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4. FENG~YUN
"Oh, noooo!" Broden sobbed and threw herself into the slim, long arms of the storyteller.
"Oh, Little One," Adam crooned, "It's all right. I am, after all, still here...and I haven't said the end just yet, so you must wait a little and--"
"Sthay what happened! Sthay it!" the odd little girl pleaded. "Sthay it now!" She added for emphasis.
"Very well," Adam pulled a kerchief, magically, it seemed, from a back pocket of his jeans and wiped the child's tears away. "The strong arms of the Loving Father reached out for Adam and lifted and tugged and struggled him up, out of the cold water and into the lovely night, with all the stars singing, and the old moon just peeking up to smile upon them both."
"And Booh?" Broden asked.
"Ah, well, now that was the strangest part of the tale. Very strange, indeed. For the Father knew all along where Eduard Bear was staying these days, and after they had dried off and had some tea and two biscuits each, well he told Adam just where they should go for such a visit.
"And so they did. But that is another story."
Watcher Joe Dawson, and Dr. Granny Grimes, and Princess Siel all applauded as Adam intoned, "The End."
"Well," Duncan harrumphed loudly, "at least you weren't wrong about the Not Saying things."
Granny and Siel strolled off behind the bar to the large red door which led to the kitchen. Their conspiratorial laughter drifted back through the door which they'd left open so as not to miss out on whatever the Clan Chieftan might choose to say.
"I take it that is not the whole story," Dawson tried not to sound too leading-the-witness.
The Highlander hadn't sat down since sometime in the middle of Adam's story. He'd been mounting his own indoor "expotition" since somewhere around the place in the tale where Adam had jumped the first fence.
"Not even close," Duncan grumbled. "Not even the same continent," he added.
Joe chewed on the part of his beard which curled beneath his lower lip and tried mightily not to do, as Broden had done, and just burst out with a "Sthay it now!"
Duncan did not keep him waiting long. The Scottish stepson lowered his considerable frame down into a nearby chair so suddenly that the Watcher was reminded of Goldilocks' foray into the Bears' Den.
"Be careful there!" Duncan called out to Adam and the tiny child, who had gone back to playing pony on the enormous old pipe in the corner beyond the bandstand.
Neither of them paid him any heed at all, and the Highlander was hard-pressed to explain why he had suddenly become frightened for them just then. Still, the feeling that something wasn't right continued on, even as he told his part of the story--the Real Story.
I woke up that morning at Chequers Inn to find Teds and Himself gone, the gods knew where. At first I wasn't so worried, Teds being a responsible sort and all, but as I tracked them from Harftfield to the Poohstick Bridge--well, when I saw Adam had gone off without Teds and left him behind at the Christopher-Robin-threw-in-sticks-here monument. Of course, Teds couldn't tell me where Little Master Adam was off to, so there was nothing for it but to set out on the proverbial heffalump hunt.
We had the luck to run into an old acquaintance of mine and his niece, also on a pilgrimage to Pooh, though less obsessed about it. Mr. Wing and his dearest budgie were happy to tell me about a singular slender person, sitting on the crest of Galleon's Leap and reading to the children. When we heard the bit about Pooh in Mandarin, then we were certain who the person was, and it sounded as if he were all right, and not in the mood to be interrupted in his quest.
So we set about getting Adam some provisions for his quest and the Dear Niece of our good friend, Wing, added a picture of the Robin and his own Beloved Bear...
...his Silly Bear...
...his Bear of Little Brain...
...and enormous heart.
Who we missed very much just then, but who is to say the way of the Fiercer Animals who prowl the woods?
Mr. Wing and I and Teds and Mr. Wing's niece, whose name translates into something like Constance, all went for supper at a small farm outside of Hartfield where they were visiting some friends, who were fans of Mr. Wing, or rather, fans of his art.
To shorten the tale, well, there we were, after a lovely supper of steak and kidney pie and plum pudding with hard sauce and a tidy little brandy, with all the lights off and Mr. Wing sketching Constance by the firelight, when there seemed to be a noise in the back, near the garden. The Lady of the House went to the kitchen and rang up the constabulary and The Lord of the Manor, and Mr. Wing and myself--after a lengthy explanation to Constance about why she couldn't go with--went out to the garden to teach the trespasser a thing or three.
