Professor Challenger: The Kew Growths and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  “As I told you,” he eventually said. “These waters may, just may, be home to a relict creature, one that might even be a distant cousin to those we encountered on the high plateau in the Amazon.”

  I looked around, taking in the soft rolling hills, the cooling breeze and the calm waters. “This is not the Amazon, Challenger. Not by any measure.”

  He laughed, causing the boat to tilt and sway and making me regret having such a large breakfast.

  “But it is a very large body of water, Malone,” he said. “And there are too many stories of a serpent inhabiting it for us to dismiss them so readily. The tales go back more than ten centuries, and tell of a long-necked beast of some intelligence. The loch itself is said to have an underground outlet to the Moray Firth and thence to the North Sea. These reports may be of a migrating animal from a far distant clime, coming here to breed or feed, or both.”

  He had that faraway look in his eyes I had come to know so well. Since our return from the Amazon I had been seeing it more and more; the need to discover something, anything, that would validate him and wipe the slate clean with the Royal Society. I myself believed that would require a minor miracle, but I also knew the old chap well enough to keep my mouth shut, lest his quick temper get the better of him. It would not do to get him riled this far from shore.

  After we had finished our smokes Challenger reached for the bag in the bottom of the boat. Once again glass clinked.

  “Please, not more Scotch,” I pleaded.

  He smiled, and drew out some sampling jars, each with a long stretch of attached fishing line. “Give me a hand, old bean,” Challenger said, “We need to get some samples.”

  He showed me the trick to operating the jars, giving them a quick tug when at the required depth to close the cunningly constructed valve at the top.

  “A sample every ten feet down should do it,” he said, and for the first time I realized how much water lay beneath us. It did not seem to bother the Professor in the slightest. He stood up. The small boat rocked alarmingly, but he merely laughed, and set to work, dropping the bottles over the side and letting them sink to their required depths. He sang, his voice carrying high and clear across the water.

  Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  Out on the loch, something answered. A loud splash behind me dashed nearly caused me to jump out of the boat. By the time I looked round, there was only a large expanding circle of ripples, some twenty yards away.

  Challenger pulled his bottles in without taking any samples, dropped them unceremoniously in the bottom of the boat, and took to the oars like a man possessed, turning us in a circle until the prow pointed straight at where the splash had been.

  “Keep your eye on that spot, Malone,” he said. “And tell me when we’re directly over it.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Probably not,” Challenger said, and laughed heartily. “But that has never stopped us before, has it?”

  In only a handful of pulls on the oars he brought us directly over the spot where the splash had occurred. The loch was once again flat calm all around us, but Challenger had been taken by the thrill of the hunt and was not ready to give up on his quarry just yet.

  He sang again.

  Drink and the devil had done for the rest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  But this time there was no answer, just a gentle lapping of wavelets on the side of the boat. We sat there for long minutes. Nothing moved on the water. Eventually Challenger started to deploy the sample jars again. He sang as he did so, sea shanties, nonsense songs, music-hall favorites, all at the top of his voice. Nothing answered.

  He sat down and lit up another cheroot.

  “It was right here, Malone,” he said. “We almost saw it.”

  “Almost isn’t good enough for McGuire,” I replied. “He’ll want a live beast, or at least a carcass.”

  “Then we shall have to see what we can do, won’t we?”

  We spent the best part of the morning out on the boat. At some point I realized that my hangover had finally passed, and I felt able to help Challenger out with the sampling. We pulled up almost a score of bottles filled with, what looked to my eyes, muddy water, but Challenger pronounced himself pleased with the results.

  “I shall have these sent posthaste to Edinburgh,” he said. “There’s a chap waiting for them who’ll have the results back to us in two to three days.”

  “Results? What are you expecting to find?”

  “Something. Anything.”

  He took to the oars and started heading back to the hotel’s jetty. Almost as soon he had the boat turned around, there was another loud splash behind me. I saw Challenger’s gaze switch to a point over my shoulder, and watched the color drain from his face. But by the time I turned, all I saw was another spreading circle of ripples.

  “What was it?” I asked.

  Challenger shook his head and took to the oars again, rowing for the shore as fast as he was able.

  “We should have brought the Scotch,” was all he said.

  He didn’t tell me what he’d seen until we were back in the bar and he had downed a generous dram of Scotch. The color came back to his features, and he broke into a wide grin. “I saw it, Malone,” he whispered, or as close to a whisper as Challenger could muster. “Or at least, I saw the neck and head. It rose up out of the water and looked straight at me.”

  He downed another Scotch.

  “Before we came here I thought it might be some kind of plesiosaur, like the fossils found at Lyme Regis last century. But it was huge, Malone, much larger by far than anything in the fossil record. The head was as big, if not larger, than that of a horse.”

  “You saw the kelpie, then?” a softly accented voice said to our left. “You’ve been honored.”

  I turned to find a small, wizened man at my shoulder. He could have been anywhere from eighty to ninety years old, skin as tough as old leather, and eyes a deep blue that were hard to look away from.

