Forever
Jung
The Holy Ground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
Contents
The Challenge by Leah CWPack
Now and Then by Palladia
Jung at Heart by Leslie Fish
Therapy by Ysanne
Password of Time by Leslie Fish
Time Heals All Wounds by bookmom
An Unexpected Meeting by Friend of Methos
MID-WEEK
CHALLENGE: FOREVER JUNG
Posted By: Leah CWPack <bizarro7@aol.com>
Date: Tuesday, 11 June 2002, at 10:37 a.m.
Your challenge, should you decide to participate:
Write a short story or scene involving a Highlander Immortal or Immortals,
and a psychiatrist or psychologist. Any mood will do.
Remember to include "MWC" in the subject line of your entry,
before the title, if you wish to have your effort archived online.
Good luck!
MWC:
Now and Then
Posted By: Palladia <cmcintyr@alltel.net>
Date: Wednesday, 12 June 2002, at 10:16 p.m.
"So, Mr. Pierson, let's start with the easy stuff. How old are
you?"
"Fifty," Adam replied, and silently appended,
"centuries."
Dr. Jackson's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're certainly holding
up well."
The man sitting across the desk seemed quite relaxed, and smiled
deprecatingly. "Good genes."
"Evidently. So, tell me about your father."
"I never knew him."
"Well, then, your mother," the psychiatrist went on.
"Doctor, I'm afraid I was a foundling."
"Well, but somebody raised you."
"I was a village's child. You know the saying? 'It takes a village. .
.' "
"Where was this village?" Jackson was feeling somewhat wary.
"Uzbekistan. We were nomads." So there were no records, Adam
smiled inside himself, no addresses, no maps, and nobody to verify or
dispute my tale.
Dr. Jackson favored the man whose legal sanity he was supposed to evaluate
with a wry grin. Pierson didn't fidget, he showed appropriate affect, he seemed
perfectly affable. . . and perfectly opaque.
"Mr. Pierson, do you know why we're here?" Dr. Jackson prided
himself on a partnership in therapy.
The faintest knowing smile curved the mouth of the man on the other side of
the desk. He relaxed into a slouch, stretching long legs toward the desk, and
interlaced his fingers across his flat belly. "We are here to determine
whether I am of diminished capacity to stand trial for murder."
Jackson mirrored Pierson's position, slouched in his own chair, and laced
his fingers over his own regrettably more ample belly. In for a dime, in for
a dollar, he considered, and asked, "Are you?"
"I'm afraid I'm rather thoroughly compos mentis. Alas."
"But you decapitated a man."
"You are familiar with the phrase, him or me?"
"Are you claiming self-defense?"
"Yes." Adam Pierson looked at him with disconcerting directness.
"Then why are you here?"
"It seems that my attorney considers this a more viable defense."
There was a pause in the conversation as the men considered each other. To
give Jackson time to look him over, Adam pretended to consider the diplomas and
awards on the office wall. Impressive.
"So, Mr. Pierson, what did you do in Uzbekistan?"
"I was a horseman."
"In this day and age?"
"In any day and age. That's what we did."
"You used horses for transportation? Mr. Pierson, it's the twenty-first
century."
"Just a few years ago, it was the twentieth century. What's a century,
more or less? There are places, I assure you, where the twenty-first century
has yet to make an appearance."
"Some paleoarchaeologist thinks that horses were first domesticated in
Uzbekistan. I saw a review of her book."
"Yes, I saw it, too," Adam replied. And I told her just where
to go look for the proofs. GPS systems are so handy in places like that.
"What do you think?"
"I think it's very probable. The steppes, the horses, the nomads: we
were made for each other."
"So, Mr. Pierson, as a horseman, what did you do?"
"Cared for the mares and foals. Saw to their matings. Rode in races
sometimes. Played the odd game on horseback. Hunted game. Flew falcons. Drank a
lot of kvass. Killed people."
"What do you mean, 'killed people?'" It was all Jackson could do
to keep from sitting up alertly.
"Oh, you know. Now and then. For sport, for wars, out of boredom. Don't
you want to know about the racing, the falconing? They're really interesting
sports."
"We're not here because of horseracing or falconing. We're here because
you killed someone, and evidently you don't deny it."
"I can't very well deny it. I was caught red-handed. Literally."
Jackson had no reason to think the heating in the room had suddenly failed,
but he was nonetheless chilled. "Just how many people have you
killed?"
"I have no idea." Pierson's face was still, watchful. Here was
where the truth would serve far better than a lie. He'd spent a few years in
some of the world's best - and worst - institutions, and perhaps another
vacation was now in order.
And the truth shall set you free, Adam decided, and began calmly to
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
He could almost read Dr. Jackson's report on him before a word was put to
paper, and it certainly ought to show him to be a madman nonpareil.
He could taste the bad cooking already.
Palladia
MWC:
JUNG AT HEART
Posted By: Leslie Fish <lesliefish@earthlink.net>
Date: Thursday, 13 June 2002, at 7:03 a.m.
The shy young man standing at the back of the crowd of post-lecture
questioners was oddly familiar. The lecturer found himself drawn to that face,
and brushed off the rest of the crowd as quickly as he politely could. When no
one was left but his secretary, who was occupied with fetching their coats, the
young man finally stepped forward to introduce himself.
"Dr. Jung, I'm William Adams, and I'd like to ask you a few questions
about...the Collective Unconscious."
"Adams..." That name rang a bell. Dr. Jung let his associations
collect. What they gave him was a solid image, but not from his waking life.
Just to be certain, he asked: "Have we met before?"
The young man frowned and studied him carefully. "I'm sure we haven't,
sir," he said.
Yet that voice too was familiar. *The psychic phenomenon of 'deja vu',* Dr.
Jung considered. "Ah. And what is your question, young man?"
William Adams smiled fleetingly. "I'd like to ask your opinion on the
archetype of immortality," he said.
The doctor smiled. "The obvious meaning is simply the desire for life.
No one wishes to age, sicken and die. Who would not wish to enjoy life forever?
It is a universal desire."
