Part Eight: Finding Home

Beckett's return to consciousness was a highly unpleasant one. He lay in the tall grasses where he had fallen, driven to awaken by a thirst so deep it reached his soul. Although he was not completely alert, the need for water exceeded his body's need to sleep off the effects of the dart. So, after re-learning the finer points of standing, walking and using opposable thumbs, he rose unsteadily and staggered to the edge of the clearing, where a tiny creek flowed easily along the demarcation between forest and field. He lay belly-down on the flat, pebbly shore and scooped up handfuls of water, dozing when he could not keep his eyes open.

His thirst temporarily satisfied, Beckett rose from the creek and ambled back to the spot where he had lain. As he recalled, his and Ronon's pursuers were mere children, not that he'd ever wish to tangle with them again. From the trail of flattened glasses, it was obvious that his fellow Atlantean had been dragged from the area. The doctor plunged on through the clearing, following the tamped down vegetation. From time to time, he staggered from the after effects of the dart.

About a mile from his starting point, the grasses parted to reveal a crude dirt pathway of sorts. Not well worn, it did bear what looked like wheel ruts. The dragging signatures that Beckett had been following ended abruptly where the pathway began. Ronon had obviously been hefted onto a vehicle, perhaps a wagon or travois. No matter. As long as he kept to the dirt path, Beckett felt confident that he'd eventually locate Ronon.

Beckett had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. An hour, a day. What he gleaned from traipsing about the countryside was that his attackers had had a significant head start. Slowed by the drugs still running through his system, Beckett was aware that he wasn't exactly speed walking. Nevertheless, his clip must be better than that of children dragging 200 pounds of deadweight Satedan.

Hours passed, made more difficult by his constantly renewed thirst and unsteady footfalls. Whatever agent had been used against him packed an extremely hard wallop. The area was scored by small streams, which he took advantage of at every opportunity. He hoped that the water was free from parasites. Several small creatures resembling mice skittered away from the creek whenever he approached. Not a completely accurate bellwether of the water's purity, the animals' presence indicated that at the very least the water was harmless to some living things on this planet. Which was good enough for Carson Beckett today.

In time, he smelled the unmistakable aroma of burning wood. Slowing, Beckett left the pathway to make his way through scrub that grew up on either side. Distant voices drifted towards him, the words unclear but the intonation unmistakable. His heart sped up, trying to keep pace with his racing mind. Creeping closer to the voices, Beckett saw that he had come to a village of rammed earth shelters, the same color as the sandy creek mud he'd been kneeling and lying in periodically all day. A child of eight or so finished draping items on a line and skipped up to a woman who crouched next to a cooking pot heating on a small rock-base fire.

"Mither, a claes is dine!"

"Thank you, dochter," came the reply.

"Whan is twaloors? A am hungrysome!"

"In a wee, child. In a wee."

Beckett stood, stunned. This couldn't be…

"Is Eoin wi a unfreend?" the child went on.

"Aye, lass. He is."

That a place—a planet?—such as this existed was no surprise at all to Beckett. That the humans inhabiting the village were seemingly stuck in ancient times, living antiquities, was also not unexpected. That the villagers spoke perfect Gaelic-Scot was a complete surprise, however. In fact, hearing the villagers' voices made Beckett choke up, as if he were home again, in Glasgow.

Beckett furrowed his brow, wondering how any of this could be. Then another idea asserted itself, one that made much more sense to him. He was a Scot. He lived in the Pegasus galaxy. It followed that if he could be here, why couldn't dozens of others, hundreds even?

"Aye," he said to the air around him, believing the tale.

The questions, fairy tales and theories in Beckett's mind about these people departed the moment he realized that he had been surrounded by the same youngsters that had rendered him unconscious before and that they were about to put him out a second time. They revealed themselves suddenly, rising from their hiding places in the grass, blow darts at the ready.

"Nae!" he cried, in his native tongue, raising his arms in surrender, not completely recovered from his first dart and unwilling to take another. "I'm a friend! I won't harm ye!"

The children looked on confusedly, then turned to the tallest among them, a boy of fourteen or so. He lowered his weapon, eyeing Beckett curiously. Seeing the child's pause as an opportunity, Beckett continued.

"My friend…" he moved his left hand upwards, indicating a very tall individual, "He and I are lost. Have you seen him?"

The boy looked beyond Beckett towards a hut, from which emerged a slightly built young man carrying a rucksack.

"Eoin!" called the boy. "Someone has come looking for the monster."

The man named Eoin stopped short. Then, placing two fingers between his lips, he whistled loudly, sending shrill tones echoing through the valley. Within moments, other men—equally small and slender—came running, each armed with spears or dart blowers.

Turning his full attention to Beckett. Eoin watched him warily. "You are here to claim the beast that we captured?"

"He is not a beast. He is a man like you an' me."

Eoin laughed gently. "You are confused."

"We don't know how we got here, but we arrived together. Please, I am a doctor and the man I was with is my patient. If we can, we will leave if you wish, but I won't go without him."

Eoin approached slowly. He paced around the doctor, eyeing his uniform, seemingly trying to look within to the man's soul. The others—women and children and armed men—stayed perfectly quiet but alert, anticipating a sudden attack. Beckett, unaccustomed to these people, had no idea what they loved and feared and needed. Having stated his case, he could only hope for the best.

Having come round to face him again, Eoin spoke. "This thing is your friend?" Beckett nodded. "He is unwell. Cara oil doesn't agree with him. Come, you will see."

…..

Ronon lay on a pallet under a canvas awning, perfectly still save for the work of agonal breathing. Carson fell to his knees beside him, assessing the large man's condition. Eoin was correct; Ronon was very ill.

"Eoin, you gave him more…what…cara oil, did you say, after he was darted?"

The young man answered with a questioning look.

"See, boy! How much oil did he receive?"

Eoin looked to a younger child, who stood by the doorway. The child trotted up and whispered into Eoin's ear.

"I don't know. A short while ago he awoke and became unruly. We had to give him more."

"Why did you bring him here and leave me in the grass?"

Eoin scoffed and gestured towards the unconscious man. "Look at him! A wild man!"

"He's not a wild man!"

"Enough!" The slight fellow walked away in disgust, then turned and stood expectantly, waiting for Beckett to finish.

Carson's heart sank. He continued his assessment, noted that Ronon had no radial pulse, that his skin was pale and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. His noisy respirations were accompanied by the struggling use of accessory muscles, as his body forced his lungs to expand and take in every molecule of air possible.

Carson felt himself close to panic. "Please, I need an antidote to the cara oil. I need to know about it if I'm going to help him. Has this happened to anyone before?"

Eoin's eyes met Carson's. There was a glint of fear in there, Carson thought, as if the younger man felt threatened by someone trying so desperately to save another's life.

"We have nothing for him. No cure. The oil is usually harmless, but sometimes this happens. We use it to catch animals for food. Sometimes we use it on enemies like him."

"He is not your enemy! We came here by mistake."

"You must leave him, let him die in peace." Eoin moved to the draw Carson away, but the doctor crouched closer to Ronon's struggling form, defiantly staring at his youthful adversary. Carson hoped that Ronon was unconscious in his death throes.

Eoin's voice rose with outrage. "We do not suffer ourselves to watch the dying pass. We must go now!"

This made no sense to Carson, of course, who would have shed body parts rather than leave willingly. Ronon was clearly dying. His passing would come soon. Not knowing what else to do, he took his patient's hand and murmured quiet platitudes. He did not notice as Eoin readied another dart. And he felt only remorse this time, when the stinging prickle hit its mark