adabsolutely (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
adabsolutely) wrote2011-05-11 08:10 pm
adabsolutely) wrote2011-05-11 08:10 pm
Entry tags:
"The Grist Mill Fall" Highlander bit
I meant to post this a few months ago, time gets away from me. It's the first pages of the first draft of the holiday exchange Highlander story I wrote for Pat for 2010 that eventually became, "After the Fall." No one has read it. I chopped it off because it worked better without -- but it does have a bar scene with Joe so it can't be all bad:-) I'm not posting it elsewhere or archiving it.
"The Grist Mill Fall"
1.
Duncan held up the large antique poster for a last inspection. To most viewers the composition would seem nothing special. Struck from a steel engraving, circa 1870, and mounted in a carved walnut-wood frame of the same vintage: sheep on a dusty road, a dog behind them shepherding the flock onto a low stone bridge that crossed a tame brook. Ordinary. Yet the peacefulness of the scene was meditative, and he knew that it would suit his client, a high energy executive in San Francisco, and speak to the spirit of the Montana farm girl she once was.
He packed the heavy picture carefully for shipping, the last task he had scheduled for his on-line antique locating business today. The work interested him, though he didn't find it particularly stimulating. Lately, he'd recognized the signs of mental drifting, not quite ennui, but he did seem headed for a stagnant lull, a state he equated to living his life in slow motion. Without vigilance the months and years could fade to centuries of drifting along for an immortal. How old now? Was it four hundred eighteen in a couple weeks — or just four-seventeen?
Damn, can't loose track. Need to keep Methos from being right about that eventually forgetting the little details of life malarkey, at least for a few more centuries.
That got him to thinking that after he delivered this package to the shipper he would drive the additional dozen blocks to Joe's new bar, the West Seacouver Blues Club. Joe played tonight, so maybe Methos would turn up too. His friend's teaching load must be easing up soon with autumn term almost finished. And messing with Methos' head always chased off the doldrums. This seemed fair after all the times Methos had bedeviled him.
During the drive, the sun peeked through the rainclouds, a rare treat for the Pacific northwest in December. The brightness made him smile and squint; his thoughts skipped to Glenfinnan and the nearness of winter. Maybe he would buy a Christmas tree this year. Roast a goose for his friends. Write Christmas cards for the first time in a decade — no, that was going too far. A half an hour later, task finished, he pulled into the parking structure near his favorite bar.
As he stepped through the door he automatically cased the main room of the club. Early in the evening, only a couple dozen people drifted around the main room, staff setting up for Friday night and customers, in two's and three's, stopping by after a hard week of work to share a libation prior to heading home. Mostly an over worked early-to-bed crowd who would soon be home and replaced by a younger dance-to-the-wee-hours crowd. He caught sight of his friend and watcher, Joe Dawson, at the bar and headed his direction. Duncan was half way there, when Joe looked up from his inventory of the taps and glasses.
Joe greeted him, "Hey, Mac! What you smiling about? Amanda headed to town?" The bluesman returned a wide smile, and responded to Duncan's nod at the taps by pulling him a pint of IPA.
"Nope, Amanda's whereabouts are still a mystery. Why? What have you heard?"
"Not a thing, Mac. Just making conversation."
"You'd warn me wouldn't you?"
Joe scrunched his face into a thoughtful pose, silver head canted, exuding humor and merriment. "Nope."
"See if I put you on my Christmas card list."
Joe chuckled. "That's OK, I've been naughty this year." He reached for another pint glass. "I think I'll drink one myself. I've got plenty of time before the band sets up." Once he'd filled his glass, he grabbed his cane and stepped on over to the nearest table with Duncan following him.
"Well what's new with you?" Joe asked after they'd settled at the table to enjoy their ale.
Duncan drew a deep breath before answering. "I've been mulling over the eventuality of forgetting things." His face showed a bit of a sheepish look mixed with a challenge to make fun of his admission.
"Just for the record, this is your first beer?"
"Yes, Joe. I just — it's something Methos said recently."
"There's your problem."
Duncan laughed. "True enough, but I'm pretty sure he was serious. He talked about not being able to remember everything after awhile. Some memory had just popped back into his head, which excited him because he apparently hadn't remembered it for a couple centuries."
"Well, that makes sense. Now and then a returning memory surprises me from just a couple decades ago. After a few thousand, well, you do the math."
"But so far it's not that way for me. Everything is sharp, some of it painfully so, but I don't want to loose any of it. Greedy bastard that I am."
"Can't blame you for that, Mac. Must say, I kinda like the idea of being remembered centuries from now. Keep your head, buddy."