"Then there's nothing more to it than wishful thinking?" The young
man's smile was back, and there was something subtly ironic in it.
The doctor let his 'internal sense' flow, certain that once again it would
lead him to the truth. "Indeed there is," he answered. "There
are many kinds of immortality, when one thinks about it."
"Such as?" Young Adams hadn't moved, but somehow his posture now
expressed intense eagerness.
"Certainly. There is immortality of the genes, which all living things possess.
There is immortality through works, which humans -- particularly artists --
strive for. There is immortality in the body, which is the legend you speak
of--"
"Ah, then you don't believe it was ever real?" Adams' smile took
on something more than irony.
Dr. Jung felt distinctly the pull of his internal sense, what he privately
called 'the well of synchronicity', and let it guide him. "If it never
was," he answered, "Someday it will be. Our understanding of nature
increases by the year, and what humanity strives for so passionately, it will
eventually possess."
Adams nodded to himself, as if reassured.
The doctor felt impelled to ride his internal vision further. "And
there is also immortality of the soul, which all cultures have believed
in."
"More wishful thinking." That ironic smile was back.
"Possibly not." Now the doctor knew where he'd met this man
before. It was impossible, of course, unless his private theories were correct.
"I have studied, with great interest, cases of reincarnation."
"Cases?" Adams suddenly looked wary. "Verifiable cases,
sir?"
"Indeed." The doctor smiled. "There is a surprising amount of
evidence for it -- not easy to find, I grant you, since modern science cannot
admit to it and therefore ignores such evidence whenever possible. Nonetheless,
I have seen enough to convince myself."
Adams gave him a wary look. "You're certain this isn't wishful
thinking, again?"
"Not on my part." Dr. Jung shrugged. "Frankly, I would prefer
to believe in Heaven and Hell. I assure you, it was the evidence that convinced
me."
"But doesn't convince your colleagues," Adams guessed.
*Gamble,* thought the doctor. *Leap boldly into the unknown, and trust him.*
"My colleagues, sir, do not even admit to evidence of psychic phenomena.
Yet again, I have found it convincing."
Adams blinked, looking distinctly off-balance. "I am...surprised to
meet a modern rationalist who believes such," he murmured.
Jung snorted. "Modern rationalists, my earnest friend, have as many
prejudices as medieval witch-hunters, only tending in different
directions."
Adams laughed. "I won't dispute you there, sir."
"It is prejudice, and nothing else, which ignores evidence," the
doctor went on. "A rational person must examine all the evidence, no
matter what its relationship to his own theories. Even the supposedly
irrelevant or trivial can yield surprising information."
"Such as?" Adams cocked his head, definitely intrigued.
*Now,* said the doctor's internal sense. "For example: all my life I
have had visions, daydreams if you will, of other times and places. These
seemed to be nothing but self-generated fancies -- until I made the effort to
record them in detail, and then check the details against historical
records."
Adams went utterly still. "And what did you find, sir?" he asked
quietly.
"I found that my daydreams had been amazingly accurate -- and they
concerned eras and places that I had never studied. There was no way I could
have gained such information save by psychic means: either by access to some
vast psychic record of all the lives ever lived, or else by reincarnation.
There is no other logical conclusion."
Adams gave him a long fathomless look. "You're saying that...either
there is 'magic' or there are...immortal souls."
Something in his stance told the doctor that this man badly wanted proof, at
least solid evidence, and he would ruthlessly resist anything that smacked of
'wishful thinking'. Again, that internal sense told him that he had the answer.
Dr. Jung relaxed into the feeling and let his words flow.
"Consider: in one of my visions I saw none other than yourself, sir --
different in dress, but identical in features and voice."
"Me?" Adams had gone dead still again. "And just when and
where did this vision place me?"
*Flow...* "Heidelberg, medical school, almost exactly 300 years ago.
Then, too, you were called Adam."
Adams turned white as a sheet.
Dr. Jung knew that his internal sense had struck truth again. "Ah, and
have you seen the same vision, then?"
Adams nodded slowly, staring at him. "I...remember something like that,
yes."
"There is your evidence, then." The doctor smiled. "Make of
it what you will."
Adams nodded once, jerkily. "Either psychic power is real, or souls
are," he whispered.
"Or both," the doctor shrugged. "Does this help answer your
question about immortality?"
Adams visibly shook himself. "Actually," he murmured, "It
raises others."
"Excellent," Jung beamed. "The mark of a true scholar."
"Thank you," Adams mumbled, turning away. He didn't appear to move
fast, yet his stride ate up space.
The doctor watched him go, getting the impression that Adams wasn't truly so
young after all. He had the feeling of an old soul. A very old soul, indeed.
--Leslie <;)))><
MWC:
Therapy
Posted By: Ysanne <ysanne_1@yahoo.com>
Date: Thursday, 13 June 2002, at 1:26 p.m.
“Want another?” asked the doctor, tilting the flask of single-malt toward
Duncan.
“Nah, I’m fine. You often bring along your own medication?”
“Physician, heal thyself,” quoted the doctor with a smile.
Duncan stretched his long legs out in the sleeping bag and folded his arms
behind his head, gazing upward. The stars were starkly bright in a cloudless
sky, beautiful to see after living in the city. On the other side of the
campfire his friend rustled around busily, then Duncan heard the doctor draw up
the heavy zipper to close his own bag.
“Okay, Sean?”
“Fine,” said the doctor.
Duncan could sense him ready and listening in the silence. After a few
moments Duncan said quietly, “Glad you were free to come.”
“You know that I like to camp.”
“I know that you always make time for me. Sean, I don’t mean to get in touch
only when I have something on my mind. I hope you know that.”
“I do. We’ve spent many a dissolute evening together though the years, or
are you trying to forget those red-haired twins in Vienna?”
“I swear, if you bring them up one more time…! Aren’t you supposed to be
building up my ego instead of embarrassing me to death?”
“Immortals don’t die of embarrassment,” the doctor chuckled, “though I
suppose there’s always a first time.” After a moment the deep voice spoke
again, infinitely gentle. “They don’t die of broken hearts either, Duncan. Need
I remind you of that?”
