The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  It seemed as if someone had torn up and tried to burn one of the ancient volumes.

  Lying in the grate was the heavy leather cover of some book. The cover had been torn away from the rest of the book and a pile of blackened ashes in the cold grate told the story of its fate.

  Curiously Jeannie bent down and picked up the leather cover. The inside pages had been simply torn away from the cover by sheer brute strength. Some sections of the pages were still left torn and twisted, hanging loose from the spine. Part of the first page contained some neat copperplate handwriting.

  ‘The Diary of Dona … ’

  The Diary of Donald Millbuie? Jeannie peered curiously at the twisted pages as the idea registered in her mind. Apart from the odd word or two on the surviving scraps of paper there was nothing to indicate whether it had been the old laird’s diary. Whoever had destroyed it had made a fairly thorough job of work. She let the leather cover fall back into the grate. As she did so a piece of paper detached itself and floated down. She had not noticed it before. It was larger than the rest and contained a fair amount of writing.

  Jeannie picked it up and squinted at it. Her eyes grew wide as she read:

  ‘ … evil! At least I can be thankful for one thing, that I am the last of this accursed race of Millbuie and with my death must come an end to that frightful bane that has hung over this house for centuries.’

  Jeannie found her heart beating rapidly and cold shivers tingling her spine.

  ‘Miss Millbuie!’

  The voice of Mrs Murdo came echoing down the corridor.

  Jeannie started, hastily stuffed the piece of paper in her pocket with the rest of the old laird’s writings, gave a quick look around the room lest she had left some evidence of her presence and then let herself out of the door, remembering to re-lock it and place the key in her pocket.

  Mrs Murdo was standing on the landing two floors below and watched her descent with a dark suspicious look.

  ‘I have been calling you for some time, Miss Millbuie.’

  Jeannie forced a disarming smile.

  ‘It is such a large house, Mrs Murdo. I didn’t hear you. Have you been to the village?’

  ‘I have. I have bought a cake for your tea. The kettle is boiling.’

  The housekeeper gave her a long side glance.

  ‘You have kept to the main rooms? You have to be careful about exploring the house on your own. There are parts which are quite unsafe … ’

  Jeannie nodded.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had an interesting afternoon,’ she replied, following the tall figure of the housekeeper down the stairs to the parlour. Just before the meal Jeannie made the excuse of wanting to wash her hands and seized the opportunity to hang the key of the old laird’s room back on its hook with the others in the scullery.

  *

  Jeannie opened her eyes and looked at the clock.

  It was nearly two-thirty. Her room was shrouded in gloom, the moonlight was still strong but trying vainly to shine through clouds for it cast a pale but diffused light across the room.

  What had awoken her?

  The silence was almost complete.

  Slowly she sat up, head to one side, listening.

  Yes, there it was … that same sound that had woken her on the previous night. It began softly, like the whispering of the wind in the trees, gradually increasing its tone until it became a high-pitched wail. Then, abruptly, it ceased.

  This time Jeannie was positive; it was not the wind nor was it the sound of water in the underground caves beneath the castle. It was almost a human cry.

  Jeannie threw off the bedclothes and walked to the window, staring out across the brooding night waters of the great loch.

  Unlike the previous night, the hidden moon could not light the expanse of water. The tall black hills were but dark shadows against the cloudy sky.

  She stood waiting there, listening intently.

  There was little movement except for the occasional scudding of a low black cloud.

  Yes, yes, there it was again! The low whispering sound, growing in volume and intensity until it was a high-pitched keen.

  It must be some animal; it must be!

  But where did the sound come from? It certainly gave the impression of coming from somewhere deep beneath the castle but she dismissed Mrs Murdo’s explanation that it was the sound of water. Perhaps it was a dog, after all? A dog trapped in the caverns?

  It was nearly an hour later when she gave up her vigil at the window. No further sounds had interrupted the stillness of the night. With a sigh, she returned to her bed but it was a long time before sleep overtook her again.

