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Origins Chapter Eight Joe Wicasa’s unoccupied trailer was small, smelled musty and stale, and showed signs of age and wear, but the twin mattress was surprisingly comfortable when Mac bounced on it a little. He liked his beds hard anyway, and it wasn’t like he had any expectation of needing larger accommodation. The notion of trying to bring some lovely young thing ‘home’ to this space made him smile, even as it occurred to him that it had been a long time since he’d even had a morning hard-on, much less any real sense of sexual need or desire. He’d have to think about that little tidbit of realization. “It’s not much,” Wicasa admitted a little sheepishly, breaking in on his thoughts. “But it’s free, and if you don’t want to try to cook in here you can take any meals you want at the diner and charge anything but booze to my tab, just so long as it stays within reasonable bounds. My son lived here for awhile until he moved to Phoenix, but Maria cleaned it up real good when he left, although you might look out for a few critters that decided to move in while we weren’t lookin’.” Mac smiled at him. “It’s fine.” And it was. It was a completely anonymous place where he could settle for a little while, do some work he enjoyed at a pace that suited him, and to explore the desert that seemed to call him with all its vast expanse of wild and sacred spaces. Mac looked up meeting Joe’s eyes in a hard, direct look. “But you don’t know a damned thing about me or if I can repair a can opener, much less a 60-year-old truck. I might be a thief or a murderer on the run from the police.” “I’m a pretty good judge of character,” Joe said in a rather formal tone. “And what’s to steal?” he waved his hand at their surroundings. “And if you bring harm or heartache to anyone I care about, it will be dealt with.” He shrugged eloquently. “Hehanyela owihanke.” “That is all?” Mac translated, and raised an eyebrow. “You plan to kill me or just banish me?” Joe’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. “You know the language?” “I know some Lakota, and there are a lot of similarities,” Mac answered with a dismissive shrug, a little uncomfortable that he had inadvertently revealed that piece of his past. “See?” he chuckled. “I knew you were an Indian at heart. What was it, a beautiful woman?” “Very beautiful,” Mac answered softly. “But it was a long time ago.” Joe just looked at him for a moment, “But it’s never long enough, is it?” he commented softly, and turned away, moving out the door and stiffly down the narrow metal steps to the dusty path that led from the trailer to the back of his store. “Joe?” Mac called, making him stop and turn. “I… Thanks. I kind of needed a place to just stop and think for awhile.” A gentle smile warmed the dark, weathered face. “I figured that. And, by the way, my friends call me Wick.” “Then thank you… Wick.” He settled in, taking his time about getting the truck hauled to a clear space behind the trading post and within 100 feet of his trailer where he could work on it, erecting a canopy to block the sun and what little rain might fall. The winter chill made it quite nippy in the early morning and late evening, but he was inured to the cold from long experience and was perfectly content leaning deep into the engine, or lying on a tarp underneath the old truck for hours at a time – now up on blocks, slowly inspecting and pulling apart the various dilapidated gears, the stripped wiring, the oil-and-dirt-clogged engine parts. He also spent hours on Wick’s laptop in his office at the trading post, researching various replacement parts and bidding on some of the bigger pieces. Along the way, he helped in the store at the cash register from time to time, gradually learning the names and faces of the locals, and lending a hand in the garage when some tourist’s van mysteriously stopped working when they stopped for gas. Unfortunately, modern cars were so jazzed up with computerized parts that he felt really behind the times and realized he was going to have to do some serious self-education in order to sustain a current workman’s persona – not that there were that many people who knew how to repair modern cars, but it was a matter of both pride and survival. It was too easy to get stuck in the past, to believe that the old ways were somehow better. But while knowing how to fly a World War II biplane or being an expert on how fix an antique clock was a fun way to impress a few people, it wasn’t going to help him survive in today’s world. And the urge to meditate? It came mostly in the very early morning or evening, just as the sun hovered on the horizon and he was usually running along a path towards the high bluff north of town. The trek covered about two miles on a dusty road carved by various vehicles through the hard-packed desert sand, then narrowed to another couple of miles of path marked by various animal prints, but mostly wild burros, then ended rather abruptly at a rock outcropping blocking what was probably a steep drop into a deep valley carved by some ancient tributary