When you reach the southern-most part of the lake, the fog begins to roll back; flowing quickly away: and yet, the air seems quite still.
As you look around you notice, for the first time, that there is a small island at the center of the lake.
Edward furrows his brow and shields his eyes from the sun.
"Gents," he says, "Aside from that farmer's pony, have we seen any animals hereabouts? Stray dogs or cats? Or animals you might see in the country? Goats and pigs and so forth? Or even a hawk?"
Quite true...There were a few crows, as you began your trek, who seemed to sullenly watch your passage from amidst the gorse; but now, besides the dark waters of the lake; there is no bird song, no darting wings against the sky.
So it now a little past noon, and with the sun high over-head the shadows and fears that weighed on you, like a terrible millstone, back in the fog; seem a faint and distant memory.
The lake seems peaceful, placid and serene, beneath the bright, blue skies.
Is the island close enough for us to be able to make out any details about it?
And it's there a bridge to it, or would we need to take a boat?
No bridge. There is some scrubby brush, and some willows along the low banks. More of the ubiquitous fog seems to cling to the islet.
"Looks like we'd need a boat to get there, sir." Henry pipes up, noticing the way Mister Carter is staring at the island. "Do you think any answers wait there?"
Edward nods.
"If I were a German agent looking for a good hideout in enemy territory, that's exactly the kind of place I'd consider using. I wonder if someone at the pub has a boat we can borrow."
As you look out towards the island, you see something sleek darting through the water, heading towards the islet; at first you think it is an otter, but looking closer you realize it is much larger, it is the same brute who 'braced' you on the path through the fens! He is slipping through the dark waters of the lake with a speed and grace that would make him an Olympic medal contender.
As you watch, astonished, he disappears behind the island.
"Selkies?" Henry murmurs, his eyes following the swimmer.
Edward reaches back into his coat pocket, pulls out his pistol, then casts his gaze at the swimmer as well.
"What in the name of all that is holy--?"
A chill winds seems to arise, blowing off the lake.
"That is not natural, Mister Carter. I would feel better if I were better armed." Henry steps back from the water, hand going for a pistol that's not there.
Edward turns and hands the pistol to the Lieutenant-Commander. It's an old but well-maintained 0.455 Webley revolver that Edward has kept since the Great War.
"Take mine, mate. Your reflexes are better than mine, anyway. And let's make our way to the pub post-haste. I loathe this wind. And I like that selkie-thing even less."
Edward shivers.
It is mid-afternoon when you arrive back at the village; and seeing the towns-folk as they go about their errands,a reminder of a whole-some rusticism untouched by war, or the evil that seems to be haunting the loch, is a most heartening sight.
"Gentlemen, I suggest we pop into the pub for a pint. We need to figure out what is going on, and the Good Lord knows I am in need of something stout after that exercise."
Edward coughs and lowers his voice.
"I also recommend that we be extra-vigilant. Take a close look at the townsfolk, see if there is anything about their looks that seems... odd. Perhaps the strange fellow swimming to that isle is an everyday occurrence here, but as I've mentioned before, Dr. Hanmer and I have some relatives in Massachusetts who've seen some rather unsettling inbreds in a certain harbor town that would make the tales of Appalachia seem like a bedtime story for children."
"Inbreeding in America? I'd heard tales, of course, but I thought them unlikely... Heavenly Father.." Henry looks shaken, even more so now that he's had time to relax.
"Very isolated areas, to be sure, but it does exist. While I served in France we met up with a squad of Yanks who'd gotten separated from their unit. Vulgar fellows from a region they call Appalachia. Mountainous, secluded area. Not for the faint of heart."
As you enter the pub, you can smell the savory aroma of sausages cooking over an open flame.
Henry's mouth begins to water as he realizes how hungry he is. He heads to the bar and orders three meals and three pints of a local brew before bringing the mugs back to a secluded table where they can talk.
Edward takes a long drink of ale and then leans in close. While keeping a very low tone of voice he ticks off points on his fingertips.
First, he says, we are here to uncover a German activity, yet we've seen no Nazis.
Second, we have farm animals being spooked by simple weather.
Third, we have a Church whose altar is of nothing I've ever seen in Christendom.
Fourth, at least one of the town's residents seems to have Olympian swimmer abilities, to the extent that he can swim in an icy Scottish loch without dying of hypothermia.
Fifth, there is a fog..., and at this point Edward voice trails off as he averts his eyes and stares into his mug.
There is a long pause in your dire conversation, as you tuck into your bangers and mash.
You are sopping the greasy residue with your crusty bread when you become aware of a gaunt figure standing by your table.
I've seen the water-horse.
He is an old man, with a quavering voice.
Not more than an hour ago, in a thicket by the red barn.
Henry looks up, startled out of his thoughts. "Can you describe it, sir?"
It was pretty dark, there, in the thicket. He says with a tremulous voice. There was something white, and shiny, as broad as two men, back in the thicket.
Edward blanches and stares at the stranger.
"The water-horse? You saw the water-horse on land, not in the water?"
He nods gravely.
Aye, a-fluttering and twitching in the thicket it was! I got away as quick as my old legs would carry me!
"How long ago was this?" Henry leans forward, eager.
Edward gestures to an empty chair at the table.
"Please, sir, have a seat and a pint on us. We would be eager to hear any details you might be able to provide. I'm particularly curious about this 'fluttering.' Do you mean to say that this thing seemed to have wings?"