  INTERLUDE

  At another time, when the blessed Saint Colm Cille was staying for some days in the land of the Tuath-Cruinne, he found it necessary to cross the lake known as the Ness; and when he came to the bank thereof, he saw some of the inhabitants burying an unfortunate man whom, as those who were burying him reported, had, a little while before, been snatched at by some water monster and killed with a most savage bite. The blessed saint, on hearing this, directed that some of his companions should swim across the lake in order that they might bring him the boat that was on the other side by whose means he should be ferried across that fearsome water. On hearing the direction of the holy man, his disciple Lugh Mac Colm threw off his clothes and cast himself into the water. Now the monster, who was eager for prey and who was lying hidden at the bottom of the lake, perceived the water above was disturbed by him who was crossing, and suddenly emerged, swimming to the man and rushed upon him with a great roar and open mouth.

  translated by Donald Millbuie from

  Leabhar Mor na Moireabh

  The Great Book of Moray.

  An intelligence was stirring in the cold , black peaty depths of the loch; stirring and remembering.

  Its memory was dim now; visions cascaded in its mind without order, without meaning, but some things remained clear. The intelligence knew that soon it would be no more; soon it would die like the race it had descended from. How many aeons had passed since the Saurians had lived in this now coldly inhospitable world? It could not recall; but it was a long, long time since.

  Now the puny man-things walked the earth with all the arrogance of their kind, assured that the earth had been made for them alone whereas they were but ignorant newcomers in a world that had existed four hundred times the brief span of man’s development; had seen civilisations come and go, had seen the Saurian race grow and dominate the earth for nearly two hundred million of the brief measurement man called ‘years’.

  The Saurians had once been great but then the seas began to recede, the climate of the earth had begun to grow colder and the Saurians had begun to die. Little by little, the Saurian race vanished until, here and there, only a few had survived in the deep waters, some in great landlocked seas and lakes and others around the coastlines, each struggling for survival against the worsening elements, each trying to adapt to the new conditions of life.

  But the elements had won; how long ago, how many aeons?

  The intelligence gave a mental sigh, a sob almost of pain.

  Once it had been young; in youth there was always hope but already its species was near extinction. Once the deep waters of the loch had been a playground as it hatched from its egg and learned the eternal struggle against the inhospitable world. The man-things were strange creatures even in those far off days … scarce able to protect themselves but with an arrogance seldom given to larger creatures. Then, during the long life that is the Saurian’s span, man had seemed to increase in his craftsmanship, his ability to control the elements, although he had not grown in his wisdom to understand his nature and place in the universe.

  The intelligence, in struggling for existence, once tried to make its peace with the man-things … oh, that was so long, so long ago. Long ago … before …

  The intelligence had once had a mate; a beautiful Saurian mate who had by accident come to the loch through the ri
ver which connected it with the great inhospitable seas. They had mated: the last of their race. And, in time, an egg was laid and there had been great joy that the wealth of knowledge of the Saurian race would exist for yet another Saurian generation. But the man-things had come, in wooden craft which floated on the loch, with wooden pointed sticks and wooden darts. They discovered the underground lair, discovered the egg and destroyed it in their fear and ignorance.

  The intelligence sobbed for its lost kin, its lost future, its lost immortality.

  It stirred as it recalled the passion of its anger. In rage it had rushed at the man-things and slain one before sinking to the depths of the loch to comfort its frightened mate.

  But the man-things came out on the loch searching for them and provoking them. With its mate, it had fled to the caves beneath the banks of the loch. Hiding its mate there, it had set itself to defend its existence against the man-things.

  Rage had overtaken it once more and it had sped upwards to revenge itself on the primitive species.

  Ah, vengeance! But vengeance could not return its lost hopes.

  Once more the intelligence sobbed for its lost offspring.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jeannie was down to breakfast early.

  Mrs Murdo was there before her, precise, unruffled, as if she had never been to bed at all.

