The Loch

by Steve Alten

  "So, Sherlock Holmes, whit're we lookin' for then? Nessie turds?"

  "Sure, Nessie turds would be great." I took a long scan of the shoreline, then began retracing my steps back toward the river.

  True shook his head. "This science stuff, it's pretty borin', yeah?"

  "Well, it's not deep diving off a North Sea oil rig, but it beats aimlessly searching the Loch."

  "Maybe, but I've had better times watchin' grass grow. Now whit're ye doin'?"

  On hands and knees I crawled by the water, pausing occasionally to press my nose to the rocky surface.

  "Zachary, please, yer embarrassin' me. Ye think ye're a bloodhound now?"

  "I detected a rancid odor yesterday. I'm hoping to catch another whiff."

  "Sweet Jesus. Tell ye what, how 'bout I blah blah blah blah blah …"

  I closed my eyes and inhaled, my mind absorbed in my "zone."

  "… back wi' a few cold ones an some lunch. Okay? I said okay? Hey, Zack?"

  I stood, moving to another section of shoreline, repeating the exercise.

  "Ken whit? I think ye've lost yer marbles."

  We both heard the rumble and looked up as a motorboat maneuvered close to shore, blasting its horn at us. "Hah, it's Brandy, shouldae known. Hey, Brandy girl!"

  The Nessie III was again overloaded with passengers, all aiming their cameras at the now-legendary campsite. Brandy was visible in the wheelhouse, as was her string bikini top. She waved at her brother, then, seeing me, flipped me the middle finger.

  "Look's like she's still pissed at ye."

  "Hell hash no fury like a Highland woman scorned."

  "Amen."

  I returned to my work, my mind, tainted with the vision of Brandy in her bathing suit, fighting to refocus.

  "A sandwich then?"

  "Huh?"

  "Are ye deaf? I asked if ye wanted a sandwich? Thought I'd grab us some lunch while ye finished polishin' thae rocks wi' yer belly."

  "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

  He turned and walked away, then stumbled, the toe of his right boot catching the lip of a slight depression in the geography.

  I stared at the spot, my heart racing.

  "Whit? Dae ye see somethin' then?"

  There were three of them—S-shaped depressions, each eight feet long, five feet wide, and three to four inches deep. They were angled from the water's edge up across the embankment and into the forest, and were so broad and sweeping that the pattern looked natural to the untrained eye.

  On hands and knees, I inhaled the imprint, gagging at the lingering stench.

  "Is it the monster then?" True dropped down and inhaled. "Phew, smells like a girl I once knew."

  "I can't speak for your social life, but something biological was definitely here, and it left behind its slime."

  "Slime?"

  "At least that's what it feels like. Rain washed most of it away, but its slickness still lingers." Retrieving a glass jar from my backpack, I took a soil sample, the sudden rush of adrenaline tingling my bladder.

  * * *

  True and I continued walking south along the western shoreline, the discovery of the impressions having reinvigorated my friend's excitement. "Okay, Zack, let's say it wis an animal that left thae impressions. To crush the earth like that, how heavy wid ye say it'd have tae be?"

  "I don't know, maybe ten thousand pounds or more, but that's just a rough guess."

  "Whit did Angus call it then? A Guivre?"

  "True, there's no such species as a Guivre. It's just folklore."

  "Then how'd ye explain—"

  "Easy, big guy, let's not repeat the same mistakes other explorers at Loch Ness make. They create some preconceived idea of what might be out there, then spend all their time attempting to prove they're right by only searching for their imaginary beast."

  "Ye mean, like the plesiosaur guys?"

  "Exactly. A dinosaur in Loch Ness is a romantic notion, but it's not science, it's just myth-building. We'll let the lab results tell us what this creature is… or isn't."

  I stopped. Taking out an empty glass jar and my gardening shovel, I bent down and took another soil sample by the water's edge.

  "Now what're ye doin?"

  "Checking the worm population."

  "Worms? It wisnae a worm that made thae tracks, I'll tell ye that for now."

  "Your Guivre has to eat, right? Before it allegedly added humans to its diet, it must have subsisted on food from the Loch."

  "Aye. Makes sense."

  "Loch Ness's food chain begins with microscopic vegetation called phytoplankton. From there, it progresses to zooplankton, then worms and small fish, tadpoles, minnows, and so on and so forth. Then you've got your bigger fish, salmon, sea trout, brown trout, charr, pike, lamprey, eel, and sturgeon, some of which can weigh in at several hundred pounds. Somewhere along that food chain is a major break in one or more of its links. I want to know where it is, and what caused it."

  "An' this'll tell ye where oor Guivre's hidin', aye?"

  I shook my head. "You know, you really have to ease up on those deep dives. Cuts off oxygen to the brain."

  "Okay, take yer jabs, Dr. Doolittle, as long as ye're no' playin' in the mud jist tae avoid gettin' yer feet wet."

  Maybe he wasn't such a dumb strongman after all.

  * * *

  We walked all morning and late into the afternoon, passing Port Clair and Cherry Island until we eventually rounded the southern tip of the Loch. We passed the old pier at Bunoch, arriving finally at Fort Augustus, the largest town on the waterway.

  The village was immersed in a carnival atmosphere, overflowing with locals and tourists and scores of media. True headed off to the nearest pub for a pint of Guinness while I followed the crowd to the wharf and the just-arriving Nothosaur, a forty-two-foot research vessel named after a long-necked, sharp-toothed member of the plesiosaur family that had lived during the Triassic Period.

  The boat's name alone told me everything I needed to know about its owner.

  Michael Hoagland, a well-built, blonde-haired, blue-eyed German in his mid-thirties, waved to the crowd from the bow of his command like a conquering hero while a news reporter waited impatiently for his camera crew to set up.

  "Mr. Hoagland, Grady Frame, BBC Scotland. Welcome back tae Loch Ness."

  "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 fores
ts 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."