The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  Tim felt a motion on his arm and started violently before he realised it was only Winstanley trying to attract his attention. He felt the professor pulling him towards the surface.

  They broke the surface not far beyond the outcrop and trod water.

  Winstanley removed his mouthpiece and shouted for Tim to hear:

  ‘We must not go too far down. It’s too murky. Keep to the surface until we reach the spot where the cave entrance should be. When we dive for the entrance you must keep close to me. For God’s sake don’t lose me, otherwise it will be very dangerous.’

  Tim nodded vigorously to show he understood and Winstanley readjusted his mouthpiece and turned, swimming with easy strokes towards the cliffs about six inches or so under the surface so that his oxygen tank was not fully submerged and showed like a monster’s hump on the waters. Tim followed him, keeping within a few inches of Winstanley’s flippers.

  Then Winstanley stopped swimming.

  Tim looked up and found the forbidding granite walls towering above him, felt the twisting, pushing currents surging in and out of the rocks and saw their foamy splash as the waves slapped around him.

  The professor was jabbing downwards with his finger.

  The cave mouth should be just below.

  Winstanley was now jerking his thumb upwards in the air, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated interrogation behind his facepiece.

  Tim also raised his thumb to indicate he was ready.

  Now or never, he thought as he saw Winstanley’s body half rise out of the water and twist in a dive. He followed closely but within a few feet of the surface he had lost sight of the professor. After a split second of panic, he switched on his torch and just caught a glimpse of a flipper a few inches in front of him. He concentrated all his efforts on keeping the flipper in sight.

  It was like descending into a bottomless pit. The water was just unrelieved blackness. There were no weeds or other visible life forms … no fish, big or little, just peaty blackness and silence.

  Tim felt something hard scrape against him and realised that he was scraping the rock face. The flipper in front of him was changing direction.

  He turned after it as something large and spiky bumped against his right side.

  He had a momentary impulse to push upwards towards the surface; a moment of fright thinking some great creature was attacking him. But it was only an overhanging rock formation.

  The flipper in front was darting this way and that, weaving as it were from side to side, and Tim followed closely.

  He became aware of a gradual fall in temperature in the water. It was becoming cold, too cold.

  He was also aware that he was in a confined space … he could feel walls on either side of him.

  He tried to shut off his mind from thinking about it, just concentrating on the figure in front of him.

  Then there came a sudden upward current, a movement over which, it seemed, he had no control. With astonishing abruptness he had broken the surface.

  But what surface?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Professor Winstanley was treading water a few yards away, shining his torch in an arc around a large cave. It was roughly circular in shape with a domed roof. The floor of the cave was covered by a wide, black circular pond from which Winstanley and Tim had surfaced. A low rock shelf encircled this underground water.

  It was cold, terribly cold.

  Winstanley moved to the side and clambered out onto the rocky ledge. Tim followed soon after and they pulled off their breathing apparatus. For a few minutes they sat panting in the cold blackness, trying to recover their energies.

  ‘One thing is for sure,’ grunted Winstanley. ‘If we can find your Miss Millbuie then there will be no returning this way. The water is incredibly cold. In fact, I can’t really find a good scientific explanation for the appalling drop in temperature. If we had not had these insulated wetsuits on we would probably be very ill by now from exposure.’

  Tim answered through chattering teeth.

  ‘I can’t say that the wetsuit is helping me much, professor,’ he confessed. ‘I think we had best get out of here as soon as possible. It’s not an experience that I am particularly enjoying.’

  Winstanley rose to his feet and examined the cave with his torch.

  ‘It’s not my idea of fun either, young man. But once we got into that trough there was no possibility of turning back.’

  Tim frowned.

  ‘Trough? What trough?’

  Winstanley flashed him a look of amusement.

  ‘You didn’t see it?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything under there. All I could see was the back of your flippers and I was making sure I stuck close to those.’

