Date: Sat, 2 Dec 1995 10:39:33 -0700 Reply-To: WOLFEM@CGS.EDU Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Michelle Wolfe Subject: my so-called immortality 4a/? From: CGSVAX::WOLFEM 1-DEC-1995 15:44:27.63 To: WOLFEM CC: Subj: My so-called immortality 4/? Sorry-- I suddenly remembered that I was a graduate student and that they, might, like, expect me to do some work or something this semester... =========== My So-Called Immortality (or, "never trust anyone over 300"): a Highlander excursion By M. Wolfe An isolated forest in somewhere in New England. October, around 3 1/2 YEARS AGO Imagine that *whoosh* sound of a flashback beginning... "...A powerful tendency to aggressiveness is always present beside a powerful love..." --Sigmund Freud, "Femininity" Emma went for the flashlight, he went for the candles. As if it weren't obvious who had born in which Century. Peering out the window at the oscillating sheets of black rain, she said, "I'll go out there. Maybe I can restart the generator." Connor shook his head. "I think you should stay here and build the fire." She sighed, her mouth tightened, her eyes narrowed. All the familiar signs preceding an outburst. He braced himself for the indoor storm. "You know, You've seen me fix the generator before, and believe it or not, I've been outdoors, in worse storms than this. I may be 450 years younger than you, but I'm not a *child*." He shrugged, and motioned toward the door. She pulled on her coat, picked up the toolbox, and opened the door. He couldn't believe it. Grabbing her arm, he jerked her back inside. He picked up the practice katana, blade to the floor, and held the handle to her face. Mentally, he was counting to ten. In Chinese. "I know that the shed is only 40 yards away. But any moment that your sword is more than a foot away from your hand could cost you your life. Never leave a room without it." He sighed, "Emma, we've been through this." She took the sword from him silently. Walking out of the house and into the storm, she slammed the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He had finished building the fire when she came back inside, soaked and chagrined. She told him what he had expected. The force of the wind and rain had blown the connection wires between the generator and the house. Repairing them would have to wait until the storm had passed. "The heating system is electrical," he said. "Its going to get very cold tonight. I suggest we sleep here, where the fire is. It will be the only warm room in the house. If you can gather blankets, I'll pull my mattress down here." "And we're both going to sleep on it?" "Why not? Do you prefer the floor?" He raised an eyebrow. "Bad back? And not even a century old?" Ignoring him, she turned down the hallway, toward the linen closet. He assumed her lack of response implied that she'd been sufficiently teased. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They had settled down, clothed in flannel and swaddled in 18th Century comforters and 20th century sleeping bags. But they were both restless. Perhaps it was the storm. Finally Emma stopped pretending to sleep. "Russ-- MacLeod..." He opened his eyes. Taking this for a sign that he was awake, she asked, "The immortal who found you, and taught you, who was he-- or she? What were they like?" she looked at him, deep-eyed and expectant, a child waiting for a bedtime story. This overture surprised him. The sound of her voice--unguarded, sincere, almost intimate. She hadn't spoken this way to him since he pulled her out of the morgue. Perhaps the ice was finally breaking. If she wanted to hear his story, maybe she was finally coming to accept her own. He turned towards her, and watched the mottled light of the fire play across her face for a moment before he answered. "My teacher's name was Ramirez," he said. "But that wasn't his first name. He told me he had been born in Egypt, some 2000 years before, but he never told me the name he had been born with. Maybe he didn't remember it-- that happens sometimes to those who live long enough." "Then again, maybe he wanted to forget-- I've been a few people I'd rather not remember. Anyway, I don't know how long he'd been a Spaniard. I think a while." He laughed. "Apparently he had been a Japanese prince some time before that. He introduced himself to me as..." Connor waved his hands in a humourous flourish: "...'Juan Sanchez Villa Lobos Ramirez, Chief Metallurgist to Charles of Spain'. He was..." "Connor," She interrupted, "Did you like him?" Hearing her use his first name startled him. Ever since she had learned he wasn't really 'Russell Nash' she had rarely addressed him by name at all, and then only as "MacLeod". But the nakedness of her question surprised him more. "Did I *like* him? Did you like *me*, when I found you?" She looked surprised that he would ask-- that he would want to know the answer. She searched his face as if she were looking for something in particular, like a town on a map, some safe haven. "No," she said. Finding courage in the truth, she continued. "No, I didn't like you at all. You were frightening. And I didn't want to believe-- I couldn't accept-- I _hated_--" she said with sudden force, "what you told me. What you showed me. What you said you were going to teach me to do." "Can you accept it now?" She met his eyes for a moment. "I--" her voice trailed off. The answer wouldn't come. "You've already told me--in the expressions on your face if not in words-- that you hate what I'm teaching you and that you despise what you think I want you to become." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "But despite your frequent and often charming protests, you work very hard. And often, when you think I'm not watching, I see you take pleasure in the feeling of physical skill. You don't want to admit it, but you've discovered a new person inside. A person you didn't know existed. Someone who's strong, physical, self-sufficient. And I didn't invent her, Emma. She's always been there, waiting for you to find her." Ever since he had brought her here, she had worn her hostility like a mask. It both disguised and protected her. Without it, her face rippled with complex currents of emotion. Simple, clean resentment had been solid ground in a confusing sea of moral ambiguity, conflicting desires, unbearable truths, and simultaneous love and hate. Without it, she looked lost and vulnerable. A soul battered by internal storms. "I don't know what to say," she told him quietly. "You don't have to." He tried to catch her eye. "Do you still want to hear about Ramirez?" "Yeah. But can I tell you one more thing?" Connor sighed, with mock frustration. Then he smiled at her. "Oh, these children of the 20th Century. Microwaves. T.V. Instant gratification. Okay, one more thing. Tell me." ________________________ continued in part B... =========================================================================