of the Colorado and occasionally deepened by the fast floods of sudden spring rains. He usually stopped and turned around there, pausing to watch the sun’s lengthening rays turn the massive red stone mesas into orange-gold pillars stabbing into the sky, which by then was a magnificent display of all the infinite hues of blue, from a sweet pale azure at one horizon, to a stunning almost-black in other, all splashed with the remnant sparkle of stars. The urge to kneel down, close his eyes and soak in the desert sounds, the smells, the feel of the dry, crisp desert air, to lose his sense of self in that infinite vastness, was intense. But the very notion that what he had done might have caused some kind of mini-gathering – no, he refused to even consider the possibility. No one was that important in their genocidal Game. But he also wasn’t willing to take the chance, so each time he made a choice – not today. Not right now. And he turned and began his long run back. ~~~~~~~ Joe Dawson listened in stunned silence as Methos spun a tale that he wasn’t at all sure he believed. It was utterly unexpected, but then how could any story that purported to explain the mystery of Immortals be expected at all, much less make any real sense? “So, let me get this straight,” he sighed into a long silence following Methos’ fantastic tale, “You guys were really left by the fairies?” Methos, who had been diligently studying the intricate patterns and scars on the battered wooden arms of the office chair, looked up and his mouth twisted in something that might be interpreted as a smile by someone who didn’t know him. “In a manner of speaking,” he responded. “The Irish called what they perceived as ‘fairy mounds’ sidhe. But the Sidhe, or the Tuatha de Danann, as they were sometimes called, were the basis of legend and myth all over the ancient world for millennia, even before they first tried sending their offspring across what they call the Gate, but which is some kind of dimensional divide that manifests itself at particular points around the world. They got a perverse pleasure from being worshiped and made sure they were seen as amazing, mysterious, all-powerful and wise even when they had little or no direct influence on this world. So, yes, they are the Celtic culture’s Danae, the Greek’s Zeus and Hera, the Nordic Odin and Freya, and so on and so on,” he leaned back, crossing his arms. “Humans wanted gods, and the Sidhe wanted to be worshiped. You served as the Sidhe’s intellectual playthings for thousands of years, just for entertainment and to stroke their remarkable egos. But then when their sun started to get unstable and their perfect world began to decay, their forests to die, their air to become unbreathable, suddenly this green, growing world became more than a form of entertainment for a civilization bored with its own existence. It became an object of envy and greed. They never embraced technology the way humans have, and while some few hundred of them managed to get off the planet, the whole notion of spending hundreds, or even thousands, of years in space looking for a suitable place to colonize was an anathema to most. No, their strengths were the strength of mind, of will, of intricate genetic manipulation of biological processes to arrange their world according to what they wanted. But they couldn’t control their deteriorating sun, and they set out to find a way to do more than just watch our world from across the Gate. They wanted it. They wanted it all.” “But you weren’t the first they sent across?” Methos chuckled and shook his head. “By no means. First, they attempted to make genetic changes to human embryos, trying to effect things at sub-microscopic level across the barrier. That got ugly. A few actually tried crossing the barrier themselves, and that was even uglier. It went on for a thousand years or so until they realized the barrier was getting more and more difficult to cross with the geomagnetic changes caused by their deteriorating sun. But they learned from their mistakes, and found that there were certain locations and certain times of year where the combination of influences made the Gate barrier thinner, but even then, a fully mature Sidhe simply could not cross. For them to actually breach the barrier would take something extraordinary, some perfectly timed massive release of specific energies.” “So instead of coming themselves, they’ve spent the last five thousand years sending their genetically engineered progeny through?” Joe asked. “Man, talk about delayed gratification!” “Oh, it’s been a lot more than five thousand years. Time has a different meaning for the Sidhe,” Methos sighed. “I barely remember much of my life before they sent me across, but I know I was considered a very young child, although I was probably about 20 or 30 years old in human terms. Even so, it took the entire caresh, working together on one of the key astrological dates, a solstice of some kind probably, to get me through. And it killed me.” He shook his head and shuddered. “Boy did it ever. I only remember vague impressions, but I do know