  ‘Of course. Well, what happened was that we had to go down a narrow corridor of rock. It would have been impossible to turn out of it if we had missed our way or, indeed, to have turned back. Still, no harm done, eh?’

  Tim swallowed hard.

  ‘Let’s get out of this,’ he said fervently.

  Winstanley motioned to the far side of the cave.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, dear boy, that’s our means of egress. Come on, all we have to do is follow this rock shelf around the edge of the pond. Then we should be able to follow the series of caverns which rise up under the castle into the cellars.’

  Removing their flippers, they divested themselves of the wetsuits and took from their watertight pouches slacks and jerseys and plimsolls. Feeling slightly warmer, they walked cautiously around the cave walls, carefully avoiding patches of slime and weed which caused the shelf to become precipitous at times. The exit was a fairly large tunnel, a natural formation through the rock which lit up in a myriad of colours as their torches flashed over its surface.

  ‘By God!’ exclaimed Professor Winstanley. ‘Just look at that.’

  ‘That’ turned out to be clusters of crystals, which clung on the walls and roof, shining blue and purple and seeming to run in veins. The professor halted and was poking at one such cluster with the tip of his seaknife.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tim cautiously.

  ‘Unless I am much mistaken, dear boy, that’s what is called Blue John, or something remarkably similar. If so, it’s a tremendous discovery.’

  Tim, his thoughts now concentrated on the rescue of Jeannie, was inclined to impatience.

  ‘What the hell is Blue John?’

  ‘It’s one of the rarest minerals of its kind in the world. As far as I know, the only workable vein is in the Derbyshire Peak District. It’s been prized for centuries, since Roman times, in fact. Vases made of the stuff were found in the ruins of Pompeii.’

  Tim was not impressed.

  ‘We’d best press on quickly now, professor.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very well. But I’ll certainly want to come down here again. If you say that your girlfriend owns this, then she must be sitting on a fortune.’

  Tim was suddenly interested.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a very rare stone, my boy. To buy a ring with a Blue John inset would cost you as much as getting a diamond of equivalent size.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the reason behind the kidnapping!’ exclaimed Tim.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Winstanley. ‘Let’s move this way … this should lead us into a gallery which goes into the main cave system.’

  The passage gave way to narrow ways of spectacular beauty … through vaulted chambers from which labyrinths of passages drove off into the blackness, chambers in which magnificent scenes of glistening fairylike formations of stalactites and stalagmites dropped and rose from roof to floor and from floor to roof, the product of the ages-old trickle of water.

  And the colours! Even Tim had to gasp in his astonishment as fairytale scenes were lit up by his torch.

  As Winstanley had surmised, the passage down which they had come rose into a gallery.

  Winstanley halted.

  ‘Our way should be along here, through a big cave an
d then on through a series of caves whose floors rise towards the cellars.’

  ‘Very well,’ began Tim. ‘Let’s … ’

  It began softly, like the whisper of the wind in the trees; so softly, in fact, that for a moment Tim thought it was some draught whispering its way through the underground labyrinths. Softly whispering, softly, until it began to rise in tone, slowly, gently, rising, increasing in volume until it became a high-pitched wail which seemed to echo and re-echo through the caves, becoming so loud that Tim raised his hands to his ears and groaned in his discomfort.

  Then it ceased abruptly, although it took some seconds before the echoes died away into infinity.

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Winstanley in horror. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ whispered Tim. ‘I heard it once before when I was in Balmacaan Castle last night. It seemed to come from the cellars then. I thought it might have been a dog.’

  ‘That’s no dog,’ averred Winstanley.

  He pointed along the gallery.

  ‘I think the sound started from this direction.’

  Keeping the beams of their torches lowered, they moved forward along the gallery. It sloped upwards and suddenly twisted round in a series of rough-cut stone steps, which led out into another gallery which completely circumnavigated a large domed cave.

