An Evening at Joe's (31 page)

The knight spurred his horse forward and his words filled the stadium with deep, malicious intent. "Your time is now because I say it is now. It is written and so it must be!" He dug his spurs into the horse's flank and with sword aloft and a terrible cry they charged. He clenched his fists and trembled as the bile rose in his throat. A wave of emotion was erupting within him and as he looked at the hand that had held the hour-glass he saw it was now grasping a flaming sword. The knight was about seventy yards away and covering the ground quickly. His breath came short and fast and a spasm of wrath convulsed his body. He started to run towards the knight, and from his very entrails there came a defiant cry, as if all his pain and frustration and ire had built up behind a huge dam wall which had now begun to crumble and the flood had been unleashed. The two protagonists were twenty yards apart and as he saw the knight bearing his considerable bulk down upon him he heard him laugh the deep mocking laugh he had heard before and it infuriated him. He gripped the hilt of his fiery sword and raised it above his head and as he made to cut at the knight who was almost upon him he closed his eyes against the expected impact.

The next thing he knew he was lying face down on the arena floor and the hourglass was lying next to him. He lay there for a few seconds listening for the sound of hoof beats but all was silent. The rain had stopped and the wind had died and the quick-silver light that bathed the sand about him was testimony that the moon had won its celestial battle and the stars had prevailed. He lifted his head and looked about him but there was no sign of the knight. He was not alone, however. The tramp seemed to have fallen asleep under a counterpane of newspaper and on the other side of the arena, about a hundred yards away, a figure sat at a table illuminated by a small desk lamp.

He got up and walked over and as he approached he saw a little man dressed like a Victorian clerk in black frock coat, high, celluloid collar and black tie. He was bald and a few fugitive strands of grey hair had been carefully plastered across the papery skin that was stretched tightly across his skull. The man was writing with a quill pen in a huge ledger and was muttering to himself. "Oh dear, this will never do! No, no, no! It will all have to be re-written now!"

The little man didn't seem to have noticed him so he coughed. The man didn't look up but waved a hand generally in his direction and said rather curtly, "Wait there. I shall see you in a moment." His patience, however, had run out long ago. He walked up to the desk, snatched the pen from his hand and placed it rather deliberately on the inkstand in front of him.

"You will see me now."

"Really!" The little man looked appalled and the pince-nez fell from the bridge of his nose and clattered on the table as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really, this is quite irregular, you know. What do you want? I am very busy, and mustn't fall behind."

Before the little man could do anything he had snatched the ledger from the table. The pages were vertically divided into three columns each one of which was topped by a heading. The first was "Full Term"; the second was entitled, "Needs Encouragement"; and the third column, in which he found his own name neatly written in an old-fashioned hand, fell under the label N.W.T.L.—(In quiet periods file early).

"I must insist that you return that this instant... you people are not supposed to... I mean..." He'd obviously begun to say something he shouldn't and he was trying not to show it. "Just give that back, there's a good chap, and we'll say no more about it."

"What does this mean"—he said, pointing to the ledger—"In quiet periods file early. What does that mean and why is my name there?"

The little man had begun to look decidedly shifty and tried to avoid his gaze by tidying his desk. "You wouldn't understand. These are technical terms... it's just a stocktaking record, that's all."

"I asked you why my name is there. Come on... " He turned the book over and saw that the spine had some words printed in gold letters. "Inventory of Cancellations—1998." Turning back to the clerk he tried very hard to keep his temper under check as he said, "What does this refer to then? Hm? What sort of stock do you deal in?" The little man was hesitating. "Did you hear what I said, bloody well answer the question or... or... or I'll rip this book up! And don't think I wouldn't!"

The clerk jumped to his feet and having pulled a large, rather grubby handkerchief from his coat pocket he started to wipe the palms of his hands. "Very well! Very well, please, just put the book down and I'll tell you. Please!"

"You tell me and I'll put the book down. I like that arrangement better."

The little man appeared quite frightened and looked nervously from side to side and then behind him before he said very quietly, "It records all deaths for the year 1998. There's a book for each year and everyone who dies anywhere in the world is recorded in it."

"In that case," he fumed, "what is my name doing there? And what do those letters mean?"

The clerk rubbed the beads of sweat from his forehead and wiped his palms again. "Oh dear! Oh dear, dear me! Well, you see, they stand for 'No Will To Live' and when we're in a bit of a slack period we're encouraged to make good use of the spare time. So those people who are, shall we say, 'borderline' are... well..." He evidently didn't want to say any more and just stood there blinking.

"Are what? Don't just stand there shaking, I want answers and I'm not leaving without them!"

"Well, you see... oh dear! This is all very unfortunate.... Those who are borderline are... canceled. There... you have it! And I'm afraid you won't be leaving, oh no, no, no, that wouldn't do at all... your name, it's in the book."

He was staring at the little man very intently and breathing heavily as his mind raced. This couldn't be right... he'd fought for his right to live, he'd shown a will to live, he thirsted for the right to continue his life. There seemed to be no way out until he remembered what the tramp had said. "Aha!" he exclaimed as it began to dawn upon him, "Aha! I've got it!"

