========================================================================= Date: Sun, 14 Apr 1996 18:01:05 EST Reply-To: Gargoyle Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Gargoyle Subject: The Persistance of Time (11/?) After finally getting my home page done and up, I am returning with the 11th chapter of the serialized, action-packed epic that is the Chronicle of Perseus. I'm getting a vibe that most of you aren't *getting* it yet, but that's okay. I'll keep plugging away until you do. The story is still for mature individuals. Minors take notice. The Persistance of Time Chapter Eleven: "Arachnophobia" by Jim Cannon *New Orleans, January 1996* He remembered that they killed him. He could still feel the line of fire traced across his chest, ripping him open from throat to groin. He could remember -- just barely -- the delicate touch of a women's fingers as a hand wrapped around his still beating heart. After that: nothing. Until now. He floated, the sickly sweet smell of rot and refuse assaulting his nostrils, but at least the bindings, gag, and blindfold were gone. He opened his eyes, twisting his body up as he did so, taking in his surroundings. He lay suspended in the river, his body curiously bouyant. He touched his chest, anticipating the worst, and felt the long, puckered scar that marred his body. But his trunk wasn't cut open. His organs were not ripped away. How else could he be concious, treading water in the great Mississippi? The answers were elusive. If his memories were correct, it was impossible for him to be alive. He could only be dead. But when did the dead begin to move and think? , rang a voice in his mind. Silken, feminine. No one he recognized. Suddenly the fear of capture, the fear of being bound and helpless and split like a Christmas goose returned to him in a great, sodden mass that threatened to inundate his soul. He squashed it down, pushing it aside with all the strength he could muster. , another voice said, and he knew that it was his own. His breathing eased, and he began to paddle to shore with clean, swift strokes. He dragged himself up onto the bank and collapsed in the soft, loamy earth, breathing in the clean organic scent of the dirt, a relief compared to the stench clinging to his own body. He allowed his eyes to close, and his thoughts wandered. Back to the days before, when he was a simple painter in a loft in the southern metropolis of New Orleans. Before that night in the night club, when he had drawn too close to a human barracuda, and she had snapped him up, tearing him in two and delivering him into the hands of his killers. Faceless killers. Men and women who covered his sight with a blindfold, silenced his screams with a gag. He opened one eye, sensing something close, and beheld a monster. Eight shining eyes looked into his single dull one, massive fangs glistening with venom, while two pedipalps as thick as his little finger reached out to touch his cheek. Behind the small cap of the head, the humped, bulbous abdomen loomed, covered in thick, bristly hairs. Despite himself he recoiled, lurching backward and away from the largest spider he had ever seen, eyes wide with illogical terror, even as another part of him counciled calm. With some distance the fear was assuaged, and the voice inside his head found an audience. He calmed down and regarded the spider coldly. There was no doubt it was a great beast, a king among spiders. The abdomen was easily six or seven inches in diameter, decorated with a fine layer of black hairs. He could see a pattern in lighter hairs woven into the mix -- eyespots to ward of birds, he supposed. The eight legs were thick and strong looking, themselves covered in a fine down. The eyes seemed to watch him with some strange intelligence, and he had a sudden flash -- an image of himself, naked, white as death and marked with a vicious scar, deep dark circles around his cold eyes, blond hair matted with dirt and twigs and the wet, green river -- and he knew it was what the spider saw. He did not flinch when the arachnid advanced on him, stepping delicately onto his hand, and gracefully ascended to his shoulder. The spider nestled against his neck, a strange vibration shaking its heavy frame. And he knew then, knew for a certainty, that he *was* dead. A pale ghost, a wraith among men. And the spider was the creature that guided him back to the realm of the living. For revenge. *Hong Kong, January 1996* Huan looked up as the bell over the door jingled, and a large white man stepped into his shop. Huan thought. Most of the native Western population knew better than to wander through the neighborhood where Huan lived. Densely populated by Mandarin Chinese, immigrants from mainland China who were distrusted greatly by the