The Self-same Winds

Chicago, Illinois
November 21, 2000

The security guard of the condominium tower raised his eyes to the heavy glass door as it swung open. The man entering didn't seem old--even with the cane--although the salt-and-pepper hair did extend to his neatly trimmed beard and moustache. Early fifties, sixty--tops, the guard thought, flipping the sports magazine face down on the desk. "May I help you?" he asked courteously.

"Joe Dawson to see Matthew Clarke." There was gravel in the voice that probably came from too many hours in smoke-filled rooms but the quality was a pleasant growl.

"He's not in, but he said to ask you to wait; have a seat."

Dawson considered the low, soft sofas and chairs in the foyer but declined. "No, thanks. Will he be long?"

The uniformed guard silently cursed his mental lapse--he had recognized the walk. "No, he comes in about this time, usually. Would you rather have my chair?" He rose and stepped away from the desk in offering. "My brother has some trouble with those low couches, too. 'Nam?"

"Yeah, I was there. Were you 'in country?'" Dawson waved the offer away with his hand and a small shake of his head.

"My brother had two tours. I missed it by a couple of years." The guard returned to his chair and pulled himself to the desk, glancing by habit at the security monitors; all was quiet.

"Consider yourself lucky." Joe shifted his stance and leaned against the tall counter.

"I do. That's Clarke, now--coming up the walk."

At the guard's indication, Dawson looked past the potted plants and through the dark glass wall that extended to the ceiling. Matthew Clarke looked young in the leather jacket, jeans and t-shirt emblazoned with the Inner City Youth Center logo, mid-twenties, but Joe knew him to be in his second century, and closing in on the beginning of his third; MacLeod had clued him in on that much at least. His light brown hair, streaked by the sun, was in need of a cut--it wasn't long, just shaggy. The better to blend in, the Watcher thought. The lithe immortal moved like an athlete, and the ex-quarterback briefly envisioned the body in a college football uniform. A wide receiver, maybe a tight end. Not bulked up enough for pro ball, but definitely suited for college ball. It wasn't the first time the man wished he had never heard of Vietnam, but in the next thought he remembered that Southeast Asia was where he first learned of the Watcher organization that would influence the rest of his life. A club for history buffs like no other. Being Duncan MacLeod's Watcher has brought me a reason to go on, a reason to hope that good would prevail. It's enough.

"Hi, Sam!" Clarke breezed in. "Joe Dawson? Come on up!" The immortal made small talk about the weather until they were in his condo on the seventeenth floor. Lake Michigan was hazy in the distance, but visible through the large picture window.

"Nice view, nice place," Dawson said as he glanced around, noting the eclectic blend of contemporary and antique, the neutral earth colors with blue and maroon accents.

Clarke shrugged off the compliment. "Most of it came with the condo. No sense in redecorating when I don't plan on staying longer than a few years. I've better things to do with the money."

When his guest was seated comfortably in the paneled study, Clarke left for a few moments, and returned with some lemonade. "I'm sorry I can't offer you coffee or something stronger, but I don't keep either in the house. And somehow, you didn't seem like a hot chocolate kind of guy." His English accent was faint, but Dawson could hear gentle inflections in a word or two,

The Watcher lifted his glass. "Hot chocolate has its uses, but this is fine. You know why I'm here, don't you?"

"Mac called and told me that you know about immortals, although not about me. I guess I'm a little surprised and relieved. I've tried keeping a low profile; I just didn't realize how low I had managed to keep it."

"MacLeod accidentally let your name slip, assuming I knew everything about you, and he felt pretty bad about it. I told him I would forget the whole thing, as a favor to him, but he decided to call you. He said your story was a little different, but all he would tell me was that you didn't know you were immortal for the first ten years, you've never taken a head, and that you are almost two hundred years old. He said you'd be willing to talk to me."

Matt nodded. "In return for my story, there is something you could do for me. Don't worry--it's nothing to do with immortals or breaking your Watcher oath."

