From the saddle of his black stallion Methos called out, "This reminds me of the old days!"

Richie favored him with a dour glare, shading his eyes against the late afternoon sunlight. His golden palomino jogged up and down. "I can't believe you're making me do this," he muttered. "All because of a bar bet."

"Yes, well, I won and you lost," Methos said. "Aren't you having a good time?"

"I'd rather be home watching football."

"You have no sense of fun, Richie."

"I had a sense of fun about a half hour ago. Now I have a sore butt and I think I'm getting carsick." Richie's legs tightened around his horse and he clutched the reins tighter.

"In case you haven't noticed, there isn't a car in sight," Methos pointed out. "The automobile is highly overrated, in any case. Horse and chariot - that was always my favorite form of transportation. There's nothing quite like thundering down a Roman road and driving peasants into the dust to make you feel like a man of means."

Richie glanced back at the other riders, but they were too far away to overhear the ancient Immortal's remarks. "I prefer going 120 miles per hour down the Autobahn," he shot back. "Air conditioning, the stereo blasting out 'Aerosmith,' a pretty girl in the passenger seat - "

"Engine exhaust poisoning the planet - "

"What about horse dung?" Richie retorted. "Hate to get that in my little Roman sandals. Besides, even a Yugo has more horsepower than your pal Caesar ever dreamed of - "

"Caesar was a man of limited imagination," Methos said.

"He's not the only one," Richie muttered.

"What did you say?"

Richie managed to look innocent. "I said, do you want to hear a Yugo joke?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why do Yugos have heated rear windows?"

The quicker Methos answered, the quicker the joke would end. "I don't know. Why?"

"So your hands don't get cold while you're pushing them," Richie said. "Get it?"

"I get it," Methos said. "Ha ha."

"I think it's funny. You're just too busy wallowing in nostalgia to appreciate a good joke."

"I am not 'wallowing in nostalgia.'"

"Then why are we out here?"

Methos replied, "I do this every year on the anniversary of my friend Gustav's birthday. He was a wonderful man. Loved horses and chisels. I met him in Philadelphia in 1875 - one of my favorite years."

"And you couldn't sucker anyone else into this commemoration?"

"You're the one who lost the bet," Methos reminded him. "Word of advice, Richie: never wager with a man as old as I am. I've been winning that particular wager since the Sumerians invaded Egypt."

"I don't even know who the Sumerians are," Richie said, and raised a hand quickly. "And I don't want to."

"I learned it from a bartender at the Tower of Babel - "

"The Tower of Babel didn't have a bar in it," Richie interrupted.

"Which one of us was there, eh?" Methos asked pointedly. "Relax, Richie, and enjoy the fresh air. You couldn't ask for a more beautiful day."

Richie shifted in his saddle with a grimace. "I think I'm poking myself."

Methos didn't ask "with what." Even on a Saturday in the park, with no anticipated trouble, both Immortals knew better than to leave their weapons at home or in the parking lot. Methos' own sword lay securely against his side, a solid and reassuring presence.

"Just relax," he told Richie. "Let me tell you about Gustav."

They rode the horses for another half hour, that being the terms of the bet Richie had lost. Methos regaled the younger Immortal with tales of Gustav Dentzel and Philadelphia in the days when Grant ruled from the White House, and men wore muttonchops and beards, and mothers gave their children bright pennies to buy flavored ices. Richie listened to the history lessons with only an occasional smart comment, more interested in watching two teenage girls in tight shorts astride a pair of white horses not too far ahead.

Finally Methos dismounted, Richie at his heels.

"It's about time!" Richie exclaimed. "That music was driving me nuts."

Methos rubbed his right ear. The Wurlitzer organ music had been a little loud for even his taste, but one couldn't be too picky these days.

"Remember what you promised," Richie said, jumping down to the ground.

Methos rolled his eyes. If Richie wasn't thinking about women, he was invariably thinking about food. "I remember. Funnel cakes and soda."

"And caramel apples," Richie reminded him.

"And caramel apples," Methos agreed. As they went in search of food in the Seacouver Amusement Park, the antique carousel behind them began to whirl faster. Methos paused once to look over his shoulder at the charming little horses and brightly painted panels. Electric lights blazed out like colored lanterns in the twilight. Cheerful music rang through the air, reminding him of an earlier age.

"Happy Birthday, Gustav," he said fondly, before following Richie into the crowd.

Notes: Pioneer American carousel craftsman Gustav Dentzel was born in Germany on August 9, 1846. He emigrated in 1864, opened his first shop in Philadelphia soon thereafter and died in 1908. Thanks to Linda Hutcheson for her information about him. This story was inspired by a very fun trip to Knott's Berry Farm with my friend Kelly Hudson and her family on New Year's Day, 1999. :-)

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