Duncan swallowed hard, blinking back the quick, hot pressure of unshed
tears. “No,” he said, forcing the word through the tightness in his throat.
“No,” repeated the doctor kindly, “your mind is clear on that point, but
your heart is still uncertain of the truth of it. An uncertain heart, and a
broken one, Duncan, is a heavy burden. Lay it down. Lay it down and let me
watch over it just for tonight.”
In the circle of firelight there was silence broken only by the rise and
fall of insect voices and the pop and hiss of flames. The doctor closed his
eyes, waiting. Finally, he heard a deep sigh, and the rustle of a sleeping bag.
He opened his eyes to see Duncan looking at him from the other side of the
fire. He met the dark, troubled eyes, warm affection clearly showing through
the professional mask of calm interest.
“Sean, did I ever mention Jakob Galati? He and his wife Irena were gypsies,
and I spent time with their clan.”
“You’ve been friends for many years,” Sean said.
“Yes. Now they’re dead, and I have Jacob’s Quickening.” Duncan’s voice held
a mixture of anger and sadness.
“I see.”
“No! No, you don’t. I didn’t fight him, but I was there when he was
murdered. Mortals. They cut off his head and I was there.”
“And his Quickening found you.” Sean’s sharp eyes saw the shudder that moved
through the other man.
“God. That’s one way to put it. It was my fault that he was there. I trusted
someone that I shouldn’t have, and he delivered Jakob right into the hands of
those murderers. He and someone else.” The last few words were husky with
suppressed emotion.
“You cared about Jakob, and about the others, too.”
There was a rough breath of humorless laughter from Duncan.
“Yeah. When will I ever learn?”
“To stop trusting, or to stop caring?”
“I dunno. Maybe both. Either way brings disaster to someone I love.”
“Disaster is a human condition, Duncan. Do you think you can protect the
people you love from disaster?”
“Why can’t I? What’s the point if I can’t make a difference? What’s the
bloody point?”
“You make a difference because you care, and because you
trust. It’s who you are, Duncan.”
“But it’s not enough, Sean! I tried so hard to make it all right, but it all
fell apart. I trusted them, but they didn’t trust me. Except Jakob. He trusted
me and he died for it.”
“You tried to tell the others what to do, and they wouldn’t listen.”
“Why should they listen to me?” Duncan said with heavy sarcasm. “I’m only
their friend.”
“Friends listen to one another. They trust in each other.”
“Yes! They’re supposed to! Why didn’t they?”
“Did they say why?”
Silence filled the camp once more. The doctor looked up at the stars, not at
Duncan, until the hesitant voice came.
“They said…they said it was him or me.”
“And they made their choice,” said the doctor, holding Duncan's gaze, “which
meant death for Jakob, and life for you.”
Duncan nodded, and turned his face away.
“You’d rather make those choices for yourself,” Sean said quietly, “even if
it means risking your life.”
“You understand. Why didn’t they?”
“Perhaps they did,” Sean suggested, feeling a moment of empathy for the
nameless friends who had chosen life for Duncan, even at the risk of their
friendship.
Duncan turned to his side and stared into the fire. The doctor knew that
Duncan would spend weeks thinking things through. It was his way, just as
forgiving his friends was his way. He sent a little prayer of thanks into the
starry void for Duncan’s friends.
Ysanne
MWC:
PASSWORD OF TIME
Posted By: Leslie Fish <lesliefish@earthlink.net>
Date: Friday, 14 June 2002, at 2:30 p.m.
Sean Burns shoveled some more coals onto the grate, set down the scoop and
returned to the sofa beside his guest. He took care to lift his glass and take
a ritual sip of the brandy before saying anything.
Sure enough, the comfortable silence prodded Methos into speech. "I hope
you're no longer overcrowded with casualties from the war," he ventured.
"No, thank God," Sean agreed. "We're back to mostly civilian
cases now. We even have room to spare, for a change." *No more hint than
that. Under that suave exterior he's incredibly skittish.* "What name are
you using again? I have trouble keeping track of them."
"Adam Walters, for the moment." Methos smiled briefly and took a
reasonable sip from his glass.
*Some variation on 'Adam' for the past century now,* Sean considered. *The
barest clue to his real identity. He's slowly growing less paranoid.* "So,
what merry adventures have you had since I saw you last?"
Methos favored him with an arched eyebrow. "You know I avoid adventure
like the plague. Given a choice, I'll always choose the quietest place I can
find."
*Try another approach. He wants my help, or he wouldn't be here, but he's
still painfully cautious.* "Well, what marvelous knowledge have you
studied, then?"
Methos gave him an arch smile that only an experienced eye could have called
brittle. "I hope you won't be jealous if I tell you I've been keeping
track of developments in psychiatry."
*Aha!* "Not at all," Sean laughed. "If you get a degree in
it, come work for me. We can always use another resident. And, being a
religious hospital, this is holy ground." *Reassure him, but be subtle.*
"I don't think I have the temperament..." Methos carefully set his
glass on the table. The tension in his neck was noticeable. "Simply as a
study, though, I find it fascinating. What can you tell me about techniques for
regaining...lost memories?"
*So that's it!* "There are enough to fill a book, and new ones being
discovered every day. The trick is to choose one that fits your situation. It
would be easier to show you than to explain..." *Careful. Wait for it.*
But Methos only laughed and looked away. "I'll have to wait for the
book then. When you finish it, be sure to give me an autographed copy."
*Evading, but not running too far.* "Gladly," Sean promised.
"What else interests you?"
Methos gazed at the fire, his fingers unconsciously knitting together.
"Finding the causes of inexplicable phobias," he said
expressionlessly.
"Same problem," Sean said, very gently. "One has to choose a
technique that fits the problem, and the sufferer. Give me an example."
*Careful!*
Methos drew a deep breath and turned to look at him. "I'm afraid of the
sea," he said, all in a rush.
*Breakthrough!* Sean nodded sympathetically. "I suppose you've already
looked for painful memories connected with it."
