A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 8
Texas Barbecued Haggis
When I dropped back down into the kitchen, the atmosphere had shifted. It was no longer a hum; it was a roar. The scent of roasted turkey, savory stuffing, and the earthy, spicy aroma of my simmering haggis dominated the air. I checked my watch: 2:15 pm.
Then I spied Da, hovering way too close to my oven, peering in the window and reaching for the handle.
"Hanging is the penalty for poaching the Earl's haggis," I ominously warned. He snapped his hand back as if he'd touched hot coals, turning to face me with a sheepish grin.
"You're late," he countered, trying to reclaim some fatherly ground. "I was worried the haggis would be ruined."
"My jeans got wet taking care of the horses. I had to change." It was the truth—mostly. He didn't need to know every little detail about what, or who, I'd been inspecting in the stable, or the sweaty, wet groping that had led to need of a wardrobe change.
I began laying out the components for the grand finale—the minced shallots, the heavy cream, and the bottle of Macallan. I pulled the haggis from the oven. It sat there, regal and steaming, its casing taut and perfectly browned. To anyone else, it was a traditional pudding; to me, it was the Heart of Scotland waiting for its crowning glory. I set the saucepan over the flame and dropped in a knob of butter.
I poured the first measure of Macallan into the pan. The alcohol hit the heat and flared, a sudden burst of Highland smoke and blue flame that mirrored the heat still radiating in my chest.
"Careful with the fire, Scotch boy," one of the uncles called out with a grin.
"Controlled burn," I replied, ignoring the scotch comment, my voice steady as I began to whisk. "It's all about the balance."
Sauce complete and the haggis settled, Da and I discussed the vitals of presentation. Normally, you would slice straight across and serve a hefty portion on each plate. But given the cornucopia of food waiting on the long tables, and the fact that most of these folks had never partaken of haggis before, we decided on a tactical shift: we would transect the haggis first, then provide smaller, manageable slices.
My only worry was the structural integrity. If the oats hadn't bound perfectly, the whole thing would crumble the moment I tried to pass it out, turning my masterpiece into a lumpy mess.
Amá Sání, who had been watching me with the intensity of a hawk since I'd re-entered the room, came to the rescue. She darted to a far corner of the kitchen and returned with two small, offset spatulas—perfect for the task.
I looked at my watch. Show time. "Ready?" Da asked, picking up the large wooden carving board.
I took a deep breath, the scent of the Macallan sauce still clinging to my apron, and the phantom heat of Hank's skin still warming my palms. I adjusted my posture, channeling a bit of that Earl authority I'd used on Da earlier.
Taking a deep breath, I said, "Ready," even if I wasn't. "Let's show them what Scotland can do."
We found our place at the long serving table just as the crowd was queuing up. I'd heard the term cornucopia before—well, here it was in grand, physical form. Stretching the length of the patio were all versions of turkey—roasted, smoked, deep-fried, and grilled—alongside traditional Navajo dishes and what I was told was standard American fare.
I settled in at my station and was soon joined by Hank. Sadly, he'd changed out of his deerskin leggings and was back in his jeans. We locked eyes the second we spied each other and mouthed a silent I love you.
As he came up beside me, I leaned in and whispered, "I hope you saved those leggings. And I want a pair too!" He smirked and gave me a quick nod in the affirmative, though I saw a brief flicker of concern cross his face before he shook it off.
I saw that same look a couple more times as he scanned the line of people filling their plates. Then it hit me.
"You're hovering!"
"What?" He tried to play innocent, but he was a terrible liar.
"You're hovering! You think no one's going to want to try my haggis!"
Busted. I could see the guilt all over his face. "Well...it did look very gray earlier," he admitted, his voice dropping. "It kind of looks better now, though..."
"Betrayal," I muttered, leaning into the drama. " Oh, Macbeth! Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it! "
He perked up, clearly trying to pivot. "The cream sauce smells really good..."
"If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging!" I hissed.
"I love you..." he whispered, grinning that Fierce Wolf grin.
"Asymmetric warfare! That's not fair!" I grinned back, then completely caved. "I love you too."
