Marta’s journal. I have so much to think about that I scarcely know where to begin which means, of course, that I must simply start writing and do the best I can. I spent most of today with Duncan MacLeod, of all people. We talked about Sean, and we talked about Tessa – that’s too sad a story to go into here. Do I forgive him? Perhaps. (What’s “forgive,” really?) I do believe that he knows what he did and that it racks him still. We are going out to the countryside tomorrow. Yes, I’m going. He said he wants to show me something. He said to wear old clothes and heavy shoes. I don’t know that I believe his story about a holy spring. I believe he thinks he saw Sean’s reflection when he looked into the water. I believe he may have been troubled enough to believe that he was falling apart, to believe that he could see the pieces of his own psyche, to attach faces to the conflicting voices within. I know what I think: Four hundred-plus years are bound to bring a lot of trauma. And sometimes, someone might simply keep on moving, not thinking about it all, but having it there nonetheless just beneath the surface. And one day it all floods in. The work of not-knowing can no longer be borne. A single war has done that to plenty of people. A single life, not even half over, has done that to me now and again, though not since before I knew Sean. Duncan said that he had hoped for a long time to take me to this place that he claims healed him. “I like to think that I’m stronger at the broken places since my visit to the spring,” was one of the things he told me. “Sean was part of all of that. I think he’d want you to come with me, Marta.” He knew so much about Sean. I knew about Sean’s early acquaintance with Freud, his fascination with the infant science of psychotherapy. He had been very pleased with its results on the soldiers at the chateau. But he never told me much about the specifics. His patients’ secrets were safe with him nearly a century after treatment. There was one young man Duncan told me about, wounded in body and mind. The Great War had sealed him so firmly into a constant fear for his life that he could scarcely imagine a threat-free existence. He took a nurse hostage and declared a plan to kill his way through the caring circle that surrounded him. Sean intervened, called him back to peace and life. I wonder what happened to the nurse. I hope Sean saw to her once he’d taken care of the soldier. Enough. Duncan is picking me up at 8:00. I must sleep. (Unedited notes of Eric Sulier, assignment: Duncan MacLeod.) My assignment drove to the apartment of Marta Fischer, arriving a few minutes in his black Citroen before 8:00 AM. Left the apartment at 8:30 with her. They both wore hiking clothes. DM drove them northwest out of Paris, into the countryside, up into Picardie. When they left the Citroen, they unpacked ropes and picks. I saw my assignment disappear down a rabbit hole with MF. They used picks and ropes to go down. I did not hear anything while they were underground. I remained until Victor appeared to relieve me. Duncan stopped the car. “We’re here,” he said. Marta smiled tremulously. “You’ve got me curious about this magic spring. I’m not sure what to expect. I can’t wait just to see it, though. I hope I can get down it. I never did anything like that with ropes before.” He heard the question in her voice. “It’s safe, Marta. And I’ll set up a second line in case something happens to this. And, yes, I have a cell phone if we need it.” “I can’t wait to see the spirals.” Duncan opened his car door, got out, and went to the rear of the car. He stopped for a moment, basking in the quiet and space about him. It was good to have a rest from the human vitality of Paris. He opened the trunk, pulled out coils of rope, picks, a knapsack and tossed them on the ground. Marta followed and stood beside him. She looked about her silently, wondering whether the mysterious cavern was right under their feet or whether they would have to walk. “You know,” Duncan told her, “You’re doing better with this than I did. When Methos brought me here, the first thing I did was knock him on the jaw.” “I felt like doing that to you yesterday.” “And what about now?” She stopped and thought. “I don’t think you’re going to murder me in the cave.” “Well, that’s a start,” Duncan replied as he bent to pick up the equipment. He handed a pick and a coil of rope to Marta. “I’ve started working out a bit,” Marta confided as she followed him away from the car. “Not training like Gina, just a little jogging and stretching.” “That’s a start,” Duncan answered again. “Have you ever thought about learning to fight?” “Sean had me take a self-defense class. He was afraid of me being taken hostage or something.” “Sean was a wise man.” “There’s a lot you can do to defend yourself, even if you’re small like me,” Marta mused. “Elbows, knees.” She remembered the excitement of watching a segment of the class on videocamera: **They’re teaching us to hit HARD.** “Timing, watching your opponent,” Duncan continued, watching her. “You liked the class.” “I did,” Marta confessed. “Odd to think so, but I did.” “We can continue that. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.” Marta considered. “I might take you up on that.” “I hope you do. This way.” He began walking away from the car. The picks were firmly placed, Marta thought. The rope was taut. Duncan had gone down first and was holding it for her. She had the right boots and gloves. There was no need to freeze like this, no need for the fear that seemed to be holding her heart and lungs in a vise. Breathe, she commanded herself. Breathe. It was suddenly hard work to push the air in and out. “All right up there?” Duncan called. She did not know how she should answer. Was this what panic attacks felt like? It made no sense. The ropes couldn’t break, and even in the midst of panic, she had to admit that the picks did look secure. And she wouldn’t be making the descent alone. Duncan was holding the rope. And she still didn’t believe it was safe, she realized. There was always the odd chance of disaster happening, of him turning on her, deciding to let her fall, to teach her some kind of a lesson perhaps. Or she would make a wrong move, resulting in injury that didn’t heal all in a moment. “Marta?” “Duncan, I –“ her voice shook. “I don’t know if I can do this.” There was silence from below. There, I’ve said it, Marta thought. Breathing was suddenly easier. “You don’t have to,” Duncan said finally, “but I believe you can.” She digested this in silence. “Do you want to wait a bit?” “Yes,” she replied gratefully. “I’ll be here.” Oh, she WAS breathing easier. The thought popped into her head: Do I really want to miss this chance? Not see this ancient place, magic or no? She wondered whether Sean knew about it. She wished she could have come here with him. No, she reminded herself sternly, that was not to be. And, no, she did not want to miss this. She would go down. She stepped to the edge, squatted down as she had seen Duncan do, and grasped the rope. “I’ve got it,” Duncan reassured her. “I’ll keep it tight. You don’t do this fast. It’s one slow, careful step at a time. You have to watch where your feet go, really feel out every placement.” Heart pounding, Marta lowered herself into the hole. He did keep the rope tight. It was an odd sensation to be walking sideways, she thought, with her weight pressed on the rope rather than the ground. The heavy boots she wore wouldn’t let her grasp the rough rocks with her toes as she instinctively wanted to do. Put one foot down, clinging monkeylike all the while to the rope – breathe, you must remember to breathe – and lift the other foot, and find a place to set it down. Again. And yet again. And – -- ----- Cathryn Bauer cathryn@mindspring.com