Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin, 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Tue, 11 Sep 2001 22:12:07 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part II: Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
see post 0 for acknowledgements and disclaimers.
~~~~~
The villagers watched curiously as the two strangers in
MacLeod tartan, one on horseback, one on foot, ambled into
town. Duncan hung back a little as Connor handed over his
horse to the stableboy, then stepped into the inn. It was
dark inside, but a brightly burning fire in the huge hearth
gave some illumination, and was a welcome warmth from an
otherwise cool spring day. Duncan hesitated in the doorway
while Connor found a comfortable seat near the fire. He
pretended to ignore his student, but was aware of Duncan’s
nervousness. At last the youngster moved into the room,
staying close to the walls, and taking a seat in the
furthest dark corner.
Connor ordered an ale from the maid who came to serve him,
and ordered one for Duncan as well. She brought him a
tankard, but when she took Duncan his, the youth sank back
even further into his chair until Connor glared at him.
Stubborn git. He reluctantly took it, at last, but Connor
could feel his discomfort radiating from across the room.
He caught Duncan’s eye and waved him over, but the man just
sank further into his dark corner.
Connor motioned again, this time with a warning look on his
face that said there would be a price to pay for
disobedience. With a sigh, Duncan rose and came over,
standing with his back to the rest of the room, his mug in
his hand. “What!?” Duncan whispered.
Connor took a drink of his ale, licking his lips at the
dark, nutty taste. “You’re trying so hard not to be noticed
that you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Connor
chastised him. “Sit here with me. We’ll have a bite to eat
and get a decent night’s sleep in a real bed. Enjoy it
while you can, once we get to my old croft, life will not be
nearly so comfortable.”
Duncan shifted from foot to foot. Even though he had been
trying to look smaller, he ended up straightening his
shoulders and broadening his stance. “I have no money,
Connor, but I dinna need your charity. I can sleep in the
stable with your horse.”
“Lord preserve me from stubborn and prideful children,”
Connor murmured under his breath.
“What?” Duncan asked.
“I can hardly keep an eye on your back, or yours on mine,
if you are sleeping in the stables,” Connor insisted,
losing his patience at last. “Although since you are being
such a horse’s ass, it might be the best place for you.”
At that, Duncan slammed his ale down on the table, liberally
and wastefully sloshing its contents, then turned on his
heel and left, drawing every eye in the room. Connor
watched the dramatic exit, then closed his eyes with a sigh
and a frown, loosening the rein on his senses a bit as
Ramirez had taught him decades ago. Reading a quickening,
finding the unique life essence of another, was a lesson he
had never forgotten even though he rarely used it. The lad
didn’t go far, probably just to the stables. At least he
had enough sense not to abandon their teacher/student
relationship. The deliberate inspection of Duncan’s
quickening aura also revealed a surprising power and
strength. It was deep and had a clarity to it he had not
felt before, reminding him of Scotland’s mountain rivers
rushing over the rocks, carrying the melt from the deep
winter snows down to the sea.
Connor let his irritation fade, and then he silently cursed
his own impatience and callousness. Duncan had been
rejected, abused, mistreated and derided for three years.
That he still had any pride left at all was a sign of a
strong and resilient character. Or pure Scots
pigheadedness.
When Duncan’s aura didn’t fade away entirely, Connor relaxed
and settled in for the evening, flirting outrageously with
the innkeeper, a handsome, big boned woman who scoffed at
his flattery, but blushed all the same. He had a few ales
and a big bowl of thick mutton stew swimming with
vegetables. It was well after dark when he ordered a second
dinner, and took it out to the stables.
It smelled and sounded like every stable he had ever been
in, of dust, horse sweat, dung and hay, old leather and
musty blankets, accompanied by the soft breaths and
vibrations of the animals stirring at the appearance of one
of the two-legged variety that sometimes brought them grain
or hay. There were about a dozen stalls of a not
particularly generous size, so he doubted his student was
sleeping under his stallion’s sharp hooves.
“Duncan?” he called softly, so as not to alarm the animals.
“Aye.”
He looked up into the darkness, and saw his student lean
over from the loft where the hay was stored. “I’ve brought
you some food.”
“Thank you, but I’ve made myself a nice dinner here from the
hay, as is suitable for a horse’s ass.” Duncan’s voice
rumbled down petulantly from above.
“Duncan,” Connor growled in irritation. “I didna’ mean…”
“You needn’t trouble yourself about it,” Duncan interrupted,
“After they threw me out, many’s the time I snuck in at
night and stole from the animal pens in Glenfinnan. Scooped
up the extra grain and boiled it into a mash. It wasn’t too
bad if you washed the dirt out first.”
