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The River

Part One: The City, when it Rains

Business had been slow, and the cold, miserable rain that had been hanging over Paris all evening looked like it would last all night. Joe was behind the bar, straightening up, thinking about closing early. It was after midnight; the last few customers had drifted out about fifteen minutes earlier, leaving him alone�except for the ghost. The ghost of a once-proud Highland warrior, the specter of the Immortal he had thought would win the Game, the ruin of what once was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

Duncan sat slumped at a table in the darkest corner of the club, a bottle in his hand, pouring the last of the Scotch into a glass. He was engaged in his usual occupation�keeping Scotland�s distilleries in business by getting as drunk as possible. He looked disheveled, his face unshaven, his hair uncombed. His hand was unsteady as he lifted the glass, and his body lurched to one side as he drank its contents down. Joe knew he couldn�t ask for another bottle, he was already so drunk he couldn�t form a coherent sentence.

Joe�s thoughts ran around and around. �I don�t know what to do, I don�t know how to help him.� He�d tried to get him to talk, to ease the obvious pain MacLeod was in, but he closed everyone out, and worse, he pushed everyone away. Joe supposed he was lucky that Mac still came in here, considering how he had cut himself off from everyone else who cared about him.

�Even Methos,� thought Joe, sadly. Methos had met Joe and Duncan in London, had traveled north with them to take Connor home to rest next to his beloved Heather, the whole time watching Mac carefully, gauging how he was feeling, trying to help in any way he could. MacLeod had been very quiet, a bit remote. They had left him alone at the grave, to say his final goodbye to his teacher and kinsman.

Methos had come back to Paris with them, leaving his elegant London house to live in a barge floating on the Seine, not caring what he gave up as long as he was with Duncan. It had been all right at first, at least on the surface, but there had been undercurrents that kept pulling MacLeod down, a depression that took a steadily stronger hold and only loosened its grip when he drank enough to make it let go, and nightmares that wouldn�t let him sleep.

When it started he would drink only on bad days, starting late in the day, the effect only showing at night when he would stumble to bed finally able to sleep without dreams. Slowly MacLeod lost control. Bad days became most days; the first drink came earlier and earlier, until by most evenings he was staggering, slurring his words, his eyes glazed. Joe could tell that it was painful for Methos to watch Duncan fall into alcoholism, but he stayed, took care of him, picked him up off of the floor when he had to, and put him to bed when he passed out. Joe had been amazed by his selflessness and realized just how much Methos loved MacLeod. He even ran the risk of having to fight for Mac if he was challenged when he was unable to defend himself.

The pain of watching MacLeod hurt himself wasn�t all that hurt Methos. There were incidents of emotional and physical cruelty as Mac became drunkenly abusive. At times Mac seemed to hate Methos and let him know it. Joe had seen Mac hit him hard enough to knock him down, and from the look in Methos� eyes he knew it wasn�t the first time. They didn�t seem to connect any more; an emotional distance came between them and that seemed to cause Methos more pain than anything else.

It reached a flashpoint and blew apart. Methos had come to the club one night three months ago, looking like the world had come to an end, and told Joe he was going back to London, that he couldn�t bear any more, that he couldn�t watch Duncan destroy himself any longer. Joe had seen the agony mixed with anger in his eyes, and his voice was rough with unshed tears when he asked him to watch out for Mac. Joe had watched him walk away, his shoulders bent, as if carrying the weight of every minute of his five thousand years. Joe still wondered what MacLeod had done to force Methos into leaving; he could only guess that it had been something extreme.

After that there was nothing to stop Duncan�s plunge into the darkest depths. He stayed drunk most of the time, drinking himself into unconsciousness repeatedly. Lost in an alcoholic haze, he often hardly seemed to know where he was. Which pretty much described MacLeod�s present condition. His arms were on the table and he was leaning over them, his head hanging as if it were too heavy to lift, eyes almost closed, slipping into a stupor.

