The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

[GMan]

Pan ash, now that is great! You really do have me on the edge of my seat.

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 4

Mr. Malt


The Express continued ever eastward and mile by mile brought us closer to the great Hall of X marks the Scot and the League of the Moderators. The Desert Southwest became the great plains. The vastness of which had great effect on myself and my kilted companion. I found myself contemplative when confronted by the enormity of our great country. The plains stretched to the far horizon and I found in them and the amber wheat fields a sense of my own smallness and singularity. Mr. Red was also taken and strongly effected by this scenery. Sadly he was inspired to now speak completely in puns and other word play. We crossed the mighty Rio Grande and so entered the great Lone Star State.

As we pulled into the station at San Antonio. Mr. Red inquired if I had “heard about dog that wanted to be a storyteller, he really wanted to wag his tale”. I smiled politely and excused myself to get some air, stepping outside the train and onto the platform I startled several passersby with a scream of anguish that had building up within my breast for the last three hundred miles of track. I pounded the iron side of the engine with my fists yelling “PUNS! WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE PUNS!” A shadow fell on me and a booming voice said “Laddie if ya ‘ave a problem wi tha railroad ya best tak tha matter up wi tha conductor. Punching tha muckle engine an screeching’ winna nae guid!”

I regained my lost composure and turned to face a tall gentleman clad in a kilt of the Robertson tartan. He had twinkling blue eyes, wore a short beard, and possessed a devilish smile. He wore a small leather bag was over one shoulder and a large steamer trunk on a trolley rested beside him. In his hand was the now familiar bright and naked steel of a claymore. I smiled and nodded in agreement and proffered my hand. We shook hands and without further introduction I suggested that he follow me into passenger car. The conductor approached and I quickly intercepted him. I pointed at the new arrival and spoke firmly “Shriner. Convention. Clambake. Heirloom. Ticket. Punch.” The conductor’s eyes glazed and he punched the newcomer’s ticket and wandered dreamily down the corridor. “Wha a muckle strang tongue ye spak an tha states!” replied my new companion.

Arriving at our compartment the tall gentleman added his sword to the growing pile and the three us proceeded with introductions. Our new arrival went by the name of “Mr. Malt” and he too had been sent an invitation to present himself before the League of the Moderators. When we made inquiries as why he should be in the great state of the famed Alamo. He gave a lengthy response, that to be completely truthful was significantly less understandable than his previous statements to myself and Mr. Red. We were eventually able to gather that he had been giving a lecture on Whisky. I shook my head and offered the opinion that I couldn’t imagine that there was all that much involved in tasting scotch. Sighing loudly and with a sad shake of his head Mr. Malt opened his large steamer trunk. Inside and carefully packed with loving care were a great number of bottles of scotch. “They ar bonny ar they no”, he said gently removing one of the bottles. “Ma trusty feres we mus tak a right gude-willie waught, an toast our friendship wi a wee dram”. Mr. Red and I were perplexed as to exactly what this meant. Mr. Malt went about producing from the capacious trunk three glasses and he poured a measure in each. Now understanding his intent we toasted each others health. Mr. Malt took great care in explaining the finer points of whisky connoisseurship as we drank. To illustrate some of the details of which he felt it necessary for us to sample a second bottle, to compare it to the former. A third bottle was opened to elaborate certain additional aspects of regional varieties. Strangely, the more of Mr. Malt’s fine whisky we consumed the clearer and more understandable his speech became. I resolved to consult a linguist about this phenomena when I found opportunity to do so.

The fourth and fifth whisky bottles were opened to prove that these regional variations were consistent with the distillation processes of a given areas. The sixth and seventh bottles showed that even within a set region the quality of grain and peat used could still produce distinctive flavors. The eighth, ninth, and tenth bottles we brought us an understanding of yet further styles of scotch. The exact reasons for sampling the eleventh through thirty fourth bottles are somewhat hazy in my recollections, as is most of the rest of my journey by rail across these United States. The only thing that remains clearly fixed in my memory is looking out the small window and observing a flying squirrel gliding alongside us, keeping pace with the speeding train. It looked to be chattering angrily at me, and then all descended into a warm peaty blackness...

Eventually I regained consciousness. In truth I would have preferred not to do so as the pounding in my head at the beginning of this tale was nothing compared to the veritable percussion symphony I now experienced. From my view on the floor gazing up at sun through the window it appeared to be midday. The train was stopped and I heard the conductor shout.” Charleston Station!”. We were in South Carolina! Our journey had ended. But what trials and tribulations awaited us at the Great Hall of X Marks the Scot!

