Highlander: Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

  Without the constant barrage of cannon and musket fire, the other sounds of the battlefield magnified. Horses cried with the madness of agony from shattered limbs and gunshot wounds. Now and then, the single retort of a musket signaled the end of one’s misery. The moans and tears of the wounded men were even more terrible to hear; their end could not be so swift or merciful.

  Inside the tent, a man screamed as the surgeon plied his knife. With the sound, Duncan felt as if someone had cut him too—sliced him to the heart and was driving the knife deeper with each passing second.

  He knew he had to get away at least for a few hours. In the post-battle confusion, while many of the British soldiers still chased their French counterparts or wandered the battlefield searching for fallen comrades among the dead, his absence would not be missed—and he would be back before dawn.

  Two miles, he thought, knowing that of all the sounds in the world, what he wanted—needed—to hear were more of Darius’s words.

  Whether they would heal him or wound him more, he did not know. But he had to find out.

  Shifting his grip on the musket in his hand, he began to walk.

  Chapter Seven

  The church turned out to be well over two miles distant, but Duncan did not mind the walk despite his weariness. Away from the battlefield the air was clear and it was a fine summer night. The sky, which last night had been a place of brooding heaviness as thick rain clouds poured their burdens upon the earth, tonight was alight with stars that twinkled and peeked through thin, gauzy strips of cirrus.

  As Duncan walked, the last of the aftereffects of the battle left him. Little wounds, hardly noticed upon reception but a nagging pain afterward, healed, and lungs, charred from the hours of breathing the sulfur-laden smoke, now cleared again. His sore, stressed muscles loosened until he moved once more like a man in prime condition.

  It was only the soreness of his heart and the fatigue of his soul that remained.

  The ancient road down which he was walking curved gently with the lay of the land. As he followed it around a bend, he heard angry voices shouting—soldiers’ voices. MacLeod began to run.

  The church was a building of gray brick surrounded by a sea of trampled grass. Six soldiers stood near the entrance. They were English, though with their filthy bedraggled uniforms, MacLeod could not recognize their rank or regiment.

  “Get some wood,” he heard one of them shout. “If the priest won’t give up the prisoners, we’ll burn them out.”

  “Halt!” MacLeod shouted, putting two hundred years of authority, putting all he had learned as a chieftain’s son, into his voice.

  The soldiers quickly turned toward him. One man dropped the wood in his arms guiltily. But the man nearest the door, obviously the leader of this little pack, eyed him with open contempt.

  “What do you men think you’re doing?” MacLeod demanded. “This is a church, not a battlefield. Have ye not had enough fighting this day?”

  The ringleader swaggered forward. MacLeod recognized something of the uniform now—an Infantry sergeant, the kind Wellington called “the scum of the earth.” Scum was what many of them were, too; in the army to avoid the prisons, enticed by the daily pint of rum but feeling nothing even remotely akin to patriotism or honor.

  The man walking toward MacLeod was not a young man, nor was he a neophyte to battle. But as MacLeod looked him over, he knew that the scar that puckered his left cheek could have come as easily from a dockside brawl as from a military campaign. It was clear that the other men would stand or fall in accordance with this man’s will.

  “And who’ll you be, to be givin’ us orders?” the man asked in a heavy London accent.

  MacLeod gritted his teeth. The sergeant still stood within the churchyard—holy ground—and unless MacLeod could draw him into the road, the only weapons he could use were his words and the power of the uniform he wore.

  “I am an officer in His Majesty’s army,” MacLeod replied stiffly. “Your superior officer, Sergeant.”

  MacLeod saw the other men shift nervously at his words, openly looking to their leader for guidance. The sergeant scoffed.

  “Superior? You’re naught but a bloody Scot,” he said. Behind him, one of the other men snickered.

  “A dock rat’s superior to you,” MacLeod countered. He saw the man’s eyes narrow with anger.

  “Now, I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?” he said.

