“Partially. But don’t stories exist about monsters in the loch far older than the newspaper report you cited as the first?”
“Indeed there are many, myths, legends, snippets of song, oral history, and even some scrambled fragments of history in journals and manuscripts,” Seton replied. “They date from Columba’s supposed encounter in the 7th century all the way up to the time of the Jacobite rebellions. But you’d struggle to find any large body of dark water on the planet that hasn’t been rumored to host one kind of beast or another; Nessie’s hardly unique in that area.
“Can I read you something? I happen to have one such piece of ‘evidence’ on me. It’s a fragment only, one I translated from the Latin, a document that was found in Urquhart Castle years ago, detailing a failed Viking raid in the 12th century. It might amuse you, if nothing else, as you’ll see you’re not the first warriors to venture onto the loch unaware of what might be there, nor are you even the first captain. You’ll have to take the wheel as I read though. Wouldn’t want me causing an accident.”
Banks swapped positions so that he was in control of the wheel, then waved him on. Seton took two thin sheets of paper from his pocket and read, in the singsong voice of a storyteller.
“It starts, and ends, in the middle of a story. I’m afraid this is all that has survived down the long years.”
*
“A serpentine shape took form, a huge body that looked to be the length of the longboat itself, and nearly as wide. A long, swan-like neck rose up, and a head like a great axe wedge turned. Deep blue eyes looked straight at Tor as it solidified and strengthened.
“The serpent fell the short distance out of the air into the loch, the resulting splash sending the longboat careening from side to side, almost capsizing before righting itself. Fully solid now, the beast aimed its gaze at the longboat, and came forward, straight at them. The great neck rose, the wedge head came down and its mouth gaped impossibly wide, a black maw some four feet across. The guard next to Tor raised a sword but the beast was too fast. It plucked the Viking from the deck so neatly that he had no time to scream. Tor heard bones crunch, and felt the spatter of blood on his face.
“The huge head of the serpent rose high above the boat then made a new lunge forward toward the stern of the longboat. The Viking—Orthus Klinnsman—who stood directly beneath the open jaws was awake to the danger. He stepped back sharply, cutting a swipe with his sword at the beast’s exposed snout, only to curse when his blade hit flesh and immediately broke in two, as if he’d just struck a hefty blow at obdurate rock. The beast lunged again, and knocked Klinnsman off balance then caught him between its jaws and bit his torso into two bloody pieces, as easily as a man might bite into a soft fruit. The sound as the body was chewed and broken between the serpent’s twin rows of teeth echoed loudly all along the longboat.
“Tor stepped forward, sword raised as the serpent’s head rose up high above the longboat, preparing for another strike. Terror and fear raged through him, but as captain to these men, he was determined that no more of them would die. The deep blue eyes of the serpent fixed on him as he stepped forward, and seemed to pierce into his inner depths. Once again, Tor heard the rhythmic beat in his bones and in his gut, felt the call of the dance, offering him peace, an eternity to be spent swimming in the darkness of Niflheim. And even above the roars and shouts of Vikings now scrambling for weapons, he heard the invisible choir’s song rise in the wind again, their hymn to the Dreaming God.
He sleeps in the deep, with the fish far below,
He sings as he sleeps in the dark.
“Tor felt more than saw Skald step up to his side, but he could not afford to take his eyes off the writhing serpent that was even now propelling the bulk of its body closer and closer to the longboat. As Tor stood tall on the stern, he saw for the first time the full extent of the thing. The skin was gray, almost black in mottled areas, and seemed oily, with a shimmering to it like the air above a hot skillet. The head and neck were definitely serpentine, but the body resembled more that of a large seal or walrus, barrel-shaped and complete with two massive triangular flippers which propelled it through the water with great rapidity. Behind the bulk of the body, it tapered away into a tail at least as long again as the swan neck. In total length, it was almost twice the size of the longboat, and it was coming ahead so fast now that its intent was clear. It meant to swamp the Viking vessel completely.
“The wedge-shaped head finally swooped down in another attack, but Tor had been waiting for it. He stepped nimbly aside and brought his sword down in a cut that would have cleaved a man in half. The blade rang as it struck but it was as if he’d hit a wall. The weapon bounced back, the impact and vibration so severe it sent Tor staggering backward. The blade did not break, but it thrummed for several seconds in his hand, sending shaking vibration and tingling all up his sword arm. It momentarily weakened him, and he was too off balance to prevent another Viking from being swept up from the deck and into the great maw. He only saw the man’s legs kicking even as he was swallowed whole with a single gulp.
“The attack seemed to have been going on forever, but Tor realized it had only been a matter of seconds. The rest of the crew were only now rousing from their oars and joining in the fray. Several spears struck at the serpent’s head, but they had as little impact as Tor’s sword. One of the men stepped over Tor and struck at the beast’s left eye, but yet again, despite being aimed directly in the center of the iris, the point of the weapon met only with a surface as hard as any stone. The beast was unscathed and scooped the attacker up, biting off his head with a sickening crunch and spray of blood.
