Maxim Gunn: Four, Five, Six

THE STOLEN WATERS

by

NICHOLAS BOVING

CHAPTER ONE

Far out to sea in what is known as the Bermuda Triangle, off the Island of Little Bimini, it was dark and unnaturally still. It was as if the sea was waiting for something, and held its breath.

A million miles beyond the moon, a spinning lump of space rock the size of a boxcar, swept on its inexorable path that would bring it into contact with the Earth. It travelled at unimaginable speed, and yet in total silence, unobserved by anyone on the surface of the planet with which it was destined to collide.

It swept past the moon in a long sweeping arc, already feeling the insistent tug of gravity, and its speed increased.

The meteorite, caught in the pull, swung round the Earth once like a weight on a string, unable to escape the force that held it, and then it touched the outer fringe of atmosphere a hundred and fifty miles above the surface, skipped once like a stone on a pond, and then plunged into the thickening soup of oxygen and nitrogen.

Speed and air resistance heated it like a blowtorch, until it glowed white hot and began to burn up, leaving a fiery trail in the heavens.

It plunged steeply, glowing brighter as it scorched the sky with a white burn mark, getting ever lower.

The meteorite streaked across the Pacific Ocean, across the coast that was to become California, across the deserts of pre-historic Arizona and New Mexico, where its passing was heard as a distant rumble by the few primitive people who lived there. It crossed the plains and mountains of Texas, skimmed the Gulf of Mexico, terrified animals and sleeping tribesmen in the Florida Everglades, and moments later, with an explosive force that threw boiling water and superheated steam ten thousand feet into the night sky, thundered into the waters of the west Atlantic Ocean.

The meteorite, by then no bigger than a small car, plunged, still white hot, through the shallow waters near the Grand Bahamas Bank, and struck the sea bed with the power of an atomic bomb.

The Earth shook and protested at the outrage.

As the column of water and steam shot skyward, the hole caused by the meteorite’s impact closed over with a thunderclap of sound, and waves, a hundred or more feet high, a giant tsunami spread out like ripples on a giant’s pond.

Soon, in the way of all things in nature, the wound seemed to heal. The waters settled, and the cloud rose higher like a dark beacon, unseen in the night, and the Earth breathed out again, the moment quickly forgotten.

Then it came, a slow swelling of the water, pushed from beneath by unbelievable forces, until the surface was domed over an area of more than ten square miles. For long minutes the water boiled and heaved, and then, with a giant sigh, the level dropped, leaving no more than gently swirling vortexes to mark its passing.

None of this was seen by anyone as there were no ships in those days. It caused no damage, and went unnoticed by anyone but a few primitive indians on islands where the seismic shock threw up tidal waves.

Far beneath the surface it was a different story.

In the closed environment of the submarine world of Cleito, all hell had broken loose, and the inhabitants were fighting for their lives—and losing.

What had been felt on the surface as no more than a mild earthquake, registering no more than three or four on the Richter Scale, had its epicentre directly beneath their fragile life supporting dome, and the centuries old structure had finally succumbed to countless years of neglect and lack of repair.

First there had been no more than a crack near the base on the northern side—in itself not unusual—and although it was cause for concern among the people, they knew it could, and would be patched up as it had been in the past. The death blow, however, had been the return weight as the surface dome had subsided. Millions of tons of water had collapsed back crushingly against the already weakened structure, and the base crack had widened until the pumps could no longer handle the inflow. And still it might have been all right if another crack had not zigzagged away from the base, shooting skywards across the roof like a craggy finger of doom. Pressure injected water squirted through the new crack with murderous force, destroying everything struck by the blasting jets. Centuries old buildings were reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. Carefully tended aqua-gardens were swept away in a welter of mud, wiping out the already low food supply, and, as a final death blow, the power generators shorted, killing the pumps and leaving their world in stricken darkness.

In the panic that ensued, the people drowned and were crushed as they fled screaming in terror from the disaster beyond their wildest nightmares. Their world was coming to an end; it was their Armageddon, prophesied but not talked about.

Some fought each other in blind fear. Others prayed feverishly and vainly to their gods. And others, paralysed by fear, waited dumbly for the end.

In a part of the great structure, off limits to all but a few and unknown to almost all, a handful of grim faced members of the warrior elite struggled to ready one of the two remaining undamaged life pods. Behind them along a dark dripping tunnel they heard the screams and despairing cries of their doomed people, turned deaf ears and hardened hearts, and got on with the task at hand. Time was short. In another hour at the most the water level would rise and make escape impossible, and like everything else in Cleito, the life pods had also suffered from neglect.

While the male members struggled to free rusted clamps and start water dampened systems, the women loaded food, weapons and dozens upon dozens of small white globular shapes, carefully packed in protective cocoons of dried seaweed, all the time chattering anxiously and throwing fearful glances along the tunnel.