"Yes, and found a few." Methos laughed dryly. "A woeful
tendency to mal-de-mer, for one thing."
"Understandable," Sean chuckled with him.
"And a nasty incident with a boat-load of Irish monks, in the
eleven-hundreds, for another." Methos grimaced, and took a quick mouthful
of brandy. "I had the bad luck to heal in front of them, and they promptly
fell to arguing over whether I was a witch or a demon."
"Ah. At least they could't burn you at the stake."
"They actually considered it, but the Captain refused to allow it -- in
no uncertain terms. He also objected to their spilling my blood on his deck. So
they ended by throwing me into the sea." Methos took another, more
leisurely sip. "I wouldn't have minded so much, if the water hadn't been
freezing cold. I froze, then drowned, a dozen times before I finally reached
land."
"Nasty indeed," Sean agreed. "I should think that would also
give you a serious dislike of cold water, small wooden ships, and Irish
monks."
"I've always disliked cold," Methos shrugged, "But I'm not
afraid of it. Or of ships, or monks -- Irish or not."
"So that's not the reason, then."
"And I don't know what is." Methos fixed his eyes on the fire.
"I've searched my memories, and all I've found is...a lot of gaps."
"I see." *Traumatic amnesia, doubtless.* "Then there are two
possibilities. Either some unpleasant incident is hiding in one of those gaps,
or else the sea is only a symbol of something else you fear. Which do you think
it is?"
Methos rested his chin on his interlaced fingers and thought for a long
moment. "I don't think it's symbolic," he finally answered. "For
me, the sea doesn't represent anything else. It's entirely itself, its own
creature..."
*"Creature"?* Sean's ears picked up. "Does it have a mind of
its own?"
"Yes," Methos whispered, staring at the fire as if hypnotized by
the low blue flames.
"What is that mind like?"
"Treacherous!" Methos hissed. "Looking so calm and peaceful
and inviting, just waiting for you to come within reach, and then it--"
He flinched violently, knocking into the table. The brandy sloshed
indignantly in its glass. Sean reached out and wrapped an arm around his
shoulders, feeling him shudder. It took long moments for his breathing to
quiet.
"What did you see?" Sean asked softly. "What did it do?"
"I'm not sure." Methos gave him a quick glance, revealing a mix of
fear and determination. "I didn't see anything, as such... Only an
impression: the sea, turning into a giant monster, reaching out to grab people
and crush them." He shivered again.
*"Crush"? Not drown? And twice now he's said "reach".*
"Think. How can the sea reach out and grab people?"
Methos flinched again. "--n'retre-- I don't know!" he gasped.
"I don't know!"
"Easy, easy..." Sean squeezed his shoulders comfortingly, mind
racing. *You don't know? When even I can make a few guesses? And what was that
word? Latin roots... 'Ne', negative: 'no'. 'Retre...' Return, back? 'Don't'
something 'back'? "Don't go back" or "don't look back"?* He
could all but see the edges of the barrier. Now to get around it. "Gently
now, pull back, back to a safe distance."
Methos nodded acquiescence and reached for the brandy again. He drained the
glass before he set it down again. "Obviously some nasty incident I've
carefully forgotten," he muttered. "Raiders from the sea,
perhaps."
*Not people: the sea itself,* Sean corrected. "There are other ways to
come at this," he said calmly, pushing the table away. He pulled a small
throw-pillow up from the corner of the sofa and set it on his lap. "Here,
kick off your shoes and make yourself comfortable. Off with that jacket, and
the tie. Loosen your collar and unbutton your sleeves."
"Comfortable?" Methos snorted, but did as he was bid.
"There," he said, wriggling his liberated toes. "What's the next
step?"
Sean patted the throw-pillow. "Lie down and put your head in my
lap."
Methos gave him an almost offended look. "Lie down on the
psychiatrist's couch, is it? How clichéd."
"Sofa, actually," Sean grinned. "And it's simply more
comfortable than the floor."
"What's the point of lying down, anyway?"
"Just so that you can relax and concentrate."
"Hmm..." Methos looked around the room, eyes staying briefly on
the sturdy latched door, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the
modest crucifix above the fireplace. Obviously he was reminding himself that
this was Sean's private study, no one would come in, the walls were effectively
soundproofed, and this was holy ground. Last, his eyes rested long on Sean, judging
him to be an old friend, and trustworthy. He sighed, stretched out on the sofa
and laid his head gingerly on the pillow. "Now what?" he asked,
partly flippant, partly afraid.
"Next," said Sean, holding out one arm, "Take hold of my
hand."
Methos gingerly took it, gripped briefly, then relaxed. Sean gently rested
his other hand on Methos' forehead, and waited to see if the man complained or
tried to twitch it away. Methos didn't; he only kept wary eyes fixed on Sean's
face.
"Now, do you trust me?" Sean asked.
Methos blinked, but his gaze didn't waver. "Yes," he said -- then
smiled wryly. "And not just because we're on holy ground."
Sean grinned back, accepting. "Now the big question," he said.
"How much do you want to lose this fear?"
"Very much." Methos frowned. "It...interferes with my ability
to travel, and in this day and age that could be dangerous." His
expression shaded into anger. "Besides...I'm ashamed of it."
"And angry at it?"
"Yes!"
"Good." Sean stroked his hair, once, then returned his hand to its
starting-point. "This fear is an enemy, and you want to fight it. That
means you don't obey it, don't let it command you, don't let it stop you until
you've dug out its roots and destroyed it. Can you see it that way?"
"Yes..." Methos' eyes narrowed, as if fixing on an opponent.
"What's my weapon?"
*Good! Very good.* "We'll start with imagination," said Sean.
"Close your eyes and imagine that you're sitting in a
cinema-theatre."
Methos raised a questioning eyebrow, but dutifully closed his eyes.
"You're the only person in the audience, because this is a private
showing. You're talking to me through a telephone headset, and you command the
projection-booth through a series of buttons on a board." Sean gently
squeezed his hand on Methos'.
"How very modern," Methos muttered, smiling, not opening his eyes.
His fingers pressed and Sean's hand, as if poking buttons on a board.
