Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Suddenly, he heard a slight commotion at the back of the cathedral. He turned in his pew and saw that the Kurgan had just entered. One of two old women were whispering about his appearance, which was indeed a little bizarre. He looked like a biker without his gang.

  The Kurgan looked down the church and caught MacLeod’s eye. The big man smiled, moving down the central aisle, touching the wooden pews as he walked. The Kurgan was not insensitive to beauty. He knew good workmanship when he saw it. It was obvious that he liked the feel, the texture of wood.

  He reached MacLeod and stood over him. MacLeod looked up, but apart from that had no intention of moving any other part of his body.

  The Kurgan said, ‘Kastagir is gone. Only you and I remain.’

  MacLeod nodded. ‘Nice to see you, Kurgan.’

  The answering nod and smile. ‘And you, MacLeod. This time there will be no clansmen to carry you off before my blade parts you from your head.’

  ‘You didn’t do me any favours the last time. My cousins thought I was a witch.’

  ‘Ah. That’s funny.’

  ‘They almost burnt me.’

  ‘But you would have risen, phoenix-like, out of your own ashes.’

  ‘Would I?’

  The Kurgan laughed, the sound echoing around the cathedral. One or two nuns, shocked, looked up from their disturbed prayers. ‘I don’t know MacLeod. It would have been interesting. ‘

  MacLeod said, ‘Who cuts your hair? It looks like a piece of goatskin.’

  The Kurgan knelt down beside the pew. ‘I’m in disguise,’ he whispered. ‘This way no one will recognize me.’

  ‘I do.’

  The Kurgan patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s good.’

  MacLeod waited for him to leave and when he looked as if he was staying, he asked, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your head - and the prize,’ said the Kurgan.

  ‘You won’t take it easily.’

  ‘I don’t want it to be easy. It’s no fun when it’s easy. That’s why I’ve left you until last.‘

  ‘No.’

  The Kurgan looked taken aback.

  ‘What do you mean no? There’s only you left.’

  ‘Quite wrong. There’s only you left. I’ve left you until last. Now the time has come to put you to rest with your brothers. Ramirez is looking forward to seeing you. . .’

  The Kurgan said, ‘I admire your spirit, MacLeod, but it’s not long for this world.’

  Two nuns passed by, in the aisle, and glanced nervously at the Kurgan. His whole presence was a threat to the peace in the church. He seemed to radiate a kind of black light that filled the atmosphere with foreboding. It was not just the way he was dressed - it was his demeanour, his stance, his arrogant expression. He did not have to say anything - he just had to be there. Worshippers nearby were aware of something spiritually ugly in the church.

  The Kurgan called after the nuns, ‘Happy Halloween, ladies. ‘

  The two sisters crossed themselves and took a pew in front of the altar.

  ‘Nuns,’ sneered the Kurgan. ‘No sense of humour.’

  MacLeod remained silent.

  ‘Maybe we should rape them?’ said the Kurgan. ‘Here. Would they laugh then? I would laugh.’

  MacLeod said, ‘Ramirez’s blade did not cut deeply enough. He was right about you. You’re slime.’

  The Kurgan gave a snort of derision. ‘Ramirez was an effete snob. He died on his knees. I took his head then I raped his woman, even before his blood was cold.’

  At that moment the choir began singing softly, practising for evensong. MacLeod felt an ice-dagger enter his heart. His poor Heather! She had never told him. He felt like tearing the Kurgan’s face off right there in the church. If he ever needed a reason for ridding the world of this monster, he had it now. The memory of his Heather was strong in his mind now, stronger than it had been for years, and he could not prevent the rush of emotion that surged through him, threatening to choke him, overwhelm him. He fought it back down, the taste of the Kurgan’s last words bitter in his mind.

  The Kurgan was looking at him, at first with a puzzled expression, then with some inner, deep satisfaction in his eyes. He was feeding on MacLeod’s misery and enjoying it. He treated the pain of others like carrion.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Ramirez lied. She was not his woman. She was your woman.’