“All right,” Connor snapped. “I’m sorry. I should not have
called you a horse’s ass, but you are the most stubborn…”
“It’s kept me alive,” Duncan interrupted again, this time in
anger. He had disappeared, retreating into the darkness
where Connor could hear him rustling around in the hay. His
voice was sharp and bitter. “I told you I have nothing,
Connor. No clan, no land, no family, no belongings. Only
my pride, and I need no one’s charity or pity. If that’s
why you sought me out, then go find yourself another
student.”
“Tell me, clansman,” Connor spoke up into the deep shadows
above, “back in Glenfinnan, when you lent a hand to help
with the lambing, or mending a roof, or hunting, were you
doing it out of pity?”
“Of course not. It was my duty, part of what keeps a clan
together.”
“That’s all I’m doing,” Connor responded. He hesitated a
moment, then added, “There is a bond that drew me to you,
Duncan. I was pulled here, and this is what I am intended
to do. And it’s something I want to do.” Connor was
surprised as he realized the words were true. He wanted to
make sure Duncan MacLeod had a chance in this wretched Game
of theirs. He wanted to watch him grow and mature and
become…what? Something quite unusual, Connor realized.
Someone who could be a trusted friend through the long,
lonely centuries that stretched ahead.
Connor took the lack of a response as a good sign, or at
least as not a bad one. “I’ll leave this here for you and
you can return the dishes to the kitchen when you’re done.”
He put the bowl of stew and mug of ale on a nearby barrel
and turned to go. He was almost out the door when he heard
Duncan’s mumbled voice again. “What?” he called.
“I said, …thank you.”
Connor smiled to himself. No doubt the lad was going to
give him no end of grief, but he might just be worth it.
“You are most welcome, Duncan. Goodnight.”
~~~~~~~
Connor bought some supplies, and the two MacLeods left by
mid-morning the next day, slogging through a steady Spring
rain. Connor didn’t make Duncan run, but instead had him
carry several heavy packs of food and grain, splitting the
load equally between his horse and his young companion.
Connor could hear grumbled complaints in Gaelic and English
throughout the day, but he pressed on, now anxious to reach
the glen where he had spent a over third of his life. At
last, he saw the remnants of the old tower outlined against
the gray sky, and brought his horse to a halt.
His throat had closed tight and his heartbeat seemed
painfully loud. He closed his eyes for a moment to get his
feelings under control. Could he do this? Suddenly he
wasn’t at all certain, and coming here seemed the worst
folly.
“Connor? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” he snapped, and dug his heels into the stallion’s
flanks, surging ahead. The horse broke into a slow canter
and he topped the rise overlooking the small glen where he
and Heather had lived out her life…their lives…his life.
Until it ended with her gasping away her last breath in his
arms.
“Will you remember me?” she had whispered, her face still
luminously beautiful despite the ravages of time. “On my
birthday?”
“Yes, my love,” he had answered.
And so he had, no matter where he had traveled, he always
took time to stop, to conjure her face with her soft, pale
cheeks just touched with the flush of their passion, her
unruly, golden hair splashed against the pillow, her sweet
soft lips and wonderful blue eyes. He would always remember
her voice, gentle but firm, reminding him of the
practicalities of life when his daydreaming had meant the
loss of a whole afternoon when he should have been working
at the forge, attending to the never ending chores of their
small croft.
He had ever been a dreamer, wondering about the distant
horizon, about what lay on the other side of the vast ocean
he had seen during trips with his clansman to the western
villages. Ramirez had spoken of so many different lands,
different languages, different people with skins of various
hues and eyes of many shapes. He longed to see them all,
but he loved Heather more and she was tied to this land, and
he would stay with her for so long as she lived.
But she had aged and withered and died and he had buried
her…there…at the top of the rise on the other side of the
glen. He stopped his horse and looked around, seeing not the
few remaining stones of their cottage, burned and abandoned
a generation ago, or the tumbled remains of the tower where
once he and Heather and Ramirez had laughed and told stories
for hours on many an evening. He saw it as it had been
once, but would never be again. A sturdy tower, although
old and worn from centuries of exposure to the weather, and
a tidy cottage, the thatch fresh and neat, the shutters open
to light and air, chickens pecking around the doorway, their
three dogs lying in the shade, pink tongues lolling in the
mid-summer heat, and Heather, sitting in the sun, her hands
always busy carding wool, churning butter or mending
clothes…
“This is it?” a voice intruded. Duncan was looking around
the sparse glen with a dubious eye. “Where are we to camp?
