The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

[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…

[Mike1]

“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.

That's what I like. A healthy dose of non-fiction mixed into the tale.



(I will doubtless pay for that one! )

[starbkjrus]

That's what I like. A healthy dose of non-fiction mixed into the tale.



(I will doubtless pay for that one! )

Brilliant Jamie. I love these little twists.

Mike, keep an eye out for a gaggle of Norwegian MOD eating sporrans. If you see any run way. Very fast.

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 7

Cocktails, Introductions, and Questions

Finding myself refreshed after a brief nap and bath I hastened to dress in my formal garb and hurried to the Library. I admired the portraits along the walls of members of the League, past and present. I adjusted my cuffs and bow tie as I traveled down the grand staircase. The Library was located in the west wing of the Hall. It was cavernous room filled with oak bookcases and leather couches and armchairs. A large stone fireplace dominated the entire back wall. It’s roaring fire gave warmth and cheery light to the party in progress.

I noted Mr. Malt drinking whisky with Todd and another husky bespectacled gentleman with a thick shaggy head of graying hair. Mr. Malt was holding his glass up the light and discoursing on his most favorite subject. Mr. Derek was listening to David speak and sipping a dark rich ale. I joined Mr. Red, Mr. Oz, and Mr. Dove who were standing near the fireplace chatting comfortably with two remarkably similar looking dark haired gentlemen of robust build and neatly trimmed beards. I moved to join them, sadly managing to catch the end of yet another story by Mr. Red who was pointing toward the fireplace “Chimney Cricket! The way she acted I couldn’t help but poker, she had such a grate hearth, so flue me…“ The group gave a groan and a laugh. I myself was filled with a sudden desire for the return of my claymore.

Mr. Oz. introduced me to Colin and Nelson. Both gentleman offered a hearty handshake and welcome to the Great Hall of X Marks the Scot. Colin escorted me to the bar. His accent placed him as a denizen of wintry Canada. He asked me in confidence “Is Mr. Red unwell or is he always like that?” I pondered this question in all it’s fullness for a moment, then in all sincerity replied “both“. Colin laughed and handed me a most excellent glass of single malt whisky and we chatted amiably about our families for a time. Throughout these proceedings I did notice periodically one figure in the room that no one conversed with or even referred to. In the shadows of the bookcases stood a kilted figure with a full beard and a grinning face. He stared at us with a most unnerving and wide-eyed gaze. If one glanced away the figure would vanish only to reappear elsewhere in another darkened alcove. Or stranger still, one should only see the gleam of his bright smile flashing in the shadows.

Later Colin introduced me to Mike, the shaggy haired fellow I had spotted earlier. He had a steely gaze and his handshake was a grip of iron but he welcomed me heartily. Aside Colin noted that he was foremost amongst the League, save for Hank. Making a mental connection I asked him if the grinning figure in the shadows I had seen was indeed this “Hank”. Colin laughed and said “Oh no! That’s just Rufus. He’s become rather fond of the works of Lewis Carroll as of late and it has greatly effected his demeanor“. Trying to ignore the floating crescent moon of a grin in the corner, I inquired further as to this mysterious Hank and his whereabouts. Colin informed me that we would likely see him at dinner. “Contrary to some opinions he is a real person, and not an imaginary figurehead”, Colin confided in me.

The Canadian gentleman excused himself to then join Nelson, Mr. Oz and Mr. Derek in a discussion about influence of Celtic music. I wandered toward the fireplace and looked at the large global standing by a pair of massive burgundy colored leather armchairs. I settled down into one and I found myself approached by David. He sat on the chair next to mine. “Panache, how are you my dear chap? Are you enjoying our humble hospitality?”, he asked in a silky voice. I congratulated him and the League for their excellent hospitality and assured him that I quite happy to be amongst such august personages in such a magnificent setting. He regarded me with a cool gaze. “I was wondering your opinion on a philosophical matter. If I might inquire…” his question was cut off by the appearance between us of a most frail and befuddled looking old man in a musty dark tailed attire of a butler.

