Sean and Jamie - Part Six: 1963
By M.C. Gordon
Part six in a series about two lovers, Sean O'Leary and James Gordon. All of the Sean and Jamie stories are about men loving men. Many of them include scenes of sexual gratification. Unless this is legal in your jurisdiction, you must leave now. To my knowledge, Sean and Jamie bear no acual resemblance to any other fictional characters. Author's notes at the end.
The story:
"Please come, Seaneen," Ewan MacGregor's voice pleaded on the telephone. "It's Robert Burns' Night, and a festival to last the entire day. Besides, it's been that long since last I saw ye."
"And why would an Irishman want to celebrate a Scottish poet?" Sean O'Leary asked.
"It's the celebrating that counts," Ewan responded. We'll drink good whisky until morning with fine friends. I'm to pipe in the haggis this year," he added.
Sean's stomach lurched at the thought of haggis. But he heard the pride in Ewan's voice and knew from Jamie Gordon that piping in the haggis was a very distinct honor.
"I'll think about it," he finally said. "But I'll not be eating haggis!"
He heard a sigh of relief from Ewan and knew that he had just promised to go. And Ewan was right for it had been several months since the two of them had been together.
. . . . .
That he loved Ewan went without saying, for the handsome Scot had caught his attention years earlier. Sean had longed to take Ewan in his arms the moment they first met, but he had promised himself to remain faithful to Jamie at least once in his life. It had been one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made, but Sean had returned to Dublin with nothing more of Ewan MacGregor than the kiss Ewan had stolen from him.
It was two years before the two met again and Sean learned that Ewan had been his Jamie's first lover. A short glimpse of the two of them together in the garden of his publisher's home just outside London was all Sean needed to see that Jamie loved the man still.
And Sean had faced another difficulty regarding the dark-haired Scot. Arranging for a quiet meal between the three of them, Sean had set Jamie free to follow his heart. That Jamie had chosen him had pleased the Irishman a great deal. But he had not expected Jamie to express a desire for him to pursue Ewan.
A year passed before MacGregor entered their lives again, a year in which Sean tried - with a small measure of success - to remain faithful. His only infidelity was with his own first sexual partner, his childhood friend Daniel Flannigan. It also helped that Sean wasn't researching a new novel yet and wasn't exposed to a foreign lovely who would send all coherent thought rushing from his brain to his penis.
So it was quite a surprise for Sean to answer a knock at the front door one morning and see Ewan MacGregor standing on the doorstep.
"You!" he exclaimed. "Didn't Jamie make himself clear that he's not interested?"
"Ach, now, is that a way to greet a friend?" Ewan's soft voice asked. "I'm no' here to steal my way into James's bed, nor yours," he said. "I'm in Dublin on business and thought to meself 'twould be nice to see how well roses grow in Ireland in fine Scottish whisky barrels."
Seeing the sincerity in Ewan's startling amber eyes, Sean invited him in. "Would you care to join us for breakfast then?" he asked.
Jamie had been delighted to see his countryman again and greeted him with an enthusiastic hug. As soon as the breakfast things were cleared away he led Ewan to the garden and showed him how well the roses were doing, proving that Scottish barrels worked well indeed in Ireland.
"It's the damned international breweries," Ewan said later as they relaxed in the parlor. "They're cutting into the profits of small distilleries and putting some out of business. I've come to Dublin to meet with other master brewers and owners tae see what can be done. It's doubly important, now that I own the distillery."
They discussed the situation for a while, but neither Sean nor Jamie was familiar with the problems Ewan faced and could offer no solutions.
"Best I be off, then," Jamie said, rising from his chair. Turning to face Ewan he added, "I've a commission to do a portrait of the Mayor's daughter. I'll be gone at least three, maybe four hours. Maureen, being all of seven years, tends to fidget."
Then turning to Sean he said, "Now's the time, love. Ye know that I approve."
When Jamie had left, Ewan stood and said, "I'll leave now. I know ye don't want me here and James has a task for ye to do."
"He has," Sean responded as a smile crossed his face and fire began to burn in his emerald eyes. "I'm supposed to bed you."
Three hours later the two men lay exhausted for they had tried to fulfill three years of buried desire in a small amount of time.
Ewan lay with his eyes closed until his breathing and heartbeat returned to normal before glancing about the room. " 'Tis hardly the type of room I expected of ye, Sean," he said as he noted the frilly lace curtains and bedspread, the perfume spritzers and ivory handled hairbrush on the dresser.
