by Westwind
May 2002
The traffic on the river was heading toward its summertime lull, exposing all the snags and dead boats to the dwindling river traffic. Piloted by the sure hand of Bob Murele, the tow moved downriver, pushed by the Mississippi's current and guided by a baby steam-powered paddleboat named Corky.
In the fifty years since the plague had ravaged the population, many things had changed. With the precipitous fall in the production of petroleum, a new way of transporting goods had to be developed. Paddle-wheeled steamers of all sizes began to move on the rivers and, eventually, steam powered ships on the sea.
Standing in the pilothouse of the little boat, Bob was the picture of insouciance. He had a straw hat pushed back on his head, and a mouthful of chewing tobacco that he spit, more or less, toward the open water. Thankfully, the pilothouse had open sides. And Duncan had not seen him change his overalls in the three days he had been aboard.
Taking a place as a supercargo for the run to Baton Rouge, Duncan would take the train from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. The mouth of the Mississippi had moved in the great flood; now it went down the Atchafala by Morgan City. The boat and barges would continue to Morgan City with their load of sacks of flour.
"If you've a mind to leave one of them here, I'd sure be partial to that Appalachian one." Miles Watson sat down beside Duncan. A whip-thin man, the captain of the little boat looked to be in his early thirties. Dressed in worn jeans and a tank top, his skin was the color of well broken-in leather.
Duncan jumped; Maggie hopped down and ran around behind Duncan to hide. Lily sat up, very regal, and looked Miles in the face. "She's not mine to give away. I'm taking her to New Orleans for a friend." Lily's gray and white coat glinted in the sun.
"She seems calm enough to make a ship's cat, not like the other one. I go to Morgan City regularly. Are you going to stay in New Orleans or go somewhere else? This time next year I might get a kitten from you. I really like them fuzzy cats. Don't see many around." Miles reached to pet Lily who accepted the tribute with all the hauteur of the very beautiful.
First the two kittens had grown ears and feet to go with their long legs. Duncan smiled. After their teen-age months were through, they would indeed be beautiful. Lily, for one, knew what she would look like. She blinked sky-blue eyes at Miles. He wasn't her man, but he was properly worshipful.
"Ho, Bob, watch the current!" Miles jumped up and worked his way to the back of the little paddleboat. Duncan gathered the two cats to him. He sighed, looking out over the river. Lily purred and Maggie wiggled. He put them back into the carrier and walked to the rail.
The river already seemed endless. This was just the third day of the trip from Cairo to Baton Rouge. It would take the boat a week, Miles had said "barring weather and utter ruin." That's when Duncan should have recognized a philosopher.
Maggie was in the corner of the cage with her nose pressed nearly through the wire. "You've got to watch that one; she's going to go swimming if you don't. And this tow can't turn around; we couldn't pick the two of you up. I guess then I'd get to keep this one." He gestured with his pipe toward the cage and Lily.
Getting Maggie out of the cage and snapping a leash to her harness, Duncan kissed her then, hugged her tight. Maggie wriggled, and when that didn't work, she hissed and spat. Duncan laughed. "She is very special to me." Duncan held on to his black and white wildcat. Miles twinkled at him.
Taking Lily as well, Duncan walked along the boat to the bow. Winding the leashes around his hand, he put the kittens down. Maggie promptly climbed onto the railing and looked out over the water. A tree was visible twisting in the current. Maggie trembled with the urgency to reach it.
"You don't want to be here, do you?" He reached down and scratched behind her ears. "We're not going to let you jump off, sweetheart. Just a few more days, then we'll be with Adam again."
Duncan came into the Hurleys' kitchen and found Adam sitting and holding the little Himalayan. She was a little squirming bundle with her eyes still sealed shut. Adam looked up at Duncan with tears in his eyes, not having to say anything. Here was the wonder of new life when he was so old. And to Duncan the miracle was that Adam could care so much, yet have lived for thousands of years.
Looking out over the river, Duncan watched the sun settle down into a brilliant sunset. Wisps of fog came ghosting across the water. The boat continued on until the fog rose up like a wall of gray in front of them, uneasy and restless. They'd have to tie up for the night; most river traffic used by-sight navigation. Everything would come to a halt when the "old, gray lady" closed in on the river.
Bob Murele guided the boat into the slack water on the Arkansas side of the river. Pulling in to the bank, Bob threw a line around a convenient tree and tied off. Miles ran the gangplank ashore. "There's a good spring along the path there."
Duncan picked up the cats and his duffel and went ashore, following the path until he came to the spring. He tied their leashes to separate bushes, then he set to work doing simple katas to loosen his muscles.
There would be beans for supper tonight just as there had been for each of the previous nights. Duncan was tired of beans, and fatback, and Bob's version of cornbread. Maybe he could get a rabbit. Finishing his katas, he got his pistol and went hunting.
At the sound of two pistol shots nearby, Miles and Bob left their tasks on the boat and hurried ashore. They met Duncan near the spring where he was building a fire. He had two fat rabbits laid out waiting to be cleaned. Looking up he said, "I thought we could do with a change in our diet. The cats sure could; they'll eat the viscera mixed with cornbread, and we'll have the rest."
"I'll clean them for you. Bob, go and get the spare pan so we'll have something to put them in, then bring the beans and the cornbread fixin's. Go on. You can talk to Duncan about where and how he got them when you get back."