"That's a relief. I'll do anything for information, well, almost anything," the Watcher amended with a chuckle. "We don't have a record of your first death at all, and very little about you except what one of our investigators was able to dig up for the last two years--which isn't much. Mac told me you studied with him."

"And with a few others, including Darius for a brief time." Clarke's blunt statement was accusing, but the Joe could still see a flicker of something in the hazel eyes. Forgiveness?

Dawson had learned to school his face to keep the regret and shame of association from it. He didn't try to cover up the evil done by renegade Watchers, led his own brother-in-law, when it was obvious that the 'young man' knew the truth. "That should never have happened, and we've taken steps to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"You seem sincere about that, and Mac trusts you. So," he leaned forward, his gaze intent, "what do you want to know about me, Mister Dawson?"

"Mister Dawson? You're a hell of a lot older than me--call me Joe."

"Sorry, Joe. I make it a habit to keep from making a mistake."

"I'll take anything you're willing to tell me." He held up the small recorder he had pulled from his pocket. "Do you mind if I record this? It'll make for easier transcription, and I swear the tapes will be destroyed once I've transcribed it. By my own hand."

Matthew Clarke nodded his consent and leaned back in the matching leather armchair, fingers laced together across his abdomen, his thumbs worrying each other. "I was born in Cornwall in 1815, in Plymouth, and I went to sea when I was eight years old, apprenticed--well, sold really--as a cabin boy to a merchant sea captain from America. Jeremiah Williams was a hard taskmaster, but he treated me well, and I learned a lot from the old man." Joe noted the small smile, the fondness in the voice. "Accepting responsibility for my actions for one thing, something I try to teach the kids today. Sometimes I manage to get through to them.

"By the time that hurricane hit us in late summer in 1840, I answered only to my captain and the first mate. We had just sailed out of Kingston, Jamaica, and we survived the first part of the storm and passed through the eye of the hurricane. Cap'n William's said it was one of the nastiest storms he had seen. On the other side, it was even worse. We lost the foremast when a sixty-foot wave crashed over the bow, and water began to pour into the hold. Within half an hour, the Abigail was sluggish at the helm, and the Cap'n could tell she was going to turtle, so he ordered abandon ship--I went over the side. Ever see a man drown tangled in the lines?"

Joe shook his head. He had seen men die plenty of other ways in war--face down in a rice paddy, grenades, booby traps, screaming in agony or deadly silent--but not that. He imagined it matched the inevitability he had seen on the faces of immortals when they realized they had lost, that nothing short of a miracle would save them, and they had given up expecting miracles.

"There's desperation in his face," Matthew continued, "holding his breath for as long as possible--knowing if he only had a knife he might live--and then acceptance of death. I was eleven years old when I saw that the first time, and I made sure I wouldn't die that way--I wanted a fighting chance of it. But there I was, adrift in the middle of the Atlantic, with a knife in my belt, the clothes on my back, and thirty and forty foot waves crashing around me. I tread water for the rest of the night, and the following day and night. Just before dawn broke, the entire sky turned red."

"Sailors take warning," Joe quoted the old saw.

"Exactly. I'd made the mistake of learning to swim. Sometimes it's better to drown quickly, rather than face the lingering fear knowing it would happen eventually--either drowning or the sharks. A lot of sailors never learned to swim for that very reason, although I guess, in my case, it wouldn't have mattered. I didn't see the sunset that night. I revived on a beach, and wondered at the miracle of it, but I didn't know I was immortal."

"But it takes a violent death to become immortal. You drowned, you said."