This bent and ancient servant tottered up to David and in a thin quaky voice asked “Would the young Master care for his warm milk now?’ David appeared annoyed and replied “Spasm, I haven’t been the “Young Master” since the Nixon administration and I don’t drink warm milk anymore.” The decrepit butler peered at David through thick glasses that magnified his eyes so they appeared as saucers attached to his bony skull. He continued as if he had hadn’t heard David “The young Master always needs a glass of warm milk after spending the afternoon playing with his Flopsy bunny. Young Master David loves his bunny rabbit and gives him lots of carrots stolen from the pantry. Naughty! Naughty!”

“Spasm, I turned that blasted rabbit into a sporran when I was ten!” came the terse reply.

The old servant vainly attempted to straighten his wild white hair that sprouted from his scalp in various directions. “Well then young Master if you are going to be cross I will go to greet the new applicants in the foyer”

“I’ve already done that Spasm!”

“Then Young Master, I shall show them to their quarters.”

“Spasm, that has been dealt with as well”

“I shall then inform them then that drinks will be served in the Library”

“We are currently IN the LIBRARY having DRINKS!” David’s voice began to shed it’s silk to show the cold steel underneath.

“Now, now Young Master, no reason to get cross at old Spasm. If you do, you shall have no pudding after supper”, Spasm wiggled one skeletal finger at David’s face.

David sighed, “Thank you Spasm, we are perfectly fine. You may resume your duties.”

“Very good Young Master I shall go polish the iguana and take the sideboard for walkies”, the aged servant gave a creaking bow and tottered away. I observed him open what appeared to be a broom closet, step inside, and close the door behind him. From within there came the great crashing sound of many brooms and mops falling

David turned to me “Don’t mind Spasm. He’s been here for ages. I really should have had him terminated long ago.” I remarked that telling an old and trusted retainer that he was fired would be difficult. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind”, David smiled evilly at me. He continued, “ as I was saying earlier before I was interrupted”. He paused as there came another crashing sound from the broom closet. “I wanted to ask you if you thought the ends justify the means? Is it better to win by “Hook or by Crook“, or to lose in a so called “honorable” manner? Does “Slow and Steady” really win the race? Or should the rabbit have had turtle soup before leisurely walking to victory? Is the code really a set of rules or are they merely guidelines? History is written by the winners right? They called me MAD! But I'll show them! You understand, don’t you? Tell me you know the Power of the Dark Side Panache!”

Feeling a trifle uncomfortable at his line of inquiry, I stood up and told him "that in my notion of honor I follow in the path of the greatest of the Gascon cadets. Like mighty Cyrano de Bergerac, I would rather take integrity and truth over popularity and power. For it was better to lose and remain myself, than win by becoming a lesser man." With this I excused myself and turned..right into Mr. Dove! He had apparently been listening to our conversation with great interest. After offering apologies for our collision he sped into my vacated seat and began to earnestly speak with the elegant though sinister moderator.

A few moments later the stirring sound of bagpipes was heard. The brave music rebounded through the myriad of chambers and hallways of the Great Hall.

Rob and Dee entered the Library in resplendent Highland garb. In unison they announced, “Dinner is served!”


To be continued…

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 8

A Burns’ Night Supper

The moderators adjourned to the dining room, whilst Rob indicated that we six applicants should remain a moment further in the Library. There was some concern amongst our group as to the reason for this delay. Dee explained that we were considered honored guests at this supper. To this Rob added that the League would be most pleased if we should undertake to perform some of the celebratory traditions that accompanied a dinner in the honor of Scotland’s greatest poet. Dee mentioned that it would speak well of a potential moderator if they should be able to contribute. No fools we, the hint was taken and we indicated we were most glad to add our small talents to the night’s festivities.