"My mother's room," Sean replied. "Jamie may have said he wanted this between ye and me, but it would have been an insult to him if I had taken you to the bed we share."
Ewan had not expected quite such a level of devotion or concern from a man who, only a year earlier in London, had attempted to see beneath the kilts worn by the waiters in that small café. "Well then," he said, "we should get up. The lad should be back soon."
"That we should," Sean responded, making a feeble attempt to rise.
It was there that Jamie found them when he returned home, Sean's body curled around Ewan. He closed the bedroom door softly and quietly tiptoed down the stairs. Retrieving the pruning shears from the drawer in a small table near the back door, he went to tend his roses. Smiling and whistling softly to himself as he pruned, he decided that he'd done the right thing when he'd called Ewan to say he'd read about the brewery conference to be held in Dublin. He truly hoped that the two men he loved, and who loved him, would realize that they also loved each other.
. . . . .
Sean was brought back from his reverie as Ewan said, "Tell James to find his pipes and practice a bit." Sighing in resignation Sean said he would.
"It's the twenty-fifth of January," Ewan added. "Can ye be here a day or two afore that?"
"I'll see what we can work out," he finally said before adding, "I do miss you, Ewan. I love you; we both do."
The weeks passed quickly and mid January caught them partially prepared. Jamie played his pipes every afternoon with Seamus Flynn, one of their friends and an Irish piper of some renown in Dublin. His tunic, tartan, and kilt were back from dry cleaning and hung in a protective bag in his closet. The sporran was safely back from the furrier. His belt, cross belt, hose, flashes, brooch, and sgian dubh were safely tucked away in the elastic compartments of his suitcase along with a new pair of spats to go over his brodies. Ewan had told him that the hat of choice was going to be the Glengarry, for which Jamie was grateful since it was the only one he had.
There had been an on going argument of sorts between the two lovers, for Sean refused to consider wearing a kilt.
"I don't even own a kilt," he said. "Besides, I'd be one Irishman in a plain saffron colored kilt among a lot of Scots. I'll wear your plaid slacks instead."
Jamie had gasped in disbelief. "And that ye will no' do!" he exclaimed. "Ye're no' a Gordon!"
. . .
The fine, cold mist that accompanied the ferry to the Isle of Skye turned into a steady rain as the two disembarked from the ferry in the small cove cum harbor. Dressed in heavy wool slacks, sweaters, and coats - their warm breath exhaling in small patches of fog - the two looked around for their ride.
Ewan saw them and left the protection of his truck. "Welcome, both of ye," he said as he approached them. "Truck's o'er here."
With their baggage safely under a tarp in the bed of the truck, Sean and Jamie joined Ewan in the cab. They carried on a quiet conversation as Ewan drove the truck several kilometers out. He finally stopped; the rain coming down in torrents was making it impossible to drive any further.
"We'll have to wait out the storm," he said. Turning in his seat, Ewan leaned over to kiss both of the men he loved. "I'm sorry to wait tae welcome ye," he said, "but I try to not shock the tender sensibilities of the island folk. They know who I am and make little of it so long as I don't go about kissing my boyfriends in public."
They talked a while about the upcoming event, Jamie heartily congratulating Ewan on the honor he had been given. He inquired after the songs the pipers would be playing at the festival preceding the dinner, mentally marking those he knew.
And suddenly Jamie blurted out, "Sean didn't bring a kilt."
"I don't own one," Sean explained to Ewan.
"Ye could've rented one from Hanrahan's Haberdashery," Jamie returned.
Sensing the rekindling of what had to be an ongoing argument, Ewan quickly remarked, "We'll turn the matter over to the Laird."
"Who?" Sean asked.
"Lord Robert of Clan Bruce," Ewan replied. "Most of the people who work here are from different clans and the Bruce, being descended from the king, is the strongest clan here. Lord Robert has taken us all into the Bruce who wish it. Fortunately, he allows us to keep our own names and wear our own plaids. I would no' have joined had I had to give up MacGregor."
Smiling at Sean he explained, "I can trace my ancestry back to Rob Roy himself."
The rain finally stopped and Ewan started the truck again. Instead of going directly home, he made an unexpected stop at an old stone house that was larger than the others Sean had seen on during his previous visits.
