"LOVE OF A LIFETIME"

by Eric R. Umali

It was one of those beautiful early September days, when the sun shone bright in a clear blue sky, and the air held on to August's warmth-- an Indian summer afternoon in Boston. I had left the bookstore where I was working around noon, and was enjoying a walk in the Commons.

I sat down on a bench, soaking in the sun. I had moved to Boston two years ago to begin my freshman year at B.U., and had visited the city many times before. I knew what to expect in a few short months: the bleak grey skies, the frigid November rain, and the snow... It was looking like a winter when the snow would start in December and not stop until February at least, and the city would feel almost dead. But for now, the skies were clear, and the city vibrant.

I saw her walking down the path, slowly, greedily taking in everything around her-- every sight, sound, and smell, like a child first stepping outside its crib or its home. I was jealous. How much I envied the wide eyes of innoncence, seeing the world without the many prejudices that the cynism of age imposes.

And, yes, I admit it-- I was intsantly attracted to her. That much was inevitable. She wore a blue shirt briefly cut an inch or two above the top of denim shorts that revealed long, shapely legs. She had the figure that thousands of women spend countless hours in a gym or countless dollars on surgery to get. But I could tell that she had simply gotten it the old fashioned way-- she took care of herself, and stayed active. Her hair was curly, almost a medium brown, although in the sunlight, golden highlights appeared. She repeatedly brushed back errant locks back with her right hand. Her skin was smooth and shining in the light, a light hue just kissed by the sun's coloring. She pushed her sunglasses above her forehead, and stared intently at her tourist map. Her eyes, wide open and smiling, had just a slightly darker hue than her hair. Puzzled, she furrowed her brow slightly, turning her nose up just a bit.

Looking up in frustration, she lowered the map and looked around her. Her eyes met mine, and she began to walk towards me. It was an event that made my heart stop, a reaction that surprised me to no end at the time. All I knew was that there was something about her that I could not place, but drew me to her. As she closed the few feet between us, I took notice of the grace of her movements. Her steps were carefully placed, and she knew exactly how her body behaved, and how it moved through space. She was a dancer, I knew, and that intensified my attraction immeasurably.

She spoke.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me where the bandstand is?"

Her voice was a trilling alto with a slight breathiness that send a slight chill through my spine.

"Sure, you just need to follow this path until you pass the water fountains, then take a left. You'll be able to see it from there."

"Thank you."

She began to turn, and I could have died. Just before she finished, her gaze returned.

"You go to Boston University?"

I was amazed. "How did you know?"

She pointed to my left. My bookbag sat next to me, the embroidered crest and the words "Boston University" looked at me mockingly. I turned somewhat red, and shook my head. "Of course," I said. A flash of inspiration I will thank until the end of time sped through my mind.

"The bandstand? Are you going to the afternoon concert?"

"Why, yes. I though a little culture would be perfect on my first full day in Boston."

"First day? A freshman?"

"Is it that obvious? My name is Teresa."

"Ken- a junior. Would you like to sit down?"

"Thanks, but no- I don't want to be late for the concert."

I looked at my watch. "It's only twelve thirty. You've got an hour before it starts."

Her eyes widened, and she looked at her own timepiece, then sighed in disgust. "An hour slow. I guess I misjudged the time zone difference."

"Where are you from?"

"A place right outside San Diego."

"Anywhere near Carlsbad?"

"Carlsbad’s exactly it. I guess I can sit down for a bit."

A rose before she could sit. "Well, I know a nice outdoor cafe across the street. How about that?"

She turned it over a few times, as I called in every favor I could think of from Heaven. She smiled. "Sure."

We never did make it to the concert. We sat at that little table, sipping iced cappucinos for hours, talking about everything under the sun. I learned Teresa Mason was eighteen, a music major--clarinet-- and was of Irish-Italian descent. She was an independant young woman, had no close relatives remaining, and loved old movies. As intelligent as she seemed at first, she was twice as bright face-to-face. And witty. And clever. And mature, and wise, and I do believe I fell in love with her inside of five minutes.