Bob made two trips. Miles had the rabbits cleaned and the innards for the kittens sizzling with some bacon in a pan. Duncan put the rabbits on to roast on the fire supported by green limbs. Duncan thought he could even manage the cornpone and pinto beans, if he had something to go with it. "Why don't I take over some of the cooking chores? I really like to cook. If we could stop tomorrow at some place with a food store, I'll buy some provisions." Duncan looked up hopefully.
"We can do that. I think you've got a deal." Miles smoked his pipe and watched the fire. The beans were cooking in a large pot; fatback swam in the liquor. The cornpone would be cooked on a griddle at the last minute.
Bob was scuffling around when, suddenly, he reached out to get his hands on the half-cooked meat. "This has got to be ready. Let me have one of them."
"Not ready yet, Bob." Miles was firm.
"But I'm hungry." Bob backed up reluctantly.
"You'll have to wait until they're done. Have some beans." Miles puffed on his pipe and flicked his eyebrows at Bob.
"Don't want no beans. How long, Miles? Put something on them rabbits besides salt and pepper. They'll be dull as dishwater if you don't. Come on; let's eat."
"It's going to be fifteen or twenty minutes. You're not going to eat them early or eat them all. Just settle down. Go get the jug of cider from the cabin." Bob looked mulishly at Miles, then reluctantly moved off.
Miles looked at Duncan. "It's part and parcel of his inability to wait for anything. He sees it, and he wants it, and tries to get it, with or without permission." Miles shook his head.
Bob had come back and made a try again at the rabbits only to be rebuffed by Miles. Sulking, he sat down to wait the ten minutes until the rabbits were done. Miles began to cook the cornpone; the flat, brown, crispy pieces took just a minute or two to cook.
At last Duncan took the rabbits off the spit. Miles divided them into sections, put the cornpone on the plates, then served the pinto beans. Cider finished out the meal. Duncan did have to wrestle with Bob to get a piece of rabbit for the kittens' breakfast, but he was successful. And there was nothing leftover.
The clean up was simple; they took all the plates, pans, and utensil down to the river, scrubbed them with sand, swished them with river water, and laid them on a bush to dry. Miles looked at Duncan. "We'll sleep aboard the boat. We leave just before first light. Good night."
Duncan was thankful for this time alone. He got out the piece of rug the kittens supposedly slept on and fixed their bowl of water for the night. He spread the ground cover out, and sat down to watch the fire. With nothing to occupy his mind or his body, it was inevitable that Duncan would think of Methos. Miles and Bob were asleep on the boat. The kittens were bathing dreamily getting ready for sleep. A little peeved by the harnesses, they were fussing to each other.
A stick popped. Duncan came back to the present, a little reluctant to go to sleep; his dreams were always full of Methos. He lay down with his head propped up against his duffel, staring at the fire. His hand gently pleasured himself as he thought of Methos's beautiful long, fingered hands. He opened his pants, picked up a towel to catch the flow, and increased the rhythm until he jerked into orgasm.
The world was a white bed with fluffy pillows everywhere. Of course, it was cold as a witch's tit. Duncan walked in the path beaten down by the animals as they came to drink in the breaks in the ice. At the crest of the bluff, he stood and looked around. Methos had come this way intending to go ice fishing. He was a deadly hunter, cold and decisive, but he seemed to treat fishing as more of a game.
The Flint River was frozen from side to side, with the pressure waves of the final freezing still in evidence. Looking down at the river, Duncan could see the hole Methos had cut in the ice, the driftwood he had pulled up out of the frozen river to sit on, and the fishing pole, still fixed in its bracket, where he had left it.
Looking out over the frozen river, Duncan considered the pressure ridges poking up in all directions. Methos could be hidden behind any one of them. Duncan couldn't sense him at all; Methos must have wandered. Duncan began to break a trail through the snow along the bluff, going downriver. After about ten minutes, he felt something. Going to the highest point, he looked out at the bleak landscape. Methos had had an orange windbreaker on over multiple layers of clothes; he should have been easy to see.
He spotted Methos's fox sitting on a ridge, looking down at something. Duncan started to make his way slowly toward him. He felt Methos's song now. The little fox was a yearling that hadn't found a mate so he filled the time, while he was looking, by being Methos's buddy. The fox saw Duncan coming, trotted part of the way down the ridge, and yipped anxiously. He went back to the top and sat down again.
Moving as fast as he could, it still took almost half an hour to reach the fox. Looking down, Duncan gasped in shock. Methos was lying on the lip of open water with his leg bent at an odd angle. Duncan carefully worked his way down to Methos with the fox running down the hill ahead of him. The wind was ferocious, trying to push him down the ridge.
Waking with a start, Duncan was surprised that he had gone to sleep. He remembered that time. Methos had been semi-conscious; he had kept trying to get up and failing. Duncan had been lucky to find several pieces of driftwood to make a travois. It had been dark when Duncan had managed to pull him up the bank. The fox had kept him company for a while, then had gone hunting; now he had come back, whining a little. "He'll be all right now that he's off the ice. I'm going to build a fire. He just needs to get warm, then he'll heal." The fox had looked up at him as if it could understand.
And so he had and Methos had, indeed, healed--the miracle of Immortality. Methos had woken two hours later, with fire on either side of him, complaining of wet clothes.
Before settling himself for sleep, Duncan checked the kittens, relieved himself, then lay back down. Snuggling a little to get comfortable, he felt the warmth of a kitten settling down at his back.
Awakened out of a sound and, for once, dreamless sleep, Duncan lay with his heart hammering so wildly it was all he could feel or hear. Somewhere southwest of here Methos had taken a Quickening. As if a window had slid open for an instant, Duncan was aware of a driving rainstorm, and Methos on his hands and knees in the mud as the Quickening raged on.
