by Steve Alten
“Thank you.”
“You’ve logged quite a few hours in our little Loch.”
“About twelve thousand in my boat, another four thousand hours on land. I know this Loch like the back of my hand.”
“Then perhaps ye’d describe the monster ye’ll be huntin’ for our viewers.”
“She’s got a head the size of a horse, with a long neck, perhaps three, maybe four meters, and her total length’s at least twice that. She probably weighs between twelve and twenty tons.”
“Wow. An’, in your opinion, she’s definitely a plesiosaur?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying, yes. Do the science. Plesiosaur remains have been found all over Britain. Seven thousand years ago the entire north end of Loch Ness was open to the sea. It’s easy to see how these ancient monsters could become trapped in our little playground. The Loch is full of wildlife, has an unlimited supply of food, no pollution, and maintains a year-round temperature of four to seven degrees Celsius. Quite ideal for—”
“For an extinct reptile that preferred warmer climates?” It was my voice, strong and sure, but it’d been so long since my ego had donned its Superman tights that I scarcely recognized its return.
The crowd parted, revealing my presence to Hoagland and the BBC cameras.
“And who might you be?” the German adventurer demanded.
“Zachary Wallace, marine biologist, and the man who’s going to make you and the rest of these dinosaur hunters look mighty stupid.”
A woman’s voice crackled over a loudspeaker, “An’ how’re ye goin’ tae dae that, Dr. Know-It-All? By searchin’ for a legend ye don’t even believe in?”
Two berths down, Brandy stood brazenly atop the Nessie III’s wheelhouse. Megaphone in hand, she gestured at me with her bronze, oiled physique, which caught the crowd’s attention as much as her verbal challenge. “Why don’t ye let the experts see tae their business an’ keep yer Americanized opinions tae yersel’.”
The crowd cheered, the cameras rolled.
Hoagland fought to take back the spotlight. “Where’s your vessel, Mr. Marine Biologist? Where’s your sonar equipment? Or do you intend on locating Nessie by hiking through the woods?”
“I don’t chase after water creatures, I prefer to find ways to make them chase after me.”
The crowd oohed and ahhed.
The BBC reporter recognized me. “That’s Zachary Wallace, the man who located a giant squid.”
“Well, then,” Hoagland said, “let’s give him a hand in locating our Nessie.”
Before I could react, three of Hoagland’s goons jumped down from the deck of the ship. Two grabbed hold of my arms, one my legs, and together they began swinging me.
“Eins ... zwei ... drei!”
I flailed in mid-air, then plunged backwards into Loch Ness, the freezing waters jolting me as if electrified.
I thrashed and kicked, too terrified to reason, my overloaded backpack filling quickly with water, weighing me down like an anchor. I fought and struggled, but my negative buoyancy was too much, and I slipped below the surface and sank backwards like a dead turtle.
Sound deadened.
My pulse thundered.
The water changed quickly from iced tea to ink, blanketing me within its paralyzing darkness.
I was in serious trouble.
Think! Reason! Get the damn backpack off!
I struggled to unclip the backpack’s metal clasp but my numb fingers couldn’t budge the stubborn device.
Deeper I fell, twenty feet, thirty ... my ears ringing, my chest on fire, my body heaving in spasms as the Loch’s icy fingers pried their way in.
Where was the crowd? Where they even a bit concerned?
“Awggg!” I inhaled a mouthful of acidic water as a viselike grip clamped down upon my right forearm, dragging me sideways in its teeth.
I fought the beast, lashing at its flesh, until I realized I was being dragged to the surface.
Whoosh! Sound returned with the daylight as my head cleared and True towed me to shore.
Through glassy, half-frozen eyes I looked up and saw the silhouettes of hundreds of amused gawkers standing on the pier. Through water-clogged ears I heard their taunts and laughter.
I felt the muddy bog beneath me and stumbled to shore, my numb fingers still struggling to release the metal catch of my cursed backpack.
True pulled the waterlogged sack off me. “Are ye okay?”
I nodded, then collapsed to my knees, my body shivering from the cold. “Bastards. I’ll kill ‘em.”
