Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "I'm thirsty!" he answered. He felt his pulse race unexpectedly. He'd carefully rehearsed what he would say, but would he say it right?

  "There's fresh water in the loch. Go drink!"

  "I'm more interested in lager."

  She took off her apron. "We're closed."

  "The sign on the door said 'open.' "

  "Open means closed as far as you are concerned!"

  He leaned over the bar and drafted a lager.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she cried, moving threateningly toward him.

  "Serving myself," he replied, grinning.

  "You're out of here right now or I call a constabe."

  He drank deeply from the mug. "Look, Miss MacKenzie. I came to talk to you. We don't need constables for that."

  She gestured defiantly. "How did you find this place?" '

  "I called the Highland Council offices and asked where I might write you a letter. They were very helpful."

  "You drove all the way here when you could just as well have put your questions on paper?"

  He laughed. "The half hour drive from Dores was very pleasant. Besides, it's not a long trip when one considers the fantastic reception I've received."

  She grabbed a towel and wiped the bar. "I think I heard everything you had to say in the car."

  "Most of it, but not all."

  "Mr. Bruce. What do you want?"

  He puffed heavily on the cigar. "It's imperative I get to know someone who lives in Inverness. Someone who has a vested political interest. As I said in the car, I'm the new boy in town. You can help me, and I may be very well able to help you."

  "Of course you can help me. You can get Geminii the hell out of Loch Ness."

  "I can't do that. But I have considerable clout. It would not be a mistake on your part to at least have my sympathetic ear."

  She stared, thinking. "Keep talking," she finally said.

  "Only if you promise to listen."

  She cracked a half smile. "You've invaded my home, and unless I call a constable, I'm afraid you hold me hostage."

  "Nonsense. If you ask me to leave right now, I'll be out of here like a shot."

  She paused, considering the alternatives, then called through the door. Her niece appeared moments later. She asked the girl to tend bar, then turned back to Scotty.

  "If we stay here, we won't be able to talk. Soon there'll be a good deal of commotion. There's a quiet veranda behind the inn, a good place to sit."

  Scotty stood and smiled. "Sounds fine," he said.

  * * *

  The air was clear, filled with the scent of pine needles. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was autumn brisk, and the view from the veranda was spectacular.

  "I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life other than play professional football," he was saying, "until one day I read the story of Spindletop, America's first oil gusher. And I tell you, by the time I had finished, I was hooked."

  "Where was this thing?" she asked.

  "Texas," he replied. "And it blew out on June 10, 1901. The site was operated by a one-armed hell raiser turned Sunday school teacher named Bud Higgins and a geologist named Lucas. However, on the day of the strike, only their employees were about. The men first heard a rumble. Then the earth began to shake. A geyser of mud shot from the well, destroying their rig. When the flow had stopped, the men turned off the boilers. Then the rumble began again. More mud funneled; the men fled for their lives. Then came a spout of gas and an explosion of green crude rising two hundred feet into the air. It blew out for nine days, spewing eight hundred thousand barrels of oil before being capped. And before you could say Spindletop, the countryside was covered with driIling rigs, and the modern oil industry was born."

  "That really inspired you?"

  "Damn if it didn't. The next day, I began to study petroleum engineering. Then, after graduation, I earned a master's degree between football seasons and worked for Exxon part time. When I retired from the NFL in 1965, I began to specialize in drill-ship operations, and the rest is history. A lot of years passed around grease monkeys, oil rigs, and drill ships. A lot of dry. wells. And now Loch Ness."

  "And you retired from football to try to conquer the oil business."

  "No, not really. I had some good years left in me."

  "This knee of yours?"

