Loch, The

by Steve Alten

  “Applications? You expect us to apply?”

  “This is business, Mrs. Talley. And let’s get a few things clear. When it comes to the press, all interviews go through me. And I don’t want to hear any talk about Nessie being a sturgeon, or your applica­tion may just find its way to the bottom of our pile. Capiche?”

  Meghan Talley started to say something, but her husband grabbed her arm.

  “No more questions? Good. Redistribute your sonar buoys, boys and girls, Nessie hunting season just began.”

  Aldourie Castle

  Northeastern Bank of Loch Ness

  Gray skies cast a pall over the Great Glen. The dark water was as smooth as glass, blemished by occasional wisps of fog that rolled across the surface like tumbleweed.

  I hiked north along the eastern bank of Loch Ness, continuing my search for clues, my T-shirt soaked from a late afternoon down­pour that had scattered many of the tourists. By five-thirty I found myself along the banks of Aldourie Pier and a galley-stance that had once supplied a British garrison more than a century ago. A battered aluminum canoe was beached in the tall grass, its exposed bottom covered in algae. There was no one else around.

  I continued on, approaching the grounds of Aldourie Castle. The ancient baronial mansion was set several hundred yards back from the Loch, surrounded by open acres of land. Four-story spires topped the abandoned estate, its silhouette dwarfed by a backdrop of emerald green forested slopes carpeted in pine and larch.

  Aldourie Castle had been reconstructed several times since its main tower had been built in 1626. The most recent work completed a cement pad that separated the foundation from the first floor. At the time, its owner, Colonel William Fraser-Tytler, claimed it was done to fireproof the estate. According to locals, the colonel was more concerned about “finally putting to rest the ghost of the lady in gray,” a spirit said to be haunting the castle grounds.

  If childhood memories were the spirits that haunted me, then Castle Aldourie was certainly a part of them, for this was the site where Angus had seeded in me his superstitions about devils and dragons.

  I moved to the edge of the bank where my father had dangled his young son. Had the drunken bastard been clairvoyant, or was he just playing me as he’d always done?

  Perhaps as he was doing now ...

  Staring below into those dark waters, I seriously began to wonder. And then I looked up and saw the object.

  It was a pale figure, bobbing along the surface several hundred yards away. Had the water not been so smooth, I’d have never seen it, but its movement was causing ripples along the Loch’s otherwise tranquil surface.

  Was it a deer?

  With visibility poor and the fog thickening, I couldn’t be certain, but it looked to me ... like a body!

  There was no one else around, no boats in sight.

  What to do?

  I looked back at the canoe, my heart pounding.

  Okay, Wallace, you swore you’d take action when the time came, well, the clock’s ticking.

  I jogged back to the canoe, my muscles moving like liquid lead, my bladder tingling with fear. Reaching down, I flipped the algae- infested boat over, exposing a rotted wooden paddle and a dozen or so angry bullfrogs.

  “Sorry, boys.”

  The inside of the canoe reeked of standing water. Using the waterlogged paddle, I pushed away curtains of cobwebs, then dragged the vessel over the grass toward the small pier.

  Underwater ... lungs on fire, the shadow rising with me ... get to the light!

  “Whoa!” I shook my head, fighting to clear the subliminal image. “Stay calm. Better to face your fear in daylight.”

  The Great Glen rumbled with thunder, its placid waters chal­lenging me to violate their serenity.

  Lowering the canoe into the water, I tried to imagine what William Wallace and his band of followers must have felt while they waited at Stirling to confront Longshanks’s army. Outnumbered, they had con­fronted their fear head-on and, in doing so, won a decisive battle.

  “Fear? Maybe the dragon represented fear? Maybe that’s what Angus was trying to tell me. Everyone must face their own personal dragon at some point.”

  Idiot. Since when did Angus Wallace ever speak philosophically?

  I checked the canoe, verified there were no leaks, then, leaving my backpack on the dock, climbed down a small wooded ladder and eased myself into the boat. Balancing myself; I gripped the rotted oar and began paddling away from shore in water deeper than the North Sea.

  So far so good. You can do this.

  With the fog rolling in, it took me a long moment before I could relocate the bobbing object. My shoulder muscles knotted as I pad­dled, ending each stroke by tracing a J in the water to keep the canoe moving along a straight course.

