1st September: Dunvegan Castle
The conference had been the success John MacLeod had hoped for and now the final activity on the schedule was under way. A guided tour of the exhibition with the Chief of the Clan as tour guide.
It was something he had never expected to enjoy, despite Catriona's assurances to the contrary, but he found himself relishing the prospect of showing his respected guests the best his home had to offer.
As the tour ended he invited the assembled group to view the sword room. This had been the last area of the exhibition to be completed, and as well as the armour and swords, contained the journals and records that Catriona had shown greatest interest in - not to mention the legendary fairy flag.
Moving through into the sword room, John MacLeod stood back to let his guests indulge their interests. A heated discussion on the merits of various swords was being conducted by Russell Nash and the Professor of Art History from Dubrovnik University, Slobodan Reisczeck. The other guests were examining various of the manuscripts in the showcase under the great shield. One had his attention drawn by the strange illustration in the last journal John MacLeod had placed there.
"Hey Nash! You're a great one for depictions of unusual phenomena, what d'you make of this?" He called.
As all of his guests gathered around to consider the manuscript, John MacLeod was afforded an excellent view of their faces. Russell Nash glanced smilingly at the showcase, his grey eyes looking remarkably clear. He looked carefully at the item indicated and his expression changed just for a brief moment. John MacLeod read shock, disbelief, fear and a desire to be anywhere other than in the room. Then, in a heartbeat, Nash's countenance resumed its former easy relaxed gaze.
"An interesting representation of a Clan legend - I think from the mainland - is that correct?" He said addressing John MacLeod directly.
"Aye. We're blessed with a few peculiar stories from the old days. This is one of the more far fetched," he said, holding Nash's gaze steadily, "in fact its one representation of a pair of legends that tell of warriors in the Glenfinnan branch of the Clan who, almost a century apart, were killed in battle but rose again and were cast out from the Clan for being in league with the devil. This shows one of the men supposedly drawing his power from the dark one. It is one of my niece's favourite stories, hence its pride of place here."
During this speech he watched Nash's face, the eyes in particular, very carefully. It appeared to him that the man was wary, waiting for some disaster to overtake him. Taking this with his earlier reaction, John MacLeod found himself wondering exactly what it was that had Russell Nash acting like a cat on a hot tin roof.
As his guests began to leave the room, thanking him for his hospitality, he moved closer to the case and looked again at the picture which had started it all.
He froze! The face in the picture was Russell Nash's - for all the difference in the hair length and dress. Connor MacLeod and Russell Nash could be twins. No wonder the man had turned a little pale on first seeing the picture. What he couldn't so easily explain was the very real fear he had seen in Nash's eyes. His mind replayed one of the many conversations he had had with his niece concerning Connor and Duncan MacLeod. Her passionate belief in the legends had always amused him.Yet, as she had always said, there was no doubt that the tow men had existed.
"If folk believe that Jesus , who we know as a historical fact was a real man, was also in fact the Son of God who died and rose again - then why is it so difficult for them to believe this?" She had asked earnestly one summer about sixteen years ago.
Many of the older members of the family had been shocked that wee Catriona could utter such blasphemies.
"Surely you're not comparing either of these two with The Christ or suggesting that they were in some way equal to him?" One had queried.
"Och no Uncle Murray,I'm just saying - if God really made it possible for Jesus to be resurrected after death for His own special purposes then maybe there have been others, not necessarily divine, for whom God has made special plans. To quote the Bard 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' And are we not told that God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform? I just think that none of us can really know the mind of God. I do think it odd though, that we can believe in the resurrection of one man and not of others."
"Catriona lassie, they're just legends - stories to entertain and perhaps to keep folk on the righteous track."
"Aye, but you all know these men existed and you all know that legends, whilst they may be exaggerated stories, are always based in fact."
And so the discussion had continued, with some members of the family convinced that though Catriona was a nice wee lassie she might be a bit touched in the head.
John MacLeod had never believed that. He was proud of her achievements. His sister, Mary, had brought her only daughter up well. She had passed on her own sharp mind and determination. The man she had married, Ruiriadh MacLeod a fifth cousin from the Glenfinnan branch, had been passionately interested in the myths and legends of the clan and there had been nothing wrong with his mind either. He had been a shining light in the History Faculty at Glasgow University. If he had lived beyond his twenty-seventh and Catriona's third birthday he would have been a Professor of History at the very least.
As all these thoughts raced through John MacLeod's mind he found himself wondering if it were really possible that Catriona had been right all these years.
Suddenly he made a decision. "Mr Nash." He called after the departing figures.
"Yes?" The man paused as he spoke.
"I'd be grateful if you could spare me a few minutes in private conversation."
Nash turned toward him, a questioning look on his face - though no trace of the earlier wariness was visible. For a moment John MacLeod wondered if he had made a mistake. However, nothing ventured nothing gained. Taking a deep breath he said. "Perhaps now is not the best time - could ye stay for dinner Mr Nash?"
