An Evening at Joe's (7 page)

Regarding "Consone's Diary," Anthony De Longis reports:

"When Bill Panzer and Gillian Horvath invited me to contribute to this book I was delighted. I am thrilled to be a part of the Highlander family. I have had a lifelong love affair with the blade and the opportunity to offer my skills as actor and swordsman to the Highlander legacy has been one of the great rewards on my journey.

"'Duende' was the culmination of an amazing team of talented artists. The writers, the unflagging support of producers Bill Panzer and Peter Davis and Ken Gord, director Richard Martin, and the excellent crew—everyone went the extra mile to make this episode special. This was especially true of Adrian Paul, who demands the best from himself and who delights in challenges that expand his creative envelope. Swordmaster extraordinaire Braun McAsh welcomed my ideas and encouraged me to co-create the very complex rapier and dagger choreography. Both of us labored hard to balance historical inspiration with dynamic character action. The rain that fell the entire final day and night transformed the fighting surface into a virtual ice rink and eliminated any rehearsal prior to filming our climactic sword encounter. That uncomfortable combination gave the fight a real edge and the downpour added million-dollar production values (God is a terrific Art Director). We took the impossible in stride and made magic.

"Given this second chance to live in his skin, here are some reflections about one of the most fascinating characters I've ever portrayed. Otavio Consone, master of the sword, perfectionist, obsessive, Immortal, and, I dare say, the only man to have twice defeated Duncan MacLeod in a duel."

December 21, 1997

After his death at the hands of Duncan MacLeod four days ago, I managed to discover and retrieve Otavio Consone's diary. The full text is on file at the Watcher Institute. I have noted entries that refer to his history and association with Senor MacLeod because I thought they might be of special interest to the Society.

Carmen de la Vega, Watcher

August 10, 1851

Only one thing worth noting happened today. A madman appeared from nowhere, a barbarian from the wild hills of Scotland. He's a fighter and he hates the English. That alone would be reason enough to teach him, but there is much more to recommend him.

In truth, his intrusion provided a welcome relief to my usual routine. I had just finished another tedious session with the spoiled and lazy son of the Minister of Finance. These ill-formed creatures who call themselves the "nobility" seem stamped from the same imperfect mold. Their fathers built an empire, the sons have difficulty rising before noon. Not one of them will ever amount to anything with the blade. They will hire their killing done, having neither the skills nor the courage to handle their own affairs of honor.

No sooner had my inept pupil departed than this
estranjero
stomped into my studio. I'd have had no trouble hearing him even if I hadn't felt the vibrations of another of the Chosen. He announced himself as "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," every bit as proud as any courtier to the Catholic King. He proclaimed himself the son of a Chieftain, as if that made him any less the savage.

With that, the young fool unsheathed a magnificent specimen of the Japanese swordmaker's art and launched a stroke that could have split a fully grown ox. His katana was perhaps the finest blade I have ever seen and was as curious a contradiction as the man himself. He handled his sword like a slaughterhouse butcher, all fury and power, but what power. And it is obvious he has had training, for there is subtlety and strategy at the heart of his movements.

It was a simple matter to avoid his mad charge and the half dozen
mighty strokes that followed, delivered with a speed and endurance that was impressive. A lesser man than I could not have avoided serious injury. Three times I deflected his blade and drew his blood. Three times he knew I was his master. Suddenly he stepped back, lowered his sword and grinned with obvious pleasure. He made a small bow to acknowledge my skills but clearly offering no apology for his own. MacLeod declared that I was every bit as good as he's heard and that he's crossed oceans to study with me. No fawning, no pretense, just a hunger to learn how I so easily defeated his best efforts.

Although MacLeod lacks refinement, he's intelligent and he has heart and he's utterly determined to learn. He's traveled half of Europe to seek me out and he won't take no for an answer. This one should be careful what he wishes for.
I told him to return tomorrow to face my decision.

August 11

Sleep is impossible. I have thought of little else but this mad Scotsman all night. MacLeod knows he is no match for me, yet he risks my challenge and his own destruction. He's obviously a warrior, a man who has fought in many battles in many lands. More important, he's one of the Chosen, who has kept his head when others more skilled than he, I have no doubt, were confident that they'd have both his head and essence. Yet somehow he triumphed. Somehow he lived to arrive at my door. That our destinies are linked is obvious.

He is a man that bears watching. To accomplish this I must keep him close. The danger of this appeals to me greatly, for what is life without risk? I have no doubt MacLeod would fight me if I demanded it, even knowing it means his certain death. This is either a very brave or a very stupid man and I do not think he is "stupido." Perhaps he realizes I have no interest in such an easy victory. But is it wise to train him? He will not be satisfied with the small disciplines I offer to the masses. MacLeod knows he is gifted but he recognizes his limitations. He wants my treasures, the subtle refinements that will transform him from barbarian to a true master of the blade.

Will he take my skills and use them to conquer me the way I defeated so many of my own teachers? It was the best way to make certain they could never reveal my former weaknesses. Only the great Ramirez escaped and I was glad not to have to be the one to take his head. I liked him, he was my friend.

But MacLeod is my problem now. The cautious man would send him away or kill him and be done with it. The exceptional man would make him a student, a disciple, perhaps even a companion. It's been a long time since I've called anyone "amigo" and truly meant it. Most candidates don't survive the tests. Besides, a friend will eventually relax his guard and expose the secret, fatal weakness he hides in his heart of hearts. That will give me the necessary edge whenever I choose to utilize it.