  Two hundred yards away, the ripples increased in intensity.

  Within minutes, the chill of Loch Ness began filtering through the bottom of the aluminum boat, numbing my feet. Ignoring the cold, I switched sides and continued paddling, the canoe’s bow push­ing through the thickening veils of fog.

  I was close now, maybe twenty boat lengths away, when I heard splashing noises up ahead.

  Something was struggling in the water ... whatever was out there was still alive!

  “Hello?”

  I paddled harder, my imagination racing. Was it a capsized boater? How long could someone stay afloat in these frigid waters?

  I thought I saw a head go under then rise again, perhaps arms slapping at the fog-strewn surface. “Hang on, I’m almost there!”

  Reaching the body, I executed a wide C stroke, spun the bow around and leaned over.

  “Oh, geez.”

  It wasn’t a person and it wasn’t alive. It was a massive fish, a stur­geon, seventeen feet long, only it was covered in dozens of gushing bite marks, each bloody divot measuring eight to ten inches around, four inches deep.

  As I watched and stared, the carcass was dragged under again and attacked, as if by a school of piranha.

  “Christ, what the hell’s happening?”

  Whomp!

  My heart leaped as something heavy struck the bottom of the canoe, its impact reverberating through my bones.

  Whomp ... whomp-whomp!

  More strikes, in staggered succession. I was being attacked!

  I regripped the paddle and was about to stroke when the canoe was walloped again from below with such force the aluminum plates by my feet dented upward and separated, releasing a stream of icy water. Jesus, Wallace, haul ass!

  I stroked like a madman, driving the sinking boat forward, my heart nearly stopping as the bow skidded atop the remains of the resurfacing sturgeon.

  “Dammit!” I veered the canoe to one side, my shattered nerves tingling as my plunging oar struck something solid swimming below.

  Whomp... whomp!

  The canoe rocked as it was bludgeoned again, the water at my feet three inches deep and rising.

  This isn’t happening!

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard my inner voice remind me, Easy, Wallace. It’s just a loch. It can’t hurt you if you don’t go in.

  “Shut up!”

  Lowering my shoulder, I paddled like an Olympian, aiming for a distant shoreline now mired in fog. The frigid water in the canoe was now was up to my ankles.

  * * *

  A giant shadow, rising to meet me!

  Subliminal images blinded me. “A hundred yards ... just keep paddling!”

  Mouth opening around my lower torso ...

  “Eighty yards ... come on, Wallace!”

  Water up to my calf, the canoe growing noticeably heavier. Something jagged, tearing into my flesh!

  “Sixty yards ... where’s the damn pier?”

  Get to the light, Zachary, get to the light!

  Whomp!

  “Get the hell away from me!”

  My blistered hands and forearms burned, my entire body strain­ing now to move the water-laden canoe.

  I wa
s getting closer. I could see Aldourie Castle. I could see its green pastures of lawn.

  And then the rising water wet my buttocks, and I knew I was going in.

  Fifty yards ...

  The canoe wobbled with every stroke, only it scarcely moved.

  Forty yards. Stay in the boat as long as possible!

  The bow rose, the stern bobbed, then sank beneath me.

  Oh, hell.

  Releasing the paddle, I stood, then launched myself into the Loch, its all-too familiar embrace blasting my breath away as my churning legs leveled out into an awkward crawl stroke. My hiking shoes were concrete blocks, my clothing binding me, my fear preventing me from ducking my head underwater as I swam.

  Twenty yards, Wallace ... twenty damn yards! Two first down markers ...

  An image flashed in my mind’s eye. The body of a man. Naked. Dead.

  “Awffff!”

  Distracted, my forehead smashed painfully against a wood piling, striking it so hard I actually saw purple stars.

  Get out of the damn water!

  Reaching out blindly, I groped for the ladder, then dragged myself up its splintering rungs. Dizzy from the cold and exertion, I reached the summit and collapsed to my knees upon the pier, then lay back and closed my eyes, rubbing the aching knot on my head.

  Eyes shut, I watched flashes of light skate past my eyelids as I listened to the waves lapping quietly below.