"You can run the film forward, or freeze it at any particular frame, or
rewind it, or speed it ahead to the next scene." Sean carefully noted
which of Methos' fingers pressed his hand at each suggestion. "You must
tell me everything that's happening in the film. You understand?"
"Yes, oh theatre-critic," Methos smiled. "What's the film
about?"
"Curtain going up. The opening scene is, from the camera's point of
view, you're sitting on a low hill overlooking a beach, in bright daylight,
looking out at the ocean. It's calm, low waves, nothing's happening."
Methos frowned slightly, but didn't move. "I see it."
"Let the scene progress, viewer. Tell me what else you see."
Methos barely twitched one eyebrow. "People," he murmured.
"Digging up clams, crabs...with sticks. Some horses grazing nearby.
Seagulls diving for fish."
"It sounds lovely and peaceful. Keep watching. Tell me what
happens."
"Nothing yet..." Then a long silence.
Sean waited, noting a slight pressure from the "forward" finger.
Then a sudden tightening of muscles--
"Saliot!" Methos shouted, lunging under Sean's hands. He snapped
his eyes open, and they were wide with panic.
*Latin? Something older?* "Freeze the scene!" Sean commanded,
gratified to feel Methos' hand clench on his. "Tell me what you see."
"It jumped!" Methos fixed his eyes on Sean's face, struggling to
hold the memory clear. "The sea-- The horizon-- It jumped up! I saw
it!"
"Scary film," Sean soothed, stroking Methos' forehead. He didn't
dare let himself tremble, though he could guess what was coming.
"I don't think I want to watch this film anymore." Methos' voice
was a little calmer, but still shaky. "I think I can guess the rest of the
plot."
"Don't let the fear win," said Sean, meeting Methos' eyes.
"Don't let it drive you away. There's knowledge to be gained here. Don't
let the fear keep you from it."
Methos took several deep breaths, visibly fighting his chosen enemy. Finally
that determined look spread over his face, and he pressed his head back into
the pillow. "Now what?" he whispered.
"Close your eyes. You're back in the theatre. Roll the film forward,
and go on reporting."
Methos closed his eyes, and his fingers pressed briefly. His breathing was
still fast and harsh. "It's coming," he whispered. "The sea,
rising up...rushing toward us. Everyone sees. They turn, run..." His body
tensed, legs twitching. "I'm running. The horses-- Seize the nearest by
his mane, leap on him. Kick hard. Gallop. Up the slope. Run. The roar..."
His body tensed and began to twist blindly. Sean strained to hold him. A
thin wail threaded from between his bared teeth.
"Don't let the fear stop you," Sean whispered. "Go on."
"So loud," Methos gasped. "Like thunder. Shadow on the
ground-- Cold spray-- Look-- No!" He arched up under Sean's hands.
"Freeze the picture!" Sean shouted, bending close to wrap his arms
around Methos. "Tell me what you see."
"IT'S RIGHT BEHIND ME!!!" Methos' scream rattled off the
fireplace.
He thrashed wildly in Sean's grip, pulling them both off the sofa. All Sean
could do was hold on and try to make the landing soft, then pin Methos against
the carpet and wait until the struggles slacked down.
"Freeze the picture," Sean repeated in Methos' ear. "What do
you see?"
Methos groaned in exhausted terror. "Mountain...moving mountain...black
water...arched up like a hand...and it's coming down."
"Tidal wave," Sean gave it a name. "And you had never seen
nor heard of such a thing before."
Methos shuddered, but said nothing.
Sean took a deep breath and tightened his grip. "Roll film," he
said. "Tell me what happens."
Methos shuddered again, harder, and began struggling vaguely.
"Water..." he sobbed. "The water...crushing..." Abruptly he
went limp.
*He died, that time,* Sean guessed, and loosened his arms. He lifted Methos'
head into his lap and stroked his forehead, gently, repeatedly, waiting. The
hiss and crackle of the fire sounded loud in the silence.
Eventually Methos stirred. He blinked, and looked up at Sean with puzzled
eyes. "What happened?" he asked, as if he'd forgotten.
"The tidal wave caught you," Sean said, very calmly. "You
drowned."
Methos flinched, then trembled hard, remembering. "Yes..."
"Tell me, which was worse: the dying or the instant before?"
Methos thought that over for a long moment. "The instant before,"
he decided. "The terror... Gods! The dying was only pain, and it didn't
last long."
Sean took hold of Methos' hand again. "Was that your first death?"
"No," Methos said absently, "I'd been fans-theauna for a long
time before..."
*'Fans-theauna'?* Sean filed that away for future reference. "Roll
film," he said gently. "What happened when you revived."
Methos squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked out of them.
"Wet...cold...fog everywhere...mud...desolation. Uprooted trees. Bits of
brush. Seashells. Dead fish. A dead horse. Seaweed. Everything stinking of the
sea... Silence. Nothing moving. Nothing alive...but myself."
Sean paused, wondering if this was the right moment to venture into Survivor’s
Guilt. He could see no way to avoid it. "And...those people? The ones on
the beach, digging clams..."
"Gone!" Methos groaned. "All swept away! I outran them, and
they all died. I ran..."
*Yes.* "And you died, too. The only difference is that you revived, and
they didn't. You ran, and they ran, and you all died just the same. It didn't
matter if you ran fast or slow, on foot or on a horse; you all died."
Methos trembled in waves, absorbing that. "It didn't matter..." he
murmured. "We all died... But I found no other bodies! The sea ate them
all, but I stayed on land because I was faster-- got to a horse before they
did--"
"How do you know? How thoroughly did you search for their bodies?"
A long pause, then a slow look of surprise dawned on Methos' face. "I
didn't search at all," he admitted. "Walked uphill...away from the
sound of the sea. Standing trees...forest... I finally reached dry ground.
Found berries, a stream. Slept under a pine tree."
"Speed the film forward. Did you ever go back to that beach, see what
had changed?"
"No!" Methos winced and curled into himself. "They were all
dead. That life was gone. No past. Look only forward. I went on, other lands,
other people. Dry lands, new language. Start again..."