Duncan was on his feet and moving toward the southwest when the vision winked out, leaving him shaken. At least Methos was still alive. But what was he doing off to the southwest? Duncan thought he was going to go down the east side of the river. And he didn't seem that far away.
Already on his feet, Duncan reached down and shook out the ground cover he had used and folded it up. He traded it for his shaving things in the duffel. The kittens were playing with some leaves, patting and whuffling; there was probably some unfortunate bug under the pile of debris.
The sun wasn't up yet, but the sky had lightened. In the west, the wreck of a waning moon was just above the horizon. Caught between two kinds of light, one golden, one silvery, the river flowed obliviously on.
On a bluff looking eastward out over a deep valley, the sun was just coming up over the hill on the opposite side. Methos stood on the edge of the grade, his arms held outward to welcome the sun. Duncan took a step forward and realized Methos was chanting something; he listened to words in a completely unknown language. Methos stomped one foot and then the other, his voice louder, rising up the register through the baritone range into the tenor. It rang out over the newly sunlit valley, true and sweet.
Somewhere, Duncan hoped Methos was well and resting; he would be jumpy from the Quickening, angry and needy. It would settle more readily if he had someone to help him. If it couldn't be Duncan, let it be someone benign. That was something he would never ask about. Warming the cornpone briefly over a small fire, Duncan prepared the kittens' breakfast. Cutting up the piece of rabbit, he served their treat. They had never gotten over growling at each other when it was especially good. While they ate, he moved through his katas. When he finished, Miles was looking at him with interest. "I've seen you do those dances before. What are they, some kind of martial arts?"
"Yeah. You ready?" He turned around to pick up the kittens and take them to the boat. Miles followed with his duffel. They were soon underway.
They traveled through a world of shimmering light. Cooler in the morning, but building to anvil heat at midday, the river was nearly a mile wide. Muddy and burdened with the debris of half the continent, the Mississippi flowed toward the sea.
It had worked at returning to its free ways, trying to be a wild river again. There was a more even division of power between river and man than there had been fifty years ago. Slowly, the river had eaten away at the structures that man had imposed on it. It had tried to resume its meandering ways, and had been successful, as often as not.
After several hours of travel, Miles came forward to where Duncan was sunning himself, watching the oak and hickory woods slip by. There was very little evidence of man on this stretch of the river. "We'll be stopping in a few minutes, a little place called Eudora, Arkansas."
"I'd like to get some fishing tackle. What kind of stores do they have there?"
"It's 'store'. It's just a little bitty place, scarce more than a dozen houses."
"I'd better put on a shirt." Duncan began to rummage in the duffel.
Bob brought the tow into the wharf at Eudora and Miles tied the Corky up. Some of the locals came down to meet the boat. They greeted Miles and Bob, and they stared at Duncan. Wearing a pair of jeans and a washed out denim shirt, Duncan came ashore with the cats on their leashes and a smile on his face. The locals looked at him with amazement. A brilliantly beautiful face on a man with two cats in his arms, and when he spoke, he was foreign. They trailed along after him, trying to hear anything he had to say.
The Mayor came up to shake his hand. Duncan put Lily down. She sat and waited for the admiration that she knew would come. The Mayor, a middle-aged woman with a managing way about her, knelt down and picked up Lily, stood up hugging her, then shook Duncan's hand. "I'm Mayoress Sadie Goshen. Let me offer you some refreshment--some tea, maybe, and a slice of lemon cake. Come along." She turned and marched off with Lily looking over her shoulder in puzzlement. Duncan followed meekly in their wake.
Miles was standing outside the general store watching Bob get drunk on hard cider. Duncan walked up and handed Lily to Miles. "You have trouble getting her back?"
"It was a near thing. You don't usually come ashore at a town, do you?" He was looking at Bob as he asked the question.
"No. For a lot of reasons, that's the chief one, though. He'll soon pass out. It doesn't matter what it is as long as it's alcoholic. Bob's a fine, steady crewman with a real feel for the river; he just can't be around liquor."
"How long have you been together?"
"Off and on, about a year. But he sometime ships with other captains."
"I was going to buy a cask of beer for supper."
"Bad idea, Duncan. Let me have your wildcat. You can't shop with a cat in either hand. You'll need to get what you need here; we, for sure, won't stop at a town until the other side of Vicksburg, maybe not until Baton Rouge."
Duncan turned and went in the store, thinking about the menu. Supper tonight could be catfish; Methos wasn't the only one in the family who could fish. A plump, middle-aged man greeted Duncan with a smile. "Welcome! I'm Seth Gibbs. What can I do for you?"
Shaking hands with him, Duncan said, "I'm Duncan MacLeod. I want to buy provisions for a two or three days." Duncan was on a budget, but there had to be more than one kind of bean. Pintos were okay, but he knew if he had to eat them for another day, he'd turn into one.
"Let me see; give me four of those white chickens I saw outside. I'll need a small sack of onions, a couple of cloves of garlic, a dozen potatoes, a dozen eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a dozen lengths of sausage. Do you have some hot sauce? We have a crewman who thinks anything is dull without something to spice it up."
"Yes sir, we have some of McIlhenny's best. Jacob, come get this box and take it down to the boat. Don't dawdle! Bring the box back here and get four chickens and take them to the boat. Do you have some way to confine them?" Seth straightened his vest and fiddled with the collar of his shirt.