  ‘I heard the crying sound again last night,’ Jeannie began as she swallowed her orange juice.

  Mrs Murdo raised a disdainful eyebrow.

  ‘Did you, indeed?’

  She made no further comment as she placed a plate of bacon and eggs before Jeannie. Jeannie nibbled at her food, not really wanting such a heavy breakfast.

  ‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘Are you sure that it is just water in the caves below the castle? It sounds just like some sort of animal wailing.’

  Mrs Murdo’s eyes stared into hers.

  ‘An animal, you say? And pray what sort of animal?’

  Jeannie gave a half shrug.

  ‘I don’t know … it still sounds like a dog or something. Are you sure a stray dog could not have entered the caves and been unable to get out?’

  ‘I would think there is little chance of that, Miss Millbuie,’ replied Mrs Murdo, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ insisted the girl.

  ‘I am sure,’ was the stony reply.

  Jeannie heaved a sigh.

  How many allowances was she going to have to make for Mrs Murdo? It must be hard on the woman to give years of service to a family and then see a total stranger inherit everything, with the power to sell the house which had been her home and with the power to stop her livelihood. Yes, it must be hard to see a stranger take over Balmacaan, someone with little regard for its history or traditions and who even contemplated selling it. Actually, she reflected, that was not quite true; she did have regard for its history, but the truth of the matter was that she was totally ignorant of that history. But that was no fault of hers.

  The peal of the doorbell stirred her from her reverie.

  Mrs Murdo frowned and strode off to answer the door. After a while she returned.

  ‘It is the minister,’ she said disapprovingly.

  Jeannie looked at her in puzzlement.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Reverend John Telstan. He’s the minister at Balmacaan. I’ve put him in the laird’s study.’

  Wondering what could have provoked such a visit, Jeannie finished her coffee and made her way to the study.

  John Telstan was a man of indeterminable age whose face would not have been entirely out of place among the stone cherubim and seraphim which sometimes embellish some of the larger cathedrals. His face was round, with a shock of pure silver hair fringing the bald crown of his head. His skin was pink, fresh like that of a baby. Bright blue eyes twinkled from the chubby face and his rather thick red lips creased into a smile. He wore rough homespun tweeds and only the collar at his throat gave any indication that he followed a religious calling.

  He stood up as she entered the study and moved forward to meet her, one pudgy hand outstretched. Jeannie was momentarily surprised by the strength of his grip. It did not seem to go with the rest of his appearance. She had expected a slack, flabby handshake.

  ‘So you are Jeannie Millbuie,’ he said rhetorically, with only a trace of a Scottish accent in his voice. ‘Well, well … ’

  He paused for a moment and examined her with his sharp blue eyes.

  ‘And you are … ?’ Jeannie tried hard to recall the name Mrs Murdo had given her.

  ‘My dear child! Forgive me! I am John Telstan, the minister of the kirk at Balmacaan. I was a friend of the old laird. In fact, he was an old and dear friend of mine.’

  ‘I see.’

  Jeannie motioned him to a chair and seated herself.

  ‘Aye,’ said the minister, ‘poor Donald Millbuie. We must needs die, and are as water spilt on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again … Genesis, chapter three.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ interposed Jeannie. ‘Tea, coffee … ?’

  ‘Ah, no, thank you,’ John Telstan shook his lugubrious head. ‘I have just had breakfast at the manse and thought I would come over and pay my respects … after all,’ he smiled in a wreath of flesh, ‘you are now the new laird of Balmacaan.’

  Jeannie grinned and shook her head.

  ‘I am not too sure about that, Mr Telstan. I’m from London, as you probably know, and must confess that I had no knowledge of the Millbuie family nor of Balmacaan until a few months ago.’

  Telstan nodded.

  ‘Aye, so I hear. Old Donald, the old laird, always thought he was the last of the Millbuie family. Aye, poor man.’

  ‘So you can see my position,’ continued Jeannie. ‘I do not know what to do with Balmacaan. Whether to keep it or sell it.’

