Loch, The

by Steve Alten

  The sun was still high when they stopped for dinner at the Glenmoriston Arms Tavern and Bistro. Two hours later, the exhaust­ed family finally made camp on the banks of Loch Ness, just south­west of the inlet. There were dozens of other campers at the site, most on holiday from Europe. A few were fishing, all were enjoying the remains of a Highland summer sunset.

  By the time they had crawled into their sleeping bags, the graying skies had darkened into storm clouds, and the Glen’s southeasterly breeze had intensified, whipping up whitecaps on the Loch’s threat­ened surface.

  The more experienced campers quickly battened down, anticipat­ing a rough night.

  The two Brueggert girls were in their tent, having fallen asleep within minutes of their heads hitting their pillows. Joel was lying on his side next to his wife, reading by flashlight, but Tiani was in too much pain to sleep. It was the second day of her period, the heaviest bleeding day of her menstrual cycle. Her lower back ached, and both her ankles were swollen from the day’s hike. She knew another long day lie ahead, having scheduled her family to be in Drumnadrochit by the next night, and the trail would be steep one—assuming she could even get her feet back into her hiking boots by morning.

  Swallowing two more aspirin, she turned to her husband. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, I want to soak my ankles before it rains. Joel?”

  Her husband mumbled a reply, his eyes already closed.

  Tiani crawled out of the tent, pulling on her hooded navy sweat­shirt against the wind. Locating the wooded path leading to the Loch, she staggered gingerly through the forest down the sloping trail, her flashlight barely cutting the darkness.

  The pain forced her to pause at a park bench situated in a small clearing littered with trash from an overflowing steel barrel, then she continued down the steepening path to the shoreline.

  Gusts of wind and spray greeted her as she left the shelter of the forest. Turning right, she followed the heavily pebbled beach to the boating dock. Menacing dark waves rolled against the launch, sending a dozen aluminum canoes and wooden kayaks banging against one another as they fought their tethers.

  Walking to the end of the pier, Tiani removed her unlaced boots and thick wool socks, rolled up her pant legs, then sat along the edge and plunged her throbbing ankles into the near-freezing waters.

  Tiani yelped in protest, and it took several attempts and four full minutes before her skin finally numbed to the cold. Lying back, she gazed east across the Loch at an ominous outline of mountains and thunderheads, then closed her eyes, believing she was alone.

  * * *

  “Huh!” Tiani bolted upright, her heart pounding, her eyes wide as she searched her surroundings.

  Something had startled her awake. What was it?

  Raindrops pelted her, and she laughed at her foolishness. She pulled her legs from the water, but her feet were so numb she could no longer feel them. She massaged them until the circulation returned, her eyes never leaving Loch Ness’s choppy surface.

  Stop being stupid. Next, you’ll be searching the woods for Big Foot.

  Still nervous, she slipped her socks back over her feet, then gently tugged on her boots, keeping the laces loose. The swelling was down, and that was good, but now she just wanted to be back in her tent and out of the rain.

  Tiani stood, then headed back down the pier, her unlaced shoes clopping on the weathered boards.

  Leaving the boating area, she turned right and retraced her steps along the rocky shoreline until she came to the beginning of the wooded trail that led up to the campsite.

  Tiani paused, inhaling the wind. An acrid scent lingered in the brisk air, the smell reminding her of a zoo cage that desperately needed hosing.

  Whomp!

  Tiani let out a half scream, startled by the sudden crash of metal somewhere up ahead. “Hello? Who’s there? Joel?”

  Gusts of wind whipped the rain-soaked pine needles against her arms, urging her to begin the climb.

  Focusing her flashlight on the path, she started up the slope, the scent growing stronger.

  She was perspiring by the time she arrived at the park bench—the halfway point to the campsite. Raindrops pelted the rusted steel trash barrel, which, strangely, was now lying on its side, garbage strewn everywhere.

  The wind? Impossible. The can must weigh over two hundred pounds. She circled the small clearing with the beam of her flashlight. Nothing.

  The climb had loosened her unlaced boots to the point they were slipping off her feet. Shuffling over to the picnic table, she lifted her right boot to the bench and began pulling the laces tighter.

  She jumped again as a gunshot of thunder echoed across the heavens—and something huge floundered across the path leading up to the campsite.