They were ushered into the house by a tall man with deep red hair clad in a simple white shirt and slacks in the deep red and blue colors that marked the Bruce.
"Welcome, Ewan," an elderly gentleman greeted. "I had no' expected to see ye until the Supper."
"I've come to bring a problem afore ye, Lord Robert," Ewan said respectfully. "These are my friends, James Gordon and Sean O'Leary."
Hands were shaken as the Clan Lord greeted Ewan's guests.
"A problem did ye say?" Lord Robert asked, as the men sat and took small whiskys from a tray handed around by the red-haired man introduced to them as Robert's youngest son Daniel.
"Aye," Ewan replied. He was honest and open with the old lord as he explained the dilemma of the kilt, for Lord Robert knew Ewan's tendency and accepted it. "Sean didn't bring a kilt for the Supper. And as it's a matter of contention between him and James, I thought it best tae seek your thoughts on the matter."
Lord Robert considered the situation for a few moments before turning to Sean and asking, "Why not?"
Although Sean seldom explained himself to anyone, there was something about the old man that made him answer out of respect. "I'm proud to be an Irishman," he said. "But I won't see myself singled out as such by wearing an Irish kilt at such an important Scottish occasion."
The old lord laughed a deep booming laugh that filled the room and echoed off the walls. "Is that all it is, lad?" he asked. "There's a simple solution, and in my power to grant. With that auburn hair and the height of ye, I could see a Scotsman sitting afore me.
I grant that ye become an honorary Scot for the event. Ye have the right to choose the Stewart or Blackwatch as your colors. Now off wi' ye. Daniel, take young Sean and Ewan to decide which it's to be. I'll ask that young Gordon sit wi' me for a while."
Lord Robert was a canny man and had noticed the look on Jamie's face at the walls of his sitting room, lined with ancient Scottish armaments and crests. Jamie's eyes spoke of a deep desire to belong for he had not been part of any clan since the death of his parents and exile by his family.
"I understand from young MacGregor that you're clanless," he said gently. "I've known the MacGregors on the Isle for many years and trust their judgement of men. Ewan speaks highly of that Irishman of yours and yourself. 'Twas at my own suggestion that he bid the two of ye come and celebrate the Supper with us. And now that I've seen ye face to face, and the look in your eyes so like that of my own oldest brother Connor ..." his voice halted and he turned away from Jamie for a moment.
When he turned back he said, "I remember the look in Connor's eyes when he left home so as not to face our father's wrath. Ye see, laddie, Connor was like you. We never saw him again and I later learned that he was in the African Campaign with Field Marshall Montgomery. He died there." Tears brushed against his eyelids as he put one hand beneath Jamie's chin and lifted it until they looked eye to eye. "No Scotsman should be clanless, James. I'd be honored if you'd accept my invitation be part of Clan Bruce."
Jamie lifted his left hand to his face and began to cry. Lord Robert gathered him close and held him gently.
"Well?" he asked.
"Oh, aye," Jamie responded. "I'd be that honored."
"Good, then wipe away those tears afore the other lads return and think I've done aught to harm ye."
When Ewan and Sean returned, the newly acquired kilt in hand, Jamie was quietly telling Lord Robert about the murals he had painted of Ireland's King Brian.
The three took their leave for the clan lord insisted that they get some rest in expectation of the coming celebration.
Jamie was testing his bagpipe that afternoon to be sure it hadn't suffered any damage during transport when there was a knock on the front door of Ewan's house. He heard the door open and voices but paid little attention for he thought he saw a small nick on one of the pipes. Moments later Ewan interrupted him.
"Look who's come to visit. James, Sean, ye remember Daniel?"
They both bid welcome to the handsome young Bruce. "I thought James might like to see the distillery," Daniel said. "We won't interrupt anything, Mr. MacGregor," he added.
"Aye, of course," Ewan responded. He turned to Jamie and asked, "Would ye like to see the place, James lad?"
Jamie longingly eyed his bagpipe and was about to decline when he saw the look that passed between Sean and Ewan. He sighed and put his pipes away; he could always check the nick later. "I'd be happy to see the distillery," he said to Daniel.
Ewan and Sean were half way up the stairs, heading for Ewan's bedroom, before Daniel could start the motor on his car.
"Was it Ewan's idea that ye gie me the tour?" Jamie later asked as Daniel began showing him the workings of the distillery.
