Introductions happened in a sort of desultory fashion. "Marc Robertson. And that's Donald Vaughan with the pigtail."
"Lisa Satterlund," said the statuesque woman, taking her gin and tonic. "Do you often just drop in here at about one thirty in the morning or is this a special occasion?"
"They've come to flash Nessie," explained Sheila, as if she had done nothing to encourage this.
"Could work more effectively than the plan these two had to fly-fish for Nessie," she said, gesturing with her glass.
"And you, Lassie?" MacParrot was peering at her cleavage.
She shrugged. "Me, I'm just researching an article on traditional highland hospitality, as provided by your traditional Scots hosts." She looked at the barman and his sidekick. "From Birmingham or the Punjab."
"We're all Scots, at least by descent," said the barman. "I answer to the name of Matthew Duncan, but if you go into your nearest Tartan seller, you will discover that somehow we're all sept and kin. Even those customers from Nigeria, Peru or Melanesia, who are broke from buying yards of checked tablecloth material, definitely not made in China."
"We're all descended from McAdam," said Robertson.
I pondered this. I was at a stage of the evening when I was taking this sort of statement quite seriously. "I've never heard of a McEve."
"She emigrated to place where the climate is better," said the barman. "That's why the sheep are so nervous around here."
His Indian sidekick nodded. "Indeed. It is a beautiful country even if it is being raining too often to be seeing it though that is good for the bar trade. And it has very good mutton."
In the meantime, now lubricated, the rest of the conversation had turned to the arcane and bizarre art of fly-fishing.
"I tie my own, you know," said Donald proudly. "To suit the local target species, and match their local prey animals."
"So what sort of fly do you tie to catch a Nessie?" I asked.
He blinked. "Have to be something Scottish. Resembling their natural diet, but with super-attractant features."
"A haggis fly," suggested Duncan.
"They're a protected species," said Donald.
"What, Nessies?" asked Sheila. "And to think that they were going to threaten them with exposure."
"No, haggises," explained the flytier. "You don't want to be caught casting something that even looks like one. The constabulary take haggises very seriously indeed."
"Surely that's Haggisi, like Hippopotomi," said Dexter.
"A deep fried Mars bar fly," offered Lisa.
Donald snorted the foam off his beer. "There are some things that defy even the consummate flytier's skill. And that is one of them."
"They look like floaters. Don't you guys tie floating flies?"
"Dry flies. Which are what wet flies are before they go in the water," explained Dexter. Kevin seemed to have deserted his rubber plant and disappeared into the bathroom.
"Well," said Marc, "most sightings happen in the area that has the highest plankton counts, so maybe there's a sewage outfall there."
"This is pure pristine Scots water we're talking about," said the barman.
"Indeed it is. Water passed personally by the pure pristine Scots," agreed Donald. "Look, Nessie is a myth."
"Is no'," said MacParrot. "I've seen her mysel', and I've got priff!"
"And who are you?" asked Lisa.
MacParrot had one of those faces that are so ugly that women notice him. Rather like a bulldog. Some people find those cute too.
"Angus Macintosh," he said, making an effort, for her, to de-psittacine his name.
The story got repeated, in between Lisa expertly fending off her two suitors and Sheila taking side-bets with Dexter about their chances. It was quite funny to watch them both playing gooseberry for the other, and her encouraging the game. I could have told them from experience that the bottom line of this behavior pattern was that she fancied neither, and if they played their cards right tonight they could both end up blind drunk, broke and sleeping alone.
Lisa peered at the photograph. "Couldn't you have taken a better picture?"
MacParrot sniffed. "Ach . . . I was only usin' one hand. Ah was . . . busy."
"Never ask a man to do two things at once," she said.
"Aye. This multi-taskin'. I've heerd aboot it. Wimmen dae it." He looked into her cleavage, being of roughly the right height to either develop a crick in the neck or to stare her in the chest. "Male minds are too highly developed for that. Ach. Y'see wimmen, they've sort of generalist minds, no' so refined," he explained kindly. "Ut's like toilet seats. No matter how often ye try to teach them, wimmen cannae learn tae put them back up."
