The Loch (9 page)

The pounding awakened my escort from the previous night, a buxom rinsed-out blonde whose name never registered. Stumbling out of bed, totally naked, she unchained the door as the two of us confronted the stranger.

"Zachary Wallace? My name is Max Rael. How'd you do?"

He was a tall man in his late twenties, English, with strawberry blond hair, short and spiked, and his green eyes were highlighted by black eyeliner. Though temperatures were in the mid-eighties, he wore a heavy black trench coat and slacks, giving him a Gothic look.

In any other city he'd have been gawked at, but this was South Beach.

"What do you want? I'm paid up for the week."

"No worries, brar, I'm not with the hotel. Actually, I work for your father." He pushed past the blonde, then turned up his nose. "This room stinks of gunge. Pay off the bird and get dressed, we need to talk."

* * *

An hour later, I found myself facing the Englishman on a park bench, hiding behind dark sunglasses.

"If you don't mind me saying so, you look like you've come out on the wrong side of a swedge."

"A swedge?"

"A fight. So who's the battle with? Drugs? Booze? Women? Or all of the above?"

"Dragons. State your business, Mr. Rael. You said you work for my father?"

"I'm his barrister, his attorney. Your father's been arrested for murder."

"Murder?" I felt myself sober up. "Did he do it?"

"No. But it's complicated. There were witnesses."

"What happened? Who's he accused of killing?"

"John Cialino Jr. Recognize the name?"

"Cialino… wait, isn't there a big real estate company in Britain—"

"Cialino Ventures. One of the largest in Europe. Angus was doing business with Johnny C. himself"

"That makes no sense. What would a man as wealthy as John Cialino want with my father?"

"The company's building a fancy resort and health spa along the northwestern bank of Loch Ness, just south of Urquhart Bay. Angus held title to the land and—"

"Whoa… My father owns land on Loch Ness?"

"Passed down to him from his paternal ancestors."

"Funny how that never came up in my mother's divorce settlement."

"The land was unsellable for commercial use until a recent change in zoning. Anyway, Angus sold the land to Johnny C., but on the day in question, the two of 'em got into a big squabble on a bluff overlooking the Loch. Witnesses saw your father take a swing at Cialino, who fell into Loch Ness. They're still looking for the body, but with the depths and cold temperatures… well, the Loch's known for not giving up her dead."

"Sounds more like an accident than murder."

"Like I said, it's complicated. There's rumors that Angus and Johnny C's wife were carrying on a bit under the sheets."

And there it was. The moment Max mentioned the affair, I knew my father was guilty as charged.

"He was probably drunk," I said, ignoring my own fall from grace. "Guess the numbers finally caught up with him, not that I'm surprised. Anyway, best of luck. I hope you're a better lawyer than you are a hair stylist."

"I'm not here as a messenger, Zachary. I've come to Miami to bring you back to Scotland. Angus needs you, he needs your emotional support."

I blurted out a laugh, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my hung over brain. "Emotional support? Since when does Angus Wallace need anyone's emotional support? Where was my emotional support? Hell, the man hasn't so much as sent me a birthday card in seventeen years. As far as I'm concerned, he can use a few years in prison. Maybe next time he'll think twice before screwing around with another man's wife."

Max shot me a stern look. "If Angus's found guilty of murder in the first, he's looking at the death penalty."

"Death penalty? I thought Europe abolished capital punishment?"

"Britain's quietly changed their view since that last series of terrorist attacks. Make no mistake, the Cialinos are a powerful, well- connected family. The murder's become our equivalent of your O.J. Simpson trial. It's in every paper, on every TV station. If Angus is found guilty, he'll hang."

I sat back and stared at the passing beach-goers, feeling a bit lost. "Max, I haven't spoken with my father since I was nine. Why would he want me with him after all this time?"

"Maybe he sees it as his last chance to make some sort of restitution."

"Toward me? You obviously don't know my father. The man's a liar and a cheat and that's on his best days. The man never gave a damn about anyone but himself"

Max stunned me with a hard slap across the top of my skull. "That'll be quite enough negativity After all, the man is
our
father."

I balled my fists, until the Englishman's words sank in.