The young Bruce understood the unasked question behind Jamie's query. "Oh, no," Daniel answered. "Mr. MacGregor would nae do such a thing. It was me Da's idea. He told Mr. MacGregor about Uncle Connor a long time ago. Da always thought that if his father had been a reasonable man that Connor would have stayed home and not gone off to war. He's tried to make amends by helping Mr. MacGregor and others like him ... like you and Sean. Da thought ye might like to see the place. Personally, I thought that your friends might like a little time alone."
The tour continued and Jamie was astonished at Daniel's knowledge of the distillery. "Do you work here?" he finally asked.
"Aye, when I'm not at University. I've worked here since I was about fifteen, when I wasn't in school. I'm the youngest, James," he added. "I have to find my fortune on my own. Mr. MacGregor is a good employer, fair and honest with folk. A good day's work earns a good wage. If I do well at University, there's a chance I might make manager here one day."
The sun had already set when Daniel drove Jamie back to Ewan's house. "I look forward to piping with ye," Daniel said as he stopped the car in front of the fence around the stone house.
"I hope I'm up to it," Jamie responded. "Thank you for today, Daniel," he added, "ye showed me more than the distillery."
The house was quiet when Jamie entered. A fire burned in the fireplace in the parlor, creating a comforting glow in the room. Jamie assumed that Sean and Ewan were sleeping and sat in a great over-stuffed chair in front of the welcoming fire. A small note was propped up against a lamp and Jamie read, 'Checked your pipes, no nicks.'
He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Beneath the note was a book, and beside it a small pipe. So Ewan had taken to smoking a pipe, passed through Jamie's mind. He picked up the book and decided to read for a while. He wasn't sleepy yet and didn't really relish the thought of a lonely night without Sean.
'One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them'
. . .
The big day finally arrived, cold but fortunately not raining. Ewan's housekeeper, an ancient woman named Katherine Campbell, took an immediate liking to Sean for her mother had come from Ireland. She scurried about the kitchen of Ewan's family home preparing breakfast. Auld Kate, as Ewan affectionately called her, served them large bowls of hot, steaming porridge, sweetening Sean's with honey. Having long since accepted Ewan's nature, she fussed at the three of them for not having planned such a visit before now.
Ewan finally glanced at the clock on the wall and announced, " 'Tis time we started to dress, James my boy."
As they started up the stairs to their rooms to dress, Sean followed and said, "I'm wearing underwear beneath my kilt. I'll be damned if I'll freeze my balls off, Robert Burns' birthday or not."
Ewan and Jamie burst into laughter at his comment, for neither of them had any intention of going about bare-bottomed in the near freezing weather.
Sean, needing put on no more than his kilt, sweater, hose, and shoes, was waiting with Auld Kate in the parlor when Ewan and Jamie made their grand entrance.
And took Sean's breath away.
Jamie was every bit the aristocrat. His tall, slender figure looked pale in the black tunic. Only the soft gray and white of the Gordon dress plaid, with the slender stripes of purple and yellow, broke the solemnity of his attire. The tartan across his shoulder added softness to the brilliant blue eyes. Looking at Jamie thus clad, Sean thought he could see the spirit of the Gordon ancestor credited with saving the first King from a wild boar.
Not that Ewan looked any less glorious. Shorter and more broad of chest and back than Jamie from his years in the distillery, Ewan stood in stark contrast. The MacGregor plaid was deep red and black with thin white stripes, and the red of the tartan gave an odd sheen to the older man's amber eyes. Here, Sean thought, was the spirit of Scotland.
The festival lasted the entire day and was a great success. There was food aplenty and Sean took advantage of the copious amount of salmon, fearing that he would eat very little that evening. He was no more fond of mashed turnips than he was of haggis and doubted that he would eat little more than soup and sherry trifle.
The day was filled with music - songs sung by the children and the music of bagpipes. From 'Farewell to the Creeks' and 'Amazing Grace' to 'Chase of Glen Fruin' - the MacGregor Clan song played in Ewan's honor - the music of the pipes wove its magic in the air. Jamie's recent admission to the clan was acknowledged as the small band of pipers played 'Gordon's March'. And Sean was deeply touched as Jamie and Ewan sang a duet of 'Danny Boy' for him their bass and baritone voices blending well. Daniel Bruce and some of his friends from university, voice majors in the songs of Scotland and Ireland, began a fine acapella rendition of an Irish song and Sean joined them for:
'In the evenin' we met at the Woodbine
The Shannon we crossed in a boat,
An' I lathered him with me shillelagh
For the trod on the tail o' me ...