  “Kelpie?” I asked.

  Without being asked, the newcomer joined us at our table and, with a circular motion of his hand above our drinks, ordered another round from the bar. I resolved at that moment to keep a clear head; I did not need a repeat of this morning’s hangover … not so soon after getting rid of it.

  “Everybody around here knows of the beast,” he said. “But only a select few ever see it. It’s supposed to be a sign of good luck.”

  Challenger laughed loudly. “I could certainly do with a dose of that. But what else do they say of this beast? Where does it live? What does it eat?”

  This time it was the old man’s turn to laugh.

  “It does not eat, and it does not live, not in the sense you mean in any case. It is a thing of faerie, a gift from the wee people in olden times. They say …”

  “Stop right there, old bean,” Challenger said. “I am a man of science. I’ll have no truck with superstition and fairy tales.”

  “Ah, but will they have any truck with you, I wonder?” the old man said, and cackled. However he did appear to bow to Challenger’s skepticism, and there was no more talk of fairies or kelpies. Instead we found him to be a delightful companion; a skilled raconteur who kept us entertained with local stories and anecdotes from his impressively long life history. I was rather surprised to check my pocket watch and find that the afternoon had slipped by and it was almost time for our evening meal. Our new companion bade us farewell as we headed for the dining room.

  “Good luck on the morrow,” he said. “And a wee tip … keep to the northern shore and go up the loch that way. The kelpie seems to like that spot more than any other.”

  We thanked him, and went for our meal, a most fine piece of salmon with new potatoes and fresh greens. After that, things rather caught up with me, I’m afraid. Challenger headed back to the bar, but I barely managed to drag myself to bed, and was out for the count within minutes
. The last thing I heard was Challenger’s booming voice leading a chorus of singing down in the bar.

  Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  Drink and the devil had done for the rest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  I woke to the sound of rain drumming on the window in a gloom that made me unsure whether it was night or day. A check of my watch showed me that it to be just after seven in the morning.

  Challenger was already halfway through breakfast when I joined him in the dining room twenty minutes later. I made sure I ate enough to provide plenty of ballast if required, getting through a plate of porridge, a mound of toast and some splendid venison sausages, all washed down with several cups of strong sweet tea. After that all I wanted to do was sit in the lounge and watch the weather scud across the loch, but Challenger was having none of it. If I thought the weather might dampen his enthusiasm I was to be sorely disappointed.

  “It’s just water,” he said. “It won’t hurt us.”

  I might have argued that drowning could be seen as a bit of a problem, but I knew of old that there was no sense in going against the old man when he was in this mood; I’d get more luck talking to a wall. At least I was lucky to be able to get the use of a full set of oilskins from spare sets kept in the hotel lobby against just such circumstances, but I was not best pleased as I followed Challenger down the jetty and into the small boat. I was however grateful that he took the oars again, as it allowed me to huddle, almost completely covered, inside the oilskins, listening to the rain patter on the hood I had pulled down to my eyes. If the beast did make an appearance, I wasn’t going to be able to see it, but I would be dry, and that seemed more important at that moment.

  Challenger cast off and rowed us away from the jetty. Almost immediately he started to sing again, the same ditty as before. I cursed him for his good humor, and hunkered down further inside the oilskins.

  “It was about here, wasn’t it?” he said several minutes later. I chanced a look up, getting a trickle of water down the back of my neck for my pains. All I could see was a wall of gray mist and drizzle.

  “If you say so, old chap,” I replied, and quickly retreated inside the hood. Challenger broke into song again, louder this time.

  Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  There was an answering splash from somewhere out on the loch, then another seconds later, closer this time.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, Malone. It could be anywhere,” Challenger said as he took up the oars again.

  “That’s what worries me,” I replied, but I bowed to the inevitable and lowered the hood of the oilskin so that I had a wider field of vision.

  Drink and the devil had done for the rest—

  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

  This time the splash was so close that the ripples it caused rocked the small boat. But I could still see nothing through the mist. Challenger stopped rowing and we sat there in calm water, listening for another splash.

  “Did you see anything?” Challenger said after a while.

  “No, and I’m starting to wonder if there is anything to see. Perhaps the old cove in the bar yesterday was right. Perhaps whatever is here is indeed something beyond the natural?”

  Challenger laughed loudly. “I expected better from you, Malone,” he said. “And whatever it was that I saw yesterday … it was no fairy.”

  He laughed again at the thought … and was answered by a splash from behind him. He immediately took to the oars, pulling hard, taking us straight toward the noise. He had his back to it, but over his shoulder I saw a v-shaped wake lead away from us, heading into the fog. I got the impression of a wedge-shaped head at the point of the wake, but that too was quickly lost in the gloom.

  “Faster, Challenger: it’s heading off at speed.”

  Challenger put all his considerable strength into the task, but whatever the thing was, it proved to be stronger still, and was soon completely lost in the fog.