  He hesitated. "No, the knee had healed." He stared. Why not? he thought. "I retired because I was determined to change things. You see, I broke a man's back. I crack-back blocked an opposing linebacker and damaged his spine. The accident had a tremendous impact on me. I'd never thought of football as violent before. It was just fun, a game. I'd grown up with it. I didn't think about hitting people. I just did it. When I saw the opponent, I cut him down. But then I crippled a man, and for the first time in my life I began to think about what I was doing. I was told the pangs of conscience were normal—a psychiatrist said so—but I began to realize there were things happening on the field that were dangerous and unnecessary. I started to make public statements. I found there were other ballplayers who felt like I did. So, for the first time in my life, I took up a cause. We tried to work out changes with the ownership. But, hell, the ownership didn't want to change a thing. The sport was doing great. Why mess with it? Go out and play ball like the All-Pro you are and don't let guilt cloud your vision, they all said! But I refused to fold. I fought. I got nowhere. I didn't like getting nowhere, losing. So I became a martyr. As an All-Pro, I had a lot of influence. I decided to make a real impact, sacrifice myself for the cause. I quit the game!"

  "Did martyrdom accomplish anything?"

  "Yes and no. Over the years, there've been changes. Many of the things I fought to clean up have been eliminated. But I'd attribute the changes more to the efforts of others. I didn't stay around to continue the war."

  "You're being modest." She smiled; he didn't respond. "What about the paralyzed ballplayer?"

  "He's still paralyzed. I used to keep in touch with him. But over the years the contact ended. He's bitter. And I can't blame him. I just sort of drifted away."

  "Because of guilt?"

  "Maybe."

  She examined his features, the intensity. Good-looking man, she thought. "I take it the owners and management weren't too fond of you."

  "That's an understatement," he said, smiling. "I was Judas. An unappreciative man who had no right to open his mouth."

  "But you did have a right! You were a participant!"

  "It could be argued either way."

  She seemed puzzled. "If they disliked you so much, why did they elect you to their Hall of Fame?"

  He laughed. "The owners don't vote. Only sportswriters. To them, I was a bit of a—I hate the word—hero."

  She stared, looking especially attractive in the vibrant sunlight. "A hero son of a Scotsman."

  "The son of a Scotsman part is correct. Though I never knew my father. And he didn't know the hero. He died when I was a kid."

  "Did he name you Scotty?"

  "No. He named me Peter, and it was Peter until college. You see, one night after a football game, our fraternity threw a bash. I got drunk. A frat brother owned a bagpipe. I found it, marched into the party, and played the thing until all the guests were screaming for mercy. My friends took the bagpipe away and tied my hands so I couldn't cause any more damage. Someone called me Scotty during the melee, and Scotty I became." He paused, drinking his beer. "Now, Christ, I've been talking about myself too damn much. I'm not that interesting. So it's your turn." He couldn't bring himself to tell her about the raw years that still scarred his life, the corporate battles, the failures.

  She blushed slightly. "I'm not that interesting, either."

  "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" She looked out at the lake, saying nothing.

  "How did you get into the inn business?" he asked, prompting her.

  "I was born into it," she answered almost by rote. "The inn's been here a hundred years. My father purchased it in 1930
after the family had moved down from Dornoch."

  "Is your father still alive?"

  "No. Nor my mother. But they were wonderful people. You would especially have liked my father, Mr. Bruce. He was a big man. With very square features and a rock-hard constitution. Though he could be as stern as the Lord, he could also be as soft as a lamb. That's very important, Mr. Bruce. Strength and gentleness. Few people possess both. My father did."

  "He ran the inn?"

  "Yes. And dabbled in politics. He was one of the founding members of the Scottish National Party."

  "You're also a member?"

  "Yes. I said so in the car."

  "I'm told the SNP is a radical organization, a gang of irresponsible fanatics."

  "Nonsense. The fact you've even mentioned such a thing shows you are completely ignorant of Scottish history."

  "Not completely. I'm aware Scotland chose to unite with England in 1707, surrendering her independence."

  "A strategic surrender, Mr. Bruce. An act of survival. And, therefore, as nationalistic and pragmatic an act as any ever contemplated by the Scots. But don't get the wrong idea. The union of states wasn't popular. Nor did it kill our sense of nationalism. In fact, though Scotland ceased to be a state, its parliament dissolved, its institutions dismembered, it has remained a nation."

  Scotty sat once again. "If the union wasn't popular, why was it done?"