As for myself, I told her as much of the truth as I could; far more, however, than I have told anyone in a long time. I told her my full name was Kenichiro Mayasume, and that I was born outside of Tokyo, Japan, and that I was older than the twenty years I looked. I was ready to begin my third year in pursuit of a degree in engineering, was also without family, and loved old movies, as well.

It was just about five when I walked her to her dorm, then floated back to my place.

As I unlocked the front door, I mused over the two small brass nameplates by the doorbells. One read Mayasume, the other Grey. Mr. Grey had taken posession of the lower part of this brownstone at the same time I leased the upper. He was a quiet neighbor, and very clean-- because he didn't exist. I walked up to my apartments-- exactly thirty-four steps, and I took them two at a time.

My apartment was a far more impressive domicile than your average college senior could afford. More like the place your average college president would rent. It comprised the upper two floors of the place. The brownstone was at least a hundred years old, but had been completely refurbished, restored, and modernized. Not being a particularly ostentatious soul, the rooms were uncluttered, and where there was decoration, it blended with its surroundings as best as I could manage. Most of what adorned the various rooms were artifacts I had picked up in years of travelling. Several types of antique weapons from across the globe, prints from Japan, a small sculpture from France, a powerful-looking African totem. But also being something of a packrat, hundreds of other souvenirs were stored nearby.

I went to the upper floor, to my bedroom and study. I dropped my bookbag by my desk and checked my messages. Only one-- the bookstore wondering where the hell I had gone to. Chuckling, I made a note to buy flowers for the manager on my way to work tomorrow.

I prepared dinner, a simple feast of salad, broiled fish and rice, watched my copy of To Have and Have Not for about the thousandth time, and turned in early. A new face decorated my dreams that night, as it has every night since.

**********

I invited Teresa to a special showing of Japanese works at the MFA. I was afraid that she might misconstrue my knowledge of the subject as an attempt to impress her, but I learned to my joy that she had a good amount of knowledge of her own.

The exhibit spotlighted the artistry in the crafting of more commonplace items, as opposed to "straight" art. We walked among the beautiful farming implements, delicately embroidered clothing, and inlaid laquered boxes forever, exchanging endless tidbits of trivia.

It was as we turned towards the weaponry section that I felt it.

A tightening of the stomach, a pressure in the temples, and a nervous chill up my spine. It was a feeling I had learned very well to pay attention to. I did not see him at first, though, as I was trying to keep Teresa from noticing my distraction.

I saw him; there, naturally, by the glittering rack of polished swords. He met my gaze and smirked and headed towards us. Teresa noticed.

"Ken, who is that?"

"An old... acquaintance... from Japan."

He reached out as he closed the distance. He embraced me warmly, and I did my best to reciprocate.

"Kenichiro Mayasume! I thought I'd never see you again!"

"How are you, Morgan?"

"Very well, Ken. Aren't you going to introduce me to your beautiful companion?"

I bit my tongue before anything started. He looked much different than I had left him when we parted ways. His long brown hair was tied neatly back in a ponytail, and his goatee completed the look. He had taken, apparently, to wearing those expensive clothes, which could be duplicated for a tenth of the price, that many Bostonians favored. He stood a good three inches taller than I, and wore too much cologne, as usual.

"Morgan, this is my friend, Teresa Mason-- Teresa, Morgan Cavanaugh. He was a... teacher of mine while I lived in Japan, and a friend." I choked on the last word. A friend he had been, but it had been years since I had considered him one.

He kissed her hand, and, thankfully, read the animosity between us, and stayed rather cool toward him. To his chagrin.

"Ken, have you seen the swords on display yet?" He turned to Teresa. "Did you know Ken has quite a collection himself?"

"Yes," she answered, "they're quite fascinating, and many very old."

"Old, yes..." he mused. "Ken has been collecting for quite some time."

He pointed to a long, straight sword that sat at the top of one of the racks. It had been carefully polished. The intricate details on the handguard, and of the dragon inlaid on the handle, under the silk wrapping, were as amazing as they had been when the weapon was crafted, over eleven hundred years ago...

----------

You would have thought that one would get used to the heat of a forge after five years of working in one. Not me. I wore an extra bandana around my head to keep from letting sweat drip onto the precious steel as I helped hammer it into shape.

