Chapter Eight
áedán walked beside me with his hands in his pockets, looking like any other tourist. He had dressed casually in jeans, a dark sweater, and a pair of boots that had seen better days.
But people noticed him anyway. A woman with a camera glanced up, then did a double-take.
A shopkeeper paused in arranging a window display to watch him pass by.
áedán didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he was so used to it that it didn't register anymore.
He'd said that people stared at him, but I'd thought he meant they stared at him when he was in horse form or when he was doing something mythical.
I should have known they stared for the same reason I did, because he was gorgeous.
We'd come to the village because I wanted to talk to the locals. Surely there were people in Luss who remembered the stories I had read. I hoped they could shed some light on the changes.
“There,” áedán said.
I followed his gaze to an old woman sitting on a bench near the water. She wore a thick wool coat the color of heather, her white hair pulled back in a bun. A woven basket sat beside her on the bench. She was looking out at the loch, hands in her lap.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“She looks familiar.” áedán frowned. “But I'm not sure.”
We approached slowly. The woman didn't turn until we were a few feet away. Then she looked up, and her eyes—pale blue, sharp despite her age—moved from me to áedán and stayed there.
“Good morning.” I smiled at her.
She smiled back, and it made her look younger. “Good morning to you both.” Her accent was thicker than áedán's.
“I'm researching local folklore. Kelpie legends, specifically.” I gestured at the bench. “May we sit?”
“Please.” She shifted the basket to make room.
I sat. áedán remained standing for a moment, still watching her. Then he lowered himself onto the bench.
“I'm Ethan Clarke.” I shook her hand. “I'm with the Velasca. We document endangered folklore.”
“Moira Campbell.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. “And what brings you to Luss, Mr. Clarke? We've plenty of kelpie stories here, but most of them are for the tourists.”
“I'm looking for the older versions. The stories I've seen here aren't the ones I know. I'm trying to figure out how they changed.”
Moira made a soft sound and nodded. “Changed indeed.
It's criminal, what they say.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
“I come here every week to leave offerings by the water. My mother taught me, and her mother taught her. Goes back further than anyone remembers.”
She unwrapped the bundle. Inside were wildflowers and a piece of bread. Then she brought out a glass carafe of milk.
“The tourists think it's charming,” she continued. “They take photographs. Sometimes they ask what I'm doing, and I tell them it's an old tradition. They smile, nod, and go back to their selfies.” She stood and moved toward the loch slowly. “But it's not for them. It's for the kelpies.”
I watched her walk to the water's edge and bend over. She placed the flowers on a flat stone, poured the milk into a shallow depression in the rock, broke the bread into pieces, and scattered them. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear the words.
She returned, and her knees cracked as she sat down.
“The stories they tell now, they're all wrong. Monsters that drown children. Demons in horse form. Beautiful creatures that lure travelers to their deaths.” She shook her head as she clicked her tongue.
“Bunch of eejits! That's not what kelpies are.”
“Would you tell me the stories you remember?” My notebook was in my jacket pocket, but I didn't reach for it. This felt too fragile for documentation.
“They are guardians.” Moira looked out at the water.
“Protectors of sacred places. They watched over travelers, warned children away from danger, and punished those who polluted the water or harmed anyone near the loch. They were fierce, aye. They could kill. But they only killed those who deserved it, you ken? Those who took without giving back. Those who showed no respect.” She turned to áedán, and her expression softened.
“They were bonnie creatures. Not in the way the stories say now. Not to lure you to your death. They were beautiful, like a dream. Angels of the water.”
áedán had gone very still. I looked from him back to Moira.
“My mother told me,” Moira continued, “that if you met a kelpie and showed proper respect, they would help you. Guide you across dangerous water. Warn you of coming storms. But if you mistreated them or the water.” She shook her head. “Then you'd learn why they were called guardians.”
“Do you know when the stories changed?”
She frowned. “Och, laddie, my mind's not as sharp as it used to be. It seemed to change overnight.”
“So you don't remember the first time you heard a different story?”