Sean recalled an earlier mystery. "What does 'n'retre' mean?"
Methos winced again. "'Ne retre vide'," he whispered. "Don't
look back."
"For fear of what you'll see?"
"Yes!" Methos curled tighter, and sobs began shaking him.
Sean gathered his friend into his arms and rocked him gently, riding out the
spasm of weeping. *Terror, grief, survivor's guilt,* he considered. *Grief is
winning out. Follow there.*
He waited out the long minutes until the sobs sank away, then said:
"Freeze film. Now roll it back. Bach beyond the tidal wave. Back before
the people came down to the beach and started digging clams. Go to where
they're just starting down toward the sea. Can you see them?"
"Yes," Methos whispered, relaxing out of his tight curl.
"Who are they? What people?"
"Djana-os-gen..." Methos started, as if surprised to hear himself
say those words. He thought for a moment. "Related to the Carians, I
think. West of Caria, on the south shore of...Anatolia. We knew of Troy, and
Knossos..."
"Where?" Sean puzzled at the unfamiliar name.
Methos gasped and sat up, eyes wide. "My God, I think I know when that
was! Knossos hadn't fallen-- The tidal wave-- It must have been from the
eruption! It couldn't have been... No later than 1250 BC, if the archeologists
are right. It could have been earlier..."
*3800 years ago.* Sean marveled. *A long time to carry a phobia around!*
"So now you know when, and where, and who. All that remains is, what were
those people to you?"
Methos bowed his head. "My people," he said softly. "A gentle
and kindly people. They accepted me. I was happy there."
*"Accepted"?* "For how long?"
"Six generations. I was..." Methos froze and stared blindly at the
wall, jaw dropping.
"Six generations?!" Sean gasped. "Then they knew-- Methos,
what were you to them?"
Slowly, Methos managed to shape the words. "Fans-theauna," he
whispered. "Child of the Goddess."
"You were their god?!"
Methos shook his head slowly. "Divine Hero," he corrected.
"Priest, war-chief if they needed one, official risk-taker -- because I
could. People knew about immortals in those days. They knew, and they weren't
afraid!"
"Then all the old myths, about gods and divine heros and-- and--"
"Yes. They were us."
Sean stared at his old friend for a long time. "When did it
change?" he finally asked.
"Not long after." Methos gave him a look full of ancient sorrow.
"New people, coming down from the north. New ideas -- conquest,
might-makes-right, male supremacy, overthrowing the goddesses... And iron. The
Age of Iron. It wasn't just the technology, it was a whole different way of
thinking. The philosophical beginning of the modern age, with all its
cruelties."
"I recall an ancient Greek myth to that effect.."
Methos pulled up his knees and rested his forehead on them. "There's
more truth in those ancient myths than you'd believe, Sean. The symbolism..."
He shuddered. "It's too damned apt! The shadow that fell on me that day
fell over the world in centuries after. The wave that swept away my people also
swept away a whole age of the world. It's been a darker, meaner world ever since.
No wonder our kind had to go into hiding. No wonder...a lot of things."
Sean rested a hand on Methos' shoulder, hoping it gave some comfort.
"I'd love to know what that earlier world was like," he said.
"I'll tell you some time," Methos promised, "Some time when it
doesn't hurt so much."
He raised his head and looked around him, seeming surprised to find himself
on the floor. He pulled himself back onto the sofa and began slowly rolling
down and fastening his sleeves.
Sean got back on the sofa beside him. "Do you think you'll still fear
the sea?"
"No," Methos sighed, reaching for his shoes. "I'll just
dislike it, and never trust it, and now I'll know why."
"And have we filled in that gap in your memory?"
"Yes..." Methos thought for a moment. "There are still
others, but now at least I have some notion of why they're there."
"Whenever you're ready..." Sean hinted, and stopped.
"Eventually," Methos promised. "Maybe next year. One...'scary
film' per year is all I think I can take."
"Same time next year, then." Sean smiled. "I'll schedule it
on my appointment calendar."
"I'll make a note of it." Methos worked his way into his tie, then
jacket. Only when he stood up and moved toward the coat-rack did Sean realize
that he meant to leave.
*So soon?* he thought sadly. *Still so afraid, my old friend?* "Before
you go, could you answer one more question?"
"If I can." Methos stood poised, close-faced, unwilling to give
away any more of himself.
Sean sighed. "You said the tidal wave was caused by an eruption. What
was it that erupted, can you tell?"
Methos smiled humorlessly. "A volcanic island, near the shores of
Greece, as I learned later. I'd been there myself, in earlier centuries. An odd
place: three concentric rings of land, with circular harbors between them,
surrounding a central island famed for its hot springs. The soil on all the
rings was wonderfully fertile, and the people had grown wealthy off the
sea-trade. Of course, nobody at the time realized that the soil was fertile
because it was volcanic -- or that those rings were the cones of previous volcanoes,
or that those springs were hot for a reason."
"Fascinating," said Sean, thinking of maps in his books. "Do
you recall the name of the island, or precisely where it was?"
Methos' smile grew tighter as he shrugged into his coat. "It stood
where the Santorini Group of islets lies today; you can find that on a good
enough map. Of course, it had a different name then -- and it was supposedly
under the protection of a goddess. Don't bother to get up, Sean; I'll see
myself out."
*Running again,* Sean sighed. Simply to prolong the conversation, he asked:
"What goddess was that, do you recall?"
"Atalanta," said Methos, as he stepped through the door. "Au
revoir, Sean." He closed it behind him.
Sean was pulling the large world-atlas book off the shelf when the implications of that name hit him. By then, of course, Methos was long gone.
MWC:
Time Heals All Wounds
Posted By: bookmom <slblack@idirect.com>
Date: Saturday, 15 June 2002, at 12:34 p.m.
Gregor wandered aimlessly through the maze of corridors and found himself in
the west wing again. The sound of his hard - heeled boots echoed hollowly off
the bare walls and tiled floor. It was a lonely sound. It matched his mood.