“Now ye sound like yer faither. Let them go. Before all’s said an’ done, we’ll get oor revenge.”
I nodded, anger once more fueling my resolve.
Chapter 18 Quotes
« ^ »
Evolution usually proceeds by “speciation”—the splitting of one lineage from a parental stock—not by the slow and steady transformation of these large parental stocks. In the allopatric theory, popularized by Ernst Mayr, new species arise in very small populations that become isolated from their parental group at the periphery of the ancestral range. Speciation in these small isolates is very rapid by evolutionary standards—hundreds or thousands of years (a geological microsecond). Major evolutionary change may occur in these small isolated populations. Favorable genetic variation can quickly spread through them. Moreover, natural selection tends to be intense in geographically marginal areas where the species barely maintains a foothold. Small changes occur to meet the requirements of slowly altering climates, but major genetic reorganizations almost always take place in the small, peripherally isolated populations that form new species.
—STEPHEN JAY GOULD, “BUSHES AND LADDERS,” EVER SINCE DARWIN: REFLECTIONS IN NATURAL HISTORY, 1977
Chapter 18
« ^ »
Fort Augustus, Loch Ness
DRIPPING WET, I slung my water-laden backpack over my shoulder and trudged up the banks of Loch Ness, True following me to the public rest rooms. Tourists gawked, and the locals laughed, and it was all I could do to avert my eyes.
Entering the men’s room, I stripped down to my boxers, washed the peat from my skin, then squeezed the excess water from my clothes into the sink. With the exception of the specimen containers and vacuum-packed food supplies, everything else in my backpack was ruined, including my sleeping bag and change of clothing.
True opened his own pack and pulled out a few dry shirts and two pairs of wool socks, tossing one of each to me. “Put these on. We’ll hitch a ride back tae Drumnadrochit wi’ Brandy, then fill our bellies at the Clansman before startin’ oot fresh in the mornin’.”
“I’m not going back.”
“Zack, ye cannae go on wi’ nae supplies.”
“Then lend me yours and you go back. I need to go on before I lose my nerve, and there’s still the entire east bank to cover.”
“It’s too dangerous alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that woman who got hersel’ killed said the same thing.”
“I’ll camp out in the Glendoe Forest for the night, keeping a distance from the Loch. We’ll rendezvous in Foyers tomorrow around noon.”
He thought it over. “A’right, Foyers it is. But promise ye’ll keep a guid fire goin’.”
“Done. True, before you go, there’s one thing I need to ask you. The other day, I woke up early and ran into your father. He was wearing the tunic of a Templar Knight, only his uniform was black.”
The expression on True’s face changed. “I cannae discuss this wi’ ye, Zack.”
“Your father’s sword was covered in blood.”
True turned on me then, bulldozing me against the wall. “Are ye insinuatin’ my auld man had somethin’ tae dae wi’ that woman’s murder?”
“No, but I—”
“Now listen tae me, Zachary Wallace. One o’ oor faithers might be a killer, but it isnae the auld man who saved yer life seventeen years ago, see?”
> “Okay, okay, easy big fella.”
He backed away, then slapped me playfully behind my ear. “Sorry, lad. There’re things goin’ on in the Highlands that ye cannae see, battles between traditionalists like my faither, who aim tae keep the Highlands pure, an’ those like yours, who wish tae cash in on oor wild lands. Me? I’m a’ for progress, but there’s a fine line between economic benefits an’ environmental ruin. As tae these Templar, from whit I ken, they operate independently ootside the Cooncil, an’ the Black Knights, they dinnae like outsiders lookin’ into their business.”
“Black Knights?”
“Ne’er ye mind.” He handed me his backpack. “Here, take my stuff, I’ll meet ye in Foyers. Jist make sure ye keep that fire goin’ tonight, I dinnae want tae read yer obituary in the Courier.”
* * *
Barefoot, my wet boots hanging from True’s backpack, I headed out of Fort Augustus, following General Wade’s Military Road. It was late in the afternoon, but the Glen’s summer days were growing longer, and my goal was to make it to the eastern bank of Loch Ness well before dusk.
