The
Howl Nine Yards
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
The Littlest Boyscout by Ghost Cat
MID-WEEK
CHALLENGE: THE HOWL NINE YARDS
Posted By: Leah CWPack <bizarro7@aol.com>
Date: Thursday, 7 March 2002, at 9:41 a.m.
Your challenge, should you decide to participate:
Write a short story or scene involving one or more HIGHLANDER characters
(immortal or otherwise) and a highly unruly child in a public place.
Remember to put "MWC" in the subject line of your posting if you
wish to have your entry archived.
MWC
(finally): "The Littlest Boyscout"
Posted By: Ghost Cat <ghost_cat@hotmail.com>
Date: Monday, 1 April 2002, at 2:52 p.m.
The first rule that every Watcher learns is not to be noticed. But the
keenest eyes of all are the ones that are most often overlooked. And once you
attract the attention of the curious, it is hard to turn that attention
elsewhere.
Paris seemed dark and dreary as Joe Dawson made his first preliminary notes
on a very difficult report. He walked the quays of the Seine, contemplating a
woman’s death… and a man’s rebirth. Of all the trials that his subject had been
through, this had to be the worst; no wonder MacLeod had retreated to familiar
ground. Suddenly, the Watcher’s brooding thoughts were interrupted by a small
voice, high-pitched but very clear, “Mama, that man is talking to himself.”
Dawson turned toward the sound, and caught the gaze of a stubbornly curious
little boy. He held his ground determinedly as his overworked mother tried to
pull him away. “Joseph, don’t be rude. That man is talking into a machine. He’s
probably a very important American, and doesn’t need to be bothered by foolish
French boys.” She gave the old man a helpless shrug and a harried look of
apology before continuing on her way. In the distance, Dawson heard a groan
that transcended all cultural barriers, “Ah, Ma!”
Dawson had almost forgotten about the whole thing until he heard that same
voice again: “Are you a spy?” The Watcher looked down into a pair of
pale-green, too curious eyes. “Won’t your mother be looking for you?”
The boy was not discouraged. “My mother is shopping; running very boring
errands. Very often I go on my own. “ There was a look in the small boy’s eyes;
a hopeful, half despairing quest for excitement. “Anton, who watches all the
American films, likes to talk about spies.” He frowned, his expression serious
and appraising. “You do not look like a spy. You look like someone’s
grandfather.”
Dawson smiled at the boy, despite an inward sigh. He had forgotten how
perceptive young minds could be, or how insatiably curious. “What’s your name?”
He had heard the mother use it before, but he wanted to turn the boy’s thoughts
elsewhere. The boy drew back a bit, wary as only a street urchin could be;
deciding an old man with a cane could not be dangerous, he stood his ground. “Joseph,”
he said solemnly.
The Watcher broke into a smile that seemed quite grandfatherly. He shifted
his weight carefully to offer a hand. “A very good name indeed. I should know,
it’s my name too. Most people call me Joe.”
Young Joseph grew suddenly suspicious, ignoring the proffered hand. “You
know,” he began thoughtfully, “a very clever spy, one who did not want to
reveal his true name, could easily claim to have the name of the one who asked.”
Another shrewd, measuring gaze; “Perhaps Anton is wrong. Perhaps all the best
spies look like grandfathers.”
This was turning out almost as bad as when MacLeod himself had caught him.
Dawson didn’t remember kids being this smart in his day. He countered the
accusation with calm logic. “Ah, but you didn’t ask me my name, did you? I
volunteered the information. A spy wouldn’t do that, now, would he?” The only
answer was a pout and a very adult sounding harumph before the youngster
disappeared. A quick glance revealed him still nearby, chasing gulls on the
piers.
The Watcher’s respite didn’t last long; the boy quickly grew bored teasing
the birds and returned to his previous entertainment. “You’re watching la
Nobile, aren’t you?” Dawson merely shrugged; “Maybe.”
The boy suddenly looked very concerned indeed, glancing warily toward the
black barge at its dock. “You should be careful. Mr. Nobile always knows when
he is being watched. Sometimes he laughs and chases you away.” (There was no
doubt in Dawson’s mind that the “you” was in fact “me.”) “But sometimes he gets
very angry.” Little Joseph sighed deeply. “I wish the artist lady were here.
Mr. Nobile is always in a better mood when she is around.”
Training told him to deny any knowledge of his subject, but the old Watcher
was starting to feel a kinship with this little man. The words came out in a
rush; “She won’t be coming back.” To his surprise, the boy looked up hopefully
at this. “He took her to America, didn’t he? Mr. Nobile discovered her, and
took her to America, and she became famous, and that’s why she isn’t coming
back.” Joe’s hand clenched around the smooth wood of his cane; oh, to be that
young and optimistic again! “Yeah, kid. Something like that.”
The two stood together in companionable silence; but even this shared moment
couldn’t completely dispel the young boy’s suspicions. “You aren’t with the gendarmes,
are you? Mr. Nobile does not like them. The inspectors come and bother him a
lot; asking him questions. But he is very good at answering questions without
really saying anything. That’s what my uncle says anyway.”
The old man chuckled softly at the boy’s persistence, deciding it deserved a
small reward at last. "No, I’m not a police inspector, and I’m not a spy.
I’m… a writer. Of sorts.” Green eyes gleamed; “Une Journaliste?” Here at last
was some excitement; though privately he would not give up his suspicions that
the old man was a spy. “If you want to know about Mr. Nobile, you should talk
to my uncle; they are good friends. He knows that Mr. Nobile’s real name is
MacLeod, and that he travels a lot. He could tell you stories about the strange
visitors that sometimes come to la Nobile. Some of them are very nasty and
dangerous men.”
Dawson shook his head, trying to hide a smile. “What’s your uncle’s name?”
As if he didn’t already suspect. There was no hesitation or guile in the boy’s
response; “Maurice, of course. If you don’t want to talk to him, though, I
could help you. Mama says I notice things, and I’m very good at remembering.”
This time the Watcher couldn’t stop himself from laughing; the littlest
boyscout, courteous, helpful and true. He tossed the boy a handful of sous; “You
want to help? Go get me a cup of coffee; I’m freezing out here.”