by Steve Alten
“You’d make a better parking lot attendant.” I hit another drive, this one skidding off the grass before hitting a rock and ricocheting into the water.
True grinned, then struck another ball, a moon shot that bounced twice off the brick balcony before plunking into the whirlpool. “Like I said, golf pro.”
“Since when do golf pros wear ponytails?” I retorted, slicing yet another ball into the drink.
He fingered the thick lock of hair. “Dinnae knock my tail, it drives the birds right intae my bed. Go on, I’ll gie ye one last shot tae tie or make it an even fourteen pounds, then we best be gettin’ ower tae Sniddles. Brandy’ll be waitin’.”
I hit my final shot, which soared toward the heavens before banana-curving into Loch Ness. “I hate this flicking game,” I said, threatening to toss my driver over the cliff.
“Temper, temper,” True cooed, draping a burly arm across my shoulder. “See, when oor ancestors invented the bloody game, they understood two things. First, it takes exactly eighteen shots tae polish off a fifth o’ a bottle o’ Scotch, thus, a game o’ golf equates tae eighteen holes. Second, yer game’s ultimately a measurin’ stick of how well ye deal wi’ life’s shits and giggles. Like yer game, yer life needs work.”
“Okay, Mister Golf Pro, what’s your advice?”
“That’s easy. Any man who cannae keep his balls oot o’ the water needs tae get laid. Come on, let’s find my sister.”
* * *
It was a Friday night and the club was packed, the tables filled with tourists, the bar four deep in regulars. There were darts and lager and music and lager and laughter ... and did I mention lager?
True entered and the crowd was forced to part, me following in his wake. He shook a dozen hands and kissed a half dozen women, and I was thankful he didn’t introduce me.
And then he waved to a raven-haired beauty who was waving back at us from a corner table, and I was smitten.
Claire MacDonald, who preferred her American middle name, Brandy (mostly to spite her father) was the kind of girl shy guys like me daydreamed about in high school and stayed up at night thinking about, but never had the nerve nor the credentials to ask out. These were girls reserved for the star quarterback and the guys who drove sports convertibles, and when they got older, they became trophy wives—arm-candy to the rich and powerful.
To me, Brandy was a swan, and I was a duck, and as a basic rule of nature, as my great uncle Alfred might have said, ducks and swans don’t mate.
But in her own mind, Brandy was tarnished goods. When she was sixteen, her high school heartthrob had gotten her pregnant, right before his family abruptly relocated to Edinburgh. Old man MacDonald wasn’t too keen about his daughter’s obvious lack of celibacy and promptly threw her out of his house, forcing her to move into a shelter. Though she’d lost the child at the start of the second trimester and eventually returned to high school, Brandy was on her own, having never been invited back in her bitter father’s home again.
At nineteen, Brandy met Jack Townson, an American stockbroker vacationing in Loch Ness. Seeing an opportunity to escape the Highlands, she returned with him to the States, and two months later they were married—more to spite her father than out of love.
Brandy enjoyed living in southern California and for a time things were fine. Then one afternoon, on a bike ride through the Hollywood Hills, she was struck by a car, and in that instant everything in her life changed.
The extent of Brandy’s injuries were severe, a skull fracture and bruised brain, to go along with multiple fractures to her arms and legs, a punctured lung, a broken left eye socket, and a shattered jaw. She would undergo three major surgeries, spend weeks in intensive care and five months in physical therapy, during which time her husband had an affair.
Townson stayed with his wife through most of her recovery, waiting until she was well enough to leave the hospital before presenting her with divorce papers. Fourteen months after leaving Scotland, Brandy returned to the Highlands, divorced, lonely, and depressed.
As Darwin once said, there are exceptions throughout the natural selection process. Brandy was a swan with an injured wing, and that’s how ducks like me land swans.
What I didn’t know was Brandy’s phobias ran as deep as my own. “So, the son o’ Angus Wallace returns. Quit starin’ an’ give me a hug.”
We embraced, my nostrils inhaling her pheromones, my groin awakening for the first time in months.
“I’ll get us some drinks,” said True. “You two keep getting’ reacquainted.”
