Redemption, Chapter Eleven
morga...@my-deja.com
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MacLeod and Dawson's flight into Labrador was delayed two days as a yet
another storm roared up the east coast of North America. When they
stepped down onto the windy tarmac of Mary Harbour's small airport, Joe
gasped. "Hell of a place to disappear," he said, limping with all
possible speed toward the tiny terminal. "Why couldn't Cassandra have
chosen the Caribbean?"
The rented car was waiting for them. A rosy-cheeked girl handed over
the keys. "Cold one, eh?" she said happily. Joe growled and they were
off.
Duncan's travel agent had found them lodgings at the edge of town and
the name of a marina where they might find someone to take them to Elwyn
Island. According to the agent, convincing anyone to do so would not be
easy, and she recommended taking plenty of cash.
"Elwyn doesn't like visitors, and most of the folk on the mainland know
it."
It took only a few minutes to find the bed and breakfast. An elderly
woman, beaming, ushered them into a parlor where a fire burned in a tiny
wood stove. Her name was Wendy MacGeorge and, from her thick Scot's
accents, it appeared she was not native-born. She was delighted to find
a fellow expatriot in MacLeod and they were soon chatting up a storm.
It never occurred to her to wonder how such a young man knew so much
about Scotland in the 1940's.
The marina, she informed them, was closed at the moment - there being a
town meeting. Still, Gabe Seversson, the owner, was expecting them in
the morning.
They slept soundly in feather beds, the wind sighing around the eaves.
In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of smoked fish, eggs, potatoes
and coffee strong enough to bend steel bars, they set off up the coast
to the marina.
"Seversson," Duncan read from his notes. "It should be up here about
three miles."
Sure enough, a sign loomed on the left. Joe turned down an unpaved road
winding through rocks and stony hillocks. He rounded a curve and
stopped. A cluster of unprepossessing, clapboard buildings stood near
the shore, their wood weathered gray.
The place appeared to be deserted, a single, battered pick-up truck
parked on the gravel lot. Gabe Seversson was found in his office,
shuffling through stacks of paper. He was an older man, with the
weathered countenance of one who spent most of his time on the sea.
Yes, he'd heard from Wendy and, although it went against his better
judgment, he'd take them to Elwyn for an exorbitant fee.
"They don't like visitors," he informed them unnecessarily, "and this
time of year, them currents are treacherous. Just like I told that
other fella -- you're better off waitin' until spring."
"Other fellow?"
"Yeah. A Brit, I think. He was lookin' for a coupla boats to charter.
Said it was a corporate fishing trip." Seversson's eyes gleamed.
"Right. This time o'year? Pfagh! Gave me the creeps, he did. I told
him I ain't got good charts -- which ya need if you're gonna find the
right island. He wasn't real happy. Reckon he'll head south. There's
a maritime office Carlington." The man winked. "Course, it ain't open
until Monday."
Joe and Duncan exchanged looks. "When was he here?" asked the
Highlander.
"Yesterday evenin'. Now -- how do you want to pay for this? Mastercard
or Visa?"
****
Cassandra looked up and across Igraine's narrow bed to her mother.
Alison, eyes full of fear, bit her lip.
"She needs more help than I can give her," the Immortal said softly.
"I'd like to take her to the mainland."
The fear blossomed into terror. "No!"
Igraine whimpered, tossing her head from side to side. Cassandra
stroked back the fine, pale hair, felt how hot and dry was the skin
beneath her fingers. It took effort not to explode into anger. She
looked up, past Alison, to Lucius. The high priest sat against the wall
of the small bedroom, Agharn and Williams, his acolytes, beside him.
"Will you lose a daughter and a seeress because of ancient, outmoded
law?" she burst out. "I can arrange for a small, private hospital -
only doctors will ever see her. We can get false papers, manufacture a
past for her. No one need ever know!"
"Igraine's life is in the hands of the Dragon," Lucius replied,
unperturbed. "If it is his will that she come to him, he will send us
another."
"She suffers from a faulty heart valve! These days it's easily
repaired!"