So be it. MacLeod's training begins tonight. If he proves himself worthy, I will have an ally, a protégé, and ultimately—an opponent worthy of my skills.

August 15

MacLeod has agreed to put aside his Japanese blade and enter the modern age. I introduced him to the only true weapon for a gentleman, the Spanish rapier. A masterpiece of design and evolution, its long slim blade is honed on both edges and tapers to a needle sharp point. The rapier is the great equalizer, it recognizes neither rank nor privilege, only ability.

I select a cup hilt guard for MacLeod. It will offer him the best protection for his hand while he is learning. I have to smile at how confusing he finds the extended cross-guard until he discovers how readily my own curving quillons trap his blade and wrench it from his fingers. I never have to show him something twice. I have waited a lifetime for such a student.

August 3O

MacLeod is without patience. That is his great weakness. He tires of my endless exercises and demands to know my "hotta secrete," the secret killing techniques. Whenever you face another in mortal combat, you have only the skills you bring with you that day. There are no second chances. I must make him understand, he is not ready.

I invite MacLeod to attack me with his best effort, to hold nothing
back. His first attack is flawless, but unsuccessful. This angers him and he rushes his next pass only to find my blade tickling his throat. I remind him that any challenge outside of the practice studio can have only three possible outcomes. You lose, in which case you die. You tie, in which case you both die. You win, in which case you live. Not the kind of odds that encourage rushing. You might lose your head.

September 28

MacLeod has embraced the Spanish rapier like one born to it. It was not easy for him to abandon his familiar ally, his katana. But a swordsman evolves or he dies. So it is with the sword. So it must be with the Chosen.

Time and again I demonstrate the superiority of the
estocada
, the speed and efficiency of the thrust over the cut. The cut still has its uses, but its use demands the precision of a surgeon. The time for the lopping of limbs belonged to our primitive ancestors who knew no better.

October 17

I've told MacLeod each man has a thousand bad cuts and a thousand bad thrusts. Few swordsmen live long enough to rid themselves of this fatal baggage. My gypsy student, my
gitano
, spends hours in the studio, practicing, tirelessly repeating his lessons over and over. There may yet be hope.

He was ready for the first secret. Strategy. A duelist asks himself four simple questions. What is my opponent doing? How is he doing it? What can I do about it? And most important, can I do it?

Secret number two. Simplify. Action is an exercise in minimalism. Speed does not come from greater effort, but from doing less and doing it better. A smaller, simpler move is more efficient and speed is the natural result.

The hunger in MacLeod's eyes reminds me of my own insatiable appetite for knowledge. It is both exciting and chilling. I haven't felt this alive in years.

October 29

Duncan MacLeod does not know how closely I watch his progress. I see each small discovery, each subtle nuance in technique. Sometimes he finds more than I have shown to him. He is becoming his own teacher, the path of a true master.

November 12

Now MacLeod has the eyes to see, the ears to hear, we can truly begin. Tonight I invited MacLeod to enter my secret world and discover the "Verdadera Destreza," the true art of the fence. Time and again he has demanded to know my "magic." How do I always seem to know his next move, even before he makes it? We walk the lines and patterns, the
rectitudines
, and they come to life like new yet familiar friends.

My Mysterious Circle defines distance in terms that are absolute. Between you and your opponent exists an invisible boundary between life and death, the "lineas infinitis." Outside this line, he offers no threat and merits no response, simply vigilance. When he crosses this line, you have him, he has entered your killing zone. It requires only three inches of steel to finish the job. The Circle creates an impenetrable barrier which your foe cannot invade except by your invitation. The Circle diagrams scientifically your most direct route to wound, maim or instantly extinguish the life of your foe.

MacLeod struggles to understand, but comprehension teases, then eludes him. Again I invite his
ganacia
, savouring his dangerously skillful attacks. Again and again I foil every cut, every thrust. Always he finds my own blade poised at his vitals, ready to incapacitate or kill.

All at once, MacLeod steps back, the shock of discovery lighting his face. With one step and a subtle adjustment of my body and blade he realizes I've programmed him to attack openings that seem easy and vulnerable, only to find me ready and waiting. MacLeod sees, he knows. The "magic" is the simple application of all that we've practiced.

November 26

Today we drilled the "stesso-tempo," the single move that is both defense and counter-attack in one simultaneous action. The angle of the blade, so subtle and delicate. The timing of the deflection, so hair's-breadth critical to success and survival. The gentle removal of the body and the power unleashed as both hips and torso return to take possession of the center line and drive your blade through your opponent's defenses by superior position and leverage.

Swordplay is a science. The artistry is in the details. Small adjustments have profound effects.

December 14

I remind MacLeod that a true Master of the Circle cannot be defeated. He has already fought the battle in his mind and body in his practice a thousand times before. He waits confidently for the move he knows must come next. Each response has been mastered and repeated, each problem analyzed, solved and converted to action. The mind of the Master is sharp, his body ready, his spirit calm. The victory is his before the fight ever begins.

The Circle is now a part of MacLeod's soul. He breathes it like air, he craves it like sunshine, practicing day and night. I have to chase him out so I can train myself. I have started to be more selective about what I reveal to him. He has gotten that good.

I have chosen well.

December 17

I surprise myself, often speaking to MacLeod about secret things close to my heart and unshared for longer than I care to remember. It is the easy talk of comrades who understand much while saying little.

December 21

MacLeod is ready for another secret, understanding the nature of fear. Fear is a tool to be wielded like a blade. It must be snuffed out in your own heart and farmed like raging wild-fire in the breast of your adversaries.