Cantonese of Hong Kong, the "exotic" flavor of the streets and shops tended to draw tourists and fools alike. People who didn't know any better. The kind of people Huan had a general dislike for; he preferred selling his wares to the locals, or even the Cantonese who looked down their noses at him even as they payed. Westerners were worse, tricked by martial arts movies and Charlie Chan into viewing Asians as either rotund, proverb spouting ancients or exotic, highly trained warriors. It didn't help that Huan was a short, chubby man who owned an antique shop, a shop that often sold ancient weapons alongside modern copies of lethal tools. At least once a week some fool pale man wandered into his store, usually with a week's growth of beard -- the "mercenary look" as Huan referred to it -- looking to buy a katana or some sais. Sometimes Huan would take the time to explain that this was a *Chinese* shop, not a *Japanese* one, but usually he would scream at them in Mandarin until they left the store, confused and chagrined. As he regarded the tall, pale haired man, Huan decided this one would only leave after much screaming. He took a deep breath and prepared to launch into his tirade, but was interrupted before he began. In fluent, archaic Mandarin, the man spoke. Huan's jaw dropped open when he heard it -- a tongue so old even Huan had only learned it from books, yet pronounced skillfully and easily by the strange Western man. A man with only one hand. "Shopkeeper, I have need of yor services," he said. His voice was deep and rich, but did not stumble over the sharp, staccato Chinese words. "I recently lost my favorite blade, and I was hoping I could replace it with something from your stock." Huan, despite himself, answered. "What did you have in mind, stranger?" The tall man smiled, but no humor entered his cold blue eyes. "I am familiar with the Pok Dau. have you any of those?" Huan thought a moment. A Pok Dau -- an "executioner's sword." A large, two handed sword once used by traveling martial artists who could make good money in towns without full-time executioners. Those days were long over, but some martial artists still practiced with the Pok Dau. And Huan *did* have one such sword in the back -- but it was nearly five hundred years old and probably worth far more than this man could afford. Huan decided to humor him, though. "I have a Pok Dau, stranger. But, pardon my bluntness, it could be of no use to you. And it is *very* expensive besides." The stranger stepped closer to Huan's counter, and Huan was suddenly struck by how large the man really was. Just over two meters tall; a seven foot giant. He dropped a small bag onto the counter, loosening the drawstring as he did so. Gold coins spilled free. A rich man, large enough and no doubt strong enough to wield the Pok Dau like a toothpick. Huan grinned widely. "Perhaps we can do business after all." *New Orleans, January 1996* With the spider nestled against his shoulder, he picked his way through the trees and brambles, ignoring the scratches that opened on his naked flesh, only to close moments later. He made his way south, drawn by the lights of the city. After a while, the heavens opened up with a rumble of thunder, and the rain began to fall, washing the detritus and leaves from his body. He found a roadhouse, blaring loud honkytonk and catering to a crowd made up largely of bikers, judging by the parking lot. He made his way to the door, and eased it open, stepping within. The building was small, cramped, and dark. It was warm and humid inside, and the air seemed barely to stir. It smelled of piss, beer, and sweat. Men and women in leathers lounged about the tavern, a few of them dancing near an ancient jukebox that was playing Merle Haggard. *Old* Merle Haggard. The bar was well lit and apparently well stocked with cheap beer and whiskey. No one looked up when he stepped inside, and he stood there for almost five minutes, dripping water on the rough floorboards, before someone looked up and saw him. "Holee shee-it!," a heavy, bearded biker with fists the size of Christmas turkeys exclaimed. "It's a goddamned noo-dist!" At his exclamation, heads turned, and conversations drew to a halt. In the silence that followed, as the bar struggled to accept his existence, he spoke. His voice was dry and low. Just as he remembered. "I need clothes and a bike." Merle Haggard trailed off. Thirty bikers stared at him in incredulity. Finally, one thin man with a ragged goatee and fingers stained by nicotine stepped toward him, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand. "Don't think I heard you right, freak-boy. Now, afore you go repeatin' yerself, I'd suggest you head on outta here, less you wan' anuder scar." As he said this, he drew a heavy