"No," Lucius shook his head, rising from his chair. He gestured toward
the door. Biting back a disgusted retort, Cassandra picked up the
tincture and dribbled another few drops through the parted lips. Then,
with a final caress of the thin cheek, the Immortal got up and followed
the priest into the parlor.
"We cannot risk it," he told her. "The visions do not lie! The White
Dragon is coming. I've seen it! She's seen it! *And* the part the
Horseman will play."
"Ah - but her vision departs from yours in the matter of Methos, doesn't
it?"
He scowled. "She is a child and can misunderstand . . ."
"She is a *priestess*, Lucius! Age has *nothing* to do with it and we
both know it!"
They glared at each other while the acolytes hovered uneasily in the
background.
"The child needs a good cardiologist," she said quietly, forcefully.
"Or do you fear the competition?"
The old man reddened and there were frightened gasps from the boys
behind him.
"You've had no trouble bringing the outside world here," she continued
ruthlessly. "You drive their tractors and trucks, power your houses with
electricity, preserve food with refrigeration. I would suggest bringing
the surgeon here, but I know *that* you will never countenance."
"You overstep your . . ."
"I do *what*?" She drew herself up straight and Lucius become sourer
still. "This is *my* island, Lucius. You are here because I gave up
everything to bring him to safety."
But Lucius was a stubborn old dog. Once, long ago, they had been
lovers. He knew how far to push her and she how far he might be pushed.
In his guardianship of the Dragon, there was little room to move.
Whatever heated response Lucius planned was abruptly cut off. The door
burst open, admitting Charlie, out of breath and looking scared.
Methos! she thought at once, heart going into her throat.
"Cass . . . .andra!" the man gasped. "Outsiders . . . .at the house."
Her heart took another twist. "Who?"
"He says . . . MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod."
Mute, stunned, she could only look at him. MacLeod? *Here?*
"Who?" Lucius was frightened and angry. "See what has . . .?"
"Be quiet! MacLeod is no enemy." She drew a long breath. "I'll finish
up here. Where . . . where is Methos?"
"On the Point."
She nodded. "Keep him there. Wait for me in the truck."
"Who is this MacLeod?" demanded Lucius, following her back into the
bedroom. Cassandra halted by the door.
"An old friend and a . . . great knight."
Lucius' eyes sharpened and at her raised hand, stopped and waited as she
quietly gave Alison instructions, tucked a loosened cover around
Igraine, and returned to the parlor.
"A knight?" the old man repeated eagerly. "A good man?"
"There is no better," she said simply.
****
"Nice place," Joe said finally. "Real nice."
Duncan said nothing. He stared through the march of windows into the
valley. Purple shadow stretched beneath the western cliffs while
overhead, the cerulean afternoon was slowly deepened to indigo.
"Comfortable," the Watcher continued. "Peaceful."
An Immortal was coming. Duncan turned as the door to the great room
opened and Cassandra was there. She wore jeans and a sheepskin jacket,
hair knotted in a careless twist at the nape of her neck.
"Duncan! This is a surprise."
"Imagine so." He smiled slowly. "Nice place."
Joe snorted and, for the first time, Cassandra realized he was there.
"You know Joe," Duncan said. She nodded and forced a smile. "Joe?"
The Watcher smiled.
"Would you mind letting us alone. a moment, Joe. There's a bar in the
other room. Please feel free to help yourself.
It looked as if Joe would object, but something in Cassandra's voice
made him nod and, after another hesitation, leave. She turned on
Duncan, furious: "You brought a *Watcher here?*"
Duncan ignored that. "Where is he, Cassandra?"
"Who?"
MacLeod lifted his brows. She flushed.
"I promised only that I would not kill the monster!"
"Where is he?"
"Have you come to take him? I warn you, MacLeod -- you will have to
challenge me for him!"
"Cassandra, this is madness . . ." He broke, sensing a third presence.
Cassandra said something angry and French.
The door flew open, cutting him off. It was Methos. Duncan's heart
lifted. Right behind him came a tall, blond man, out of breath. He held
something in his fist that he shoved hastily into a pocket at the sight
of MacLeod..