We went round the garden in the dark, but there was no one there. It wasn't until the police had arrived and suggested we search nearer the pool that we realized the noise had been more of a quiet sploosh and that the clothes so neatly folded at the pool's edge were Adam's . I dove in and retrieved him, dead as a mackerel at the fish mongers'.
Well when he finally revived we were hip-deep in ambulances and sirens, newsfolk and camera lights and a full brace of irate lawmen trying to decide how many things to charge Adam with, indecent exposure, trespass, malicious mischief, suicide--they hardly knew where to begin.
And Adam, letting the emergency blanket fall off his shoulders, stood in the middle of the cameras and the reporters, saying so graciously that, no, he didn't know who Brian Jones was, and, yes, he'd heard of the Rolling Stones, and no, he wasn't aware of what had happened, and, excuse me, but I was only looking for--.
At which point, I shuffled him off to the house, saying something about hypothermia and Mr. Wing entertained the reporters with a stunning little piece about the hero within and how it sometimes compromises the simple life in us all. He was so inscrutably inscrutable that not one of reporters thought he was joking with them. One of them asked him for an autograph and he signed it, beside the flourishing title of his famous book series.
"Mr. Wing," Dawson floated the name out over the blue-neon and sultry shadows of "Joe's."
No bells rang.
Not right away, anyway.
"I don't understand," Dr. Grimes brought in a generous tray of sliced fruits and cheeses and breads and butter and huney.
They'd eaten their way through the afternoon and storied themselves right up to supper. A wonderful tangy smell wafted in from the kitchen, promising some exotic Zulu Natal delicacy no doubt was soon to follow.
Granny Grimes set the tray down and reminded them that the little plates over here were so they wouldn't be crumbing all over the floor and the little napkins would be a good idea and--slap--that hand could use washing.
Joe was so suddenly reminded of Mother Dawson that he couldn't find it in him to be angry, but he did make rather a bit much about how hard it was for him to struggle up and walk all the way over to the bar sink, what with no legs and all.
Dr. Grimes refused to feel guilty, but her line of sight never wavered from a spot somewhere between the Watcher's shoulders.
"What were the reporters talking about, Duncan?" she asked as she handed him a plate for his apple and cheese. Evidently the Highlander hadn't been listening to "Granny's rules for gracious dining."
MacLeod swallowed, "You mean about the Rolling Stones?"
"Yes," she answered as she built a plate for Mister Clean Paws' return.
"Did I forget to mention we were at Crochford Farm?" he tore off a piece of cheese, balled it up, and threw it across the bar at Adam's head.
Adam didn't even look up as his quick fingers pulled the cheese from the air, divided into two and shared it with Broden.
"I still don't get what that has to do with the Rolling Stones," Granny complained.
"Brian Jones bought the farm in 1968," Duncan explained.
Dawson returned and sat down at the first remove of the evening meal. He added, "Brian Jones was with the Rolling Stones to begin with. He introduced them to each other, in fact, and he was the first rocker to use alternative instruments like sitar and chimes."
"Oh," Granny tried to sound as if that meant something, but it was all before her time and it made her uncomfortable to be reminded how much their age differences, Joe's and hers, really entailed--not to mention both their differences from even Duncan's five centuries, or--heavens!--Adam's fifty!
"Brian Jones bought Cochford as a haven from the coming storm, his addictions, the building fame, the troubles with the group," Duncan turned his gaze deliberately toward the tall, elder Immortal as Adam approached to gather some provender. "I suppose he was looking for Pooh."
Adam's elegant hands, that had killed more folk than they could count, floated lightly over the tray, picking this or that tasty bit to bring back to Broden, still astride the dreaded and unpredictable pipe. He seemed not to hear the jibe.
"A year after he bought the house," Dawson continued the story, "Brian was kicked out of the Stones and shortly after that, he drowned in the pool behind the house, the first example of the mortality of rock stars, before even Morrison."