  "Union was Scotland's only choice! England was a major trading power, a colossus. Scotland was impotent, near economic ruin. A vassal for her southern neighbor. Scotland tried to found her own colonies in the new world to finance her independence, but the colonies failed. England was also at war with France, a historical Scottish ally, and England wanted to secure her northern borders. So the pressure was increased, the economic screws tightened. No, Mr. Bruce, union was only the means for Scotland to survive. Without it, this land would have become just frozen sod filled with starving people."

  Scotty finished his mug of beer. Mary MacKenzie fetched him another, then sat down once more.

  "After the Act of Union, there were numerous uprisings, and when they were crushed, all vestiges of Scottish independence were destroyed. But by the end of the eighteen hundreds, an organized nationalist movement began to gain widespread support, and Parliament allowed for some home rule by establishing the Scottish Office and the Cabinet position of secretary of state for Scotland. Many thought this wasn't enough. After the First World War, a group of Nationalists formed their own party. My father was there, twenty-one years old, a fighter, a visionary.. He and his cohorts were idealists and firebrands, and at first they didn't have much of a party because they spent more time intellectualizing than organizing. And there were a lot of divisions. My father wanted the party to fight for elected office, to separate completely from Great Britain, to keep ties only as a commonwealth member. Others wanted only more home rule, while some wanted to work through the established parties and not contest elections separately. In truth, it wasn't until the 1960s, after several compromise oriented groups had split away, that the party began to achieve success, principally by emphasizing the economic issues instead of the historical and emotional perspective, which had already been widely accepted." She paused, then began speaking again. "Mr. Bruce, at the time of the Act of Union, England was a world power, a great trading nation. It made sense for Scotland to join her. Today, things are different. England is a shadow of her past, eclipsed by much of the world. The longer Scotland remains part of Great Britain, she, too, remains eclipsed. Scotland has oil. If Scotland were an independent state, she would be a world power." She smiled wryly. "England fears dissolution would leave her in tatters. And that may be so. But we owe England nothing because England has sucked our lifeblood for centuries."

  Scotty was fascinated. "I suppose you hate the English."

  "No. I understand them, their society, their history. Besides, I spent a great deal of time in England when my father was a member of Parliament."

  "Then I assume you have English friends?"'

  "Yes. And I sympathize with their point of view." She grabbed Scotty's hand and touched it momentarily to her own. "You see, I am flesh and blood. I am not a bogey woman. A fanatic. Yet I am still for Scotland."

  Scotty nodded, impressed with her brightness, her strength, her vibrancy. "There must be some fanatics within the SNP. There always are."

  "A few. And there are some spinoff groups espousing violence. But the SNP has always been nonviolent. A free Scotland will only be achieved by rational compromise and the development of mutual respect between the English and the Scots. It is not going to happen all at once. It will come in stages. And even when it comes, I hope there will be close contact between England and our homeland. That is as it should be."

  "What about the recent history?"

  "There was a vote on the establishment of a domestic Scottish parliament. It was defeated. Most thought the proposals did not go far enough. Some thought they went too far. Nobody liked them much."

  "Did you?"

  "My feelings were mixed."

  "Did you vote for it?"

  "Let's just say I believe in momentum."

  Scotty stood and began to pace the veranda, looking at Mary MacKenzie out of the corner of his eye. She was watching him, too, almost surgically dissecting his hidden thoughts.

  "Is something bothering you, Mr. Bruce?" she asked.

  "Yes, but not you or the SNP. No, it's something else."

  "Perhaps I can help you."

  "Perhaps you can. If you're willing to discuss the Columbus incident again."

  "I will if you accept one stipulation. There were no submersibles in the loch. And no Scottish group sabotaged the ship."

  He nodded, tacitly accepting her position. "What do you know about the Loch Ness monster?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Damn serious."

  "Are you suggesting a living thing attacked the Columbus?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking a question."

  "I know what the populace knows."

  "I've spent the last two days reading everything I've been able to find on the subject." He paused, smiled. "Have you ever seen it?"