He needn't have worried. By the time half the line had passed, we were down to a quarter of the haggis and it was going fast. We hadn't planned on feeding the whole crew—this was just meant to be a taste of Scotland for those who dared—but the Small Army had proved adventurous.
Then I saw the look of concern again, but this time it had flipped. "Umm, we're not going to run out, are we?"
"Worried you won't get some?" I considered torturing him a bit longer for his lack of faith, but I couldn't keep it up. I pointed my spatula at a foil-covered plate tucked safely behind the counter. "That's for us."
The smile of relief and the love in his eyes had me wondering how we were going to get a hundred and fifty people to wolf down their dinner and give us some alone time.
My haggis exhausted, we grabbed some plates and I served us up my secret stash, pouring on copious cream sauce. "I love it with extra cream sauce, the more the better!" I enthused.
"Cream? Sauce?" Hank giggled as he heaped mashed sweet potatoes on his plate.
"Spunk… muck…" I countered as I selected roasted, fried, and smoked turkey.
"Jizz… spooge…" He smirked as we made our way to Amá Sání's head table. She and our parents were already ensconced at one end, deep in conversation.
I switched to German to be safe as we took our seats at the opposite end next to a very white-haired old couple. " Der Samen, und die Wichse! "
I turned to introduce myself, and the woman gave me the sweetest grandmotherly smile. " Der Shpritz! "
"Excuse me?" I was thoroughly confused.
"Der Shpritz! " She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "It means spray! It's Yiddish for cum!" She had a look that rivaled a six-year-old who'd just snagged the brass ring on the merry-go-round.
Her husband chuckled. "We used to call them our little paratroopers back in the 101st," he added, before turning back to the task of piling turkey and peas on his fork.
"So, you're not from Texas," I stammered, desperate to get us off the sperm discussion before I reached a critical temperature.
"Oh no! East Berlin. Crossed the border in the trunk of a car. I'm Hanna, this is my husband, Joe."
Joe gave us a big grin. "Joe Begay—cousin. I was stationed in West Berlin when she came across. We popped the trunk and there was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen in my life—love at first sight! I brought her back home to the family."
"Love at first sight is awesome," I whispered, glancing across the table at Hank.
I looked back towards Hanna; her eyes were flicking from Hank to me and back. She smiled softly, "Yes, love at first sight is truly wonderful."
I started turning bright red, once again at a loss for words. She patted me on the knee—a knowing look that saw right through me. "We had to get my brother Lukas out, too."
Joe snorted. "Yeah. You should have seen Jimmy Henderson's look when that blond-haired, blue-eyed kid climbed out of the trunk after you. I thought Jimmy was a bit light in the loafers, but that sealed it."
"Jimmy and Lukas live over in Dallas. They couldn't come this year."
I just nodded, thrown by the entire conversation. Were we that obvious? Were we that transparent? We'd barely even done anything, yet.
Hanna and Joe turned out to be a wonderful couple—once Hank and I got over the whole awkwardness of basically being outed within hours of first saying we loved each other. They regaled us with stories of Berlin and the challenges of Texas life for a Jewish-Navajo couple in the 1950s, not to mention the same for her gay brother and his companion. The dinner and the aftermath went well into the evening—so much for my mental urgings for everyone to leave.
Then came the fireworks. In the midst of a sea of people, Hank and I settled down on a Navajo blanket side by side in the field as it got dark. I'd rather have been lying on top of each other, but I had to settle for hips kissing—a quiet, burning point of contact. Hank reached between us and took my hand in his, our fingers interlaced, and squeezed. My silly grin matched his. These weren't just a couple of guys with Roman candles; these were serious mortars, cakes, and star shells—a proper warrior display.
The crowd's eyes were on the sky; my eyes were on Hank. He must have felt my gaze because he turned, bringing his eyes to mine just as a shell exploded in a multitude of colors—all reflected in those coal-black eyes.
"I can see the fireworks in your eyes," I murmured.
When the show ended, the throng finally began to trickle out. As the crowd thinned, we reconnected with our parents as they said their goodbyes to Amá Sání. My Mum turned as we walked up, and I saw her melt—it was that my baby's growing up look. She drew me in for a big hug, going up on tiptoes to kiss the top of my head. I thought she was being overdramatic; I was only staying behind for three more days.
