by R L Wagner
“It’s a myth. It never happened,” Sidney repeated again as he rolled his neck and took another hearty gulp.
“Why then does nearly every sighting come from the castle’s view? Answer me that!” McCurdy challenged. His face got even redder.
“And is it not your family being the ones reporting nearly all claims of a sighting?” Sidney questioned. A hush fell over the men. Benny and I squirmed in our chairs,
uncomfortable with the confrontation. I started feeling sorry for Mr. McCurdy.
“Neal, tell me again of your family history,” Uncle Scott said.
“I cannot change the mythology of our county, but I can bring clarity to it with the history of my family. Our history is a grave and truthful legacy. We have certainly suffered the curse having heard the monster’s song,” Mr. McCurdy wheezed. Uncle Scott got up, poured a cup of tea, and gave it to Mr. McCurdy. His body shook through his long sip as he continued.
“For nearly nine centuries now, the McCurdys have resided at the southern cove adjacent to the castle’s border. The land is green and rich, abundant with bird, game, and fish. There we have made our livelihood with hunting, fishing, and farming. During
Urquatrans construction, the McCurdys supplied the castle masons with a port to bring in equipment, stone, and lumber. We supplied fresh game and fish to feed to the building crews during the castle’s construction. Three of my ancestral uncles worked as diggers for the castle’s foundation. They were victims of a cave-in that carried them downward, and left them trapped and buried in the mountain tunnels below. They had their picks and shovels, and for several hours, a small open passage allowed them to receive food and torches, but the attempted rescue caused a second slide and sealed them inside forever.”
“But where are the records of this accident, McCurdy?” asked Sidney.
From his wool coat, the Harpooner pulled out a very tattered and much stained old, leather book. He set it on the table and placed his hand on top. Mr. McCurdy’s weary voice, low and raspy, trembled. “The accounts are here in my family’s records of two hundred years.” His face seemed lost in grief.
Benny and I looked at Uncle Scott. He nodded to McCurdy, indicating we wanted to hear more.
“In 1715, a horrific storm took down much of the then abandoned castle. Our cove as well, suffered a sudden landslide. In early morning rain, with hounds and lanterns, my ancestor Edward followed the rumbles to the cove’s cliff point. There, Edward discovered an open fissure. The fresh crack had exposed an entry to a cavern, comprised mostly of an underground lake grotto. Threatening waters rushed about him from the storm’s hefty runoff. For only a moment was Edward in the chamber, but there he found our three brethren’s remains lost from the century before. Edward wrote, ‘They looked to have died in anguish and struggle, their shovels and picks gripped still in their bony grasp. One lad clutched a map drawn in blood and with it, a tooth the size of my fist.’ Edward claimed to hear a low, eerie howl coming from the dark shadows of the lake’s grotto. There our family’s fate was sealed. ‘Foulest fortune and death will come to those who hear the serpent guardian’s song’. Edward, terrified, rushed out barely escaping the tremendous slide that sealed the tomb’s chamber entry.”
“And there’s the convenient excuse for the lacking evidence,” Mr. Duggan, the newspaper owner, concluded.
“The c urse gripped fully upon my family that day. Our legacy is riddled with freakish luck and accidental deaths. All the records are here in this book, written in my family’s many hands, as well as the recorded dates of the repeating nineyear storm cycle and the corresponding monster sightings for over two hundred years.” Mr. McCurdy glared at the men.
“And what of the tooth and map, Neal?”
Uncle Scott pushed the story onward. Like a drum roll, the hail’s stinging strikes sounded again. The Harpooner turned and looked at Uncle Scott with sad, grateful eyes. He carefully opened the book. Out of it, he produced the blood-inked map. From his deep coat pocket, he pulled out the two-hundred-year-old tooth.
The men looked startled and sat up. Benny and I froze.
“Oh, I see you have never seen these items gentlemen. Oral history is one thing to dismiss, though its sturdy existence has provided us with Macbeth and Beowulf. Nonetheless, I call this an historical written record and the map and tooth compelling evidence.” Uncle Scott’s solemn face grew into a tremendous grin.
