HAMLET'S GHOST - PART ONE

BY JINXED WOOD

"…What the? Mud, I'm wallowing in mud… how… why…"

Oxygen seared through his lungs as he gasped for air, his heart springing to life in a furious flurry of activity as it tried to pump life back into what had been, a few moments ago, a dead body. Nausea overwhelmed him as he curled up into a ball; the familiar sensation of pins and needles coursing through his limbs as his body slowly regained its circulation. He fought to hold onto consciousness, as he tasted the disturbingly familiar metallic flavour of his blood in his mouth. For a few scary seconds he found himself wondering what century it was before he finally came back to his senses and he slowly became aware of the steady driving rain that drenched his face.

"Well, that explains the mud I suppose."

Giggling helplessly as he lay splayed in the dirt, he didn't bother to move as he listened to the soothing pitter-patter of the falling rain. His body screamed with exhaustion as he tried vainly to gather his thoughts. Forcing his mind into the here and now, he squinted his eyes, peering through the rain in the hope of seeing something, anything, that would jog his memory.

Terror bubbled up through his exhausted body, dissipating the cobwebs in his mind as he slowly came to the realisation that he had no idea where he was. He scrambled quickly up on his elbows and glanced down at his clothes. With a sinking heart, he examined what was left of his sweater, even through all the mud he could clearly make out all the blood splatters. Ye Gods what a mess, somebody had definitely torn into him pretty badly. His sweater had been slashed more than once, leaving great big gaping holes in what used to be his second favourite sweater.

Gulping nervously, he tried to figure out what the hell had happened to him. That queasy feeling of impending doom that he was way too familiar with of late began to grow, this was not good, not good at all. Groping through his memory for answers, he still couldn't figure out how he ended up face down in the mud yet still managed to keep his head attached.

"Blood and mud… muddy blood… Ah well, another piece of knitwear bites the dust."

Cursing under his breath, he quickly scanned the surrounding terrain. He had awoken in some kind of clearing surrounded by what was obviously a piece of virgin territory. He was nowhere near Paris that was for certain; old forests like this one had been cut down centuries ago in France. He eyed the sturdy old oaks swaying in the rain and the dense, wild underbrush that encroached on the muddy clearing. He had definitely off the beaten track that was for sure; this was not an area that saw many nature walks.

"Yes Dorothy, I guess we aren't in Kansas anymore."

It was then that his eyes eventually rested on what he had known all along he would find - a head. There it was, nestled snugly among the soggy leaves, not a care in the world, its open eyes staring sightlessly back at him. He irritably wondered how the head managed to avoid getting mud on its face in the midst of all this sludge; there was no justice in the world these days.

"A head… a head… I thought I saw a head… you're losing it old man, you'll be winging it away with Tweetie bird if you don't get a grip on yourself."

Leaning forward to get a better look, he searched its features and waited for the penny to drop. Nothing happened, nada, no stirring of recognition whatsoever. It was the face of a complete stranger. He closed his eyes and willed himself to feel some kind of relief.

"Well isn't this a plus, we didn't actually kill any old lovers or long lost friends today, this is just looking better and better. Oh yes, I'm just sitting here feeling the sunshine, not a care in the world… dum di dum… di… dum… nope, I still don't feel any better."

Shaking his head in defeat, he pushed aside his growing feeling of unease. With a wry smile, he reminded himself that he hadn't felt guilt since the eleventh century, great one liner that, pity it wasn't true. Staggering to his feet he felt for the familiar weight that meant he was armed and therefore, in theory, safe. Oh shit, where was it? Where did he leave his… a dull gleam caught the corner of his eye and his eyes brightened in relief.

"Ah, there you are, come to Papa."

Tugging gently at the hilt, he tried to pry his Ivanhoe loose from it's muddy grave without damaging the blade. Suddenly, with a great slurping gulp the mud reluctantly loosened its hold. He staggered back, grinning in delight at his small victory. His sense of triumph quickly evaporated though as he noticed his weapon's dilapidated state.

"Damn it, it's going to take me an age to clean it. Why couldn't he have picked a nice sunny day when the ground was nice and dry. While he was at it, why didn't he pick somewhere a lot nearer civilisation… or more to the point, why didn't I pick somewhere a lot nearer civilisation, what the hell was I doing out here - having a picnic?"

