Stories submitted by: The Order Archive - Brother MacLaing

Editor’s Note: The following account has been preserved from the Order’s archives. Some minor adjustments to wording have been made for modern readability, but the spirit and substance of the original telling remain unchanged.

You’ve heard of the sign, haven’t you? The one that pointed to the nineteenth? Aye, I moved it. For a season, I was king of Leith.

It was 1744, the year they nailed the first written rules to a board like gospel. Tee here. Drop there. Hole out proper. Men argued over every word as if salvation hung on a ball. And when the last putt fell, they wanted one thing: a place to finish properly.

There was an old sign by the road, worn and crooked, pointing toward the inn that had held that honor for years. I looked at it one night, lantern in hand, and thought, why not? My own tavern was smaller, but warmer, and I had ale that could make a man forget his worst round.

So I took the sign. Moved it a mile east, straight to my door. The next day, the first pair wandered in, laughing about how the old place had changed. Then came a foursome, then a dozen. By week’s end, my rooms were roaring. Lairds, merchants, even a captain fresh off the Forth. They all followed that sign like sheep to a shepherd.

I made a killing. Coin stacked like scorecards. I poured slow, listened well, and for a while, I was the man who owned the nineteenth.

But greed has teeth. Word spread. The old innkeeper stormed in with half the town at his back. Accusations flew, fists followed, and before the month was out, the sign was back where it belonged. My name? Soured like bad ale.

Still, I’ll tell you this. It was the finest season of my life. For a few bright weeks, every story ended at my fire. And if you think I regret it, buy me another and ask again.