"That's right, little brother. Angus is my father, too. Knocked up my mum three years before leaving her and marrying yours. Maybe he did me a favor, seein' as how you turned out. But people change as they get older, and, in my book, they deserve a second chance. No doubt Angus did us both some wrong, but he's made amends with me, and now he's reachin' out to you. So now it's up to you. Will ye be there for him in his time of need, or do you prefer to take your anger with you to the grave?"

Two hours later, Max and I boarded a Continental Airlines flight out of Miami, bound for Inverness.

I was seated on a rock, above Abriachan, just watching the water when I saw what I took to be a log coming across the Loch. Instead of going towards the river, as I expected, it suddenly came to life and went at great speed, wriggling and churning towards Urquhart Castle.

—
D
.
M
ACKENZIE,
B
ALNAIN RESIDENT, 1872

I regularly traveled on the mail steamer from Abriachan from Inverness. During the early morning hours, just before the dawn, I'd often see a strange, huge, salamanderlike creature frolicking along the surface.

—
A
LEXANDER
M
AC
D
ONALD,
A
BRIACHAN RESIDENT, 1889

Aboard Continental Airlines Flight 8226
Over the Atlantic Ocean

I
t was an eight-hour flight to Gatwick Airport, where we would have to switch planes to fly on to Scotland. We would not arrive in Inverness until seven in the morning, local time.

I was already exhausted, but determined to stay awake, fearing sleep and the possibilities of experiencing a night terror while on the plane. With the ongoing threat of terrorist attacks still keeping most Western travelers on edge, I knew that one bloodcurdling scream at forty thousand feet might result in an intense, free-for-all beating.

With Max snoring next to me, I remained awake, sobriety forcing me to think. Avoiding all thoughts of the Sargasso, I tried focusing my mind on Scotland, a land I scarcely remembered.

My mother had barely been out of college when she traveled to Britain with two friends and first laid eyes on my father. Angus Wallace was brash and handsome and larger-than-life to twenty-six-year-old Andrea McKnown, and the fact that she had recently lost her father and Angus was twenty-seven years her senior no doubt added to her infatuation. Their courtship lasted barely six weeks before he insisted they marry. Andrea said yes, partly because there was nothing waiting for her back home, partly because she was pregnant and couldn't bear to face her mother, a strict Catholic. To this day, mom still insists I was born nine weeks prematurely instead of only three.

My mother put up with a lot during those early years, and, over time, as the glitter of her infatuation gradually faded, she began to see my father for what he truly was, an irresponsible drunk who loved to flirt as much as he liked to drink. I kept my father's affairs from my mother as long as I could, but after nearly drowning, I'd confessed everything I knew. Biding her time, my mother waited until Angus's next "business trip," then sold our cottage and its furnishings, packed our bags, and filed for divorce. By the time Angus returned from Inverness, a new family had moved into his dwelling, and Mom and I were living in her mother's home on Long Island, New York.

That was the last time I saw my father or Scotland, and I was surprised at how anxious I felt to see the Highlands again. Perhaps Angus was right when he said, "Born a Highlander, aye a Highlander, oor blood bleeds the plaid."

* * *

Scottish identity comes from both the land and its history, and its history, like most of Europe's, is a bloody one. Separated from continental Europe by the North Sea, Scotland forms the northern boundary of Great Britain, attached to England's northern hip, and our people have always been in conflict with our neighbor to the south—a people greater in number and wealth and more advanced, especially in the art of warfare. Coexisting with the English has been our greatest challenge, and remains so, even today.

Like other nations, Scots are descendants of every race who ever settled upon our shores. Our earliest immigrants, primitive hunters, most likely came over from Europe about eight thousand years ago, shortly after the ice from the last Ice Age finally melted. We don't know much about these ancient ones, but their island would be invaded some five thousand years later by a people known as the Celts. Hailing from parts of northwestern Europe, these conquerors referred to themselves as "Pretani," which was later misconstrued by future Celtic settlers as "Britoni."

Britons soon found themselves invaded by the Romans, the masters of Europe and the Mediterranean world who never met a land they didn't seek to conquer. The Romans quickly subdued the Celtic tribes of the south, then gradually worked their way north toward the future nation of Scotland. Unfortunately for the Romans, the farther they distanced themselves from their southern ports, the more difficult it was to maintain their supply lines.

