The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Hey, honey,’ he called to his corpulent peroxide blonde spouse, who was leaning against the parapet of Castle Urquhart, gazing intently across the darkening waters of Loch Ness. ‘Hey, honey! Don’t you think it’s time we got ourselves back to the hotel? We don’t want to miss chow and you know what these goddam Britishers are like about mealtimes. Anyone would think that they are doing us a goddam favour by allowing us to stop at their hotel.’

  He continued to mutter to himself about service in British hotels for a couple of minutes until it dawned on him that his wife had not replied.

  ‘Aw c’mon, honey, I’m starving.’

  Alicia Bailey threw a scornful glance at her husband, standing conspicuously out of place against the Scottish scenery, in a lightweight cotton suit and broad brimmed stetson — the archetypal Texan tourist — lost and bewildered out of his native environment.

  ‘Can’t you think of anything else but food?’ she replied curtly. ‘Don’t you ever think about culture?’

  She lingered over the word ‘culture’ savouring its syllables so that the linguist might have been hard pressed to recognise the word for what it was.

  ‘Sure, honey,’ said her spouse, plucking at his heavy lower lip. ‘But what’s culture got to do with standing here looking at some goddam lake?’

  Alicia Bailey’s baby blue eyes rose heavenwards and almost disappeared under the mess of black mascara which coated her lashes.

  ‘Some goddam lake, eh?’ she jeered. ‘Ain’t you ever heard of Loch Ness?’ (She pronounced it Lock Ness.) ‘Do you think I want to go back to Amarillo and tell the Bridge Club that we came all the way to Loch Ness and never saw hide nor hair of the goddam monster?’

  Abe Bailey guffawed.

  ‘Monster?’ he smirked. ‘Monster! Some movie-man’s publicity stunt, that’s what that is.’

  Alicia Bailey waved a tourist pamphlet angrily at her husband.

  ‘Aint what it says here. Says that plenty of people have seen it and … ’

  She broke off suddenly, her eyes protruding stark and ugly from the mess of make-up that surrounded them.

  ‘What the hell’s that, Abe?’

  Her plump bejewelled hand quivered towards the centre of the loch.

  Abe Bailey sighed and unslung his field-glasses from their case and raised them to his eyes, trying to focus them on the waters over whose choppy black surface stately clouds of mist were rolling, spilling down from the surrounding mountains.

  ‘Guess someone’s swimming out there,’ he murmured as he fought to find the focus adjustment.

  His wife snorted in annoyance.

  ‘Jeez, Abe … that’s too big for a person … even I can see that from this distance. It’s far too … ’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Abe Bailey’s command was like a sudden whiplash.

  Alicia Bailey stopped and looked at her spouse in open-mouthed surprise, completely forgetting the object in the loch.

  Her plump face began to crease and there was a suggestion of water about her eyes.

  ‘Why, you’ve never … ’

  ‘Christ’s sake, hush up, woman!’ Abe Bailey almost snarled. ‘I think there’s something mighty strange out there … look, for Chrissake look! It’s something with a peculiar swimming motion, looks as if it’s got some kinda hump … ’

  Alicia Bailey turned to stare at the expanse of water.

  ‘Where is it, Abe … where … ’

  She was suddenly all excitement.

  ‘Look there … oh Jesus … where the hell is the camera?’

  Abe was leaping about in excitement.

  Alicia Bailey let out a moan.

  ‘I left it back in the hotel Abe. Well, it is so late and … ’

  ‘Aw hell! Can’t you ever do the right thing?’ snarled Abe. ‘Chance of a lifetime and … oh Jesus look, the mist has rolled over whatever it was … oh hell!’

  Abe Bailey dropped his field-glasses in disgust.

  Suddenly, sounding ethereal through the banks of white cotton mist, there came a low keening sound; it started like the whisper of the wind in the topmost branches of the trees, rising in its pitch and its intensity, rising, rising … slowly until it seemed to echo and re-echo through the very mountain tops. Then abruptly, it ceased.

  ‘Sounds like some coyote,’ muttered Abe Bailey.

  Alicia Bailey nodded.

  They listened again but there was only silence across the waters of the loch.

  As if by mutual consent, the couple turned back to their car without saying a word and set off for their hotel at Invermoriston.

  After a while, Alicia Bailey spoke.

  ‘Know what it reminded me of, Abe?’

  Abe Bailey did not reply but concentrated on his driving.

  ‘Remember the time we camped up by Witchita Falls with the kids? Sure, you remember that summer. Some hunters trapped some coyotes on the ridge and killed them apart from the mother dog. Then for the next three or four nights, until they managed to shoot her, that mother dog used to come to the ridge every night and howl for her lost pups. That sound was kinda like that.’

  Abe Bailey sighed.

  ‘Well, you can tell your Bridge Club that you’ve seen and heard the Loch Ness Monster. Ain’t nobody gonna believe it. I guess I don’t believe it myself … there must be some logical explanation.’