“May I, Mr. McCurdy?” John Duggan reached across the table and gathered the evidence. “Thank you, sir.” Mr. Duggan looked suspiciously at the map. He held the tooth, and passed it to the McDooles. Duggan carefully turned the pages, now reverently examining the ancient book.
“And what did Dr. O’Malley at the Museum of Natural History tell you, Neal?” Uncle Scott was determined to have it heard.
“He said it was a mammal’s tooth, probably a mutation of birth, perhaps from a whale,” McCurdy said proudly.
“But certainly not from the plesiosaurus or some such extinct reptile, no?” Uncle Scott queried.
“No, the curator also scoffed at the monster’s existence. He contends that the loch would be much too cold for reptiles to survive in, and too small to sustain the needed food source to feed such a large, replenishing pack of reptile monsters. He declared that if there were such creatures, plentiful in numbers, evidence of their skeletal remains would be abundant. The curator said, ‘from a mammal’. In case you had forgotten, sirs, these are warm-blooded creatures that rarely give birth to more than one offspring over an entire lifespan. ” Mr. McCurdy sounded confident.
“Like an elephant,” Benny said softly.
“Aye, and there’s the common legend about elephants and their hidden graveyard that secretly conceals the beasts collective remains.” Mr. McCurdy let out a humph-like snort and was done.
For the first time, there was silence from the men and the storm. We all stared at Mr. McCurdy for a long while. He sat with his eyes wide, again sitting like a statue. The sudden quiet received our full attention.
“Well, this is the first break in the storm that I have been waiting for.” Mr. Duggan stood up and shook Uncle Scott’s hand. “Thank you for the evening, Drake. Good night, children, James, Sidney.” Then he moved to Mr. McCurdy. “Thank you, sir, for your most informative stories. I wish you good hunting. I hope you are successful. It would be good for business!” he joked, firmly shaking Mr. McCurdy’s hand unexpectedly.
Mr. McCurdy’s eyes focused on their shake, then rested on Mr. Duggan’s stare. He pursed his lips, made a startled swallow, and nodded with flustered blinking. Mr. Duggan started to walk away, but the Harpooner held tight his grip.
“Mr. Duggan, this tempest is the ‘terrible thunder and storm’ the prophecy tells of. Gaelic legend predicts the storm reoccurs every nine years. Tomorrow morning, in the still silent mist’s air, the monster will rise again and be with us,” McCurdy said slowly, releasing Mr. Duggan’s hand. Mr. Duggan’s gaze lingered on the Harpooner’s expression. Curiosity spread across his face. Abruptly he turned, walking briskly through the tavern’s entry and into the quiet darkness.
Kitty entered with three bowls of the most wonderful smelling stew. “I thought you looked like you were envious when I mentioned stew, Scott. There’s plenty more should you want some, Mr. McCurdy. But none for you two boys, mind you!” Katie scowled. “If this weather holds, there may be a crowd in here yet, so up with you both!” Kitty got her way. The brothers McDoole left with apologies and good byes.
“Thank you, Mum,” Benny and I said in angelic harmony as we smiled and lifted our spoons.
“Are you really called ‘The Harpooner’?” I instantly regretted asking the question; it just slipped.
Mr. McCurdy’s eyes flashed wider. For a long moment he stared, then answered in a low, flat voice. “My uncle left the cove and started a blacksmith business on this very block. My father and mother threw a net between the cove’s piers and fashioned a farm fishery of sorts. My brother became a harpooner
in the northern costal whaling trade. I wanted more. I wanted to be a student at the university, perhaps a zoologist and perhaps thinking someday to investigate my family’s misfortune from more educated eyes. My family financed the first year of school and in that year, I fell in love with science and became engaged to my dearest sweetheart. However, I needed money to keep both. I spent the next several months beside my brother earning a salary as a harpooner, and throwing the harpoons forged by my uncle.”
Mr. McCurdy stopped for a long while to collect his thoughts. Benny, Uncle Scott, and I ate the delicious tavern stew and waited.