Sheila and Lisa gaped. The rest us of wisely kept our mouths shut and did not cheer. We were drunk but not that drunk.
But he'd planted the seed, alas. Lisa and Sheila decided that there could only be one suitable treatment—and that involved, willy-nilly, the rest of us in a collective Loch Ness Monster-flash.
"You were offering to take me for a little night cruise earlier," said Lisa sweetly to Donald. "You were telling me what a lovely boat you had. And Marc, you were saying what a fine bottle of single malt scotch you have. Let's go and take them with us to try out this new style of monster hunting."
MacParrot seemed to be visited by a momentary lapse into good sense. "Ahm sure it wus just happenstance," he insisted. "Pure chance."
"Ah, but it worked. It drew the monster from its lair. Some of the greatest discoveries of science have happened by pure chance," said Sheila, exerting herself to sound as convincing as possible. "Just think, you may have finally hit on the Great Nessie lure. It may be why plesiosaurs became extinct elsewhere. There could be great Nessie flashing festivals with thousands of spectators. It could be the beginning of the great new tourist boom that Scotland dreams of. You'd be heroes. They'd probably put up a flashing statue."
"Ach. It could a'so be a chance for you to laugh at us," said the Scots reprobate that had got all of us into this in first place.
Lisa smiled sweetly. "That too, Mr. MacIntosh. Carpe diem!"
"Seize the day? It's after midnight," I protested.
"Get in early, then!" said Sheila, pushing us toward the doors.
We were herded out rather like drunken and reluctant cats towards our doom—which took the form of a small cabin cruiser tied up at the end of a pier, outside in the cold night air. We were up in Scotland. If you listened carefully you could hear the sounds of Scots night: sheep running and water freezing. And before us lay the dark waters of Loch Ness.
A word on Loch Ness. Now, every year thousands of tourists peer at the deep blue waters, and sometimes the gray and rain-swept waters, hoping to see the Loch Ness Monster. Perhaps wearing a plaid bonnet and playing "Scotland the Brave" on the bagpipes. There are a steady number of odd sightings and tall tales, going back many centuries. Some have been exposed as hoaxes, and others as inconclusive evidence. It seems that a lot of effort has gone into finding very little, true—but the lake is twenty-four miles long, about a mile wide, and more than seven hundred feet deep. It apparently has a surprisingly featureless underwater landscape, and a lot of effort has been put into searching it.
If the searchers had been watching that particular night they'd have seen a monstrous sight all right, as we headed away from the sleeping village of Drumnadrochit towards the ruins of Urquart castle. Clouds scudded across a gibbous moon as we headed for the black silhouette of the broken castle keep-tower. It was cold. "Look," I protested, knowing that I had more chance of falling pregnant than I had of getting out of those two women doing exactly what they wanted to—or wanted us to do—but trying all the same. "Won't right here do for this charade? We can get it over with and go back in to the warm."
"Many of the classic sightings happened over there," insisted Lisa. "Here, have some scotch."
The pained expression on Marc's face, as we chugged his twenty-year-old single malt straight from the bottle, was worth the chi
ll from the lake and the cold night air. Besides, there was something knight-errantish about dropping your trousers in front of an ancient Scots castle. By general quiet male consensus it had been decided that it was not flashing Nessie, or the unoffending shoreline that was going to happen, but mooning our tormentors.
So we plowed steadily across the wind-riffled silver water, with Lisa taking oddly precise sightings. We should have smelled a rat, but as the scotch went around it would have had to be a rodent of elephantine proportions with a bouquet of 8 on the Limburger scale for us to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. The boasts as to the Nessie-pulling power of various of our wedding tackle was being discussed when Lisa announced that the fateful moment had arrived. The moon was out and she'd taken us relatively close to a small headland just across from the castle. It was an uninspiring spot, with nothing but an old caravan to compete with the castle.
I felt this was an affront our manhood and dignity. If I was going to flash anything it really ought to be a medieval relic not a sleeping caravan.