Duncan was shopping among the bins full of noodles. "There's a crate on the foredeck. What about these noodles?"
"Yes sir. We have several kinds."
"Something small like dentalini and a pound of rice. Some of that corn would be nice. How much is it?" Duncan had to remind himself that he was on a budget.
"It's corn season, so it's very reasonable, twenty-five cents a dozen." Seth could see this one customer making his month. He was beginning to sweat gently in anticipation.
"Give me a couple of dozen. If it dries out, I'll just soak it. I'll need a pot and a small knife. Oh, I want some coffee but just a little. And two loaves of bread, please." Satisfied with his thrift, Duncan paid for his purchases.
Well, if they had catfish for supper tonight, they could have eggs and toast for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe they could have a fish stew with sausage for lunch. Then he could sacrifice a couple of chickens for supper. Duncan continued to muse. Of course, all the plans depended on his catching fish.
Duncan took Lily and Maggie from Miles, and they began to walk back to the boat followed by Mr. Gibbs, Jacob with another box, the Mayor with a cane pole, and the rest of the townsfolk. Everyone waved as Duncan and Miles went aboard. Bob was delivered to the foredeck of the Corky by two largish farmers.
While Miles was casting off, Duncan put the food in the built-in pantry, tied the cats up to the flagpole, and got out his new fishing tackle. He tried to remember how to tie the trotlines like Adam had done it--something special.
He walked down the steps of the cabin he and Methos were staying in. Cairo was a little village on a peninsula just before the Ohio River and the Mississippi River came together. Tomorrow he would board a boat for Baton Rouge and Methos would take the train south. They had come overland from Ohio by horse, by train, and by noisy steam car, arguing continually about how they would get to New Orleans. Methos had insisted that he did not do "water".
"You don't have to go out in a boat to fish, Mac. You don't even have to get wet." Watching Methos's beautiful hands tie a knot in a trotline and throw it back in the river, Methos turned to him with a grin. "Fried catfish tonight with home fries and hush puppies. Yum! Get up the steps, you Highland heathen."
"I am not a heathen!" Duncan huffed but with a smile on his face. "I'll peel potatoes."
That memory made Duncan smile, and now he remembered the knot. He tied the knots into the fishing line and threw it overboard. Now all he had to do was wait. Duncan took the cane pole the Mayor had given him and began to fish. He spent an hour that way, catching little fish and throwing them back.
Miles had to steer the boat. Bob lay in a heap on the foredeck with the chickens cackling a foot from his head. They ran for the afternoon hours through and around ox-bows that met themselves coming back.
It looked like they would be able to sail until it was dark, but the fog was soon so thick they were wet to the skin. Miles put the tow alee of a large island covered with cottonwoods. "It's called Jackson Island for as long as it lasts."
Duncan pulled the trotline and found three catfish, just enough for supper. He cleaned them at the edge of the river, then went inland to get the fire started. The fog was so thick, even in the interior, it was like walking a foot above the ground.
Walking up a rise in the center of the island, Duncan found his way to a cave. It was about six feet high and about twenty feet deep, getting shallower all the way. Building the fire at the opening of the cave, he let it burn for a while. Putting the potatoes in the coals to bake, he got the corn ready to roast on the griddle. Duncan spitted the catfish on green limbs.
They sat around the fire in the mouth of the cave, waiting for everything to be done. Bob was nodding off, and Miles seemed disinclined to talk. Duncan tended to the fire and kept his own council.
The three catfish were seasoned with bacon and onions, with the corn and potatoes left in the coals to roast. Bob drenched everything with hot sauce and ate it all, even the scraps.
"Mighty tasty. You're a good cook." Miles came and sat down on the log next to him.
Wandering amid his memories, Duncan came reluctantly came back. "Thanks. It's better to have someone to cook for."
"Your friend in New Orleans? Lily's papa?"
Duncan nodded.
"You cooked; I'll clean up. Come on, Bob. You bring the plates and utensils. Good night, Duncan" They picked their way carefully down to the river's edge. Bob had been quiet since Miles had wakened him to come and eat. Maybe it was just the hangover.
Duncan hummed to himself tunelessly. He went through a series of stretches, settled the cats, then sat down on the ground cover to meditate. He gave up after just a few minutes. Methos felt like he was very close. Duncan closed his eyes and let the memories come.
Methos lay on the chaise on the sun porch with a book in his hands and a cup of tea on the little table nearby. He knew that Duncan was watching him; he had twitched. But he did not look up. "There's room for two--if you don't mind being close." Methos never looked up.
Duncan could feel the grin spreading over his face. He took three giant steps and jumped in, catching Methos to prevent him from falling off. Duncan made himself comfortable with his arm around Methos shoulders. If they were going to just sit, he intended to enjoy it. Duncan took a deep breath of eau de Methos.
"MacLeod, don't sniff so loud. I'm trying to read, here." Duncan leaned closer and sniffed again, then again. "MacLeod!" But Duncan had his attention now. The book was forgotten as Methos turned to Duncan far a kiss.
Duncan felt light-headed with lust. He wanted to touch Methos everywhere, but he held himself still, for now. Methos sat up and began to kiss and caress him. Duncan shivered.
Even though Methos could be infinitely infuriating, there was something so addictive about him. He was so old, yet so new. "Do you want this, or not." Methos's eyes were shooting hazel sparks. Duncan had forgotten to pay attention.
"Will you just hold me a minute? We're safe, warm, and well fed; I need to count my blessings." Duncan threaded his arms up and around him. Methos gradually relaxed into Duncan's arms and onto his body.
