In the beginning….
‘In the beginning god, or God, created Adam. Now that’s a joke if I ever heard one. And Methos – Methuselah. The man has to have a sense of humour, but damn it’s on the sharp side of sarcastic.’
Methos flicked his hand out in the universal sign
Methos sauntered along at his side, his hands plunged deep in his pockets.
“What do you see in that stuff?”
Methos glanced at him sideway through long lashes.
“It’s a game; isn’t it.” Methos pulled his hands free and waved expansively. “Their world is ephemeral. An image jacked into their minds. And here and now we’re bombarded with images, and news and information censored every which way but loose.”
“Please, trust no one.”
“That’s from another television program, isn’t it?”
“Highlander, even you’re not this naïve. Do you honestly believe that we’re not manipulated from sunrise to sunset, sunset to sunrise?”
The ancient immortal grinned;
“So what did you think of the film?” he asked changing the subject.
“I think that it’s a good job we don’t fight like that.”
“But think--” Methos grinned avariciously, “--you can chop their heads off so easily when they’re prancing about in slow motion.”
There wasn’t really any answer to that.
Methos followed him home. They never finished off
Methos’ place. Although
Methos shook his head and prowled around the loft.
“You want to talk about it?”
“About what?” He stopped by the window and peered out into uptown Seacouver.
“Did the movie bother you?”
“No. I preferred the first one.”
“Because it was new, exiting, first beginnings -- the second part is just a continuation… endurance,” Methos said in a moment, Mac realised, of perfect honesty. Methos’ green-brown eyes slide sideways and were veiled behind long lashes. He huffed, a wry, depreciative huff.
“Endurance?” Mac echoed.
“Yeah, there were no surprises. We know the plot, we know the way that it will turn out. I think I need to watch a Danish movie: no happy endings. I saw a good one about a bunch of convicts on an outward bound course. They killed their warden and then each other.”
‘Okay, he’s in a strangely reflective mood,’ Mac realised.
“Beginnings are infinitely more preferable,” Methos mused almost to himself.
‘How many, new beginnings, first beginnings -- wasn’t that an oxymoron or something? -- has he experienced?’ Mac wondered. Methos sounded tired and disillusioned. As long as he had known the man, he hadn’t heard that degree of dejection in the ancient immortal’s voice.
“What about endings?” Macleod heard himself ask.
“Endings are an entirely different kettle of fish,” Methos answered. “There are always regrets.” Abruptly, he turned on his heel. “Thanks for the beer.”
Before Mac could blink the ancient immortal had left the building.
The Highlander stopped by his apartment a couple of
times, and missed a long weekend when he had to go down to
On the off chance,
“Methos, I know you’re in there.”
“Announce it to the whole bloody world, Macleod.” Methos flung open the door. “You’re as bad as Amanda.”
“Who do you think told me how to get in?”
“I’m changing my name.” Methos span away and
flounced back into his apartment.
This wasn’t a sitting room it was a sanctum sanctorum.
Methos flopped onto his throne.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Macleod?”
“No reason. Thought I’d drop by. You fancy going
out for something to eat?”
Methos looked him sideways. “What do you think it is?”
was a table beside the chair which was at a level perfect to balance a beer on
but in this case, Duncan could see ceramics, objet d’
arts littered before him like defeated chess pieces. Methos hadn’t moved the
tray; so that they were laid out for the Highlander’s inspection.
Centre stage stood a pottery beaker. It was roughly made with geometric patterns embedded in the clay before it was fired. It seemed to be solidly constructed.
this what I think it is?”
“I don’t know, what do you think it is?”
“A ‘Beaker’ pot.”
“Hmm, very good.”
yours?” Silence met the question,
Methos retreated into a far corner and crossed his arms over his narrow chest.
“A trader?” Duncan echoed, drawing a fingertip down the side of the ancient vessel.
“Yeah, strange guy. I’d never seen his like before. Taller than my extended family. The family was small, dark and swarthy. His hair was brown - shot with grey. It was straight like mine. His skin was the same as ours: weathered. But his clothes were unbelievable. I know now that they were woven on a loom.”
long have you had it?”
“Four thousand years give or take a century or two or three.”
“Please,” Methos drawled, in a heartbeat he was
across the room and had snatched the beaker -- gently -- from
His hands moved over the pottery lovingly.
“I suppose that you were five hundred years old
when you got that pot?”
“Give the man a cigar,” Methos said snidely.
being on the Earth when the Beaker People roamed. Imagine being on the Earth
Methos waited patiently for
Methos plucked it from the table with long fingers. “No. My father did.”
“Oh?” Methos flopped back onto his chair. “I lied.”
“Kidding.” Methos’ hazel eyes filled with amused cynicism.
“So where did you get it from? It’s obviously important to you. All this stuff is. Where did the arrow head come from?”
“It was on a thong around my neck, when I took my first quickening.”
“It’s the same age as you?”
“You could carbon-date it.”
“Even if I could carbon date flint what would that prove? I could have found it lying in a stream when it had been lost for hundreds of years.”
Oh. There wasn’t really an answer to that. “Aren’t you interested?”
“In my age?”
Methos flicked the arrowhead, juggling it over his fingers. As the sharp edge nicked his skin, quickening lightning flashed in the cuts. “No.”
It wasn’t accurate to say that Methos was lying,
but it wasn’t the whole truth, but
“I guess you’re five thousand and five. I have known you for a few years.”
“How long have you been five thousand years old?”
“For one year,” Methos said puckishly.
“I’m sure that you could put it to music: five thousand, four hundred and twenty eight years on the wall…” he said singsong.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“There was no calendar, Macleod. Five thousand is and always has been an estimate.”
“Which brings me back to my original question: How long have you been five thousand years old?”
Methos’ eyes meandered up to the right, and he muttered under his breath as he counted on his fingers. “Getting on… about…. Uhm… must be… about… one thousand years.”
“You’re six thousand years old? Six thousand?”
Methos’ arrowhead continued to dance frenetically
over his fingers; he was as frustrated as
“Happy Birthday, Methos.”
“Everything comes to those who wait,” Methos said reflectively, a thousand years later.