"Captain Williams and some of the others had survived in the long boats. The Cap'n reported to the ship that picked some survivors up, that he saw me struck, but with the storm and high waves, he lost sight of me. I must have taken a killing blow to the head when I went over the side of the ship. I thought when I gasped that deep breath of air and a hell of a lot of water along with it that I had been holding my breath, but I didn't remember holding it. In that first week on the island, I fell from the top of a cliff, and felt the bones knit together as I woke; I thought I was dead, and in purgatory. That feeling made my skin crawl, but I was whole. Small wounds healed in moments, larger ones took longer, but not as long as they should have if I was mortal. I spent eight years on that island, until 1848." Clarke stood and began to pace around the room, remaining in Dawson's sight. He stopped at the desk and picked up a knife, an old knife, twisting it for a moment before returning it to the desktop. He turned to Dawson and sat against the edge of the desk, a slight smile on his face as he recounted the events.

An island in the Caribbean Sea
Early summer, 1848

The two long boats coasted in on consecutive waves and the bows beached on the damp sand. The lean man studied them from his vantage point on the cliff above the beach, watching the dozen sailors clamber out of the boats into the shallow water, tugging the boats higher onto the sand. The barrels told the story that they were here for water, and he suspected they would comb the island for fresh fruit and meat. It was likely they would find his small camp, but would they continue to search for him? These were not the first men to come to his island in the years he had spent there, and these did not look like cutthroats--but he had been deceived before.

The first time a ship had come to the island, he had greeted the sailors and helped them find food and the fresh water stream further inland. They had repaid him by shooting him, and leaving him for dead. The second ship came a year later, but he recognized the ship as one suspected of piracy but unproven -- there were never witnesses. He had hidden but had been cornered and again left for dead; this time, however, they had buried him in a shallow grave in the soft sand. It had not taken long to dig himself out of the ground; he could still see the ship in the distance as it sailed away.

It had taken him two weeks to rebuild his shelter strong enough to withstand most tropical storms--a skill developed through trial and error after every storm. A cave further inland was too damp for permanent residence, although it was a godsend in the worst weather. Hope of eventual rescue by someone civilized kept him near the small bay, but experience taught him caution. When the first ship returned two months after the second ship had sailed away he swamped the single longboat, and wrote "murder" in the sand with an oar, leaving no footprints as he swam away. The tales the crew spread warned sailors in every port that the island was haunted.

The dozen sailors scattered in groups of three as they searched for food, armed with weapons and a single man, better dressed than the others, remained behind with the boats, scanning the beach and then the cliffs. The islander froze when the man's piercing gaze seemed to stop and stare directly at him. But then the stranger below turned away and scanned the beach again. The crew came back laden with fruit, and returned to the island interior for more food. Musket shot echoed three times, and two of the island's wild pigs were brought to the long boats on poles. The man wondered how much food would be left once these men sailed away. When he realized the single man guarding the boats was no longer in sight, it was too late. The pressure in his head made him cringe and sink down to the ground, his fists against his temples, trying to will the pain away. A dislodged stone warned him of danger and he spun around, his knife lifted in defense. The blade of a sword was laid against his bare throat.

The man from the boat stared down at the naked man at the sharp end of his katana. He laughed briefly, and asked, "Been here long?"

"Go ahead," the castaway snarled. "You can't kill me."

"Yes, I can--but I won't." The voice was sympathetic. "You have no idea what you are, do you?"

"Cursed!" he spat.

"Yes, there is that," the man acknowledged, "but you'll learn to live with it. We usually do... or die trying."

Chicago
November 21, 2000

"I felt his presence, I just didn't know what it meant." Matthew shook his head in wonder, "Connor moves like a cat, so I never heard him until that last moment." Joe wanted to ask about Connor MacLeod, but he kept silent. Connor had few students in his life; there surely must be something about Clarke in the journals. He made a mental note to search the database.

"Before he took me down to the boats, he told me what I was, what we were--the Game, the Gathering, holy ground, everything--not that I believed a word of it except the healing. He gave me the shirt off his back and it was just long enough to cover me. He said he couldn't exactly take me aboard as I was or the women passengers might faint at the sight of me." Matthew's grin was wide. "One fairly swooned to see his bare chest beneath that coat, though. It was a different time, that's for certain. But then, they were lady missionaries with their husbands, on their way to the Sandwich Islands ... Hawaii. They'd have to get used to bare skin in a hurry.