As I walked, my mind wandered.
Two people were dead, and while their deaths were being blamed on a mythical creature, my mind told me the mystery had more to do with the political undercurrents surrounding the Highland Council than a water beast. Of the two major players involved, I knew I’d get nothing from Alban MacDonald, and only lies and deceit from my father.
But a new clue had emerged, one that had accidentally slipped out of my friend’s mouth.
The Black Knights of the Templar.
What was this secret sect? What was their mission? And how were they tied to the goings-on at Loch Ness?
An hour passed before I found my way around the southeastern tip of the Loch to its eastern banks. From here, Loch Ness ran north another twenty-three miles, bordered by the Glendoe Forest, which hugged the base of the imposing Monadhliath Mountains.
The east side of the Loch was far less populated than the west, the country wilder, the forests denser, and much of the shoreline was inaccessible.
General Wade’s Military Road circled around the forest before turning north along the B862 that led to Foyers. Not wishing to take a long detour, hoping to stay as close to the Loch as possible, I paused to put on True’s socks and my damp hiking shoes, then abandoned the single lane tarmac and cut through the forest, remaining parallel to the waterway.
After twenty minutes, I came to a newly paved winding access road that cut through the dense foliage, the sounds of Nature interrupted by the noise of heavy machinery. Following these sounds led me a quarter mile up the road to a massive construction site. A posted sign read:
GLEN DOE HYDROELECTRIC DAM
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
I remembered having read about the new power station, most of which was supposedly being built underground. It was going to be a large plant, its capacity between fifty and one hundred megawatts, with water, collected from seventeen kilometers of underground aqueducts, relocated in a new reservoir located more than six hundred meters above Loch Ness. The reservoir would be situated at the head of Glen Tarff, impounded by a massive dam, thirty-five meters high and one thousand meters long.
Whether Alban MacDonald liked it or not, technology was invading Loch Ness.
Milling about the outside of an imposing chain-link construction fence were more than a dozen protesters, their banners identifying them as the Scottish Wild Land Group.
An auburn-haired woman in her early forties introduced herself by thrusting a picket sign in my hand. “Glad ye could join us, brother, the TV reporters should be arrivin’ anytime. I’m Gloria Snodgrass, assistant director o’ the SWLG Steering Group, an’ you are?”
“Confused. What’s all this about?”
“It’s aboot savin’ oor Glen. The government ministers’ decision tae go through wi’ this hydroelectric plant will cause irreversible damage tae oor peat bogs and rivers, an’ dae ye ken how much forest we’re already losin’? The dam alone requires three new access roads, an’ ye can add another twenty-two kilometers o’ pipeline tae that order. An’ that’s no’ countin’ the seventy-five kilometers needed jist tae build the reservoir.”
“I understand, but—”
“But nothin’. Grab yer sign an’ come join us before the cameras get here.”
“I can’t. Sorry.”
“Sorry? You’ll be the one that’s sorry when we lose oor upland areas. Hey—”
Waving her off, I circled the construction fence, hoping to get a glimpse inside. Building a large-scale hydroelectric scheme so close to Loch Ness must have required a detailed environmental assessment, but then how does one properly access the ecological impact on an undiscovered water creature?
With no foreman visible and no way in, I headed back down the road toward Loch Ness, not sure what to do with this potentially new piece of the puzzle.
Foyers, Loch Ness
The town of Foyers lies a third of the way up Loch Ness on its eastern shore. While the beginnings of the village can be traced to an inn, built back in 1655 at a time when Cromwell’s troops occupied Inverness, it was not until the late 1800s that the North British Aluminum Company put Foyers on the map. For years the aluminum mills dominated the industry, until a drastic drop in the price of the metal, combined with Kinlochleven’s easier access to the open sea forced the townspeople to refocus Foyers primary source of commerce. The answer lay in the village’s abundant and varied sources of water, which included lochs, streams, and the River Foyers, which plunged a spectacular 140-foot chasm into Loch Ness. In their search for a suitable source of power for a new Highlands hydroelectric plant, British engineers quickly targeted Foyers Falls. Work began in 1969 with the construction of a two-and-a-half-mile-long pressurized tunnel connecting Loch Mhor to Loch Ness ...