  “Let’s assume it kept going in a straight line,” Challenger said. “It’s our only real option. Keep an eye out, Malone. In this fog we could run up on the shore if we’re not careful.”

  Challenger kept up a steady pace for nearly half an hour. The fog thinned, and the rain turned to fine drizzle then stopped completely. A breeze got up, and, as if someone had turned on a light, we emerged into a beautiful summer’s day. A minute later I was so warm I had to remove the oilskins completely.

  We were once again sitting in completely calm water. Far to the west I saw the promontory of the old castle. Challenger had rowed us north and east for several miles parallel to the shore. The land at the edge of the loch here seemed to be wilder country, a mixture of thick forest and tumbled rocks. As for the beast, there was no sight of it in any direction.

  Challenger put the oars down and lit up a cheroot. I followed suit by getting a pipe going.

  “We can’t go on like this, old bean,” I said after I was sure the pipe was well lit. “We’re chasing after shadows. All you’re achieving is wearing yourself out.”

  Challenger didn’t reply at first, intent on studying the water around us.

  “Perhaps if I sing again …” he started.

  “Have at it,” I replied. “But can we please have something different? I’ve had it up to here with bottles of rum.”

  Challenger laughed.

  And from the foliage on the northern shore, something replied with a high, almost dog-like bark.

  Challenger immediately rowed us in the direction of the sound and less than a minute later the boat scraped on the bottom as we neared the rocky shore. Before I could say anything the Professor jumped from the boat and started to drag it out of the water. I had little option but to get out and help, gaining a soaking from knees to toes in the process. I squelched ashore and helped to beach the boat.

  Another bark sounded close by. Challenger charged into the foliage in search of the source. Fearing for my old friend’s safety, I followed close behind, aware as I did so that we were following a well-beaten track through trampled shrubbery.

  I caught up with Challenger at the mouth of what looked like a cave heading directly into the hill. It was wide enough for three people to get through side by side, but only if they crawled, the opening being less than three feet high at the tallest part.

  “It’s in there,” Challenger said, and was answered by another bark from inside.

  “Let me guess,” I replied. “You mean to go in?”

  “Would you be able to sleep at night if we didn’t?”

  “Oh, I imagine I’d manage,” I replied, but he was already down on his hands and knees and crawling forward. I followed him inside.

  We crawled for several yards before we realized that the cavern had opened up and we could safely stand. It took my eyes several more seconds to adjust to the dimness inside, and when they did I could scarce believe what I saw.

  We stood on the shore of an underground lake that stretched away from us as far as we could see in the gloom. The water was crystal-clear, and tens of feet deep where the shelf dropped away just inches from our feet. But that wasn’t what took my breath away. The bottom of the lake was white and, on closer examination, proved to be covered in skeletal remains—the bones of creatures with long, barrel-shaped rib cages, wedge-like heads, and many vertebrae. I could not draw my gaze away until Challenger nudged me.

  I looked up.

  The beast swam toward us, less than ten yards away.

  Challenger had been right; it was huge. It propelled itself through the water with four long, slender fins, each around six feet in length. The body itself was, like the skeletons below, barrel-shaped and some ten feet long, with a similar length of tail tapering behind. It had a long, sinuous neck that was raised out of the water. The head, almost equine in appearance, turned, and the thing looked straight at us. It opened a mouth full of sharp teeth and b
arked, but this time it sounded more like the complaint of a beast in pain. The head lowered toward the water, then rose again, stiffly. It gave another bark, which came out more like a rasping cough. The long body rolled over in the water, turning belly up. The flippers stopped moving, the tail thrashed once violently on the surface, then the beast sank, almost gracefully, descending through the depths to join its kin on the bottom.

  “I was wrong,” Challenger whispered. “They don’t come here to breed or feed. They come here to die.”

  He was quiet on the journey back to the hotel, and quieter still in the bar when the old man from the previous day joined us at our table.

  “Did you meet the kelpie again?” the old man started, then stopped and looked at us both.

  “Aye,” he said softly. “I believe you did at that. You’ll be leaving wiser than you came.”

  It wasn’t a question, and even if it had been, I doubt whether Challenger or I were in the mood to answer.

  Later, when we were alone again, Challenger finally spoke about what we had seen.

  “It would be a great find for science,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “And it would do wonders for my reputation with the Society.”

  “Do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” I asked.

  “Yes. These beasts have been coming here to die for … how long do you think? Many millennia would be my guess. What good would we do disturbing that process? What would it gain us, above providing a boost to my personal vanity? I have a favor to ask, Malone.”

  “Anything, old chap.”

  “Please, don’t write this up. Leave it alone. Leave them alone.”

  I gave him my word, and I kept it. Of course McGuire wanted to know what I had been up to in Scotland. I offered him a light-hearted piece about spectral water-horses and fairy folk. I even wrote it. But that same day there was a huge row in Parliament over women’s voting rights, and my piece was pulled.