  “You’re okay. Breathe.”

  Calming my breaths, I allowed my weight to sink as I forced my mind to return to the subliminal images.

  Something seemed different this time ... clearer than the images from my previous night terrors. What was it?

  Underwater ... the light!

  This time I had seen the light more clearly. It wasn’t the sun’s rays penetrating the deep, and it wasn’t some heavenly glow, it was a bril­liant artificial lance ... an underwater lamp, penetrating my watery tomb like a lighthouse beacon.

  I opened my eyes, my thoughts racing with the revelation. “That’s what saved me seventeen years ago! It was an underwater light! It must have chased the creature into the deep.”

  I regained my feet, staring at the Loch in defiance. “I know your weakness now, Nessie, whatever the hell you are. Your eyes, they’re sensitive to bright light. The next time we meet, I’ll be ready.”

  My thoughts returned to my adventure in the canoe, and now I was confused, for it was not Justin Wagner’s killer that had attacked that sturgeon. No, these water creatures, whatever they were, had been smaller, yet quite ferocious.

  Was it Nessie’s young, or another species?

  “There’s something bizarre happening here, something that’s affecting the entire ecosystem.” Remembering the lab, I searched my backpack for my cell phone and Sheriff Holmstrom’s number.

  “Sheriff, it’s Zachary Wallace. What’s the story with those blood samples and specimens I asked you to have analyzed? Hello?”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Wallace, I don’t know how tae say this ... but, well, it seems one o’ our technicians misplaced yer samples.”

  “Misplaced?” My gut twisted in knots. “Exactly what was mis­placed?”

  “Everythin’ ye gave us, I’m afraid. We’re still searchin’ the lab, an’ rest assured, the man responsible’s been disciplined, but—”

  I hung up, cutting him off.

  Angus was right, I was wasting my time.

  Cursing aloud, I grabbed my backpack, then found cover beneath a larch. Stripping off my wet clothing, I changed into dry shorts and jeans.

  And then another thought hit me. Crabbit MacDonald! He was the one who had the underwater light. How did he know to carry it when he rescued me?

  “That old bastard ... he knows exactly what’s down there.”

  Returning the pack to my back, I continued hiking, double-tim­ing it north, wondering what scared me more, the creatures inhabiting Loch Ness, or the thought of confronting the old man.

  Chapter 22 Quotes

  « ^ »

  ... there is the familiar, and I have to say rather irritating confusion of Natural Selection with “randomness.” Mutation is random; Natural Selection is the very opposite of random. In true Natural Selection, if a body has what it takes to survive, its genes automatically survive because they are inside it. So the genes that survive tend to be, automatically, those genes that confer on bodies the qualities that assist them to survive.

  —RICHARD DAWKINS, THE BLIND WATCHMAKER: WHY THE EVIDENCE OF EVOLUTION REVEALS A UNIVERSE WITHOUT DESIGN, 1986

  A feasible explanation is that the “Monster” may be some type of deep water animal which only rarely comes to the surface. It is possible these animals were cut off in Loch Ness from the ocean many ages ago by earth movements, and their descendants managed to survive.

  —C. ERIC PALMER, CURATOR OF NATURAL HISTORY, GLASGOW MUSEUM, 1951

  Chapter 22

  « ^ »

  Bona Narrows, Loch Ness

  WITHIN THE HOUR, I found myself on the northeasternmost point of Loch Ness. From here, I could either find a means to cross the channel known as the Bona Narrows, bringing me again to Loch Ness’s western shoreline, or I could continue on following the eastern bank another twelve twisting miles, passing Loch Dochfour and the River Ness—a winding route that would eventually lead to Inverness and the Moray Firth.

  The thought of being back on the Loch in a boat unnerved me, so I continued trudging along the eastern shoreline in my wet hiking boots, prepared to walk all the way to Inverness if I had to.

  The powers-that-be were about to intercede.

  As I approached the Bona lighthouse, I saw the water bailiffs motor­boat suddenly race across the channel, then veer sharply towards me.

  Calum Forrest waved at me from the pilothouse. “Michty aye, Dr. Wallace. Ye do get a’roond, dae ye no’?”

