The general public remains unaware of any monster in Loch Ness.
And that’s the way it shall stay.
The Auld Grey Man
The last thing I needed during the wettest autumn on record was another trip to the Scottish Highlands, but McGuire was adamant.
“Your Professor pal thinks he’s on to something. Again,” he said when I went to his office to offer my protestations. “And you know what he’s like when he’s got a bee in his bonnet. He’s asked for you specifically, Malone. You’re to meet him at Euston for the midday train to Glasgow. And pack your walking clothes. He says you’ll need them.”
And that was that. It was just like Challenger to expect me to be at his beck and call; then again, he expected the same of every other person he had ever met. What I hadn’t expected was that McGuire would be so willing to cooperate. There was obviously something in it that got his old reporter’s nose for a story twitching, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t share it with me.
“It’s a tad outlandish, to be sure,” McGuire said as I left. “But if the old boy is right, I’ll be holding the front page for your report.”
I met Challenger at Euston Station just before noon, without a single clue as to the purpose of the forthcoming journey. And for the first several hours of the trip Challenger proved to be no help at all. He was full of bonhomie and good humor; more than usual if truth be told. But he would not speak of our destination while there were other people in our compartment, so I contended myself with smoking his pungent Russian cheroots and listening to him expound on his latest ill-fated meeting at the Royal Society.
“Damn idiots think that the skull Dawson turned up with at Piltdown is the real thing,” he said, loud enough that not just the whole carriage, but probably the whole train would hear. “It is perfectly obvious that it comes from at least three different species. Any fool can see that, if they take the bother to look.”
That sent him off on one of his legendary diatribes against closed minds and the perils of thinking with a herd mentality, but I had heard that one more than enough times to know most of it by heart. I puffed on the cheroot and watched the scenery.
The Professor had been remarkably unchanged by our experience in the Amazon some eighteen months before, and even the mauling he had received in the press after the Royal Society debacle did little to dampen his enthusiasm for the fight against those he described as “intellectual pygmies.” I wondered if this latest trip would yield the story that McGuire hoped for, or whether it would merely provide more fodder for Challenger’s detractors, of whom there were a great many.
I was no closer to an answer when the train reached Crewe. But after that, we had the carriage to ourselves. Challenger finally told me why I had been summoned.
“It has, at least partly, a connection to the Piltdown story,” he began.
“Just don’t tell me it involves me being on my hands and knees digging in a muddy ditch,” I replied. “I’d prefer a hunting lodge, a roaring fire, some venison and a glass of single malt, if that can be arranged?”
He glowered at me, unsmiling. Interrupting him was always a bad idea, and doing so before he’d barely gotten started sometimes led to a tongue-lashing. So I was somewhat surprised when his glower turned into a broad smile.
“There will be some Scotch involved at some point, old man,” he said. “You have my word on that. But there may also be some degree of discomfort, I am afraid. We will be climbing Bienn Mac Dhuie in the Cairngorms, and at this time of year that could mean snow. I hope you have packed for inclement weather?”
He did not give me a chance to reply. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket, handling it almost reverentially. He didn’t remove the contents, but held the envelope open to allow me a look inside. It looked like a clump of rough, matted hair.
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Challenger said. “But if I am right, this will blow open the field of investigation into primate origins.”
“It looks like goat hair to me,” I said. “Or perhaps some particularly long haired dog?”
He laughed again. “No. Even the men at the Zoo agreed with me. This is definitely primate—and an unknown one at that.”
“So where does it come from? The Congo? Borneo?”
This time his laugh was long and loud. “No. Scotland.” He put the envelope back in his pocket. “The letter came to me from a shooting party that were on the hill last week. They were stalking a big stag on the high tops when they saw something. It has proved difficult for me to get any agreement from the three men who were present, but one thing they have all agreed on … it was not a stag they shot at, for it ran upright like a man despite being a good eight feet tall. At least that is their story. They found the hair clinging to one of the stunted pine trees on the moorland near the highest peak.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’ve been taken in, old chap. Old wives’ tales of bogles abound in the Highlands; surely you must know that?”
He nodded. “Yet we have the hair sample, and it is most assuredly authentic. I do not believe for a moment that there is an eight-foot hominid roaming the Cairngorms. But there is something, mark my words, and it is a primate; I’d stake my reputation on it.”
I might, on another day, have made a flippant remark about the old boy’s reputation, but I bit my tongue. This tale had obviously grabbed his attention, and I knew from experience that he would be as tenacious as a bulldog in pursuing it. I resolved to tag along and ensure he did not get into trouble, but by this time I was by no means certain that McGuire’s nose for a story was still in working order.
Challenger passed the time in giving me a lecture on the evolutionary lineage of modern man, and reminding me of the ape-men, Pithecanthropus as he now called them, we had encountered in the Amazon.
“We know already that our primitive cousins, thought lost in time, can persist into this modern age,” Challenger said. “Is it so hard for you to imagine something surviving in the harsh climes of the high Scottish moors, where modern man only rarely ventures?”