“After only two whales,” the harpooner resumed, “we went back for my last. The four rowers chased speedily after the whale cow and from the bow, my brother landed his harpoon. I rose foolishly, acted out of turn, and threw my harpoon. I waited fully ready for the fast pull forward by the fish, but the whale freakishly dove to the bottom, grabbing us all trapped in the racing rope. We were rapidly pulled downward. I fell backwards into the fast unwinding lash that tethered us to the diving beast. It twisted about my leg, snapping it. The boat overturned with all hands. Including my brother, all were lost. The hot rope crushed across my body and head, pinning me to the overturned skimmer’s hull. I spun like a top in the sinking wreckage whirlpool, but managed to cut the line, before passing out. I awoke on shore. I don’t remember how I got there. Eventually, I returned home. I found my mother had passed in grieving, and my leg and my engagement were hopelessly shattered and gone. Eighteen years ago, in the early morning after a terrible storm, my father left the house to find his nets strangely fouled. When he did not return, I checked on him and found his
overturned row boat, but not my father.” Mr. McCurdy sat in silence for a long time. His explanation apparently was done.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McCurdy,” I said.
“That’s awful, sir,” Benny added.
Mr. McCurdy suddenly stood and hopped onto his crutch. “Tomorrow, Scott, I will pick you up at dawn. Then, soon after, we will have your photographic proof. Good bye, children.” Mr. McCurdy nodded to each of us. “I’ll be staying tonight with my uncle, the blacksmith. He is aware of the nine-year storms and bids me stay with him. He wishes to give me something that belonged to my brother,” he said, bobbing and shuffling to the entry.
“The children will be with me, Neal,” Uncle Scott yelled after him.
“I advise against it,” the Harpooner shouted back, “but then you’re not part of this curse yet, are you!” He left us, chuckling at his own joke as he moved into a cold, fresh rain.
We finished eating in silence. Uncle Scott asked for our thoughts.
“I have three questions,” Benny said.
“I have three too, one about the case,” I said.
“So, because of the curse, the monster appears in the cove every nine years after a terrible storm,” Benny summarized.
“That is the Harpooner’s contention,” Uncle Scott answered.
“And if a curse is actually real, can’t it be broken?” Benny asked.
“I’ve encountered two types of curses. The first is a booby trap, a device or something tangible set to do harm to the one who is ‘cursed’. The Harpooner’s curse is perhaps the stronger and more harmful type. McCurdy believes the curse will harm him, and he sees nothing else. He comes from an ancestry that accepted that as well. That long lineage has made the curse extremely powerful. Perhaps the curse is that they expect to have it happen,” Uncle Scott explained.
“I need to think about that some more,” Benny said.
“I have lots of questions about traveling. But I’ll save most of them for later,” I said, leaning forward in my chair. I had another thought. “Are there other travelers that you know of Uncle Scott?”
“Is H. G. Wells one of them?” Benny asked.
“Besides you and Benny, I have never met another traveler, and I’m not familiar with your man in black. Nevertheless, when I look at all of those traveling stars rushing in over me, I think to myself, with all this, I can’t be the only one. And besides, someone sent me the cameras,” Uncle Scott said lifting his brow and scratching his chin.
“Hey, you never know, maybe it was me!” I joked. I don’t think he or Benny saw it as a joke.
“And Benny, H. G. Wells is a marvelous writer and friend. He is from this time period. Then there’s Jules Verne and Arthur Conan Doyle. All people I have gone out of my way to meet and become friends with. Wells is not a traveler, at least, not yet,” Uncle Scott said, and flashed his eyes wider, smiling.
“I’ve been wondering, what would happen if I reset the keys on this traveling camera to There? Would that be a travel within a travel?” I asked.
“I have done that a handful of times with my traveling artifacts. It returned me to the actual origin of that artifact, so it’s something to consider very carefully before you attempt it,” Uncle Scott warned.
“Here’s my last question for now. You looked like you had a secret about the
Harpooner. You knew about his family history and the relics, but the others didn’t. That doesn’t explain the newer tooth, the one in the satchel. What’s your secret about, Uncle Scott?” I asked
Benny got up and stood on the other side of him. “Are you going to tell us the secret, Uncle Scott?” he said putting his arm around Uncle Scott’s neck and giving him his sweetie eyes. Uncle Scott found himself trapped between us. He laughed.