We were shown to a green marble floored dining chamber. Iron chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. In the room’s center was a table made of polished maple whose enormous length accommodated the entire League of the Moderators and their charming ladies and partners. All rose and applauded as we entered the room. We all gave a courteous bow and took places amongst those seated. I found myself positioned between Nelson and Todd’s good lady, and across from Rufus (or at least his disembodied grin. Dee strode to the distant head of the table and whispered to a bearded man who held court there with Mike at his side. The bearded man nodded and Dee took his place at the table with us. The figure rose and regarded us with a fatherly look. He held his glass aloft, “Applicants to the League of the Moderators, I am Hank your host, may I bid you welcome to the great Hall of X marks the Scot.”. We all raised glasses and drank. He then intoned

“Some hae meat and cannot eat.
Some cannot eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat.
Sae let the Lord be thankit.”

At which point a bagpiper clad in full regalia entered the dining room with Rob following holding a ornate silver platter in which a steaming haggis lay. We all clapped with great enthusiasm as the haggis was proudly paraded around the table. It was brought before me along with a gleaming dirk. Understanding, I stood to give Burns’ “Address to a Haggis“. If I may so bold as to say so, I gave a spirited rendition of the poem. The assembled diners were most taken with my dramatic gestures and the great energy I gave my performance. Unfortunately I was somewhat swept up in the moment in describing the haggis fed rustic and swinging the provided dirk at the line “An legs an arms and heads will sned..” I accidentally lost hold of the grip and sent the blade sailing upwards to embed itself in a high beam in the ceiling above the center of the table (where to the best of my knowledge it remains there to this day, like a Highland version of the sword of Damocles). I completed the poem and there was much clapping and laughter in spite of the flying steel.

As the dinner progressed my fellow applicants all rose to the occasion and did the spirit of Robert Burns proud. Mr. Malt recited (to no one’s surprise) the Dumfries’ poet‘s “Scotch Drink”. Mr. Oz and Mr. Derek instead of reciting verse produced musical instruments, a bodhrum for Mr. Oz. and a guitar for Mr. Derek. They played a Highland reel that set the diner’s hands clapping and feet stomping with the sprightly rhythm. The ladies present were most receptive to Mr. Dove’s gentle and flattering “Toast to the Lassies”. Mr. Red gave a sincere and heartfelt Toast to the Cook which, to my amazement, contained no clever word play. It was a joyous evening and we six applicants forgot, if for just a short while, our worries for the unknown trials that lay ahead and enjoyed good food, music, and comradeship. Some of moderators joined in the merriment with Todd giving a performance of “Tam O’ Shanter”, Colin reciting “John Barleycorn”, and Nelson’s lovely wife giving a coy and very witty “Lassies Response”. Near the dinner’s conclusion David gave a presentation of the “The Immortal Memory”. As the elegant Englishman finished and we gave our applause and cheers, Hank decreed that we should all sing the poet’s “Auld Lang Sang”. At this announcement Mr. Red jumped up and cried “allow me!” He then sang gaily:

I know a man called Mr. Lang
and he has a neon sign
and Mr. Lang is very old
so we call it “old Lang’s sign”

The groan that filled the dining room was deafening.

Hank rose and addressed we applicants, “Gentlemen, a moderator needs many kinds of skills and types of knowledge to fulfill his duties. In your membership in our forum you have demonstrated some of these. This is why the League has requested your presence today. To prove to us that you possess all those skills needed to become a moderator you must face 6 challenges. Assemble in the grand foyer at dawn’s first light. Those that are successful in passing these challenges shall join us tomorrow night to be inducted into the League as a Moderator. Good luck to you all!” With this the dinner concluded and each left for his own quarters.

As much as I knew I needed it, I had difficulty sleeping. What sleep I was able to get was troubled. For my slumber seemed broken by an angry chattering sound and I thought that a pair of small beady eyes evilly regarded me from some niche high above my bed. What this foreboded to I did not know.

To be continued…