Mush, mush, mush toor-i-liady
Mush, mush, mush toor-i-li-ay
There was ne'er a gossoon in the village
Dared tread on the tail o' me coat'
Sean's fine tenor voice and brogue added greatly to the song and there were cheers all around for the rousing performance.
The long day finally approached the moment for which everyone had been waiting. Sean sat with the rest of the assembled company and awaited the beginning of the evening's ceremonies. He still felt a bit uncomfortable in his borrowed kilt and new status as an honorary Scotsman. But he had to agree with Jamie and Ewan that the dark, rich colors of Blackwatch plaid were well suited to him. Not being a piper, he was excused from wearing a tartan over the cream-colored cable knit sweater Mrs. O'Hara had made for his birthday one year.
Lord Robert finished his opening remarks and the company was asked to stand. Ewan positioned his bagpipe beneath his arm, placed his lips to the blowpiece, positioned the fingers of his left hand on the chanter, struck the bag to start the drone pipes, and began to play 'Colin Thomson'. Moved by the skirl of the pips, Sean felt a surge of pride and love run through him as Ewan led the chef to the head of the table, The Haggis displayed before him. He didn't recognize the march Ewan piped but could tell that it was a difficult piece.
"Our honored guest, James Gordon, will now read The Poem," Lord Robert said.
Jamie cleared his throat and began to read. "Address to a Haggis, by Robert Burns:
'Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race,"
The company sat entranced as Jamie's rich voice read the words so often heard that most of them knew the poem from memory. Sean felt himself drawn more into the mood of the evening for Jamie's brogue was thicker than Sean had ever heard before. He could feel the pride these people had in themselves, their beloved poet, and a tradition that was one hundred and sixty seven years old.
Jamie reverently picked up the ceremonial knife and read:
'His knife see rustic Labour dight
And cut you up wi ready slight,' and cut slowly into the Haggis.
Sean felt his nostrils pinch themselves closed at the pungent odor of the famous dish. For a moment he thought he might be ill and concentrated on Jamie's voice, hoping that the sudden queasiness in his stomach would pass.
'But, if ye wish her greatfu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!'
The room was still as Jamie finished the reading. The silence lasted only a few seconds before all stood again and applauded the reading - toasting the Haggis, Jamie, and Ewan with glasses of whisky.
When the official supper was over and the tables cleared, the celebrants turned themselves to merriment. Tales of the Bard were told and more of his poems read by various men. Sean and Jamie laughed with the rest as Ewan, who had had a fair share of Glenmorangie, gave a rather tipsy rendition of 'Tam o Shanter'.
Sean knew he had been accepted when several called out, "gie us a rendition, Seaneen." He struggled to think of one, for he had never truly studied Burns' poetry. But one came to mind, and he was rewarded with much applause as he finished 'To A Mouse', his lilting Irish bringing an unusual interpretation to the story of the poor mouse whose shelter had been destroyed by a plowshare.
Much later, and very unsteady on their feet, the three made their way back to Ewan's house. Although it was cold, Ewan had wisely decided not to try driving. And it was only a kilometer to walk. A cold wind blew about them making the tips of their ears red and tugging at the hem of their kilts. They threw their arms around each other, as much for warmth as steadiness of foot.
Ewan pulled Jamie's head close to his ear and whispered. Jamie began to laugh and said, "Oh, aye. Let's do 't then."
Ewan's baritone voice joined with Jamie's near bass as they began to sing:
'O first I came a-courted by a bonny Irish boy.
He called me all of his jewels, his sweetheart, pride and joy.
Twas in fair Dublin City, a place so old and fair,
Where first I came a-courted by a bonny Irish boy.'
They reached the door to the house as the song was drawing to an end, very off- key. A pot of Earl Grey, nestled in a tea-cozy, was waiting for them, as well as blankets and pillows.
"A lovely song," Sean said between sips of hot tea that warmed his blood. He cocked an eyebrow at Ewan and was nearly knocked off his chair as Ewan staggered into him. A few whispers passed between them and Ewan shouted, "An' why no'?"
They stood, precariously balanced against each other, and hummed a few notes to set the pitch.