Edward raises a finger toward the barkeep and signals for another ale.
Emmys looks up from his plate, his eyes a bit glassed over. He removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes with his forearm. Placing the glasses back upon his face, he mutters, "Sorry Gentlemen, I've been listening to all this speak about water horses and what have you, not to mention that dampening fog, and I must say, I feel myself a bit melancholy."
Taking a sip from his pint, as the glass leaves his mouth, the doctor continues, "Unfortunately, all this is a bit much to take and now we're suggesting that this abomination on God's Earth has sprouted wings? I suggest we find this creature because my senses as a doctor of medicine, taught by wise men at university, are having the utmost difficulty comprehending what is real anymore."
"While it's true that I supplement my income by selling fanciful stories to the pulp magazines, I have always believed myself to be a rational man as well. My concoctions of visitors from out there..."
Edward waves his hand nonchalantly as if aliens from space was so much hogwash.
"...I've never considered such things to be real. As with the the romances of Wells or Dunsany or M.R. James, I always considered my fictions, for what they're worth, to be allegories. Like my cousin here, I pride myself in following the scientific method in my archeology work at university; it must run in the family. I think it might be best if we could see this water-horse for ourselves, if that is possible."
Edward's thoughts drift even as he's saying this: But none of that is really quite true, is it, Edward, old chap? After all, what we saw in the trench that day in 1917 wasn't fanciful at all, now was it? The colours, the squishing and sloshing sounds...
.
.
The witness: No wings that I could see, but it didn't really have much of a shape at all! Just this big whiteness, a-shaking and a-quivering in the middle of the thicket, and that was not more than two hours ago!
Where would we find this red barn and thicket? Edward asks the gaunt man.
Edward turns to the others and says, Two hours might synchronize with our, um, hike around the loch. Yes?
"I do believe so cousin. Coincidence?" Emrys says while first glancing at Edward then looking about at the other gentlemen.
Henry shakes his head and drains his pint. "Can't be coincidence, sirs. Can't be."
Edward steeples his fingers.
"If these are not a coincidence, gentlemen, then we have two very different, inexplicable and potentially dangerous phenomena going on. We have to get to the bottom of this, post-haste, for the sake of His Majesty."
Edwards clears his throat and holds up a finger as if to make a point.
"And I want to add that this is for the sake of the POWs who will be located here, as well. Now, do not get me wrong, gentlemen: I am all too familiar with the Hun's atrocities in Belgium during the Great War, and I believe the Nazis to be barbarians, but I also believe that we are on the side of the angels. I do not think we are holding true to our own values if we put Germans soldiers in an area prowled by wild animals, no matter how brutal their countrymen are being on the continent."
The place is not full, but there are a couple of other farmers who have overheard the conversation; and a party is quickly being gathered to go and investigate the location of this sighting of the 'Waterhorse.'
Henry swallows. "Do we have time for me to fetch my sidearm, Mister Carter? I would feel a great deal better if we had proper arming."
Edward nods briskly. "I think that would be most wise, Lieutenant-Commander."
Edward turns to Emrys: "For you as well, cousin, if you have one. We can't be too careful."
After a quick return to the boarding house to arm yourself, you find that you have now acquired an entourage: there's the farmer who 'saw' the Water Horse, and about some six others, four of which are sporting shot-guns.
Henry looks a bit ashamed of all the attention, but with his sidearm firmly placed, he definitely feels less exposed. He leads the way with the farmer, keeping his eyes peeled for trouble.
As Emrys joins into the group, he fiddles with his small-caliber revolver. Rather embarrassingly, he proceeds to spill a few bullets onto the ground as he attempts to load his revolver.
He mutters under his breath as he collects the rounds, "Glad I brought this along, just wish I would have spent more time with this infernal contraption..."
Looking perhaps more confident than you feel, your little band strides out across the heather.
What time of day is it, and how far of a walk is it from our boarding house to the location of the water-horse?
Its 4 pm when you set out; from what you gather it should take you just about an hour to get to the site.
Edward turns to his two comrades: "It gets dark early this far north, gentlemen. We'll need flashlights or lanterns, and it might not be a bad idea to find a good, sturdy branch to use as a torch."
He then tells them, in hushed tones if necessary to avoid eavesdropping by the locals: "Be vigilant. Pay attention to accents. Remember, we may have a German or Germans up in this area. Perhaps they speak English, perhaps not, but they will almost assuredly not have a northern Scotland dialect."
Your little band marches along a nearly over-grown cattle trail. A few small small crofts, in which shaggy sheep graze, are the only reminders of human presence; and soon, even these are left behind.
Edward double-checks his revolver as they walk along. Looking around at the scrub surrounding the cattle trail, he takes in the geography. Are there any steep inclines? Is the area heavily wooded?
Henry sees Mister Carter checking his sidearm and duly checks his own Enfield revolver, checking to ensure it's loaded and ready. He holds it loosely in his left hand, his mouth dry and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The terrain is mainly rolling heather, with scattered copses of stunted pines and juniper.
After an hour of walking through increasingly desolate country, you finally approach an old stone barn, with a sagging sod roof.
Whatever gave it its nickname, "The Red Barn," is nowhere in evidence, as the ancient structure appears to be an uniform gray, without a hint of color anywhere.