"I'm sorry, Cassandra! I tried to stop him, but. . ."
"It's all right. Thank you, Jason. Please. Leave us."
Methos looked like hell, haggard and undernourished, but the welcoming
grin was undaunted.
"Are you my ride home?"
"I mean it," said Cassandra grimly. "You will have to kill me for him,
Duncan."
Methos' grin faded. Warily, he looked from one to the other. There was
steel around his neck; he touched it absently.
"Don't be ridiculous," Duncan snapped, looking away, fighting the rage.
"What the hell is going on here?"
"He's paying for his crimes," she said tightly. "In kind."
"He's a *slave*?"
Her flush deepened, hands opening and clenching spasmodically. "It's
called justice, MacLeod. Usually, you're in favor of the concept."
"This isn't justice, it's revenge!"
She paused, herself almost too angry to speak. "You've killed others
for doing far less. Because Methos deceived you into friendship, is he
absolved from mass murder?"
MacLeod could find nothing to say to that. Cassandra was absolutely
right. He had taken the heads of evil men without a second thought.
Methos -- god help him -- made all of them seem like saints.
"He helped rid the world of the other three . . ."
"To save his own precious skin," Cassandra bitterly retorted. "We could
argue about this for the next three thousand years, Duncan. I'm not
changing my mind. He should be dead. He's not. Be satisfied with
that."
Methos was staring at him. Duncan averted his eyes and looked across
the room. In truth, he didn't know what to do. Vividly, he remembered
his reaction when Cassandra had exposed Methos' shameful past,
remembered even more clearly how Methos had responded.
"I did it because I *liked* it!"
Cassandra was right. There had to be a reckoning. "How long," he said
finally, heavily, "is this sentence?"
Methos made a strangled sound, Duncan rounded on him, suddenly angry.
"Well? Can you look me in the eyes, Methos, and say she isn't *right*?"
The lean, hawkish face went still. Methos looked from Duncan to
Cassandra. Voice barely audible, he said, "I was hoping for
forgiveness."
Cassandra gave a startled, breathless laugh. Methos held Duncan's eyes,
his own unreadable. For a moment, to the Highlander, he looked utterly
alien, the gulf of millennia gaping between them. Then the ancient one
shivered slightly, turned and walked out.
MacLeod realized he was shaking. Shoving his hands into his pocket, he
repeated: "How long, Cassandra?"
"I will accept no interference from you, Duncan. He will stay here with
me until I decide he leaves."
Jaw tight, Duncan nodded shortly. Without another word, he passed her
and looked into the next room. Joe was leafing half-heartedly through a
book. He looked up immediately.
"We're going," Duncan said shortly. "Come on."
There were doubtless a thousand questions tumbling through the Watcher's
mind, but Joe knew Duncan well enough to postpone the asking. He nodded
and hurried after the Immortal, giving Cassandra a curious look as they
left the house.
Outside, Duncan didn't pause, striding down the long drive.
"MacLeod!" Joe's roar finally brought him back, made him stop short in
the middle of the road. The wind was picking up, clouds gathering. He
jammed his fists into the pockets of his jacket.
"She's turned him into a slave, Joe. It's his 'sentence' for the
Horsemen. She's even got him in a goddamned collar!"
The Watcher blinked, then nodded grimly. "So how do we get him out?"
"We don't." Duncan forced himself to meet the surprised, then
disapproving stare. "She's right. There has to be justice, Joe. If
there isn't, what the hell is the point?"
"And mercy? What about mercy? What about forgiveness? Can't they
temper justice?" Joe was mad now, too. "And how do you know he
*hasn't* already paid? We don't know squat about huge stretches of his
life. There have been five thousand years of it!"
"Methos has my forgiveness - has had it, but it's not my forgiveness he
needs, it's Cassandra's."
"But . . ."
"And if we try to take him, she swears she'll Challenge me."
Joe closed his mouth. "Shit," he said sympathetically. "What do we
do?"
"I don't know."
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Joe asked: "Did you tell her
about Vortig."
Duncan shook his head. "She can clean up her own messes. Now - let's
figure out how we're going to get off this island."
***
continued
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