For the first time in five years they had a warm, safe place to stay. They had found this place by accident when Methos had seen a flash of light. Wandering through the foothills of the Rockies, they had gone to look and had found the window of a high-tech cabin hidden away with everything, including a basement full of freeze-dried food and the owner, in his Mercedes, apparently dead of the plague.
With a sigh, Methos lay his head on Duncan's chest. Duncan rubbed circles on his back. "Okay, they're counted. My number one blessing is you. Let me give you a massage. I want to touch you all over."
Methos looked up at him and smiled. "Okey, Dokey." Duncan laughed.
Duncan smiled at the memory. They had stayed two years in the cabin until Methos decided to see if there was a market for the furs they had been accumulating. They had never gone back.
Duncan built up the fire. Methos felt like he was just out of reach. Duncan stretched out and turned on his side. He moved his hand up and down his penis. He could almost feel Methos doing the same thing.
As the desire ebbed and flowed, Duncan kept up the kneading of flesh. He let the back of the chaise down and guided Methos over onto his stomach. Beginning with his head, Duncan massaged along every muscle in the long, too-thin body beneath him.
Duncan gradually shed his clothes as he worked his way down the lean body. Methos was almost purring. Duncan got up and turned around to work on Methos's calves and his feet. Every muscle in Methos's body was liquid. As Duncan worked the feet, he realized Methos was asleep; he heard a gentle snore. Duncan smirked.
He moved to cover Methos with his body so he wouldn't get cold. With his mouth right next to Methos ear, he whispered, "Methos."
"Thank you." Methos gave a deep sigh.
"I'm not through. Turn over. " Duncan got up to let Methos turn on his back. Now it was his turn to sigh. Lord, he was beautiful. Clothes--anything that covered his nakedness--were superfluous. Too bad Methos was always cold.
Methos, in a sleepy, contented voice, said, "Well?"
Duncan sat down astride his waist and began on his face. He looked at the closed eyes and the relaxed mouth, slightly open to show a glimpse of pink tongue. He began to delicately stroke his fingers down the cheekbones and around the jaw line. Duncan mused about how one could cherish someone unreservedly yet a tilt of the head, a smile, a way of standing, made one fall in love again and again. It could be such a little thing, yet still be heart-stopping.
Moving down further, it was futile to try not to notice that the nipples were pebbling up. He began to pay more attention to them. Finally he leaned forward and took one in his mouth. "I don't think that's part of any massage technique I've ever heard of." Methos was trying to be snaky, but his voice betrayed his contentment. Abandoning the nipple, Duncan moved abruptly to the jutting penis and engulfed it. Methos arched upward. Duncan sucked strongly and sent Methos over the edge. "Mac!" It came out with a gurgling moan.
"Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." Methos snuggled into Mac's warm body with a happy sigh. His head was turned down were it fitted against Duncan's shoulder. He watched Methos sleep, wondering what he could safely touch and what he shouldn't. Duncan's arm was around Methos; he felt along the length of the arm to the hand, relaxed and almost open. Duncan rubbed along the back of it, then slipped around to match fingers with him. He found a few calluses but not enough.
"Mmfph!" Methos said.
Duncan grasped the hand briefly then let his hand wander on. Idly rubbing and feeling the stomach, ridged and muscular, his flanks carrying down to his runner's legs, and up to the perfect buttocks.
"Stop groping me!" A disgruntled voice said down about Duncan's clavicle.
"Sorry, but you're infinitely gropable." Duncan tightened his hold on him.
Methos popped up, instantly awake. "I am not, but you are." And he proceeded to prove it.
Falling deeper and deeper, Duncan found himself awash in love and lust. He loved Methos's voice telling him how beautiful and how valiant he was. He loved the way Methos touched him to arouse but also as if he were something precious.
As the flames built and grew, Duncan found himself pulling his legs back to open himself to Methos. The flames were a conflagration when Methos grasped his legs, reared up, and entered Duncan. He looked up and watched Methos's face, open and so appealing. Methos was concentrating on movement; his tongue was protruding from his mouth. As he moved with increasing urgency into, onto, and around Duncan, it all got hazy and began to blend together as Duncan reached his climax. After he came and Methos was through, Duncan thought happily that this man was his.
When Miles came to get him, Duncan had the fire going. "Just in time. We need eggs, bacon, bread, and the griddle. Let's get them and get breakfast started."
The food was soon ready and eaten. Bob was still silent except for a single comment, "Thank you for the hot sauce."
Duncan saw more than he wanted to, reminding him of what had been. They moved through long stretches of green--no towns, no settlements, and no people. Some of the levees were broken and dissolving. A lot of derelict houses were seen, fallen into ruin, their empty eyes gazing at the river in amazement. And there were long stretches of the riverbank flattened by the growth of kudzu.
Miles pointed to a knob of rock just shy of the Mississippi shore that was sticking out of the water. "That's the last of the pillars. The river has been eating them for twenty years; just about got them digested too."
When the dentalini was done, the pot of fish stew would be ready, cooked on the makeshift stove created over the steam boiler. Getting out the griddle, Duncan cooked some sausage, then toasted some bread in the juices to go with it.
Duncan didn't know where Bob put it all. As soon as Duncan and Miles indicated that they were through, Bob ate the rest. There would never be any leftovers with Bob around.
They sailed on. Duncan noticed Miles looking at the shoreline. "What do you see?"
Miles looked at Duncan, then answered, "Spotters."
"Spotters? Who for?"
"The pirates of Vicksburg."