�What the hell am I supposed to do with you MacLeod?� Joe�s voice was choked with a combination of grief, anger, and compassion. �God knows you�ve been through hell these past few years, but I never thought you�d just give up.�

Mac gave no sign that he heard him in the silent, empty club.

Joe kept trying to figure out what had broken MacLeod�s spirit so completely, so totally, that he seemed to no longer care if he lived or died. He had lost so many of the people he loved, in such a short span of time, and each loss had wounded him. Then Connor, dead by MacLeod�s own hand, closely followed by Jacob Kell and the cumulative effect of almost seven hundred Quickenings, ripping into him, may have been what pushed him into collapse. Or maybe Kell was somehow still able to work against Mac from the inside, making him hate himself and hurt those who loved him. Or could it be Connor�s enormous grief, somehow inherited and overwhelming Mac�s soul? But he had been all right at first, not like the dark Quickening, there had been no sudden change in his personality, rather a slow and insidious slide...

Joe was so lost in thought that he was startled when the door opened and someone slipped inside, out of the cold wet night. A small woman, young, wearing a baggy black suede jacket and dark pants, and carrying an old denim backpack. She shook rain from her short-cropped hair and stepped up to the bar.

�What can I get for you?� Joe asked, politely, but slightly annoyed at this late customer.

�A Tanqueray and tonic, and change for the jukebox.� She put a 200-franc note on the bar.

Her voice was not what he had expected, a smoky, rough contralto, a whisky-and-cigarettes, Lauren Bacall kind of voice. He counted out change, laid it on the bar and went looking for the Tanqueray. He found it and poured some over ice, added tonic and turned to the bar, intending to hand it to her, only to find her across the room, checking out the selections on the jukebox. He was surprised by how silently she had moved and examined her closely as he crossed over to her. Not more than five-three, she was shrugging off the wet suede jacket, revealing strong shoulders, muscled arms, she was looking down, reaching to push buttons.

As Joe got closer he noticed her forearms. They were crisscrossed with scars, lines of white clearly visible on the pale skin in the light shining up from the juke, some thin, some thick, and one, right above the left elbow, that was unmistakably a burn, the skin pinker and oddly shiny, its edges clearly defined, indented, almost like a brand. Joe handed her the glass.

�Thank you,� she said in that smoky voice, and looked up.

The light caught in her eyes, golden-amber eyes, like the eyes of a lioness and just as coldly predatory. Joe found himself worrying that she was a hunter and after MacLeod�s head, that the news of his weakness had spread and the jackals were finally gathering to take him down. If she was an Immortal she was one he had never seen. But there was something else about those eyes, something haunting and familiar, and suddenly he remembered. Nam. The thousand-yard stare they had called it, the distant look in the eyes of those who had seen too much, and he wondered who this woman was and what she wanted.

A song began to play, a sudden drumbeat too loud in the quiet, causing Joe to jump a little, startled. Then, Jonny Lang�s strangely old voice:

�Well I been down to Memphis, I couldn�t find me no peace,
My soul is feelin� restless, like I need some release,
Headed for the desert to see what I could find,
Only the river holds the answers to the questions in my mind.
Take me down to the levee where the women sing,
Lay me down like an angel with a broken wing,
Take me down to the levee where the river flows,
Throw my blues off the levee and let them go...�

Joe reached behind the jukebox and turned the volume down. �Sorry, it�s a little loud.�

�It is kind of quiet in here tonight.�

�It�s the rain. November isn�t the best time to be in Paris.� Joe went back to the bar, his cane tapping on the floor, and observed her surreptitiously.

She sat at a table close to the wall, drank her gin and tonic and ran her fingers through her hair, which began to curl as it dried. Joe noticed an economy of motion, a stillness about her.

The song ended, and in the silence Duncan moaned very softly as he collapsed onto the table. His arm knocked the empty bottle off onto the floor, drawing their attention.