"I served on the Rosemarie for two years while he trained me in the art of immortality."

The west coast of the island of Maui
Early spring, 1849

Against the captain's orders, Matthew had gone ashore with the crew. He wished them well in their endeavor to get stinking drunk on their last night in port when he left them at the first tavern in Lahaina. Not looking for company, he ignored the calls of the prostitutes, a collection of white, native and Asian women of various ages, as he passed by the brothels. The Philadelphia girl he had hoped to marry had only mourned him for a year before finding another to replace him. Any urgency he felt was dampened by the stench of cheap perfume, incense, vomit and sweat.

The beach beckoned him, enticing, luring him away. It felt good to have the solid earth under his feet again, at least as solid as sand could be. It wasn't rolling and pitching and that's what was important. The blessed roar of the waves, his only companion for eight years, was welcome after the constant babble of the crew and the hustle and bustle of the harbor town. Sounds he had prayed to hear again grated on his ears and were not as welcome as he thought they would be. He needed peace and quiet. He needed to be away from the older immortal whose presence had seemed even stronger in port.

Waves shushed rhythmically on the sand, and gentle breezes made the palm trees dance, swishing softly in the light of the full moon. The immortal walked until the only sound was the natural world and the soft footfalls of his bare feet. A fallen palm tree made a sturdy backrest for a seat in the sand on the upper beach, but he dug around under his hip and pulled out a large piece of knobby coral, tossed it away and then settled back again comfortably.

They had been in the whaling port for over a week, unloading cargo and passengers, taking on provisions and filling the hold with barrels of oil purchased from the whaling ships to be sold for a tidy profit on the California coast. Word of gold had spread to the eastern seaboard in 1848 and men would be flocking to make their fortune, men who would need oil for lamps. That's where the money would be, Connor claimed--supplies. Two trips would make them enough money that they could rest easy for a time. Besides, the whaling industry in the Pacific was beginning to concentrate further north, and northern climes were not the most pleasant place to be, the Highlander assured his crew. They would return to the Atlantic and ply their trade there, between the Americas and Europe.

Matthew had trained with Connor for the greater portion of a year, but he still didn't know if it was what he wanted. He wasn't even sure what itwas. Cuts and wounds healed, the ever-present thrumming in his head aboard ship with Connor, those he understood--even dying countless times was no longer a mystery, it just was. But his teacher's insistence about the Game didn't make sense to him. "Why do you train me, if only one will be left in the end? Will we have to fight if it's just the two of us? And how will we know?"

Connor's answer was a recitation of the Rule: There can be only One. The Scot had added with a glint in his eye, "And if it is ever down to you and me, then the world will be left in good hands, whoever wins. En garde!" and he had proceeded to beat the life out of his student yet again.

There it was--the sudden pressure in his head--and he sighed; Connor had found him and he would be irritated that his orders had been disobeyed--very irritated. "Captain? Over here," he called wearily towards the lamplight that swung a short distance away.

"Guess again, mate," a harsh voice answered with a nasty chuckle.

Matthew leapt to his feet, his cutlass ready in his hand, and he stepped back to the open sand. In the darkness fallen logs and lava rocks would be an unwelcome hazard--and a deadly one. 'Know your ground,' Connor had drummed into his head. Great, it's all moonlight and shadows. "I don't want any trouble," the new immortal declared. "I was just looking for some peace and quiet, not a fight."

"Then here's the glory of it," the man sneered setting the lamp in the sand, "put down your sword and I'll make it quick, and leave you to your pieces." He guffawed at his own witticism and swung his broadsword.

Matthew parried and backed away again. "We don't have to do this!"

"Yes, you do," Connor's disembodied voice came from the darkness and it was then that Matthew realized the strong presence he had felt earlier had been two immortals. "It's what we are, it's what we do." He stepped from behind the clump of palm trees, his dragonhead katana at his side, ready, glinting softly in the moonlight. "Unless you want to fight me instead," he asked the stranger.