Finally it was done. The pods quivered as systems came to life, lights glowed eerily inside them, and the rusted fastenings clanged free. One warrior, whose name was Lok Ipo, taller and stronger than the rest, issued a sharp, harsh command, and within minutes he and his people were aboard with the doors shut and sealed. He stood by the door, the last to enter, head low in the cramped interior, and spoke briefly; words of strength and hope, mixed with bitterness and anger and a touch of sorrow. They listened, as they had always listened when he spoke. Then he raised his hand in a brief salute, went forward to the control console and began the escape sequence.

The chamber began to flood, until, pressure equalized with the surrounding sea, the outer doors fell free and the pods eased forward. The two strange looking craft moved away, the Cleitan survivors peering through port holes at their fast collapsing home until it was lost in the churning murk created by the earthquake. They showed no emotion, sitting stone faced, and then the ports were closed. The journey had begun.

Somewhere in the West Atlantic one of the pods foundered. The other, its power failing and navigation systems all but useless, continued to drift, caught in the Gulf Stream where it wandered north-east helplessly for many days.

Three weeks after the disaster, the pod grounded during a violent storm and, but for the strength and skill of Lok Ipo, would have foundered and sunk as the waves pounded it against the rocks of the small island. But somehow he managed to bring it through a gap in the rocks, until, buffeted numb, and weary beyond belief, the survivors straggled ashore into the dubious protection of a cave.

And there they stayed for the whole winter and spring, building themselves a new home with the supplies aboard the pod, and planning; for theirs was not a race to accept defeat gracefully, and they had a terrible longing for vengeance against the Drylanders.

Generations came and went. The Cleitans increased in number, but it was a slow process for theirs was a long-lived race. They built and extended their new undersea home and all the while they learned, preparing themselves for the day when that vengeance could begin.

CHAPTER TWO

The north-west coast of Scotland had always been a special place for Maxim Gunn, and one to which he returned when he felt the need to be alone for some kind of spiritual renewal—and, of course, to fish.

Fishing for him was an art. Occasionally he ate what he caught, but he was more likely to be satisfied with the challenge of landing a fish with tackle too light for the job, and then throwing it back to live and fight another day.

This particular day the trout had not been much in evidence. He’d had a couple of bites, lost one and had his line broken by another, and was at that moment walking along the wide reach of Sandwood Bay totally at peace. To his right, the Atlantic Ocean, having skirted the Butt of Lewis, thundered its final energy in a magnificent display of rolling breakers and wind-whipped spray, tinged pink by the lowering sun. To his left, sea birds wheeled and hovered above marram-covered dunes and Sandwood Loch.

He reached the southern end of the bay, climbed the dunes, and stood for a few minutes savouring the salt scented wind. Then he cut across country to where he had parked his car at the end of the bumpy track, well satisfied with his day, and with little else on his mind but a bath, a drink and dinner.

By the time he reached the hotel, the weather had undergone one of those magical quick changes so common to that part of the world. The red gold sunset had turned to anger, emphasised by dark rolling cloud. The brisk sea breeze had picked up, carrying with it a chill spatter of rain, and as he hurried through the front door there were white caps breaking at the harbour heads.

As he took off his jacket, hung it up and dropped his rod and creel in a corner, the door to the bar opened and the landlord, a big, raw-boned man by the name of MacAlister, came out carrying a bottle of wine.

A good day, Mr Gunn? he asked.

The day was near perfect; the fishing... Gunn waggled his hand.

Then a good dinner of salmon will give you revenge. He showed the bottle, a good hock. If you’ll excuse me, I have other guests tonight. You’ll have company in the dining room.

Gunn smiled. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.

MacAlister nodded. And you’ll have the salmon?

Mrs MacAlister would be mortally offended if I didn’t.

Not mortally, but she might not speak to you for a week.

And I’m not much for a diet of porridge and haggis.

Fifteen minutes later he walked into the dining room, having bathed and changed into a tweed jacket and slacks, carrying a generous Glenmorangie malt whisky. There were two other people seated at a table near the fireplace. MacAlister was pouring the wine and looked up.

Mr Gunn, he said. The Laird would be honoured if you would join him and his daughter.

Gunn hesitated fractionally. He didn’t particularly want the company of strangers, but knowing it would be extreme bad manners to refuse, inclined his head.

I would be delighted, he answered, and crossed the room.

The girl, who was in her early twenties: dark hair and blue eyes betraying her Celtic heritage, smiled as he approached, and indicated the vacant chair.

I am Morag Dewar, and this is my father, Ian. Please do join us.

Gunn shook the outstretched hand, surprised at its firm hardness.

My name is Maxim Gunn, and thank you.