  The sight that met Tim’s astonished eyes caused him to extinguish his torch, signalling Winstanley to do likewise, and drop to his hands and knees behind some jutting rocks that sheltered them from the floor of the cave, which was some ten feet below them.

  In the cave stood several people whom Tim recognised. Prominent among the group was Colonel Maitland. Tim’s eyes stood out in astonishment, for each member of the group stood with his head thrown back as if staring at some central point in the roof of the cave. All stood silently in a circle. Next to Maitland, Telstan recognised Mrs Murdo, then next to her was the chubby-faced Telstan, then another woman who looked remarkably like Mrs Murdo — so close was the resemblance, in fact, that she was obviously a near relative, perhaps a sister. Next to her stood Maitland’s servant … what was his name? Carson. That was it.

  ‘What the … ?’ began Winstanley, but Tim motioned him to silence.

  His eyes wandered around the statue-like figures.

  Around each of their necks was a small chain of a golden metal which flickered in the light of a dozen tall candles placed strategically around the cave. In the centre of each chain was a disc, supported on both sides by wild Celtic spirals. Tim noticed that Maitland’s ornament seemed larger and more elaborately worked than the others.

  This strange circle stood in a central position in the cave, which was quite spectacular, even compared to the previous caverns which they had seen. The light from the candles created yellow and golden flashes from the walls and stranger, deeper shades ranging from blue-blackness to the bright white of stalagmites. It looked like some mysterious grotto from a Walt Disney fantasy.

  Tim observed that there was an incline to one side of the cave which ended in several rough-hewn stone steps leading to a natural doorway in which someone had inset an iron doorframe and a great rusting iron door studded with heavy bolts and screws.

  His eyes then wandered once more across the cave to the farthest side from his shelter, where a large stone slab lay in the manner of an altar table. Its smooth rectangular surface was obviously man-made.

  And beyond the stone slab there was what seemed to be an entrance into a further cave, a black recess or passage.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ whispered Winstanley.

  ‘I don’t know,’ returned Tim. ‘These are the characters who have Jeannie prisoner and who kidnapped Morag and myself. The tall, elderly man there in the centre is the man called Maitland.’

  The circle had not moved.

  The figures stood as if they had been carved from stone.

  ‘Damned strange,’ muttered Winstanley.

  Suddenly, as if someone had given a hidden signal, the circle began to move, unwinding so that its members formed a long line across the cave floor and finally came to a halt, facing the stone slab in a long line.

  The figure of Maitland stepped two paces forward, arms upraised as if bestowing a benediction, towards the dark recess on the far side of the cave.

  ‘A Bheathaich Mhoir nam mar a agus loch!’ he intoned in a curious sing-song voice. ‘A Thearmannair Mhoir nan diomhai reachdan aosda!’

  Tim leaned forward and whispered in Winstanley’s ear.

  ‘What the blazes is happening?’

  Winstanley shrugged.

  ‘It’s Gaelic. That’s about all I know. It sounds like some religious incantation.’

  Tim found himself wishing that Morag was there. At least being a native speaker of the language she would be able to tell him what was happening.

  Maitland threw back his hands.

  ‘Cluinneamaid ! Cluinneamaid !’

  Maitland and the others dropped abruptly to their knees and made curious spiral motions with their hands, reaching towards their foreheads as if genuflecting towards the darkness beyond the stone slab.

  ‘A Ghleidheadair Mhoir de’n eolais caillte ar sinnsearan!’ came Maitland’s sonorous tones. ‘Tha sinn a’ guidh bhur beannachdan oirnn!’

  Tim bit his lip.

  ‘I don’t get it, professor,’ he whispered. ‘Are they holding some pagan ritual or something?’

  Winstanley’s voice was breathless in excitement.

  ‘I believe you are right. Damn it, I wish I knew the language. I wish I knew what they were saying!’

  The supplicants had risen and, in a body, bowed towards the recess again.

  Maitland took another step towards the stone slab, which seemed to serve as the altar for their worship.

