“Oh,” I say. “Goodbye, then.”
He waves again and starts back on his way while I head down the pier in the opposite direction.
Next to Ness for Less Market is Farquhar’s Famous Fish House, where a large man with a round middle and an extra chin is coming out the front door with a broom.
“Good morning, lassie,” he calls.
“Good morning,” I call back with a wave.
I watch him as he sweeps up a cloud of Fort Augustus sidewalk dust. The front windows have cardboard signs taped to them with customer quotes, making sure that anyone who walks by knows that this shop has the best fish and chips in Scotland. Anders from England says they are brilliant and Lynn from New York City thought she died and went to heaven when she tasted them. But I wonder what makes them famous.
Click.
I can still smell the sweetness of a Wee Spot of Tea and Biscuits baking all their treats when I make it to the pier near the loch. It makes my stomach rumble even though I already had cinnamon toast for breakfast.
I focus my lens way out on a point where the Boathouse Restaurant sits at the edge of the shore. Round red wooden picnic tables in the grass out in front are ready for hungry tourists after a day of sightseeing, already set with napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers.
Click.
At the very end of the pier sits a beach made of smooth stones, where canoe trips and other water activities are advertised with a sign that reads FANCY A PADDLE?
Click.
Near the beach, at the very end of the pier, I see three very old men sitting in a line on an old wooden bench. All three of them are wearing those same type of flat caps as Quigley Dunbar III, except theirs are black, not tan tweed, and the wool sweaters they’re wearing are bow-tieless and definitely more nubby than dapper. Each man is holding black binoculars tight against his eyes, aimed straight out at the waters of Loch Ness.
Click.
Then I notice a tall white booth right on the dock next to a large white boat bobbing in the canal. Green letters painted on both the booth and the sign read:
NESSIE QUEST
Loch Ness Tours Daily
Click.
Another boat bobs in the water farther down the dock. Except this one is a sleek and sparkly green speedboat with letters that read:
MONSTER CHASER
Tours every hour
8:00–5:00
Click.
That’s when something darts in front of my viewfinder and I pull the camera away from my eye to see a boy and his dog. The exact same boy from the abbey. The one in the plaid kilt and dark green Windbreaker with the white letters down the sleeve. He skips on by me with his glossy, twisted wooden cane and his barking dog.
I watch him through the lens as he and the dog slip in the side door of the Nessie Quest booth. The booth hatch opens and the boy takes off his green Windbreaker, hangs it on a hook and leans two elbows on the counters and his cheeks in his hands. When I zoom in on his T-shirt I can see a dinosaur-like green monster on the front with just two words scrawled across the bottom.
NESSIE LIVES.
Click.
I lean against the iron fence lining the yard of a stone house along the canal and watch the curious boy while I pretend I’m not.
He’s still leaning on the counter of the Nessie Quest booth. But he’s looking right at me. I mean, I think he is. That’s what it seemed like, anyway, from what I can see of his face underneath that stupid, gigantic captain’s hat that looks three sizes too big for his head and hangs way down below his eyebrows.
I pretend to ignore him and busy myself by rubbing at a scuff mark on the pink swoosh of my right Nike. But when I peek again, he’s still staring. So I lick my hand and rub the swoosh some more, then give him a sneaky side-eye glance.
He’s still staring.
“Hey,” I finally call out to him. “Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer.”
The boy’s chin pops off his hand while the red dog scrambles up off the floor behind him, putting two curly red paws on the counter.
“Pardon?” the boy says properly in that same Scottish accent as Ms. Begbie and Quigley Dunbar III.
The dog gives me a woof and sniffs the air in my direction.
“You’re staring at me,” I call out to the boy. “And it’s rude.”
He’s definitely younger than me, maybe eight or something, but still, that’s no excuse.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s not nice to stare?”
The little weirdo just grins real big at me with these super-deep dimples on each cheek. “I wasna starin’ at ye.”
I stomp up the dock and toward his dumb booth with my hands stuck firmly to my hips and Dad’s camera bouncing against my chest. “Ah, yeah you were. I saw you.”
“Well, if you are quite sure ye saw me starin’ in yer direction, then it must mean that you were starin’ at me as well.”
The kid’s got me there.
“No,” I snap. “I actually sensed it before I saw it.”
His laugh comes out in a burst this time, which I also don’t appreciate.
And I tell him so. “Stop that laughing,” I command.
He stops the laughing but not the grinning.
“Is that all ye came over here to say?” he asks.
“Well…no,” I say. “Originally I came over here to tell you that I don’t appreciate you staring at me, but now I’d also like to add that I don’t appreciate you laughing at me either.”
He tilts his head to the right and considers me for a moment. “You’re quite bossy, arna ye?” he asks.
“Did you just rip on me and then ask me to agree with you?” I say.
The boy shrugs. “Just an observation. Is there anything else ye’d like to say while you’re here?”
I think about it. “I guess not,” I say.
“Well, then you’ve said what you’ve come to say,” he tells me. “Ye can be on your way. Unless…” He stops.
