by Susan Cooper
“Of course,” Mr. Trout said, and his cold blue eyes stared at Granda, and Granda knew that he was lying.
He said, “The Loch Ness Monster belongs to Loch Ness, Mr. Trout. Would you like a copy of the photograph I took there?”
“Twenty-five pounds,” Portia said helpfully, pointing to the array of framed photographs high on the wall. “Or thirty euros.”
“I have one already,” William Trout said. In spite of his hostility, his voice filled with happy triumph. “And never mind old photographs! However it happened, we have the real Monster, here, now—and we’re going to get a picture of him! You know how that will excite people! Everyone will come to see it! The Trout Castle Resort will be world-famous! Maybe we can tame him!”
Tom Cameron said, “Maybe you should wait to announce the Monster until you have another sight of him, Mr. Trout.”
William Trout glanced at him as if he were an annoying insect. He said loftily, “We’ve set up a twenty-four-hour watch. The next sighting will give us pictures that go round the globe.”
Then he turned back to Granda, and making a determined effort, he gave him a big friendly smile. “Angus, I’m making you one final offer for this house and the store. Seven hundred and fifty. Three-quarters of a million pounds. Far more than it’s worth, but I’m a generous man.”
Allie and Jay looked at each other with wide eyes.
“No,” Granda said.
Mr. Trout’s smile vanished. “You’ll regret it,” he said. “Boy, will you regret it!”
Granda said, “I doubt that very much.”
Outside, from the edge of the loch, there was a sudden loud roar followed by a gigantic splash, as the first bulldozer tried to pull the second out of the water, and failed.
TEN
The Boggart and Nessie whirled away from the Trout Queen, past the Seal Rocks and Castle Keep, down through the Lynn of Lorn, which is the water that divides Lismore Island from the coast of Argyll, and they paused beside the quiet island called Eilean Dubh, where nobody lives.
The Boggart was trying hard to remember. “The Old Things,” he said. “The Old Things . . . it’s been so long. . . .”
Nessie said, “There was an Old Thing came to my loch, before the English blew up my clan’s castle. She was a wailer, she screamed us a warning . . . the Caointeach, that was her name.”
“Yes! Of course! She lived here, here in Argyll!”
“She lived by a waterfall.”
“Yes! Oh, well done, cuz! Come!”
And the Boggart whirled them out of the water, over the loch, over the coast and the beginning of hills, to a river that crashed down over rocks in a waterfall, where once otters used to play. He remembered the otters. He thought he remembered the Old Thing called the Caointeach.
They hovered, invisible and motionless, on the rocky lower bank of the river, and the droplets of falling water filled the air around them and made a rainbow all across the falls.
“Caointeach!” called the Boggart. “Oh Caointeach! A greeting from an Old Thing to an Old Thing!”
Nessie called too. “A greeting, Caointeach!”
They watched and waited, waited and watched.
And very gradually, on the shining wet rocks at the foot of the waterfall, the Caointeach took shape. She was a very small old woman in a green gown, with a high-crowned white cap on her head.
She looked at them, and she scowled.
“What?” she said.
“A greeting!” said the Boggart.
“That’s it?” said the Caointeach.
“Well, yes,” the Boggart said, a little deflated.
“A very warm greeting!” said Nessie hopefully.
The Caointeach looked at them without enthusiasm, but she sat down on a rock, spreading her green skirt around her, and she put her bare feet into the water.
“That’s something, at least,” she said. “Nobody listens these days for the Caointeach. No clan cares for a warning. Half of them have never even heard of an Old Thing.”
Nessie said, “Do you not scream out as you used to, before a disaster comes to a clan?”
“I could scream my head off,” said the Caointeach bitterly, “and they’d not hear. They have little machines with screens in their hands, and things in their ears, and that’s all they listen to and see. The clans are not what they were. And nor am I.”