  Tiani’s heart fluttered. What the fuck was that? She crept to the edge of the trail, shining her light up the dark, tree-lined path. Maybe a bear?

  There was nothing there now ... but something had been there a minute ago. She caught a heavy whiff of decaying fish in the swirling wind.

  And then the heavens opened up overhead, drenching her in a summer squall. “Terrific.” Tiani yelled up the path as loud as she could. “Joel! Joel, help!”

  The cloudburst rose into a crescendo of splattered leaves, swal­lowing her cries.

  Wind lashed at the limbs of pine encircling the rest area, scatter­ing the garbage at her feet.

  “Joel! Hello! Can anybody hear me?”

  A spiderweb of lightning answered her, igniting the heavens, revealing the shadowy figure, now poised at the edge of the clearing. Tiani Brueggert looked up in horror ... and screamed.

  The Diary of Sir Adam Wallace

  Translated by Logan W. Wallace

  « ^ »

  Entry: 24 October 1330

  I can only estimate this date of entry, no’ that it matters, for I fear my words will ne’er see the light o’ day nor another’s eyes. Still, whit mine have seen ... scarcely can I steady my hand to record the tale.

  When last I wrote, the Knights were hard at work, assemblin’ an iron gate meant tae block the Guivres’ exit tae the North Sea. The cavern’s air had grown heavy wi’ smoke frae oor torches, an’ Sir Iain wis close by, busy preparin’ a meal o’ mince an’ tatties. The scent o’ the meat caused my stomach tae gurgle, when suddenly a terrible scream shattered oor calm an’ I dropped my quill.

  Twis Sir Michael Bona that screamed, an’ by oor torches’ flickerin’ light I saw him—his body raised above the edge o’ the overlook, caught within the powerful jaws o’ the most ungodly creature I could e’er imagine.

  It had risen frae the underground river, its enormous head, ten times that o’ a horse. Its fangs were sharp an’ curved, the largest teeth barbed, positioned ootside its hideous mooth. Nodules covered the top o’ the skull, taperin’ doon a thick neck, the remains o’ its body remainin’ hidden in the water.

  Grabbin’ my sword, I lunged at the beast, inhalin’ its horrid stench even as I lashed at its throat. My blade sliced its oily dark hide, but could barely penetrate against its heavy coat o’ slime.

  Stunned by the blow, the creature released Sir Michael and submerged, its immense tail loopin’ oot frae the river an’ slappin’ wildly at the surface, the icy splashes drenchin’ us ... an’ oor torches.

  Cast in darkness, we were at the De’il’s ain mercy.

  I backed carefully awa’ frae the edge, drookit (wet) an’ shiverin’, unable tae see my ain hand afore my face. Sir Michael lay by my feet, his gurglin’ cries drooned in his ain blood.

  “We need a flame,” MacDonald called out. I heard flints scrapin’ against the cave walls behind me, an’ then a spark caught fabric, an’ we had light.

  Sir Michael’s wounds were fatal, an’ even MacDonald’s whisky couldnae comfort oor fallen comrade. I have seen many men die o’ battle wounds, but none in so much agony. The beast had crushed Michael’s internals, an’ his insides were burstin’ forth frae his mooth like air frae a bellows, makin’ i
t impossible tae swallow. Blood gushed frae a half-ring of teeth holes, each as big as a man’s fist.

  We held him doon until he died. MacDonald offered last rites, an’ then we lowered his body into the water, an’ watched it swept away.

  MacDonald divided us after that, three men on the gate, three at sentry, the remainin’ two tae rest. Long hours have passed, an’ it’s noo my turn tae sleep. My body is heavy frae this terrible day, but my mind refuses rest, for now I have seen the De’il—his brood is close, an’ I am too feart tae close my eyes.

  Chapter 15 Quotes

  « ^ »

  I was standing at the shore near the mouth of the Altsigh Burn, watching to see whether any trout were rising when I saw this extraordinary sight. It was the monster’s head and neck, less than eight meters from me and it was without any doubt in the act of swallowing food! It opened and closed its mouth several times quite quickly and then kept tossing its head backwards in the same manner as a cormorant does after it’s devoured a fish!

  After two minutes, it put its head down and a hump and tail came into sight. It submerged, then surfaced again, farther away. I saw no limbs or flippers, but the skin was slick, dark in color, paling along the belly. I’d guess it was at least six meters [19.68 feet] long.