  “There’s French in there,” the sergeant jerked his head in the direction of the church. “Wounded or not, they’re soldiers, and I heard the Prussians are offering to pay a shilling each for every prisoner taken.”

  “If you believe that, then a dock rat’s got more brains than you do, as well.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why are you here? Want the reward for yourself, I say. Well, we was here first and them’s that’s inside is ours.”

  “You’ll have to go through me to get them,” MacLeod said.

  The sergeant grinned as if he had just received an invitation to the Palace. “With pleasure,” he replied. “I’ve wanted to put my fist through an officer’s face for a long time now.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Come and get me.” MacLeod opened his arms wide and moved his fingers in small come-hither gestures, letting a little smile touch his lips.

  The sergeant saw the smile and his own grin broadened. He swaggered forward. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.

  “No, I don’t think you will,” Duncan replied.

  The other soldiers followed them and formed a circle around the combatants, a ring for their sport. Duncan undid the belt that held his officer’s sword and dropped the weapon to the ground; he did not need it to overtake this jackanapes. As he did so, the men began to shout encouragement to the leader.

  The sergeant dropped into the slight crouch so favored in street brawls. Again, Duncan smiled slightly. It was an inelegant stance he could have neutralized before the days of his Immortality. Now MacLeod had two centuries of fighting experience, including his most recent years in the Far East and the training he had received. The sergeant’s stance looked as awkward and as easily toppled as a baby’s first steps.

  Then, out of the sergeant’s sleeve a small dagger slid. Even at that, MacLeod’s smile did not fade.

  “And what harm do ye think ye’ll do with that wee thing?” MacLeod asked, letting his highland brogue broaden to feed the man’s prejudice. “Up in Scotland, we give our bairns bigger weapons than that. But then, we be real men in Scotland, not cowards who can’t capture any but the wounded and dying.”

  With a snarl, the sergeant lunged, swiping widely with his blade. It was a movement of anger and gave MacLeod the advantage of control. He sidestepped easily away and brought his hand down with a chop to the sergeant’s wrist, hitting the nerve. The man’s fingers numbed numbed the dagger fell uselessly to the ground.

  MacLeod spun, driving an elbow into the man’s kidneys. He heard the sergeant mutter “Bloody hell” as he lost his balance and went sprawling in the dirt. MacLeod wasted no time. He put his boot to the man’s neck, holding the sergeant in place as his eyes swept over the faces of the spectators.

  “Leave here now,” he ordered them, “and go back to your company. If I see your faces again, I’ll have you shot as deserters.”

  He removed his boot from the sergeant’s neck and let the man stand. Before he could slink away to join his retreating companions, MacLeod leaned close.

  “Be careful what you say about Scotsmen,” he said with a sneer. “The next one might not be so gentle.”

  The sergeant did not reply, save by the hatred in his eyes. Duncan did not care; he turned and retrieved his sword, then, after belting it on, he looked over at the church.

  Darius stood on the porch. The disapproval and disappointment on his face was obvious, even from a distance. Wordlessly, he turned and reentered the building. MacLeod followed him, perplexed.

  When Duncan stepped into the narthex, he found Darius kneel
ing beside a young man with a bandage around his eyes. The priest was holding a cup to his lips and speaking softly. MacLeod could not help but wonder what sort of brew was in the cup this time, hoping Darius would be able to help this young man the way he had helped McKenzie.

  Surely he cannot help them all, Duncan thought as he looked around. Every area of the church—narthex, nave, and transept, except where the Communion rail cordoned off the altar, had people lying on clean pallets in neat rows. Yet, despite the wounded and torn bodies and the blood-soaked bandages, there was a sense of peace about the place. Instead of the smell of blood, it seemed a trace of incense clung to the air.

  Darius finished with his patient. Speaking a few more soft words, he helped the boy lie back down, then stood and walked over to Duncan.

  “If you’ve come to help.” he said, “I can use an extra pair of hands.”