“Oh, you are so,” the Boggart said. “You are wise, you know all the Old Things. So we come to you for advice, to help us get rid of one of the worst of the people with machines.”
The Caointeach said, “What has this person done?”
“He is destroying the peace of our beautiful loch, he has cut down our trees, he would cover the green fields with brick and tar, he is building an enemy castle and threatening our own clan castle. He is terrible!”
Nessie said, “We want him to go away, and so do our people.”
“Hum,” said the Caointeach. “He is a Changer.” She tucked a wisp of hair into the white cap on her head, which was the shape of a round-topped loaf of bread and had certainly not changed for at least two hundred years.
“Usually,” she said, “these Changers strip the land of everything but grass, and then cover it with people who spend all their days hitting a tiny white ball with a long thin stick.”
“He would do that too, I daresay,” said the Boggart, “but there is already a place like that not far away, which he can use.”
The Caointeach made a disapproving sound like a loud click. “Your loch has problems enough,” she said. “This person should leave it alone. I shall summon up an Old Thing to drive him out. The question is, which one?”
A hint of malice came back into the Boggart’s eye. “The Each-Uisge, perhaps?” he said.
The Caointeach blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” the Boggart said.
“Very well,” the Caointeach said, and she stood up on her rock, straightening her green skirt and checking her cap once more. She raised her head, curved her hands round her mouth, and called into the air some words in a language that even the boggarts did not understand.
They waited. Nothing happened.
The Caointeach made her clicking sound again, and stamped her bare foot on the rock. She called out the same words, irritably, louder.
“Well?” said a voice, also irritable. “What is it, then?”
The voice came from the river below the waterfall, and they saw a young man there, standing barefoot at the edge of the water with his trousers rolled up to his knees. He was wearing a white shirt and a baseball cap and holding a fishing rod.
The Boggart thought: This is the Each-Uisge? I didn’t think he looked like that. And he isn’t even speaking the Old Speech.
Then he noticed that the young man was quite astonishingly handsome. He had rather long brown hair, curling over his neck, and bright blue eyes, and his face had perfect classical good looks in spite of its peevish expression.
“I’m busy,” said the young man.
“Two Old Things need your help, Each-Uisge,” said the Caointeach. “Shape-shifters, boggarts. They have an enemy.”
The young man brightened a little, and put down his fishing rod. “Is the enemy a man or a woman?” he said.
“A man,” said the Boggart, puzzled.
The young man smiled, a smile full of beautiful white teeth. “Ah well,” he said, “in that case . . .”
And suddenly he was not there, and in his place was a horse: a gleaming brown Arab stallion, as handsome as the young man had been. It shifted restlessly, one hoof driving at the riverbank, and water splashed all around it, glittering.
“At your service,” said the horse.
The Boggart felt his memory flicker, and he relaxed.
“Each-Uisge,” he said, “there is a man named Trout who is attacking our loch, and we want him to go away.”
“Not a problem,” said the horse. “So long as he likes to ride.”
“I’m sure he can ride
a horse,” said the Boggart. “He is the kind of man who wants to be good at everything.”
“Excellent,” said the horse. He pranced in a circle, splashing through the water. “In that case, all you need to do is lead me to him.”
The Caointeach was sitting on her rock again, her green skirt spread around her like seaweed. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I think we should also mention what happens after that.”
“Easy,” said the Boggart confidently. “Once he’s sitting up on the Each-Uisge’s back, he’s stuck there, he can’t move. So he just gets taken away.”
“And he’ll never want to come back,” Nessie said. He beamed. “And our people will be so happy.”
“There’s just one little thing,” the horse said.
“There is indeed,” said the Caointeach.
“I don’t just take him away,” the horse said. “I eat him.”
The Boggart and Nessie became very still, which is not a common state for a boggart unless he is asleep.
“You eat him?” the Boggart said.
The horse said proudly, “I am the Each-Uisge—my way is traditional. When a man is on my back, he cannot get off, and I dive into the loch and he drowns. And then I eat him.”