  His eyes tore at MacLeod’s spirit like the talons of a vulture, gorging on freshly dead offal.

  ‘And she never told you, MacLeod. I wonder why?’ MacLeod turned away.

  The Kurgan continued, ‘Perhaps I gave her something you never could - and secretly she yearned for my return. ‘ MacLeod turned and laughed into his face.

  ‘You think you’ll reach me that way? You know nothing - of people, of feelings. I’ll tell you how she felt. You disgusted her. She felt unclean, dirty, for the rest of her life. That’s why she never mentioned it. You poor slob she would rather have slept with a pig, than you. You don’t make love with a woman - you rut, like a hog. Do you think that any woman remembers you having touched her, without a shudder of loathing passing through her? You don’t have the first idea, do you?’

  The Kurgan was gripping the edge of the pew and his knuckles had turned white.

  ‘Holy ground, Highlander. Remember what Ramirez taught you?’

  ‘Why are you reminding me?’

  ‘Because I can see it in your eyes. Despite that little speech you were that much’, he held up his hand and showed MacLeod a hair, ‘away from attacking me. You are weak, Highlander. You will always be weaker than I.’ “

  By this time his face was right next to MacLeod’s and the Scot gripped it in strong fingers and thrust it from himself.

  ‘You can’t stay in here forever,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you out front.’

  ‘We will meet when I decide we are ready, MacLeod. It’s always I who make the rules - you must know that by now. We’ll meet soon enough.’

  He stood back now and roared with laughter, the sound echoing through the cathedral, disturbing the worshippers and clergy alike. A priest frowned and came hurrying along the aisle towards where the Kurgan was standing. When the Kurgan turned to face him, he paused in midstride, then determination set his face and he came on.

  ‘This is the house of God,’ he said. ‘People are trying to pray. You’re disturbing them.’

  The Kurgan looked around the church with an expression of mock wonder on his features. ‘He cares about these helpless mortals?’

  The priest’s reply was dignified. ‘Of course he cares. He spent his life in caring. He gave his life because he cared.’

  The Kurgan laughed. ‘What a stupid gesture. Surely he could have found something better to die for than these pathetic animals?’

  The priest took a step back. He did, in the course of his week, have to deal with the mentally ill, and he felt that that was what he was confronted with now: someone behaving irrationally because he was sick. He took the Kurgan’s sleeve. ‘Perhaps you’d better go outside, my son?’

  The Kurgan growled at him. ‘I’m not your son, even though you look like a woman in those robes. I’ll go out when I’m ready and not before. Go and fiddle with your beads or something.’

  ‘I will not be, intimidated,’ snapped the priest. ‘If you do not behave, I shall be forced to have you removed.’

  The Kurgan suddenly went down on his knees. He took the priest’s hand in his own and kissed it. ‘Father,’ he cried. ‘Forgive me. I am a worm.’

  Still holding the priest’s hand he proceeded to lick it from the fingers to the wrist, until it was wrenched from his grasp by the horrified clergyman. The priest tried to turn away, but the Kurgan grasped his robes, pulling him back.

  ‘I have something to say, Father. It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.’

  The priest swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes from the Kurgan’s face. The evil in it was so magnetic he could not turn away.

  ‘Y
es!’ cried the Kurgan. ‘You understand!’

  Then the clergyman managed to tear himself from the presence of the Kurgan and hurried away to the chapel at the far end of the church, to pray.

  MacLeod witnessed this playacting by the Kurgan with some puzzlement. He wondered what the big man got out of such childish games. Perhaps they were the result of utter boredom and meant as little as they appeared to? MacLeod left the cathedral and took a stroll through the streets. People were going about their normal business, as if all were right with the world.