"I've made the challenge to this one. You can't interfere."

"I'm not interfering, just giving you a choice. You would really rather fight me."

"Why should I? I don't know you," the stranger scoffed.

"I've gone by many names -- you only need to know the one. I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

"It means nothing to me, except you're a savage Scot. Edward Edwards," the immortal said in sarcastic salutation.

"You're a bit big for a Welshman," MacLeod mocked. "And his quickening will mean nothing to you either. He's a new one, and if you take his head, I will take yours before you recover; you have my word of honor on that. Take me first and you might be able to fend him off long enough to take his head."

Edwards eyed the distance to MacLeod. "Where's the honor in taking me when I'm down?"

"Where is the honor in challenging a child?"

"I'm not a child," Matthew protested.

"Be silent, Matthew," Connor hissed.

"You're right--no honor there." The man swiftly stabbed the unwary student through the heart and then came at the teacher in a rush.

Matthew slumped to the ground, gasping, pain coursing through his body, curses coursing through his mind. Damn it all! I relaxed my guard, it's my own damn fault! As he slipped into the darkness, his last sight was the fierce shadowed grin on Connor's face. He could hear the accented voice in his head -- "Child's play, no balance at all." Blackness settled over him and the excruciating pain ceased.

He drew a shuddering breath, aware of the pain receding in waves, an outgoing tide of sensation. Agonizing seconds passed as his eyes fixed on the lantern, trying to remember. When he became aware of the sound of the swords and heavy grunts, he pulled himself up and crawled away, watching the two immortals perform their dance of death against the moonlit sea. The island of Lanai was a dark shadow in the distance.

"Are you all right, Matt?" Connor called to him.

"Yes, Captain."

"Good." Connor enveloped the blade of his opponent and it flew through the air, piercing the sand near the student, swaying. The katana slashed Edwards deeply down the chest and abdomen and the burly man dropped to his knees with a curse, trying to hold in the vital organs that were spilling out. "There can be only one!" The gently curved blade was poised above the Highlander's head and neatly cleaved the Welshman's neck with a single blow. "I wanted you to see this..."

Matthew looked on, horrified, as the quickening engulfed his mentor. Connor's visage leapt from anticipation to pain to ecstasy to wonder to satisfaction with each blink of his eye. Matthew had never seen the like of this before, and he prayed to God that he would never see it again. The lantern exploded, the oil and flame splattering dead palm fronds, setting them alight. After an eternity, Connor slumped to the ground in exhaustion and he looked up, his eyes drilling into Matthew's. Light from the flames flickered across the Scot's face, his breathing heavy. "You could take my head now, if you've a mind to, Matthew," he taunted.

"God, Connor!" Matthew threw down the cutlass and backed away; he was shocked that Connor would even suggest it. Until this moment none of it had been real to him. The Game MacLeod had spoken of had been a nightmare to be dreaded, and in moments it had become a hundred times worse. A thousand. The reality was harsh to comprehend.

"Pick up your sword, dammit!" Matthew didn't understand Connor's anger but he obeyed quickly and the two of them stumbled through the loose sand back to the harbor and their ship. Connor ordered him to return to the ship alone and stay there; he wasn't finished with the pleasures of the town just yet.

At dawn, the Rosemarie loaded and fully crewed, sailed north through the Pailolo Channel as whales breached in the sheltered waters between Maui and Molokai. Matthew, still reeling from what he had witnessed the night before, stayed out of the captain's sight for as long as possible. Near midday, he went on deck, unarmed. "Where's your sword?" Connor asked, swinging his katana up to Matthew's neck, directing him to the ship's rail with gentle pressure.

Matthew finally reached up a bare hand and pushed the blade away, ignoring the blood on his hand. The quickening he witnessed the previous night was emblazoned in his brain. "I won't fight, Captain. I won't kill. So what's the point?"