"That's my intention."
An electric zing touched Duncan's mind, he looked up at the club's entrance just as a lean fellow in a tweed overcoat walked into the establishment and sauntered over to the bar. Methos nodded at them and grinned rather fiendishly as he passed them by. He purchased a pint from the bartender and then backtracked to join Joe and Duncan at their table.
"Hey, there, stranger," Joe greeted the scholarly appearing immortal as he sat down across from them.
"Hey, Joe, Mac." Methos raised his glass to toast them very quickly, then swallowed a healthy drink of his beer, setting it down with a contented sigh.
There may have been minor snickering amongst his companions, muffled by their own pints. "How were the classes this week?" Duncan asked diplomatically.
"Well my students didn't blow anything up." His voice almost sounded regretful.
"That must have been disappointing. Which classes were you teaching today?" Duncan asked.
"Just the lab for "Inventing, Making and Recycling."
"That's the interesting one," Joe allowed, "the interdisciplinary class you were telling me about?"
"Yep, ten science, eight anthro and one bio major."
"Hmph, in my day biology was a science too." Joe said.
"Not to listen to the physics and chemistry majors tell it. Biology is the unwashed step child only marginally above the anthropology majors. Still, their association in this lab is doing them all a world of good."
Duncan said, "It does sound interesting. I'd like to come and watch this class in action one of these days."
"The invitation is still open. Hey, you up for a drive east tomorrow? I need to scout out the site of our next field trip. You may have even seen the place back when it was operating. The ruins of a grist mill on a tributary to the South Fork Nooksack, east of Lake Whatcom?"
Duncan was very familiar with the area, he owned a cabin on an island in Lake Whatcom. "Hm, maybe, about 1880? How much of it's still standing?"
"More than most of the old floor mills from that era here in the northwest. I've read that this one had enough stone in the construction that there's still plenty to see, instead of the usual stick-built structures around here, which molder so fast. I found photos in the county museum archives. I want to give my students some historical perspective and a feel for that era's tech."
"Sure. Sounds like a good day trip as long as the site is still below the snow level."
"Only about 2,000 feet, we should be fine in my Jeep. You want to come too, Joe?"
"I think I'll pass. Crawling around a stone ruin in December doesn't fit my bill for a pleasant Saturday morning."
"Well, what could we expect from a guy that will probably be up playin' the blues most of the night?" Duncan asked.
"You can expect me to be sleeping like a baby, while you all are out freezing your butts off, I'd imagine."
Later in the evening, once the changing of the guard completed the metamorphisis of the club from amicable atmosphere to live wired beat, Joe took charge of the stage with his band. They played songs about the human condition: sex, cheating, love, loss and happiness. Livin' and dyin' in the twenty-first century. His blues spread both calm and lust, as needs be, amongst the Seacouver night dwellers.
Duncan and Methos shared the table with several sets of people over the next couple hours. They occasionally danced with persons of the female persuasion, until the crowd grew to a crush and dancing lost its enjoyment. Just after midnight, Joe took a break and they said their good-byes to him. They left the bluesman, primed for another two hours of song sorcery and his audience full of crackling energy.
The immortals stepped outside into the chilly December air. Duncan offered his friend a ride to his apartment, near the college campus, but Methos declined. "You're headed north. I'll catch a taxi. See you in the morning, about 8:30. G'night."
He watched Methos stride off to hail a cabbie on the corner. Duncan pushed down the regret at the good neighbors' wall they'd built between each other. The way their once keen attachment had reverted to guarded friendship left Duncan disdaining their mutual stubborn prickliness.
He walked to the car park to retrieve his hybrid. Lets get you home and plugged in little car... On the way home he fantasized about Methos.
The next morning, Duncan rose early as always and packed a few peanut butter and jam sandwiches, as well as Methos' favorite, Nutella on hazelnut bread. Methos arrived ten minutes late, but provided coffee for the drive from one of the city's ubiquitous kiosks. Typical raincoat day in Seacouver, bursts of rain followed by steady rain, followed by more rain... They listened to Car Talk on the radio as they headed out of town taking Highway 542 east.
"Tell me more about this class."
"Well, my start-up spiel includes: 'learning technology of the past, present, and future.' I talk about sustainable versus non sustainable tech, recycling, lots of forgotten short cuts, old tech that still has value. How to make the tools to make the tools."
"Sounds like lots of hands on experience."
"Definitely. To enroll in the class students have to get my OK. I pick the sharp tacks who plan to do fieldwork and aren't afraid to get dirty."
