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Time in a Bottle
Duncan MacLeod sat in Deb’s small apartment and watched her work, in the same way he used to watch Tessa in her studio. There was something about witnessing the creative process in action that was a soothing antidote to the violence and death of an Immortal lifestyle. His cool observation noticed her stopping suddenly, getting up to check the wall calendar, and picking up a red pen in her right hand, and boldly circling a date. None of this would be especially noteworthy, but for the fact that the young author was left-handed. Proudly Sinister, as she liked to say. "Deb, you okay?" he asked, cautiously, in case it was really nothing.
She didn’t turn around, kept staring at the calendar. "I need to go to England," she said, as if the statement surprised even her. "It’s very important…" her voice faded away, and she frowned slightly in confusion. She looked at the pen in her right hand; her frown deepened, and she idly transferred it.
Duncan stood up and crossed the room to her side, becoming more and more concerned. "Are you sure you want to do that? Remember what happened to you in New York." The dreamy look in her eyes disappeared; she shivered. "You just had to remind me about that didn’t you? You know, it’s a good thing you stay in shape. Otherwise you might hurt yourself when you put your foot in your mouth like that." Duncan wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but he pushed on, carefully. "Do you know where you’re going, or even why?"
"What’s the matter; after everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?" There was something in the tone of voice, in the phrasing, that wasn’t quite right. In a flash he recognised it. "Fitzcairn, you English ass! Why can’t you just leave the woman alone?"
"At last we’re making some progress," spoke a voice that was subtly not Debra’s. "You’ve stopped calling her a girl at least. Ya hill-bred fool, you won’t even take what’s right in front of your eyes!"
"Oh no, you’re not going to twist this into something about me. What are you planning?"
"I’m hurt. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt the lass. There’s something I promised to do, that’s all. If you don’t trust me, you can come along." The expression on Deb’s face changed and Duncan knew that she was back. She seemed to have no knowledge that the conversation had continued without her. "I don’t know why it’s important, I just know that I need to do… something."
She stopped, a tiny frown creasing her brow. "This is his doing isn’t it?" MacLeod nodded, trying to look sympathetic; she sighed. "How did you ever keep from strangling the man?" she asked.
"Truth?" Duncan said with a smile. "A couple of times, I did. You’re not going to go through with this, are you?"
"It’s just going to get worse until I give in, and apparently there’s a deadline. If we just get it over with, I can get back to more important deadlines. Besides, if you’re really worried, you can go with me." MacLeod was almost relieved, until the author repeated the Englishman almost word for word. There was no turning back now; all he could do was to tag along to keep the two of them out of trouble. The two of them: now there was a frightening concept.
§ § §
Once the decision was made, it was acted upon with speed and efficiency. Booking the flight was simple; in these stressful times, no one was travelling. The hard part was trying to get their blades through the increased security. With great difficulty, a pair of collectors managed to get their wares into the belly of the plane; the gods themselves wouldn’t have been able to sneak live steel in as carry on. Never had the prospect of lost luggage been so serious, or so dangerous.
Landing in London, Duncan booked them into a hotel and convinced an increasingly agitated Debra/Fitzcairn to sleep off the jet lag so they could start fresh in the morning. The young author managed to convey the idea that they were looking for something, a time capsule, or a secret stash, buried a hundred years ago. They were both surprised. "This doesn’t sound like the Fitz I knew," MacLeod chuckled. "I never saw him plan ahead for anything." Deb shrugged; "Don’t ask me, I’m just the messenger." The Highlander rolled his eyes. "It’s not the message I’m worried about, it’s the source. Let’s just get some sleep."
The next day was, if anything, worse than their first. London was a big place, and the weather wasn’t helping much. The city was fogged in and chilly; in other words, completely normal. Instead of allowing the more experienced Scotsman to lead, they were forced to follow the uncertain direction of Deb and her unseen guide. As they walked the streets, the young Immortal became more confused and agitated. At one point she stopped in the middle of the road, spinning round and round in search of something ‘she’ recognised. "They’re not here!" Her voice held a note of desperation; "None of the landmarks he’s giving me are here anymore, and he won’t stop. Please, make him stop." Duncan quickly ran to her side; he put an arm over her shoulders, both to reassure her and to hide her from the stares she was attracting from the locals.