"What's the point?" Connor snarled. He hooked his ankle behind the young immortal's leg and shoved him in the chest at the same time. Matthew went backwards over the railing. "That's the point!" Connor shouted when the sputtering head broke the surface. The men on deck did not move until the captain signaled for them to do so. A line was tossed, and sails slackened, dramatically reducing the speed of the Rosemarie. Some of the men had gone through the drill before. Matthew had to swim for the rope, and it was at least ten minutes before they were able to haul him aboard, retching seawater. The sails were raised to catch the wind once more. Connor looked at the young immortal in front of him. "Do you want to die?" His voice was a fierce whisper.

Clarke sagged against the railing, spent. "No."

"Then you will learn to fight, by whatever means necessary. It's about survival, Matthew. And next time, you'll swim for it!" He waved his hand at the receding island to the south. "Get into some dry clothes. We'll discuss this later." The captain dismissed him like a scolded child, turning away from him with a disgusted noise. Matthew went below, wondering how he could make his teacher understand. The crew turned their faces away, concentrating on little tasks.

Chicago
November 21, 2000

"When we had our discussion later that day, he told me I still had a lot to learn and learn it I would, even if it killed me--several times over. Sometimes he made me angry enough that I thought I wanted to kill him, but I never did--at least not permanently. I couldn't let myself take that step because there would be no turning back.

"The taunts, the demeaning labor he forced me to do when he was really pissed at me--I was able to ignore that and deal with it, I understood his reasons. When some of the crew started their little digs and the hazing, thinking I was spineless, I'd had enough. One night, when we were in Lisbon, most of the crew was ashore except for the watch, and a few men in their hammocks...

February 1850
Lisbon, Portugal

In the captain's cabin of the Rosemarie Connor slammed his fist on the table, rattling the crockery. "Dammit, Matthew, if you don't fight you'll die!" His voice was low but intense.

"I didn't say I wouldn't fight, only that I won't take a head. There has to be more for us than the Game."

"Not for us, there isn't. You don't know the evil that is out there." Connor slammed out of his chair and went to the small window of his cabin, staring out over the water.

"I don't want to be part of that evil, Connor. You said that some seek the Quickening like an addiction. I don't want to risk becoming that. I saw what drink did to my father and what laudanum did to my aunt. I got blind drunk once, but the Cap'n pulled me out of that whorehouse before I committed murder. My God, Connor! I had become the monster my father had been. I don't even remember that night after leaving the ship. I swore off drink then and there. If the Quickening can be addictive, I want no part of it."

Connor turned and fixed narrowed eyes on Matthew, his voice lowered in warning. "They will keep coming, until one of them takes your head. One day, you will lose."

"Until that day, maybe a few centuries from now..."

"Maybe a few days from now..."

"Centuries," Matthew repeated clearly. "I'm going to do what I can to make this world a better place for the children. I want to do good--not spend my life hunting and taking heads."

Connor glared at him. "Bah! I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with Duncan for those few days. He's turned your head into haggis."

"It started earlier than that, Connor. All Duncan did was to help me find homes for those children and tell me about some priests he knows that don't fight. It even started before that Quickening on the beach last year, that Edwards fellow. The day I climbed aboard the Daphne, I tipped the plate I had for the captain into his lap. My father would have backhanded me across the room, picked me up, and backhanded me the other way as well--if I was lucky." Connor listened with a frown on his face. "Captain Williams just looked at his lap, and then at me, "You'll learn soon enough, boy. Go get some rags to clean the mess from the deck, and another plate of food." His disappointment was evident, and from that moment, I only wanted to please him. He treated me with kindness, not a whip or the back of his hand."

"What does one have to do with the other?"

"I thought you knew, Connor. Captain Williams was a Friend, a Quaker. I had a lot of time to think on that island, about all that he taught me and about the way he treated me as opposed to my so-called father. I decided if I ever got back to civilization that I would try to be like the captain. You've given me training necessary to stay alive, and you can't deny that I've worked hard. I wanted to please you, too, but I won't take a head; I couldn't live with myself."