The Laird, who had watched the introduction with a look of mild amusement, said, You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up, Mr Gunn, but as my daughter says, you are very welcome. It’s not often we get visitors in this part of the world.

Gunn had noted the wheelchair the moment he came into the room, and now that he was close and could study the man’s face, he saw the lines of constant pain etched deeply; though whatever sorrow or accident had caused him to be confined, was hidden behind a mask of humour that twinkled from the crow’s foot lined smile in his grey eyes.

Dewar slapped the chrome arm of his chair. A car accident, he said by way of explanation, and then dismissed the subject. You are holidaying here?

Gunn sat down. Yes. I come to these parts fairly often. I find the peace very restorative.

A buffet of wind rattled the windows, and rain spattered noisily against the glass. The girl smiled. Not very peaceful tonight.

Gunn shrugged. The weather is part of it. I like the uncertainty. And it’s clean weather; not like the cities.

The grey eyes twinkled approval. I take it you’re having Mrs MacAlister’s salmon? Good. Then we’d better have another bottle of wine, Hamish, he said to the landlord.

Gunn enjoyed the dinner thoroughly, skirting round the Laird’s gently probing questions as to what he did for a living, and indicating only that he had been in government service before taking up personal business a couple of years previously.

You’ll have to forgive my father, Mr Gunn, Morag said at one point. He’s become incurably nosey since being in that chair, and reticence only makes him worse. If he doesn’t find out something about you, I’m afraid he’ll only invent the worst.

Gunn laughed and refilled their glasses as MacAlister removed the plates and brought cheese and coffee.

There’s not much to tell. Government work is usually pretty dull, and mine was no different. Let’s just say I was an investigator of unconsidered trifles.

Which firmly puts me in my place. You know, titbits only make him worse.

Gunn switched the subject. I take it your family has been here for a long time, he said.

Dewar nodded and helped himself to a chunk of Brie.

We consider the Norsemen newcomers and upstarts. I think there have been Dewars in these parts since the Romans left Britain.

A slight exaggeration, his daughter said, but our present house was built in the times of James the First, in about 1420.

And there was another on the same site before that, the Laird growled, Going back to Duncan, the son of Malcolm Canmore.

Gunn was suitably impressed, and said so. It’s hard for me to imagine such continuity. It must give you a great feeling of belonging.

Well it certainly gives you roots, Mr Gunn.

Gunn saw the Dewars to their car after dinner, and then went for a nightcap.

You could have cut the atmosphere in the bar with a blunt knife. Outside, the weather had clamped in with a vengeance, and the fishing boats had come into harbour; the result being that there were about fifty boisterous, raucous and slightly fuddled men crammed into a room meant for about twenty at a pinch. This was the other side of the hotel, away from the guest quarters.

Gunn found himself a corner of the bar, got his drink, and watched the sweating barman dispense whisky and witticisms with equal rapidity. There were more genuine characters per square inch in that small room than Gunn could have found anywhere outside its counterpart in some place like Halifax or Honolulu. Seamen the world over had a way of enjoying themselves that was unique, and he was content to make himself unobtrusive and just watch and listen.

It was something about the slightly furtive air of two men a couple of yards down the beer-slopped length of the counter that caught his attention, and in an instinctive reaction he found himself listening, filtering their talk from the bedlam of sound. They were arguing, in the deeply intense manner of men who have had a couple of drinks too many, and what they said was interesting, as it became apparent they were having a difference of opinion about someone who had been found dead under unusual circumstances, among other things.

And what about the boat, then? D’ye mean to tell me he burnt it his self? said one.

Ah, hell. That was an accident. Boats catch fire. Ye know that yersel, replied his companion.

Aye. They do. But for that ye need an engine with combustibles like petrol. The man had no engine.

Then how d’ye explain the fire?

I’ve been tellin’ ye, only ye would nay listen.

The second man laughed. You an’ yer bloody monsters. Ye want ter take a bit o’ water with it once in a while.

Oh, aye, replied the first man, belligerently. An’ what about the cattle and sheep, and the lights?

Dogs, said his friend, with finality.

Dogs have lights?

No, ye daft idiot. The sheep. Some damned dog’s been savagin’ them.

A sixth sense must have told one of them he was being watched, as he suddenly swung round, looked hard at Gunn, and said. Who are ye starin’ at?

Gunn raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. Certainly not you.

Ye damned well were. And ye were listenin’ to a private conversation, Mr Nosey Parker.

Gunn tried a placating smile. I could hardly help hearing what you said, he admitted.

He could hardly help hearing. The man mimicked Gunn’s accent, and took a step closer. Gunn tensed slightly and put his glass gently on the bar. What had been totally innocent looked like turning into an ugly little incident if he didn’t do something to calm the man down quickly, and he noticed the roar of conversation in the room had suddenly stilled in expectation. The man, also realising they were the focus of attention, decided to push it, and Gunn knew he had the alternatives of either seeing it through to its illogical conclusion, or backing off.