Dad was acting weird, too—that same look he'd had when Magnus headed off to King's. Which wasn't the look I gave Magnus, just to be clear. I'd had to listen to way too many pompous speeches about how hard it was to get into King's—not for himself, mind you, but for the other poor sods. He'd insisted that I needed to follow in his footsteps, applying myself with his specific level of diligence. I think Magnus was already on the third draft of his valedictorian speech before he even boarded the train.
As our parents drove off, Amá Sání linked her arms in Hank's and mine and led us back into the house. She made us each a hot cup of Ch'il Ahwééh —Navajo tea made from greenthread—and led us out to the side porch.
Hank and I sat on the wicker couch, side by side. I tucked in under his shoulder, comfortable in the shelter of my Fierce Wolf. His arm draped across my back, a solid, warm weight that grounded me. We were both still reveling in the admissions of love, even if we were so far unable to throw ourselves into it like we would have wished.
Amá Sání pulled her knees up to the side on her chair and tucked her feet in under her skirt, smiling as she contemplated us. "You both made big steps today in embracing your Gentle Spirits. "
It wasn't a question; she knew. Even in the constant chaos of the day, she had observed, studied, and assessed. We nodded; I suppose our grins spoke volumes even if we didn't put words to it.
"Tomorrow is a big day, young Lachlan. How much do you know of what the morning brings?"
"Nothing, grandmother. Someone has been deliberately vague; even evasive these past weeks. All I know is there will be a Diné ceremony of some sort and that I am invited."
She smiled. "In his defense, Mąʼiitsoh has been under the strictest orders not to say a word—radio silence, as I know you like to say. Tomorrow, we will have a Navajo Sweat Lodge Ceremony, a táchééh. This is a sacred purification ritual of our people, focused on spiritual renewal, healing, and prayer."
I nodded, understanding that this was an intensely spiritual event, fundamental to the culture of the Diné, Amá Sání, and my Hank—my Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh.
"The ceremony is in four phases," she continued, her voice holding the weight of the importance to her people. "We will honor the spirit world and seek its guidance; examine the Warrior Spirit —courage, strength, and honesty; contemplate those teachings to gain wisdom and personal knowledge; and then look to the future—for healing and spiritual growth."
I contemplated her words, internalizing what she shared and seeking to understand it through my own lens. "I am honored, Amá Sání, that you are inviting me to be a part of the ceremony. It sounds like a very focused version of the last six weeks—our discussions here and in the garden."
Her eyes twinkled, reflecting in the dim light of the porch. "The scholar. You have a wise and analytic spirit, young Lachlan. You are correct. Our sessions over these past weeks have been a precursor—a lead-up to this ceremony. But I'd like to make a change, with your concurrence, of course."
Hank's arm tightened around my shoulder, a sudden tension in his frame. He was clearly as surprised by this change as I was. I nodded, though I was baffled as to why she would need my approval for anything regarding her own people's traditions.
"I have discussed my desire with your parents, and they gave their blessing as well; again, with the final decision being up to you."
I was more confused than ever. My parents' blessing? My decision? What could she possibly be thinking? I forced a smile and nodded, understanding that the answers would come, but my heart was now pounding.
She gave a little laugh, a warm sound that didn't quite settle my nerves. "Let me explain. I think it will all become clear."
I leaned more heavily into the warmth of Hank's side; his arm tightened around me, and he kissed the top of my head. He was my Warrior, my Fierce Wolf, my Best Mate —the Scout Buddy System was activated. I was as ready as I could be for what was next.
She took a deep breath. "I would like tomorrow's ceremony to be a Navajo clan adoption."
Hank's body jolted against me.
"Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh and you have a very special, very wonderful relationship. I have watched the two of you grow these past weeks—to grow as young warriors, to grow as young boys very much in love, to grow more comfortable with your Gentle Spirits. I want to bring you into the Kinyaa'áanii, the Towering House Clan, as family, not as a guest."