"Miles, pirates on the Mississippi? I've never heard of them. They steal flour? What kind of pirate is that? Are you carrying something else?" There was a flash of light from a tree and Duncan automatically ducked.
"There's no hiding from them. The river makes a hairpin turn at Vicksburg; that's where they strike. They hide among the cliffs and in the Yazoo River. We don't have anything on board that interests them, but they don't know that.
"Usually the barges that carry firearms or electronics go in convoys, and they go either before the low water or after. It's much easier to move through Vicksburg on high water. Get that frogsticker of yours out and keep it handy. Yo, Bob, come and take the tiller."
"How long to Vicksburg?" Duncan shifted to look behind him.
"An hour before sunset. But we may have to fight. I'm sorry, Duncan. I thought this shipment would be safe or I never would have taken you as a passenger."
Duncan felt a deep-welling excitement. Working to get the kittens down below the deck and out of the way, he was concerned for their little lives but not his own. He finished feeding the kittens and left them to go on deck.
Duncan pulled his katana out of the duffel. Miles reached out for it. Duncan held it upright in front of him. "Have you washed your hands?" Miles looked surprised. "Never mind." He handed it to Miles. "Be careful. Don't touch the blade." Duncan got his gun case out and began assembling the rifle. "Can you shoot?"
"Yes. Bob would be better off with my old shotgun; with a rifle he couldn't hit an elephant if it was right in front of him, and it stood absolutely still." He gave the katana back to Duncan.
Duncan automatically checked the defenses. They had three rifles--his high powered one and two others of unknown lineage and doubtful accuracy--a shotgun, his handgun, and the katana, of course.
He thought of Methos and the armament he customarily carried. Duncan smiled. Methos would be getting ready to jump ship. Then he would tell Duncan what a fool he was to be enjoying himself. Exasperated and frightened, he would work like a fiend to get everything ready. And he wouldn't go anywhere without Duncan.
Seacouver was burning. The plague had removed the firemen and the will to fight the blaze. It had started down on the waterfront and then spread inexorably outward. Now it was too large, too potent to do anything but get out of its way. A firestorm raged over half the city.
Methos had moved his journals to the island weeks ago, before there was any danger. All he had now was his Ivanhoe and some clothes. Duncan, on the other hand, had many things. He had been working in the dojo, packing. Now he had to move it or lose it for sure. He turned around and around. What to do first. He wished Methos was here--the master of the fast break.
Taking a load of clothes down to Methos's truck, he looked around for the old man. He sighed as he went back up the stairs. He was packing the clocks, when a wash of presence fell over him; Methos was here. "MacLeod, it's just a few blocks away. Get what you need and let's go. If the fire jumps the space, we'll be screwed." He was wild- eyed and filthy, and Duncan wanted to eat him alive.
"Just one more load, Methos." Duncan was still looking around.
"Come on, Mac. We don't have time for anything else. The cinders are dropping out there; they're going to catch on something any minute. Let's go while we have a way out." Methos stood, with his hands in his pockets, his head down, looking up at Duncan through his lashes. His shirt was holed through with scorch marks, and he was trembling with urgency.
Duncan stood a minute and looked around at their home, then he looked at Methos. "Come on. Let's go."
The tow was entering the hairpin turn at Vicksburg, when the boats slid away from the cliffs and out of the mouth of the Yazoo River. Low and mean, they glided toward the tow, two men to a canoe. Duncan counted four boats and eight men against three men who didn't want to fight.
Duncan didn't want to be the first one to fire, but soon the pop of small caliber rifles could be heard. Duncan held his rifle against the edge of the pilothouse to steady it and squeezed off a shot that scored a direct hit on the lead paddler in the nearest canoe.
He quickly re-aimed and hit the second man. Meanwhile Miles had taken the shotgun and blown a hole in the fragile side of the canoe. These were just the vanguard, though.
The sky was beginning to turn as red as the cliffs. More boats came from hidden places along the banks of the river. Duncan thought it was decidedly overkill for this particular tow. He looked at Bob to see how he was doing and found him signaling to the marauders. Duncan started for the back of the boat when he felt another Immortal Quickening.
In the minute he was immobilized by the Quickening, Bob was shot by the oncoming pirates. Miles made a small sound as he moved to the back of the boat. He knelt beside Bob for an instant, then rose to take the wheel. Miles moved the tow the rest of the way through the turn.
Something was very odd here. The pirates wouldn't send fourteen men to rob a tow that was carrying just flour. And why had Bob been signaling the pirates? It seemed crazy unless there was a puzzle piece missing.
And the feel of the Quickening was as familiar as his own heartbeat. Methos must be shadowing him. Duncan was filled with a singular joy at the thought.
In moving to the back of the Corky, Duncan brushed against the crate with the squawking chickens in it. It turned over, and the chickens were loose. They added a beaky note of chaos to the natural anarchy of battle.
Laughing, Duncan decided that his goal in the skirmish was to prevent any of the pirates from boarding the tow. Miles would steer; he would fight. With Methos nearby, there was nothing that could defeat him. Using his pistol and the katana, he roamed the little boat, creating mayhem. The marauders were caught between two Immortals who had turned into killing machines.
The pirates who reached the boat were met by a sword-wielding madman with a grin on his face and chickens running loose at his feet. When they tried to return to their bases, another berserker, who seemingly couldn't be killed, kept them from it. The fight went rapidly out of them, and the pirates slipped away down river.
