The Boggart and the Monster Read online

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10020

  Text Copyright © 1997 by Susan Cooper

  First Margaret K. McElderry eBook edition September 2001

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Also available in a Margaret K. McElderry Books hardcover edition and an Aladdin

  Paperbacks paperback edition.

  Cover design by Daniel Roode

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-84784-4

  ISBN-10: 0-689-84784-X

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  For Zoë

  dear friend

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The geography of this book is very nearly truthful, but not quite; I have taken a few liberties with the shape of Port Appin’s coastline, and the land surrounding Loch Ness. And as in a book called The Boggart, I ask forgiveness from the owners of Castle Stalker and of the Appin Community Cooperative Store for turning their homes into Castle Keep and the Camerons’ village shop.

  The Boggart is not related to Humphrey Bogart; the “o” in his name is short, as in “dog.” The name Urquhart, for anyone who has never come across it, is pronounced Erkut.

  I am very grateful once more to Charles Dunn for the Boggart’s Gaelic, and to my son Jonathan for his patient and invaluable advice on underwater research.

  ONE UNDER THE COLD dark waters of the loch, seven hundred feet down, mattressed on mud and blanketed with slime, a boggart lay sleeping. He slept while the winter winds blew, and snow fell from heavy grey skies to lie in drifts on the mountains. He slept through the melting of the snow, and the bird-singing rebirth of spring. When summer warmed the air of Scotland, and the heather blossomed purple and the gorse bright gold, still the boggart slept. He had been sleeping there under the water, on and off, for three hundred years.

  Boggarts are mischievous; boggarts are shape-shifters. But one day long ago, this boggart had met a disaster that destroyed all his sense of mischief, and left him permanently stuck in one shape. A very large and peculiar shape. Once in a great while he would show himself in this shape, to the amazement and dismay of any who happened to see him, but not often.

  Instead he slept, there on the muddy bottom of his loch, the biggest and deepest loch in the whole of Britain. Trapped in melancholy, he slept for so long that his few remaining fellow-boggarts forgot all about him. And even amongst those rare people alive today who can sense the existence of the last Old Things, scarcely one could have told you that there was a boggart alive and well — and sleeping — under the dark cold waters of Loch Ness.

  * * *

  JAMES URQUHART MACONOCHIE paced restlessly around the granite floor of his kitchen. It was a cold kitchen, even in summer, for Castle Keep had stone walls three feet thick, built against attack not only from long-ago invaders but from the everlasting Highland wind.

  The wind blew fitfully tonight, moaning outside the small double-glazed window, and Mr. Maconochie paused in his pacing, looking doubtfully at the windowpane. He had grown uncertain about noises, even apparently natural noises; uncertain about where they came from, and who had made them. Castle Keep had not turned out to be the simple place he had expected. But the window was as dark as the sea and sky outside, and nobody was there.

  He reached for a can of Ovaltine from one of the kitchen cabinets — shining newly-painted white cabinets, added when he had bought and refurbished the castle more than a year ago — and took it to the stove, where a pan of milk was beginning to steam. A mug stood there waiting, with a spoon in it. Mr. Maconochie put two heaping spoonfuls of the chocolatey powder into his mug, poured on the hot milk, and stirred, sniffing gratefully at the comforting sweet smell. Then he looked up — and made a small horrified noise like a strangled hiccup.

  A few inches from his nose, another spoon, also mounded with Ovaltine powder, was rising alone through the air, rapidly but steadily. As he watched, it hovered for a moment and the Ovaltine in it suddenly vanished — and the spoon, empty again, fell with a clatter to the floor.

  Mr. Maconochie slowly put down his mug on the kitchen table, and bent and picked up the fallen spoon. It was perfectly clean. He groaned softly, and shook his head. More and more often in the months since he had moved into Castle Keep, he had been seeing things happen that were impossible. Small, insignificant, meaningless things; things so small that it was possible each time for him to wonder if he hadn’t imagined what he saw. Mr. Maconochie had been a lawyer before he retired and bought Castle Keep, and forty years in the Edinburgh courts had made him a rational, cool-headed man. If he was sure of nothing else, he was sure that everything that happens in this world has a reason: that stolen property vanishes because somebody has taken it; that a murdered man dies because somebody has killed him. When with no reason at all he saw a spoon rise vertically into the air, and a spoonful of brown powder suddenly disappear, he knew at once that one of two fates had befallen him: either something terrible was happening to his eyesight, or he was going mad.