Hank squeezed my shoulder hard; I pressed my shoulder more firmly into his armpit. I even didn't blush at the two boys very much in love comment. I tried to understand her words. "Adoption?"
She nodded. "Clan adoption, not a family adoption. You would still be Lachlan MacKenzie, of the Clan MacKenzie; your parents still very much your parents—none of that would change. But you would also now be a member of the Kinyaa'áanii, with a new Navajo name."
It was all so overwhelming, and I was probably only understanding a fraction of the magnitude of the event, but I picked up on fragments. "A new name?" I grimaced.
That clever poodle look again. "You seem worried, concerned?"
I sighed. How do I say this without offending her? "Umm, Hank said the choices for white people were limited— greedy, inept, liars. I suppose inept, if I had to choose…"
Amá Sání snorted, spewing her tea out onto her blanket and coughing violently. I stared wide-eyed, convinced it was over. No ceremony, no adoption—I'd blown it. Then I realized she was laughing—the kind of silent, body-wracking laughter. I was still holding my breath when she finally recovered.
"Oh no, no, no, Lachlan. You are none of these. No, those are names of the past—fortunately even before my childhood. No, your name will reflect who you are; just as Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh's name, Fierce Wolf, was selected for him last year."
Thank the Great Spirit. I really wasn't happy with inept.
"All of our discussions, from the first day we met; your intimate conversations with Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh your Warrior Spirit in today's football game; all those elements will come together tomorrow during the Sweat Lodge Ceremony to inform your new Kinyaa'áanii name."
My head was spinning. I felt like my computer when I was running too many programs and the RAM just couldn't handle the number of applications.
"I know this is a lot, young Lachlan. You don't have to do this. Or you can think about it and decide later," she suggested warmly.
That snapped me out of it, just as the pipes goaded my ancestors to battle! I jumped up. "No! Of course I want to do it. No question. No need to ponder. I love Hank more than anything, I love you...joining the Clan would mean more to me than anything!"
She clapped her hands; her face lit with a joy that felt like a blessing. "Wonderful! That settles it then—tomorrow the Kinyaa'áanii shall adopt Lachlan MacKenzie!"
I felt Hank close behind me. I turned. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the porch and the tea and the world all faded away. The little smile on his face was enough to break me, but it was the deep warmth and the single tear in his eye that finished the job.
Oh God, I loved him so much.
We melted together, embracing as tightly as we'd ever embraced before. Neither of us was comfortable enough with our Gentle Spirits to actually kiss in front of Amá Sání, but the proximity—heaving chest to chest; fluttering abs to abs; swollen bump to swollen bump—was enough. We leaned our heads together and whispered I love you again and again.
A soft, "Ahem," finally broke into our moment. "Sorry for the interruption, boys. But tomorrow is a big day; you need your sleep. And I have a small task I need you to assist with before you go to bed."
With deep sighs, we pulled apart. I smiled. "No worries, Amá. We're used to it. We've had a regiment's worth of orderlies interrupting us at the wrong time these past two days."
A most understanding wave of sympathy came across her face; she pursed her lips. "Maybe I can do something about that tomorrow. But right now, I need new linens for your parents' rooms—Luka and Jimmy are arriving late tonight."
Always the dutiful Scouts, we turned to, refusing to allow Amá Sání to lift a finger. In short order, we had both beds stripped and remade—sheets taut, hospital corners, sides all tucked and tied. As we stood back to admire our work, I pulled my half-crown from my pocket and flipped it on the bed—it bounced!
"Nice, and that's a heavy coin!" he observed.
"It's a half-crown. My grandda carried this in the 1950s. He was a tough scoutmaster—your cot had better be perfection, no slouches," I grinned proudly, holding it out for his inspection.
Hank rolled it over in his fingers, then looked closely. First came the twinkle in his eyes, then the smirk. He held the coin out to me. "See!" He pointed to the shield on the back. "England, Scotland, and Ireland—all on the back. They are all the same. Paige was right!"
Too tired to refight the Revolution, I simply muttered, "Bless her heart," and beat a tactical retreat to my room to grab my dop kit before bed. Hank triumphantly chuckled as he did the same. The thump of our teen-feet a sharp contrast to Amá Sání, who seemed to skim the floorboards, moving with a silent, ancient grace toward her room.
