The Indian and the Scot

Scotland; 16th century; somewhere in the Scottish Highlands:

The night was humid, and only made worse by the dozens of bodies packed closely together in a circle--forming the boundaries of the fighting ring--and by the torches atop tall wooden stakes driven into the ground.

It was almost time, and the men could feel it. The impatient murmurings of the crowd were growing louder, while sporadic, strained laughter seemed to fade into the night as if it had never sounded. Suddenly, a horn was blown from somewhere out in the night. The circle of men was immediately silenced, and all heads turned to the south to peer into the night.

The Scot was coming.

Tall, brawny and terribly fierce, the Scot's real name hadn't been used in years. A member of the MacDonald Clan, his strength and skill in a fight had been unmatched since his eighteenth year. Now, ten years later, the Clan feared this man almost as much as the other clans to which the Scot's reputation had been spread.

The MacDonald Clan touted the strength of their giant when they came into contact with outsiders, but only their strong Scottish pride kept them from admitting to one another that something should be done to stop the Scot from his almost tyrranical presence within the Clan.

It had been three years since any man had dared to contest him. But the Scot was surely equally matched this night.

The Indian had come a few months earlier. How he had made his way to Scotland was never quite ascertained, and the MacDonald Clan knew almost nothing about the enormous man from the New Land, or the strange Irishmen who never seemed to leave his side, Jonas and Kyle. It was from these two that the Clan found the Indian's strange name of Heneha meant 'Heartless' in their own language.

A drum-beat was heard. All heads then turned to the west. The drum-beat continued, louder and louder, making an eerie accompaniment for the horn still sounding in the distance. A collective feeling of awe, mixed with a strange fear, went through the men as the huge Indian came into view--slowly coming into the light from the darkness. Many heads turned back to the Scot; he, too, was just entering the light.

The circle was broken at two different points in order that the Indian and the Scot could enter the ring. When it was closed again, the men stared at the two in the center in absolute silence. The Indian and the Scot seemed to be unaware of the others, as they slowly circled the ring, eyeing each other and looking for weakness...of any kind.

The fight began.

Twenty yards out from the torch-light and the now raised voices, a lone traveler stood. He knew of both the Scot and the Indian. He was surprised to see the fight taking place, for many times over the previous few months the Indian had been provoked by the Scot with no effect. He wondered what had happened to result in a fight held in secret.

The only person not of the MacDonald Clan to witness the private battle, he spread an unpredjudiced account of how the Scot was beaten.

It had taken two hours. How both men could be standing after the first hour was madness, said the traveler. The Scot was the first to strike a blow, but it was quickly returned by the Indian, whose agility shocked those around him--his size was not indicative if its presence.

The traveler swore that he--who had often heard of the Scottish giant--saw fear in the eyes of the MacDonald man after the first blow was received. Pride and anger flashed through them at intervals, but the fear never left.

When the last blow was struck, it was given by the Indian. The Scot fell to the ground. The Indian's chest rose and fell in quick succession as he stood above the Scot, looking down with a strangely calm expression in his eyes. He dropped to one knee and whispered into the ear of the fallen Scot. The traveler could not hear the words spoken, but the other men claimed he warned the Scot that the beating could be repeated, and would be indeed, if the members of his clan suffered any more at his hands.

With that, the Indian left the circle of men, followed by the Irishmen. The three of them passed just in front of the traveler.
"The Indian," the traveler said, stopping one of the Irishmen as they walked by, "why has he done this?"
Jonas looked at him in silence for a moment. "They called him Heartless back in the New World," he said, as if it were explanation enough. The men walked on.

The next day the Scot was no where to be found. He had been humiliated and could not show his face among his Clan again. They were left in peace, and some in mystification as to why he had left. Years later the Clan heard he had made his way to England, another report said he had gone to Ireland, and still another that he was in Germany.

Two months later the Indian, along with Jonas and Kyle, moved on as well. It was never known by those in Scotland, but they met up a couple of years later with the Scot, who was indeed in England. There they became hard and fast friends, together they all moved on to Ireland, to Germany, to France, and to Italy, traveling for years, never quite settling.

Over the centuries history has repeated itself time and time again. Sometimes the names are well known, such as that of Robin Hood, sometimes the names are forgotten, as in the case with the Indian and the Scot, but good men are always there. Always fighting. Always willing to put themselves on the line for the sake of justice.

The Indian was one such man.

The Scot came to see the honor in such a way of life.

The Irishmen understood, and did their part in bettering, where they could, the lives of their fellowmen.

But always in silence.