I thought this was your home.”
“It was,” Connor said. “But that was forty years ago.” He
ignored Duncan’s obvious doubts and pointed towards the
tower ruins. “There may still be a ledge intact in the
tower, and we can get some shelter from the rain there until
we have a chance to build something more permanent.” He
clamped down on his desire to turn away, and urged his horse
forward. It had been a mistake to come here. He should
have known it would be uninhabitable, but he had come,
nonetheless, wanting to evoke Heather’s presence, to feel
her, sense her, touch her once again…but she was dead, he
reminded himself firmly, blinking back the irritation in his
eyes caused by the cool wind.
Duncan unloaded his burdens with a grunt and a sigh,
stretching his back with relief and, Connor suspected, a
desire to make his suffering obvious to his teacher. Well,
if the boy expected pity, he was going to be sorely
disappointed, Connor decided grimly. “Unload the horse,
then you’ll need to find some dry wood for a fire,” he
instructed as he pulled his claymore, and his bow and arrow
from his saddlebags.
“Dry wood?” Duncan sounded incredulous. He looked
half-drowned, his clothes and hair plastered to his skin
from the steady rain.
Connor didn’t deign to answer, just moved underneath a ledge
of rotted wood and stones that provided some shelter from
the wet, beginning to clear a space for them to make camp.
Duncan made a uniquely Scottish noise in the back of his
throat, effectively communicating his disgust and disbelief,
and Connor hid his smile. He had missed the sights and
sounds of his homeland, even though they triggered almost as
much heartache as fond memory. But Heather would not have
wanted him to think of the loss, only of their love, so he
deliberately set about conjuring the best of their times
together, and hardly noticed when Duncan left, or when he
returned almost at dusk. It made him start to realize that
if it hadn’t been for the intruding sense of an Immortal, he
would have been so lost in his thoughts and memories that
anyone could have crept up on him unaware.
Somehow, Duncan had found some wood that was dry enough to
burn, and they pulled some threads from the protected sacks
of grain Connor had bought to use as tender. The rain
slacked off a little after dusk and although the ancient
beams dripped steadily, it was more comfortable than being
in the open. The two men shared a meal, and Connor realized
his student was watching his teacher warily, eating in
silence. He reached into his saddlebags and drew out a
bottle of whiskey he had purchased in town, uncorked it and
took a careful swallow, then passed it to Duncan.
“This place brings back a lot of memories,” Connor finally
said, realizing he had been distant and irritable all day.
Duncan nodded, his dark eyes observing him closely as he
took a swallow, then passed the bottle back. “You loved
her, then?”
Connor took a slow, deep breath, reminding himself once
again that Duncan MacLeod was a man, not a boy, and seemed
to be quite sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of those
around him. “Aye,” he nodded. “I was fortunate to know her
before I knew what I really was, and all that it meant.
Immortals spend their lives fighting battles of various
kinds, but I think one of the hardest to win is the battle
of loneliness, of knowing your friends and loved ones will
age and die, leaving you behind to mourn.”
Connor took another careful swallow and passed the bottle
back to Duncan, trying to think what needed most to be
taught, and how best to approach it. So far he knew almost
nothing of his clansman’s life, except the obvious. It was
clear Duncan had taken his role as clan chieftain’s son to
heart, and that it came naturally to him. But he was also a
man who had seen real pain, and known the ultimate rejection
a person can endure, and Connor had no idea whether the
bitterness he had seen in Duncan would ever heal. Perhaps
that was one of his first tasks as a teacher.
“Are you sorry you loved then, since you lost her?” Duncan
asked quietly, and it took a moment for Connor to remind
himself of the topic of their conversation.
“No. Never,” Connor said, taking the whiskey back and
taking a long swallow this time. The liquor and the dark
night, the companionship of another Immortal and the return
to this almost sacred place gently loosened his normal
reluctance to talk about himself. And, he told himself, how
better to encourage his student to trust him than to
demonstrate a little trust, himself.
It would be good to share some of the memories that had been
crowding around him all day, to know that someone else knew
of her, remembered her, if only through stories. He sipped
at the strong liquor, and found himself telling Duncan how
he had met the willful daughter of a blacksmith after his
exile from Glenfinnan, of her beauty and her gentleness, her
courage in the face of her fear that he might leave her once
she grew old, of her kindness and her humor, her willingness
to put up with such a man as he. And he told of the pain
they both felt as the years took their toll, and her body
gradually failed. “She died in my arms, and only asked that
I remember her always, on her birthday. And I always do. I
find a church and I light a candle for my beloved Heather.”
