They strolled off, but began to stroll more slowly as they reached the colorful tents full of merchandise. Clothing vendors with kilts, kilt hose, tam o'shanters, baseball caps, T-shirts, and RenFaire garb. Jewelry stands, with cheap costume jewelry and expensive baubles. Bakers with scones, cookies, shortbread, Dundee cakes, and Irish soda bread.

Teal'c stopped to examine the weapons at one tent.

"That's a sgian dubh," Daniel pointed to a small knife. "Traditionally worn tucked into a sock."

Teal'c nodded. He had seen several kilted men using their socks as pockets: musicians with drumsticks tucked into their kilt hose, other men with packets of cigarettes in their hose.

"That's a dirk." Daniel indicated a longer blade. "Worn on a belt from the waist."

Teal'c picked up a dirk with a hilt carved from deer antler, topped with a yellow gem. Two pockets were in the black leather sheath, a matching fork and smaller knife tucked into the compartments. "Practical." He drew the blade and felt the edge. He frowned. "It is dull."

"These aren't weapons for fighting, more like costume jewelry, just for show," O'Neill said quietly. "You might be able to cut butter with these, but not much else."

"What is the point of a weapon just for show?" Teal'c set it back down on the table. He glanced at the swords: claymores, baskethilts, and two Japanese katanas. "These are also just for show?"

"Probably," O'Neill allowed.

Teal'c shook his head sadly. "A waste of good metal."

They followed Daniel and Carter to the next tent. Daniel was skimming through boxes of tapes and CDs, talking to Carter a mile a minute about bands that she had never heard of.

"Will you look at the selection here? They've got Clan an Drumma, Brother, Needfire, Uncle Hamish and the Hooligans -"

"Daniel. Breathe," O'Neill ordered.

"Sorry, just you don't normally find this much good Celtic rock in one place."

"Celtic rock?" Carter repeated. "I'd expect folk music in a place like this."

"Oh, they've got that, too." Daniel pointed to some of the CDs. "Alex Beaton, Heather Heywood, Cara Anne and the Minstrels, Men of Worth, the Browne Sisters and George -"

"Daniel, we can read," O'Neill reminded him, before the anthropologist could read aloud the name of every artist who had tapes and CDs for sale.

"Oh." Daniel stopped pointing at the Browne Sisters and George Cavanaugh's Castle Dangerous. The others did a little window shopping, looking at the tapes, CDs, videotapes, and DVDs, as Daniel chose three CDs to purchase. Most of the videos were travelogues, but some were about specific clans and others were movies set in Scotland: Greyfriars Bobby, Trainspotting, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.

Carter wandered over to the next table. She never knew what to buy her niece and nephew for Christmas; she barely knew them. Maybe David or Lisa would like a stuffed Loch Ness Monster with a silly hat. There were also dolls dressed as Irish dancers and toy terriers. There were several children's books, but she wasn't honestly sure if either one was reading yet, or just being read to.

"Sam!"

Carter looked up as she heard a child joyously cry out her name. Seconds later, a blonde girl flung herself into Carter's arms. "Cassie." Carter tried to keep herself upright as Cassandra hugged her so enthusiastically that she nearly fell against the table.

"Jack, Daniel, Teal'c." Cassandra released Carter and hugged each of them in turn.

"Cassie, what did I tell you about running off?" Dr. Janet Fraiser walked up to them. Stargate Command's Chief Medical Officer wore a kilted skirt in the Fraser of Lovat tartan and a blue polo shirt with the Clan Fraser crest embroidered on the front.

"I wasn't running off. I was running to Sam," Cassandra explained. The twelve-year-old was the sole survivor of the planet Hanka, and had been rescued by SG-1.

Janet sighed. "It's a crowded place. Stay with me."

"Have you seen all the neat stuff they have for sale here?" Cassie asked, ignoring her adopted mother's admonitions. "Jewelry - Mom, can I get pierced ears? - and clothes, really fancy clothes, and books and music and cross-stitch kits." She paused for breath. "Mom says we need to look first, and then buy, in case the next tent over has the same thing at a better price."

O'Neill nodded. "That sounds sensible."

The six of them continued window shopping. Cassandra stopped at every jewelry counter, drooling at every necklace, brooch, bracelet, ring, and earring. It didn't matter if they were sterling silver, pewter, leather, or plastic, if it was jewelry, Cassandra wanted to see it. And buy it.

Janet got a lot of practice in saying no.

"Hey, Jack, look at this." Daniel held up a T-shirt that said "VFW: Vowels for Wales."

"Is it meant to be a joke?" Teal'c asked. "I do not understand."

"Well, to a linguist, it's funny," Daniel muttered under his breath.

Jack stepped closer to the table full of T-shirts. "What's worn under the kilt? Nothing, everything works just fine." He shook his head; that joke was older than he was. He glanced at the next shirt. "What do you get when you cross a four leaf clover with poison ivy? A rash of good luck."

"Hey, Sam, come look at this," Janet called. She held up a pink T-shirt with a picture of a woman driving a chariot, the reins in one hand and a spear in the other.

"Boadicea, warrior queen of the Iceni," Cassandra sounded out slowly.

"Boadicea," Daniel corrected her pronunciation. "She was a warrior who fought the Romans, long, long ago."

"Were the Romans like the G-," Cassandra corrected herself, "like the You-Know-Who?"