"If you refuse to fight, I'm wasting my time," the Highlander said less coldly.

"It isn't wasted--if I do any good in this world, it's because of you, pulling me off that island, helping me to survive. I'll leave now, if you like."

"You can wait until morning, but we sail with the tide. I'll have your pay ready for you then. Where will you go?"

"Duncan told me about his friend in Paris. I want to meet him first."

"Ah, Darius. So you're going to hide on Holy Ground?" Connor mocked.

"No, I'm not cut out to be a priest. I'm just a man, trying to do some good."

The next morning, Matthew stood with Connor at the top of the gangplank, a satchel at his feet holding all his worldly possessions. "You've been a good friend and teacher, Connor. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"It's not disappointment, Matt, just fear for your head. Keep in touch?"

"You're not an easy man to keep track of, according to your cousin."

"It's called survival. You'll learn it soon enough, if you have a chance."

"Father Darius seems to stay in one place, I'll make it a point to keep him informed of my whereabouts, just in case you are ever wondering..."

"I hope you find your dream, Matt. Your pay." Connor MacLeod handed the younger immortal a small packet, and Matthew bent down and stuffed it in his satchel. "Aren't you going to count it?"

"You've never shorted me my pay before, Captain. I'm sure it's all there." He stepped down the gangplank, and watched as it was removed. He lifted a hand. "Fair winds, Connor," he said.

Connor returned the gesture. "A long life, Matthew." Then Connor turned away. "Away the lines! Haul anchor!"

Chicago
November 21, 2000

"You've never taken a head?" Joe Dawson asked, amazed. "And you didn't live on Holy Ground?"

"I've taken refuge a time or two, but only for a few days. Except for the time I spent with Darius."

"And how long was that?"

"I was with Darius less than a year. We spent a lot of time discussing philosophy, religion, and psychology. I had some book learning, thanks to Captain Williams, but it was pretty basic, the mathematics for navigation and accounts, and the Bible for reading, at least until I met Connor. I devoured his library in any free time I had aboard ship - Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Cooper, Paine--I couldn't get enough.

"But then Darius! I had never met a man who could discuss so many topics..." Matthew paused, his heartache for the loss of his mentor and friend visible on his face. He took a deep breath and went on. "In that time, I learned a lot from him, though our ideas on how to better the world differed. He wanted to teach peace, and I wanted to focus on the youth of the world, teaching them, helping them. What is it they say now--The children are our future. It's always been that way. Captain Williams taught me when I was young, not when I was grown. Besides the pay Connor owed me, he managed to stuff another three hundred English pounds into the packet. The note said to invest it, and use the interest to better the world in the few years I would have. I think I've done well in that respect. So far, the CMAC Foundation has donated over fifteen million dollars this year. I hope to exceed the eighteen million from last year. It mostly came from that original investment."

"CMAC? That's you?"

Clarke laughed. "Chance's Meant for all Children--the 'for' is silent. I thought Connor was going to strangle me when I named it in 1945. Mac just laughed, and wrote me out a check."

"When did Mac become your teacher?"

"I met up with him again in 1858 in D.C. He was working with the Underground at the time, and I helped him for a few years."

"The Underground Railroad?"

"Yes. Cap'n Williams influence again. People in need. Mac taught me more about martial arts, and the swords while we were together. We sparred when we weren't running through the woods, or hiding during the daylight."

"Why did you leave him?"

"He didn't return from a trip south. It turned out he was..."

"Andersonville," Joe supplied. He knew about that hellhole--not only from the Watcher journals, but from long discussions with MacLeod late into the night.

"Yes," Clarke acknowledged. "When he did get back to Virginia, a young woman he cared about had been murdered, and Mac went after the bastard that was responsible."

"Really?" This was news to Dawson, and Clarke swiftly tried to change the subject.

