The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

B2MEM '11 - March 8th - A glorious tradition

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Dorthonion: Write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork reflecting identification with or connection to one’s land, country or culture.

Or write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork featuring kilts.

Very well! You want kilts, you get kilts!

In the early 19th century, two musicians witness the birth of a legend...

Thank you, Robinka, for the nomination!

A Glorious Tradition

Edinburgh, 1820

"So we will wear kilts for the parade, of course, in the setts of our respective clan or region," the conductor said.
"In the what?"
The conductor shook his head and gave the flutist a disapproving look. "Mr. Darron, it is time that you, too, embrace our traditions. A sett is the pattern and colouring of your clan tartan. Surely your family has one, of if you are too poor, that of the grand family of your district will do very well?"
"Never heard the word, never heard of such a thing."
Across the room, the harpist cleared his throat.

"A pity that those damned English have made us forget the fine traditions of our great past! But never fear, Messrs Wilson and Son of Bannockburn have in their possession the old pattern book, and you can write to them and ask for a sample of your sett. I expect that all of you will have found and acquired a suitable kilt by the end of the month. His Majesty wants to see proud Highlanders, and by God he'll see them!"
"In kilts? That's workman's clothing," the flutist protested, and at the stares of his colleagues, he added, "designed by an Englishman. How does that designate a proud Highlander?"
The harpist cleared his throat again, warningly.

"I'll thank you not to speak of things you don't understand, Mr. Darron! Why, a moment ago you knew nothing of setts, and now you presume to slander the history of the noble kilt? Shame on you! Do you think you are wiser than the gentlemen who are in charge of the ceremony, Sir Walter Scott and Colonel David Stewart?"
"Quite likely," the flutist replied calmly. "I do not know from what source the two gentlemen derive their information, but it is clearly a muddied well of lies."
Shocked gasps all around.
"Oh yes?" The conductor was almost shouting now, his face turning purple with indignation. "And how would you know, Mr. Darron?"
The flutist pursed his lips very tight, as if trying to contain his reply, but then he burst out regardless. "Because I've seen history! I was there, and it was different!"

"Will you stop that infernal coughing, Mr. MacLaurey!" the conductor snapped towards the poor harpist, who still appeared to be struggling with some obstruction in his throat. "And you, Mr. Darron, will cease your shameful talk at once, or you'll live to regret it! I will not hear the glorious traditions of the proud Highlands slandered any further – after all the English have done to us, too!"
But the flutist was not to be stopped now, speaking with a force surprising in such a slender fellow. "Proud Highlands? Nothing but rocks and rain and bracken, with peat and sheep for their only resources! A receptacle for exiles from Ireland – there are no glorious traditions here, and there wouldn't be even without the English!"
The harpist got up, muttered an apology and grabbed his friend's arm. They made their way towards the door while around them the other musicians jumped from their chairs, shook their fists and began to yell at each other.

"I do believe, Daeron," the harpist said when they were out on the street, "that you have lost us our job."
"So much the better! I certainly won't be perpetrating any lies about imaginary-" he imitated the conductor's bombastic tone -"'glorious traditions'."
Maglor sighed. "That's all very well, but now we'll have to move again." He walked a few steps, and then turned to look at his friend with a reproachful look on his face. "'I was there, and it was different.' Honestly."
"Well, I was and it was," Daeron growled. "You were there. You know I'm right."
"So I do, but I also know what's a wise thing to say, and that wasn't." He sighed again. "Didn't do any good, either. They so clearly want to believe in these traditions."
"That doesn't make it any better! It's all lies!"
Maglor gave a wistful smile. "I did not say it makes it better. But it will, in good time, make it accepted truth."
Daeron snorted, but his fury was gone. "Now that certainly is a fine tradition."

Chapter End Notes

Yes yes, I know, I'm such a spoilsport! I blame Daeron.

For some reason this appears to be the B2MeM of book recommendations. This time it's The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger. Particularly the chapter on the Highland Tradition, of course.

For what it's worth, I love kilts as much as the next girl. They're just not that old. And they have been invented by an Englishman. History is funny that way.