The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

[Warlock]

Ahhh. Inside fix. Probably got the claymore from the Constable. Taken in a raid no doubt.

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 2

My Inconspicuous Journey East

My thoughts as well as feet raced with wild abandon as I headed to the train depot. The League of the Moderators! The League was shrouded in mystery and strange legends abounded about it. Some said that the order had been once, but was no longer extant. Whilst others did contend that it was merely the stuff of legend. There were even those that in jest referred to it as merely an ancient club for those with a penchant for eating broiled shrimp. Very few knew the truth of that ancient order.*

It occurred to me that due to the secret nature of the League I should in all aspects of this journey attempt discretion. Arriving at the station I attracted far more attention than I should have preferred for such a covert undertaking. My choice of a kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan and plumed hat was perhaps less than desirable in aiding me in my stealth. The naked steel of the claymore I clutched in hand may also have added to the spectacle of my presence. Subtly traversing the concourse of the station I purchased my ticket from a somewhat startled looking young lady.

I entered my train and was immediately met by the conductor, a fastidious looking man of shorter stature who sported a neatly trimmed mustache. He himself did not possess a menacing appearance but the two larger uniformed gentleman well equipped with an assortment of formidable weaponry who stood attendance on him gave me pause. Politely he inquired as to my name and destination. I thought that at this moment complete disclosure would not be in my best interests. Much as in my writings where forth I had chosen to assign myself a nom de plume, I thought a similar alias might be deployed here to my benefit. Sadly, lacking inspiration I responded with the first thing that crossed my addled brain and introduced myself as “Mr. Plume”. This in turned earned me a stern look from the conductor. I continued and informed him that I was on my way to a Shriner’s Convention and Clam Bake. “In a kilt?” he inquired. I explained to the conductor that all Shriners wear kilts. He countered that perhaps I might be confusing a kilt with a fez. Thinking quickly I added that I was in fact a very new Shriner and may not quite have mastered all the intricacies of the group. The two station guards were regarding me with rapt attention and unfortunately with drawn weapons as well. Casually, the conductor questioned why was I carrying a sword. “It’s a family heirloom”, I replied.

I was most a feared that things should have taken a turn for the worse at this point when I was saved by the intervention of a rugged looking kilted gentlemen. He wore his hair long and his face displayed the sun burnt and cragged features that marked him a resident of those windswept mesas of the desert southwest. His clothing was simple but his blue and white tartan kilt most elaborate. His sole ornamentation (save the glimpse of numerous tattoos) was an elaborate kilt pin of Native American design.

His voice was low and gruff “This man is a Shriner. He is going to a Shriner Convention and Clam Bake. The sword is a family heirloom. These aren’t the droids you are looking for. He can go about his business”. The conductor’s eyes glazed and he dully repeated “This man is a Shriner. He is going to a Shriner Convention and Clam Bake. The sword is a family heirloom. These aren’t the droids we are looking for. He can go about his business”. He turned to the guards and motioned them to leave. “Welcome aboard sir” he said punching my ticket and with a tip of his hat he left. The mysterious kilted stranger nodded and exited the train without another word.

To be continued…


*Legend had it the that the League was founded by none other than the most virtuous of the knights of the Round Table, Sir Galahad himself! Originally based in Cornwall, the five original tenants of the order were Chastity, Sobriety, Honor, Courtesy, and Good Fellowship. The order existed for centuries in Cornwall until the reign of Henry the Eighth. The King (who is most remembered as a ruler who seldom believed in moderation of any sort) disapproved of the League on general principle. His efforts to destroy the League drove the Order to secrecy and they fled to the highlands of Scotland. There they flourished. Many a famous Scot were counted as members including the poet Robert Burns. By odd coincidence it should be noted that during the time of Burns’ membership in the League that the tenants of Chastity and Sobriety were formally rejected. The League of the Moderators spread to the Americas and there prospered. By the by, the bit about the shrimps was completely correct.

[Warlock]

Should have said you were going to a Knights of St. Andrews Conclave. Although then you would be wearing the Sinclair Tartan. { because the Rosslyn Chapel is on the Sinclair Estate.}MMMM>>> maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. It is after all your Shriners convention. Maybe Coy with his Harley could help you out... {wonders how many will get that reference.}

[davedove]

Oh! Oh! I know who rescued him.

