cheek, just beginning to redden. Shannon stood defiantly, arms akimbo, green eyes flashing yet wet with the beginnings of tears. "Don't you ever try that again, you fat pig, or I'll claw--" Gabriel cleared his throat; they both turned to look at him. "What's going on here?" he asked calmly, already pretty sure of what was going on here. Shannon ran to Gabriel, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. She wasn't sobbing, but he felt a wetness on his shirt. He put an arm around her. "He -- touched me, Gabriel," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Only Gabriel heard her words. He glared at Mallory over Shannon's shoulder. "I'll ask you to leave my wife alone, Mister Mallory," he said curtly. The fat man's mottled jowls wobbled as he spoke; the fat sideburns rippled. "So what? I *own* this pub, and I *own* your little whore serving wench of a wife as well!" he roared, hand rubbing the slap mark. Gabriel patted Shannon on the shoulder and gently pushed her aside. He walked steadily up to the other man, his heavy farmer's boots thumping rhythmically on the wooden planks of the floor. "All the same, sir, I'll have to ask that you..." the last few words ending softly as he reached the angry man, "...leave my wife *alone*." His unusual amber eyes, reflecting the light from the oil lamps, stared coolly into Mallory's. Tread lightly, the voice of Gabriel's father warned. He could *hear* the gruff old man's voice in his head. Remmick and Phelps, two of Mallory's entourage, shoved their chairs back and stood up at the table. Their hands rested on the butts of their muskets, Gabriel saw out of the corner of his eye. Finally, Mallory averted his eyes from Gabriel's gaze. He adjusted the bit of yellow lace extending from the sleeve of his soiled black frock coat, and coughed lightly into his fist. The silence in the room was more deafening than the clamor it replaced; all eyes in the pub stared at the two men. Shannon wiped at her eye with a finger. Mallory removed his shiny gold pocket watch from inside his coat, flipped it open, and made a pretense of checking the time. "You're fortunate, potato digger," he growled. "I'm missing my dinner." He turned his back on Gabriel and waddled for the door. Phelps and Remmick followed him out, glancing warily at Gabriel. Mallory turned back to Gabriel and Shannon when he reached the doorway. Gabriel glanced at his extended finger and outstretched arm, and quickly lowered them to his side. A few of the braver people in the pub tittered. The fat man pretended not to notice. "By the by," he said petulantly, "both you and your wench no longer work for *me*." Shannon let out a choked sob. A murmur of shocked voices started up in the room. If a person in Cobh didn't work for Mallory, that person didn't work at all. That person either moved on or starved. Gabriel and Shannon couldn't even sell their house without Mallory's say-so. Mallory still stared at Gabriel, an ugly smirk on his face. Gabriel thoughtfully considered all this. "Kiss my arse, you fat fuck," he said to the other man, conversationally. ************** "What are we going to do, Gabriel?" asked Shannon as she paced the floor of their bedroom, her voice extremely agitated. Gabriel sat on the edge of the bed. "Get some sleep, love," he said. "It'll all work itself out in the end; that's the way of the world." "*How* is it going to work itself out?" she asked him, tears glistening in her eyes. "There is no work in Cobh that is not doled out by James Mallory! And `we no longer work for *him*'!" She imitated the childish tone in which he'd said those words. Gabriel laughed softly. "You do that rather well, love," he said. "Please, come to bed. You'll feel worlds better once you've slept, I promise." His laugh was contagious. Her eyes seemed to brighten; she stopped her angry pacing and sat on the bed next to Gabriel. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Well, if you're *so* eager to please, I know what would make me feel a little better," she murmured coyly, a crooked little smile on her face. "Oh? And what could that be?" He matched his tone of voice with hers. Reaching around his chest, she dragged him back into the bed and fumbled for the knob on the lamp. ************** Gabriel lie on his back, wide awake, thoughts of the future churning through his brain. Whatever he'd said to Shannon, he didn't have the first clue as to what they were going to do. Apologizing and begging for work is definitely *not* an option, he thought. His pride burned in his chest when he imagined it. Another flame, anger, rose up inside him. What gave a stinking dungheap like Mallory the right to trample on the lives of honest people, just because he had money and land? To *touch* his wife! What is, is what it will be. The thought had a voice, and it sounded suspiciously like his father's. The anger inside him began to be replaced by calmness. But still the anger flickered. He needed to walk, he decided. Careful not to awaken Shannon, he got up and got dressed and picked up his boots. He padded downstairs and out the door, where he put on his heavy boots. The act of walking down the familiar path brought even more tranquility to Gabriel's troubled mind. He reached the forest, and kept walking. He didn't whistle as he sometimes did; he just listened to the sounds of the night. They soothed