"Here," said Lisa firmly.
"Now," said Sheila, in her best this-brooks-no-argument tone, which has even been known to influence judges, and simply overwhelmed our weakened wits. It was the single malt's fault. If it had been a young, rough and abusive scotch we might have been wary, or drunk less of it.
Dexter shrugged. "You'd better lead the parade, Mac."
"Ach, let's do it all together then," said that worthy, his throat well lubricated with Marc's scotch. "On the count o' three."
"You take the wheel, I'll count," said Sheila to Lisa.
So we lined up, fumbling with belt buckles at the stern, the boat puttering along, the prop barely turning.
"A one."
"A two."
"A three. Drop 'em!" They demanded in chorus.
The scene was suddenly torn by a terrible and plaintive cry that could have issued from no human throat. . . .
Except that it obviously did. But zipper accidents will have that effect on a man's voice.
That sort of shriek can also affect your steering. Lisa pulled the wheel hard over, and pushed the throttle levers to full.
We did a wonderful job of falling like ninepins over the transom. Now, to be fair, with the wisdom of hindsight, she had probably intended to do the throttle trick from the start. But it is very unlikely she'd have caught Dexter, Kevin or even Donald with that trick—they were all experienced seamen—even with their trousers around knees, mid-bend for the moon, except for the addition of the sudden turn. And if she'd intended the sudden turn, surely it would have been away from the shore?
The water was cold and wet. We were about ten yards off the bank. Fortunately the water was only about two feet deep. In a ragged trouser-hauling chorus line of curses, we made our way in to the stony shoreline along a slippery and slightly squidgy bottom, to the vast appreciation of the pair of women cackling helplessly, especially when it was unsteady going and we all fell over again. Other than that, only fleeing sheep and a little winking red light witnessed our show.
It was either the local red light district (and hence the fleeing sheep) or we'd just put on one of the most spectacular monster shows ever seen on the Loch Ness Live webcam.
Then, of course, the door to the caravan opened and matters went downhill from there. It would appear that serious researchers into cryptozoology have just no appreciation of quality viewing. Among the terrors of the deep and the monsters of legend that have crawled out of it, this one ranked.
A cry of "Avast, me boys, out harpoons!" would have been appropriate. For some obscure reason, the cryptozoologist was seriously steamed, despite being a lot worse dressed than we'd been for his audience. We were merely in part unclothed, where he was stark naked.
Mind you, he did have some beads and a few novel piercings. His English, too, was interesting and informative. Also imported, it seemed, being liberally mixed with what could have been Swedish swear words.
Alas, in amongst the charmingly intemperate and odd words being uttered I distinctly heard "called the police."
A strategic retreat, leaving Kevin and Sheila as rearguard, while we pushed Donald's boat off seemed the better part of valor—especially as I did not like the idea of having the court enjoy the live webcam replays. So we pushed the boat out and refloated it in haste.
"The bus is leaving with or without you." I yelled, once we were on the water.
Kevin and Sheila came running. A wise decision, as I saw car lights bumping towards us.
The new-age cryptozoologist was now trying to get back into his caravan.
The door, it appeared, had swung closed behind him.
"Come back you bastards!" yelled Kevin.
"Can't," said Dexter. "Remember how shallow it was, Kev. We'll chew the prop up. Wade out."
So they did. . . .
And about three feet from the shore, they both suddenly disappeared underwater.
They surfaced, swam splashily to the boat, and we hauled them on board, shivering.
"What the hell happened to the mud-bank?" asked Kevin.
"I don't think we should stay here to find out," Dexter said quietly. He pointed to the scene on the shore. Cloud had covered the moon again. Up against the caravan a large, naked cryptozoologist was impaled by the lights of the panda car. Two of Scotland's finest were approaching with trepidation. The wind carried their voices to us, as it pushed the boat away from the fateful shore.
"Come along quietly, sir," said a very wary Scots voice.
This did not seem to be something the naked man was willing to do. He was being quite vocal about stupid fascists.
"The caller wasn't kidding aboot a naked lunatic," said the other policeman, edging away.
