More tears find their way down my cheeks as I wish with all my might there was something more I could do than just wait.
And then it comes to me.
Words.
* * *
Later that morning, when we return to the abbey, I sit down at my laptop to do what I do best.
Write.
I choose my words carefully and with purpose and feeling. And it’s my feelings that actually help me find the right words.
The right line.
The right paragraph.
My fingers race across the keyboard.
Until I reach the end.
It’s what I will share with the whole town. So they can know Hammy Bean like I know him. So they’ll know he matters, and not as an albatross existing only on the outskirts, but as one of them.
And a true and serious contender in the Nessie Race.
So that when he and Dax make it home things might be different for him.
After I’m all done, I print out as many copies as the printer behind the door marked OFFICE at St. Benedict’s will print and then I pass it all around town.
Everywhere.
TO MY FORT AUGUSTUS FRIENDS
Words may seem innocent enough, but I’m here to tell you that they’re a way bigger deal than most people know.
They are so powerful, in fact, that they can change you in a single, solitary second.
Words can propel you so high that you could fly straight up to the sky blue. Or can seem so heavy on your shoulders that you think you’ll never stand straight again. And there’s one reason for that.
Words make us feel.
And feelings are everything. They control who we are and how we live and every single choice we make.
My name is Adelaide Ru Fitzhugh and I’m asking for your help. Two of my very good friends are missing and they need to be found.
Hammy Bean Tibby lives in Fort Augustus, as some of you know, and Dax Cady is an annual summer visitor to St. Benedict’s. I hope you will all join me with thoughts and hopes and prayers that they come home safely.
But I also hope you will join me in remembering that the words you say and the words you don’t say have an equal impact in this world. And everyone deserves to feel good about who they are and what they do. Please join me in making sure the words we share are positive ones that lift people up and are never too heavy to carry.
Believe me…you’ll be glad you did.
Thank you, Ada Ru Fitzhugh
After lunch, I lie on my bed, staring at the gray camouflage walkie-talkie.
I pick it up and push the button.
“Denver to Captain Green Bean. Come in, Captain Green Bean. Over,” I say into the speaker.
Silence.
“Please come in. Over,” I whisper.
Nothing.
I want to hear his voice tell me to memorize my codes and call me a right numpty for not doing it. I want to hear about his latest top-secret bobble or sighting to investigate.
“Strings,” I say. “Do you read? Over.”
Silence.
“Team Nessie Quest,” I whisper again. “Please come home. Over.”
I cradle the radio in my arms, waiting for them to answer, until my eyes can’t stay open anymore. But even though my eyelids refuse to stay up, my brain won’t let me rest. Dreams about the inky waves in the loch swallowing Hammy Bean and Dax whole taunt me.
Moody, murky waves, thrashing them.
Darkness beneath the surface, sucking them deep.
Low-hanging clouds and rain hiding them like a dark, dusky secret.
“Adelaide Ru,” Mom whispers, shaking my shoulder gently.
My eyes peel open.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she tells me.
I sit straight up. “Wh-what?” I rub my eyes. “Is it…is it—”
She nods and smiles.
I throw the covers to one side and dart out of bed, my bare feet slapping the floorboards down the hall and around the corner.
They’re there.
Sitting side by side in front of the fireplace.
Two extra-wet Nessie hunters and one sloppy red dog drying in the heat of the flames.
Dax and Hammy Bean, both wrapped in big, fuzzy blankets and Mac-Talla sleeping on the floor next to them, her grubby tennis ball under her chin, too tired to even give me a sniff.
Dad’s in the kitchen heating up water for tea while Mamo Honey, Mr. and Mrs. Cady and a curiously damp Cornelius Blaise Barrington sit at the kitchen table.
I squeeze in between the bedraggled boys and throw an arm over each one, pulling them to me.
“What were you thinking?” I ask them.
“What can I say?” Hammy Bean dimples me with that big grin of his. “There was evidence to be found.”
I laugh and squeeze him close to me.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean any of it. I know more than anyone how important words are, and I used mine in a horrible way. You’re my friend and I’d just die if you wanted to take away my walkie-talkie for what I did.”
“Ye want to be my mate even after ye ken I lied about my mam and da?”
“Are you kidding me? Yes,” I say. “I know why you did it and I should never have said those things to you. I was mad about what you said about my article and I took it out on you. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I’m sorry too,” he tells me. “I shouldna lied to ye. I’ve told those stories for as long as I can remember—I dinna ken why. I guess it’s better than sayin’ the truth.”
“I totally get that,” I say. “Mates for life or longer?”
“Mates for life or longer.” He holds out a hand and I shake it.
“Hello? What about my apology?” Dax says then.
I turn to face him and he’s one-lipping me.
“Boiled noodles?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“What’s boiled noodles?” Hammy Bean asks.
“She said that’s what I smell like,” Dax says.
“Boiled noodles?” Hammy Bean says again. “That’s random.”
Dax throws his arms out. “That’s what I said.”
“Plus, ye smell more like a pure hearty beef stew than pasta.”