"Why thank you Mr MacLeod, it's very kind of you."
Despite the open and friendly reply it appeared for a second or two that Nash would decline so it was with relief that John MacLeod heard him acquiesce.
"I'd be delighted to accept."
"Good. Well I must say goodbye to the others first. If you would like to go through into the study I'll be back in a few minutes."
Nodding his agreement the other man went to wait for his host to rejoin him.
The meal had been excellent but as yet Connor was no nearer to discovering why his host had asked him to remain. He had reasons of his own for agreeing to stay of course, but there would be time enough to explore those later.
John MacLeod had sat through the entire meal with something nagging at his mind - yet he had not taken any opportunity to broach any subject which would have warranted privacy or merited any special consideration to his guest.
This fact was indeed beginning to nag at Connor's mind and he was about to venture a question to his host when John MacLeod cleared his throat and looked pointedly at him.
"I expect you're wondering exactly why I asked you to stay Mr Nash?"
"The question had crossed my mind."
"Well, I was wondering if you'd give me your expert opinion on a particular piece of Clan history that is not on display?"
"I'd be glad to Mr MacLeod, but surely that is not the only reason you asked me to stay here?"
"In truth there may yet be more," John MacLeod conceded, "but as yet I do not know - it all depends in your verdict regarding the objects I would like you to look at."
Rising from the table he led the way through to a private room that had not been included in the tour of the Castle. Closing the door behind him he indicated that his guest should take a seat. Opening a cupboard in the panelled wall, he took out two parcels carefully wrapped in oiled linen. Laying them both gently on the butler's table he began to peel back the coverings. Finally the contents of the bundles were fully exposed.
The first contained a linen shirt, stained with blood and torn places but otherwise carefully preserved. The other proved to hold a shield which was dented and the arm strap was broken. The familiar MacLeod design was on the convex side and with a new strap it would still be serviceable as a shield..it looked, despite the denting, as though it had been scarcely used.
As he exposed the objects to his guest's view, John MacLeod watched his face again very carefully. A flicker of recognition showed on Nash's countenance. He stroked the fabric of the shirt and his eyes took on a glazed expression as if his thoughts were far away.
He saw it all from the outside as an observer, but he felt it all as he had done then...
As they rode over the bridge his excitement grew. This would be his first real battle. Small skirmishes with the bandits who roamed the glens did not really count. His cousins were laughing and making lewd jokes at his expense and he revelled in it all. It meant that he had been finally accepted as an adult within the Clan.
He clutched his shield closer to him, feeling the reassuring weight of it on his arm. He felt a strangely joyous glow growing from the pit of his stomach as they reached the battlefield
And then there had been the battle itself.
He tried to engage the enemy but they all avoided him, not only refusing to fight but giving him a wide berth as if he were cursed. In desperation he stood and gave a battle yell that could be heard clear across the glen.
As if in answer to his ferocious yell a figure on horseback appeared before him. The man was huge. His face partly masked, but an ugly leer was visible beneath the helmet he wore. At last he faced an enemy who did not flee at the sight of him ,yet now he knew fear deep in the pit of his being.
He raised his shield and sword to ward off the monstrous apparition, but before he could strike a blow in his own defence, he found the stranger's sword piercing his gut. With a cry of triumph the warrior withdrew his blade and was about to strike further when he was overpowered by others of the MacLeod Clan.
The searing pain was a memory that had lingered a long time, to be reinforced again and again as each new death took him - but the pain of his first death was the worst by far. A pain that had been compounded when he had reawakened in his family home to find not a joyous reception but suspicion and fear. The rejection he had faced had brought a different kind of pain, he had never wholly managed to be free of it, and now here were relics of that time bringing it all into such sharp focus that he could almost smell the tang of blood mixed with dung, the fires and the damp heather. He shook himself mentally and tried to refocus in his host.
John MacLeod held his breath. He had seen the expressions on Nash's face as he fingered the shirt and shield. He could see that they were not merely caused by reverence for the age of the materials - he would swear to it in a court of law. The man had been remembering .
It had been as clear to the Clan Chief as if he had known 'Russell Nash' all his life. He had seen older members of his family get lost in the gamut of emotions and expressions he had just seen form his guest. His own dear sister, when remembering her late husband for had done it too. There had been pain in those memories and there had been pain on 'Nash's' face. But whether pain or pleasure, it had been as clear as daylight - 'Nash' knew the items, he remembered them.
Given this evidence, together with the picture in the journal, John MacLeod needed no further persuading. Catriona had been as right about this as she had been about everything else she had ever said . But how to broach the subject with his guest without causing alarm?
In the end, he decided, the best way was to be as direct as possible. Clearing his throat he put out one hand in an open gesture to the man who called himself 'Russell Nash'.
"Please," he said, "you should keep them."
His guest looked at him, clearly astonished.
"But why?"
Then a note of suspicion and wariness crept into his voice.