"So much for expotitions," Duncan grumbled, peach juice and huney dribbling over the lower lip of his formidable pout. "Just when you think you're out of the woods--" He brought his broad palm down, sahmaaaak, on the table top. "Jagulars!"
Over their own private feast in the corner, Broden and Adam cackled away, bending over and bouncing in their hilarity, which they counter-balanced with smacks of their own and a duo of "jthagulors, jthagulors!" smack, smack, smack.
Then Siel appeared with a marvelous stew, all of Joe's leftovers transformed into a wondrous brew, warm and strong and not a little magical, drifting little tendrils of stream which caught the two wayward children and drew them away from the rusty old dragon of a pipe.
"Princess," the Highlander pushed back finally from the table and sighed. "That was a superb stew."
"You are then in my debt?" Siel resorted to syntax to make it seem as if her English--as she always claimed--was not so good. Usually, they recognized this for what it was: a trap.
But Duncan was too full and too tired--and still too worried about--something, something not quite right. "Forever in your debt, Sweet Lady," he answered.
"Well then," the elegant midnight features rearranged themselves into a deceptive benignity. "Perhaps you will tell us how it is you came to know this Mr. Wing and who exactly he is."
"Just a man I met on the way to Singapore some time ago," Duncan got up and stretched. "Just a friend."
"A famous friend, it would seem," Siel smiled sweetly, ignoring the Highlander's sudden discomfort.
"You wouldn't know him, " Duncan walked away from the table and then turned back. "He is an artist. He writes and illustrates," he paused and spun around suddenly to look at the big pipe where Adam and Broden had been playing. "Books, he does stories with pictures."
"Do you have a picture?" Joe asked, wondering why he was missing this piece of Duncan MacLeod's life history.
"Well," Duncan came over to dig in the deep pockets of his long coat. "Here," he placed a small card on the table. "Mr. Wing sent me this one Christmas. That's him and his wife. Constance is the daughter of his wife's younger sister. His own children are grown now. I think his son works with him on the--books."
"He must be a fine friend," Siel suggested, "to send you such a personal greeting, and to be so helpful with Adam's tres--trespassing--is that the word?" Dawson picked up the card and turned it this way and that, waiting for his considerable memory to tell him what he already knew. So familiar, but--no matter, it would come to him.
"All right," Duncan sat back down and leaned over his lap. "We got very drunk and I told him all about the Immortals. He was so fascinated by our swords, how each was so different. He contended we were our swords, or something. I don't remember it very well. I was so deep in my cups at the time. Anyway, we ended up in his studio in Singapore and, and he was so enthusiastic about everything and, well, I couldn't see what the harm would be if he did some sketches and--."
"Comic books," Adam explained to Broden. "Super heroes," he added. "Ma Wong Cheng!" Dawson exclaimed, as much from what Adam said as the pouting, lips-on-fists pose the Highlander had suddenly assumed.
"The Stormriders?" Dr. Grimes named the movie Joe had taken her to on their first date. The one she'd thought she would hate. The one she made him take her back to see the very next night.
Princess Siel excused herself, saying she would be out at her car getting something.
Then Dawson had to rustle through one of the files in his office, bringing forth his entire Tin Ha collection, even the first comic, which was really number five in the series and quite valuable since it was no longer available. The one with the hero bathing in the water fall. (to see that episode, click here.)
That one he didn't show Broden. There had been a real flap in Hong Kong when that was released and a subsequent trial a year later where one of the covers had to bear an ugly red warning strip about violent, inappropriate content and such. He brought out the beautiful manga, one at a time, laying them lovingly on the table and telling the story of the moody main character whose family had been killed and who had turned to the life of a knight under the thrall of the evil Emperor, the Lord Conqueror who had destroyed the hero's family, all the while he brooded and waited to gather enough knowledge and power to kill the Emperor when the chance presented itself.
click here to see the entire collection The Watcher explained about the different swords and the magical techniques of the warriors and how each sword was the complement to its owner.
"Fatherz Ahmz!" Broden burbled as she pointed out the picture of the hero with a child in his arms.
"Exactly," Adam agreed, going around the table to give the aforementioned Father a gigantic hug.
"Stop that!" the Highlander grumbled, though he made no move to shrug off the embrace.