"Or blow up the lab."
"It really wasn't an explosion! Just a rapid deconstruction. No smoke or flame. No one hurt. Other than me... Sometimes taking things apart quickly is a good thing. My students had everything looking normal by the time security arrived." Methos shook his head. "I should never have told Joe about it."
"We find you entertaining."
"I live to serve," was Methos' droll reply.
Duncan laughed happily at that and thought how this felt wonderfully like the pre-Kronos time they'd spent together, before they'd stepped back so far.
They headed south on Highway 9 along the South Fork Nooksack River, passing by the tiny towns of Van Zandt, Clipper and Acme. They finally turned east onto a gravel Forest Service road, bumping along for half an hour until Duncan, mostly teasing, asked, "Are you lost?"
"Hah! I know where I am. North America, right?"
The driving trip finally halted when they sighted a green Forest Service sign, "Yew Creek Grist Mill" and pulled into a small graveled parking area. They grabbed their raincoats and day packs, piled out of the Jeep and stretched. There was no one else around so they relieved themselves on the salal brush instead of using the outhouse of dubious odor. The rain had paused, and they could hear the creek nearby. They walked an old wagon road down slope through the Douglas fir toward the sound of the rushing water. Along the way they startled a covey of mountain quail, a dozen of the birds with jaunty topknot feathers dashed off the path into the evergreen cover.
They found Yew Creek, a small but rowdy stream, at the end of the path. The mill ruin covered the far bank at the base of a waterfall. The height of the fall resulted in the pool below being the terminus of fish migration and the drop could power a large waterwheel -- unfortunately now missing. A wooden Forest Service bridge had replace the historical bridge, long since swept away in a winter storm. They hurried across the new bridge to explore the remains of the grist mill.
Though several tons of basalt building stone scattered the area, only a few walls remained stacked. Duncan searched his backpack for his digital camera, while Methos prowled around the ruins, grumbling about the Himalaya blackberry vines that covered parts of the rubble.
"The mill isn't in as good of shape as I'd hoped."
"Too bad the wheel is gone," Duncan said, then he noticed and pointed out a steep path up the mountain to the top of the waterfall. "Good view for photographs."
Methos grumbled, "Now that could be an attractive nuisance."
"Your students are adults. It looks like a lot of people hike up there. I'm going to take a look while you explore."
"No falling off falls."
"Yes, mother."
*******Link to the rest of the story, which really starts at this point:
After the Fall at AO3
"The Grist Mill Fall"
1.
Duncan held up the large antique poster for a last inspection. To most viewers the composition would seem nothing special. Struck from a steel engraving, circa 1870, and mounted in a carved walnut-wood frame of the same vintage: sheep on a dusty road, a dog behind them shepherding the flock onto a low stone bridge that crossed a tame brook. Ordinary. Yet the peacefulness of the scene was meditative, and he knew that it would suit his client, a high energy executive in San Francisco, and speak to the spirit of the Montana farm girl she once was.
He packed the heavy picture carefully for shipping, the last task he had scheduled for his on-line antique locating business today. The work interested him, though he didn't find it particularly stimulating. Lately, he'd recognized the signs of mental drifting, not quite ennui, but he did seem headed for a stagnant lull, a state he equated to living his life in slow motion. Without vigilance the months and years could fade to centuries of drifting along for an immortal. How old now? Was it four hundred eighteen in a couple weeks — or just four-seventeen?
Damn, can't loose track. Need to keep Methos from being right about that eventually forgetting the little details of life malarkey, at least for a few more centuries.
That got him to thinking that after he delivered this package to the shipper he would drive the additional dozen blocks to Joe's new bar, the West Seacouver Blues Club. Joe played tonight, so maybe Methos would turn up too. His friend's teaching load must be easing up soon with autumn term almost finished. And messing with Methos' head always chased off the doldrums. This seemed fair after all the times Methos had bedeviled him.
During the drive, the sun peeked through the rainclouds, a rare treat for the Pacific northwest in December. The brightness made him smile and squint; his thoughts skipped to Glenfinnan and the nearness of winter. Maybe he would buy a Christmas tree this year. Roast a goose for his friends. Write Christmas cards for the first time in a decade — no, that was going too far. A half an hour later, task finished, he pulled into the parking structure near his favorite bar.