The first choice he didn’t want at all, as it would mean hurting the man, who was just an argumentative drunk but otherwise harmless. The second choice was all but impossible as he had his back to the wall, and no way out without pushing through the sardine packed scrum. He sighed regretfully. It was a lousy way to end a good day.

Look, he said. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, and I’m sorry you think the way you do. Let me get you a drink to show there’s no harm meant.

Things suddenly came to a head as the man grabbed a fistful of Gunn’s shirt, and thrust his reddened face forward, glass clenched in his other hand. Gunn knew he had been talking to himself, and reckoned he had a couple of seconds before the inevitable happened.

The barman came to his rescue, placed a full glass on the counter and leant across.Whoa there, he said. What d’ye want ter be fightin’ this fella for, Jock? He’s never done ye no harm. Leave it be an’ take the drink. That way ye’ll no be sorry.

It’s nay me that’ll be sorry, Jock replied. I’ll smash his face.

The logic of the argument escaped Gunn, but the barman just shrugged and beckoned the man with a conspiratorial air.

Jock, he whispered, loudly. Ye ken James Bond?

Aye, replied Jock, with a puzzled frown.

The barman jerked his head at Gunn, and hissed urgently. Yer man there. Yon’s James Bond.

The effect was little short of miraculous, and it was all Gunn could do to stop laughing out loud. Jock’s eyes widened as he backed away, and there were a couple of snickers from onlookers amused at his gullibility. Then someone at the back of the room struck up a tune on a battered accordion, and moments later the bedlam of noise was again in full force, the incident forgotten.

Gunn felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see MacAlister.

Come and finish your drink where it’s a bit quieter, Mr Bond, he said, with a smile. Gunn grinned, ducked under the bar flap and followed him to the resident’s lounge.

What the hell was all that about? he asked as they sat down again.

MacAlister tried to brush the question aside. Oh, that was just too much whisky talking. There are fights nearly every time the boats are in. I put it down to boredom and frustration mainly. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Gunn shook his head. No. That won’t wash. I’ve got a sixth sense about these things. Something’s been going on? And what’s this about a monster?

MacAlister didn’t answer directly, instead he said, You look like a man who can take care of himself, Mr Gunn. What did you make of it? You obviously weren’t worried by Jock. He laughed. Come to think of it, I wasn’t worried about you either. I was more concerned about broken glasses.

You’re dodging the question. What’s been going on here?

MacAlister got up, went to the bar and brought back two drinks before replying. He looked unhappy.

A lot of unexplained accidents and incidents. In themselves they’re probably fairly unremarkable, though tragic; but it’s the frequency that’s starting to worry some of the locals.

Gunn didn’t like the sound of it. The word frequency smacked of something that had been going on for a long time.

Like Jock?

MacAlister smiled. Jock had been drinking, and he’s none too bright at the best of times. But there’s no harm in him; he’s only acting like that because he’s scared.

I take it this has been going on for some time, Gunn said, but before MacAlister could answer someone called him from the bar. Gunn could almost feel his relief as he excused himself. A while later he came back and Gunn nailed him.

CHAPTER THREE

It started many years ago and became part of a local legend, but late last winter there was a sudden increase, MacAlister went on. First it was sheep and cattle on the local farms. A few head missing here and there.

Is that unusual? Animals do stray, get lost, even rustled.

MacAlister shook his head. Not this far from the city—rustling, I mean—and the animals are all penned during the winter. Then a couple were found mutilated.

Dogs? It was suggested.

No. Dogs savage things, usually after a chase that gets out of hand. And anyway, the local dogs are as well known as the people. These animals were butchered, almost scientifically, as if someone wanted to know what made them tick. It put a few of us in mind of those things that went on a few years ago in America. You remember that?

Gunn nodded. Yes. There was talk of extraterrestrials.

Aye, MacAlister agreed, sourly. The E.T.’s get blamed for an awful lot. It must be damned convenient.

And then?

Come the spring, a local fisherman was found dead in the water, near an island off the coast. It was kept quiet, but the autopsy showed he hadn’t drowned. The coroner is a hard-headed man, but he told me that he’d swear the man had died of fright.

A heart attack can look like that, Gunn said.

Maybe. But it was calm weather, and his boat was never found. MacAlister took a pull at his drink. And then there was the other fisherman.

The one Jock was talking about?

MacAlister nodded. He was found in his boat among the rocks up the coast before you come to Sandwood Bay. The boat was burned, but only part of it. In fact it wasn’t really burned, it was more like scorched, as if a tremendous heat had hit it for a couple of seconds. The funny thing is there was nothing to start a fire on old Colin’s boat; he kept close to shore always, and only used oars and sail. If he’d had an engine it might have been put down to a flash explosion of petrol.

