Date: Tue, 15 Dec 1998 17:14:36 -0500
From: Vi Moreau <moreau@ATT.NET>
Subject: NEW STORY: HOLY NIGHT, a Richie Ryan story

HOLY NIGHT 1/1
by Vi Moreau


Standard disclaimer:  the concept of Immortality and the characters of
Richie Ryan and Connor MacLeod belong to Rysher and are copyrighted by them.
This story is for fun, not for profit.

Eventually, this story will be available on Ann Fountain's archive:
www.seventh-dimension.simplenet.com/
Thanks, Ann.

I rounded up the usual suspects: my indispensable, wonderful friends, alpha
and beta-readers, Bridget Mintz Testa, Janeen Grohsmeyer and Michelle Wolfe.
Together we make quite a quartet.  Thanks a lot, ladies, for helping me make
stories.  And have a very merry holiday season.

Any comments, good or bad, please email me at moreau@att.net.




A PASS IN THE ANDES, ON THE BORDER OF ARGENTINA AND CHILE
DECEMBER 24, 2000, @ midnight


Perversely, there was music playing in Richie Ryan's head.

"Peace on Earth."

Richie's sword got past the other Immortal's guard, but succeeded only in
cutting his opponent's colorful, thick woollen coat.  Richie attacked again.

"Good will to men."

His adversary had come out of nowhere, rushing at him in the night, eager to
kill.  Richie panted as he fought.  On the climb up from the flat Argentine
[pampa] to the Andes, he had continually adjusted his bike's carburetor to
make the mixture leaner in the high altitude.  He wished he could make his
own mixture leaner.  He was having trouble breathing.

"O Prince of Peace."

Richie glanced briefly at the huge statue of [Cristo el Redentor,] Christ
the Redeemer, illuminated in the frosty night and just a hundred yards away.
He parried his opponent's thrust.  Richie's lungs felt shrunken and cold,
and he hoped the statue would somehow bless him after he lost his head.

"Silent night."

Steel clanged against steel, reverberating in the cold night air.  He was
sure the sound carried in the mountains for miles.  And yet no one came
because no one was anywhere near.  They were all at the [misa del gallo,] at
Midnight Mass, praying.  Richie prayed for oxygen.

"God rest ye merry gentlemen."

His opponent, a black-haired mustachioed man, very Indian-looking, had a
happy, cheerful smile on his face.  And was hardly breathing hard at all.
Richie was wheezing.  His headache was a vise around his head now, and he
was having trouble concentrating in the thin atmosphere.  He felt dizzy and
a little nauseated.  It was called [soroche,] altitude sickness.  Soon, he
wouldn't be sick anymore.  Soon, he'd have all the rest he'd ever want.

"We wish you a merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year."

He'd never see the new year.  Never.

"O holy night."

If this night was truly holy, and if God was truly watching, it would be
nice if He could work some miracle.  But the other Immortal's sword ripped
him open again, and Richie felt the pain claw into him, then felt himself
start to black out.  Maybe He was watching out for the other Immortal.

"It came upon a midnight clear."

It was a clear, summer night in the mountains. The stars were close enough
to touch, and indeed brightly shining.  They were too beautiful to say
goodbye to, to give up on.  Too beautiful.

"Peace."

He hadn't wanted to fight, especially not tonight.  He was simply defending
himself.  As his enemy thrust at his abdomen, Richie made a decision to grab
for the man's wrist.  But to do that he needed both hands, so he dropped his
sword first, deliberately disarming himself, remembering and trusting in
something Connor MacLeod had once taught him.  "You have already lost," he
murmured to his opponent, and took a step to the left at the last moment.

"Joy to the world."

Oh, joy! Richie thought.  As the other Immortal went past him, Richie
twisted the man's sword out of his hand.  Richie turned, starting his
decapitating swing; but out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the
Christ statue again, arms flung out in a blessing to the world.  So instead
of beheading him, Richie lowered his trajectory, using the man's own sword
to slice into his back.  Then Richie finished his turn and watched as the
other Immortal arched and fell to his knees with a great exhalation of air.

"What's your name?" Richie breathed out, still panting, holding on to
consciousness, keeping the other Immortal's sword hovering just in front of
his Adam's apple.

"Jesus," the man answered, between clenched teeth, pronouncing it the
Spanish way, "Hay-soos."

"Jesus," Richie repeated, nodding, figuring, a very common Latino name, of
course, what else would his name be?  Richie had started the day depressed
and sick, feeling sorry for himself because he was alone at Christmas.  And
now, about to kill someone on the celebration of the birth of the Prince of
Peace, he felt even more depressed and sick, and hurt and bleeding, and in
no mood to...

He leaned down and put his mouth close to Jesus' ear, still breathing hard
into it, using his very adequate Spanish.  "It's Christmas Eve.  Maybe
Christmas Day.  Do you want to live, Jesus?" Richie asked him.

"Si."

"Me too," Richie said.  He retrieved his sword and flung Jesus' weapon out
into the night.  "[Feliz Navidad,]" he said, then backed away, turned, and
walked to where he'd parked his bike.  He still felt sick, and hurt, and he
was still bleeding; but maybe he was a little less depressed.  A little.

He put his sword away on the bike, thinking, thanks, Connor, for teaching me
that little trick, the one that saved my life tonight.  That's another one
he owed the MacLeods.  And especially, thanks to whoever it was out there,
whatever spirit had moved him to spare Jesus' life on Christmas.

As he started his bike and rode away, he called out: "And to all a good
night!"


END OF HOLY NIGHT