"Pedang Setiawan," Siel returned with her arms full of a large black portfolio she kept in the trunk of her car.
"This," she pulled out a poster and floated it onto the table, "is my very favorite. They have always reminded me of some other fine knights I know. I should have guessed you posed for Bu Jing Wen." Adam's long fingers feathered through the portfolio. "Pedang Setiawan?"
"My Wind and Cloud come from Malaysia," Siel explained.
"And who is the fine, willowy gentleman with the unfortunate eye wounding?" Adam asked, waving a picture of Wind beneath the Highlander's nose.
"Long-Winded," Duncan quipped.
"Here's a picture from the movie," Dr. Grimes pulled another Wind poster from the African Princess' collection.
"Bitty, bitty," Broden crooned, but she was reaching up and petting Adam's nose as she said it. The Elder Immortal just melted and he scooped her up and they went horsie-back rides across the bar to tilt with the rusty drake pipe.
"How did I miss this?" Dawson shook his head and ran his hands through the silver grizzle of his bright mane. "Of course, Mac Cloud--"
"I'm not Cloud," the Scot stated emphatically. "He's gloomy and muscle-bound and humorless."
This was met with an entirely unenthusiastic silence, except for the contingent in the corner, who stopped their play just long enough to laugh out loud.
There followed a long moody bit wherein the Highlander was working so hard at not being Cloud that the resemblance attained perfection. "Frenz," Broden commented, rocking on the old pipe while Adam obeyed her command to play picture show with Siel's collection.
"Yes," Adam agreed, pausing at the picture of Cloud and Wind striding down the road, Cloud's eyes on the ground before him and his dark thoughts dragging him deep inside himself, and Wind, gazing over at Cloud with the wind blowing back his hair and his attention entirely on the dark hero at his side. "Very good friends," he amended.
The next picture, the dragon-arm, took much explaining. Broden was not at all pleased to see Fatherz Armz, even one of them, involved in the dramatic story of how the Evil Lord of Everything zapped off Cloud's arm and it was replaced by the arm of a dragon.
They all clamored to put a nicer light on the grim tale even though Broden was not nearly so upset as the adults seemed to believe. Then they were off on the even grimmer story about how Cloud killed his beloved by accident and how he and Wind parted their friendship over that for a time, how Cloud walked up to the temple with her coffin on his shoulder and fought his way in, never dropping it.
Neither the Highlander nor the child listened to them, though they both watched Adam's exaggerated depiction of how one does swordplay and coffin-carrying, all at once.
Broden snuck up beside the Scot and stroked his left arm. "Hurdt?" she asked solicitously.
"Wasn't me," Duncan did not look at her. For all his protestations to the contrary, he was lost in the exact same inward distraction, that marked Cloud the dark hero. He did not at first feel her tugging up the sleeve of his sweater to find the dragon sleeping on his bicep. He did feel her markedly distorted kiss--mostly teeth--upon his arm.
"Broden!" he barked, immediately collapsing down off his chair to a conciliatory kneeling when he saw he had frightened her. "Come here, Child," he crooned, reaching out his arms, the one clad in erin, the other naked, with erin wrinkles at the top. "I want to show you something." Duncan reached behind him and took a small paring knife off the table. He ran this across his upper left arm.
What Broden's scared squeak lacked in volume was more than made up for by the corporate noise which issued from the adults in the room, a cacophonous outrush of many disgusted syllables.
Instead of running, though, Broden crept closer, watching the blue sparkles of the dragon mend the cut that the dark hero had made in his own arm. When it was done, the arm looked just as it had before. No scar, nothing to mark the wound but a brown scorching on the sweater scrunches just above. When the crackles had stilled, Broden ran over to Adam and started an excited diatribe, spitting an unintelligible gibberish, all the while her tiny hands smoothed her face and then reached out in a beseeching supplication of palms and plaintive sounds which were meant to be words.
Ethel Grimes strolled over and smacked the Scot, hard, on his dragon arm. "After all the trouble I have gone to making her surgery tomorrow seem less frightening. You, Schmuck!"
Joe Dawson joined her, "I'll see that schmuck and raise you one unmitigated bastard."