  Chapter 30

  ONCE BRENDA WYATT had returned from Miami, she made a decision. Although she had not talked to her father specifically about MacLeod and her feelings for him, just the fact that she had been in a family atmosphere for a couple of days helped her reach that decision. She was in love with MacLeod - she thought of him now under that name, rather than Nash - that much she admitted to herself. And Brenda Wyatt believed that when you were in love with someone, you told them so, in order that they could tell you of their feelings.

  It was possible - very possible - that MacLeod could not stand the sight of her. Certainly their meetings up until that point had not been models of polite and interesting exchanges of views. They had been more like minor battles. But still - she knew she was reasonably good-looking, she had brains and she was only a bitch a very small part of the time. He might just find something to like in her. There was only one way to find out.

  She dressed in her killer suit. The one that made Bedsoe’s eyes start out of their sockets and started him sweating. It was a very tight skirt. Then she took a cab to the antique shop and walked right in. Rachel was there, sitting in her usual place at the back of the shop. She rose and walked to where Brenda stood.

  ‘I want to see him - MacLeod, Nash. I want to speak to him,’ she said fiercely.

  She saw Rachel’s face turn to stone and she knew she was going to have a fight on her hands. A man is never better protected than by a devoted woman who is determined that none shall pass by her. Well, thought Brenda, I can be tough too.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. . .’ began Rachel, in a starchy tone, but she was interrupted by Brenda. ‘Goddamit, I need to see him.’

  ‘But Mr Nash is. . .’

  ‘Mr Nash is dead, Miss Ellenstein. That much I do know.’

  MacLeod came out then, from behind a curtain. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, coldly. Christ, thought Brenda, this is a great start to telling someone you love them. I could not be more welcome if I had pulled a gun and threatened to rob him of the family silver. Still, faint heart never won fair highlander.

  ‘I’m looking for a dead guy named Nash. He died at birth in Syracuse, New York.’

  She saw Rachel and MacLeod exchange a look, then he sighed and held back the curtain.

  ‘All right. Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You want to talk to me? We’re going to my apartment.’ She went to him then.

  The apartment was like the shop - cluttered with antiques. At least, Brenda thought of them as being clutter but, of course, most of the objects would be worth a fortune. Some of the swords looked as though they were half a thousand years old.

  ‘Are the claymores real?’ she asked, making a circuit of the sunken lounge. ‘What is this? A museum? This stuff must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘They’re all things I collected myself,’ answered MacLeod.

  ‘Well - most antique dealers only trust their own judgment.

  ‘I mean I have collected it personally - at the time of its manufacture. That claymore there’, he pointed to one on the wall, ‘I used against the Frasers in the battle of Loch Shiel in 1536.’

  She stared into his eyes. Was he teasing her? He did not seem to be. He seemed to be deadly serious. Mad then? If so, Rachel would be aware of it and would not have allowed the two of them to come up without some warning, surely? He did not look mad. He looked depressed, worn down by cares. What was all this about? What could she accept and what could she discard?

  MacLeod told her, ‘I’ve been alive for four and a half centuries - and I cannot die - not a natural death. I cannot even grow old.’

  She made a joke on impulse.

  ‘Well, everyone’s got their problems.’ He nodded.

  ‘You don’t believe me, of course. And why should you? You’ve been raised in the knowledge that immortality can only be achieved by getting rid of the earthly form. That works for most - but not for me or my kind. We are trapped. We’re freaks of nature. We can’t die in the normal way.’

  She did not know what to say to him. She had come here to tell him that she loved him and now he was revealing things about himself which, if they were true, could do nothing to help either of them, and if they were untrue brought in a question about the stability of his mind.

  He went over to the wall and took down a silver dirk. ‘This was my father’s,’ he said. ‘Here, take it.’ He offered it to her.

  ‘What for?’

  She shrank from the weapon, wondering what he was going to do next.

  ‘You want proof of my immortality? Take this and find your proof.’

  She knew then what he wanted to do - what he wanted her to do. She was expected to plunge the dagger into his heart. But she knew that such an act would kill him and she would not touch the knife.