Heat, fold, hammer... heat, fold, hammer... it had to have been done at least five or six hundred times before we would stop on a normal sword. This time, I had stopped counting once we passed a thousand. Master Mifune had told us only that someone very special had ordred this sword, and that it would be his final masterpiece before retiring. Being the senior apprentice, I had been trusted with the preparation of the blade itself for a time, while Master Mifune could finish the difficult carving of the handguard and handle.

We had started at dawn, and had gone until well after dark when Master Mifune entered the forge. I presented the long, thin blade to him as it lost the last bit of red glow from its most recent folding. He considred it carefully, raised ten fingers, then sat down to allow me to finish it. Bursting with pride at the honor, I hammered out the final ten folds, and plunged it into the cold water in a bucket by my side. I held it to my gaze, still smoking, as I removed the bandanas. Master nodded, and I laid it alone on the worktable.

The next day I spent the morning grinding the blade to the proper shape. Master Mifune then produced the guard and handle. They had been done it gleaming gold layered over the usual metal and wood. An intricate dragon had been inlaid into the handle, and an historical martial scene carved into the guard. Once they had been joined, the handle was carfully wrapped with thick silk cords, and the blade sharpened. After half an hour at the whetstone, Master had me test the blade. He held it horizontal, edge facing the ceiling. I pulled a scrap of silk from a pile, and gently dropped it on the blade. Without delay, it seemed to float right through the blade-- it had been cut on contact. I held up the pieces, and examined the cut. The edge of the cut was frayed very slightly, so Master grunted and returned to the whetstone for further work.

It rested on the rack in the shop for a day, glittering in the sun, even with its ebony and gold scabbard. I was the only other person allowed to see who came for the sword. Master Mifune demanded I don my best clothes, and he did the same. I expected a grand procession, and an ostentatiously appointed noble to approach. What did come up the road was a small party: eight riders, two samurai guards, and a nondescript, curtained palanquin. As the party stopped, the samurai dismounted, greeted Master, and examined the shop. The reported back the the palanquin.

The door opened, and a short, hooded figure in a simple black robe exited. Master dropped to one knee, and motioned for me to do the same, which I did reluctantly. The three of us entered the shop, and the figure removed his hood. I gasped. It was Lord Shiro, Captain-of-Arms for the Emperor himself! He laughed.

"So, young man, you realize the need for secrecy. It is a long trip from Edo to here, but the very finest sword was required."

"My lord," I replied, "I pray it serves you well."

Master Mifune and he smiled again.

"But it is not destined for my hands, young man. It is to be a gift... for the Emperor."

----------

"The lost Mifune. Created to be gift for Emperor Garusama in 875 A.D., but was never delivered. It was intercepted on the way to the capital, Edo, by a local warlord. It passed hands for almost five hundred years around the globe. It's... rumored that it might have even reached the New World before Columbus. It was restored to the Emperor in 1232, and there it stayed until 1699, when it was... stolen."

I glared at Morgan, who smirked again. "Very good, Ken."

Teresa smiled. "Very impressive, Ken. A favorite of yours?"

"Something like that. Sort of my Flying Dutchman. Always been a little dream of mine to find it. How'd it end up here?"

Morgan sighed in mock modesty. "Well, I don't want to brag, but I did manage to catch up with it. Took some digging, but I tracked it to a tiny little village in Kobe, and donated it to the government of Japan."

Teresa, bless her, looked at her watch and looped her arm around mine. "Ken, we should go now, or we'll miss the show."

"Quite right. You'll excuse us, Morgan?"

"Certainly. It was a pleasure to meet, you, Miss Mason. Ken... I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon enough."

"You can bet on it."

**********

The night had turned chillier than most people had expected. But, thank goodness, we had had the presence of mind to carry our coats. And so we walked, Theresa and I, a little more comfortable than everyone else. We were heading back after a night at the theatre, walking towards Boylston Street where we could more easily catch a cab. We were nearly at what used to be Jack’s Joke Shop when I heard it.

It wasn’t a noise most people would notice; or if they did, they’d write it off as just another of the sounds of the city. But I recognized it: trouble.

Playfully, I spun Theresa around, bringing her to my other side, away from the buildings, and stepped up my pace.