“Actually, now that you ask, yes, it is,” I replied. “There must be tens, if not hundreds of shooting parties all over those hills every year. Surely if there were any creature around, they would have spotted it; or at least found evidence of its existence in footprints, or better yet, a dead specimen or two?”
Challenger treated my question seriously. “I have to agree, in part,” he said. “But we saw in the Amazon that such primitive primates can display great cunning. Perhaps it is just very good at hiding?”
For some reason, that tickled my funny bone, and I laughed aloud. I saw Challenger consider taking offense, then he too saw the funny side of it and joined me in laughing.
We were in high spirits as the train continued north but our good humor was not to last. We made our connection in Glasgow in late afternoon with plenty of time to spare and looked forward to being in Kingussie in time for a late supper in the hotel lodgings Challenger had booked by telegram. But the fates conspired against us. The rain proved to be as bad as I had feared, and the River Tay burst its banks. Flooding in the Pitlochry area meant that the train was left at a standstill long into the night.
A harried guard tried to keep what few travelers there were aboard warm with copious cups of tea and some, I have to admit, rather pleasant shortbread. Tempers were fraying fast as the night drew on, and when the Professor got into heated conversation with a man of the cloth I started to fear the worst. But I had forgotten the common language of traveling Scotsmen; the minister happened to have a hip flask of fine Islay malt, and soon Challenger and he were getting on like a house on fire.
Talk turned to the reason for our trip, and the minister suddenly looked grave.
“I would advise against any trip on the high tops,” he said. “At any time of the year. Fear Liath Mor has had a bad name for centuries past. If it is one of your ape-men who haunts those moors, he will be dashed old by now. I firmly believe you will find
nothing physical. It is an evil from the old days that haunts those hills; something pre-Christian and inimical to the ways of man.”
Challenger laughed, but not too loudly, and without the expected touch of sarcasm I might have expected had he not held the minister’s hip flask in his grip.
“A touch melodramatic,” Challenger said. “And I’m afraid I do not believe in haunts and bogles. I believe in what I can see, hear, touch and smell.”
“Then I would be even more careful if I were you,” the minister said. “For the shock when you discover that there are more things than are dreamed of in your philosophy may be more than you can bear.”
Soon afterwards the train creaked, then slowly moved forward to ironic cheers from the passengers.
We finally arrived in Kingussie at dawn, although in truth it was difficult to tell that the sun was up due to the lowering clouds and the persistent rain. It was coming down in the kind of steady drizzle you only ever see in Scotland, a gray wash across the whole landscape that depressed me mightily.
I thought Challenger might have required rest, or that the weather might dissuade him from attempting any immediate investigations. I was proved mistaken on both counts. He allowed me time for a quick wash and shave, and a change into my walking clothes. By the time I felt prepared he shepherded me downstairs for an admittedly hearty breakfast. Then, less than an hour after our arrival, we headed off for the high tops.
The first part of the journey proved uneventful, if a tad uncomfortable. We were taken, by a taciturn little man who spoke mostly in grunts, in a very basic horse and cart, to the foot of Bienn Mac Duie along a series of badly rutted tracks. The drizzle got heavier, if anything. My walking jacket kept most of the rain out, but there was a steady, persistent trickle of water going down the back of my neck. It was far too damp to even try to light a cigarette or a pipe, and I was thoroughly miserable by the time we pulled to a halt.
“This is as far as I go,” the little man said. We could see that the track continued ahead of us for quite some way up the hill, and would have been perfectly navigable by the cart.
“Why here?” Challenger asked. “It would help us immensely if you could take us at least part of the way up the hill. We can pay.”
The man looked as if we had asked him to walk into Hell. He crossed himself, then made the sign against the evil eye.
“No, sirs. Keep your money. I have no need of it. All the money in the world widna get me up on yon hill.”
He would not be drawn further on the matter. He handed us two small satchels of provisions that the hotel had provided, and a minute later he was off and away, leaving somewhat faster than he had come.
We managed to have a most welcome smoke in the shelter of a solitary chestnut tree; then all too soon we headed on to the hill. More damp misery followed as we trudged through mud and running water for several hours. Finally we crested the first ridge and walked onto the plateau that marks the moorland of the Cairngorms.
I sheltered Challenger’s hands with my rucksack as he studied a rough map.
“The deer stalkers sent me this. It shows the trail they took. We go that way.”
He pointed east to where a narrow trail rose away from us until it was lost from sight in low cloud.
“How high do we have to go?” I asked. In my heart I already knew what his answer would be.
“As high as we have to.”
Challenger was now champing at the bit. I recognized the signs; he would not be stopping now until he got to the bottom of things. I managed to get him to stay still long enough to eat a sandwich from our packs, and to have a warming cup of tea from a most welcome Dewar flask. I got a smoke lit just in time as he finished off the tea. I cupped the cigarette, military style, against the wind and rain as we started the second part of our ascent.
We followed the trail for several miles over steadily rising land, reaching the moorland’s edge just as the unremitting drizzle turned to actual rain, the wind rising to send it stinging into our cheeks. Looking up, all I could see was a steep scree slope, with no discernible path though it.