  —JOHN MACLEAN, INVERMORISTON, JUNE 1937

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Inverness, Scottish Highlands

  Scotland

  TRUE MACDONALD ARRIVED EARLY the next morning, bundles of newspapers tucked under each of his burly arms. He pushed my breakfast cart away from my cell door, then shoved a stack of papers in between the iron bars. “Wake up, Zack, there’s work to be done.”

  I pinched sleep from my eyes, then rolled over in bed to the smell of powdered eggs and bad aftershave. “Aren’t you a little old to be working a paper route?”

  “No’ when my best mate’s the toast o’ Scotland.” He handed me an Inverness Courier. “Go on, take a’ look at this.”

  It was hard to tell which was the more shocking, the photo of me standing on the witness chair, exposing part of my buttocks, or the story’s headline.

  RENOWNED MARINE BIOLOGIST SURVIVED NESSIE ATTACK

  TESTIMONY EXPECTED TO LAUNCH LARGEST SEARCH OF LOCH NESS IN SCOTLAND’S HISTORY.

  Dr. Zachary Wallace, the renowned American marine biologist and son of accused killer, Angus William Wallace of Drumnadrochit, shocked the High Court on Monday when he revealed scars left by teeth marks from a bite that nearly severed him in half seventeen years ago. Dr. Wallace, whose testimony has yet to be questioned by prosecutors, barely survived an encounter with a giant squid six months ago in the Sargasso Sea.

  Dr. Wallace’s testimony is sure to be challenged. The Courier has learned that the marine biologist was dismissed from his teaching position at Florida Atlantic University shortly after the Sargasso accident and has since been undergoing psychiatric treatment.

  “What a load of crap! I never said I was bitten, and what’s with the psychiatric bit? Yes, I saw a shrink, but that doesn’t mean I’m nuts. I went one time and—”

  “Whit dae ye expect? This is Nessie news. Since when dae facts count for anythin’?”

  “You don’t understand, True, this is exactly the kind of nonsense that’ll destroy my reputation, at least whatever’s left of it.”

  “Why? It wisnae yer fault ye got bitten.”

  “I wasn’t bitten!”

  “Sure, sure, but it’s better if ye jist say ye cannae remember. Now start signin’ the newspapers, I’ve customers waitin’.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hey, business is business. Right now, ye’re mair popular than Bonnie Prince Charlie. Strike while the iron’s hot, that’s what I say.” He tossed me a felt-tip marker. “Sign them anywhere but across the headlines. We’ll get ten pounds sterling fer each, maybe twelve.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  True removed a camera from his jacket pocket. “Now I’ll be needin’ ye tae drop yer pants. The Examiner offered me two hundred pounds for a clear close-up, but I ken I can get more.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Why? Ye mooned ‘em for free yesterday.”

  “I said forget it! I’m sick of everyone exploiting this Nessie crap. And you ... you’re supposed to be my friend. You’re as bad as your sister.”

  “Brandy ... I’d almost forgot. I’ve a message frae her. Come closer so I don’t wake Angus.”

  I leaned in like a dummy, thinking he was going to whisper it in my ear.

  Wump! True’s fist caught me flush in the breadbasket, dropping me to the concrete floor.

  I sat up, fighting to catch my wind. “You big lummoxe, what the hell was that for?”

  “That’s for steppin’ on my sister’s heart. Did I no’ warn ye Brandy’s been havin’ an awfy hard time? Last thing she needed wis mair rejection.”

  “I wasn’t rejecting her.”

  “Ye led her on, then ran off is what I heard.”

  “Maybe he’s no’ man enough tae handle yer sister,” Angus said, greeting the day with a burst of flatulence.

  “Lovely.”

  “At least I fart like a man, Gertrude, whit’s your excuse?”

  “Ignore him,” I said. “He’s a dead man talking.”

  “Give it a rest, you two. Brandy’s condition’s nothin’ tae joke aboot. Wis bad enough when Alban kicked her oot, but this last go-around in the States, I think somethin’ snapped in her pretty little heid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she first got back, I had her stayin’ wi’ me. One day I found blood a’ ower her sheets. She claimed it wis her woman’s time, but I found razors tucked inside the mattress. She’d been usin’ the blades tae carve up her legs.”