"What’s your rush?" she asked, smiling.

"I just want to get home."

"Why?" Her voice turned consipratorially low. "What do you think’s going to happen there?"

That’s when we both heard the trouble. The unmistakeable click of a gun being cocked.

"Don’t move, folks, and you won’t get hurt," said a gritty voice from behind us. Theresa and I raised our hands in the "I give up" gesture that movies have taught us all to face the three teenaged hoodlums. The center one brandished the shiny Saturday Night Special in our faces. The other two had baseball bats. Normally, I would have put them down and wrapped them up for Boston’s finest, but I couldn’t-- not with Theresa in the line of fire.

I reached slowly into my pocket, keeping my eyes on the gun. I removed my wallet.

"Here-- here’s the money."

Theresa did likewise. I watched her move with deliberateness. She was scared, but you could never tell. She looked as if she got mugged every night. I was impressed.

Then one of the side punks stepped up a little too close to Theresa, eyeing her.

"You’ve got the money-- let us go."

"You can go. I don’t think we’re done with your girl yet."

With that, restraint went out the window. I was there when chivalry was invented. All right, I was in Japan, not Europe, but the Bushido was plenty of honorable code for me.

I went for the one with the gun first. Grasping his wrist, I twisted his arm, making him drop the revolver. My foot went to his midsection, and he went flying against the wall. Number two swung his bat at my head, naturally. He ended up on the sidewalk, clutching his favorite parts.

I spun around to face number three. I found him face down on the pavement, with Theresa’s black pump planted firmly on the back of his neck.

"’No’ means ‘no’, got that?" she lectured. She turned to me and smiled, and if I wasn’t in love before, I sure as hell was now. That warm feeling, however, vanished when I felt the bullet enter my back.

Theresa screamed as I fell to my knees. I brought my hand to my chest then stared at it, covered with darkening scarlet. I felt Theresa’s arms wrap tightly around me as I struggled to my feet.

"Ken, no-- we’ve got to get you to a hospital!" "Somebody help!" she screamed. I shook my head and began walking away. Reluctantly, she let herself be dragged along as I found a nearby alley in which to rest.

"Ken, you’ve been shot-- we have to get an ambulance!"

*Well,* I thought to myself, *she was going to have to find out sometime.*

"I’ll be all right, just give me a few minutes," I rasped.

"What are you talking about?"

I unbuttoned my shirt, revealing that underneath the dark red stain was no longer a fresh bullet wound, but one that looked like it had been healing for weeks.

"I don’t understand…" she muttered, as the injury visibly continued to heal.

"I’ll explain once we get back," I replied, my voice back to normal. Cautiously, she nodded, and we made our way home.

"Okay, Ken-- ‘splain," she said, in a Ricky Ricardo voice that would have had me rolling under normal circumstances.

"Sit down, Theresa, it’s a long story." She took a seat on the big black couch. I pulled up a chair and sat close. I rested my elbows on my knees, thinking, trying to figure out what I was going to say.

"I told you," I started, "that I was older than I looked."

"I remember."

"I never told you how much older, did I?" She shook her head. "The truth is, I’m one thousand, one hundred, forty-one years old." I paused, waiting for the expression of shock or ridicule. Theresa just looked at me.

"I was born outside of Edo, Japan, in the year 855 A.D. I came from a simple family, and when I was fourteen, I was accepted as an apprentice to the swordmaker, Mifune."

"Mifune? You knew Mifune?"

"Yes. I worked in his shop."

"So that’s why you know the story of the sword so well."

"I ought to-- I made the blade." Theresa sat there, thinking. "Whenever you’d like to leave, you’re welcome to," I said.

"Leave?" she said. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you think I’m a lunatic?"

"I’m not saying I believe you-- I’m still in shock. But you’re still the person I’m crazy about, and if this is what you believe, I can cope with it, I think."

I shook my head, dumbfounded. "You, Theresa Mason, are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met in my life."