Sliding his muddy blade into his even muddier overcoat, it suddenly occurred to him that though he had had a good look at the head, the rest of his supposed challenger was nowhere to be seen. Cursing softly, he started scouring the surrounding underbrush but came up empty, no body and no sword. Wracking his brains, no easy answer came to mind; he was still at a complete loss as to how he had ended up here. His memory, fickle at the best of times, had apparently decided to take a brief vacation, probably had run off to Bora Bora, bright little brain cells. He wasn't sure how much time he had lost but hopefully it wasn't too much, he hadn't had any significant memory loss for… for…. Well, a very long time anyway, over a millennium at least. It had been a small mercy that he had been grateful for but it seemed that the honeymoon period was over.

"Hello, my name is Methos and I'm over 5,000 years old. I may or may not know the secrets of mankind but I couldn't tell you either way because I also suffer from recurring bouts of amnesia that sometimes span entire centuries. But don't worry; I keep a journal so that if the worst comes to the worst I can look my own name up. Yes Joe, now you know the horrible truth, my journals are not for posterity's sake as you may have thought, but to make sure that I don't forget where I live."

 A brief smile flitted across his face as he imagined the look on Joe's face as he explained the true purpose of his journals, it might just be worth the endless explanations in order to witness it in reality. But first things first, Joe's reaction to the true state of his mental health would have to wait. Uneasily he tried to figure out the most likely reason for current dilemma. Somehow he didn't think that he had just been tripping through the woods minding his own business when suddenly he just happened to stumble across a spare head. Why on earth had he been stumbling around in the wilderness anyway? Had he been following his challenger or had it been the other way around, it didn't seem likely that they just happened to bump into each other while wandering merrily through the forest one day.

He wandered back into the centre of the clearing and took a second look at the offending item. It was a young face, the skin still had the smoothness of early adulthood and his cheeks were still filled out with puppy fat. He must have been barely old enough to shave when he had met his first death. The fair hair and the strangely peaceful expression on the dead man's pale face gave the head an almost angelic air, though he of all people knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Sighing yet again he looked up at the sky, he figured that it wasn't much past midday but it would probably grow dark early because of the dense cloud cover. Searching the undergrowth for clues he realised that things weren't as bad as he feared. The flora was comfortingly familiar which meant he was still in Europe, he hadn't actually hopped continents. An Idea suddenly occurred to him and he quickly searched his pockets, his wallet was still there bit his mobile phone was nowhere to be found, well, that was one idea scrapped. He stood in the clearing and gazed at his surroundings. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong with this picture - and strangely enough it wasn't the bodiless head. Tilting his head, his eyes catalogued everything that was growing in and around the clearing. It really was a very unspoiled piece of wilderness; one could almost believe you were back in the days before the industrial revolution. Then, like a thunderbolt, it hit him.

"Of course, how could I be such an idiot… it's so obvious."

It was too perfect, too unspoiled, where was the scorch marks, the broken boughs? Even the weakest of quickenings would have left some damage. Swallowing weakly, he once again found himself staring at his nemesis, heads don't just pop out of thin air. Somebody must have dumped it here, why would they do that? If this was a set up, it was a remarkably elaborate one. He racked his brain for a feasible explanation, how would a scenario like this work to an enemy's advantage.

Yet another nasty thought sprang to mind, how could he be sure that the head belonged to an immortal? He eyed the head nervously. It would explain the lack of quickening marks, but why on earth would he kill a mortal?  It still didn't explain the missing body. Checking the holster on his leg, he smiled in relief to see his gun was still there. Decapitations were messy and raised too many questions; if he had killed a mortal, he would have used a bullet, not his sword. Of course, that brought him back full circle. Could this be some kind of elaborate set up? Gods…. He really could do with a beer right now.