She smiled and sat opposite me, the light catching the burnt orange highlights in her ink-black hair. “If I know my brother the matchmaker, he’ll no’ be back anytime soon.”
“So, how’re you feeling? I mean, you look ... amazing.”
“True told ye about my wee accident, huh? I’m fine now, but it was bad, plus we had no insurance, leavin’ the lawyers tae sue the driver’s company. It was a nasty fight but we won, then in the end, my ex- husband confessed he was screwin’ my private nurse.”
“Geez.”
“It gets better. Seein’ how I wasn’t yet a citizen, the ex an’ his new whore helped themselves tae all the insurance money. Sixty grand they stole from me, the no-good thieves.”
I leaned in, hoping to impress her with my own relationship scars. “Six months ago I was engaged. She was actually one of my students, an undergrad in biology. She waited until final grades were posted, then broke up with me while I was lying in a hospital bed. Told me she sold the engagement ring and was using the money to go to Cancun on Christmas break with her new boyfriend.”
Her laugh energized my soul. “Well, are we no’ two peas in a pod. So tell me, Zachary Wallace, how does it feel tae finally be a big shot scientist?”
“I don’t know, am I famous or infamous?”
“Ye located a giant squid, I’d say ye’re famous. Just like ye aye wanted. I can still remember you an’ me dissectin’ fish an’ frogs an’ birds in yer father’s cellar.”
“That’s right, I forgot about that.”
“No’ me, I remember everythin’. Tae me, those were my good times. Did True tell ye I’m takin’ a correspondence course at the local college.”
“That’s terrific.”
“No, but it’s a start. I’m learnin’ all sorts o’ stuff. Did ye know an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain?”
“No, but I won’t forget it.”
She smiled, then became melancholy. “I read about yer sub sinkin’. One o’ the men died, eh?”
“It was an accident.”
“I know. I was relieved ye came out okay.”
“Technically, I drowned.”
“The article said ye nearly drowned.”
“Nope, I was dead. Pffffttt.”
“An’ exactly how does one know if one’s dead? You see a heavenly light?”
“Sort of” Feeling antsy, I looked over my shoulder to see where True was with those drinks. He was at the bar, absorbed in a conversation with two scantily clad Scandinavian women who were showing him their belly-button rings.
I signaled for a waitress.
“So Zack, what does one do after one returns from the dead?”
“Get drunk, become depressed, and return to the Highlands, what else?”
We laughed and talked and drank and ate and flirted. An hour later, we slipped out of the pub and walked half-drunk through the center of town, arm in arm, and I knew then that I had never loved Lisa, at least I had never been “in love” because what I was feeling now was like walking on air.
“Did True tell ye how I earn my wages?” she asked.
“He was vague. Something about working in Brackla.”
“I run a tour boat from the docks o’ the Clansman Hotel. It’s a used Sea Angler, just over nine meters. Topside’s got benches, enough tae accommodate sightseers, down below’s where I live. Want tae see?”
It was the kind of line a man might wait his
whole life to hear, but the thought of getting on a boat docked at night in Loch Ness sobered me up like a pot of coffee.
Still, this was love, and love (and lust) conquered all. So we climbed aboard the Harley and motored north on the A82, the howling wind in our hair, Brandy’s nibbling on my earlobe driving me wild.
Brackla is a small hamlet located along the Loch’s northwestern shore, approximately halfway between Drumnadrochit and Lochend. Its draw is the Clansman, the only hotel (save for Angus’s new resort) situated directly on the banks of Loch Ness. The facility has twenty-eight suites, all offering panoramic views of the Loch, along with large dining rooms and halls that have hosted many a wedding and Scottish dinner dance.
Situated directly behind the Clansman Hotel was a rectangular inlet that served as a docking area for Loch Ness. Brandy’s boat, the Nessie III, was tied off at the end of one of the piers. As we crossed over the wooden boardwalk that led to her berth, I could feel trepidation rising in my gut.
“So Zachary? What dae ye think?”
“That depends. What happened to the Nessie I and II?”
“Oh, the monster ate them,” she teased, rubbing my groin.