To be continued…

[Pour1Malt]

aye... ai ken bottle threttie-fower weel....

a Longmorn... 36 year auld she wuz....

limited edition single cask bottlin' o' ainly 206 bottles...

this wuz bottle number eicht...

black as nicht... mellow as a lullaby...

an' sweet as a luvers gentie kiss....

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 5

Mr. Dove, Mr. Oz, and Mr. Derek

Mr. Malt, Mr. Red, and myself staggered out of our train car flailing and landing in a heap on the platform. We lay there squinting much like a small school of catfish who had been netted and hoisted from their dark watery home to lie gasping on the shore in the cruel brightness of the sun and there left to die. We managed to stagger to the small stand that served as a café for the station for that soothing balm of the coffee bean. After several cups of a liquid that bore the name coffee, yet in sad truth came no closer to the rich brew I enjoyed in my own home than in this misguided appellation, the station platform grew into focus and ceased its gyrations. Eventually we were able to ascertain that at the other end of the station there did appear to be a small number of kilted gentlemen. Sure that this gathering could not be sheer coincidence and therefore must be related to our own goal we rose to our feet. With great effort we managed to transport our baggage and claymores without collapse or collision to present ourselves to this second group of bearded Highlanders. Each of which bore a unsheathed Scottish Sword, the mates to those we held.

The first gentleman was of robust build with a bright smile and merry disposition who introduced himself as “Mr. Dove”. The second gentleman was his opposite possessing a willowy frame and the retiring sensitive nature of an artist or musician. He seemed ill at ease with deception and its lack of practice was shown in his choice of “Mr. Derek” as an alias, which he gave to us in a Welsh accent. The last gentleman was of medium build and wore spectacles of smoked glass to protect his eyes from the uncouth morning sun. Something in his carriage and demeanor suggested that he too had been enjoying the fruit of the vine or grain the previous evening. His sword was easily laid across his shoulders. Hailing from Australia he joked that he had “used sharper and bigger things as a toothpick Down Under.” He gave his name as Mr. Oz.

We chatted amiably amongst these good fellows and gradually those of us suffering for our indulgences regained our facilities and humor. As the Station clock struck the hour of noon and we had just begun to ponder a method of transport to, and indeed the location of the Hall of X Marks the Scot. The solution to both questions presented itself in the shape of two sleek and large black saloons that pulled to the station’s curb. The drivers, men each sporting neatly trimmed beards emerged and approached us. One was of imposing stature and the other of a medium build. Both wore kilts in the proud blue, white, and gold tartan of our most revered and noble forum. They welcomed us and gave their names as Rob and Dee. Each wore a silver horn on a red cord about his neck. The horn of Rob, the larger of the two, had a badge displaying a kilted warrior against a backdrop of numbers and strange symbols. Dee’s horn featured a badge of a stag leaping across a field of stars. These instruments were symbols of their duty as the heralds of X Marks the Scot and the League of the Moderators. They explained that they were to take us to the great Hall of X Marks the Scot. They swiftly secured our luggage in the cavernous boot of each vehicle and we were invited to enter the sumptuously appointed vehicles. Mr. Malt, Mr. Red, and myself having traveled so many miles by rail together opted to take the same car. Mr. Derek, Mr. Dove, and Mr. Oz took the second. It happened that Dee was our chauffeur. Before turning on the vehicle’s engine he asked politely but firmly that we don blindfolds. The exact location of the Great Hall was known only to the League of the moderators and their assistants. We placed the proffered black silk scarves around our eyes (in truth as the three of us were not completely recovered from our merriment this was a welcome respite from the light). I heard the engine roar to life and the saloon began to move. We were soon to be at the great Hall of X Marks the Scot!

To be Continued...

[davedove]

What? Where's my entourage of cuties in orange shorts.

[KiltedCodeWarrior]

Awesome Panache! Now where did I put that horn? The last I remember Mr. Malt was opening bottle number 15...

[Kilted X]

I am totally enthraled. Scanning documents one aat a time is tedious work & I have come to the end of the yet to be finished Flying Squirel Show. Please do proceed.

[McMurdo]

Excellent, eagerly awaiting Chapter 6

[ozmeath]

Marvellous stuff Panache! And how that morning light does so sear my barley ravaged mind.
More!
More!

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 6

In the Great Hall of X Marks the Scot

Blindfolded we rode for quite some time, though without access to my pocket watch or ability to mark the passing miles, it would be difficult to even estimate how long or far we traveled. The three of us were silent and the only noises were the sounds of the motorway and the droning of the black saloon’s powerful engine. Eventually the car made a sharp turn onto a what I assumed was a country road. We could hear the sound of the wheels running over gravel and it felt as if we were headed up a steep incline. I steeled myself for whatever trials awaited me and hoped I would prove myself worthy. We continued along and the car surged forward and the incline seemed to grow steeper as I was pressed back into my seat cushion. Suddenly the car stopped and Dee spoke softly to us “you may remove your blindfolds”.