The police know about these deaths, of course, Gunn said.

Oh aye. But what can they do? Death by misadventure had to be the verdict in each case. The landlord rubbed a hand tiredly across his eyes. Anyway, the legend’s begun to take on a shape and it’s got some of the locals rattled. And there were the other things.

Such as?

A small plane vanished on route from Dounray to Stornoway. It wasn’t a mile out to sea from here, by all accounts, when it simply went off the radar. No mayday call, nothing.

Are you suggesting some kind of Bermuda triangle? Gunn asked.

I don’t know what I’m suggesting. All I know is these things happened. And then there’s the lights.

Gunn thought his restful holiday had just taken an interesting turn, and like Riki Tiki Tavi the mongoose, he just had to find out. Go on.

The keepers at Cape Wrath reported lights coming out of the sea about twelve miles south-west, as near as they could judge. That puts it almost due west of here, and about five miles out.

What kind of lights?

They said it was like someone using a searchlight under the water, but pointing it upwards.

What was made of that? Gunn asked.

MacAlister shrugged. Nothing: natural phenomenon, moon reflection, something like that.

So it was at night, and you don’t think it was natural. Now what’s all this about a monster?

MacAlister finished his drink and banged the glass on the table. Jock certainly shot his mouth off. Any more like him and the whole damned place’ll be swarming with reporters. I’ll have a word with him later.

Perhaps you can tell me though, Gunn suggested. I’ve had quite a bit of experience looking into funny things.

MacAlister gave him a lopsided, knowing smile. Aye. I’m just beginning to think you might not be the quiet fisherman you pretend. What are ye really, Mr Gunn?

A private citizen, was the firm reply. Who’s stumbled on something that’s obviously bothering a lot of people, and would like to help if he can.

MacAlister nodded. A fair enough answer, but you’ll give me leave to have my doubts. I’ve met men like you before, Mr Gunn. You’re awful quiet and self contained, and there’s a way you walk and move that signals danger to me like a klaxon alarm.

Gunn smiled. The only danger right now is me dying of thirst. Now what about this monster?

MacAlister refilled their glasses before continuing.

The minister is the best man to tell you about that. But it concerns a legend about a thing called the ‘Maera’.

At that moment the door opened and Mrs MacAlister came in: a tall, handsome woman in her late forties, with dark hair done up in a French roll, and eyes the colour of the summer sea. She perched on the arm of her husband’s chair, took a sip of his drink, and asked.

What nonsense has he been telling you, Mr Gunn?

Gunn got up. Not nonsense, I think.

She smiled. The locals have a lot of legends, you know. Most of them fanciful, and all exaggerated after an evening in the bar. It’s the way of people in remote places, and especially when they have a history as ancient as ours.

Gunn was obliged to take her hint, for the moment. She quite obviously didn’t want her husband saying any more that evening. He stretched. Well, it was interesting, but I’ve had a long day in the fresh air, and a good dinner, thanks to you. If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go to bed.

***

The bad weather had blown over next morning and, after breakfast, Gunn walked up the one main street of the little town to see the minister. He found him outside the small manse behind the church, tying up wind-blown roses, and getting stuck by thorns in the process. He straightened as Gunn came through the white painted gate, sucked a bleeding finger and smiled ruefully.

I think I must have been near the back of the queue when God gave out gardening expertise, he said.

Gunn nodded sympathetically. I know what you mean. I had to give up window boxes in my house in London. Even weeds wouldn’t grow. He held out his hand. I’m Maxim Gunn. Could you spare me a few minutes?

Gladly, the minister replied. My name is Cochrane, Douglas Cochrane. Come in and we’ll have some coffee.

Settled in the bright, sunlit sitting room, Cochrane asked what he could do. Gunn felt unaccountably ill at ease as he replied.

I’m staying at MacAlister’s hotel, sort of on holiday, and last night he told me about a few of the tragic and apparently unexplained things that have been going on around here in the last few months.

Cochrane’s face showed alarm. Oh dear. You’re not a reporter, are you?

Gunn shook his head. No, and that’s why I find my reasons a bit hard to explain. You might say I’m an investigator, with a lot of experience, but strictly unofficial. He told the minister about the incident with Jock in the bar that had lead up to his talk with the landlord. Cochrane looked relieved.

Then it’s the monster you’re really interested in, Mr Gunn.

Yes and no, Gunn replied, but I’ve found that legends and unexplained happenings often have a peculiar habit of getting intertwined.

Cochrane seemed amused. You mean our monster is responsible for the lights and the missing plane too?

Gunn smiled. No, I’m not naïve Mr Cochrane. What I’m really after is background. It’s not what I believe that matters; it’s what the locals believe, and the inferences that can be made from those beliefs. Something is going on. There are two men dead, a missing plane, and mutilated animals. And the police seem to be at a dead end from what I can gather.