I grabbed my dop kit, pausing as a fun thought popped into my head. Seconds later, sans t-shirt and jeans—my cock already swelling in my boxer-briefs—I padded across the hall to the bathroom I shared with Hank.
He was already there. Great minds—he was clad in nothing but white boxer-briefs, a stark contrast to his honey-gold skin. I gulped, feasting my eyes on the tight curve of his pert bum—the dimples in the sides flexing as he vigorously brushed his teeth.
He was mine.
He looked at me in the mirror. I followed his eyes as they scanned my bare chest, traveling down until they locked in on my crotch, my now fully hard cock outlined against my light gray briefs. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured reverently, shifting to the side to let me take up position at the sink.
Bumping shoulders, I sidled up next to him and put toothpaste on my brush, accidentally brushing the back of my hand along the length of his bulge. He thrust in, trapping my hand between him and the sink. Giggling at my predicament, I managed to drop the toothpaste and started brushing left-handed; no way I was moving my trapped hand.
The hygiene section of the Scout Handbook is quite clear that a minimum of two minutes is required for proper dental care; no less. It says nothing about the maximum amount of time. We were well-brushed by the time Hank released my hand and we spit into the sink.
We both turned, eyes locked. Fully aware that Amá Sání was just down the hall, nothing could really happen, but we could revel in the closeness.
Hank inhaled, whispering, "Minty breath."
I nodded.
He inched closer. "Would be wrong to waste this…"
I held my breath.
He kissed me. A beautiful kiss. My first kiss. Our first kiss. No awkward bumbling. No didn't know where to put our noses. Our lips moved together like two pieces of a puzzle fitting perfectly. Soft. Warm. Wet. Caressing.
Our arms slid up each other's sides—bare thighs, thin boxer-briefs, ticklish sides—before circling around one another and pulling tight. We both moaned as quietly as we could as our cocks ground against each other.
Our lips parted, the tips of our tongues flicking tantalizingly back and forth, teasing. Teen urges taking over, Hank slowly slid his tongue deep into my mouth. He has a really long tongue. I latched onto it, sucking. He started pumping it in and out as I did my Scout's best to try to get that tongue to climax like a cock.
Crash! We both jumped as a bottle fell from the sink, hit the tiles, and skittered across the floor. "Shit, my elbow…"
"Everything all right, boys?" came from down the hall.
Panting heavily, I managed to eke out a "Yes, Amá. Just finishing up in the bathroom."
"Bedtime, and that's an order!"
Grinning from ear to ear, we parted. "I love you…Tomorrow…"
Yeah. I tossed my pre-cum soaked boxer-briefs the second I closed the door. Hopping into bed, I fished my bottle of lube out from under my pillow—'thank you CVS self-checkout'—and went to work.
The kiss, the deerskin, silky pubes, cocks proudly framed in open jeans—I didn't last long. Only the Great Spirit knows where my first shot landed; it arched far over my head. The rest of my shpritz trailed from my face to my navel. Chest still heaving, heart still pounding, I smiled contently and contemplated my work.
Usually, I just wipe it up. Not tonight. Firmly believing I was tasting my Fierce Wolf himself, I carefully scooped up each dollop of cum and licked it from my fingers. Only then did I turn off the light and lay back to drift off to sleep.
Until my eyes shot open!
Who am I?
Your name will reflect who you are, Amá had said.
My brain jumped to hyper-light-speed.
I am a Scout. A Scottish Scout. A King's Scout, well almost, but not yet.
I am a Scholar. She had used that term a lot. Mr. Schneider had called me a linguist.
I am a Runner. Amá said the Diné believed endurance reflected the Warrior Spirit.
I am Gentle and Loyal. I love my Hank, my parents, Amá, even Magnus I suppose.
I am Gay. Very gay, not like a flamboyant gay, but a definitely a love boys gay.
Who am I? How do you divine one name—even with the guidance of the Great Spirit?
No answers came as I drifted off to sleep.
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