  ‘I am Conner MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,’ he told her. ‘I was born in 1518 in the village of Glenfinnan, on the shores of Loch Shiel. Do you not believe?’

  He reached across and took her hand. He placed her fingers around the handle of the dirk, holding them there with his own. She felt her arm being raised and tried to struggle, but he refused to let her go.

  ‘I am immortal,’ he cried.

  He brought her hand down, with the knife in it, burying the blade deep in his chest. She screamed when she saw that it must have pierced his heart. She expected him to fall, writhing, on the floor of the apartment. Instead, he stood, stock still, staring into her eyes. Gradually, she managed to peel her own fingers from the hilt of the dirk. She saw him grasp the knife and wrench it from his own breast. There was very little blood. It should have gushed from the wound, but instead it dribbled out, clotting almost immediately. He offered her the knife.

  ‘Do you want to see it? It might be a trick dagger.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I could see that it wasn’t. I saw the pain in your eyes as the blade went in.’

  ‘I feel pain as keenly as you do,’ he smiled, wryly. ‘It’s only death I can’t feel.’

  She broke down then, sobbing, and he took her into his arms and whispered, ‘Darling,’ into her ear.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to show you like this. I didn’t want to shock you, but it’s the only way I know. It’ll take you some time to get used to - it’s not an easy thing to accept.’

  He let her cry herself out, before explaining a little more about his life. He told her about Heather and how they had lived together until she had died.

  ‘The worst part was watching her grow old, while I stayed young. That’s how it will be, Brenda Wyatt, if you choose to stay with me.’

  The thought appalled her, but she said nothing. He kissed her.

  ‘Anyway, I may be dead before the week is out, so you won’t have to make the decision. The Kurgan will terminate this long run if he can.’

  She gripped him tightly.

  ‘He will not. You must stop him.’

  Macleod laughed. ‘I intend to try. But he’s the strongest of the immortals. I’ll need a lot of luck. . .’

  ‘Or faith,’ she said.

  ‘Yes - or faith.’

  She pressed her cheek against his.

  ‘Do I - do I remind you of Heather?’

  He paused but eventually replied, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad. I’m not jealous of her. . .’

  He held her away from him. ‘You cannot be jealous of Heather, anyway. She died ove
r four hundred years ago. She was my only other love and we lived a lifetime together. You must not be jealous of her, because she is part of me.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I said. . .’

  ‘But you said it like you were.’

  Brenda admitted to herself that she had been fishing.

  She had wanted him to reject the highland girl, the memory, in favour of herself. She realized now, after he had spoken, what a terrible thing she had expected.

  ‘I’m sorry - Conner. It’s all so new and of course, I want you to myself - even your innermost thoughts. That was very selfish and I’ll try to understand.’

  He smiled at her.

  ‘Come. Let’s go out. We’ll do what most lovers do when they first discover each other - yet rarely do again with the same sort of enthusiasm. ‘

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’ll go for a walk around the zoo.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, yes. It does sound exciting. If you had asked me last week, I should have scorned it.’

  ‘There you are.’

  They went out then and took a cab to the zoo, where they wandered from cage to cage. Suddenly, he stopped and gave out such a heartfelt sigh, she knew something was wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  He looked at her sadly. ‘It’s no good, Brenda. I can’t get involved again. It won’t work.’

  But she knew she had him. He was just making a last little struggle. ‘You know what’s weird? Most people are afraid to die. That’s not your problem. You’re afraid to live.’

  He made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t want to lose my head again...’ he started to say, but then burst out laughing.

  Someone, standing nearby, watching them, also smiled at this remark.

  Chapter 31

  THAT NIGHT, ON her way home, Brenda Wyatt sensed she was being followed. Who? She turned in the street to stare behind her. There were one or two cars moving, but few pedestrians. None of them seemed the slightest bit interested in her. On the corner stood a uniformed policeman, swinging his nightstick. Things could not be more normal.