Theresa smiled again. "That’s saying a lot. Thank you." She asked for something to drink and I brought out two glasses of her favorite white wine. "Okay, Ken, let’s say you’re telling the truth. Now how did you get to live so long? You’re obviously not a vampire, or a mummy…"

"It happened about a year after we created the sword…"

----------

I was traveling alone to Edo, carrying one of master’s new swords to a wealthy landowner. My horse was quite old, so we were traveling rather slowly. As dusk settled, I was set upon by bandits.

Leaping from my horse, I drew my own sword. There were four of them, and I was no samurai. I was quickly overpowered. Their leader drove his katana through my heart, and I fell to the ground.

The sky darkened, and thunder rumbled-- first in the distance, then got louder and closer. Lightning streaked across the sky. The bandits scattered, leaving me alone to die.

The lightning struck my body, enveloping it in coruscating energy, lifting me off the ground. In seconds, it was over. The air became still and clear again. I rose to my feet and examined my chest. Only a small scar marked the spot where the blade had pierced my skin. Thanking the gods, I mounted again and returned to my duties.

A few weeks later, still in Edo, I was attending a small function when I felt it for the first time. A slight headache, a feeling of another’s presence. I soon found myself staring back at a strange face. It had pale skin and light brown hair above round, light eyes. I remembered that someone had told me of a strange sailor that had washed ashore from a distant land.

"I am Morgan Cavanaugh of England," he said in my own language.

"I am Kenichiro Mayasume."

"Do you know what you are, Kenichiro Mayasume?"

"What do you mean, Cavanaugh-sama?"

"Come with me outside, Mayasume-san." I followed him. Once we were out of sight, he plunged a dagger into my stomach. I pulled it out and made to alert the local constabulary until the strangest thing happened. The pain began to fade, and withing minutes, disappeared, as did the wound itself. Morgan stood there nonchalantly the whole time.

"What has happened to me?"

"You have recently been injured, yes? An injury that should have killed you, but did not?" I nodded. "You, Mayasume-san," he continued, "are an Immortal. You cannot die by any means but one."

"How?"

"If someone removes your head from your body. Only then will you fall for good."

"Why would someone want to kill me? I’m no one."

"Now that you are an Immortal, you are someone. The power that gives you eternal life resides within your own body. It is called the Quickening, and if you die, it is released. The Immortal that kills you will add your Quickening to his own, and become more powerful."

"Why? Why not just live?"

"Those aren’t the rules of the Game, young one. We live until the time of the Gathering, when we all will feel a pull towards a distant land…"

"How many-- Immortals?-- are there?"

"Many. All over the world. Now stop interrupting. We live our lives by the rules of the Game. We will battle to the last, at the Gathering, and in the end… there can be only one."

Morgan became my mentor, teaching me everything I needed to know about being an Immortal. About the rules of the Game; about challenges; about Quickenings; about holy ground. He told me the myths of the Dark Quickening and the Legend of Methos, the oldest Immortal. Morgan taught me to use my senses to detect other Immortals. We became fast friends, and stayed that way many years.

Then one day, Morgan announced he had taught me all he could, and that he wanted to present me with a special sword. That he did-- the lost Mifune. In short, we argued, then fought. He nearly took my head, but instead spared me.

"You’ll be powerful one day, Ken. Then we’ll meet and finish the Game." Morgan disappeared.

I spent the next centuries learning to fight and fence, and traveling the world. I met thousands of people, and even fell in love a little, once or twice or more. I crossed paths with many other Immortals-- some good, some bad-- and grew strong and, I hope, wise.

In the thirteenth century, I came across the Mifune in Germany. I had hoped to have found Morgan on the other end, but it was not to be. I returned the sword to the Emperor, but it was stolen again, by Morgan, I’m sure, five hundred years later.

----------

"And there you have it," I ended. Theresa had been sitting the entire time in rapt attention. I placed my hand on hers. "So?"

She responded by covering myhand with her own. "It’s a lot to take in," she said.

I rose. "Shall I take you home now?"

Theresa stood. "Why?"

I ran my hands up her arms, her neck, then held her angelic face, drinking in every detail. Slowly, tentatively, I pressed my lips to hers. She returned the kiss with fervor, parting my lips with small, cautious flicks of her tongue. We stood, locked in each other’s embrace for a long time before descending to the long black couch.