I felt queasy. “Brandy, why don’t we go back to the lodge and—”
“Come on, I’ll give ye the tour.” Ignoring my objections, she took my hand and dragged me aboard, reciting more obscure facts she had learned from her correspondence course. “Did ye know butterflies taste wi’ their feet?”
White-washed wooden benches, set parallel to one another and nailed to the main deck, ran the length of the deck. Forward was the wheelhouse, its entry framed by a pair of doors. One guarded a sea toilet and sink, the other led below deck to Brandy’s private quarters.
Fear pounded in my pulse as Brandy coaxed me below, pointing out the engine room, her galley, and the refurbished bathroom. And then she led me forward into her cabin, slipped out of her sandals, and kissed me hard on the lips.
Her Scotch-laced tongue flitted in my mouth as her hand unzipped the fly of my pants. I fumbled like an orangutan with the back of her bra, the clasps of which must have been welded shut.
“Let me.” She reached behind her back and freed her breasts.
For a precious moment, my desire overcame my phobia ... until the boat rose and dropped beneath a half-dozen wakes and the fear rose again in my gut, tossing ice water over my hard-on.
I jumped as she unbuckled my pants. “Brandy, wait, I ... I can’t do this.”
“Why?” she purred. “Did yer knob perish on the Sargasso, too. Perhaps I’ll have tae resuscitate it, yeah?”
“No!” My mind raced like a demon, not wanting a repeat of what had happened on South Beach. “I mean, your father ... it’s your father. He’ll know I stayed with you tonight.”
“Since when do you give a shyte what my old man thinks?”
“Since ... since he saved my life. See, if I slept with you tonight, our first night together, I’d be disrespecting him, see? And that would ruin any chance we had with him later on.”
“I don’t care. I hate the bastard worse than you hate Angus, now take off yer clothes, I need tae feel you inside o’ me.”
The boat swayed beneath us again, and I panicked like a bear caught in a trap.
“What? Do ye no’ want tae be wi’ me then? Is that it?”
“No, I mean I do, I swear—”
“What’s wrong then? Ye’re as pale as a ghost, an’ ye’re tremblin’. Come on, we’ll lie down.”
“I ... I need some air!” Pulling up my jeans, I tore up the steps, the main deck spinning in my head as I half leaped, half tumbled over the stern rail, landing awkwardly on the dock.
“Zachary Wallace, where do ye think ye’re going?”
I looked back, the dark waters swirling on either side of me. “I’ll call you! I’ll come by tomorrow!”
Not waiting for a reply, I stumbled down the boardwalk until I made it back to the parking lot, then kept running until I reached a grove of trees.
Lying back against the trunk of a pine, I closed my eyes, my limbs trembling as I hyperventilated like a frightened deer.
Chapter 10 Quotes
« ^ »
... in the case of an island, or of a country partly surrounded by barriers, into which new and better adapted forms could not freely enter, we should then have places in the economy of nature which would assuredly be better filled up if some of the original inhabitants were in some manner modified; for, had the area been open to immigration, these same places would have been seized on by intruders. In such cases, slight modifications, which in any way favoured the individuals of any species, by better adapting them to their altered conditions, would tend to be preserved; and natural selection would have free scope for the work of improvement.
—CHARLES DARWIN, THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES, 1859
Chapter 10
« ^ »
UNDERWATER ... can’t see ... can’t breathe. Cold, scared. Kick with the free leg, twist and kick, don’t swallow. Throat burns, ears popping, suffocating, keep kicking ... twist, struggle ...
Free!
Swim, kick, my ankle hurts so bad. Gurgling growls ... rising beneath me! Oh, God, Zachary ... get to the light!
I lashed and kicked, tearing the sheets from the mattress, flinging the suffocating wool blanket from my face as I flew off the bed and barrel-rolled out the front door of the lodge cabin as if on fire.
Breathing, shaking, quivering, the mountain air chilling my sweat-soaked boxers and T-shirt, the cold helping me to awake.
You’re okay ... you’re okay ... you’re okay.
I looked around, panting. The woods were quiet, the solitude heavy in the predawn light. And then my eyes caught movement.
