The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

[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...