As he stepped through the door he automatically cased the main room of the club. Early in the evening, only a couple dozen people drifted around the main room, staff setting up for Friday night and customers, in two's and three's, stopping by after a hard week of work to share a libation prior to heading home. Mostly an over worked early-to-bed crowd who would soon be home and replaced by a younger dance-to-the-wee-hours crowd. He caught sight of his friend and watcher, Joe Dawson, at the bar and headed his direction. Duncan was half way there, when Joe looked up from his inventory of the taps and glasses.
Joe greeted him, "Hey, Mac! What you smiling about? Amanda headed to town?" The bluesman returned a wide smile, and responded to Duncan's nod at the taps by pulling him a pint of IPA.
"Nope, Amanda's whereabouts are still a mystery. Why? What have you heard?"
"Not a thing, Mac. Just making conversation."
"You'd warn me wouldn't you?"
Joe scrunched his face into a thoughtful pose, silver head canted, exuding humor and merriment. "Nope."
"See if I put you on my Christmas card list."
Joe chuckled. "That's OK, I've been naughty this year." He reached for another pint glass. "I think I'll drink one myself. I've got plenty of time before the band sets up." Once he'd filled his glass, he grabbed his cane and stepped on over to the nearest table with Duncan following him.
"Well what's new with you?" Joe asked after they'd settled at the table to enjoy their ale.
Duncan drew a deep breath before answering. "I've been mulling over the eventuality of forgetting things." His face showed a bit of a sheepish look mixed with a challenge to make fun of his admission.
"Just for the record, this is your first beer?"
"Yes, Joe. I just — it's something Methos said recently."
"There's your problem."
Duncan laughed. "True enough, but I'm pretty sure he was serious. He talked about not being able to remember everything after awhile. Some memory had just popped back into his head, which excited him because he apparently hadn't remembered it for a couple centuries."
"Well, that makes sense. Now and then a returning memory surprises me from just a couple decades ago. After a few thousand, well, you do the math."
"But so far it's not that way for me. Everything is sharp, some of it painfully so, but I don't want to loose any of it. Greedy bastard that I am."
"Can't blame you for that, Mac. Must say, I kinda like the idea of being remembered centuries from now. Keep your head, buddy."
"That's my intention."
An electric zing touched Duncan's mind, he looked up at the club's entrance just as a lean fellow in a tweed overcoat walked into the establishment and sauntered over to the bar. Methos nodded at them and grinned rather fiendishly as he passed them by. He purchased a pint from the bartender and then backtracked to join Joe and Duncan at their table.
"Hey, there, stranger," Joe greeted the scholarly appearing immortal as he sat down across from them.
"Hey, Joe, Mac." Methos raised his glass to toast them very quickly, then swallowed a healthy drink of his beer, setting it down with a contented sigh.
There may have been minor snickering amongst his companions, muffled by their own pints. "How were the classes this week?" Duncan asked diplomatically.
"Well my students didn't blow anything up." His voice almost sounded regretful.
"That must have been disappointing. Which classes were you teaching today?" Duncan asked.
"Just the lab for "Inventing, Making and Recycling."
"That's the interesting one," Joe allowed, "the interdisciplinary class you were telling me about?"
"Yep, ten science, eight anthro and one bio major."
"Hmph, in my day biology was a science too." Joe said.
"Not to listen to the physics and chemistry majors tell it. Biology is the unwashed step child only marginally above the anthropology majors. Still, their association in this lab is doing them all a world of good."
Duncan said, "It does sound interesting. I'd like to come and watch this class in action one of these days."
"The invitation is still open. Hey, you up for a drive east tomorrow? I need to scout out the site of our next field trip. You may have even seen the place back when it was operating. The ruins of a grist mill on a tributary to the South Fork Nooksack, east of Lake Whatcom?"
Duncan was very familiar with the area, he owned a cabin on an island in Lake Whatcom. "Hm, maybe, about 1880? How much of it's still standing?"
"More than most of the old floor mills from that era here in the northwest. I've read that this one had enough stone in the construction that there's still plenty to see, instead of the usual stick-built structures around here, which molder so fast. I found photos in the county museum archives. I want to give my students some historical perspective and a feel for that era's tech."
"Sure. Sounds like a good day trip as long as the site is still below the snow level."
"Only about 2,000 feet, we should be fine in my Jeep. You want to come too, Joe?"
"I think I'll pass. Crawling around a stone ruin in December doesn't fit my bill for a pleasant Saturday morning."
"Well, what could we expect from a guy that will probably be up playin' the blues most of the night?" Duncan asked.
"You can expect me to be sleeping like a baby, while you all are out freezing your butts off, I'd imagine."