“Unless what?” I ask.
“Unless you fancy a tour.” He holds up a ticket.
I swallow.
“A ticket?” I ask, pointing to a boat bobbing in the water. “For that?”
“A tour o’ Loch Ness,” he tells me.
He rolls his r just like Euna Begbie and horks the word loch just like Mr. Mews horks his hairballs.
I glance toward the water and see people handing tickets to a round, red-haired woman in the same captain’s hat and the same dark green Windbreaker with white lettering on the sleeve.
Except her hat fits her fine.
“You mean…go on the water?” I ask.
“That is where the tour o’ the loch takes place.”
“Uh-huh…and it’s a tour of what…exactly?”
“The history o’ the Highlands, includin’ the famous Urquhart Castle and, o’ course…what truly lies within the deep, dark waters o’ the loch.”
The way he says the last part makes me think he’d be a real good announcer on the Syfy channel.
Except for the hairball horks.
“Well, I can see the lake perfectly fine from here,” I tell him. “Why would I need to get in a boat to look at it?”
He laughs again. “Indeed,” he says. “Some people are too feart.”
“Feart?” I ask. “What is that?”
“Afraid,” he says. “Sorry, we use a lot o’ Scottish slang wi’ each other that we tone down for tourists. I forget sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t say I was afraid,” I inform him.
“Many people are feart of our Nessie.”
I laugh at that one a little bit harder than I mean to. “That Loch Ness Monster thing?” I ask. “I’m sorry to rain on your parade here, but my dad says th
at thing’s not real.”
He scoffs at me. “Do ye live under a rock?”
“No,” I snap. “Denver.”
“Right. That explains it then, doesna it?” he says.
I put my hands on my hips again. “Explains what?”
“It explains why ye dinna ken anythin’.”
“I do too know something. In fact, I know plenty of things,” I tell him. “Probably way more than you.”
“Like what?”
“L-like, I know that thing out there is just a story,” I say. “My dad told me so. And he’s from here and way older than you. Like decades.”
He motions for me to come closer with a curled-finger wiggle.
“I’ll let you in on a wee secret,” he whispers.
I lean in. “What?”
“There is always some truth to every story. The nonbelievers are only nonbelievers because they dinna really ken anythin’, so they just say it’s not true. It’s a lot easier to do that than to actually open yer mind to learn facts about new possibilities. The thing is…you’re here and that tells me ye want to ken the truth. Here’s yer chance.” He waves the ticket in the air. “O’ course, it’s not everyone’s cuppa tea.”
“You can say that again,” I mumble.
“And o’ course, not everyone has the tidbits for it,” he goes on.
I give him my very best Cheez Whiz. “The what?” I ask him.
“Tidbits.”
“Is that some kind of Scottish thing too?”
“Nae, it’s Hamish.”
“Huh?” I ask.
He grins two deep dimples at me again. “Hamish Bean Tibby at yer service.” He tips his gigantic hat at me, just like Quigley Dunbar III did. “But ye can call me Hammy Bean for short. Bean for even shorter.”
“Hammy Bean?” I say. “Your parents named you after a casserole?”
“Nae, after my great-grandfather.”
“I was kidding,” I tell him.
“I’m not. My great-grandfather was the Earl of Scott, Hamish Bean Tibby the First,” he tells me, and then leans in close and whispers again. “We’re royalty, if ye must ken. But dinna tell anyone, it’s a secret. For security reasons, ye ken.”
“Royalty royalty? Like Kate and William and Harry and Meghan?”
“Haud yer wheesht,” he tells me with a finger over his lips.
“Haud my what?”
“Wheesht,” he repeats. “It means shush. Remember…it’s a secret.”
“Right, sorry,” I say.
“Anyway, it’s okay if ye dinnat have them is all I’m sayin’,” he goes on.
“Don’t have what?”
“Tidbits, guts, bravery, and the like.”
“Listen here.” I stand a little taller. “I have tidbits aplenty. Tons of them, in fact. I’m loaded to the brim with tidbits, if you must know.”
He waves the slip of paper again.
“Tickets are ten pounds,” he informs me. “That’s includin’ the tidbit discount.”
Nessie Quest Tours
Admit One
£10
“Wait, what kind of discount is that?” I ask him. “The ticket says ten pounds right on it.”
“Right. The discount is applied in advance, considerin’ that only people wi’ tidbits buy the tickets anyway.” He pushes a button on the cash register and it beeps out a total. “Will that be cash or credit?”
“Yeah, well, the thing is…ah…I…I mean…I’m supposed to be back in one hour. My mom told me so.”
“Brilliant.” He sets the ticket on the counter and pushes it toward me. “The tour is exactly fifty-five minutes. Will that be cash or credit?”
“Okay…yeah, um…but…so the thing is that I don’t have any money with me,” I tell him.
“Mmm,” he says. “No money?”
“Right.” I pull the insides of my jeans pockets all the way out to show him. “No money, see? Nothing.”
He juts a chin in the direction of the boat. “Is the lady with the curly red hair lookin’?” he asks.