We exited the vehicle to find ourselves standing at the top of a majestic mountain. The second saloon pulled alongside ours and our fellow applicants joined us. We gazed at a huge manor house made of stone and brick. The gentle light of the late afternoon bathed the structure with a golden glow. The sun’s rays were reflected off the diamond faceted windows in a rainbow of colors. A great Saltire flag swayed proudly from it’s topmost tower.

We had arrived at the Great Hall of X Marks the Scot!

We informed that our baggage would be attended to and that we were to proceed through the massive oak doors of the Hall. Each of us carried his claymore before him as we followed Dee and Rob across the large marble floored foyer to stand before a sweeping staircase that wound upwards through the many floors of the mansion. There was a reverent stillness and quiet that filled the Hall.

Mr. Malt broke that silence. “Right den! ‘we’ve a traveled a fa ways wit muckle big swords. Wha ar we at do wi dem?”, he questioned loudly. The words echoed through the many chambers beyond the foyer. There was silence again and then a cultured English accented voice replied from the first landing on the grand stairway. “You will fight to the death for the honor of joining the League of the Moderators, and our amusement”. There was a sinister laugh and we beheld a clean shaven and distinguished looking gentleman clad formally in a black Prince Charlie Jacket and subtly hued tartan kilt regarding us. He wore his graying hair cropped quite short. A brandy snifter was held in one hand he casually swirled the amber liquid within it. He began to descend down the steps regarding us with a cruel gaze as he continued. “When only one of you remains alive, amidst the fallen bodies of your comrades, only then will the single survivor be permitted to join our exalted ranks! There can be only one!“ He laughed evilly in a manner that sent shivers down my spine. My companions and I exchanged alarmed glances.

“David will you leave off trying to frighten these poor gentlemen!” came a not so gentle admonishment. A sandy haired gentleman entered the foyer from a side chamber. He too was clean shaven and wore a kilt, though with a cable knit sweater and tweed jacket, and gave the appearance of one who had just returned from a long stroll. Something in the newcomer’s speech marked him as one of those descended from Acadian exiles with a reputation joie de vivre. The first man came to the foot of the stair and looked at the second coolly and shrugged. “A mere joke my dear Todd, nothing more”. The sandy haired gentleman turned to us. “Welcome to the Great Hall of X Marks the Scot!”, he firmly shook the hand of each of us. He introduced himself as Todd and his fellow as David. “Please don’t concern yourself with David’s remarks. He has a rather… odd sense of humor”, he explained. Mr. Dove ventured to inquire again as to the purpose for our having to travel with the naked steel of a claymore in our grips. Mr. Derek added that this requirement had caused him considerable inconvenience and embarrassment as he tried to disembark from his ship. Apparently the gentle fellow was detained for the better part of a full morning whilst a detailed investigation and examination was made as to his purpose and person. He grimly added that the port authorities of the City of New York now had a definitive answer to “The Question”. Mr. Derek said that it was only the consumption and remarkable curative power of a frosty malted beverage that revived him after this ordeal.

Todd thought on this a moment and answered “ Well it was Colin’s idea really. He felt that it would help show if you were really serious about wanting to be a moderator. I would just stack the blades in the corner there and someone will collect them. You will meet Colin and the rest of the League at a special Burn‘s Night Supper this evening. Dee and Rob will escort you to your rooms where you may rest and refresh yourself after your long journey. Please join us at the Library for drinks at 6:30 sharp.”

The two heralds escorted us to our rooms. Rob brought me to mine, one that featured a high ceiling and small fireplace made of black onyx. I felt so bold as to ask him about David. For the man’s sinister demeanor had unsettled me terribly. Rob paused and thought before replying, “He is a peculiar one and believe me to say that among such a …unique group is not to be discounted lightly. He is wont each afternoon to spend a measure of his time in the Library. He likes to sit before a large globe gently turning it on its axis. He pets a fluffy white cat with a diamond collar and speaks softly to himself”. When I inquired to the nature of what words he spoke to himself, Rob recalled that “One day it will all be MINE!“, “FOOLS! I’ll destroy them all!“, and “It’s all going according to plan!” were David’s favorite expressions when he wasn‘t manically cackling. Rob further noted that whilst English born, David had resided for some time in Norway. It had been decided amongst the Moderators and their Heralds that this must be some sort of a traditional Norwegian custom he had adopted. Rob wished me a pleasant rest and departed.


To be continued…