  ‘A difficult choice, no doubt. Still, it is your own conviction which compels you; that is, choice compels choice. That’s Epictetus’ Discourse . Well worth reading. Well worth it. Nevertheless, you are a Millbuie and as a Millbuie you will find friends here in Balmacaan. The family have lived here for nine centuries, you know.’

  Jeannie smiled.

  ‘Surely there are hardly any families who could trace their ancestry back that far?’

  ‘I daresay, I daresay,’ agreed Telstan. ‘But I can tell you, Miss Millbuie, your family have been well known in these parts since the days of MacBeth.’

  ‘MacBeth?’

  A smile came involuntarily to Jeannie’s lips, and she hastily apologised.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Telstan. It is difficult to realise that MacBeth had an existence outside of Shakespeare’s drama.’

  For a second Telstan’s face was serious.

  ‘Aye, perhaps MacBeth was the best king Scotland ever had in spite of Shakespeare and his ilk. He reigned for seventeen years during which there was peace and plenty in Scotland … according to contemporary chroniclers, that is.’

  His face was wreathed in its fleshy smile again.

  ‘But why talk of musty history? Let me assure you, Miss Millbuie, you will not want for friends hereabouts. You are very welcome here. This is your home.’

  Jeannie could not help an ironic comment: ‘I was beginning to wonder.’

  Telstan shot her a look of interrogation and then clicked his tongue sympathetically.

  ‘Ah, you will have to make allowances for Mrs Murdo, I’m afraid. She tends to be cantankerous at times but her heart is in the right place. Indeed, her heart is in the right place. She, like most of us, thought the old laird was the last of the Millbuie family and we were all somewhat surprised to find it was not so. Perhaps she regards you as something of an interloper. But be assured that others feel otherwise. Perhaps you would like me to have a word with her?’

  ‘Oh no,’ interjected Jeannie hastily. ‘That would probably make things worse.’

  She bit her tongue.

  John Telstan leant forward and patted her hand.
>
  ‘I quite understand, my dear. Quite understand. Just remember that she has been in service at the castle since she was a young girl serving the old laird’s father before him. Still, should you have any problems do not hesitate to call upon me at the manse. Tell me, Miss Millbuie, in what faith were you brought up?’

  Jeannie frowned.

  ‘As a Christian, of course.’

  ‘Forgive me, I meant which denomination?’

  ‘Anglican.’

  ‘Ah,’ returned the minister, as if disappointed. ‘The Millbuies in these parts have supported the Reformed Presbyterian Church for the past hundred years.’

  ‘Well,’ confessed Jeannie, ‘to be truthful, I haven’t been near a church since I was sixteen, Mr Telstan. I suppose you can call me an agnostic.’

  Telstan shook his head as if in regret.

  ‘Do you not feel far from God, Miss Millbuie?’

  Jeannie smiled.

  ‘It is said that those who are near the church are often far from God, Mr Telstan. Merely going to a church does not signify anything. Some of the greatest villains of all time were ardent churchgoers. That’s what probably contributed to my agnosticism.’

  Telstan winced as if in physical pain.

  ‘I am sad to hear you say that, Miss Millbuie.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t decided whether I am an atheist yet,’ said Jeannie humorously, ‘so perhaps there is hope for me?’ Telstan shook his head.

  ‘You shouldn’t really take things so flippantly, Miss Millbuie.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ returned Jeannie, somewhat contritely, ‘I meant no disrespect to you personally, Mr Telstan, though to be truthful, I have little respect for the clergy as a body. They are usually men who undertake the management of our spiritual affairs as a method of bettering their temporal ones and not men who sincerely believe in the real Christian precepts.’

  ‘Ah, you are referring to the priesthood of Rome now. Indeed, I would agree … their insincerity and materialism were recognised by the true Christian brethren who broke away from Rome to form the Protestant faith … a protest, you see, against such materialism.’