knife from within his jacket. Several bikers hooted and laughed. A few jeered at him, making jokes about his genitals and his pale skin. He did not smile. The spider skittered out from under his hair, onto his chest. Knife-guy's eyes widened. Turkey-fist said "holee shee-it" again. "I need clothes and a bike," he repeated. Then added, "And you look to be about my size." More laughter, now at his audacity rather than his appearance. Knife-guy wasn't laughing, though. Knife-guy could see his eyes, and Knife-guy suddenly felt nervous. "Gut 'em Zeke!" somebody yelled. Zeke took a swallow from his beer, and set it down. Then he spun and slashed at the man in the doorway, opening up a vicious cut across his stomach. He just stood there as his abdomen was ripped open, and the blood welled up, dripping across alabaster skin. The spider chittered against his chest. Zeke eyed the arachnid, and stepped back, waiting for his opponant to fall, to cry out, anything. Instead, the wound closed up. Without a mark. He smiled then, and said again, "I need clothes and a bike." The bar was suddenly as quiet as a graveyard. Zeke stared at him with wide eyes. The knife fell from nerveless fingers. "Ain't smart to fuck wit' voodoo shit," somebody muttered. He left the bar clad in a borrowed jacket, leather jeans, engineers boots, a Ministry t-shirt, and mirrored sunglasses. The spider found a home in one of the voluminous inner pockets of the jacket. He found the bike they gave him easily enough. It was a classic chopper, witha flaming skull painted on the sides, and the legend "Ghostrider." He grinned as he straddled the bike. Somebody in the bar had a sense of humor. He kick started the chopper and sped off into the dark, wet night. He needed weapons. And he knew where to get them. The chopper brought him back to New Orleans quickly enough, and he did not mind the rain pounding against him in sheets. Even with the sunglasses on, he could see through the dark and rain, and seemed to avoid puddles and potholes with some sort of sixth sense. The city was busy, even at this hour in this rain, and he was not surprised. Mardi Gras was coming soon, and people were preparing for the festival. He always liked Mardi Gars, and it had been a fcator in his decision to move to New Orleans. He shook his head in the rain. Memories were coming to him at a quick pace, rebuilding his image of himself. He felt more secure, more sane with each passing moment, as another memory bubbled to the surface of his mind and proved that he was real. That he had been a person before... this night. He drew to a halt outside a forbidding, Gothic building, and hopped off the bike. No need to stretch his legs or ease the muscles in his thighs. His limbs were not strained in the least from hugging the sides of the bike, even though he knew it was a new experiance for him. he mused. There was no line outside the club, not surprising with the rain, but he knew that there was a canopy to protect eager dancers. But it wasn't up tonight. He pushed open the doors and stepped inside -- immediately he was struck by the heavy, loud techno musicbellowing inside. A hand touched his elbow, and he turned. A bouncer. "Take it outside, buddy," the man said, tightening his grip. "I need to see the Jamaican." The bouncer's eyes widened, and his grip loosened. The wraith knew that the knowledge he had was not widely disseminated. Few outside the Jamaican's circle knew where he lived and worked. "I don't know about that..." the bouncer began. "Find out," the wraith said harshly. "And tell him that the artist is here." The man stepped away, keeping an eye on him, and produced a cellular phone. He had a quiet conversation with someone, and the snapped the phone shut. "They say you can go up." The wraith nodded and stepped into the club, threading his way through the shifting, heaving, sweating mass of humanity that writhed on the dance floor. The band was loud and energetic, and the lead singer spun around, whipping her long black hair in a frenzy. He found the stairs near the back and climbed them one at a time time. The spider stirred near his heart. At the top of the stairs a large black man with a shaven skull and a dark suit waited for him. The wraith raised his arms in a remembered gesture, and the thug frisked him. He started slightly when he saw the spider, but said nothing, and waved the wraith through the door. He stepped into the Jamaican's conferance room. Two years ago the room had been bare and dark, with walls painted black and the floor a dull, unwashed gray. In the center was placed a long table and twenty chairs, all composed of dull steel. Today the steel table and chairs were still present, but the walls and floor were a riot of colors and scenes, painted with