"Sort of. They were invaders," Carter said. "I like this. Which do you think looks better, the pink or the blue?"

"With your complexion, the blue," Janet told her. She sorted through the shirts, looking for one in the correct size. She smiled when she found one in her size, and another in Extra-Small for Cassandra. She and Carter reached into their purses for their wallets and bought matching blue Boadicea shirts.

O'Neill dragged Daniel away from a tent full of books, knowing they would never get anywhere if Daniel were permitted to crack open a single book. He dragged him away from the books and past a tent of matted photographs of Highland scenery and Edinburgh street scenes. The next tent was a little further away from the others, and had a wire pen on the grass next to it.

The hand-lettered sign on the pen said Colorado Border Collie Rescue Society. Five black and white dogs were penned inside. A boy about Cassandra's age reached over and opened the gate. Four dogs rushed out. One remained sleeping on the grass.

"Mommy! Dogs! Dogs!" a little girl screamed in panic. Megan Murray, who'd freaked out at the sight of a Westie on a leash earlier that morning, was again giving in to her canine-phobia.

The dogs immediately headed for her, curious to see what had her so upset.

The volunteers hurried to gather the dogs together. Carter and Cassandra went to help them.

"Benjamin Brian Murray!" his mother roared.

O'Neill shook his head. "Full name, you know he's in trouble."

Daniel nodded in agreement.

"Megan, calm down, the dogs won't hurt you," Pamela Murray told her. She didn't quite hide the exasperation in her voice.

Teal'c stepped between Megan and an especially friendly puppy. "You are safe," he informed her, his tone of voice completely deadpan.

A volunteer from the Border Collie Rescue Society scooped up the puppy in her arms and returned it to the holding pen.

Megan hugged Teal'c.

Pamela thanked him and apologized for Megan's behavior. Then she recognized them. "You helped when the wind tried to blow the tent away, didn't you?"

"That is correct," Teal'c acknowledged.

"Stop by the Clan Murray tent later. Help yourself to some shortbread or molasses cookies," she instructed. "Tell them I sent you."

"We shall," the Jaffa agreed. He had a prodigious sweet tooth, and Earth had many foods that permitted him to indulge it.

"Mom, can we adopt a dog?" Cassandra asked.

"We already have a dog," Janet reminded her.

"We've got room for another one."

"We're about to head for the main stage to see the sheepherding demonstrations. Did you want to come with us?" Janet asked.

"Maybe later," O'Neill replied. "Teal'c wants to go see the athletics."

"Okay, we'll catch up with you later," Janet said. Cassandra quickly hugged all of SG-1 before they walked off.


The four of them watched as a kilted athlete spun around. He released a round gray stone and threw it. His yellow and black "loud MacLeod" kilt whirled up, revealing Scooby-Doo shorts beneath.

"I thought they didn't wear anything under the kilt," Carter said.

"The athletes make an exception," Daniel told her. "This event is the precursor of the Olympic shot put. They use stones instead of steel balls."

A judge rushed out onto the field to measure how far the stone had gone. He called out a number to someone with a clipboard, who recorded it.

"Those things look heavy," O'Neill observed.

"Anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six pounds,"a middle-aged bystander told them. He wore blue jeans instead of a kilt, and a T-shirt that declared 'Andrew was a saint. I ain't.'

Another man stepped up to the starting point. He wore a green kilt in the Hunting Ross tartan. As he spun 'round, red Hawaiian shorts with white hibiscus flowers were revealed. Carter stifled a giggle.

He threw the stone. The judge recorded his results.

"Caber toss will be in ten minutes," a voice announced over the loudspeaker. "Caber toss in ten minutes."

The four of them spent the time waiting for the next event chatting quietly and people watching. Some of the games attendees wore RenFaire garb. Some of the men wore kilts. Most of the men and women wore blue jeans and T-shirts.A pipe and drum corps marched past, playing "Twa Recruitin' Sergeants." Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.

Three men brought out the caber. It was just short of twenty feet. The bark and branches had been removed, but it was basically a big log.

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "They will throw that?"

O'Neill nodded.

"A task not easily done," Teal'c said, impressed.

"Nope," O'Neill agreed.

They watched as the first contestant, a big, beefy man in the blue and green kilt of Murray of Atholl picked up the caber and carefully braced it against his shoulder. He stepped back half a step, then forward, trying to keep his balance whilst holding the heavy pole with both hands. At 175 pounds, it weighed nearly as much as he did. Then he ran forward three steps and launched the caber up. It flew through the air, turning end over end as it flew. It landed on what had been its top, then fell to the ground. The crowd cheered.

"How do they measure a good throw?" Carter asked. "Is it height or distance or what?"

"It needs to turn in the air at least once," O'Neill surprised her by replying. "Distance counts, but the important thing is that it lands straight."

"A perfect throw is at twelve o'clock, with the top end nearest the tosser and the bottom end pointing away from them," a woman in RenFaire garb explained. "If it falls back toward the tosser, then they lose points. And if it doesn't make a complete turn, that loses points, too."

"Thanks," Carter said.

The woman in semi-medieval clothing eyed the caber on the ground. "About an eleven o'clock, I'd say."

They watched the next six tosses. The first one was exciting. The second was fascinating. The third was interesting. By the sixth one, it was 'you've seen one caber toss, you've seen 'em all.' Carter checked her watch and suggested getting back to the dance competition.