He smiled, as if at a happy memory. “They’re usually delicious,” he said.
The Boggart and Nessie gazed at him in dismay.
“All except the liver,” said the horse. “I’ve never fancied liver. So the man’s liver floats up to the surface of the loch. I think of it as a present for the birds.”
“Specially the herring gull,” said the Caointeach. “He’ll eat anything.”
“Oh dear,” the Boggart said. “I didn’t remember the eating part.”
Nessie said, “I really don’t think our people want to kill the Trout person. They just want him to go away.”
They hovered together in the spangled air above the waterfall, each feeling the other’s unhappiness. Boggarts are mischief makers, boggarts love to cause trouble and play tricks, but boggarts do not take life. On the whole, they feel they were put into the world to make life more interesting.
“Tenderhearted, eh?” said the horse. “Well, suit yourselves. I’ll go back to my fishing, then.”
He shook himself, spraying them with glittering drops of water, and in an instant the horse was gone and the handsome young man was there again, standing half in and half out of the water, tying a fly onto the end of his fishing line. He looked up at them, and at the Caointeach.
“I plan to catch a trout,” he said. “And I have to tell you, I shall eat it.”
The Boggart looked from him to the Caointeach and back again. Though he had vague memories of the MacDevon clan of Castle Keep, who had certainly not been averse to destroying their enemies, he had trouble remembering much about his own kind, the Old Things.
“Is there not another Old Thing that could rid us of the Trout person without killing him?” he said. “Send him away full of fear?”
“The Baobhan Sith?” said the Caointeach to the Each-Uisge.
“W-el-l-l,” said the young man. “Maybe the Spriggans. Or the Luidaeg of Skye.”
Nessie said helpfully, “The Trout person is on a boat. It’s big and noisy, just like him.”
“Ah,” said the young man, and he gave the Caointeach a beautiful smile.
“Of course,” said the Caointeach.
They said together, “The Blue Men of the Minch.”
The Boggart thought about this. He remembered the name, but that was all.
“The Minch is a long way from here,” he said.
“Oh, not so far for a boggart,” said the Caointeach.
“Can you not summon them for me?”
“Certainly not,” said the Caointeach. “The Blue Men belong to the Western Isles, and their business is to defend their place. You’ll not move them, you’ll have to ask them for help, and then lure your man up there. But the Blue Men are what you need.”
“They are,” said the young man. “And I wish you well, boggarts. Now you have taken up enough of our time.”
And he, and his fishing rod, disappeared.
The Caointeach was still sitting on her rock beneath the ghostly rainbow of spray, but she was beginning to fidget. One bare foot splashed restlessly up and down as the river rushed over it.
“Thank you, Caointeach,” said the Boggart. “Thank you for your help. Is there anything we can do for you in return?”
The Caointeach thought for a moment, and a soft, wistful look came over her lined face. “Bacon,” she said.
They stared at her.
Nessie said, “Are you serious?”
“Crisp, crunchy bacon,” said the Caointeach dreamily. “I think of it often. It’s been such a long time—a hundred years or so.”
“We know just where to get that,” said the Boggart, “but it may take a wee while.”
“That’s lovely,” said the Caointeach. “Go to the Minch, and good fortune go with you. I’ve waited this long, it’s no harm to wait some more.”
She stood up, shaking the spray from her green skirt, and she smiled at them.
“Bacon,” she said softly, happily to herself, and she too disappeared.
* * *
While the Boggart and Nessie had been gone, Granda had started an anti-Trout petition. It was a plea to the local council, asking that for environmental reasons, they should prevent William Trout from building his lavish Trout Castle Resort on the peaceful shore of Loch Linnhe. It quoted scientific studies of polluted lakes and vanished wildlife, it warned of peril to small aging roads and bridges, it showed proof that Trout resorts in other places had promised local jobs and then brought in their own employees instead. Granda and Tom had written it together, adding photographs; it was an impressive document.