  “So they tell me. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Perhaps there’s somethin’ I can dae for you. Come aboard, I’ll ta’ ye across.”

  “No thanks. I, uh, I think I’ll walk.”

  “What? A’ the way tae Dochfour Weir? Dinnae be daft.”

  Before I could respond, he drove the bow of his vessel onto the gravel shoreline.

  I hesitated, my pulse racing.

  “C’mon, there’s nae need tae worry aboot you-know-who.”

  His conviction, combined with the size of his boat, gave me the comfort I needed. Pushing the craft’s bow away from the shallows, I climbed aboard.

  “Just for the record, how can you be so sure our friend won’t show up?”

  “Gie me a wee bit o’ credit. I may no’ have yer degrees, doctor, but I’ve been on these waters since afore ye were in nappies. The big ‘uns, they dinnae like the shallows, ‘cept lately, ‘course, but only after dark.”

  “Big ones? Then you’ve seen them?”

  “Nah.” Calum aimed the boat for the western shoreline, keeping the motor at a low idle so we could speak. “A’ I’ve seen wis the imprint that big female left on Invermoriston beach. Same as you, yeah?”

  Female? How did he know it was a female? My eyes darted back and forth between the old man and the water’s surface. “But how—”

  “I’m the water bailiff, Doc. ‘Tis my job tae ken whit goes on in Loch Ness.”

  “And how do you know it was a female?”

  “A quid guess, that’s all.”

  I didn’t believe him. “Why didn’t you mention any of this in court?”

  “Well then, naebody asked me, did they, so stuff them, says I. As for bein’ there in the first place, yer faither’s bastard barrister sup’ineed me. I said what I had tae, but far as I’m concerned, he can burn in Hell if he thinks any o’ us wearin’ the tartan’ll support Angus’s nonsense.”

  “Then I take it you don’t believe my father’s story?”

  “Nor dae ye, but no’ ‘cause o’ whit I said. So keep at it, young Wallace, yer daein’ fine. An’ ye
’re right in focusin’ on the Loch as a whole, for the answers tae a’ ye seek lie here, no’ in chasin’ ghosts. But be fair warned, when it comes tae Loch Ness trust nae one, for there’s far mair at stake than ye can possibly imagine.”

  “If you know so much then help me.”

  He shook his head. “I cannae dae that, laddie. I’ve taken a blood oath, dae ye ken whit I mean?”

  “No, I don’t ken ... I don’t understand. If there’s so much at stake—”

  “My grandfaither, God rest his soul, wis John Reid Forrest. His mother wis Clan Stewart, his wife, my mum, Clan MacDonald.”

  Message received. The Forrests were descendants from two of the largest clans in the Highlands. I’d sooner budge a mountain than move Calum Forrest. “And the Black Knights? Were they also part of your heritage?”

  “Black Knights? Never heard o’ them.” He accelerated across the Bona Narrows, barely avoiding a tree stump.

  “What separates the Black Knights from the rest of the Templar, Mr. Forrest? What’s their mission?”

  Calum yanked back on the throttle, then pushed his face in mine, so close I could taste his last meal under his breath. “I dinnae ken nothin’ aboot no Black Knights, see, an’ dinnae ask me that again.”

  We rode in silence until we reached the western shore. The old man wiped spray from his brow, then thought for a long moment. “Tell me, lad, have ye been salmon fishin’ since ye’ve been back?”

  “Salmon fishing? No. Why? Catch any big ones lately?”

  “Naw. I’ve been too busy wi’ a’ this trial nonsense. One o’ these days, I’ll have tae get ower tae their spawnin’ grounds an’ have a wee look. Or maybe ye should have a look, aye?”

  His eyes held mine, ensuring the message was delivered, then he guided us closer to shore, throttling back as the hull scrapped against the shallows.

  “Go wi’ God, young Wallace. May Sir William’s courage flourish in yer heart.”

  I jumped down to the beach, then watched him speed away with­out so much as a nod.

  I was back in Lochend, the tranquillity of the Great Glen lost amidst the heavy traffic of the A82 at my back. To the south, Loch Ness’s waters reached across the valley like the shadow of a giant serpent. Her black waves lapped at my feet, and her distant thunder rumbled above her mountains, threatening an evening shower.