“Tor managed to steady his stance his sword raised again, but he had no deal how to fight such a seemingly indestructible foe. And Skald was no help; he stood at the stern, his gaze blank, his eyes fluttering, lost in the Wyrd even as his crewmates fought and died around him.
“And then there was no more time to even fend the thing off. The serpent surged high out of the water and a full half of its considerable bulk fell right onto the stern of the longboat. The back end went down, the prow went up, and everything aboard—Vikings, oars, weapons, and pillaged loot—was tossed into the water like strewn pebbles.
“Tor landed in the black waters of the loch with a splash that momentarily knocked the wind from him, but he had enough presence of mind to hold onto his weapon; it might well be the only thing between him and death in the next few seconds.
“To shore. To the north shore,” he shouted. He knew from the splashing and cursing that there were men in the water all around him, but how many there were was something he could not know. He could only hope that the remaining crew had heard him and were able to do something about it. He swam forward, kicking with his legs and paddling with his spare arm. His hand hit a timber the length of a man, a piece of the longboat which he guessed was now mostly at the bottom of the loch. Using the timber as a float, he hung on tight and kicked with his feet with all his strength, heading toward where he thought, hoped, the northern shore might be.”
*
“Is that it?” Banks asked, as the story ended far too abruptly.
“That’s all there was. But you see, there was a monster, if not an otter of any kind, here all that time ago, if this is to believed. I think the occult influences around the area of Boleskine house predate Crowley by centuries. But as I said before, it was only after 1933 that the reports around here started to get more frequent, and more specific, only after Crowley’s great experiment.”
“And do any of them since the Viking’s ‘walrus’ mention your proposed giant otter?”
“In fact, there are several over the years that are remarkably similar. And many more reports of three humps moving as one. Have you seen an otter swim when it is traveling with purpose, Captain? There’s a small hump for the head, a large one for the body, and a third where the tail is curved and upraised acting as a rudimentary rudder. Even for a normal-sized otter, it’s the classic ‘lak
e monster’ profile. I suspect many of the purported photographs of Nessie are simply of an otter with nothing else in the picture to give a sense of scale.”
“What about those scientific investigations a few years back? The ones Peter Scott was involved with. Didn’t they photograph what looked like a plesiosaur flipper? That might have been more akin to your admittedly outlandish Viking story?”
“They said they did, certainly,” Seton replied. “But those photographs were inconclusive at best, and a hoax at worst. I am far more inclined to believe in an overly large modern mammal than in a 200 million-year-old dinosaur miraculously surviving into the modern era without ever being seen properly by anyone.”
“But if it is a giant otter as you say, how did it get so bloody huge? And how has it survived for a hundred years?”
Seton smiled.
“I don’t know, but as I said last night, I suspect it might be some form of alchemical experiment of Crowley’s gone wrong. Alchemy’s history is replete with tales of homunculi and chimeras being raised to gigantic proportions, and of them being unnaturally long-lived, almost immortal.”
“This alchemy, though? It’s all just chemistry experiments when it comes down to it, isn’t it?”
“No. Just as there was in the tale I just told of the vikings, there’s a large element of mysticism and the occult in the mix too. If I’m right, the beast is as much formed by magic as it is by natural forces. That’s why I’m hoping my area of expertise will come in useful if we come across it out here.”
“I still can’t say that I’m convinced. But I’ll take any help I can get right about now,” Banks replied.
*
He had just lit the second cigarette of the morning, and was studying the water between the boat and the bank to his right through Seton’s binoculars when McCally shouted from up front.
“Some fog ahead, Cap.”
He looked forward. It looked like a gray wall stretched across the deep valley from shore to shore and up over the hills on either side.
“How far to the head of the loch?” he asked.
“Another 10 miles or so,” Seton replied. “I can navigate just fine in fog though, so don’t worry about that. Still want to go all the way up?”
Banks nodded.
“A full sweep is what I told the colonel, so that’s what he’ll get. I’m not sure we’ll see much of anything in there though.”
“Morning fog rolling down from the firth past Inverness,” Seton replied. “It might burn off quickly if we’re lucky.”
Seton studied the fog through the binoculars. It looked thick, almost solid from this distance, not like anything that was going burn off fast.
“Let’s hope we’re lucky.”
Seton took them into the fog two minutes later.
- 6 -
Banks’ descended from the top deck and went to join Hynd at the rear of the boat. Visibility was down to 10 yards, and the only sound was the low thrum of the boat’s engine; Seton had cut speed, and they were now moving at little more than a brisk walking pace. That suited Banks just fine, as he knew there were large rocks breaking the surface in the shallows near the shore, and he didn’t fancy hitting anything at speed.
He took a smoke when Hynd offered.
“Do you buy any of the wee man’s story, Cap?” the sergeant said as they lit up.
“Not that alchemy bullshit and mumbo-jumbo, no. Well, not really. But the bit about it being a fucking huge otter rings true given what we’ve seen so far. Plus, having a lend of his boat for the day is handy, so I’m not about to argue too much with him just yet.”
“I’ve been thinking, Cap. He seems like he’s a smart man. Maybe it wasn’t a total coincidence that we found him last night.”