“Nae, not exactly. I remember hearing things and telling people it wasnae right. I think it was, oh, maybe eight years or so ago.”
“Do you remember how it changed?”
“How?” Her forehead wrinkled. “It changed completely.”
“Completely? You mean some part of the myth changed so much that it was completely different?”
“Nae, I mean completely. It was the one I remembered, and then it was this new one.”
I glanced at áedán and found him clenching his jaw so tightly that the muscle in his cheek popped. “That's not how stories change.”
She shrugged. “As I said, my mind's not as sharp as it once was.”
I moved on. “Did your mother ever see one?”
“She said she did. Once. When she was a girl.” Moira's voice dropped lower.
“She was walking by the loch at dusk and saw a horse standing in the shallows. Black as midnight, she said. Beautiful beyond words. He had a diamond-shaped patch of gray in his coat, right on his forehead. She ken what he was. Her mother had taught her the old ways. So she bowed her head and spoke the words. She asked permission to pass.”
áedán's hand twitched.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The horse stepped aside and let her walk by.
She said she heard a terrible roaring sound, halfway between a horse and a wolf, but she dinnae look back.
Not until she reached the road. Then she turned around, but the kelpie was gone.
That's when she noticed the man who'd been following her. An outsider. He was running in the opposite direction from her. Running as if the devil himself chased him.”
áedán's breath came rough, loud enough for me to hear. I looked at him, but he kept his gaze locked on Moira.
Moira reached into her basket again and pulled out a small leather journal, its cover worn soft with age.
“She wrote it down. Everything she remembered. The words to speak, the offerings to leave, the signs that meant a kelpie was near.” She held the journal carefully, as if it were treasure.
“And she wrote the name her mother taught her that day when she returned home with the story aboot the kelpie who saved her. Her mother recognized him by that diamond patch, you ken?” She tapped her forehead.
My heart raced. I'd seen a water horse with a diamond-shaped patch of gray too.
Moira looked directly at áedán, her pale eyes knowing. “Aodhruinn.”
The name hung in the air between us. It sounded similar to áedán, but felt older. Something that belonged to a time before roads crossed the Highlands, before tourists came with cameras, before the stories changed.
áedán inhaled sharply.
Moira smiled. “Aye, I thought so.” She reached across me and took his hand. “My mother would be glad to ken you're still here. She worried toward the end. Said the old ones were leaving. She looked for you often.”
áedán stared at her. His face had gone pale. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “I remember her.”
“And my family remembers you.” Moira squeezed his hand gently, then released it.
“Not many do anymore. But we remember. For all of us who you saved.
For my mother. I remember you. And I've taught my daughter aboot you as well. We keep to the old ways. We leave the offerings.” She looked back at the water. “We dinnae forget.”
Ne obliviscaris. Don't forget. This woman would have been welcome in the Velasca.
She stood, gathering her basket. “I should go. My daughter will worry if I'm gone too long.” She paused, looking down at áedán. “It's good to finally meet you. Properly, I mean. I've been leaving offerings for you for forty years, but I dinnae ken if you were still here to receive them.”
“I am.” áedán's voice was barely above a whisper. “I'm still here.”
“Good.” Moira touched his shoulder. “Dinnae let them make you into a monster, Aodhruinn. You are and always have been a hero. The Guardian of Loch Lomond.”
Then she walked away, her basket swinging gently at her side. We watched her disappear around the corner of a cottage, her wool coat blending into the stone and heather colors of the village.
áedán sat frozen. He had his hands clenched in his lap, knuckles white.
“áedán?” I whispered.
He didn't respond. Didn't move. I could see his chest rising and falling too quickly, as if he couldn't catch his breath.
So, I waited. Tourists walked past, laughing and taking photographs.
A child ran by, chasing a dog. The world continued around us, oblivious.
No one noticed the flowers, the milk in the stone, or the scattered bread.
Finally, áedán stood. “I need to think.”
He started down the path that ran along the loch shore, away from the village. I followed, keeping a few steps behind. He strode slowly, his shoulders hanging and hands loose at his sides.