  “Aye,” Duncan answered quickly. “I’ll help you all I can. But I cannot stay over long—I’ll need to be back to my regiment by dawn.”

  “Why?” Darius asked him. “Why must you go back to that place of slaughter? Have you not yet seen enough of battle?”

  “I’ll not be a deserter,” MacLeod answered sharply. “My duty demands—”

  “Ah, yes, a soldier’s duty,” Darius said with a sad smile. “But what does that duty really accomplish, except death? Wars come, young men die, wars end—only to start up again a few years later in another place.”

  “Should we give the world over to tyrants, then?” MacLeod asked. “Ah, Father, excuse me for saying so, but what can you—a priest—know of it? Your words work well in a cloister, but not in the world out there.”

  MacLeod saw the amusement grow in Darius’s eyes. It was softened by compassion, but it was amusement nonetheless—the look a parent might give a half-grown child.

  “There is nothing about war I did not know, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I have not always been a priest—and there is no face of death I have not seen.”

  MacLeod had the feeling Darius wanted to say more. He waited, but the priest merely shook his head and turned back to his patients.

  “You can help me apply fresh dressings to these wounds,” he said, becoming practical. “There are many lives here we can save if we hurry.”

  “Aye, like you saved McKenzie. He was already much stronger when I left him.”

  The smile Darius flashed him this time was genuine. “I’m glad your friend will recover.”

  And Duncan knew that he was glad—not with some abstract feeling about life in general, but with a deep and personal concern. It made Duncan wonder about this strange Immortal all the more.

  Was this true holiness then, true sanctity? MacLeod had felt something akin to it in the presence of Brother Paul,whose monastery offered rest and refuge to mortal and Immortal alike.

  But there was a naïveté about Paul, despite his Immortal age, that Duncan did not feel from Darius. When the priest said he knew the faces of war, Duncan believed him despite the cloth and collar that he wore.

  What else does he know? MacLeod wondered as he followed Darius through the rows of the soldiers, watching the priest smile at them, French and English alike. And how did he come to be here?

  MacLeod had the feeling the story was a long one. Perhaps someday he would hear it all.

  “Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Darius said when they reached the comer where the priest had piled rolls of bandages, vials of powders, and pots of creams and ointments. “Let us put your hands to better work than holding a sword.”

  He handed MacLeod a small stone crock. Duncan unstoppered it; he turned his face quickly away from the sight of the gray mash and the sharp, unpleasant odor.

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered as he fumbled to get the cork covering quickly back into place.

  Darius laughed. “Yes, it is pungent,” he said. “But the ancient Persians knew the value of this mold and I have seen it pull the poison from many wounds already blackening with gangrene. Remember, Duncan MacLeod, it is not the appearance of a thing—or a person—that has value. It is what they do, what is in their heart.”

  Chapter Eight

  Duncan stayed with Darius for several hours, helping as best he could. Most often that consisted of following behind the priest carrying supplies, emptying out basins of dirty water, or lending a hand to wash the soiled strips of cloth that served as bandages. And while he worked, Duncan watched Darius.

  He had large hands, hands Duncan could well imagine holding a sword, yet these same hands touched the wounded with a gentleness MacLeod had rarely seen. His presence made this church seem like a place outside the mortal world, a place of timelessness where the barriers of humankind—tyrants and wars, national boundaries and personal prejudices—vanished like smoke on a windy day.

  Even in pain, no one remained selfish in Darius’s presence. Those who could not see helped those who could not walk; those with arms to carry a cup of water gave it to those who could no longer hold it for themselves. Uniforms were meaningless, the reason for the war unremembered in this place of compassion.

  It was the sound of a cock crowing in the distance that reminded Duncan of his other duties. He sought out Darius, who was once again kneeling beside the blinded soldier Duncan had seen earlier.

  “Will his eyes recover?” Duncan asked him.

  Darius turned to him and smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Aldrich here will see again. His eyes were burned by some black powder that mischarged, but they will heal now—and without the scars that would claim his sight.”