They slipped quietly into a nearby public house; if there was anything that could calm down an irate Englishman, it was a nice long visit to the corner pub. Her entire manner changed when they stepped into the dimly lit common room. "Get me a pint old boy, Guinness is fine. I must prepare me a smoke," Fitz/Deb said pulling out a pipe from her purse. Duncan grumbled and went to the bartender to order their drinks. Duncan ordered and found the table Fitz/Deb had selected. "You can have your Guinness, but you'll not pollute the lady's lungs. You know smoking is a nasty habit, old boy," Duncan said, teasing. A very Fitzcairn grin spread across her/his face; "An it harm none. She's Immortal laddie."
Duncan scowled. "All right spill, you daft Englishman. Why are we here?"
"I made a promise. Don’t look at me that way, I do occasionally make promises I intend to keep. I buried a box full of memories in this city, just before the world started to go crazy—that whole War to End All Wars thing and the mess in Tsarist Russia. I told myself I’d come back a hundred years later and get it back. Who knew I wouldn’t be around to do it myself?"
Duncan frowned; "So what’s the problem? You forgot where you put it, and now you’re taking it out on her?"
He/she scowled in response; "I didn't forget, the landmarks just disappeared. I never imagined how much things could change in so short a time. This lovely body of my host is going to help me try and find the rest of the markings."
"Not so short a time, when things are changing so quickly now. The next War to End All Wars took down quite a few buildings. Are there any clues you can give me without driving a young woman half-mad in the process?" A long nailed finger began tracing lines in the moisture on the table; a pattern started to evolve. Duncan looked down at the table and sighed at what he saw. "You English fop, don’t you see it?" He tapped the tabletop angrily. "Does every fool scheme you drag me into have to involve the Westminster Abbey?"
"Well, you have to admit, it is easy to remember. Really, lad, I don’t know why I didn’t see it right away…"
"I don’t care how old you were when you died" Duncan growled, "stop calling me lad; especially when you’re in that body."
"Would ye rather I called you a daft Scot and a Boy Scout?"
"If I wasn’t such a Boy Scout, as you say, I wouldn’t be helping you right now, would I?" By now there were quite a few glasses lined up on the table, and MacLeod had a fairly good idea of Deb’s capacity. "I think it’s time for us to go now. From the looks of this, she’s going to hate you in the morning."
§ § §
The next day, getting into (or in this case under) the Abbey was much simpler than Deb would have imagined. "It’s a damned good thing we’re not Terrorists" she quipped, immediately regretting her words. She had a horrible headache that had nothing to do with being so close to Duncan and was not in the best, or most consistent, of moods. The catacombs were dimly lit and smelled awful, but at least they had flashlights. She couldn’t imagine what the place would be like by torchlight. They got to a certain corridor and Deb began counting stones; she tried not to think about what was buried behind each of those stones. When they got to the right number (Deb mentally teased Fitz that it wasn’t a very big number) it took both of them to push aside the covering. Thankfully the crypt was not occupied, but it did contain a large wooden box. "Eureka, it’s here MacLeod." Deb’s own voice immediately reasserted itself, "Get back Fitzy, you’ll get your turn."
They didn’t need Fitzcairn’s unwelcome interference as they tried to get the old chest out of the abbey. From the way they skilfully dodged guards Deb decided that Duncan had learned a thing or two from all his years with Amanda. Unable to return to their hotel, they opened the box in an old subway station, on a line that had been closed years ago. It didn’t take much to open the box; there was no real lock and the clasp practically disintegrated at a touch. MacLeod lifted the lid and whistled softly at the silk and lace he saw within. "I knew he was a bit of a dandy, but I never suspected…."
"Have a little respect for the dead!" she snapped, this time the words were her own. "You don’t understand what this is." Never had Fitzcairn’s memories been so vividly intense; before she even reached into the box, she knew every item inside as intimately as if her (his?) own hands had placed them there. Carefully, she lifted out the remains of a beautiful dress; her voice was a strained whisper as she spoke. "This belonged to a woman named Angela, and in this dress she was truly a vision from Heaven. Her father was a Lord and he refused to allow a Fitz-anyone near her angel, for fear of scandal or ruined bloodlines. It didn’t matter that the man in question could no more ruin a bloodline than he could contribute to one; Father would object on principles alone.