"He went his way and I came to Chicago."

"Wait, about this woman..." MacLeod had moved swiftly during that time, and his Watcher had lost him for several years until he was spotted in Andersonville by Colonel Culbraith's Watcher. The only person Mac hunted after the war was Martin Koren because Culbraith had disappeared, could it be ... Dawson's mind was reeling.

"Sorry, You'll have to ask Mac, but if I were you, I wouldn't bring it up. Sometimes 140 years still isn't enough to forget."

"All right, I won't press. So you ended up here in Chicago, you said."

"I worked with immigrants mostly, trying to help families get set up in decent quarters, in jobs, helped them move further west if that's what they wanted. I did what I could. But then I died in the fire in '71, so I had to move on."

"All thanks to Mrs. O'Leary's cow."

"It was a very dry summer, Joe; it could have been a carelessly tossed cigar. That poor cow has taken a lot of verbal abuse over the years," Matthew laughed, shaking his head.

"But we'll never know."

"No, we won't. After I left here, I went to New York for a couple of decades, saw Connor there occasionally, before it was time to move on again."

"And all this time, you never fought?"

"Oh, I fought, and I've stopped Immortals with guns, I just didn't take heads."

"And you're still alive off holy ground? That's really incredible."

"I had the best teachers in the world, Joe. You know Mac--and Connor taught him. Mac introduced me to a few other immortals and I learned from them, too."

"What I can't understand is how we missed identifying you all these years. You were with the MacLeods, Darius..."

"May-Ling Shen."

"And May-Ling? I'll have to get the researchers to go back over those journals and see if you were even mentioned. Four different immortals, and we missed you completely." Joe frowned, trying to remember dim details of May-Ling's life. He had made it a point to study the journals of each immortal that had made a difference to Duncan MacLeod's life, branching out to include those whose paths had crossed the Highlander's with varied results. Friends, enemies--the ever-widening circle of immortal contacts. There was little written about MacLeod that he didn't know about, but there were always gaps in the chronicles, maddening gaps. "Damn! You're the mystery student that disappeared during the Boxer Rebellion before they could assign a Watcher: Mathias ..."

"Luke," Clarke finished with a grin. "I'm non-descript, Joe, I blend in. It's what I do best, and how I survive: a mustache, a beard, long hair, or short hair, a t-shirt and jeans, or a three-piece suit. I change my name often--the last time I used Matthew Clarke was 1865, until I resurrected it a few years ago. I never stayed with any one teacher for long, and the Watcher aboard the Rosemarie probably died with the rest of the crew, his journal lost if he ever suspected I was immortal. Mac and I moved around a lot when I was with him. It sounds as if there is a gap in his history, too, if you didn't know about..." he paused and glanced at his watch. "The only thing special about me is that I am immortal, and I've never taken a head. I have a game to referee at the Center tonight. About that favor..."

The mortal turned off the cassette recorder. "What, a donation? I'll give what I can, but it sounds like you already have plenty of money."

"I only want your time, Joe. Come and talk to the kids about music, when you're in town visiting family, or wherever you are when you have a little extra time. There are always youth centers, groups that can use a volunteer. When you can, as often as you can. Maybe it will inspire a few of them to go after their dreams. It's all about being a role model. Connor may have been my first teacher, and I drove him round the bend refusing to take a head, but it was Captain Williams that saved me. He was the strongest influence in my life. Be an influence for good, Joe, that's all I want. Once is enough as repayment, but more than once will make you feel good, I promise."

"I'd be happy to do that--you only needed to ask. Your story wasn't necessary."

"Mac suggested it. Maybe I just wanted it written down somewhere that I existed. And that beneath that gruff exterior, Connor MacLeod has a heart of gold."

"I'll make a note of it," Dawson promised.

"Just don't say that to his face. He'd probably punch you in the mouth and swear at you in Gaelic." Matthew Clarke rubbed his jaw, remembering.

"I'll make a note of that, too."