  “Aye, ‘tis wondrous what you do here, Darius.”

  “You could do it, too, Duncan MacLeod,” Darius said. He stood and came to stand by Duncan’s side. “You have good hands and, I believe, a good heart.”

  “I hope so,” Duncan replied softly, “but I cannot stay. I must go back to my regiment and continue my service until I’m released from my oath. If a man cannot keep his oath, he has no honor.”

  Darius nodded, gravely, sadly “You must do what you must,” he said simply. “I hope I will see you again, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

  “That you will, Darius. I promise you that.”

  “And you are a man of your word,” Darius said with a soft smile.

  Darius turned back to his wounded as Duncan walked to the door.

  Napoleon fled the field at Waterloo. He retreated to the relative safety of Paris, but this time the Parliament refused to be placated with promises of future glory. The battle was over; the allies had won the war and now the Emperor must be dealt with in a manner that allowed him no return.

  Napoleon’s second abdication came only four days after Waterloo—June 22, 1815. It was his intent to take a ship to the New World, but British ships surrounded the harbor, preventing his departure. He was taken prisoner at Rochefort and from there he was sent once more into exile. The place this time was St. Helena, a remote island in the South Atlantic from which there would be no escape, no return to threaten the peace again.

  Duncan MacLeod’s regiment had been among those who had trailed the Emperor’s flight to Paris. After Napoleon’s abdication, MacLeod put in his request to be released from duty. With the war over, many soldiers were going home; Duncan wanted to return to Darius.

  Memories of those hours he had spent with the priest had haunted MacLeod ever since he had left Darius’s side. His words of peace, spoken so simply, seemed somehow more real than the idealistic ramblings spoken by dreamers and mystics throughout the ages. There was something felt in Darius’s presence, something that was both worldly and ethereal that Duncan was not quite certain how to define.

  Could this be true holiness? his thoughts whispered to him time and again. Duncan had no answer—yet—but he knew he wanted to find out. When the papers finally came through granting MacLeod his discharge, he hurried back to the little church of St. Thomas, two miles from the killing fields of Waterloo.

  Even before he reached the doors he knew
the building was vacant. He did not feel Darius’s presence and the building itself had a forlorn quality, as if with the Immortal priest’s departure its vitality had been sapped away for good.

  Duncan entered the building nonetheless, hoping for a message or a sign of where the priest had gone. The air still held a hint of the spicy smell of some of Darius’s ointments. Other than that, the building showed no signs of its recent occupation. Even the floor had been scrubbed of all traces of blood and the other less pleasant evidence of wounded bodies.

  Still, MacLeod had a feeling there would be something left for him. He walked from the narthex down the nave, his eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary. He reached the transept and looked up at the altar, his disappointment gathering into a crease between his dark brows.

  Then, as he turned away, he saw it—a small stone resting on the Communion rail.

  MacLeod picked it up and stared at it in confusion. It was a rune stone; he had seen similar marks on some of the ancient standing stones of Scotland. But he had no idea what the mark meant or whom he could ask for translation.

  He put the stone in his pocket. He knew that somehow he would find Darius, even if it took him years to do so. He had time. He would return to Paris and start there. It was not the center of France, but Paris was its heart, and MacLeod could think of no better place to begin this new journey.

  MacLeod found Darius almost by accident. He had been a week in Paris, and in the aftermath of Napoleon’s defeat it had become a place of sadness, unrest, and for too many, of homelessness and despair. Paris faced the ages-old situation of what to do with the soldiers after the fighting was finished. That so many of these soldiers were left maimed and angry at their defeat, living in a city—a country—still reeling from the aftereffects of revolution and occupied by their recent enemies, only exacerbated the problem.

  MacLeod had taken rooms above a tavern he remembered from happier days a century before—La Poule Aux Oeufs d’Or. He somehow knew that Darius would not be serving a parish frequented by the rich or powerful, but rather by the people he felt needed him the most. Such people might also visit a tavern such as this one.