“... this major undertakin’ allowin’ the turbines, erected in the auld aluminum plant we’re now passin’, tae reverse the flow o’ water back tae Loch Mhor at night when demand wis easier tae calculate, keepin’ the head water supplied at all times.”
The tour guide paused as the open-air bus rolled to a stop and belched exhaust in front of the old smelting plant.
Twenty-four-year-old Justin Wagner fought to conceal his yawn from the tour guide, then nudged his childhood friend, Amber Korpela. “We’ve seen the falls, let’s skip the rest of the tour and go boating.”
“Not yet. I want to see Boleskin House. The original owner was supposed to be heavy into devil worship. Did you know that after he died, Jimmy Paige bought the house and—”
“Amber, who cares? I didn’t fly all the way from Alaska to see some stupid house. Let’s grab a few more rolls of film, rent a boat, and do some serious monster sighting.”
Taking Amber by the hand, Justin dragged her past the tour guide and off the bus. “Sorry, dude, Nessie calls.”
Twenty minutes later, the two Alaskans were hiking down a wooded hillside path through lower Foyers, heading for Loch Ness.
Glen Doe Forest
With the sun beginning to set, I found my way to a small clearing in the thick of the forest, adjacent to a twisting creek that drained into Loch Ness. Whoever had occupied the campsite last had used dead branches to fashioned a lean-to, no doubt to keep out of the rain. Exhausted and hungry, I slid my backpack off, then set off to gather wood for a fire.
After finishing a less-than-appetizing can of green pea soup, I set my tent up beneath the lean-to. A heavy forest separated my campsite from the waters of Loch Ness, which loomed a good hundred yards down sloping woods to the west. With darkness settling on the Great Glen, I began feeling a bit uneasy, my thoughts lingering on True’s warning. Like it or not, I was vulnerable, and I seriously considered spending the night in the lower branches of a tree. But the likelihood of being attacked so far from the water’s edge was considerably less than falling out of a tree and breaking my neck, so I opted for a weapon.
Using my h
unting knife, I fashioned several four-foot-long spears out of tree branches before my eyes grew too weary to focus. Stoking the fire one last time, I crawled into my sleeping bag, and spent the next few hours drifting in and out of a restless sleep.
Foyers, Loch Ness
The motorized raft, commonly known as a Zodiac, spewed oily fumes as it cut an erratic course through darkness and mist.
Justin Wagner tried to quell the hot waves of frustration coursing through his blood. Four hours earlier, he and Amber Korpela had rented the watercraft, guiding it across Loch Ness to its western shores. They had journeyed as far south as Cherry Island, enjoying a sun-soaked summer evening exploring the man-made crannog before embarking on the long ride back. But with their reserve tank of gasoline running low and dusk coming quickly, Justin had decided to save time and distance by taking a northeasterly shortcut across the Loch.
That was over an hour ago.
Justin, an accomplished boater back in Alaska, had not counted on the sun disappearing so suddenly behind the mountains, nor had he planned on the bank of fog moving in from the east.
The whine of the Zodiac’s single-prop sixty horsepower engine, combined with her companion’s constant course changes, had given Amber Korpela a pounding headache. “Okay, Magellan, enough’s enough. Where the hell are we?”
“Somewhere in the middle of Loch Ness ... I think.”
“No shit. Don’t you have a compass?”
“What makes you think I’d have a compass?”
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect you to be stupid enough to get us lost on Loch Ness.”
“You want to take the tiller, be my guest.”
“Instead of zigzagging back and forth, why don’t you just keep us pointed in one direction until we hit land?”
“Land? Can you see land in this fog? What if we’re pointing north? We could cover twenty miles before we hit—”
“Shh! I think I hear something.”
“Yeah, my stomach growling.”
“No, I’m serious. It sounds like people’s voices. Justin, cut the engine.”
Justin turned off the motor. The raft rose and dropped beneath its own swell, then continued drifting forward. “You’re crazy, I don’t hear a thing.”