The chickens refused to get off the boat and now were going to sleep on top of the pilothouse. They seemed indifferent to the doom awaiting them. Looking up river toward the hairpin turn, Duncan saw that it was empty. He sighed. Methos had slipped away. He would never completely understand Methos.
They were both exhausted; Methos's horse was beginning to stumble a little. Duncan had lost track of how far they had come and how far they had to go. Moving through a cathedral of trees, they went on in what Duncan hoped was the right direction.
It was Duncan's turn to be strong for both of them. Methos had retreated into self-loathing. Driven by the will to survive, Methos had done something terrible. As Duncan had come to know Methos better, Duncan had begun to recognize the bleak moods that came over him from time to time. He would withdraw from the people around him and seem to just exist. Methos didn't brood; he seemed to withdraw from the world.
Duncan didn't know if he was less aware or less responsive. He didn't see how Methos could be totally unaware and continue to exist. Duncan sought a clearing in this group of trees. He guided his horse in that direction as Methos followed. As Duncan dismounted, he saw the little stream in the distance, a good source of water.
Unloading the packhorse, Methos put the camp supplies by the fire, then he moved to settle the horses. He was moving very deliberately.
"Are you hurt?" Duncan looked up from rolling out the bedrolls.
"No. But that boy was." Methos was finished with the horses, hobbling them and letting them go with their feedbags.
"He was aiming for your eyes with that pitchfork while you were busy with his father." They had stopped in that little town so that Methos could get a haircut.
"He wasn't his father; he was his lover."
"You don't know that."
Methos shrugged, and lay down on his bedroll, and turned away from Duncan. Duncan left him alone for a while. He would cook a quick supper. He got the flour, and made biscuits, and put them on to bake in a Dutch oven. There wasn't time to forage for anything tasty to add to the beans. Maybe tomorrow they'd try for some trout in the stream, but it had been a bad scene, a very bad scene. Duncan put water on for tea and sighed. This was just busy work to keep from thinking about the incident.
Duncan looked over at Methos. Let him rest. And maybe that was the coward's way out. With another sigh, Duncan started to stir the beans. Time went by very slowly. Duncan poured the tea and carried it over to Methos. "You have to drink something."
"I don't have to do anything." He didn't open his eyes. Duncan set the cup down and went to eat his solitary supper. The extra biscuits would keep until breakfast. When he finished, he dug a hole for the remains of the beans. Duncan went to his sleeping bag and lay down.
The next morning when he woke up, Methos was gone with just his horse and sword. Duncan hurried to get everything loaded on the packhorse. He would try to follow. For the rest of the day, Duncan followed a trail that Methos had made no effort to hide.
Duncan came up on Methos standing holding the reins of his horse, looking out over a large lake. Duncan dismounted, and walked up to Methos. He put his arms around him, and his head against his back; he could feel the beating of Methos's heart.
He had been involved in the incident too. But Methos had committed the ultimate sin--he had lost control. Duncan had come up when the fight with the father had been in progress, and just in time to see the boy come at Methos with pitchfork raised high.
The whole thing had seemed to explode. Methos had reached out and had snapped the man's neck. He then half-turned to pull the pitchfork out of the boy's hands and had beaten him with it. The whole thing had been over in a minute. Duncan had held the boy by the arms while Methos had beaten him. It had been done so quickly. He had found himself still holding the boy up.
When Duncan had looked up, he had seen Methos's face, cold and distant without a trace of anger. Death had been here with them.
They had gotten out of town as quickly as they could. No one had followed them; they didn't hadn't known if anyone had known they had been responsible for the assault. But still they had ridden as if the very furies were on their trail. They rode until they had been stumbling with fatigue.
Pulling over to another island thick with cottonwoods, Miles tied up to the willows along the shore. Bob was dead. Duncan came up with a blanket and wrapped it around the body. "We'll bury him here." So they buried him on the island among the cottonwoods.
They were back on the boat, sitting and looking at the fog. "Did Bob have something they wanted? He was signaling to them." Duncan glanced over at Miles.
"Bob brought a chest when he came aboard this time." Miles went and got it. He put it down in front of Duncan and opened it. It was filled with vials of penicillin. There was very little of it produced after the plague. "That's worth a pretty penny. At least now we know what they were after."
"His box is waterproof. We'll dunk it in the river, like we just fished it out. It'll look like we found it there, then we can turn it in as legitimate salvage. When we sell it, we'll go halves. If not for you, the pirates would have had it." Miles was looking troubled but determined. The value of this box of drugs was more money that he could make in ten years. Duncan reluctantly agreed.
As the night headed toward the dark of the moon, they continued to sit on the deck. Every once in a while one of the chickens would sigh a little. Slowly, the night moved on.
At first light, Duncan fixed a quick breakfast of egg sandwiches while Miles was getting underway. Swinging through the ox-bows, the Corky forged ahead. Green forest, little towns, stands of kudzu, and occasional fields of corn went drifting by. Duncan couldn't bring himself to kill one of the chickens. He didn't look at the top of the pilothouse; they were watching him, he knew. Duncan wouldn't kill anything else. He thought of the little warriors and smiled. He'd never forget the one that had collided with a pirate who had made it to the boat. The pirate had fallen off in surprise, and the chicken had run cackling away.
Lunch was a stew of fish and sausage. And supper was more fish poached with onions and garlic and served with rice and corn. Miles had very little to say. They tied up for the night. Methos seemed impossibly far away. Duncan found that he didn't have much to say either.
They traveled until midday and then the Corky slid into the docking space at Baton Rouge. The chest had ridden in a net of rope for several hours. It now looked like something that they had found floating in the river.