'A Gordon for me, a Gordon for me.
If ye're no a Gordon ye're no use to me.
The Black Watch are braw, the Seaforths and a'
But the cocky wee Gordon's the pride o' them a'.
Although both men had beautiful singing voices, they sang quite badly - they were that drunk.
Not that Jamie was any more sober, for the first words out of his mouth when they had finished were, "Me cocky's not wee a'tall. 'Tis a verra grand cocky. Care tae see?" And he promptly passed out.
. . .
"Can ye no' stay a few days more?" Ewan asked as Sean and Jamie packed their bags for the return to Ireland.
"James hasn't seen the old ruins yet."
"Not this time, love," Sean said. He took Ewan in his arms and held him close. Cupping his lover's chin with one hand he kissed him deeply and said, "I well love you, Ewan. I'll miss you."
Ewan blinked back his tears and responded, "Then prove it, Sean. Write another novel. Do one that speaks for Scotland and Ireland."
The drive to the ferry was quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts. Jamie and Ewan had discussed their plan at length and had managed to keep any hint from the man they both loved. Ewan knew that if Sean were to write a novel that included Scottish lore he would have to return to absorb more of Scotland than Robert Burns' Night. And Jamie was a willing co-conspirator.
Their parting was long and painful as they said goodbye. Ewan hugged and kissed Sean and Jamie as if he would never see them again and turned away, tears running down his face.
Jamie settled himself in the cabin of the ferry and took out the book that Ewan had loaned him.
"What are you reading?" Sean asked.
" 'Tis a wonderful tale," Jamie responded. "Ye should read it, Sean. 'Tis full of magic - and the struggle between good and evil."
Literary critique:
The latest novel from author Sean O'Leary comes as somewhat of a surprise, considering the title and nature of O'Leary's previous publication.
This critic looked at the title 'Of Faeries and Other Queer Fey' and was reluctant to read further. As is well known, O'Leary's first published novel, 'The Laird' dealt with an obviously homosexual Scottish lord of the sixteenth century, and we expected to find a tale of a similar nature here.
However, Mr. O'Leary surprised us with a well-written novel that combines the finest of Scottish and Irish lore: tales of Leprechauns, and Old Ones, Faeries, and the Elven kind, and the people who live beneath the hills and in hedgerows.
With his skillful use of these evocative elements, O'Leary has created a delightful tale that captures the imagination and takes it back to another time. The morally dubious undercurrents of the novel were eclipsed by the author's ability to bring to life the myriad beliefs and legends of Scotland and Ireland, creating an engrossing remembrance of old beliefs that are not entirely forgotten and are, in this critic's opinion, part and parcel of all that make the British Isles the focal point of countless fantasy novels.
M.P. Hedgewick.
. . .
Author's note: it has long been my desire to take Jamie back to Scotland. After hours of research, and the help of many friends, I decided to set the story on the Isle of Skye for Robert Burns' Night. The Clans and heroes of Scotland are many, as I discovered, and I could not include all of them in this short story. I chose Clan Gordon for Jamie because that is my own clan. Clan Bruce and Clan MacGregor were chosen because Robert The Bruce and Rob Roy MacGregor are well known historical characters throughout most of the English speaking world. I deeply apologize if I slighted anyone.
Countless websites are credited for aiding in my search for the plaids of the Clans and the knowledge that a Clan Lord can, indeed, take outsiders into the clan and that the Stewart and Blackwatch plaids may be worn by anyone.
Most of the information on Robert Burns, as well as excerpts from his poems, were also gleaned from websites. The chronology of the Supper comes from a website and my friend Magnes. All of the information on pipers and their garb is credited to Magnes.
I have also borrowed from J.R.R. Tolkein's 'Lord of the Rings' but only inasmuch as it was the book Jamie was reading.
Small glossary:
Sporran: ammunition pouch worn on a chain around the waist Flashes: like sock garters with ribbons Sgian Dubh: knife Tartan: long length of folded fabric that goes over the shoulder, to hand, down the back, and is fastened with a brooch Glengarry: hats that look sort of look like military/fast food service hats and match the plaid. Brodies: tongueless shoes with long, fringed shoelaces.
Written in 2002
Comments welcome to:
quasito_cat@hotmail.com
I've been overwhelmed by the acceptance of this series. Unfortunately, this is the last one I have. There will be more when I have the time.