“Aye, the thought had crossed my mind too. Maybe he found us. But either way, we’re out on the water where we want to be, and so is he, so nobody’s losing out of the deal. Keep an eye on him though. I’ve got a feeling things might turn hinky. Antarctica-type hinky.”
“I thought you weren’t buying his spiel?”
“I’m not. But my gut is.”
“Bugger,” Hynd said with a smile. “Your gut’s right more often than not.”
“Tell me about it.”
*
They motored slowly through the fog for 10 minutes, and Banks developed a stress headache from trying to peer into the shifting gray wash of dampness. The engine cut off and he heard a clank of chain then a splash as they dropped anchor. He went to go back up top and had to stop on the ladder as Seton made his way down.
“Coffee and smoke break?” Seton said with a smile. “Then I want to try something, if it’s okay by you?”
The squad kept their positions while Seton clattered about in the cramped kitchen in the cabin and returned a few minutes later with a tray of five coffee mugs and a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits.
The coffee was dark, strong, bitter and obviously expensive, and the biscuits filled a hole Banks hadn’t known was there. Seton kept up a constant chat of information about the loch itself as they drank; details of its depth, volume of water, and some of the more comical aspects of its history. The small man was a born storyteller, and he had all of the squad smiling by the time that the coffee and a smoke to go with it were finished.
“Now that I’ve got on your good side,” Seton said, “I’ve got something I want to try.”
“Some of your mumbo-jumbo, wee man?” Wiggins asked.
“If you like to call it that, yes,” Seton replied. “It’s an incantation, an ancient chant. And if I’m right, it’s one that Crowley could well have used to control his beasts during his experiments. It’s certainly clearly copied down in his journals.”
“Chanting? Give over,” Wiggins replied. “How’s that going to work on a murdering beastie?”
“A lullaby can send a child to sleep, can it not?” Seton said calmly and reasonably. “Why should something similar not work with another mammal? After all, we are quite close in kind, evolutionary speaking. We share 99% of our DNA after all.”
“Speak for yourself,” Wiggins said. “The only time I share my DNA is with the sarge’s missus.”
Seton ignored that, and walked around the cabin and up to the bow. He stood right at the point and raised his hands.
“What is he now, Kate bloody Winslet?” Wiggins muttered.
Seton sang in a fine high tenor that belied his age. To Banks’ ear, it sounded like Gaelic, but he had no understanding of the words.
“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.
“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.
“That’s a Highland prayer,” McCally said. “I remember it from when I was a lad. My auld grannie sung it to keep the kelpies at bay.”
“What’s it about then?” Wiggins asked.
“It’s a call for peace and calm.”
Seton kept singing, kept repeating the same two lines. The fog continued to swirl and roll around them but the water itself was flat and still, almost as if a mirror lay just below the shimmering surface.
“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.
“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.
Seton continued in this vein for two minutes longer, then stopped. The fog deadened all sound, and the water was so still there was no sense of rocking or bobbing. They lay dead calm in the middle of a circle of gray and it was as if the world held its breath.
“Aye, very nice I’m sure, pal,” Wiggins said. “But if you’re done with the opera, do you have any more chocolate biscuits?”
He was answered by a loud bark from somewhere deep in the fog.
*
Seton sang again, the same two lines.
“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.
“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.
Another bark punctuated the last note of the chant.
�
�Fucking hell, the wee man’s onto something,” McCally said.
“Maybe aye, maybe no,” Banks replied. “But we’d best be ready for anything. Back to your positions, lads, and keep your eyes peeled.”
Once again, everything fell deathly quiet and still. The fog swirled, and Banks thought he saw a darker shadow move, just at the edge of his visibility, but by the time he’d raised his weapon, there was only fog again, although a slight swell made the boat rock, twice, underfoot. There was another bark. Louder this time, then three dark humps broke the surface right at the edge of their visibility, parallel to the boat at first then heading northwest away from them at speed, back into the fog. The middle hump, the otter’s body if Seton was right, rose a good three feet above the surface, more than 12 feet long and five feet wide and covered in slick black hair. From the tip of the front hump to the end of the rearmost one spanned a distance several yards longer than the craft they stood in.
The humps had already moved off into the fog before anybody reacted; they’d all been struck dumb and immobile by the sheer size of the thing as it passed. The boat rocked under them again in the beast’s wake.
“Fucking hell,” Wiggins said, loudly enough for them all to hear. “We’re going to need a bigger boat.”
*
“After it,” Banks shouted.
Seton was already on the move and heading back up the ladder to the top pilot deck. The chain rattled again as the anchor was drawn up and the calm was broken further by the thrum of engines as the boat started up and was quickly put in high gear.
They plowed quickly through the fog, casting caution aside, and Banks went up front, weapon raised, hoping for a clear shot at their quarry. But even at full speed, they didn’t catch it. He only got a short glimpse of it and saw a tail splash as the beast, some 20 yards ahead, dived. By the time they reached the spot, the water had stilled again.
Operation Loch Ness Page 6