it was like having my flesh ripped off my bones, my mind burned from my brain from the inside, and then being crushed to death. It must’ve taken years for me to function normally, leaving me to die repeatedly from exposure, starvation and whatever predators were dominating the area at the time, human or animal. It was only luck that allowed me to get through that period with my head intact, and I was one of very few who did. Almost all the others sent through were infants. It doesn’t kill the infants, evidently, because they haven’t developed enough innate quickening energy yet to be blocked at the threshold of the Gate, and when found by humans, babies are more likely to be nurtured than killed.” “And it was always on holy ground?” Joe asked, then shook his head. “No wonder no one could figure out where the babies came from. They just magically appeared where any woman might abandon an unwanted child.” “Oh, the Sidhe don’t consider it holy ground,” Methos chuckled. “Far from it. It’s just that humans have an instinctive sensitivity to the earth’s energy flows, and frequently build temples and churches and such where the flows are strongest. The Stonehenge circle, the Temple of Delphi, the site of the Pyramids, the ancient temples in South America. They weren’t put where they were by random chance. Some folks call them a conjunction of ley lines, but however you want to describe it, holy ground has a complex, physical meaning to the Sidhe, and there’s nothing actually holy about it except that it becomes a conductor of energies across the Gate to one degree or another.” “And that’s where the rule about no fighting on holy ground comes from?” “That’s where a lot of the so-called rules come from. Any release of Quickening energy at those spots is disruptive and dangerous to both worlds, and the whole point was that the Sidhe wanted to control it, to wait for the exact time and place and participants they felt were required.” “Required for what?” Methos’ mouth quirked up on one corner as he met Joe’s eyes, and he nodded. “They want to come here, of course. That’s why they created us, that’s why they sent us, that’s why we play the Game.” ~~~~~~~ Ce’dane had nothing compelling to do. But then, he hadn’t had anything really interesting or important to do in long, long ages. He had finally healed after long, agonizing periods of semi-lucidity. Gradually he had come back to himself, to his awareness of the dun, to the semi-darkness, the sameness, the mind-numbing sameness. He supposed he could go down to the agricultural levels and see if he could think of anything new or different to grow, but he’d done that countless times and the very idea bored him. He could go upward and work on the barriers and filters that protected them from the heat, radiation and toxins of their dying world, but he hardly cared anymore. There was nothing new, nothing different, nothing challenging to his mind or his heart. So, he lay on his shelf of geesta and let the fan pass him by, sinking as deeply as he could into a state of dreaming, reliving the vibrant, interesting years when he was consumed with the design, building and maintenance of a home that was formed from the very essence of Dunal and its people. He could have sunk all the way into ka’queha, but that required concentration and effort, and he had none to give. It was as though he had left something vital behind on his trip to the surface, where his flesh had been literally flayed from his bones, so he just floated in his self-created nothingness. “I’m almost ready to contact him again,” Thalia said conversationally. Dane, of course, did not respond. He hadn’t responded for a long time now, even after his body had finally recovered from its horrifying injuries. The g’nagal had tended him, nurtured him, helped him through the agony of exposed nerves and reformulating organs, but while Ce’dane of the Mountains had physically recovered, he had never truly returned from the surface. His body was thin and pale under the soft, translucent fabric covering him, his white flesh almost iridescent in the gentle glow of the ptal’ne, the ferns he himself had so brilliantly designed to provide just the desired amount of light based on the type of movement of the masters who had made them. His hair was just now beginning to grow back in soft brown, wispy tendrils, and the long lines of his skull, his close-set, angular ears, his wide, tilted eyes, all stood out in stark, unrelieved plainness. He was not considered physically beautiful, although when his eyes were open, his face was arresting in the intensity and intelligence of his expression, and Thalia missed seeing that more than she could have said. “I think perhaps we all needed a respite from ka’queha. I sense he has tried to distance himself from us, though, and for once time is not our ally.” Thalia laid a long-fingered hand on the slight, elongated body she had known since long before their sun had begun to die. “I need you, Dane,” she whispered. “You are the only one who truly understands or cares about the cost of what we are trying to do. To them. And to