And the monster is the tie in?

Not the monster. That’s legend, I’m sure. But the legend has been revived in the minds of the locals, and something has sparked it off. Something that needs to be got to the bottom of.

And you can do that?

I can give it a good try. I have a highly developed nose for trouble, and this smells bad to me.

Cochrane sighed. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised to see you.

Gunn was though. MacAlister?

The minister nodded. Yes. He phoned this morning. He seems to think you are not quite what you appear, Mr Gunn, and asked me to cooperate. Now, what can I tell you?

News travels fast in the bush, Gunn thought, and was relieved he lived in the anonymity of a big city. Tell me about the legend.

Cochrane stirred his coffee thoughtfully and took a sip, marshalling his thoughts. We do have a legend, and rightly or wrongly the locals take it seriously. He smiled. I doubt you’d get any of them to admit publicly that it was more than a load of superstitious rubbish; but privately, that’s another matter. They believe it all right.

This is the monster? Gunn prompted.

Yes, the Maera.

And what is that exactly?

Well, Cochrane replied, rubbing his hand across his head, as it’s never been seen in living memory—and I rather think in any other memory, other than perhaps after a Saturday night at the pub—it’s a difficult question to answer.

Some kind of Loch Ness monster?

The minister shook his head. No. It’s supposed to be humanoid. At least, it has arms and legs and a head. The nearest you’ll get is a funny little bit of worn sculpture above the church door. This is a very ancient church, he added, Celtic in origin, and probably ninth or tenth century in part.

And that’s the Maera?

Supposed to be. Putting gargoyles and such carvings around was a practice in those days to ward off evil. You’ll see similar things on old churches throughout Europe.

And the legend? Gunn urged, gently.

There was no use trying to hurry a man whose life was regulated by the bells of his little church and the ebb and flow of the sea. The minister leant back, his hands together as if in prayer, and said in an almost preaching voice.

I suppose it starts somewhere around the time of St Columba—of Iona fame you know. He was credited with all sorts of miracles, as were most of the early saints. Anyway, it seems there was some kind of major disaster—fire from heaven and that sort of thing—and the waters of the loch out there started disappearing in a cloud of steam. Hence the old name which appears in a few documents, Uisge Goidte", which literally means Stolen Waters. The story goes that the bottom was exposed, fish flapping all over the place, and the locals of course terrified out of their wits.

Anyway, one of the monks, a very saintly man who was apparently used to dealing with the devil and winning, came along, and by the power of prayer or whatever, put an end to the disaster. The waters flowed back and everything returned to normal. The church is there.

He pointed out of the window at the squat stone structure with its stumpy tower. "It was built some time later as a sort of commemorative shrine. However, the story also says that there was a monster attached to the episode, which kept reappearing at intervals to take its toll of the odd local and occasional cattle. The good monk came back, exorcised the thing, and it left.

But like all such things, it didn’t stay exorcised. After the monk went to his heavenly reward, it made periodic visits, though I hasten to add, not in recent times.

Until now.

Cochrane nodded, and Gunn got the distinct impression that the Saturday night locals weren’t the only ones who believed.

Yes, he said. At least, not since the early fifteenth century when there was a brief outbreak.

And what’s your interpretation of it? Gunn asked.

The minister shrugged. None, and of course all the usual ones you find recurring today. A space ship landing and one of the crew stranded. Some bit of Stephen King horror resulting from a heavy diet of late night films on the TV. Take your pick, Mr Gunn. I don’t know. I only know that something is happening. Look, there have always been instances of sheep and cattle stealing. Rustling is part of the Highland tradition, but in this area it has always been put down to the Maera.

Funny the story never got out, Gunn said.

The minister smiled, ruefully. It’s been going on as long as history remembers, but it’s always been kept very quiet. Do you have any ideas?

None whatsoever. But I need a starting point, and you seem to have got the historical information from somewhere; surely not local memory?

No, Cochrane admitted. I got it from the laird, Ian Dewar, whom you met last evening.

Yes, Gunn replied. Nice man, and a charming daughter. He thought he’d have to be careful if he started probing. In a community so small and isolated you couldn’t move without being noticed.

Indeed. The family has been in these parts almost forever, and Dewar has a formidable library of history.

Then he’s probably the man to see. Gunn got up. Well, thank you for the coffee, and your information.

Cochrane also got up, giving Gunn an anxious look. Are you going to be able to do anything? he asked.

I don’t know. There may be nothing to do anything about. But if there is, I intend to have a good try.

Cochrane nodded. A man can promise no more than that. I’ll walk you to the road, and on the way show you that little carving.