Later in the evening, once the changing of the guard completed the metamorphisis of the club from amicable atmosphere to live wired beat, Joe took charge of the stage with his band. They played songs about the human condition: sex, cheating, love, loss and happiness. Livin' and dyin' in the twenty-first century. His blues spread both calm and lust, as needs be, amongst the Seacouver night dwellers.
Duncan and Methos shared the table with several sets of people over the next couple hours. They occasionally danced with persons of the female persuasion, until the crowd grew to a crush and dancing lost its enjoyment. Just after midnight, Joe took a break and they said their good-byes to him. They left the bluesman, primed for another two hours of song sorcery and his audience full of crackling energy.
The immortals stepped outside into the chilly December air. Duncan offered his friend a ride to his apartment, near the college campus, but Methos declined. "You're headed north. I'll catch a taxi. See you in the morning, about 8:30. G'night."
He watched Methos stride off to hail a cabbie on the corner. Duncan pushed down the regret at the good neighbors' wall they'd built between each other. The way their once keen attachment had reverted to guarded friendship left Duncan disdaining their mutual stubborn prickliness.
He walked to the car park to retrieve his hybrid. Lets get you home and plugged in little car... On the way home he fantasized about Methos.
The next morning, Duncan rose early as always and packed a few peanut butter and jam sandwiches, as well as Methos' favorite, Nutella on hazelnut bread. Methos arrived ten minutes late, but provided coffee for the drive from one of the city's ubiquitous kiosks. Typical raincoat day in Seacouver, bursts of rain followed by steady rain, followed by more rain... They listened to Car Talk on the radio as they headed out of town taking Highway 542 east.
"Tell me more about this class."
"Well, my start-up spiel includes: 'learning technology of the past, present, and future.' I talk about sustainable versus non sustainable tech, recycling, lots of forgotten short cuts, old tech that still has value. How to make the tools to make the tools."
"Sounds like lots of hands on experience."
"Definitely. To enroll in the class students have to get my OK. I pick the sharp tacks who plan to do fieldwork and aren't afraid to get dirty."
"Or blow up the lab."
"It really wasn't an explosion! Just a rapid deconstruction. No smoke or flame. No one hurt. Other than me... Sometimes taking things apart quickly is a good thing. My students had everything looking normal by the time security arrived." Methos shook his head. "I should never have told Joe about it."
"We find you entertaining."
"I live to serve," was Methos' droll reply.
Duncan laughed happily at that and thought how this felt wonderfully like the pre-Kronos time they'd spent together, before they'd stepped back so far.
They headed south on Highway 9 along the South Fork Nooksack River, passing by the tiny towns of Van Zandt, Clipper and Acme. They finally turned east onto a gravel Forest Service road, bumping along for half an hour until Duncan, mostly teasing, asked, "Are you lost?"
"Hah! I know where I am. North America, right?"
The driving trip finally halted when they sighted a green Forest Service sign, "Yew Creek Grist Mill" and pulled into a small graveled parking area. They grabbed their raincoats and day packs, piled out of the Jeep and stretched. There was no one else around so they relieved themselves on the salal brush instead of using the outhouse of dubious odor. The rain had paused, and they could hear the creek nearby. They walked an old wagon road down slope through the Douglas fir toward the sound of the rushing water. Along the way they startled a covey of mountain quail, a dozen of the birds with jaunty topknot feathers dashed off the path into the evergreen cover.
They found Yew Creek, a small but rowdy stream, at the end of the path. The mill ruin covered the far bank at the base of a waterfall. The height of the fall resulted in the pool below being the terminus of fish migration and the drop could power a large waterwheel -- unfortunately now missing. A wooden Forest Service bridge had replace the historical bridge, long since swept away in a winter storm. They hurried across the new bridge to explore the remains of the grist mill.
Though several tons of basalt building stone scattered the area, only a few walls remained stacked. Duncan searched his backpack for his digital camera, while Methos prowled around the ruins, grumbling about the Himalaya blackberry vines that covered parts of the rubble.
"The mill isn't in as good of shape as I'd hoped."
"Too bad the wheel is gone," Duncan said, then he noticed and pointed out a steep path up the mountain to the top of the waterfall. "Good view for photographs."
Methos grumbled, "Now that could be an attractive nuisance."
"Your students are adults. It looks like a lot of people hike up there. I'm going to take a look while you explore."
"No falling off falls."
"Yes, mother."
*******Link to the rest of the story, which really starts at this point:
After the Fall at AO3
no subject
no subject
Still waiting for winter to leave like Brautigan's trout waiting for the dinosaurs to go away.
no subject
*looks at own beer* Yes, it's my first. ;)
no subject