Rubbing his temples in frustration, he tried to make sense of the mess but his brain wasn't cooperating. All he knew was that he really needed to get a move on. No matter what way the cookie crumbled it definitely wasn't a good idea to hang around any longer than he had to. But what about the head? Should he just leave it there and hope for the best or bring it with him. Eventually he decided on a compromise, he would take the head and bury it somewhere away from the clearing so that he could retrieve it later. With that decided he leaned down and grabbed the head by the hair. It wasn't as if he had a choice, he didn't exactly have a spare plastic bag lying around. Fear warred with anger as he traipsed through the thick undergrowth. The dense trees blocked what little light there was and instead of the tree cover protecting him from the worst of the rain, it only served to make the downpour even more irritating as heavily laden branches drenched his face and poured down his back as he brushed past.

Railing against nature, he trundled on. He had never liked the rain… give him a desert any day. To make matters worse, he didn't have a clue about where the nearest piece of civilisation was- he was just going to have to wing it and find some running water. If in doubt follow the river, it was sound advice 5,000 years ago and some things never changed: where there is water, there are inevitably people. Vaguely he wondered if he should make more of an effort to move silently but shrugged the thought away. He was cold and wet and the noise of the downpour more than adequately covered any indiscreet sounds that he may be making. Besides, if there was an immortal about Methos would sense his presence long before he became a threat, and a mortal wouldn't stand a chance of sneaking up on him.

He may not be too fond of nature but when the chips were down, he'd bet that a man born into a tribe of bronze-age hunters could leave even the woodsiest mortal running around in circles. Nothing like a lifetime or two of picking berries to hone one's wilderness skills. With a wry grin, he wondered what the Boy Scout would think of that little piece of information; he'd lay odds that both he and Joe thought that he was born in some cradle of civilisation. It didn't seem to occur to them that he might be of less exalted origins.

Dusk was already falling when Methos eventually stumbled across a stream, it wasn't much but he decided to follow it anyway, hoping that it would lead to a river. Three hours later he hit pay dirt as the stream poured into a larger waterway, by this time the rain had eased off and the night sky was beginning to peek through the cloud cover. Methos began to sing tunelessly under his breath, his mood lifting as he picked his way along the bank.

"As I went into the woods one day… dum… de… dum… de… dum…"

A sharp crack broke the still night air and Methos froze mid step, hitting the ground a split second later as he realised he may have company. That's what you get for dropping your guard, maybe he should have added a song and dance routine too! The sound of hushed voices emanated from the woods and he crouched down as a flashlight blinked on, its beam directed at the riverbank.

"How many were they, two, more than two?"

He didn't think for a moment that they could be friendly, good guys didn't skulk in the woods in the middle of the night, unless they were him of course! Best-case scenario was that that they were poachers, which meant they were probably armed and nervous; the alternative was that they were another kind of hunter which meant that they were just plain armed and dangerous.

A whispered conversation was held in the trees and a moment later the flashlight blinked off again, straining his ears he heard an unfamiliar voice hissing in French.

"But I heard something I tell you, it could be him…"

"Stow it Rene, there was nothing there. Now move it, we have schedule to keep."

The second voice seemed to have an American accent, Midwestern if he had to hazard a guess. The voices drifted off into the distance and Methos found himself in a quandary: should he follow the voice of the two mortals or continue following the river. After a short inner debate, he decided to keep following the riverbank. Truth be told, he felt a bit wary of about embroiling himself in a possible conflict without knowing all the facts. Wearily, he picked himself up from the ground and proceeded to creep along the river.

The night was beginning to get old when an exhausted Methos eventually spotted a bridge. Warily he scanned the hinterland for any sign of somebody lurking in the bushes. When he was satisfied that nobody was going to jump out at him he slowly stepped onto the roadway - only to duck off it again as soon as he realised he was still carrying the damned head. Cursing furiously, he scraped a hole in the dirt with his dagger and unceremoniously dumped the head inside. Marking the spot with a stone, he ran back into the bridge again and knelt down to kiss the tarmac with aplomb. Smiling happily, he rose from his knees and proceeded to stroll down the road towards what he hoped was some form of civilisation.

The sky was beginning to pale with the pre-dawn light when he spotted the glimmer of artificial light in the distance. Taking a deep breath, he started up the dirt track toward the farmhouse about a half-mile off the road. Day had truly broken by the time he found himself in the farmyard; chickens roamed free around his legs and he nervously noted the sound of some very angry geese. Vicious little buggers they were, probably penned up because of the hens.