"If this had been just another tryst, Fitzcairn would have had the perfect excuse, but the irony was, this time, it was true love. Fitz told her everything and she took it amazingly well. Except for her being an incurable romantic. In her mind, she dreamed of sharing eternity with an Immortal lover. Angela took her own life, certain that she and her beloved were the same and that she would live forever. She—wasn’t." Deb’s hands trembled as she put the treasure aside and chose another.
With an effort, she lifted out a long slim blade, wrapped in heavy felt. It was a clearly a woman’s sword, but by no means was it decorative. She gasped at the memories it evoked, but continued anyway, in hushed tones. "Diana. She was an Immortal, but not an enemy. She was the type of woman who could tame Hugh Fitzcairn, and for the first time, it seemed like our Fitz was willing to be tamed. But love is meant to aspire to forever, not to achieve it, and it didn’t take long for their relationship to sour. They fought, and then they Fought, and he was forced to—oh God!" She dropped the steel as if it had stung her; the sound as it hit the concrete echoing loudly in the tunnels. It took her several deep breaths to calm herself enough to approach the box of memories.
Trembling hands dipped into the box once more, and this time the images evoked made her smile. It was an antique nurse’s cap, faded and worn. "A young Italian lady, being raised in England by her father, with dreams of saving lives as a nurse; our own Fitzcairn fostered those dreams. He accompanied her on a tour of the hospitals of Europe; dreadfully dull from his point of view, but for her he would do anything. He even convinced her to go to a nursing school when she turned thirty, even though it was in Egypt. She was too curious, and too intelligent, for him to stay for long, but he liked to keep track of her progress. The last he had heard, she had just come back from the Crimea and was founding a school of her own. The woman’s name was—"
"Nightingale," it was the first time he had spoken, and his voice echoed loudly in the tunnel, "Florence Nightingale." She could hear the mix of awe and disbelief in his voice; somehow she gained a perverse sense of pleasure from surprising the Highlander. Or maybe the feeling wasn’t quite her own. She quirked a smile; "Didn’t think he had it in him, did you?"
One last time she reached into the treasure chest, knowing exactly what she’d find. She lifted the old glass bottle as gently as if it were a baby; "Now this is the reason for the deadline." She sighed at a memory that wasn’t her own, "Ah, Rosalind. Her family had a vineyard, a small one. She had known Hugh Fitzcairn almost her whole life; first as an eccentric travelling uncle, later as a trusted friend and finally as an ‘uncle’ to her own children and grandchildren. I think it was the closest he had ever come to fatherhood. No matter where he went or what he was doing, Fitz always came back to Rosalind. He was at her side when, as the silver-haired matron of a successful wine family, Dame Rosa left this world after a full century. He made a promise at her deathbed, that he would toast her memory once every hundred years." She held out the bottle for MacLeod’s inspection; "Do you think this would be appropriate?"
When he touched the cork it nearly
disintegrated; he gave a cautious sniff. "Phew! Maybe with a salad. This
stuff went to vinegar decades ago." Deb chuckled in answer; "That sounds
like our Fitz all right! Let’s go; I’m sure we can find something. Just
don’t let him overdo it this time; he never stays around for the hangover."
§ § §
The quest was over, and it seemed that the seeking was more important than the treasure. After their quiet tribute to the memories of great ladies past, they still had the box itself to deal with. Deb composed a note and Duncan made an anonymous phone call; and that was all the arrangement necessary. A drop-off was made at a seemingly abandoned warehouse, to be taken to a secret museum somewhere, never to be seen again. Most of the items anyway, Deb had insisted they liberate some of the objects from the hands of the Watchers.
Back home in the Northlands, the young author sat before a bottle of undrinkable wine, gazing without really seeing it. An old song drifted through her mind. "If I could save time in a bottle/The first thing that I'd like to do/Is to save every day/Till Eternity passes away/Just to spend them with you." Her voice faded away, for those were the only words she knew, but she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and a new voice took up the tune.
"If I had a box just for wishes/And dreams that had never come true/The box would be empty/Except for the memory/Of how they were answered by you." She looked up into the face of Duncan MacLeod. "You did a good thing," he said to her. "I know," she whispered, "You’re not the only one who thinks so." Her soft smile turned into a quirky grin; "Now if I could just get him to stop pestering me about taking up golf…."
Of course, it wouldn't be a Fitz story if it was *completely* serious.
Golf! tee hee hee.
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