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already found a supply priest. He's waiting in the parish hall to meet everyone."
    "Anyone we know?" asked Bev.
    "I don't think so," said Gaylen. "Although I understand that he has family in the area. Maybe a brother. He's a priest in Scotland, here on a three-month sabbatical. His diocese in Aberdeen wants to plant a sister church near Grandfather Mountain. There's quite a Scottish heritage up this way, you know. He'll be moving here full-time when the diocese gets the church up and running."
    "So he's starting a new church from scratch?" asked Billy.
    "That's the plan," said Gaylen. "A Scottish Episcopal church. Until then, he's certainly willing to act as a supply priest for St. Barnabas. At least for the next three months, or until the search committee can fill the position."
    "How did you find him?" asked Bev.
    "It was almost like a miracle," answered Gaylen with a smile. "The very day I found out I'd been elected bishop, he knocked on my door and introduced himself and told me he'd love to stand in if ever I was unavailable. He had his Scottish Episcopal ordination papers in his hand. A quick call to Bishop O’Connell and it was a done deal."
    "Hang on," I said. "He has a brother in town?"
    "I believe so," said Gaylen, puzzling for a moment. "I think it must be a brother."
    "Well," said Billy. "Let's go meet this fellow."
    "What's his name?" Meg asked, suddenly wary.
    "Fearghus McTavish," said Gaylen. "He's a colorful character. I think you'll all get along just fine. He's got a wonderful Scottish brogue and he wears a kilt."
    Meg lost her color and looked over at me. "Oh my," she managed. "Well, I guess... for a little while..."
    "You know him?" asked Gaylen, suddenly concerned.
    "No," I said. "But I think we might know his brother."

    ***

    Fearghus McTavish stood at attention in front of the fireplace. His hands were clasped behind his back and his neck bulged with muscles that seemed to belie his current profession as a minister of the gospel. Most priests that I knew boasted a less formidable physique.
    "Maybe that's not Hog's brother," whispered Meg as we gaped, astonished, at the massive figure standing before us. "Doesn't look anything like him."
    Hogmanay McTavish, known to us as Brother Hog, was a corpulent man, a short and plump tent-evangelist with one defining feature: one of the finest "comb-overs" that any of us had ever seen. His one long strand of silver hair sprouted behind one ear, swung across his brow, circled his head once, then twice, then terminated in the middle of his tufted nest, fastened to his bald pate with a piece of toupee tape.
    The man in front of us bore no resemblance to Hog whatsoever, being over six feet tall, muscular, hairy, and built like a professional wrestler. He was wearing a kilt—shades of red, light blue, and black plaid—in what I assumed was the traditional McTavish tartan. His kilt-hose, heavy woolen socks that stretched over his massive calves, were shades of gray and had the nubby look of handmade apparel. He was wearing a navy jacket over a starched white shirt and a striped regimental tie. The coat tugged against the bulk of his shoulders. I knew the look. A cheap, off-the-rack wool blazer for a physique that was anything but off-the-rack. His hair was thick, coppery-red, and cut short, and he sported a close-cropped beard and a huge imperial mustache. He had the ruddy complexion of a redhead and a hard edge in his green eyes that glowered at us from under eyebrows that looked like ginger-colored ferrets. He tried to give us what might have passed for a smile, although it was difficult to tell, his yellow, gap-toothed attempt being mostly hidden by his walrus whiskers. The effect was rather staggering. Staggering and terrifying. This was a man who obviously had little occasion to smile and the allowance, once made, disappeared quickly from his visage.
    "I'd like to introduce Father McTavish..." started Gaylen.
    "Vicar," corrected the Scotsman in a heavy brogue