Challenger didn’t pause. He proceeded to scramble up the slope. I sighed deeply and followed as well as I was able, sliding and stumbling among the cold wet stones. By the time I could stand on solid ground, I was bruised and wet through, and about as miserable as a man could be.
Even as I tried to catch my breath, Challenger had moved away, heading higher up the hill. I stepped onto a narrow, rutted track that wound upwards. The top of the hill was wreathed in cloud, and the rain had turned to sleet.
A thin wailing carried in the air, a noise so ethereal that at first I was unsure whether it was real or a result of my own blood pounding in my ears.
“What the blazes was that?”
Challenger hushed me to silence. We stood still, listening.
The noise came again, closer this time, a screech that froze me immobile. A crawling fear took root in me, and my belly tumbled and roiled as nerves threatened to loosen my bowels. Everything inside me knotted in tension. All I wanted to do was curl up and wait for whatever fate might bring.
Challenger had other ideas. “Come on then,” the Professor shouted into the cloud. “Let’s see you.”
Something lumbered into sight, less than thirty yards away. At first glance I thought it was a man wearing heavy furs, but I had got the perspective wrong in the mist. The thing facing me was near eight feet tall.
The eyes were the first things that I noticed. Milky white, like icy stones set far back in a skull covered in matted fur that might once have been gray. It was coated in muck that on closer inspection showed to be dried blood. The body was covered in more fur, and there the beast was a pale gray, almost silver. It stood upright on two stout legs, and looked nearly three feet wide across its broad shoulders.
“Let us have at it, then,” Challenger shouted, and beat on his chest in a manner I remembered from our encounter with the ape-men in the Amazon.
The beast seemed confused and clapped hands as huge as hams across its ears. Its head was oval-shaped, the skull slightly tapered at the rear. The hair was thicker there, almost mane-like where it ran down the broad back. It opened a mouth full of long yellow teeth and screamed, rising up to its full height and slapping at its own chest with flat palms, sending a fast drumbeat echoing across the hill.
It was only then that I noticed it was female. Huge, pendulous breasts hung over a distended belly that hung almost to the beast’s knees. Pink nipples the size of a man’s thumb peeked from the fur-covered chest.
“Come, then,” Challenger shouted. “Let us see what manner of bogle you might be.”
The beast did not move. It stared at Challenger with unblinking white eyes.
Challenger took a step forward.
The beast raised its head and wailed. The closest sound to it that I had heard before that day was a wolf pack on a winter’s night.
An answering howl came from higher up the hill.
She has a mate.
Challenger took another step forward, roaring out a wordless cry.
The low cloud chose that moment to swirl and close in around us. In less than two heartbeats, I could see little more than a yard beyond the end of my nose.
We backed away, making sure we stayed on the tight path. The scree slope was somewhere far below us, but I knew we had come more or less straight up the hill, and I believed I could find my way down quickly enough, even in this dense fog.
“What say we make a strategic withdrawal, old chap?” I whispered.
A rasping, coughing sound came from straight in front of us. It immediately reminded me of a seal’s barking call. I heard something heavy moving around, but I could see nothing.
Up here, the hill was little more than exposed rock and lichen with the occasional hardy heather clinging for life where it could. The noise seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and I am not afraid to admit I was somewhat spooked.
Matters were not
helped by the fact that the air suddenly got much colder, and my breath condensed in front of me.
Two distinct, simultaneous coughs barked out, one from our left and one from our right. A darker patch of grayness began to take shape in the fog, a large lumbering thing. It circled, just at the range of my sight then came forward toward us.
We heard a whistling breathing in the mist, then suddenly the beast loomed over us. This one was male, half as tall again as Challenger, near four feet wide across the shoulder, with muscles bunched and taut like rocks under the skin. It was slate-gray all over, apart from its palms where the skin was tough and leathery, almost black. Shaggy hair hung around its thighs like a thick kilt that almost reached its knees, and it smelled musky, almost rancid, like a boggy pool after a run of hot days. White eyes stared down at me.
It opened its mouth and showed twin rows of yellowed fangs, dripping saliva in ropy drools. It howled in Challenger’s face. Cold terror started to take a grip in my bones, and once more my stomach boiled and threatened to heave.
Challenger stood his ground, unflinching, and howled in return, such a noise as I scarcely thought possible from a human throat.
The beast paused, suddenly confused, then drew away—fast as the wind and nearly as quiet.
We were once again alone in the low cloud.
The sleet turned to full-on snow.
“Challenger. We need to get off this hill.”
The Professor ignored me, and headed off, not downwards toward safety, but further uphill in the direction in which the beast had gone.
I chased after him reluctantly, round the side of the main peak, following a track that was barely noticeable in the thickening snow.
Challenger stopped, looking at the ground. “Do you see, Malone?”
In truth, I saw little but snow, but Challenger hadn’t stopped for an answer. He was off and running again almost immediately. The air got colder still and driving snow bit against my face. The wind got up, screaming louder in my ears.
Professor Challenger: The Kew Growths and Other Stories Page 7
