Date: Fri, 6 Dec 2002 22:48:59 -0800 (PST)
From: Corrinne S <mdaigle@prodigy.net>
Subject: Sean and Jamie - Part Six

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.