My laugh comes out in a burst.
“Beef stew?” Dax reaches over me to give Hammy Bean a punch in his arm.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Dax. “I’m sorry I said all the things I did.”
“What about the spoiler?” he asks.
“Definitely the spoiler.”
He shrugs and gives me his one-lipper again. “It’s cool.”
“Please promise me one thing,” I say to them both. “No more solo excursions.”
“Dinna fash,” Hammy Bean tells me. “The SS Albatross sank oot past Urquhart Bay.”
I gasp. “What did you do?”
“Dax got us all to shore an’ Corny found us as we were hikin’ back toward home.”
“Oh, man, so…the boat is gone?” I ask.
“Sunk,” Dax says.
“Oh no, your wings,” I say.
“Aye,” Hammy Bean agrees.
“And the Humminbird Helix Combo?”
Hammy Bean leans real close to me and whispers in my ear. “Can they hear us?” he asks.
I give a nonchalant glance toward the kitchen, pretending to scratch my chin on my shoulder just in case someone’s looking. But Mamo Honey, Corny, Mr. and Mrs. Cady and Mom and Dad are all too busy sitting at the table, sipping on hot tea from mugs and snacking on plates of goodies from a Wee Spot of Tea and Biscuits to notice.
“No,” I whisper back. “Why?”
“You’ll never guess what we found,” he tells me.
“Wh
at?” I ask.
“A long time ago, Mamo Honey discovered a part o’ the loch that dips down to over eight hundred and fifty feet deep,” he says. “She thinks it’s where there may be a lair or even tunnels oot to other lochs an’ maybe even to the North Sea.”
“What’s a lair?” I ask.
“A nest or cave or area where the Nessies live.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask him.
“I’ve listened to every single report she’s written aboot it,” he tells me. “In the attic, she has boxes and boxes o’ writings dated all the way back to the sixties, an’ five years ago she uploaded all those files to the computer.”
“And you found this spot she wrote about?” I say.
“Sure did.” Hammy Bean grins big. “With the help o’ the Humminbird Helix Combo.”
“So, I don’t get it,” I say. “What now?”
“I can show ye right where it is,” Hammy Bean says. “She found the coordinates first an’ we found the spot oot there in the SS Albatross last night. Well, me, Dax an’ the Humminbird Helix Combo. We were right on top o’ the dip and measured it on the sonar. Nine hundred feet! That’s fifty feet more than Mamo Honey’s original findings.”
“But the Humminbird Helix Combo sank with the boat?” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says. “It has an IPX5 waterproof rating.”
“What does that mean?” Dax asks.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Hammy Bean says. “But it sounded good when I read it online. So I’m hopin’ one day to get it back from the bottom of the loch an’ maybe it will still work with the coordinates we programmed.”
“And how do you suppose you’ll do that?” I ask him.
“It would have to be a scuba situation o’ sorts,” he tells me.
I roll my eyes. “I missed you, you little know-it-all,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He dimples me again.
“Definitely,” I say.
“Did you miss me?” Dax asks.
I turn to face him and shrug. “I suppose,” I say, trying not to grin too big.
“We need to go back oot there,” Hammy Bean informs us.
“And how do you expect to do that without a boat?” Dax asks.
Hammy Bean sighs real loud. “Do I have to be the one to think o’ everythin’?”
Beep.
“Team Nessie Quest, do ye read me? Over.”
My eyes pop open and I glance at the antique clock.
Five-thirty.
In the morning.
It’s been two weeks since Hammy Bean sank the SS Albatross and he’s been on that radio every single day before six acorns.
“I sure hope you’re manning this radio because I told ye that here at the Jug, Nessie news never stops. Do ye read me, Team Nessie Quest? Over.”
I yawn and stretch and reach to grab the radio lying on the bed next to me.
Lucky for me, all is back to normal, including my reporter/secret agent position at the Jug. Dax’s sentence has been converted to spending more time on family excursions now and again since the incident.
Team Nessie Quest will have to pretty much stay off the radar for a while, especially since Mamo Honey has Hammy Bean on an every-thirty-minute walkie-talkie check-in.
In secret, I think Hammy Bean has something up his Nessie Quest Windbreaker sleeve, but for now he’s keeping it on the down-low.
But one thing is for sure—after Hammy Bean’s voyage to the bottom of the loch, the other teams have a newfound respect for him as a serious contender in the Nessie Race.
And that’s been obvious in more ways than one.
I push the button on the radio.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I ask him. “Over.”
“The famous sturgeon makes his bloody pudding next to the black diamonds while the best mates eat famous fish with extra tartar sauce. Over.”
I laugh. “How is that Nessie news? Over.”
“Are ye in or are ye out? Over.”
Beep.
“Copy that, Strings is in with a double chips order since the Pooping Goose always eats all my fries. Over.”
“I know you’re not talking about me,” I tell Dax.
“You forgot to say over. Over,” he informs me.
“Thaaaat’s a roger. Rendezvous at twelve acorns on the oak tree that blows in the morning breeze. Over an’ oot,” Hammy Bean says.