"Why me? If these artifacts are important enough for you to have preserved them for so long why would you give them to me?"
"Because Connor laddie, they belong to you."
John MacLeod held up his hand as the man began to protest.
"It's no good denying it man. You are Connor MacLeod. The picture in the journal is of you and these were yours before you 'died'"
Connor stared at the Clan Chief in shock. Hearing another person, and a mortal at that, call him by a name he rarely used any longer but was nonetheless an essential part of himself came as a complete shock to his system. Pulling himself together, he looked his host in the eye. What he saw made him swallow his denial before he spoke. John MacLeod's face bore an expression he hadn't expected. Triumph was totally lacking n his face. Instead, he was greeted by concern, understanding and acceptance. These shone clearly from the Clan Chief's eyes.
He felt a compulsion to reply honestly and openly to this man. Clearing his throat, which suddenly felt constricted, he answered.
"It would be pointless for me to deny it, so I won't. I would, however, like to ask a few questions. and make a request."
"Anything laddie, Anything at all. Ask away." His host replied.
Unable to sit any longer Connor rose and moved about the room..his agitation clear and almost tangible. John MacLeod sat waiting with bated breath to see what this man would ask of him.
Connor looked down at the linen shirt which he was still clutching in his hands. "Why would anyone have kept these? I was cast out, accused of witchcraft - being in league with the devil. I wandered around the hills and glens for years trying to make sense of it all. You know they threw rocks at me and bound me when they banished me?"
"Aye I know, it's in the journal. The answers to your questions are there too. At first it seems they were kept in a box made of rowan wood as a charm against your return. In later years, however, some felt they should be kept as proof of your existence and as gifts for your eventual return. Some held you to be a figure akin to Arthur Pendragon and insisted that you would return to aid the Clan in its hour of greatest need.. thus these were entrusted to each Clan chief in turn, passing form the Glenfinnan chiefdom two generations after your death they were sent to Dunvegan, to the high chief, for safekeeping. They have been here ever since.
"And you, what is your opinion of me?" Connor asked. "Am I your Arthurian knight or do I still have the stench of sulphur about me?"
Wincing a little at the implied accusation, John MacLeod stood and faced his guest. "Would you believe that I have no agenda, no axe to grind here? In fact, until I saw you with the picture in the journal I was probably the most sceptical about the legends of Duncan and Connor MacLeod. My niece, on the other hand, has always believed absolutely in both your existences. I can tell you though that neither of you have anything to fear from either of us. We will not divulge your secret or your whereabouts to any others whatever may befall us."
Connor's agitation was obvious from his stance. His back was rigid with tension. some of that tension leached away as John MacLeod spoke, but it was clear that he would have to do more to reassure him.
John gently laid his hand on Connor's shoulder. "Connor man, you can relax. I have no doubts that your road has been a hard one over the centuries. I am also aware of the danger there is for you in my knowing of your existence - your immortality - I will not tell anyone of our encounter and neither do I expect you to perform any great feat on behalf of the Clan MacLeod. Why should you? After all, you weren't exactly treated well when you came back from the dead. In fact I wouldn't; blame you if you bore a great deal of resentment toward us."
Connor drew in a long, deep breath. "No. I bear no resentment toward the Clan. Those were times when superstition was rife. What could they think? Either it was a miracle or I was in league with the devil. On the whole I think I got the better deal being linked to the devil."
"How so?">
"Imagine waking to find yourself claimed as a walking miracle, as evidence of one of God's mysteries. Everyone would want a piece of you. Your life would cease to be your own. No. Even with all the hazards that go with being immortal, even with being outcast, I have at least managed some control over my own life."
John MacLeod nodded at this and then asked the question he had been longing for an answer to. "That picture in the journal. What are all those lightening forks?"
It was on the tip of Connor's tongue to fob him off with some glib reply. He knew though, that John MacLeod was no fool. If he lied to him it wouldn't satisfy the man for long. He'd continue trying to find out. Best to tell him everything and swear him to secrecy.
The Clan chief noticed his hesitation. "If it's too difficult or painful a memory..."he began.
No you have a right to ask and, I think, a right to the answer. I must tell you though that there is danger in knowing of this and ask you to swear not to speak of it to another soul."
I swear by all that's holy and on my beloved sister's grave that nothing you tell me shall ever go further than these four walls." John MacLeod swore solemnly.
He listened, eyes growing wider, as Connor threw caution to the wind and recited chapter and verse on quickenings, immortality and also on The Gathering.
After Connor had finished there was a long silence before John could speak again and when he found his voice it was to say, with absolute and clear resolution, "I promise by almighty God that none shall learn of this from me. As for your request, I think I know what it would be..come with me."
So saying he led Connor back in to the sword room where he opened the cabinet and took out the journal. Holding it out to his guest he said "Here, keep it safe or destroy it. It is yours to do with as you will I would not have others learning of your existence and being in a position to do you harm because of any further interference from the Clan MacLeod."