us. The others are pressuring me to act now, with the next alignment, but I’m not sure he is ready. I’m not sure we are ready.” She gently took his hand in her own. “I’m not sure we will ever be ready.” ~~~~~~~ “You’re being awfully quiet,” Methos commented after a long silence. “I figured you’d either laugh me out of the room or be bursting with questions.” Joe looked up, studying this… alien. For suddenly the hard, sharp planes of that familiar face seemed otherworldly, the bones a little too long of arm and leg and hand to be quite natural, the expression too intent to be entirely human. Joe swallowed hard and leaned forward, taking a deep breath. “Why,” he asked softly, but then had to take another breath before he could continue. “Why did they send you over as an adult, but the rest as infants?” “Ahhh,” Methos replied. “You do tend to get to the heart of things, don’t you, Joe Dawson? You always had that knack.” “Answer the question, Methos.” “Well, by their terms, I was an infant.” “You know what I mean!” Joe growled impatiently. Methos pushed himself out of his chair and went to the dusty, dirt-streaked window that looked out onto the alley behind the bar, leaning heavily on the windowsill. “I wasn’t the first, or the last, just the only one who has survived.” Methos turned and looked at him with a knowing smile. “I’m very good at that, you know.” He turned back to the window, his eyes losing focus as he told his story. “The handful of us actually born on Dunal spent all our comparatively short lives there in training for the transition. We were their good soldiers, the ones who were supposed to make sure everything happened as it was supposed to.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Methos turned to him, pinning him with a hard, angry gaze. “What the hell do you think it means, Dawson? We were sent here to start the Game, to promulgate the Rules, and if it all went as planned, to open the Gate when the time came.” “And exactly how was that supposed to happen?” Methos’ lips thinned, then curled into a snarl. “Let’s just say humans weren’t the first to invent the concept of cannon fodder.” He turned away from the window and snatched up his coat. “In any case, it took me awhile, but eventually I rebelled, decided I wasn’t going to be their good little soldier anymore, that my sole purpose was to survive – not for them. For ME! That was what you might call my angry adolescence.” He looked up, meeting Joe’s eyes once again. “So they sent others, designing them with more specific characteristics, hoping they would do what I refused to. But by then, they didn’t have the option of sending even half-grown children across, so they only sent the babies. Babies born and bred to have special talents.” “The Kurgan!” Joe breathed in sudden realization. Methos laughed bitterly. “You are too smart for your own good, Dawson.” “But when he fought Connor, yeah, it was a hell of a Quickening, but I didn’t hear any reports of aliens suddenly appearing,” Joe said in puzzlement. “Like I say, for a long time, I’ve been the only one with all the facts about when and where and how things were supposed to happen, and they gave up on me doing their bidding a long, long time ago. I assume they were busy trying to manipulate the Kurgan when Connor MacLeod took things into his own hands and spoiled their carefully laid plans. Even so, it was a close call. I’ve heard some stories of that Quickening that make me think some of the Sidhe almost broke through.” “Then what the hell does MacLeod and his meditation obsession have to do with all this?” Joe finally insisted. “They learned,” Methos said softly. “Over time their progeny became more fully human, and the traits that allowed them to be manipulated across the gate more subtle. Think about it, Joe. Mac is an amazing fighter, almost surreal in his ability to overcome any opponent. But he’s also always had a fey side, easily reached even by a neophyte psychic amateur like John Garrick, much less Cassandra or her stalker, Kantos. And his almost pathological need to sacrifice himself for others isn’t just because of the way he was raised, Joe.” “But you can’t really pre-determine that kind of thing…” “No, Joe. Humans can’t. At least not yet. But the Sidhe can. You wanted to know why I don’t tell Mac what I know?” he asked with a sneer. “What the hell do you think MacLeod would do if he found out he had the power to save an entire race of ancient beings from annihilation, including his own parents? That it was what he had been destined to do since birth; why he was given the physical and emotional strength to survive over and over again against impossible odds. Easy choice, you’d think. Right up his alley.” Methos’ long fingers wrapped tightly around the top of the chair, his knuckles shining whitely in the semi-darkness and he leaned forward with a tight, conspiratorial smile. “There’s only one small catch, Joe,” he added softly. “Either he has to die in the process, or I do!” Methos turned, yanked opened the door and disappeared, leaving Joe wondering if he’d taken all the oxygen with him. ~~~~~~~ |