him, somehow. The clean air of the night washed his mind of the troubling thoughts. He walked for an hour, and reached the plot where he'd been working earlier that day. Wanting to be home in case Shannon awoke, he turned back towards Cobh. His mind was clearer, and he could now reflect on their problem constructively. Soon after beginning to wrestle with it, he came to the unavoidable conclusion that they'd have to leave Cobh, possibly forever. Cobh was where they'd both grown up, and Gabriel was loathe to leave it. He'd never been further than Cork in his life. And the rest of Ireland held no opportunities better than slaving for another rich man like Mallory, for a pittance. So what, he decided suddenly. Outside Ireland, there were a whole world full of opportunities for a hard-working man or woman. He'd heard stories from travelers about New York and Boston, in the far-away land of America, across the sea. Allegedly, a man could get off a boat, walk down a road paved with gold, and instantly have a good job and a mansion given to him. America was the land of milk and honey, they said. Gabriel had laughed at the stories; he thought they were the most outrageous lies he'd ever heard. But most stories like that had a grain of truth, buried deep inside the lies and exaggerations; there probably *was* opportunity in America. He knew they'd have to work hard to grab a piece of it for themselves; it would be difficult at first, but a little Irish determination could surpass even the biggest obstacles. And unlike himself, Shannon yearned to leave the land of her birth and see strange new places. She had a traveler's soul. That clinched the decision. He walked faster, anxious to ask Shannon what she thought about sailing to America. He could almost picture her face, her hopelessness turning to joy. Soon, he reached the village. He passed by the pub, and heard the happy, drunken voices from inside. People he'd known all his life. He felt a twang of pain as he thought of Brian, and his few other close friends. He thought of the goodbyes that would be coming out of his mouth soon. He didn't want to leave Cobh, didn't want to leave Ireland. But he had to, that swine Mallory had seen to that. If he were a vengeful man, he might... He squelched the thought. No good ever came from vengeance; he'd learned that from his father. He arrived at the house and after taking off his boots, stealthily climbed the stairs, boots in hand. The bedroom door opened softly; he'd learned to grease the hinges so he didn't wake Shannon when he left on his frequent late-night rambles through the hills. He slipped into the dark room. Gabriel blinked in astonishment. A man was standing by the edge of the bed, bent over Shannon! And he was holding her down and kissing her! "Phelps!" Gabriel yelled, as he recognized the build and posture of the dark figure. "Bastard! Out of my house!" he bellowed. The thin figure did a double take, leapt for the window, and clambered outside before Gabriel could move. Then, he ran to the window himself, and saw Phelps climbing down a ladder leaned up beneath the window. He grabbed the part of the ladder extended above the sill and shoved it backwards. Then, he turned to his wife. "Are you all right, love?" he asked Shannon, brushing her hair back from her forehead. His hand ran over a bump there. *Phelps must have knocked her out*, he thought with helpless concern and anger. His elbow knocked against something wooden. Cursing his inability to see, he turned the knob on the lamp, and it flared to life. The wooden object was the handle of a thin knife, embedded in Shannon's chest. Gabriel let out a confused, angry roar, and stumbled backward, away from the sight, the blood. Some part of his mind that wasn't overcome with shock realized his hand was wet with it. The incredible volume of thoughts running through his head just shut off. It was that simple; he was no longer thinking or feeling anything at all. There was no pain, no grief, no anger, no conscious awareness. He was still holding his boots in his left hand and he let them drop to the floor. Reaching under the bed, he retrieved his father's musket, musket balls, and powder. Then he raced down the stairs and out of the house. He caught up with the running, gasping form of Phelps on the street near the pub. The tall, skinny man was fifteen meters down the street, shambling towards the pub. His form was well illuminated in the moonlight. Gabriel took aim and blew off the back of Phelps' head. The blast of the musket shattered the peaceful, silent night. The body crumpled to the dirt. Gabriel frantically began to reload his musket. There was one more thing to do, find Mallory and kill him. He finished reloading and walked steadily down the street towards the pub. His mind was blank as he passed through the doorway. And was tackled by Remmick, another one of Mallory's thugs. They slammed to the steps of the pub, knocking Gabriel's wind out of his body. The force of the impact sent the musket flying from his grasp. Remmick punched Gabriel in the face, bloodying his nose. Another pair of hands grabbed Gabriel and hauled him to his feet. He felt a cord being wrapped around his wrists and tied securely; then, a hard foot kicked him in the small of his back. He fell off the steps and landed roughly in the dirt. He lay there, the pain in so many different