It was old man MacDonald crossing through the forest. Seeing me, he paused, hiding behind a clump of birch trees.
“Mr. MacDonald?”
He refused to move, which was more than a little bizarre, so I decided to approach—anything to distance myself from the night terror.
“Get back tae yer cabin.”
Ignoring his command, I moved closer.
He was dressed in an almost medieval-looking black surcoat, marked by a crimson-colored X that was woven around a heart- shaped emblem.
Splattered across the tunic was fresh blood.
“Mr. MacDonald, are you hurt?”
The old man hurried off, but I quickly overtook him. Grabbing his shoulder, I spun him around, only to be confronted with the business end of a double-edged sword, the gold-plated blade dripping with blood.
“Back off, young Wallace. My business is my ain affair, dae ye ken whit I mean?”
I was in no position to argue.
He stared at me for a long moment, then continued down the mountainous slope to his cabin.
* * *
Several hours later, still baffled by the surreal encounter with the Crabbit, I drove the Harley into the parking lot of the Clansman Hotel, then headed for the wharf to meet up with the old man’s daughter.
I was armed with a bouquet of freshly cut flowers and a simple plan: Beg forgiveness, give her the flowers, then ask her to dinner in Inverness, hoping we’d end up in my hotel room.
I hesitated, then walked out onto the pier, the daylight easing last night’s feelings of dread. As I approached the Nessie III, Brandy emerged from the wheelhouse, dressed in a gray cotton sweat suit. “Well, look who it is? Thanks for a helluva night, lover.”
“Can I at least explain?”
“I’ve a better idea. Why don’t ye go make nice wi’ my old man, `cause I want nothin’ tae do wi’ you!”
“Brandy, wait!” I climbed aboard, quickly presenting her with the flowers. “For you. I picked them myself”
“Did ye now?” She inhaled the bouquet, then tossed them overboard. “I hate flowers. Flowers are what my bastard ex used tae give me while he banged my nurse.”
“That won’t ever happen with us!”
“Us? Ther
e is no us, now get off my boat.”
“I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. We’ll spend the day in Inverness. We’ll go shopping, have some dinner—”
“I’m no goin’ anywhere. I’ve a sold-out tour scheduled tae leave in forty minutes. Besides, ye cannae just bribe yer way back intae me heart, there’s too much scar tissue.” She pushed me toward the rail.
“Brandy, just hear me out. You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and I don’t want to blow it.”
“Should o’ thought about that last night.”
“Give me a second chance, I’ll do anything.”
She paused. “Anythin’?”
Uh-oh ...
“Okay. Like I said, I’ve a full boat intae Fort Augustus. We do a good job, an’ most’ll book me for their return trip.”
“We?”
“Ye said ye’d do anythin’, now ye can play first mate. When we get back, ye’ll help clean the boat, then ye can take me tae Inverness for dinner.”
Before I could negotiate, she removed her hooded sweatshirt, revealing tanned curves barely concealed behind a heart-stopping black floss bikini.
My left brain rolled over as the right sealed the deal.
* * *
Forty minutes and a triple dose of prescription pills later, my brain was buzzing like a bee as I undid the Nessie III’s bowline, allowing the overcrowded vessel to push away from the dock. There were twenty- three passengers on a boat that legally held eighteen, but for all I could tell, it could have been a hundred.
Too unbalanced to stand, I wedged myself on the starboard-facing bench between an American fellow named Clay Jordan, who was with his German wife and two young sons, and a chatty woman named Bibi Zekl, a bookstore clerk on holiday with her husband, Stefan. In no time, the Nessie III was puttering south along the Loch, all eyes, save mine, focused on the water as we approached Urquhart Bay.
Brandy was in the wheelhouse, playing both boat captain and tour guide. Over two badly crackling loudspeakers she announced, “Welcome to the Highlands. In Scotland, we call lakes “lochs”, and the biggest and deepest is Loch Ness, at over thirty-six kilometers long. That’s twenty-three miles to our American guests. From Tor Point south, she averages a mile wide, with depths over one hundred and eighty meters, or six hundred feet. Amazingly, Loch Ness is deeper than even the North Sea.