It was the slow creak that alerted him to the door. The first thing he noticed was the double-barrelled shotgun; the next thing was the determined glint in her eyes and the firm line of her mouth. She was seventy if she was a day but he was old enough himself to know that this was one lady who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. Damn, why did he always have to bump into the smart ones? Just once, he'd like to meet one of those nice little old ladies who knitted. He'd never actually met one, but he had it on good authority that they existed.

"Chickens got your tongue, boy?"

It took a few moments for the words to sink in and a few more for the language to register.

"Bulgarian! How the hell?"

Well that explains the forest. He must be somewhere in the Balkan ranges.

"Well what do you know, home sweet home. Well, give or take a few millennia anyway"

"Well, boy, have you anything to say for yourself?"

Beady suspicious eyes glared at him over the barrel of the gun; there was no way she would miss at this range and she definitely looked like the meticulous type. Chances were he'd wake up to find her with a shovel in her hand as she dug his grave. No, death was not an option. Putting on his best wide-eyed little boy lost look he decided to tell her the truth. Well, sort of.

"Not much, really. Last thing I remember, I was in a club with a few friends in Paris. Next thing I knew, I had woken up in a forest. I didn't even know what country I was in until you spoke."

Well that knocked her for six!  He could see her eyes widen as she digested what he said but they hardened just as quickly as he tightened her hold on the shotgun.

"Mighty handy that you happen to speak Bulgarian then!" she retorted.

The sarcasm in her voice was not lost to him as she widened her stance, raising the gun to aim.

"Damn! How the hell do I get out of this one…"

"It's what I do for a living, languages I mean, I'm a linguist at the Sorbonne."

The lie tripped easily off his tongue but she wasn't having any of it. He took in her appearance; she looked Slavic on the whole but… He switched languages.

"I also speak Turkish."

Bingo! He watched with satisfaction as her jaw dropped; he thought he saw a touch of the Tartar around her eyes, probably a grandparent. Not wanting to push his luck, he waited for her to speak first. Her head tilted to the side as her shrewd eyes took his measure, relief flooded through his bones as he noticed that her hold on the trigger relaxed slightly.

"So what brings you to my door?"

"It was the first door that I found," he answered truthfully, venturing a little smile.

"Somehow, I have the feeling that that was the first honest reply I've got from you."

Suddenly he didn't feel so relieved anymore.

"Relax, boy, I'm not going to kill you. Not yet anyway." A sly grin spread across her face as she lowered the barrel of her shotgun. "If you're looking for a phone you're fresh out of luck, can't afford to keep one."

"Directions and a bite to eat will do just fine." He looked at her with his best "eager" expression plastered across his face. If she invited him to her table chances are that she wouldn't kill him, Bulgarians are funny that way.

"You forgot about a change of clothes." She gestured at the bloodied remains of his sweater. .

Damn, he'd forgotten about that, no wonder she held a gun on him.

"Yeah, that too."

"Well, come in then, I've got some leftovers on the range "With that, she retreated back into the house, leaving the door open in invitation. After a moment of trepidation, he followed her inside.

The door led straight into the kitchen, the heart of any good farmhouse. A huge table dominated the room and an old-fashioned solid fuel range was giving off heat from the left wall, although he noted that she also had a more modern gas cooker by the sink on the right. Photographs of smiling faces dotted the white walls and a couple of herb plants graced the windowsill on the far wall. She gestured imperiously to a chair at the table as she busied herself with a pot that stood on the edge of the range.

A few minutes later, he was sitting in front of a rather large bowl of stew. "Do you want some bread with that?" A silent nod produced a loaf of rye with some cheese and butter. A few moments later a battered old teapot joined him at the table and after producing some milk and sugar she sat with him at the table to have her cup of tea. .

"There's plenty more in the pot if you want a cup."

Gesturing at the draining cups by the sink, she leaned back in her chair to have her tea, the shotgun propped against the table beside her. Snagging a cup from the draining board, he poured himself a cup of very black tea; it obviously had been standing on the range since he got up. She peered at him over the rim of her cup as she produced a pouch of tobacco from her pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette: the anti-smoking lobby had obviously not made any inroads into this household. He smirked as he imagined some well-meaning doctor trying to convince this old biddy to quit.