The little man started to look quite concerned and was looking for an escape route just in case he might need it.

"Where is the Devil, little man? Come on, everyone likes a little riddle now and again! Where is the Devil? Hm?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at..."

Triumphantly he brought his fist down on the face of the book and whispered, "It's in the detail! Ha! Get it? It's in the detail!" With a great flourish he opened the book and furiously flipped page after page as the clerk looked as if he was about to be very ill indeed. "Take a look... go on, take a look. Ah, ah, ah! No touching. That's near enough. See? All the other names are in ink. Mine is in pencil! Why is that? Hm? This arrangement doesn't seem to be entirely above board, if you ask me. If some people are sick of life that's up to them. But I've changed my mind! I want to live. I like life! D0 you hear me? So let's see how we can rectify this clerical error, shall we?

"Ah! there we are." He'd picked up a rubber from the desk and he started to erase his name from the record.

The little man's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he began to splutter, "You can't do that... you have no authority! I... I... I..."

"And before you think of putting me through all this palaver again take a good look at this." He held up the hourglass and thrust it in front of the clerk's eyes. "Put your glasses on because I want you to see this clearly. There... you know what this is, don't you? Of course you do. Now look at the top globe very carefully, that's right... notice anything in particular?"

The man wiped his hands again and wore a resigned expression on his face as he sighed, "It's not empty... it's still about a third full."

"That's right," he said, "and that, my little bookish friend, is my authority. Now pick up your ledger, and your pens and leave. Now! And tell whoever sent you that if he wants me he can bloody well come in person next time!"

The clerk cut a forlorn figure as he gathered up his bits and pieces and started to walk down one of the entrances that led down to the chambers below. Even after he had disappeared from view the echoes of his receding voice could still be heard coming from below. "They'll take a very dim view of this... oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear me!... Mind you, strictly speaking, he had a point."

He'd found the tramp under a heap of newspapers and snoring loudly. He hadn't wanted to wake him hut he was exhausted with everything that had gone before and impatient to return. "Excuse me... hello?" He reached down and gently nudged where he thought his shoulder should be. At first there was no reaction and then suddenly he heard an enormous snorting inhalation and then nothing for several seconds. Just as he was about to nudge him again the newspapers erupted and the tramp sat bolt upright. "Aaaagh!" He shook his head and looked all about before he saw him standing there. "Aha! So, you made it... thought you would! Are you ready for the off?"

"Er, yes... I thought you probably would be wanting this back and I just wanted to thank you..."

The tramp accepted the proffered hourglass and started to wrap it carefully in the newspapers that had covered him. "No need for thanks, laddie, just doing my job."

He stood there watching him wrap the hourglass for several seconds and finally the tramp stopped and looked up. "Was there anything else? I thought you'd be keen to get back."

"I have to know... who are you?"

He looked at him with a curious smile before he said, "I'm your defining moment, laddie. I am who I am but I'm not what I seem. I'm a putter right of things turned bad and I specialise in lost causes. Now, I don't mean to be rude, but hadn't you better be going?"

"Am I allowed to shake your hand?"

The tramp smiled broadly. "You better had or I'll take it as a slight, my lad."

He clasped the hand strongly and found words difficult. The hand was warm, and strong, and he felt an energy pass through it which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Alright, laddie, off you go before we both make fools of ourselves."

He turned to go and after walking up the first few steps he turned and said, "Will I see you again?"

The tramp smiled and tapped the side of his nose with a significant wink. Then he drew himself to his full height and gave him an extravagant thumbs-up.

He turned and started to climb and as he looked up the light of the moon beckoned him on. After a few steps he had a thought which made him smile. "Better feed the cat."

Below him the tramp was checking his reflection in his mirror and running his fingers through his long grey hair.

In memory of my great friend Jacques Leon Salvignol.

Death Shall Have

No Dominion

by F. Braun McAsh

SWORDMASTER: F. Braun McAsh

F. Braun McAsh became the Swordmaster for Highlander: The Series at the beginning of season 3. He brought to the job an encyclopedic knowledge of fighting styles, adding to the repertoire of Duncan MacLeod and his opponents. As Swordmaster; he was responsible for creating the choreography of each swordfight (sometimes as many as four or five in an episode!), training guest actors, and choosing or designing the swords for each Immortal appearing on his watch.

An accomplished actor as well, F. Braun appeared in three on- screen roles during his tenure on the series (not counting the occasions on which he "doubled" for guest stars in sword fights): a homeless man in "Blind Faith," an innkeeper in "Through a Glass Darkly," and finally, the role of Lord Byron's cuckolded rival Immortal, Hans Kerschner, in "The Modern Prometheus."

Of his contribution here, Braun writes: "They say, 'Write about what you know.' When Gillian approached me to write this piece, I had already been kicking around an idea for a Highlander script based on the historical Dracula, and, having also played him on stage, I had done a lot of research on the subject. The challenge was to take actual history and, without changing it, fill in the blanks and grey areas with my fiction. So roughly 75 to 80 percent of this story is fact. You figure out what's not.