Standing in front of the church porch, Gunn looked up, and saw the Maera. The carving was weathered, rounded and softened by time, but he felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine as he studied the small, squat figure. It was in a hunched position, half turned as if about to spring at something to one side, and there was a definite feeling of menace caught by the ancient stone mason who had carved it.

Nasty looking thing, Gunn said.

Yes, Cochrane agreed. Dewar has a couple of lithographs in one of his books that more than do it justice. Fanciful, no doubt, but I find it hard to suppress a shudder.

Funny thing to put on a church.

The idea was to ward off evil, as I explained. That was the purpose of gargoyles.

But that’s not a gargoyle, Gunn argued. It’s a representation that supposedly existed. Oh well, I must be on my way. He held out his hand. Thank you for your time. I appreciate it.

A word of warning, Mr Gunn. There are those here who think meddling is a bad idea. They might not appreciate your efforts.

Gunn nodded. Poking sticks into hornet’s nests is a good way of provoking a reaction.

Out on the road, he waved to the minister, and then made his way back to the centre of the village, where he had another appointment, this time with the police sergeant.

As he dropped down the steep hill to the harbour, the sea sparkled, flat as a mill pond, and it was hard to imagine that the night before it had been bad enough to drive the fishing boats to shelter. The inconsistency of the weather in that part was one of its chief delights to his mind.

Minutes later he entered the police station and knocked on the counter. There was the creak of a chair from the back, and a large man entered, buttoning his uniform. He managed to look grave while finishing what had obviously been a morning snack, to judge by the crumbs on his lapels. Can I help you, Sir?

Gunn smiled. My name is Gunn. I called you from the hotel.

Ah, yes, the gentleman from London, and what did you want to know, Sir?

For the second time that morning Gunn got an uncomfortable feeling. He knew there was something wrong; all his finely tuned instincts shouted it. But was it his business? Seeing the Sergeant, solid and official, politely waiting, he couldn’t help feeling he might be butting in where he was not wanted. Then he shrugged mentally. The worst he could be told was to mind his own business; but how to explain himself to this majestic individual?

It’s about the unfortunate things that have been going on around here for the past few months, he explained, lamely. He thought he’d play the part of the puzzled tourist who was intrigued by a local mystery.

And what would those be, Sir?

Standard police tactics: give nothing away and let the other fellow do all the talking.

The two deaths of the fishermen. The missing airplane and the lights; not to mention the sheep and cattle thefts and mutilations.

There was no visible reaction from the Sergeant. And what would your interest in those be, Sir?

Precisely, Gunn thought. None of my damned business. He found himself in an unfamiliar situation. Always before, he’d been called in, officially or unofficially, but always invited. This was the first time he’d offered help.

It seems no one’s getting anywhere with any investigations. There don’t seem to be answers. I’d like to help. God, that really sounded pathetic. But what was the alternative? I’m Maxim Gunn, the well known ex-agent. I’ve got more experience at this kind of thing than the lot of you put together, and ask the Prime Minster if you want a reference? The Sergeant would surreptitiously reach for the phone and call the men in white coats. He’d have to impress the man in some way, maybe just with his manner, and that was not going to be easy. From the look of him, he didn’t seem the kind who’d be impressed by much. The blue eyes continued their unblinking, polite gaze, waiting for an answer. And then, in total contrast, the problem was taken away as the man gave a deep chuckle, and his face was transformed by a smile that could only be described as beautiful.

Hamish MacAlister told me about you, Mr Gunn, and I should say if he hadn’t vouched for you I’d be showing you the door. He looked at Gunn from under bush eyebrows. And that meek role doesn’t much suit ye, Sir, for he’s told me his observations of ye and the incident in the bar last night. He chuckled. James Bond, indeed. Well I’ll never."

Gunn breathed a silent sigh of relief, mentally blessing the landlord and the village bush telegraph. Without MacAlister’s recommendation, he’d have had to do this the hard way.

I’m glad he did that, Sergeant. It makes things a lot easier.

The Sergeant, whose name turned out to be MacDonald, nodded. First things first, though. I’ll not tolerate well meaning amateurs poking their noses into my patch, Mr Gunn. Would there be some way I could verify you’re not that. There’d be someone I could call? You see my point, I hope. I have superiors in Inverness who’d not be pleased if I... He trailed off.

I think I can manage that, Gunn replied, and gave him a phone number. It’s in London, he explained.

MacDonald, who it seemed was not an isolated country copper, raised a bushy eyebrow. I know the number of New Scotland Yard, Mr Gunn. Who do I ask to speak to, he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. The Commissioner?

He’ll do, Gunn replied. Otherwise the Assistant Commissioner, C Department, if he’s not available.

MacDonald didn’t bat an eye. You’ll excuse me a moment. I’ll make the call on another line.