"Want one"

He hesitated, it wasn't as if he had to worry about his health but he had given up smoking as soon as people in western society began to look upon it as a bad habit. Any sort of attention was bad attention as far as he was concerned, so there went his cigarettes. Her shrewd eyes pinned him to the chair as he continued his inner debate. Oh what the hell, when in Rome…

"Yes, please."

She pushed the pouch across the table with a knowing look and produced an ashtray before she took a box of matches from that cavernous pocket of hers. They smoked in companionable silence as she finished her tea; the only sound the slow ticking of the wall clock.

"I've got the hot tank on, you can clean yourself up while I find something you can wear, then you and I are going to have a little talk."

Pushing her chair back from the table, she led him to the bathroom upstairs.

"My tank isn't very big, so you'll have to be sparing with the hot water," she warned as the mounted the stairs.

He gave her a nod and with a grunt she left him to his bath. Ten minutes later, he was relatively clean and feeling much better about life in general, He was busy debating whether it was a good time to clean his sword when a loud knock interrupted his reverie.

"Clothes outside the door!''

He opened the door a crack and found a neat pile of clothing leaning up against it. A quick perusal of the items in question produced some dubious results. The original owner had obviously been a large man with a broad build, though he was about Methos's height. Using a belt, he hitched the trousers up and tucked in the shirt. Speaking of which, he really should ask her what her name was; somehow he didn't think the phrase ''old biddy'' would go down too well. While he was at it, he might as well bite the bullet and ask her the date. He quickly threw on the rest of the clothes and reattached the holsters for his dagger and gun. It was a good thing that she hadn't decided to frisk him. He didn't relish the idea of explaining why a ''university researcher'' was so well armed. After examining his overcoat, he decided it would have to do. There was no way he'd be able to hide his sword under the shirt. After wiping the worst of the mud and gore off he draped it over his arm and made his way down to the kitchen.

She sat on a chair by the range, the shotgun across her lap. Apparently she wasn't that convinced he was harmless. As he sat on the chair she pointed at, he noted that it was the one situated furthest away from her. This was going to be a serious conversation, then.

''My name is Kira Pendarova, perhaps you'd like to tell me yours.''

''Adam Pierson at your service.''

''Well Mr Pierson, perhaps you could tell me the whole story now that we're comfortable.''

''Oh yeah, I'm screwed, Tweetie here I come…''

''I don't know what you mean…''

''Cut the horse manure Mr Pierson, you arrived on my doorstep covered in blood. Your clothes are more hole than fabric, and you truly expect me to believe that it's all a blank?''

''Typical, the one unholy truth I was able to tell her and she thinks it's a lie.''

''I swear to you Madame Pendarova, it's the God's honest truth.''

For a brief moment, Methos wondered if the whole ''madam'' thing was going a bit too far and with a sinking heart he had his suspicions verified as he watched her head tilt to the side. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as they gave him the once over, he'd already become familiar with that expression on her face, it loosely translated as ''this young upstart has it coming''

''Yep, seems that the ''madam'' thing was laying it on a bit thick after all''

''Listen, if you don't believe me you can call the club, the owner is a friend of mine…''

''Yeah sure, she could do that, if she actually had a phone, you idiot. Get with the program, old man. There has to be some way I can convince her not to blow my brains out.''

''Madam'' Pendarova made herself comfortable in her chair as she wrapped her finger around the trigger, she wasn't exactly aiming it at him yet but the raised eyebrow told him that she was definitely contemplating it.

"Perhaps I should start with an easier question. Why are you carrying around that trench coat with you as if it is something precious? I hate to tell you this but no amount of mending is going to fix it. ''

''Well, speaking of attachments, you seem pretty cosy with that shotgun of yours.''

The silence that greeted that statement was deafening.

''Oh dear Gods, please tell me I didn't just equate my trench coat with her shotgun, what the Hades is wrong with me?''

Sheepishly he slouched in his chair as he waited for her to connect the dots, it didn't take too long.

''Let me tell you what you are going to do, Mister Pierson. You are going to slowly stand up from your chair and then you are going to ever so gently lay your coat on the table.''

The gun cocked as she rested its butt against her shoulder.