Duncan MacLeod took the anger like a willing penitent, with only the barest, "I didn't mean--," to parry their blame.
Adam lifted up his peacoat and folded it into a pillow and made a perch atop the old pipe for Broden to nap after her agitated discussion and recent scare. She snuggled into the navy wool and plopped all four fingers of her right hand into her mouth, her adjusted version of sucking her thumb which accommodated the wide space in her unjoined upper lip. The Eldest Immortal waited, stroking her hair, until she was asleep. He made one final adjustment, to slide her gently against the wall so the curve of the old pipe would keep her from falling, and then he went to join his chastised friend, now bowing beneath the all-too-apt assessments of the Princess of the Moon.
"You do yourself no favors, Mr. MacLeod--," Siel was saying.
Oh, brother, Adam thought, almost turning back to go nap with Broden.
"It is a poor pretense you make," Siel continued, " to act as if you had no feeling for the lyric and the magic of all that surrounds us. Surely you do not expect us to believe you are so hardened, so profaned, by even such a long life as you have led. You know where Pooh lives, and that, by itself calls you liar. You know who bought the Milne house. You know Master Wing well enough that he sends you Christmas cards and draws you naked--" she placed her soft, ebon fingers against his pouting lips, "I know, I know. You were verrrrah drunk."
The Highlander's broad shoulders slumped one more inch, and then, like a doused dog, he shook them all off and stood. "Enough!" he barked. "You've had your fun and if you want to live in childish dreams, go on then, but some of us have to kill for our living, and we don't have the luxury of, of--playing like fools. We only have use for The Truth."
"Easy, easy," Adam scurried after the Highlander's ground-swallowing stride.
Duncan spun round so rapidly, that Adam slapped into him, his lank arms gone all akimbo as he staggered back.
"Stop it!" MacLeod glowered at his paramour. He slapped away the offered hug. "I'm not your father. I'm not anyone's father, and YOU--" his powerful fist unwound its index finger so suddenly that it seemed he shot at, rather than pointed at, the Eldest Immortal, "--are no one's idea of a son!
"And I've come to the end of my patience," he finished.
Which was an ironic statement in the extreme, for any number of reasons. First, because Adam's inrolled lips and floor-wandering gaze, made him look, with the long bangs, all of about four years old--and on the point of blubbering at that. Second, because Duncan had twisted suddenly, mid-tirade, into a reciprocal stance of protective concern, no matter what he said. His dark tones had found themselves softening, word-to-word, proclaiming the very patience he denied.
"Why don't you go get Joe's gift," the Highlander suggested in the tender tones of a dear friend, a very good friend, or even a father. His broad fingers curled beneath Adam's chin and lifted his head, the rough thumb reaching around to wipe the edge of his eye. Then, despite himself, Duncan leaned forward and pressed his lips against Adam's forehead. "I am anything you wish," he told the Eldest Immortal, in a voice quiet as death.
The others meant to pretend they had not heard, but Ethel couldn't quite stifle a sniff.
"Well," Adam said expansively, "Yes, the gift, of course. Do you want to announce--no, I'll get it." He bounced off towards the door where they had left their luggage and retrieved a large paper bag. "We didn't have time to wrap, and airport security would have made us unwrap, and, well--here--" Adam thrust the bag onto the table in front of the Watcher. "Because you gave us your own dear Teds, who has seen us through several childhoods and many more, we hope," he glanced shyly up at the Scot who was standing a little back, in the shadows, with his arms crossed, scanning the room, like a tower guard.
"We hope," the Eldest Immortal pushed the bag closer to Joe, "that this shows our gratitude, and to show--" Yards and yards of Immortal arms wrapped around Dawson, "--and because we love you, Unka Joe."
Joe tucked his grey beard down on his chest and Ethel handed him back his hankie. "I don't know what to say, Buddy. You really didn't have to--." He had begun to open the sack and he tilted it to peek inside. After that, there wasn't anything else he could say but, "Oh," and "Oh, my," and "This isn't--?" followed at last by an, "Oh, My God! It is!"
"You kidnapped Pooh?" Ethel's grey eyes widened to their limits.