I held her away from me for a moment to admire her. "Who would believe it?" I asked aloud. "Eleven hundred years old, and I’ve never really been in love before. Until now."

"You don’t look a day over a thousand," she replied, then returned to kissing me before I could rebut.

**********

As usual, we had been walking up Bay State Road to Theresa’s dorm, a much quieter and prettier walk than the one up Commonwealth Ave. Theresa had her arm tight around my waist, under my usual trenchcoat, and mine was around her. We were passing by the large building that housed several University offices. It was an old, U-shaped building with a large open atrium. The space had grass and benches and a few shrubs, and it looked quite peaceful in the cold, blue-white streetlamp.

"A challenge, Kenichiro-san."

The sound came from the atrium, and both of us recognized it immediately.

"Theresa, go."

"No."

Morgan came rushing out of the darkness. I was just barely able to dodge and to shove Theresa out of his path. Reaching into my jacket, I drew my katana, and threw the trenchcoat away. I swung at Morgan, who blocked easily. My eyes widened when I saw the sword he carried. The Mifune.

We moved into the atrium, trading blow after blow. We dodged and weaved, constantly thinking about what we knew about each other’s abilities.

He forced me atop a bench, then swung at my legs. I jumped the swing and flipped to the ground, lunging for him. Morgan stepped out of the way.

It went on for long minutes, and soon, with each clash of steel, sparks flew, and small curves of lightning wrapped the blades and illuminated the duel.

It would have gone on all night.

That is, until Theresa appeared, just to my side. I turned. "Theresa! Get out of here!"

Morgan swung at me, and I blocked, but was caught off balance. His blade lashed out and sent me sprawling, a gash on my side. Theresa screamed and started towards me.

Morgan cut her down.

I dropped my sword. Racing to her, I ignored Morgan completely. I knelt by her and drew her up into my arms.

"You'll be all right, Theresa... you'll live, I promise..."

"I know," she whispered softly. "You'll remember me for a long, long time. You'll remember... that I love you."

Death is something I have seen and touched a thousand times in all my years on this Earth. But until that moment, it had never touched me. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks as I held her to me, as if to cling to the life I felt slipping from my grasp.

The voice loomed from behind me. "Finish the Game, Ken."

I lowered her to the ground gently, and kissed her one last time. Without looking, I reached out and took hold of my sword. I was alone now-- with my grief, and my hate.

I charged him, and we began. Not a word further was exchanged for fifteen minutes or more-- only the ring of steel on steel, lit by sparks and lightning of Immortal power.

My arms hurt, my shoulders ached, and the slash on my side had just started to staunch. I was... pissed.

"Had enough, Ken?" The sarcasm in his voice was wearing thin.

"No choices, Morgan-- we have to finish it." Nice bravado, I thought, but I wasn't sure I felt it. I allowed myself a glance to the nearby spot where Theresa lay. I lunged one more time.

The angle of attack surprised Morgan, taking him off balance. With another stroke, I disarmed him, bringing him to his knees.

"Do it! You know the rules!"

"Yes. You taught me well, Morgan."

I closed my eyes, sure of the blow.

I spoke, the words of tradition-- a declaration of victory usually; now a challenge-- to the world that had made me-- to explain why she had to die. I spoke.

"There can be only one."

The blade swung true. I heard the body collapse. The distant thunder began to peal. I opened my eyes to see the misty power spiraling, coalescing around and above Morgan's body. The lightning struck the nearby lampost, destroying it in a shower of sparks. The many dark windows facing the small alcove where we fought were shattered, a cacophany of sharp sounds. The body began to glow, and I steeled myself for the final transfer of power, bringing my katana straight and upright before me.

The bolt leapt from the prone form and struck me square in the chest.

And went right through me.

To strike Theresa.

I whirled to follow the light as it enveloped her body, carrying it a few inches aloft, as if it was caught on a shallow wave. I saw the bruises on her face fade, and watched the wound in her side close without a trace. The power subsided, and released her, into my arms, where I was kneeling by her again. She opened her eyes.

"Ken? Are you all right?"

I smiled. "Yes. And so will you. I'm going to love you for a very, very long time, Theresa Mason."

She smiled back. "Good."

THE END.