''All the better to blow your brains out with, m'dear.''

Laying his coat on the table with slow care, Methos quietly retreated to his chair, praying silently to whatever Gods were listening that she didn't take it into her mind to frisk him. A sword was hard enough to explain; he couldn't even start to imagine explaining a gun with a silencer attached, not to mention the dagger. Oh yeah, here be dragons.

"So tell me, Mr Pierson, are you actually going to tell me what you have hidden in the folds of your coat or am I going to have to peek for myself?''

This old lady was way too sharp for her own good. Slouching back in his seat, Methos ran a hand through his still-damp hair as he decided to bite the bullet (though not literally, he hoped).

''Various forms of weaponry, I'm afraid.'' The silence that greeted this statement was so deafening that it seemed to take on a life of its own. Methos plunged on. ''A double-edged broadsword, to be more exact.''

It was then that she did what he least expected her to do: she burst out laughing. The poor woman practically doubled over as tears of mirth poured down her cheeks. This had not exactly been the reaction he had been expecting but he wasn't about to start complaining; it was a welcome change to a bullet in the head.

''Madam… Madam… Are you okay?'' he asked cautiously as he leaned forward in the chair.

The old lady stood abruptly, waving her shotgun in his general direction as she strove to regain her breath. Methos leaned back in his chair as his eyes warily followed the barrel of the gun. This was definitely not good for his nerves. Pulling the coat to her, she felt in its folds until her hands found the sword. Dragging it halfway out of its scabbard she fixed Methos with a suddenly very serious stare.

''This is a very workmanlike piece of steel you have here, Mr Pierson. I assume that you know how to use it, and that it is not some unlikely form of fashion statement?"

Methos answered her enquiry with a short affirmative nod. With a sigh, she slipped the sword back into its scabbard and sat back down. Methos studied the changing expressions on her face as she struggled inwardly with the situation. Eventually she raised her eyes to meet his, taking her finger off the trigger and placing the shotgun on the table beside his coat.

''I think I'm going to need something stronger than tea before I hear this, Mr Pierson. Care to join me?"

Making her way over to the fridge, she grabbed a whiskey bottle off the top of it and returned to the table, unscrewing the cap as she looked enquiringly at her ''guest''. With a nod, Methos pulled his chair to the table and pushed his teacup towards her, it wasn't a beer but it was close enough. There were a few moments of comradely quiet as she reinforced their tea and they cradled their cups as they took a few sips.

''So… a sword, hmm?''

''Yep''

"Interesting''

Both gazed into their cups as the clock ticked off the long seconds.

"Use it often?"

"I'm afraid so.''

''I knew you were going to say that.''

With a long swig, she finished off the spiked tea and reached for the bottle: time to move onto the unadulterated stuff. After pouring herself a generous measure, she gestured at his cup once again and he raised it for a refill.

''Is this a secret society thing or are you just plain crazy?'' she asked with a nervous laugh

''Neither, strangely enough.''

"Now, why doesn't that make me feel any less nervous?''

With a shrug Methos gazed at the old pictures on the wall as he tried to decide what to admit. An old grainy photograph of a couple caught his eye. Standing under a tree, they beamed blissfully at each other. Her voice abruptly interrupted his reverie. "T'was our wedding day,'' she said softly as she glanced at the photo. ''It wasn't long after the war, so no white dress. Couldn't get the material.''

It was a familiar story. Not a lot of luxuries during those years, not a lot of anything, especially in Eastern Europe. Methos turned to meet her gaze and with an inward sigh as he came to a decision. Time to spill the beans - he would just have to deal with the consequences later.

''This is going to be a very long story,'' he warned.

''I thought as much, it's alright, we've got all day.''

''I wouldn't bet the farm on that, I seem to be attracting a lot of trouble of late.''

With a chuckle, she stretched back in the chair, produced her tobacco pouch and proceeded to roll herself another cigarette.

''You'd better start talking fast, then,'' she answered as she took out her matches again.

" I suppose I'd better start out with the most pertinent fact. I'm immortal, I'm not the only one and I carry a bloody great big sword around with me because there are a lot of other immortals out there who believe that there should be only one… by the way, I don't suppose you could tell me the date…''

TBC…