Scott paused, looked over at Andrew, then back to Nathan. “Since then this sword has been passed on from generation to generation. Over the years it became less and less a weapon and more and more a symbol for the members of our family. When Patrick McPherson died in Cuba in 1898 without a son the sword went to his daughter, Sarah McPherson-Dixon. And though she was a woman, she served as best she could as a nurse with the AEF in the First World War. She kept the tradition alive by seeing to it that her oldest son, my grandfather, was given the sword at the appropriate time. As she did so she told him that she hoped that he would never have to take it up in the defense of our nation. She told him she had not raised him to become a soldier. But she reminded my grandfather that neither had her ancestors. Tied to their adopted homeland and possessing a dedication to duty that the McPhersons and Dixons could never seem to ignore always compelled them to take up the sword in the nation’s time of need. When my father was given this sword his mother reminded him that freedom was a strange gift, one that required the recipient to risk everything from time to time if he hoped to keep it. It was because there has always been a McPherson or Dixon willing to do so that we are free.”

Pausing, Scott looked down at the sword, lifting it ever so slightly as if he were inspecting it from hilt to tip. Then, his haunting gaze fell upon his son. “It is time for me to pass this on,” Scott said as he held the sword before Nathan.

For a moment, Nathan looked down at the gift he was being offered. The pitted piece of steel before him had been made ages ago by Highland craftsmen unconcerned with ornamentation but with a keen eye for utility and strength. It lacked any hint of frills or thoughtless flourishes. Yet it was a religious icon to his father. One of the worst beatings Nathan had ever received as a child was the day he and a friend had taken the sword down from its coveted perch and dragged it out into the yard to play army. Throughout the years, he had endured, at regular intervals, lectures on the significance of the sword. And now that sword, held before his eyes like an offering from the heavens above, was being passed on to him.

Across the room Andrew watched in relief. Like Nathan, he had been subjected to the numerous “talks” on family traditions, duty to one’s nation, etc, etc, etc. He fancied, as he sat there listening and watching, that he knew it all by heart and imagined Nathan did, too. Yet there was a difference between his view of that sword that did much to define the difference between the brothers. Whereas the stories behind the sword’s history fascinated Nathan and, in no small way, served to drive him toward his chosen career, Andrew had always viewed the sword and the occasional lecture that went with it as little more than part of being a member of this particular family. “Some families,” he once told Jan in confidence, “have legendary characters held up to them to be revered. Others brag about notable figures. The Dixons, well, we have Dad’s rusty old sword, a worthless heirloom that couldn’t even open a can of tuna.”