Miles took it ashore and straight to the salvage master's office. "Miles, how goes it?" A very round gentleman, he stood up to see what Miles and Duncan had brought in. "Man, it looks like it was rode hard and put up wet! Let's see what you all have got there."
The chest was put on the desk on top of all the paper. Master Arledge opened it and gasped out loud. "Lordy, will you look at that! How did someone lose something as valuable as this?"
"It was just floating down the river below Vicksburg." Miles gave Duncan a quick look. "What's it worth?"
"Where's Bob?"
"I put him ashore below Eudora. You can guess why."
Arledge nodded his head. "Yep. You had more patience than most. Let me count it up. Are you dividing between the two of you?" Bright eyes looked at Duncan.
"Yes."
"I'll pay you the going rate for penicillin. I know the hospital here will pay a premium for it. You lucky dog you! This is quite a windfall, Miles." He was talking, counting up the vials, rapidly multiplying on a slip of paper, then paying them from a safe. "I'd say let's get a cup of coffee, but I'm going to take this right on over to the hospital. Lordy, they'll be exited!"
Miles divided the money and gave half to Duncan. "Thanks, Arlo, but Duncan has to catch a train for New Orleans. Another time. Bye now."
They walked down to the dock to the Corky to get the cats and the luggage. Duncan said, "His name is Arlo Arledge?"
"I know. What was his mother thinking?" Miles flashed a grin. "Get everything off the boat; I'll get a wagon."
Duncan hurried to get the duffels on the dock. Then with the cats under each arm, he walked to where Miles waited with a wagon.
Duncan's first experience with river salvage had left him considerably richer. As he got in the wagon, Duncan couldn't wait to tell Methos the story.
Slowly, the wagon moved down the street. Duncan knew he would scream if it didn't move faster. Instead he let it come, one of his favorite memories.
"I can't do this." Methos got up and walked across the room as if movement would stop the heartache. Duncan sat on the couch surprised, but something in the tone, some wavering of resolution, made him get up and follow. Walking around, he put his hands on his wayward lover, looked at Methos, and waited.
At first Methos couldn't look at Duncan. Of course, the view presented by that nose was pretty good, almost breathtaking in fact. At last Methos looked at Duncan with eyes that were filling with tears. "I can't pretend about this. I've tried; I can't do it. I can't be your fuck buddy. I'm sorry, Highlander. See you in about a hundred years. Watch your head."
With that statement, he whirled, got his coat and sword, and was out the door before Duncan could move to stop him. By the time Duncan got to the door of the barge, Methos was striding up the quay toward the bridge.
He went back for his coat and sword and followed. Duncan kept Methos just in sight but made no move to stop him. Duncan really didn't know if Methos even realized he was there. They walked like that for some time.
Methos kept his head down for most of the way. Finally he stopped, gazing upward, then looking back at Duncan. "Adam, please. Just let me talk." Duncan moved a step closer; Methos did not move back so they were almost nose to nose. "I thought you wanted a casual relationship, but that's not the way I feel. Tell me what you do want."
"Duncan..." He trailed off. Methos looked up to the heavens again. "I love you. I can't go on pretending I don't. Better to go away than continue this lie." He looked right into Duncan's eyes. "Let me go. I can't do this anymore. I've pretended as long as I can." He was trembling.
Smiling at this man who had become his heart and soul, Duncan took his hand. "I love you too. We don't have to do anything; just let it be. And stop pretending. It's almost Christmas; let's spend it together, just the two of us. You pick the destination. Warm. Cold. Whatever."
They still hadn't embraced; somehow it didn't seem necessary. Duncan slipped both their hands into Methos's pocket and held on. "Let's walk."
And so they did, walking trough the darkness until the dawn found them on the edge of a small park in a Paris suburb. "Now we have to walk back, MacLeod." Adam heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh.
"We'll get a taxi. How about some breakfast?"
"Good idea!"
Between calling the taxi and its arrival, Duncan kissed Methos very gently, very thoroughly. He slipped his other hand into Methos's other pocket and they stood there waiting for their ride, standing very close. They got to the hot monkey sex later in the day--after breakfast.
"You're awful quiet." Miles sat in the wagon with Duncan's two large duffels on either side of him.
"Just thinking. How much farther."
"Around the corner and down a couple of blocks. We're early though. I guess you were a little anxious." Miles smiled at Duncan.
"I guess so. I just want to be there." The wagon creaked around the corner. Now Duncan could see the train station. The steam engine was a distant plume of smoke. The wagon moved slowly down the street until finally it came to the station.
Duncan got down, and handed the kittens to Miles, and went to get his ticket. Miles settled the cats down on the duffels by petting them. Maggie didn't like it, but she could see Duncan, so she sat down to wait.
Hurrying back with his ticket, Duncan took Maggie and Lily. Miles jumped down and picked up the duffels; they both started walking toward the tracks. "The train from New Orleans is on time, but you'll have to wait on yours." They watched as the steam engine pulled in.
Miles was walking with him to help Duncan carry his luggage. Duncan carried the two cats and the duffel with his sword in it. As they approached the train, Duncan heard the deep song of Methos's Quickening. His breath caught in his throat as his heart stepped off the train, smiling. So Methos had found his treasure.
Methos was wearing one of the new suits without lapels, and the suit, the shirt, and the tie were all one color. His hair was as short as Duncan had ever seen it. Adam stood and smiled his quirky smile. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." Duncan walked into his arms, cats included. "A group hug."
Finis.