Joe went over, picked up the unbroken bottle, looked at MacLeod facedown on the table and sighed. �I guess you�ll have to sleep it off right where you are. I sure as hell can�t move you.�

�I can move him, if it�s not too far.�

Joe looked at her in some surprise, and not just at the offer. She had moved silently again and was standing near him.

�Just to my office, the door behind the bar, if you�re sure you can. I don�t want you to hurt yourself. He�s heavy, and he�s spent the night like this before.� He wouldn�t have thought a woman this small could do it, but she looked very strong.

�Sounds like a regular customer.�

�I wish he wasn�t quite so regular. He�s a friend.�

She helped MacLeod sit up, then took his face between her hands and looked closely to see if there was any awareness to work with. His eyes opened, but were blank and unfocused.

�Come on, you have to help me a little, let�s get you up.� She stared into his dark eyes. Duncan seemed to focus on her for a moment, and he seemed to become vaguely aware of the request.

She took Mac�s arm and pulled it across her shoulders, then levered him up out of the chair, her other arm around his waist. She half carried, half walked him to the office and lowered him to the couch. What little consciousness he had regained left him almost immediately, his eyes closed and he began to snore loudly. She lifted his legs onto the couch and then turned his head to the side. The snoring quieted.

�You look like you�ve had practice at that,� Joe said from the doorway.

�My father was a drunk, I used to do this all the time.� Her voice was flat, emotionless.

�Must have been tough for you.�

�I grew up fast. So do a lot of kids.�

Joe turned, but out of the corner of his eye caught the motion as she reached out, almost touching Duncan�s cheek. Then she pulled her hand away suddenly, as if to avoid being burned.

She followed Joe out, back to the silent, empty bar.

�I owe you one on the house, for lugging him back there. Same again?� Joe wanted her to stay for a while, intrigued by her aborted tender gesture and haunted eyes.

�Sure, thank you, but it was no trouble.�

Joe made another Tanqueray and tonic and brought it over to where she now sat at the bar. She took from him and fixed those tawny eyes on his.

�Is there a reason why your friend is a drunk, some tragedy he can�t get over, someone who broke his heart? Excuse me, I�m endlessly curious. I always wonder why people do the things they do.� Her voice was like velvet stroked backwards, soft and rough at the same time.

�He�s had a lot of grief and he can�t seem to get past it. He�s always been so damn strong, now he�s fallen apart, and I have no idea how to help him anymore.� Joe surprised himself by speaking so truthfully. He shook his head, remembered his manners, smiled and held out his hand. �My name is Joe Dawson, by the way. I guess I�ve been a little preoccupied.�

�Ash.� she said, shaking his hand, the strength of her grip not surprising him.

�Excuse me?�

�My name is Ash, just Ash, like Bono�

�Are you a singer too?�

�No, just lazy.� She smiled slightly, and the light hit the side of her face at an angle that revealed a thin scar on the outside of her left cheekbone. It reminded Joe of a Heidelberg dueling scar, its position a mark of honor, showing she hadn�t flinched. He wondered where she got so many scars and decided to push a little.

�Were you in an accident?� he asked, indicating her arms.

�No.� She glanced briefly at her left arm and traced the burn scar with the tip of a finger. �Every scar is a lesson learned forever.� She sounded like she was quoting someone, and her eyes were even more chillingly distant.

�Her face is almost beautiful,� Joe thought, �if only her eyes weren�t so cold.�

Ash finished her drink and stood up. �I should be going.� She crossed the room to her table, put on her jacket, and slung the backpack onto her shoulder. Joe met her at the door.

�Good night,� he said, and she smiled at him, then walked out into the dripping night. He watched her walk away in the rain, down the street and around the corner.

Joe stepped back in, locked the door, turned out the lights, and headed for his office.

Ash went to the spot she�d found, back when she had started this vigil. A small break between buildings, shadowed, out of the way, not close enough for her to see, but close enough to feel. She crouched down in the dark corner, out of the worst of the rain and wind, almost invisible. She wrapped her arms around her knees and fell into a light doze. She would wake when he did, and begin again.

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