He wasn’t surprised to see where his feet led him. Gregor opened the French
double doors and welcomed the peace he felt as he stepped into the room. There
was nothing in the room to indicate its one time use, but Gregor suspected it
had been hastily consecrated to serve as a Chapel in WW1.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed in the windows. Gregor sat down on the
chintz sofa and watched the dust motes swirl in the golden haze. It felt good
to be here with the steady thrum of holy ground beneath his feet. He had been
living a reckless life for too long now. The blackness of despair had all but
swallowed him whole. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The glint of
his own sword high above Duncan’s head flashed jaggedly through his mind.
Gregor hadn’t been expecting to feel the abject terror that had knifed
through him when he knew it was over. He’d yelled at MacLeod to take his head.
It would be a blessed relief, but the sound of MacLeod’s roar and the deadly
sound of the final stroke was enough to release all the pent up pain of the
last hundred years. It flooded through him along with the certainty that he did
not want to die. He’d never forget the resigned but determined look in his
friend’s eyes as the sharp blade bit into his throat. Duncan had been prepared
to help him die or live.
They’d spent the rest of the night talking. Duncan talked candidly about his
own pain and losses. Self - imposed exile on holy ground was not an option he
would choose, but Gregor was glad it had worked for his friend. Talking to an
Immortal shrink hadn’t appealed to him either but Duncan had been persuasive
and here he was.
“Ah, I thought I might find you here.” Sean Burns’ presence and voice
intruded on the unwanted vision.
Gregor opened his eyes to see Sean standing in the doorway.
“You’re not alone in this, Gregor.”
“I’ll always be alone, Doc,” Gregor said bitterly. “They all die, mortal,
immortal. It doesn’t matter.” Gregor got up from the sofa and walked to large bank
of windows.
“You’re not alone, not now, not ever,” Sean said quietly. He perched on the
piano stool, hands on his knees. “Duncan cares and you hold that in your heart.
It was what brought you here in the first place.”
“I came because he wanted me to.”
“There are many more in your heart. Listen to them.”
“I did!” Gregor said hotly. “I heard them every day!” His eyes scanned the
manicured lawn drinking in the calming green expanse. Willing himself not to
bolt as strong emotions threatened to overwhelm him, Gregor took a deep breath.
“The pain and anger consumed you and it found an outlet in your photography.”
Gregor’s voice was muffled behind the hand that rubbed compulsively at his
beard. “It was like a drug. I searched out more and more violent subjects as I
began to feel less and less, hoping, trying to feel something.”
“You conveyed those feelings so well, Gregor, that it got you national
recognition. But that’s not how you want to feel is it?”
Gregor spun around. “How many have you buried, Doc? How many lives have
slipped through your fingers? How many centuries can one man stand knowing that
he will live and they will die no matter what he does?” He asked savagely.
“Everybody dies, Gregor.” Sean’s blue eyes were full of compassion. “You
chose to be a doctor. How many lives have you saved? How many would have been
lost if it hadn’t been for you?”
“They still died!” he screamed.
Sean’s intuition told him Gregor was talking about a specific incident.
“What was her name, Gregor?” Sean asked quietly.
“Laura.”
Sean had to strain to hear it, but with this small admission, he knew that
in time, Gregor would heal.
An
Unexpected Meeting--not exactly qualify for MWC, I guess, since
Posted By: FoM, <fomnumberone@yahoo.com>
Date: Tuesday, 18 June 2002, at 11:10 a.m.
the characters isn't an immie...I think she's pre-immortal, but there are
immortals we all know and love involved.
It's just a start...
“Your turn.” The young receptionist smiled a brief, plastic smile at Paula
and indicated the door to the doctor’s office, her gesture revealing a flash of
burgundy colored fingernails.
Paula noticed and thought, At least they match her hair, then felt instantly
guilty at the slightly snide nature of her reaction. The girl’s appearance was
unorthodox to say the least, not at all suitable for a professional office, or
so Paula thought. What had come over Felix to hire such a person? Paula nodded
at the girl and collected her purse.
The smell of fresh paint nearly overwhelmed Paula and it exacerbated the
headache already pounding in her temples. The office had been redecorated since
her last visit. And about time, too, she had thought, while waiting to go in.
Felix just did not think about those things. He neglected the office so long
that Peggy, his secretary of fifteen years, had finally given up and left in a
huff. Felix had let her go, fully believing she would be back. After all, she
had left five times in twice as many years and she always came back. But not
this time, according to Vega, the hip young receptionist who seemed to enjoy
telling the story. As the days passed and Peggy did not show up, the imminently
respected, albeit somewhat absent-minded psychiatrist, began to wonder. A month
came and went, and he grew worried. After suffering through six weeks and six
temps, Felix finally realized this time Peggy's leaving was different and
mounted a full-fledged campaign to woo his veteran secretary back to her old
job. But she would have none of it. She had found a position as office manager
for a clinic owned by two yuppie psychiatrists, both recently returned from
studying in Germany. The pay was better, she was allotted a month’s vacation,
and best of all, the office was brand new.
Felix, or ‘the Head Man’ as Vega referred to him a few moments before, had
mourned Peggy’s departure for two more days, staying holed up in his office,
refusing phone calls and seeing no one. Then out he had come, Vega said, and
ordered her to get a decorator in to re-do everything. He told her to choose
whatever paint and wallpaper she wanted.
That explains the cannabis-and-peace sign border on the walls, Paula had
thought wryly.
Then he told her, Vega continued, to take, like, two weeks off, but only
after the remodeling was finished. The painter had rolled up his drop cloth
last night, and come Saturday morning, Vega declared, she was headed for the
beach. Paula was lucky because she was the only patient on the Head Man’s list
today. Vega paused for a moment of significant silence while staring intently
at Paula, hoping she would pick up the cue and reschedule. Paula returned the
stare, silent and unyielding. Vega sighed and finished her prepared speech,
saying it was too bad, since he had split, like, only a few minutes before
Paula walked in.