“You know Busters, there’s one thing you should know about me, I never accept a bet unless it’s a sucker’s bet.” He sat back and shot us a wink.
“You mean, you know the outcome before you bet?” I said
“Yep, that is absolutely right.” Uncle Scott reached into the satchel hanging from my chair and pulled out the tooth. Like a magician’s trick, he pretended to pull it out of my ear. “The secret is… this tooth has not happened yet! Tomorrow is the day the Harpooner will first receive this tooth!” Uncle Scott smiled with his entire face.
“That’s cheating!” Benny shouted.
“Remember, everything is possible, Busters!” Uncle Scott laughed, “Everything is possible!”
The truth of those words was about to be tested.
17 McCurdy’s Cove
“We’re leaving in 30 minutes. Shake a leg darlings. We have a sucker’s bet with a
monster!” Uncle Scott gave me a firm shaking. “I will be right back. Arribba chica.”
I heard a heavy wooden door click closed. I was slow to open my eyes, happy under the thick goose down comforter. Then it hit me like a lighting bolt. I sprang sitting up and starring. This morning was sometime at the end of winter. The realization filled me with awe.
“I’m waking up in 1883 Scotland,” I said aloud. I leaned back, propping myself against the headboard. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, feeling remarkably good. “It’s 1883, Inverness, Scotland, Benny. Wake up Ben, we have a date with the Loch Ness monster!”
The room was dark and warm. Uncle Scott’s suite was large with an attached bath. I guess that was unusual for an inn. Benny and I shared the bed. Uncle Scott had slept on the couch. Across the room, the fireplace glowed. The last orange embers continued to burn through black logs. I got up and found that our hand-washed costumes had dried by the fire during the night. Behind the heavy drapes, I felt a chill stretching through the windowpanes. Below, a thick mist had replaced the storm and settled over this very old, sleepy, soggy village. From the east, dawn’s early light was just arriving, silhouetting the stone building against a pink-clouded sky.
“The rain,” I said to Benny, looking from the window, “it stopped!”
Benny stayed asleep, curled into a ball against the footboard of the sleigh bed and hugging two thick feather pillows. He had had another restless night and another nightmare.
“We’re leaving, Benny,” I whispered. “Get up, Mystery Buster.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed. Benny was in the bathroom and Uncle Scott had just returned with a
large picnic basket of food that Kitty had packed the night before. In his other hand, he balanced a tray of pastries and a pot of hot black tea. Uncle Scott sat and rummaged through the basket, seeming most pleased.
“This mustard Kitty makes is like none other. It’ll put hair on your chest!” he said, grinning and smelling the crock jar.
“Wow, that’s sure good to know Uncle Scott,” I said, not really knowing how to respond.
Uncle Scott went to the fireplace mantel and picked up a small blue bottle. He opened it and poured a bit of liquid on his hand. He slapped his hands together, and touched both sides of his neck lightly. He wiped his hands with his pastry napkin, threw the napkin into a paper bag and put both in the camera satchel.
“That’s vanilla, Uncle Scott!” I said, puzzled.
“Yes, force of habit I’m afraid. Want some?” he offered. “A little bit goes a long way.”
“Okay, sure,” I said apprehensively. I touched the top of the bottle with my pinky.
“It keeps mosquitoes away better than repellant,” Uncle Scott said.
“And you put the napkin in a bag and then put them both in the satchel, why?” I asked, completely puzzled.
“I’ve found that an artifact establishes a set bearing if vanilla has been rubbed on it,” he said.
“What?” I was clueless.
Uncle Scott opened the satchel and paper bag, carried the vanilla-smelling napkin over to Kitty’s basket, and then rubbed the basket with the napkin. “This basket comes from the inn’s kitchen. Most likely, if I were to use the basket as an artifact, it would take me to the kitchen, where the basket is most often used. If, as you asked, I changed the red stone key to There on the camera, the basket’s origin is where the travel would take me. However, now that I have rubbed the basket with vanilla, the camera will bring me to this room. I have set the artifact’s destination and myself with the contact of vanilla. I don’t know why this works.”
“How on Earth did you figure that out?” I asked with a mouth full of pastry.