[Splash_4]

Should have said you were going to a Knights of St. Andrews Conclave. Although then you would be wearing the Sinclair Tartan. { because the Rosslyn Chapel is on the Sinclair Estate.}MMMM>>> maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. It is after all your Shriners convention. Maybe Coy with his Harley could help you out... {wonders how many will get that reference.}

At least one of us, but how did he get it on the high-dive?

[Panache]

The Curious Tale of Panache and the League of the Moderators

Chapter 3

Mr. Red

The train I had boarded for my journey eastward sped swiftly past the familiar terrain of my native state. I was left alone with my thoughts as the fellow passengers of my compartment must have viewed my countenance and saw that I was deeply engrossed in my concerns and not to be disturbed. Or perhaps, and being pragmatic this is wont to be far more closer to the truth, they were somewhat unnerved by the naked steel of the unsheathed claymore I had lain on the seat next to me.

Time passed and through the view afforded from the small dirty window next to my seat I watched as the mighty Redwood Forests were left behind to majestic mountains, who in turn were left as we sped into the great deserts of the South West. Though the train had stopped frequently no additional travelers had seen fit to enlarge the ranks of those in my compartment. Indeed only a handful remained, as with furtive glimpses those that I had started this journey with sought to quietly gather their things and find other quarters. We had made our first stop in the proud state of our Union whose name had been derived from the Papago Indian language and which meant in that native tongue “place of the young spring.” I mused at this, as regarded the silvery layer of frost that covered the desert mesa from my small vantage point. So lost in my repose that I failed to notice the entrance of another gentleman clad in highland garb. His tartan kilt was filled with the colors of the copper state but was upstaged by the brilliant mane of red hair that crowned his head. He too carried the naked steel of a highlander’s claymore in his hand.


The conductor, his neatly trimmed mustache twitching, approached the newcomer purposefully. Yet as his stride drew him to close proximity to the new passenger his manner became somewhat confused and a glaze again descended over his eyes. In a quiet monotone he asked “Are you also a Shriner going to the Shriner’s Convention and Clam Bake?” The red haired gentleman looked slightly taken aback at this. But showing the same ingenuity and fortitude of those first intrepid settlers of the Grand Canyon State he clearly understood a good opportunity when one presented itself so readily to him. He concurred (though with some amusement) that that was indeed his person and purpose. When the conductor’s gaze began to become sharper as he asked “and the sword sir?” I mouthed silent advice to the newcomer. With a further puzzled look the red haired man stated “It’s a family heirloom”. The conductor again reverted to an almost somnambulistic disposition and punched his ticket. He left the compartment murmuring quietly to himself “where I come from heirlooms are pocket watches or credenzas…”

Apparently having two kilted and claymore armed individuals proved too much for the remaining passengers in our compartment. A mass exodus ensued and we were left alone The red haired gentleman sat down next to me and lay his sword next to mine. He noted “Why couldn’t the bloody League just send a form letter like everyone else?” I had a suspicion as to the true identity of the gentleman before me. He was not unknown amongst the members of our noble fellowship. A look in his eye cautioned me to secrecy and he introduced himself as “Mr. Red”. I in turn gave mine as the aforementioned “Mr. Plume”. Beyond this small but necessary deception he seemed that he would prove an amiable traveling companion. It was quickly ascertained that he shared my destination and quest. In truth I was relieved not to have to make this journey unaccompanied. We spent many an hour cheerfully discussing highland garb in almost infinitesimal detail. The only drawback to my new companion was Mr. Red’s peculiar brand of humor. Whilst I am certainly to be counted amongst those that are wont to sport a glib tongue and recollect amusing tales for the amusement of others, Mr. Red was able to twist almost anything spoken into a play on those self same words. To describe such humor as “punish” is both descriptive of the humor and it’s consequences on the recipient. Night fell and my companion finished yet another tale with yet another word twist. I listened as Mr. Red concluded with “and there on the campfire, all that was left in my skillet was pan ash!“. I groaned as the train hurtled down the track

To be continued...

[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...