Upon hearing this last, Paula felt irritation sweep over her. She urgently
needed to talk to Felix. He was the only person she felt she could trust,
especially with what she wanted to discuss. She could hardly believe it herself
and she needed his perspective. Felix was never shocked, never surprised by
anything she told him. Good old laid back, unflappable Felix. Hmph, I’d wager
good money he’ll be shocked this time, she thought, probably even call me
delusional. She was feeling more than irked at him for leaving. He had agreed
to see her. He should keep his appointments. This was not like Felix at all.
Her mind reeled in surprise and her thoughts dashed madly about. He couldn’t do
this to her, not now of all times! She needed to talk to him! And who under the
sun was this girl with the maroon hair and nails and ye gods! She was smearing
black gloss all over her lips! Black!
“’Purple Haze’,” Vega said, and pressed her lips together then opened them with
a loud smack. That little gesture had the effect she hoped for: Vega saw two
red spots appear on the woman’s cheeks.
Paula willed her thoughts to quietness, composed herself, and forced her
face out of a disapproving frown, thinking, Oh God, I’ve become my mother!
“Most people say it’s, like, maroon, but it’s Purple Haze. Could it, like,
be any more out there?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yeah, it’s out there for sure.” The smile Paula
was forcing to her lips froze when the girl stuck out her tongue at her own
reflection in the compact mirror, revealing not one, but two gold balls smack
in the middle of her tongue. Paula flinched then swallowed hard, watching
another moment as the hip young woman proceeded to perform what Paula surmised
must surely be a new art form. A tongue contortionist, she thought. Why did I
not see this coming?
Paula tried again. “Wait, let’s go back a moment. So Felix just left. What
time will he be back?”
Vega shrugged.
“He’s gone for what, like, an hour? Like, for lunch?” Oh God, I’m starting
to sound like her.
“Nope.”
“What…what do you mean?”
“’Us’ ‘hat I sai’. ‘E’s ‘istory.” Vega glanced at Paula and let go of her
tongue. “But don’t worry. He knew you’d be over it. He sent one of his boys in
to see you instead.”
Paula took a deep breath and swallowed her anger only after biting her own
tongue quite hard.” One of his boys,” she murmured the words, as she stood.
Vega nodded absently while admiring her nails. She knew the woman standing
in front of her desk was furious, but this was nothing new for Vega. My mother
all over again, she thought. I can deal.
Paula felt herself careening into a state of high anxiety. This was not a
simple visit to chat about job and stress and surface relationships, or even
one of the more in-depth topics of discussion they often entertained in
session. There was a new man in her life, someone she thought she could truly
care for; in fact, she did not want to admit to herself how much she already
cared for him. This was a huge step for her, becoming involved with someone
again, something she had sworn to herself she would never do. Given the poor
choices she had made of late, this was a promise to herself she had intended to
keep.
But this man was different from anyone she had ever known. She shook her
head slightly, knowing she would have to think of a different way to say it to
Felix. He would not laugh outright at her, but he would think her involved in a
mere adolescent infatuation if she used those words. This, however, was no mere
infatuation. It had the makings of something serious. Besides, she could not
help herself; she had been excited and thrilled, practically giddy with
happiness the last few weeks, and she wanted Felix to meet him. And, she
grudgingly admitted to herself, she wanted Felix’ approval. Not his permission,
she insisted to herself. Felix didn’t even have to like the man, just a nod of
approval. That was all she wanted.
How could Felix *not* like him? she argued to herself. He was intelligent,
and witty, and sophisticated; and for all his sophistication, not at all
stuffy. He was genuine, a trait nearly impossible to find these days, and
completely unaffected. And heaven knew, in the circles in which she moved, both
socially and in her antique business, she had encountered enough stuffy,
affected people to last her several lifetimes. This man was indeed different.
He had a sense of humor and a way of making her feel as if she were the only
woman in the world. He was charming and thoughtful- -he laughed in all the
right places at her stories. He was in terribly good shape, very fit. And his
shoulders, Lord! Despite her irritation at Felix, her stomach fluttered at the
thought of his broad shoulders.
She inhaled, then exhaled slowly, focusing on the girl in front of her. “Just
who …about whom are you speaking?”
Vega jerked her thumb toward the door. “He’s in there. Mr. Adams, or was it
doctor? Uh, Dr. Adam Benjamin…or uh, Dr. Benjamin Adams. Geez, I don’t
remember. Hunh. Oh, well, knock yourself out…I mean, go ahead, he’s waiting on
you.”
“How am I…who…how do I know…--?”
Vega raised an eyebrow, the one with three rings at the end of it. “So go in
already.” She made a shooing gesture with her hands.
Thoroughly irked, head pounding, patience gone, Paula glared at the girl,
tried twice to speak, and finally said, “Oh …just…never mind!” and strode the
remaining few feet to Felix’s office, opened the door, and entered like a
whirlwind. She let the heavy door bang closed behind her.
Vega breathed, “Be-atch!” and grabbed her bag, muttering “I’m outa here.”
And she walked out.
The sight of Felix’s empty office brought Paula up short. She inhaled
sharply and muttered, “That little…LIAR! How DARE she? I can’t believe…!” Paula
expressed her anger in a string of colorful epithets. She punctuated her
sentence by flinging her purse at the back of Felix’s tall chair. Her aim was
dead on and the purse smacked the chair with a thud.
“Bulls eye.” The word floated into the air, shocking Paula into
speechlessness.
The chair swung around. “Except your target’s out there, I believe?”
Paula stood, openmouthed and breathless. She gasped, then croaked, "I
didn't know there was anyone...I mean, I thought nobody was really here."
"Obviously." The young man in Felix' chair gave her an affable
smile.
"I'm so sorry. I mean, I apologize for the tantrum. I--"
"No apologies necessary. I've heard far worse, I assure you." He
noted her flushed face and trembling hands. "Are you quite all
right?"
"Yes...no...um, I'm not sure."
He rose. "Do sit down for a moment." He stepped from behind the
desk and took her elbow, helping her to the sofa. She sank gratefully into the
thick, overstuffed leather cushions. So he's British, she thought.
"Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Adam Benjamin. Felix asked me
to meet with you this morning."