a heavy brush stroke loaded with paint. Whirls of reds and blues, spinning dancers and clowns, a tiger and a dark, green and savage jungle. A crumbling necropolis with rusted iron gates and an ominous storm exploding overhead. Splashes of yellow and purple, black too, and a salmon pink. An explosion of clor and light in a dark, dismal place. He swept a hand through sodden hair, remembering how he had sat here in this room continuosly for nearly six months, doing nothing but creating. And paying a debt. "Alec, mon, yah look lik' shit," a thick voice said. The wraith focused his dark eyes on the man who sat at the head of the table. White silk shirt and gray vest, black pants and tall riding boots. Skin a deep mahogany, with large hands and delicate, manicured nails. Hair twisted into long dreds, and a carefully trimmed beard. Eyes the color of amber, eyes that studied him with sharp scrutiny. The Jamaican. And he remembered the wraith's name, something the wraith himself could not do. He managed to croak out, "Its been a long night." The Jamaican nodded. "Tak' a seat," he said. The wraith -- *Alec* -- clumsily sat down. So strange. He had not even realized that he was missing his name, had not even recognized the loss until this moment. Now, with its uttering, a flood of memories tumbled through his mind. He forced himself to ignore them, to focus past them and on the figure sitting across the table. "What kin I do for yah, Alec? Yah feelin' da need, agin?" Alec shook his head. "I don't need drugs anymore," he said. "I need weapons." The Jamaican's eyebrows shot up. "Whaddafuckfor?" he said quickly. "I have enemies now," he said. "People who are... capable of atrocities too terrible to mention. They... must be eliminated." "And you be de one to do it, ah?" the Jamaican grimaced. "You an artist, boy. You na' a killer. Best leave that shit alone. Go back to yah paintin'. You be a lot happier, trus' me." "You don't understand. Its not just something I want to do. Its something I have to do." The Jamaican's amber eyes watched him, caculating. Then, as if on cue, the spider slithered out of Alec's jacket and onto the table. The Jamaican's eyes widened in shock, and ... recognition? The Jamaican opened his mouth to speak, shut it, an dthen tried again. "What do you need?" he said at last. Alec smiled. "What have you got?" The Jamaican provided him with two .45 automatics, heavy chunks of metal that seemed oddly comfortable in his artist's hands. The Jamaican had tried to get him to take some barrettas, or a glock, even a tec-9 or two, but Alec wanted .45s. So he got them, as well as enough ammunition for each weapon to take on a small army. The Jamaican did convince him to take a 9mm MD1, a snub nosed sub-machine gun that could be hidden under a trench coat or heavy jacket. And to finish his collection, an Italian made Model 12 SPAS Franchi shotgun, with a stock that folded against the grip, and a smooth, organic look to it. The Jamaican made a joke about hunting rhinos with all the artillary Alec wanted. Alec didn't laugh. He knew he would have to be ready for anything when he tracked down his killers. Before he left, Alec asked the Jamaican why he had been so cooperative. After a moment, the Jamaican had replied, "Well, its lik' dis. A while ago, Samedi came to me while I was in a trance, and he told me I must help Anansi in any way I could." "Who's Anansi?" Alec asked. The Jamaican looked at Alec with a grim face, but there was humor in his eyes when he said, "Anansi is an African god. He is the spider." Alec nodded, and headed out the door. His apartment was only a few blocks from the club, but he took the chopper anyway. He had a web to weave, and some flies to catch. And now that he had fangs of his own, his vengeance would be all that more simple. *Munich, Germany January, 1996* In the morning, Shelley, Perseus and Kurt departed Bonnheim, taking Shelley's rental car back to Munich. Shelley and Perseus boarded a plane heading for Hong Kong, while Kurt was returning to the States. NEXT: Everything You Wanted to Know About Lei but were Afraid to Ask. *********************************************************************** I know, I know. Last time I said we'd be going to Hong Kong in Chapter Eleven. But I had to do the intro for the Spider first. Hong Kong is next, I promise. Rysher Entertainment owns the Highlander concept. Their parents must be proud. Nightbane and all related terms are (C) Palladium Books But the story -- including plot, characters, and cheese dip referances -- belongs to me. I hereby give permission to distribute it electronically, provided nothing is changed, and no money changes hands. (C) 1996 James MG Cannon This story is now archived at: http://www.stlawu.edu/x8cg:http/perseus.html