Dexter and Donald quietly unshipped the emergency paddles and we slipped away further into the night, and a sudden blessed rain-squall.
"You know," said Kevin thoughtfully, after the squall passed. "All I can think is that we did it. We found the monster."
"Living in a caravan? Got to move with the times," said I.
The ichthyologist shook his head, giving us all a shower. "Nope. Think about it. A mud-bank can't simply disappear. That was no mud-bank—it was Nessi herself. We must have walked over her back. And now get that motor started. I'm bloody frozen."
****
When our shivering, dripping crew returned to the portals of the Loch Ness Highland Experience Inn, we found James Watters and the barman, Matthew Duncan, sitting and drinking Irish Coffee. They were discussing the eternal verities.
Or fish, at any rate. By now, after the Wandle Pike and the Tinta Falls Catfish and the Loch Ness Monster, it was becoming hard to distinguish between the two subjects.
"I see that your enthusiasm seems to be a little dampened," said Duncan. "Where's the trophy then?"
"Still in Loch Ness. It wasn't big enough so we threw it back. We need drink!"
"Where's Lisa?" asked Donald, looking back at the door.
Frowning, Marc said: "I haven't seen her since we got back."
Sheila grinned at the two of them. "Mac invited her to go for a wee moonlit sail. She said that it was the only real highland hospitality she'd come across, so she thought she'd better experience it. I'd guess she's finding out if there really is a monster out on Loch Ness."
"Moonlit? It's raining out there."
Sheila shrugged. "She'll be fine. She's got a little Mac to cover her."
"I hope that he remembered to take oars this time."
I shrugged. "He can always get Nessie to push him back to shore. I wonder if he's got his Polaroid camera with him again."
Marc shook his head sadly. "How come blokes like that get lucky? She drank, and gave away my scotch, all he does is insult her, and he's pulled."
Donald put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "She scratched my boat's paintwork, got my private parts on the late night moonbat show—and we still couldn't pull."
Kevin grinned. "You need better bait. Let a
lone her, we couldn't even pull the Loch Ness Monster."
"It's the cold," said Marc. "Also, I've heard that plesiosaurs taste terrible."
"Oh, they're strictly catch and release these days," said the barman of the Loch Ness Highland Experience Inn.
"Anyway, plesiosaurs are small fry, and not even a true fish," said Watters. He seemed to have a twinkle in his eye. "I think you're all finally ready. We'll take the churnel again and I shall introduce you to one of the greatest fishermen of all time."
I eyed him suspiciously. "And I suppose he's another member of the ancient Brotherhood of the Angle."
That was definitely a twinkle. "Oh, indeed. You might say he's the founder of the order."
****
Introducing: Stories by new authors
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The Men in the Mirror by Steven Ray
Illustrated by Dan Skinner
Three days before it all went down, Charles Robbins stepped out of his car in north Minneapolis. Slinging a camera bag over his shoulder, he crossed the wide but almost deserted street and entered the park, looking for a familiar face.
A thin line of trees hemmed the path, dark branches swaying in the same low, cold wind that swirled their fallen leaves across the shriveling grass. But beyond them all was open and clear, short-cropped lawns and soccer fields sweeping toward a far-off line of stately homes. Plenty of room to spread out, plenty of space to surround oneself with and still have privacy.
He found him about halfway around the path's curving course, sitting alone on a park bench, a bundle of papers on his lap. Across the path another bench stood empty. Robbins walked up and sat down.
"Hi," Robbins said.
"Hi," Chuck replied in the same tone. He glanced around. "I don't remember it being this cold."
Robbins smiled nervously. "Memory has a way of editing out the unpleasant details."
Chuck shrugged as if to say I know that and began unfolding the papers he held.
Robbins dropped his bag to the ground, opened it and busied himself setting up the tripod and camera, the heavy macro lens awkward and cold in the bitter air. He popped out and reseated the battery and memory card, even though he had checked and rechecked both at home just an hour before. It wouldn't do to mess this up.
Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006 Page 33