  “Jesus ...”

  True helped himself to my breakfast. “Psychiatrist fella, he called it self-mutilation. Says it’s part o’ Brandy’s whole fear o’ abandonment thing. Her mood swings like a pendulum, calm one moment, a storm the next.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Doctors had her on pills, but God only knows if she’s still takin’ them. I worry aboot her, Zack. Last thing she needs now is another guy steppin’ on her heart.”

  Angus pressed his face between the bars. “Trust me, True, ye din­nae need yer sister hangin’ oot wi’ the likes o’ Zachary. The laddie’s battlin’ his ain childhood demons, an’ he’s still feart tae face them.”

  True looked confused. “Whit’s he talkin’ aboot?”

  “Ignore him.”

  “Wish I could’ve ignored thae bloody screams,” Angus said. “A’ night, yellin’ like a lunatic, jist like he did after the first accident. Head doctors had a fancy name for it ... post-traumatic somethin’ somethin’, but I just called it what it was—bein’ feart. Waste o’ time, a’ that analy­sis, I should’ve jist tossed him right back in the Loch the day after it happened. That wid have nicked it in the arse, right there an’ then.”

  I shook my head. “Growing up with a father like you, it’s a wonder they haven’t locked me up in a mental ward by now.”

  “Boo-hoo. Jist remember, Gretchen, it’s you who has tae live wi’ these nightmares, an’ ye’re the only one who can stop them.”

  “How’s that?” asked True, finishing off my breakfast.

  “By findin’ the monster, o’ course. Zachary may be feart, but he kens how this monster thinks. That’s how he brought the De’il tae the surface the first time.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “At least my memory works, as does Nessie’s, an’ believe you me, now that the dragon’s tasted human flesh again, it’ll be comin’ up tae feed a lot main”

  True’s eyes widened. “Nessie’s a dragon?”

  Angus nodded. “Maybe no’ a dragon as we ken it, but these Guivres have got the blood o’ a dragon in them.”

  “What did you call them?”

  “A Guivre, Mister Marine Biologist. Accordin’ tae lore, Gui
vres were wingless dragons, resemblin’ giant sea serpents. The beasts once resided in a’ the Great Glen’s lochs, but in winters when food wis scarce, they’d cross countrysides, too, in search o’ anythin’ they could swallow. Back when I was a lad, yer grandfaither, Logan, taught me a’ aboot them. Said they didnae breathe fire like other dragons, but their oily skin spewed noxious vapors, bad enough tae cause vegetation to shrivel an’ rot. They’re the De’il, they are, but—”

  “Butts are for crapping, Angus, and your tale’s a load if there ever was one, a pathetic alibi designed to use Nessie’s popularity to take the spotlight away from your guilt.”

  “An’ ye’re a disgrace tae the tartan an’ a’ who bore the Wallace name. Since the time o’ Saint Columba these De’il’s have stalked oor Glen, feastin’ off the flesh o’ those that droop, yer ain grandfaither among them. You’d be deid, too, if no’ for some miracle. Keep ignorin’ the truth, but ye cannae run away frae yer fear forever.”

  “Whit’re ye suggestin’, Angus?” True asked.

  “It’s Zachary’s callin’. He needs tae help us find this beast an’ kill it.”

  “I’m a scientist, Angus, not a monster hunter.”

  “Then be a scientist an’ find that creature! It’s oot there, Zachary, I swear that on my faither’s soul, an’ ye’re the only one that can find it an prove my innocence.”

  “You swear? Your word means nothing to me. The moment that asshole judge releases me, I’m on the next plane back to Miami.”

  True cringed as he looked down the corridor. “Uh, Zack—”

  “What?”

  “The asshole’s back,” Judge Hannam announced, as he led Sheriff Brian Holmstrom and six brutes dressed in police uniforms toward our cells. “You may release Dr. Wallace, Sheriff, provided he cooperates.”

  “Cooperates? How?”

  Holmstrom, a no-nonsense fellow carrying a muscular build on his smallish frame, opened the cell door, but blocked my exit. “Dr. Wallace, I’m requestin’ that ye accompany these men. You will not speak o’ anythin’ ye see or hear tae anyone other than my inspector, or I shall be forced tae incarcerate ye until ye’re as auld an’ stupid a man as yer faither.”