  "No."

  "You've lived here all your life and you've never caught sight of it?"

  "Unfortunately not."

  "Then you don't believe in it?"

  "I didn't say that! There are too many people I respect who claim to have seen it."

  He massaged his jaw, thinking. Could he tell her about the tracings? No. She might say something, repeat the information to members of the Highland Council.

  "Why have you so suddenly become a naturalist, Mr. Bruce?"

  "I've always been a naturalist."

  "I see."

  "You said you know people who claim to have seen the monster."

  "There are many. Some more reliable than others. Some more interesting."

  "I'd like to speak to one who is both."

  "It could be arranged."

  "Give me a name."

  She didn't hesitate. "Father James MacPherson of Drumnadrochit."

  "Can you take me to talk to this man?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "Now is as good a time as any."

  They discussed an itinerary, then returned to the pub.

  "One thing," he said just before they popped out to the jeep. "Since we're no longer at war. . ."

  "It's not a peace, either," she declared, interrupting. "Only a truce."

  "Ail right. Only a truce. But since we are at truce, I'd like you to call me Scotty, not Mr. Bruce."

  She thought for a second, then nodded. "And I'm Mary," she said.

  The trip from Foyers around the loch was pleasant. Passlng through the tiny village of Drumnadrochit at Urquhart Bay, Mary MacKenzie directed Scotty northward into the mountains toward Loch Meiklie, about nine miles away. The final leg of the drive took fifteen minutes. Parking the jeep in the church's crowded par
king lot, they entered the small chapel and located two seats in the rear just as MacPherson was positioning himself in front of the congregation to deliver his sermon, the opening prayers of the service having been concluded.

  MacPherson was a striking-looking man, gaunt through the face and body. Very tall and bony, his anemic appearance and wrinkles helped accentuate an impression of age, although Scotty doubted the man could have been less than seventy-five.

  "I saw a wild beast come out of the sea," MacPherson began, his voice rising in pitch and power, possessed of a fearful resonance, eyes blazing. "The beast was like a leopard, but it had paws like a bear and the mouth of a lion. I noticed one of the beast's heads seemed to have been mortally wounded, but this mortal wound was healed. In wonderment, the whole world followed the beast. And they said, 'Who can compare to the beast or come forward to fight against it?'" He began to beat his hands against the air, his white mane violently tossing about. "The beast hurled blasphemies against God. The beast waged war against God's people and conquered them. The beast was worshiped by all who did not have their names written in the book of the living."

  The priest stopped and looked searingly down at the audience. The room was silent, everyone expectant. Scotty leaned close to Mary MacKenzie to whisper. She stopped him.

  "Then I saw another wild beast come up out of the earth," MacPherson began again. "It made the world's inhabitants worship the first beast. It led astray these inhabitants. It forced all men to accept a stamped image on their right hand or their forehead, the name or number of the beast, and that name is Satan and that number is 666. And the second beast is the son of Satan, the false prophet. And woe be to us for he is upon us!" He was suddenly screaming, his face red, his eyes almost sprouting from their sockets. "Woe to us. Yes, he is upon us!"

  Father MacPherson began to move around the stage, wailing, alternately stabbing his fist into the air and punching at his chest. The parishioners, predominantly septuagenarians, also punched at their chests, forcefully inflicting pain. Scotty was mesmerized.

  "Woe be to him who is clutched by the beast. Woe be to him who embraces the beast. But sink not into despair, for I have seen a vision. The heavens open, and a white horse appears. Its Rider is called the Faithful and True. Justice is his standard. He wears a cloak dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. The armies of heaven are behind him, riding white horses and dressed in fine white linen. Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword, striking down the nations as he blazes the wrath of God, the Almighty. A name is written on part of the cloak: King of Kings and Lord of Lords:" He began to wrench in spasms, sweat pouring, face defiantly contorted against an inner pain. "Next I see the beast and its armies do battle with the One riding the horse and his army. The beast is captured along with the false prophet. Both are hurled down into the fiery pool of burning sulphur. And the rest are slain by the Word."