  He took a round golden disc, which at first sight seemed to be like a golden dinner plate. But in the flickering light, even from where he crouched with Winstanley, Tim could see dark lines inscribed on the disc and varying symbols. ‘Devil worship!’ hissed Winstanley, incredulously.

  ‘I’ve read about devil worship and witchcraft in the lurid Sunday newspapers,’ said Tim, with a sense of shock, ‘but do you really think that this is what that is all about?’

  ‘There can be no other explanation,’ averred Winstanley. ‘Hush. We’ll see what happens.’

  Maitland was holding up the gold disc and tracing various spiral motions with it, seeming to present the disc to various points of the compass and with each motion the others brought their hands together in a single clap.

  ‘Tha Bel am fear-buileachaidh a’ bheo a’ toiseachadh a thurus chun nan neamhan agus aon am elle tha sinn a’ cumail muinghinn leis a’ chreideamh aosda ar sliochd!’

  After this formula, he replaced the disc and, with hands raised palm outward at shoulder level, he backed away from the altar and knelt once more.

  Tim and Winstanley looked on in amazement.

  Then the three men and two women began a chant, their voices edged with a curious passion, strangely intense.

  ‘Leigeamaid moladh air Bel a chuir

  Fear -buileachaidh a’ bhed

  Ar blathas ‘sa gheamhradh

  Ar sgail ‘sa shamhradh

  Ar feoil an uair tha an t-acras oirnn

  Agus ar deoch an uair tha am pathadh oirnn!’

  The chant rose in the pronouncement of its weird rhythms and then ended abruptly.

  The silence was almost uncanny.

  For a moment it seemed that the tableau had become frozen in eternity; it seemed no one breathed and even the flickering flames of the candles gave the impression of being stilled.

  Then came the low curious sound, the sound that had reminded Tim of the whispering of the wind through the topmost branches of the trees. This time, however, the sound did not rise in intensity but trailed off almost desultorily. It seemed to come from the black recess behind the stone slab.

  No one moved.

  The whispering, keening sound e
choed once more around the cave.

  A cold thrill shuddered through Tim’s body, the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled and his mouth went dry.

  There was a movement within the recess.

  Something moved.

  Maitland’s hands were raised to their full length, palms outwards.

  ‘A Bheathaich Mhoir nam mara agus loch!’

  There was a thrill of triumph in his voice.

  Then it emerged into the light of the flickering candles.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The cries of horrified surprise that were torn from the constricted throats of Tim and the professor were lost in the thunderous, exultant chant of Maitland and his fellow worshippers, if such they were.

  Even afterwards, when he had rationalised his horror and disgust, Tim could not describe precisely what he saw. The dominant colour association was yellow but whether that was accurate or merely a reflection of the varied colours of the cave itself, he could not determine. It seemed that the thing was covered in a yellow mottled reptilian skin, parts of which shone like a brightly polished shell. Baleful, bulbous eyes gleamed with a curious light and seemed to rotate constantly, sending its malevolent look around the cave. The head was large and flat, something akin to a lizard’s head; the skin which passed for lips around the mouth was drawn back showing decaying yellow teeth, teeth which were, however, long and pointed. Between them came the constant flickering of an indescribable object, long and black, which Tim afterwards realised must have been a tongue.

  There was an impression of a squat muscular beast, of a long tail with scales, of haunches which ended in claw-like feet, of limbs which passed as forearms. As to size, his recollection was totally confused. It seemed large, terrifying, but it could not have been so huge because the cave was not exactly cathedral-like. Perhaps it could have been twice, or maybe three times, the size of a man. But he would not swear to any of the facts he described. They were just impressions.

  His one dominant feeling was that of revulsion; a revulsion which changed to fear, not fear for himself but for Jeannie!

  For in the claw-like arms of this vile creature, which seemed to have been conjured up from Dante’s Inferno , was the naked and unconscious body of Jeannie Millbuie!