* * *
“Howzitgoan, Ada Ru and Hamish Bean,” Mr. Farquhar calls out when we step inside Farquhar’s Famous Fish House.
Hammy Bean’s cheeks turn bright pink and he says, “Me?”
“Aye, lad. Good afternoon to you!”
“H-hello,” Hammy Bean calls back. “I mean good afternoon.”
“Mr. Farquhar,” I say. “We will have three baskets of your famous fish and three Cokes, please.”
Tuna Tetrazzini rubs against my leg and I give her a scratch on her back.
“Three?” Mr. Farquhar asks. “Ye must be hungry, lassie.”
“Our friend Dax is coming too,” I tell him.
He nods and pushes buttons on the cash register. “Three orders o’ famous fish, no bloody meat,” he calls out to the kitchen, giving me a wink. “That will be twenty-six pounds seventy-five.”
“With extra homemade tartar sauce on the side, please,” I tell him, handing him the bills Mom gave me for our lunch.
“Of course, lass,” he says, putting the bills inside the drawer.
“Hey,” Dax says, coming up from behind me.
“I got you an order too,” I tell him. “On me. Well, Mom.”
“Thanks,” he says. “What’s up, HB?” He gives Hammy Bean’s arm a punch.
Hammy Bean smiles. “I’m groovy,” he tells Dax.
“Right on.” Dax one-lips him.
Hammy Bean holds out a fist and Dax bumps it with his own and then they fan out their fingers and shake them.
“Wait, what’s that?” I ask.
“A secret handshake,” Dax tells me.
“For the Jug?”
“No,” Dax says. “Just us.”
“Why can’t I know it?” I ask.
“Sorry,” he says. “You have to belong to the club.”
“What club?”
“The club you belong to when your boat has sunk and you’re freezing and you have to keep your mind off it while you make your way home.”
“Got it,” I say.
“There’s an open table in the front window for ye kids.” Mr. Farquhar points to the front of the shop.
Me and Dax slide ourselves onto stools at the table and I tap the stool next to mine.
“Here, Hammy Bean. You can sit next to me.”
He finds the stool with an outstretched hand, sets his cane to the side and then slides on top of the seat.
Beep.
“Mamo Honey to Captain Green Bean. Checkin’ in. Over.”
Hammy Bean sighs and grabs his walkie-talkie off his belt loop. “Captain Green Bean to Mamo Honey. The fish floats at the top with tartar sauce on the side. Over.”
I laugh. “That’s your new code for Farquhar’s Famous Fish House?”
He laughs too. “Nae, I’m the fish. Because I’m banned from water contact,” he explains. “I’m the one floatin’, ken? It’s a wee guilt trip I have goin’.”
“Ah,” I say. “Is it working?”
“Nae.”
“Yeah, they don’t work in my house either,” I tell him.
“Roger that, Captain Green Bean. Over an’ oot,” Mamo Honey calls into the radio.
“I suppose you’re done investigating for a while,” I say.
He just smiles like a little evil genius and says, “The wheels are in motion.”
“What wheels?” I ask.
“Haud yer wheesht,” he tells us. “I’ve got an idea. An’ like all good ideas, it will take time. Something verra excitin’ is on the horizon.”
“Orange exciting?”
“Pure barry orange,” he tells me.
“Whoa,” I say. “That’s a lot of orange. Can you at least give us a hint?”
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a super-top-secret bobble an’ I have to make sure everythin’ is perfect before I can reveal it.”
“Here you go, lads an’ lass.” Mr. Farquhar sets down three baskets o’ famous fish and chips. “Cheers!”
Hammy Bean leans in close to me. “What is happenin’?”
I blow on a fish stick. “Why?” I ask.
“Mr. Farquhar has never talked to me before.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he says. “He talks to Mamo Honey when I’m wi’ her, but he never talks directly to me. I quite like this change.”
The bell on the door rings and the Loch Watchers pile into the shop in single file, arguing loudly.
“You’re a right numpty, Sterling. How could a species that large survive on the amount of salmon in the loch?” Norval Watt is saying.
“With those steep contours on the sides o’ the loch, there’s every possibility that caves or tunnels exist that could reach all the way oot to the North Sea, leadin’ to some form of subsea network,” Sterling Jack replies.
“Yer bum’s oot the windae!” Cappy McGee exclaims. “That’s never been proven.”
“Hello there, Loch Watchers!” I call out to them with my mouth full of famous fish. “Haven’t you decided what it was that made the prints in the mud yet?”
“It’s still a matter of ragin’ debate,” Sterling Jack tells us.
I give them a slow nod. “I know exactly what you mean about that.”
Cappy McGee makes his way over to our table and leans an elbow next to Hammy Bean. “Say there, lad,” he says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Ye find anything oot there that ye’d like to share wi’ us?”
Hammy Bean grabs his napkin and wipes the tartar sauce from the corner of his mouth. “No disrespect, but not a chance, sir.”
Nessie Quest Page 21