parts of his body. He tried to force himself to rise, but to no avail. A hateful voice echoed in his ears: "Grab this killer, lads!" It was Mallory. "Looks like we're having a hanging to-night!" A few other men let out whoops of glee. From behind him, they ran across the street and broke open the general store. They quickly emerged with timber, nails, tools, and a thick rope. Wasting no time, they began to construct an impromptu gallows. They shouted instructions to each other, excitedly. Two other men grabbed Phelps' arms and dragged him away. Mallory flipped Gabriel onto his back with his boot; the fat man had a smug, grim look on his face. His thugs, the ones who weren't busy building, stood around him in a half-circle. Some of them had muskets trained on Gabriel, even though his hands were bound tightly. Gabriel turned his head toward the pub. Faces in the bright windows. His friends, the honest villagers. A few of them looked disinterested, but most had looks of shock and outrage on their faces. Nobody came to his aid. Gabriel watched the construction proceed, unable to believe he was going to be hanged. The disbelief, and all his thoughts and feelings, were still far away. He lay in the dirt, blinking confusedly. Suddenly, the gallows was built, and the men stepped back from it, admiring their handiwork. That is where I am going to die, a clear voice spoke up in his mind. Gabriel stared at it with dreadful fascination. In the shadows, someone else was watching, too. Remmick tied a noose and wrapped the other end of the rope around the crossbeam of the gallows. The two men who had dragged the corpse of Phelps away, were back, this time leading a horse. Someone shoved a black hood over Gabriel's head. He felt hands lifting him up, placing him on the horse. He didn't think to resist, but it would not have done any good, in any case. His hands were tied, and he was blind. Helpless. He felt the rough noose pass over his neck, where it rested on his shoulders. The inside of the hood began to grow hot from his breath. "You have been found guilty of the crime of murder," Mallory's voice rang out, mocking that of a judge at sentencing, "and I hereby sentence you to die. Have you any last words?" The other men laughed and cackled. Gabriel said nothing. There was a pause as the men waited for him to speak. "Get on with it!" someone shouted impatiently. Someone else slapped the horse's flank and it reared up, bleated loudly, and raced away. Gabriel fell, the rope stopping him, scant inches short of the ground. The rope was a tight iron band of hot pain around his neck, crushing his windpipe. He began to strangle; his stockinged feet twitched involuntarily. He tried to scream, but the rope choked all the breath from him. He strangled on the end of the rope for what felt like forever, but thankfully the pain soon faded away to a dull ache in his neck, head, and lungs. Then, a strange sound cut through the haze of pain in his head and body. The laughter of the men had turned to anguished screaming. He heard the wet sound of bone cracking, and one of the screams was cut off instantly. He felt the rope snap where it was tied to the gallows, and he dropped to the ground. He was still strangling on the tight rope around his neck, and now he flopped on the ground, like a fish on the deck of one of the fishing boats he used to work on. Two powerful hands held him still and snapped the rope around his neck. The pressure was gone, but still he could not breathe. He was raised from the ground, the hands which circled him felt like stone. He flew through the night, the hood being ripped from his face by the fierce wind of their passage. He managed to draw in a strangled breath of air. The wind buffeted his face, painfully. He was moving faster than the fastest horse, faster than the wind in a hurricane. The scenery of the village flew by in an instant, and then as they entered the forest, the black trees along the road blurred together as he tried to look at them. Feeling nauseous, he fixed his gaze on the full moon overhead. His hair was whipped back by the gale. It lasted for minutes that felt like hours. Sometime during the trip, he blacked out. He almost felt relieved. ************** He came to in a large stone room. He was reclined, laying on a rough mattress stuffed with straw. A candelabra, with only two candles lit, provided the only light in the room; it sat in the middle of the floor. There were no windows, and the only door was made of thick, old wood. No other furnishings were in the room, only bare stone. It looked like a dungeon. The raw pain that the rope left on his neck still burned fiercely. He paid it no mind. He had far more pressing problems. His mind swam with the repeated shocks to his peaceful life. He wished he was home with Shannon, and then he realized that he never would be again. With a huge effort, he quickly supressed the thought, and the anguish. Now cannot be the time for grief, he thought. *Who* had rescued him from the gallows? Why? He turned his head, and as far as he could see in the dark room, he was alone. "No," a soft female voice whispered from the flickering shadows. "You are not alone." The speaker walked slowly into the circle of light from the candles. Gabriel saw her coldly beautiful face, and gasped with fear. 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