I bite my bottom lip, stretch my neck and give a quick peek around the booth. The red-haired lady is talking and laughing with the people already boarded for the tour.
“No,” I say. “She’s busy.”
He pushes the ticket even closer to me. “You can owe me.”
I put a single finger on it and push it back. “Yeah, but the thing is that…um…the thing is…you know what it is? Here’s what it is—” But he doesn’t even let me finish.
“As I thought,” he says. “No tidbits.”
I stomp a single Nike on the dock. “Stop saying that stupid word,” I snap.
A gray camouflage walkie-talkie radio sitting on the counter beeps and a woman’s voice calls out from the speaker. “Mamo Honey to Captain Green Bean. Come in, Captain Green Bean. Over.”
Beep.
The ham-and-bean-casserole kid picks up the radio and presses the black button and it beeps again.
“Captain Green Bean here, over,” he says into the tiny speaker.
“Rendezvous at the Nessie Quest straightaway,” the woman’s voice says. “We are ready to crack on with it.”
“That’s a roger, Mamo Honey,” the kid says. “Over and out.”
“Who was that?” I ask.
“I have to go,” he tells me. “My Mamo Honey is the captain on the boat. She’s my grandmother. Mamó is granny in Gaelic. I’m the official announcer for the Nessie Quest boat tours. I tell the tourists all aboot the history o’ Loch Ness and Scotland and, o’ course…the history of the monster. Not to brag, but I ken everythin’ there is to ken aboot everythin’ when it comes to this loch. Ye dinna ken what you’ll be missin’. Please excuse me now; I’ve got to close up shop.”
He hangs a new sign on the hatch before slamming it closed.
GONE TO FIND A MONSTER
The red dog emerges from the side door first, followed by the kid holding his leash.
As the boy locks the door, the dog stops in front of me to give me a good sniff and taste my hand with his tongue.
“Hi, boy.” I bend down, reaching a hand to pat his head. He licks my hand again and then a wet tongue crosses my nose.
“She’s a girl,” Hammy Bean tells me. “Mac-Talla Tibby.”
“That’s a real cool name for a dog,” I say. “Is it Scottish?”
“It’s Gaelic for echo,” he tells me.
“I like it,” I say, giving her a scratch under her chin.
Mac-Talla holds up a paw for me to shake.
I shake it. “Nice to meet you, girl,” I tell her.
“Lead the way, Mac-Talla,” the boy calls to her.
Mac-Talla barks three times and runs out in front of Hammy Bean and his twisted wooden cane, pulling him toward the Nessie Quest tour boat.
Mamo Honey starts up the engine, and the smell of gasoline swirls through the air.
I follow Hammy Bean to the end of the dock. “So…you’re saying without a doubt, you believe that thing’s out there?”
“O’ course it is,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but, I mean, have you ever actually seen it with your very own eyes?”
“If ye really want to learn more aboot it but dinna want to pop into the water to do it, ye can always meet me at my hoose on Wednesday mornin’. That’s when I work on my Nessie newsletter.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re interested in learnin’ the facts,” he calls back to me. “I can tell. My hoose is the one wi’ the red door on Bunioch Brae. Tibby Manor is etched above the door.”
“You still didn’t answer my question,” I call after him. “I asked you if you’ve seen the thing with your own eyes.”
He stops and turns to face me again. “Not exactly.”
“Well, right there, then, I can’t accept your testimony. You can’t say something truly exists if you haven’t seen it with your own eyes.”
He laughs again.
“What are you laughing at now?” I demand.
“You.”
“And why is that?”
“Because ye dinna ken anythin’,” he tells me.
I point to myself. “I don’t? Me? That’s some talk coming from some eight-year-old.”
“I’m ten…and three-quarters.”
“That doesn’t help your case any,” I inform him.
“If ye rely on only one of yer senses, ye can miss oot on some really important things,” he tells me.
I consider this. “What is that supposed to mean? Seeing it is everything.”
He smiles. “Not everythin’,” he says, placing a hand on top of Mac-Talla’s head. “I canna see it, but I ken it’s there.”
“You can’t see it because it’s not real.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I canna see it because…I’m blind.”
That’s when the world stops like someone pushed the Fort Augustus Pause button.
I stand frozen, staring at him.
“Y-you’re…what?”
“Blind,” he says, reaching for a silver handle stuck to the side of the boat.
I watch him pull himself into the boat and then Mac-Talla takes a giant leap, landing next to him. “Remember, it’s the hoose wi’ the red door.” He waves from the water. “Tatty bye, Denver!”
My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out of it.
Another rainy day in the Scottish Highlands.
And also a greener day.
So far, I haven’t been able to capture the soul of the green in any of my photographs the way Dad captures it in his. We downloaded all the shots on the computer last night and I didn’t catch souls in any of them. Dad said it can be a hard thing to learn. But the thing is, he does it every time.
So today, with Dad’s camera hanging from my neck, I’m hunting for souls to capture.
“Where is this place?” I call up to Dad in the backward rental car.
Nessie Quest Page 5
