September 6-7, 2001, Glenfinnan, Scotland
A dark-haired stranger paused in the Donner Woods. He knew this place. He remembered it. He had played here as a child against his father's words, to prove to his friends he was worthy of being called the Chieftain's son. It was here he had thought he would die under the wolf's teeth, and it was here he had first met Cassandra, and she had revealed to him, he would be a part in a great prophecy, a fate and a destiny older and darker than himself.
Since he had first left, wandering the world, trying to find the answers, he wondered, if perhaps the prophecy she had told him of was only a small part in a larger whole, if even she did not know how to read the entire tapestry.
He sighed, balanced the pack he wore on his shoulders and back, moving the walking stick first, his footsteps following close behind. He hiked in silence.
Having first stepped foot in the village of Glenfinnan, and having mentioned to the storekeeper he needed supplies to spend the night in the Donner Woods, the storekeeper had backed away, talking quickly, in attempt to stray him for the idea. Still a superstitious folk, but he had remained determined in his plans, and finally the storekeeper had sold him what he wanted.
The stranger did not ask if the Donner woods witch still lived there. He did not want to know the answer. Not until he found the old cottage, and determined the answer for himself.
The stranger paused briefly in his hike, to sip from the water bottle. He judged from the sun for it to be about mid-afternoon, and he knew he would need to hurry, if he did not want to spend the night in the open woods. Closing the water bottle, returning it to his bag, again he moved his walking stick forward for his footsteps to follow.
He found the clearing in the early dusk, exactly how he remembered it. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back the bearskin guarding the door, and he stepped inside. The cottage was empty, but he had not expected anyone else to be there. He did not think anyone would have been here in years, maybe centuries.
He sighed, again, removed the pack from his shoulders and back, dropping it on the floor close to the door, resting the walking stick against the wall, and moved to light the fire. Still with no words, he cooked his dinner over the fire, spending a sleepless night, tending to the fire, wishing he could see images in the flames.
He left the cottage the just after sunrise the next morning, slightly more tired than he had been the night before, still disturbed by the images running through his mind. Walking stick back in hand, he headed back to the village.
--------------------------------------------------
He saw the chimney smoke close to nightfall, and he headed to the bar, where he knew he could find a drink, and perhaps some decent shred of Scottish hospitality. He wandered in, taking a cautious seat at one of the tables, gazing around, noticing the locals pretending not to see him.
"Looking for anything in particular, stranger?" asked a young woman, coming to his table, setting down silverware and napkin. "You are a stranger?"
"You could say that. I'll have a beer, and some haggis, and whatever the house special is today."
"Sure," she frowned slightly, jotting the notes down. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Does Rachel MacLeod still work here?"
The girl looked surprised, quickly masking the emotion, not wanting this stranger to see her reaction. "Depends," she quickly responded, "who wants to know?"
"A friend." He paused. "Her cousin," the stranger added.
"Which one?"
"Both," he whispered.
The waitress glanced nervously to him, before she nodded, relaxing her stance and her expression. "I'll tell her."
The stranger sighed, dropping his chin into his palms, watching the waitress sashay to the bar counter, whispering something to the owner, pointing to his direction. The owner looked over, frowned, whispering something in response, and the waitress nodded again, disappearing. She returned with his beer, setting it down before him.
"I think it would be best if you had your meal then left, sir. I'm sure you know we don't take too kindly too strangers, and that we protect our own."
"Please," he whispered urgently. "I need to see Rachel MacLeod."
"I'm afraid Rachel MacLeod is not working today."
"But-"
"I will bring you your food," she regarded him coldly, before turning on his heels again. The stranger groaned inaudibly, gulping his beer too quickly.
He ate little of his food, before finishing his drink, leaving some money on the table, finally leaving. He could feel the owner's eyes boring into his neck. Slumped against the outside of the building, he cursed loudly, and in Gaelic.
Pushing himself off the building, he started to make his way to the tiny he inn he was staying in. He barely noticed it had started to rain.
-----------------------------------------------------------
He felt better after a hot shower. He new he would be best to get some sleep, but he did not feel tired enough to sleep. He sighed, pulled a book from his bag, curling on the bed to read some. He had read the same sentence twenty-six times before the knock on the door startled him. Frowning, he padded to the room door, opening it only slightly. "Yes?" he asked.
"I am sorry, sir. But you have a visitor."
A tiny beat of hope jumped in his chest. "I'll see him or her."
The older-looking man nodded, turning away, and the stranger frowned again, telling himself to not hope too much. It could very well be someone sent by Joe Dawson, having finally tracked him down. He opened the door wider, peering into the corridor, seeing a womanly shape walking down it. The tiny beat fluttered again. "Rachel?" he called.
He saw the figure nod, her face breaking into a gesture between a smile and a frown, but walking quicker, embracing him warmly. "Maureen said you were in the bar today looking for me."
"Yes," he nodded, "yes." He motioned her inside his room, she only hesitated a second before stepping inside. He closed the door behind them. "I did. I was."
Rachel MacLeod regarded him silently for several minutes before she nodded again, removing her jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the lone chair. She sat on the edge of the dresser, and she crossed her arms. She smiled fully this time. "It is good to see you, Duncan MacLeod."
"Good to see you too," he smiled, running a hand through his closely cropped hair, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression had returned to more serious. "Do you have time? There is a lot you need to know."