"He prefers to think of it as liberated," Duncan voice floated back from the bandstand where he was checking underneath for something.
"That's what you were doing at Donnel Library!" Watcher Dawson held Pooh out in front of him a moment and then cradled him close. "Oh, I can't keep him."
"Well you can't give him back, Uncle," Adam stared over at the Highlander who seemed to be checking the room out for bugs--and not in the sense of the Health Department.
"And that would be because--?" the Watcher stroked the large, very old, bear ear.
"They couldn't have him missing," Adam leaned in and whispered, "You know, not with that awful thing that happened down the way. They have a few stand-in bears of similar appearance who visit the other libraries sometimes, and they simply promoted one of those."
Siel reached over and shook hands solemnly with The Pooh. "How do you know this bear isn't one of those?"
"Siel!" Adam admonished the Princess.
But the Eldest Immortal found himself suddenly the focus of four sets of eyes--waiting.
"Because Master Eduard would never lie to me," Adam Piersen, former Watcher, and current nutcake, said with such dignity they almost didn't ask for further proof.
Almost.
"Well, if he isn't," MacLeod answered when it became clear Adam wasn't interested in giving over with any more substantial authentication. "Then we cracked a very stubborn vault for nothing."
"You didn't take the one behind the glass?" Ethel asked. "With Eeyore and Piglet?"
"Would have done," Duncan answered, "but it wasn't Himself, was it."
Dr. Grimes remarked, "Funny how you know so much about the verification of childish, foolish things. Doesn't sound like the proper education for a warrior chieftan."
"About as much sense as Seacouver's leading pediatric neuropsychologist spending time at a kiddie library," MacLeod answered her.
"Believe me," Granny grinned, "I've been in many stranger places, Angel."
Her invocation of the name of Duncan's brain-wounded counterpart effectively ended the argument.
"You will tell Broden how sorry I am," the Highlander was immediately reminded of all the tenets of his gentler virtues. "I did not mean to frighten her."
"Well you did," Adam said imperiously, "but I think she was more sad for you than afraid."
"For me?" the Scot lowered his large frame onto a chair across from the Watcher who was entirely preoccupied with talking to Pooh. "Sad? For me?"
"She said she was sorry you couldn't be changed," Adam scooted another chair up to the table and straddled it backwards. "She will be cut tomorrow, and then she will be better. You, on the other hand, could be cut from now until next week and never be any different. Broden thought that was very sad."
MacLeod chose not to answer, though it was clear he heard what Broden--or Adam--was saying. He refrained from making a similar commentary on Adam's own immutability, stopped himself from once again proclaiming that all this pretending wasn't getting either one of them anywhere. He had told the Eldest Immortal he would be anything.
Now, he would try to be silent.
"Well," Dr. Grimes patted Pooh and kissed Joe on the crown of his grey waves. "I think it's time Broden and I go home and get some rest. Big day tomorrow. Broden, Honey," she called out as she traipsed across the bar to retrieve her little patient.
Broden stirred in her perch atop the pipe.
"We have to go now, Honey," Ethel reached for the child.
"No," Broden pouted.
"It would be lovely to stay we these fine folk, but--" she reached again, but Broden pushed her hands away.
"Ahrmz," the strange child said, "Fatherz Ahrmz." Her tiny hands lifted towards the Highlander.
"All right," Duncan rose and started towards the pipe. "You go warm up the car, Dr. Grimes, and I'll do the honors."
Joe Dawson levered up onto his canes to walk Granny and Siel to the door which Adam held for them.
And that was why the four of them were almost out of harm's way when the bomb that had lain in the belly of the dragon pipe all this time finally detonated and blew them out into the alley.
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Tin Ha Comics is a product of Ma Wing Shing from Jonesky Limited.The characters/images/text from various Winnie-the-Pooh books are copyright by one or more of the following: Dutton Children's Books, Disney, and Trustees of the Pooh Properties. The original characters were created/illustrated by A. A. Milne and Ernest H. Shepard. This site is not connected to, or endorsed by Dutton Children's Books, Disney, or Trustees of the Pooh Properties. This is a not-for-profit parody of these works.