When he finished, he was surprised to find moisture on his
cheeks when he thought it had stopped raining, but it felt
like a great weight had been lifted off of his chest, and he
was able to smile.
He looked up at his student, to find him staring into their
small fire, dark eyes liquid and shining in the dim light.
“I’m sorry,” he offered quietly. “I don’t usually go on
like that.”
“No,” Duncan raised his hand slightly as he used the other
to stir the fire with a stick. “It is a blessing to know a
great love like that, to be able to share your life with
another, to grow and learn together. I wish…” Duncan shook
his head with a jerk and turned his head away.
“What?” Connor asked.
“I loved a woman once, but…she died before we…” Duncan
shrugged. “She died,” he finished lamely.
“I’m sorry,” Connor said. He had been so lost in his own
memories, he had not been paying much attention to anything
else. Right now, all he wanted to do was fold himself in
the sense of Heather’s nearness, and dream of her. He
blinked hard to shake his thoughts back into order and
focused on Duncan. The whole point, after all, had been to
get his student to talk a little. “Can you tell me what
happened?”
Duncan shook his head. “She fell from a cliff,” he said
softly, staring into the fire. “It was several years ago.”
Connor waited for more, but the silence dragged on. “Surely
there’s more to the tale than that,” he urged at last.
The dark shadow was very still. “Aye,” he whispered.
Connor passed him the whiskey, and Duncan took a swallow and
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was
betrothed to my cousin Robert, who was like a brother to
me. But Debra and I had loved each other practically since
we were children, and we asked permission to marry. But
Debra’s father wouldn’t hear of breaking his promise, and
Robert wanted Debra even if she didn’t love him. I couldna’
blame him. She was so beautiful,” Duncan sounded so young
as he spoke of his love, his voice gentle and soft. “And
she was the daughter of a Campbell village chief, which
would put him in line for leadership in both clans. Robert
challenged me over it, and called me a coward when I refused
to raise a sword against him, but my father said the family
honor had been besmirched and fight him, I must.” The
sudden spurt of conversation died, and Duncan took another
swallow.
“You killed him?” Connor asked, when his clansman seemed not
to want to go on.
The dark head nodded. “Aye. I killed my kinsman. His
blood stained my hands, and I couldn’t stand to think on it,
couldn’t look in the eyes of any of my own village, and I
decided to leave Glenfinnan, but Debra…” Duncan covered his
mouth with his hand and stopped.
Connor said nothing, all the while wondering how long the
boy had waited to tell someone this awful story.
Duncan took a long, shaky breath. “She said she would
rather die than live without our love, and ran to the edge
of the cliff, you know the one? Overlooking the river that
leads down to Loch Sheil?” Connor didn’t know whether
Duncan could see his nod in the dark, because now he seemed
intent on telling the rest. “I told her I’d stay, that I
would marry her, that I could live with Robert’s ghost, but
I couldna’ live with hers, as well. She reached for my
hand, but she had stepped too far out. The earth crumbled
away…and she was gone. I watched her as she fell. I could
see the look of horror in her eyes. I had reached for her,
but…”
Connor reached out and grasped Duncan’s forearm, and the two
men sat in silence until gradually, Duncan’s trembling
eased. “Anyway,” Duncan said gruffly, taking another drink
from the bottle, “Twas a long time ago.”
“Not long enough,” Connor said gently. “Never long
enough.” He took the bottle away, stoppering it carefully
and tucking it into his pack, wondering whether he had taken
on more than he had realized with young Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod. “Go to sleep, Duncan. We have a long day
tomorrow.”
“Aye,” he replied. “In a minute, after I bank the fire and
make sure your horse hasn’t wandered too far off.
Connor recognized a plea to be left alone, so he unfolded
his pallet, and drew his cloak over himself for warmth, his
thoughts still whirling with memories of the wonderful
lifetime he and Heather had spent in this place, and how
fortunate he had been. He was afraid he would be unable to
clear his mind, but the comforting memories folded around
him and he quickly felt himself drifting off to sleep until
a small noise, a movement, a breath, a sigh, pulled his
heavy eyes open. Duncan was still sitting by the fire’s
dying embers, his face etched in pain and tears, his arms
hugging his torso, rocking slightly back and forth.
For a moment, Connor thought of going to him, but decided to
let the man mourn in private. There would be time, he
decided. Plenty of time for them to built trust, and more
than enough pain to share in the process.
To be continued...