Gunn waited some five minutes, spending his time looking at the various posters on the bulletin boards, and noting in the process, with interest, that there was no mention of anything he’d been told. Then MacDonald came back, ramrod stiff as a professional soldier after talking to the Colonel. Gunn hoped he’d had a civil reception. Get through? he asked, politely.

MacDonald nodded. Your name would appear to mean something in high official circles, Mr Gunn. Commissioner, C Department has suggested I cooperate fully.

You spoke to him then?

MacDonald voice was a little awed. I did that, personally.

It won’t get you into trouble with your people in Inverness, I hope.

MacDonald smiled and shook his head. I think not. I was told they would be informed. And anyway, Mr Gunn, I’m not all that sure I care if it does. Now, before we start, would you like a cup of tea?

Gunn accepted out of politeness, and then MacDonald gave him much the same information as he’d had from both MacAlister and the minister, but in more detail. He listened carefully, only interrupting to ask the occasional question, until MacDonald finally suggested they take a look at a couple of the sites. Gunn readily agreed, and they walked down to the hotel to get his car.

As they did the round, visiting the rocks where old Colin had been found in his boat, and a couple of farms where cattle had been mysteriously butchered, Gunn gently probed MacDonald on the legend. Far fetched though it might seem, he couldn’t help the feeling nagging at the back of his mind that somehow it tied in, though in what way he hadn’t the slightest idea.

None of the places visited told him a thing. They were just sea-washed rocks and fallow fields dotted with sheep, all evidence long since obliterated by time and weather. MacDonald, true to his uniform, was reluctant to put any store in the Maera myth, though as he admitted, he had been brought up in the area, and the story had been an integral part of his life.

Country folk are unwilling to let go of the past, he said. And no more they should in many ways, but the Maera has been the scapegoat for a lot of things that were just plain criminal to my thinking. He smiled wryly. Very useful when you’re doing a bit of poaching, or supplementing a small income by rustling the odd head of beef for sale in one of the cities.

Then you reckon it’s all nonsense?

MacDonald’s practical streak wavered a little. I’d not go so far as to dismiss it out of hand, Mr Gunn. Legends have a habit of being based on some fact or other, no matter how distorted. He turned and looked Gunn straight in the eyes. You seem to be awful curious about it though. D’ye know something I don’t?

Gunn shook his head. No. Just a hunch. Call it a sixth sense that won’t allow me to let it alone. There’s something about this whole business that stinks, Sergeant. They were standing at the top of the cliffs south of Sandwood bay at the time, with the sea gently rolling onto the rocks below. Gunn pointed out to sea. Is that the island where the other man was found?

MacDonald nodded. Aye. He was drifting, and picked up by a pleasure yacht.

But not drowned, you say?

That was the pathologist’s finding.

Peculiar, isn’t it?

What is?

That he should have been found near that island, and apparently dead of fright.

MacDonald smiled. The Maera again?

Gunn shrugged. Who knows? And what about the lights? The position given by the lighthouse keepers would be about there too, wouldn’t it?

If it was a light, MacDonald said. Then he glanced at his watch. I hate to seem rude, Mr Gunn, particularly after what I’ve been told; but I have duties to carry out. So if you’ll excuse me. He paused. What are you Mr Gunn; some kind of policeman.

Gunn shook his head. No. The police have rules.

Gunn ran the Sergeant back to the station, and after a quick lunch drove to Inverness. The Sergeant may have had the green light from C Department, but he didn’t want to tread on any toes, particularly as he was now a private citizen.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Chief Inspector at Inverness Headquarters was not quite as helpful as MacDonald; but then he’d received a phone call from London and didn’t appreciate being ordered to cooperate with someone he knew nothing about. He couldn’t object to Gunn looking into the mysterious happenings on the West Coast, though he tried to play it down.

We did a thorough investigation, he said, and apart from the two unfortunate deaths, neither of which showed evidence of foul play, there’s nothing to go on but a lot of unsupported rumour.

And the plane? Gunn said.

Pilot error. Nothing was recovered.

The Chief Inspector’s attitude did not endear him to Gunn. I assume a thorough search was carried out?

Over God knows how many square miles of ocean? It would have been an expensive exercise in futility.

Privately Gunn disagreed, but he knew the official police mind. Give it hard facts, and no one would pursue them more relentlessly, but stories about weird lights and sea monsters would slam down shutters. Not that the police weren’t interested, but crime was their business, and if the Coroner declared the deaths to be by misadventure, then, unless someone showed differently, there the matter ended: reasonable if a bit unimaginative.

The interview was brief, and though the Chief Inspector was not openly hostile, he obviously felt the intrusion of one of the shadowy figures from unnamed departments was unnecessary. He shook Gunn’s hand at the door. You’ll keep me posted if you turn anything up? he said.

My word on it, Chief Inspector, and thanks for your cooperation.

The man nodded curtly, and went back into his office.