  *

  Deep, deep in the gloomy waters of the loch an intelligence lay brooding and sobbing for its lost kin. Once it had been young and then there was no time to reflect on eternity; but the race was dying; it was nearly extinct. Soon now it would die, the last of its kind. And what would the world have learnt from its existence, its life, its death?

  For millions of years its kind had walked the earth proudly, had wrested the secrets of nature from her unwilling grasp, had stored up knowledge, and had — with paltry ego — considered themselves to be the elite of creation. Ah, vanity, such vanity. Now they were gone save one … save it … and soon that one would be gone too, down into the darkness: gone without having communicated the pride and hope of its kind, never having passed on the lessons of the past with which to build a better future: for its kind there would be no future.

  And yet, even to the last, it would never cease to hope.

  The longing could not die, could not be eradicated, and it was cursed because of it.

  Perhaps it was so with the puny man-things? Perhaps they were the next race to repeat the arrogant mistakes of the Saurians? Their rise and fall had been a brief span of time compared with the rise, decline, and fall of the Saurians. Yet already the man-things were as proud and as arrogant and as self-destructive as the Saurians had been after a hundred million years of being the dominant species. The puny man-things had started to think of themselves as the dominant species even when they were grovelling in caves and fighting to survive the natural onslaught of nature. Dominant species! Even now, in the twilight of its existence, the Saurian came to the realisation that there was no such thing as a dominant creature … all life was one and indivisible: Saurian, man, nature — one could not function without the other. Nothing dominated. Poor puny man-things. How long would it take them to realise that? Stupid creatures. Destructive in their haughty ignorance. Well, their time would come as it had with the Saurians. Their time would come …

  But even as it rationalised, the intelligence was struck by a wave of longing … of longing, of hope. That was the curse of intelligence. Longing could not die.

  And across the mist-splashed waters of the loch came the low keening sound; starting as the whispering of the wind in the topmost branches of the spruces and firs which surrounded the black waters; rising in pitch and intensity, rising, rising, rising … to cease abruptly.

  Only the smack of the choppy, brooding waters and the fretful cry of a swooping bird answered the sad cry of loneliness.

  A Note on Scottish Gaelic

  In recounting the strange and tragic tale of The Curse of Loch Ness some words, phrases a
nd passages in the Scottish Gaelic language have been inevitably recorded. The meaning of most of these words and phrases are made clear in the text. Gaelic is still a living language in Scotland in spite of many centuries of persecution. The last census showed that 88,414 Scots, mostly in the Western Isles and parts of the neighbouring mainland areas, spoke the language as their first tongue. In fact, Gaelic in Scotland is the only living Celtic language which has seen an increase in native speakers, by some 8,000, within the ten years since the previous census was taken. Yet, surprisingly, it remains the only living, indigenous language of the British Isles which has no status or recognition and is openly discouraged in contravention of all Human Rights Conventions. Ironically, Scottish Gaelic is given status in Nova Scotia, Canada, where recent government figures record it is spoken as a first language by nearly 8,000 Canadians of Scottish descent (who started to settle there during the eighteenth century), while a further 30,000 Nova Scotians have a knowledge of it. The first all-Gaelic daily newspaper Mac Talla (The Echo) was launched in Nova Scotia whose provincial government has a Gaelic adviser.

  While most of the Gaelic phrases are made clear in the context of the story, in chapter twenty-one, Tim Colbert and Professor Winstanley witness an ancient pre-Christian Druidic ceremony which, at the time, they did not understand. Further research has secured a translation of that part of the ceremony which they witnessed:

  A Bheathaich Mhoir nam mara agus loch

  A thearmannair Mhoir nan diomhaireachdan aosda Cluinneamaid!

  A Ghleidheadair Mhoir de’n eolais caillte ar sinnsearan

  Tha sinn ay guidh bhur beannachdan orinn.

  Oh great beast of the seas and loch

  Oh great protector of the ancient mysteries

  Hear us!

  Oh great keeper of the lost arts of our forefathers

  We invoke your blessings upon us.

  Tha Bel am fear-buileachaidh a’ bheo a’ toiseachadh a thurus chun nan neankan agus aon dm eile tha sinn a’ cumail muinghinn leis a’ chreideamh aosda ar sliochd .

  Bel the Life-Giver commences his journey into the heavens and once more we keep faith with the ancient creed of our race.

  Leigeamaid moladh air Bel chuir

  Fear-buileachaidh a’ bheo

  Ar blathas ‘sa gheamhradh

  Ar Sgail ‘sa shamhradh

  Ar feoil an uair tha an t-acras oirnn

  Agus ar deoch an uair tha am pathadh oirnn!

  Let us praise Bel

  Giver of Life

  Our warmth in winter

  Our shade in summer

  Our meat when we hunger

  And drink when we thirsteth!

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