A dark-haired stranger paused in the Donner Woods. He knew this place. He remembered it. He had played here as a child against his father's words, to prove to his friends he was worthy of being called the Chieftain's son. It was here he had thought he would die under the wolf's teeth, and it was here he had first met Cassandra, and she had revealed to him, he would be a part in a great prophecy, a fate and a destiny older and darker than himself.
Since he had first left, wandering the world, trying to find the answers, he wondered, if perhaps the prophecy she had told him of was only a small part in a larger whole, if even she did not know how to read the entire tapestry.
He sighed, balanced the pack he wore on his shoulders and back, moving the walking stick first, his footsteps following close behind. He hiked in silence.
Having first stepped foot in the village of Glenfinnan, and having mentioned to the storekeeper he needed supplies to spend the night in the Donner Woods, the storekeeper had backed away, talking quickly, in attempt to stray him for the idea. Still a superstitious folk, but he had remained determined in his plans, and finally the storekeeper had sold him what he wanted.
The stranger did not ask if the Donner woods witch still lived there. He did not want to know the answer. Not until he found the old cottage, and determined the answer for himself.
The stranger paused briefly in his hike, to sip from the water bottle. He judged from the sun for it to be about mid-afternoon, and he knew he would need to hurry, if he did not want to spend the night in the open woods. Closing the water bottle, returning it to his bag, again he moved his walking stick forward for his footsteps to follow.
He found the clearing in the early dusk, exactly how he remembered it. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back the bearskin guarding the door, and he stepped inside. The cottage was empty, but he had not expected anyone else to be there. He did not think anyone would have been here in years, maybe centuries.
He sighed, again, removed the pack from his shoulders and back, dropping it on the floor close to the door, resting the walking stick against the wall, and moved to light the fire. Still with no words, he cooked his dinner over the fire, spending a sleepless night, tending to the fire, wishing he could see images in the flames.
He left the cottage the just after sunrise the next morning, slightly more tired than he had been the night before, still disturbed by the images running through his mind. Walking stick back in hand, he headed back to the village.
--------------------------------------------------
He saw the chimney smoke close to nightfall, and he headed to the bar, where he knew he could find a drink, and perhaps some decent shred of Scottish hospitality. He wandered in, taking a cautious seat at one of the tables, gazing around, noticing the locals pretending not to see him.
"Looking for anything in particular, stranger?" asked a young woman, coming to his table, setting down silverware and napkin. "You are a stranger?"
"You could say that. I'll have a beer, and some haggis, and whatever the house special is today."
"Sure," she frowned slightly, jotting the notes down. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Does Rachel MacLeod still work here?"
The girl looked surprised, quickly masking the emotion, not wanting this stranger to see her reaction. "Depends," she quickly responded, "who wants to know?"
"A friend." He paused. "Her cousin," the stranger added.
"Which one?"
"Both," he whispered.
The waitress glanced nervously to him, before she nodded, relaxing her stance and her expression. "I'll tell her."
The stranger sighed, dropping his chin into his palms, watching the waitress sashay to the bar counter, whispering something to the owner, pointing to his direction. The owner looked over, frowned, whispering something in response, and the waitress nodded again, disappearing. She returned with his beer, setting it down before him.
"I think it would be best if you had your meal then left, sir. I'm sure you know we don't take too kindly too strangers, and that we protect our own."
"Please," he whispered urgently. "I need to see Rachel MacLeod."
"I'm afraid Rachel MacLeod is not working today."
"But-"
"I will bring you your food," she regarded him coldly, before turning on his heels again. The stranger groaned inaudibly, gulping his beer too quickly.
He ate little of his food, before finishing his drink, leaving some money on the table, finally leaving. He could feel the owner's eyes boring into his neck. Slumped against the outside of the building, he cursed loudly, and in Gaelic.
Pushing himself off the building, he started to make his way to the tiny he inn he was staying in. He barely noticed it had started to rain.
-----------------------------------------------------------
He felt better after a hot shower. He new he would be best to get some sleep, but he did not feel tired enough to sleep. He sighed, pulled a book from his bag, curling on the bed to read some. He had read the same sentence twenty-six times before the knock on the door startled him. Frowning, he padded to the room door, opening it only slightly. "Yes?" he asked.
"I am sorry, sir. But you have a visitor."
A tiny beat of hope jumped in his chest. "I'll see him or her."
The older-looking man nodded, turning away, and the stranger frowned again, telling himself to not hope too much. It could very well be someone sent by Joe Dawson, having finally tracked him down. He opened the door wider, peering into the corridor, seeing a womanly shape walking down it. The tiny beat fluttered again. "Rachel?" he called.
He saw the figure nod, her face breaking into a gesture between a smile and a frown, but walking quicker, embracing him warmly. "Maureen said you were in the bar today looking for me."
"Yes," he nodded, "yes." He motioned her inside his room, she only hesitated a second before stepping inside. He closed the door behind them. "I did. I was."
Rachel MacLeod regarded him silently for several minutes before she nodded again, removing her jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the lone chair. She sat on the edge of the dresser, and she crossed her arms. She smiled fully this time. "It is good to see you, Duncan MacLeod."
"Good to see you too," he smiled, running a hand through his closely cropped hair, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression had returned to more serious. "Do you have time? There is a lot you need to know."