The northern region also involved another challenge: the Highlanders.

To the Roman conquerors, these mountain barbarians were known as the Picts, a name derived from the Latin word,
Pictii
, meaning painted, perhaps referring to the tribes' body tattoos, or their written records, left in the form of pictures carved on great vertical stones. To this day, we're not sure where they came from, what language they spoke, or what they even called themselves, but one thing is clear, these Highland warriors refused to succumb to the rule of Rome, or of any other invader. Like relentless vermin, the Picts never ceased attacking the Romans, and by A.D. 409, the Romans had finally had enough, abandoning Britannia, leaving as legacy their lifestyle and the Christian religion.

It was about this time that a Gaelic-speaking tribe invaded Britain and settled along Scotland's southwest coast, establishing the kingdom of Dalriada. These were the Scots and they came from Scotia, the northeastern region of Ireland, then called Hibernia. By the seventh century, they had succeeded in moving their frontier a half day's march south of Inverness, the Pictish capital, before eventually being pushed back again toward Dalriada.

By A.D. 834, the Picts found their armies occupied to the north by the invading Vikings, to the south by the Angles, and to the west by the Scots. Seriously weakened by the Viking raids, Drust IX, the new Pict king, accepted an invitation by Kenneth MacAlpin, a Scot from the Gabhran clan, to settle the issue of Dalriada. Arriving in Scone, Drust and his nobles were plied with alcohol and became quite drunk. The Scots then pulled the bolts from the Picts' benches, trapping the king and his nobles in earthen hollows, where they impaled them on sharp blades and killed them.

Having defeated the Picts, MacAlpin claimed the Scottish crown and renamed his new kingdom, Alba, which he ruled until his death in A.D. 858. For the next three hundred years, the Scots continued to battle the Angles to the south and the Norsemen in the north. The Viking wars would finally end in 1266 with the battle of Largs and the Treaty of Perth.

But Scotland's turbulent history was just getting started.

The accidental death of Alexander II, King of Scots, in 1286, left an empty throne. As a sign of friendship and respect, the Scottish nobles invited King Edward (Longshanks) I of England to act as judge during the selection process for their new king. Instead of choosing, Longshanks arrived in Scotland with his army, citing a dynastic marriage made a century earlier as basis for his own right to the crown. Though Longshanks's claim had no legitimacy, Scotland was forced to accept Sir John Balliol as their newly elected king as part of England's compromise.

But Longshanks was not through. Still seeking Scotland as part of his own kingdom, he imprisoned John Balliol in the Tower of London, then used state terrorism to subdue the Scottish nobles and their subjects.

The Scots finally rebelled in the spring of 1297. They were led by Sir Andrew de Moray in the north and, in the south, by my own kinsman, Sir William Wallace.

William Wallace was born sometime around 1270, most likely in Ayrshire. He had an elder brother, Malcolm, an uncle Richard, and another uncle—a priest—who prepared him for life in the church. The death of William's father at the hands of English troops changed William's destiny, marking him as an outlaw. After killing several soldiers, Wallace was captured and locked up in a dungeon where he lapsed into a coma. Rumors spread that he died of fever, but when a former nanny received permission to bury him, she found he still had a pulse. She nursed him back to health, and soon he was out recruiting other patriots, organizing a guerrilla army against the English.

Longshanks had become William Wallace's dragon, and a warrior was born.

In late August 1297, Longshanks sent an enormous army into Scotland to defeat Wallace. When Moray heard, he joined forces with Wallace, and together they headed south to Stirling. Three days later, half the English cavalry crossed the narrow Stirling Bridge then paused, realizing their leader, John de Warenne was not among them (he had overslept). In the confusion, no more troops were sent across, while Wallace and Moray's army, half-naked and screaming, swept down from the hills to attack. Carpenters pulled pegs from the bridge and destroyed it, killing hundreds while cutting off the rest of the English army's retreat. As Moray continued his frontal assault, Wallace led his troops downriver, where they crossed and attacked the remaining English forces, soundly defeating them. It is said English fatalities exceeded five thousand.