Jay and Allie printed out many copies from Granda’s computer, and rode bicycles to every store and library for miles around to try to convince people to hang one on their notice boards, to attract signatures. When they had run out of public buildings, they began knocking on people’s doors.
“But he already has the council’s permission,” Allie said. “Some people tell us that and just shake their heads, like, why bother?”
“Those who give permission can take it back,” Granda said.
“Or at least, we hope so,” said Tom. “Look, here come some more castle gazers.”
The twins reached for their petition clipboards, as a car drove up to join the seven already parked outside the store. The parking area between store and shore, from which visitors had always viewed Castle Keep in the past, was now largely enclosed by a tall, ugly wire fence and labeled CONSTRUCTION SITE: KEEP OUT. And the drowned bulldozer, finally rescued and restored, was lumbering to and fro with three others, as workmen in the jackets labeled TROUT began demolishing the next-door farm.
A mother, a father, a small boy and a very small girl descended from the car and gazed in dismay at the fence and the roaring bulldozers. Jay and Allie tumbled out of the store door to follow them, as they wandered about trying to find a clear view of Castle Keep. Tourists who arrived solely to see and photograph the castle were their favorite quarry.
The father looked round as they approached, and he waved at the fence. “What’s all this, then?” he demanded. He sounded English, and he had a camera dangling from his neck.
“There’s an American trying to build a big resort hotel,” Jay said.
“What a shame,” said the mother. “We were here two years ago and it was so lovely and peaceful.”
“And did you see the seals then?” said Allie.
“Yes!”
“I saw a big seal,” said the small boy. He had thick dark hair and wide serious eyes, and his toddler sister was clutching his hand.
Allie sighed. “They don’t come anymore,” she said sadly. This was not strictly true, since the seals were curious creatures and came to investigate the construction work from time to time, but Allie had decided that since Mr. Tro
ut had no conscience, her own could take a few minutes’ rest too.
Jay got down to business. With one hand he held out his clipboard to the disappointed parents; with the other he offered them a pen. “Everyone’s signing a petition to stop the development from spoiling the loch,” he said. “Would you like to sign it too?”
The father eyed the clipboard suspiciously. “I don’t know about that,” he said.
But the mother put out her hand at once. She read the petition carefully. “Oh come on, Chris,” she said, “it’s a good cause,” and she took Jay’s pen and wrote down her name and address.
“What’s that for?” said the boy who had seen the seal.
“It tells people I want all this mess to go away,” said his mother, and she handed the clipboard to her husband.
“Oh well,” he said, and signed.
“Can I sign it too?” said the little boy.
They all looked at Jay.
“I don’t see why not,” Jay said. “Allie and I have.”
The little boy handed his sister to his mother, took the clipboard from his father, sat down on the ground and wrote very carefully on the petition, PETER WILSON AGE 6. I LIKE SEELS.
“Thank you, Peter,” Jay said.
The nearest bulldozer disappeared in the direction of the doomed farm, taking the roar of its engine with it, and suddenly in the unexpected quiet they heard a honking sound from the water beyond the jetty. A head rose from the surface of the loch, a whiskered head like the head of a dog, with large dark eyes. It gazed at them for a moment, and then it was gone.
Allie and Jay heard a husky voice in the air, close to their ears but so soft that perhaps nobody else could hear it.
“Twins!” it said. “Twins, listen!”
“It’s the Boggart!” Jay whispered.
“A seal!” cried the little boy.
Allie said hastily, “You’re so lucky, Peter! He came to say thank you to you! Thank you for signing!” And for his parents, she pointed to the end of the jetty. “If you go over there, you can still get a good shot of the castle,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get the seal, too, if he hasn’t gone. Or you could walk to the Seal Rocks.”
“And we’re all allowed on the jetty,” Jay said, “so don’t let anyone tell you to get off it.”
