Duncan MacLeod was in Seacouver for an extended period on business, when one grey drizzly morning he suddenly decided it was time to lighten the load in this part of his world. He would probably sell the dojo eventually, and it would be best to get started now, culling the herd of crates and containers. Dressed in a black t-shirt, faded jeans and well-worn boots, he took the elevator down to the basement below the dojo where he had stored his personal belongings, some dating as early as his first arrival in the United States.

It had been over a year since he had come down to what Richie had called the dungeon, and he had forgotten just how much he had accumulated. He almost turned around and left, the task somewhat daunting, but he straightened his shoulders in a snappy movement reminiscent of his military training. "Forward, men, into the breach!" He dug in, humming a tune from the world war...the first one that is, occasionally singing a phrase or two. The box closest to the door of the storage room included an incomplete table setting, thanks to Amanda trying to get her way over something long forgotten, a broken lamp he meant to fix someday, courtesy of Richie's impromptu sword practice in the loft, and some old paperbacks, read once, and of no further use to him. The second box was another collection of paperbacks. No problem there, they could all go. "Piece of cake," he murmured the old pilots' phrase.

By the time he got to the ninth container, he had the three distinct piles labeled in his mind: Keep for now, check with Joe, and rummage sale. He was pleased to see the third pile in the open area of the basement was bigger than the first two combined. He was making progress. The ninth container became a fourth pile all by itself: trash. Most of it was unusable clothing that he had thought to keep for rags, but there would be plenty more where that came from. Slashed shirts and perforated pants seemed to follow him wherever he went. Then he changed the mental label: incinerator. He would hate to have to explain the condition of the clothes to the police or anyone else. He was surprised he had kept it at all. Damn Scots thriftiness.

Two more incomplete table settings, thanks to the Immortal brat Kenny and his tizzy fits, two coffee makers that never really worked very well in the first place, and the mistake of the century, all went into the pile for the rummage sale. What a bunch of junk, the antique dealer thought. He took the shredded, air-conditioned clothes to the boiler room and disposed of them. During a quick trip back to the loft for something to settle the dust in his throat, he called Joe Dawson, also in town on personal and Watcher business, since MacLeod was his business.

"Rummage sale? Don't get rid of anything without me, Mac. And I'm going to want details, too."

"You always want details, Joe. You probably have more details written down than I'll ever remember." He studied the fingernail he had torn on a crate. It was too bad they did not heal as quickly as the rest of him.

"Part of the job, MacLeod, just part of the job."

"You want details, Dawson? Fine. I bought the 8-tracks in a fit of insanity."

"Damn! You too? I'm out the door." MacLeod could hear his laughter as the receiver clicked into place.

In the dungeon once again, MacLeod moved three crates automatically to the keeper pile, because he knew exactly what was in them by the labels, and it was all over one hundred years old. It was then that he found a medium-sized crate he did not recognize, only labeled as "Mac." Just like Christmas he thought. A clawed hammer made short work of the lid and he froze as his nostrils flared at the unforgotten scent of a special perfume.

His hand trembled as he reached for the single piece of buff colored stationery lying on top. He knew what the note would say, because Richie was now part of him forever. "You never did listen to me," he muttered briefly. He read the note, and then he began to empty the wooden box, slowly, lifting each moment of time carefully, afraid any sudden movement might waken him.

Dawson found him there, sitting on a sturdy crate, and Duncan appeared to be thinking, remembering. Items Joe recognized as things that Tessa had favored, sketchbooks, a backpack, and other mementos surrounded his friend. The Immortal held a brown leather-bound book in his hand, against his chest, and Joe suspected it might be a journal for the Watcher had seen enough of them in his lifetime. Joe stepped forward, wanting to console his friend, but he was unsure if it was necessary. "Mac?" he questioned.

Duncan looked up at his Watcher, at his friend, and he picked up a piece of paper and passed it to him with a single word, "Richie."

Joe read the note aloud. "Mac, I'm not sure if you really wanted me to get rid of these things too. You were hurting when you told me to; we both are right now, and I can't do it. I think it would be better to keep it until some time has passed. I'd hate it if you decided you wanted something of hers after it was all gone. Sorry if I made something worse. Richie." He folded the letterhead and gave it back to the dark Highlander, who slipped the note into the journal.

"I'm sure he didn't mean any harm, Mac," Joe said, "He was still just a kid when Tessa died."

Duncan gripped Tessa's journal tightly. When he spoke, it was with gratitude. "In some things, Joseph, Richie was wise beyond his years."

thanks for reading
lynnann
28 June 2000

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