  His golden Labrador dog, William, stirred, where he had been sleeping in the warm kitchen corner beside the stove, and stretched. Then he loped over to Mr. Maconochie and licked his hand, waving his tail. He was a cheerful, affectionate dog, three years old but a puppy at heart. Mr. Maconochie rubbed his head, grateful for company. Then suddenly he let out a shout, and William a shrill resentful yelp — for William’s feathery golden tail had shot vertically up in the air, straight as a ruler, in a movement quite impossible for a dog to achieve on his own.

  The tail stood stiffly upright for a few seconds, while William turned in a circle, whining in protest. Then just as suddenly, it dropped again. William stopped turning and waved it a little, experimentally, looking reproachfully at Mr. Maconochie.

  Mr. Maconochie stared wildly up at the ceiling, hoping for a desperate moment that he might see a string cunningly rigged up by his two small great-nephews, as a delayed-action device to grab unsuspecting dogs’ tails. But there was nothing to be seen, and anyway the nephews hadn’t been near the castle since their Easter vacation, three months before. There was no help for it: he had to accept the fact that somebody invisible had pulled his dog’s tail.

  “Oh dear me,” said Mr. Maconochie. He reached for his Ovaltine and took an unhappy swig.

  William licked his hand forgivingly.

  With the dog trotting beside him, Mr. Maconochie went out of the kitchen along the bright corridor to the library. In all its long history the castle had been a place of dark corners and dim lamplit rooms, but now electric lights blazed welcomingly from the forbidding stone walls. Mr. Maconochie liked light, just as he liked rational explanations, so he had replaced the flames of all the ancestral candlesticks and paraffin lamps with a little Japanese diesel generator, which chugged away merrily and almost inaudibly in the castle’s dungeon, powering electric lights, toaster and Mr. Maconochie’s aging electric typewriter.

  Seeking both light and reason now, Mr. Maconochie went into the library, a wonderfully lofty room lined with tall bookcases and furnished with the heavy desk and big leather armchairs that the MacDevon had loved. Devon MacDevon had been the last owner of Castle Keep, and the last chieftain of the MacDevon clan; he had fallen peacefully asleep for the last time in the castle three years earlier, at the age of 102. All his books were still here in this book-lined retreat, and Mr. Maconochie had spent blissful hours dipping into them, marveling at the range of the MacDevon’s interests. Not only were there quantities of historical tomes about the MacDevon clan, books for which he had recently
been offered large sums of money by a Scottish-named college in Texas; there were thousands of others, in immense variety. Mr. Maconochie often wished he could have met the old man before he died; he knew he would have enjoyed the acquaintance of someone whose curiosity spanned subjects as varied as the migration patterns of the lesser crested grebe, the late clarinet quintets of Brahms, fourteenth-century Scottish crofting and the history of ice cream.

  Swallowing another gulp of Ovaltine, he set his mug down on the MacDevon’s big mahogany desk and took a large flashlight from the drawer. Even the new electric lights, he knew, were not strong enough to reach the furthest corners and the highest shelves of the library. Then, armed with the flashlight, he began roaming along shelf after shelf of books, peering at titles, until he came at last to the group he was looking for. Tucked away on a high shelf, they all dealt with ghosts and the supernatural. Mr. Maconochie balanced precariously on the top rung of the wooden library stepladder and pulled out a leather-bound volume entitled Hauntings of the Scottish Highlands and Islands.

  He climbed down the ladder and stood there for a moment, contemplating the cover of the book. You’re a sensible fellow, James, said a small disapproving voice in his head. You’re a lawyer, man. What the devil are you doing reading a rubbishy book like this? For a moment, he almost climbed back up the ladder and put the book back where it belonged. But the image of the hovering spoonful of Ovaltine flickered back into his mind, and he knew it was not going to go away — and that the small disapproving voice had nothing to say that would help. Shaking his head despondently, he crossed the room and settled himself at the big desk. William lay curled up in front of the fireplace, twitching in his sleep. The wind outside had dropped, and the room was very still, with no sound but the soft lapping of the waves, far below the window, against the rocks of the islet on which the castle stood.

  Mr. Maconochie turned the thick crackling pages. The book was set out alphabetically, and he leafed through sections on the ghost of Aberdeen Castle, the great white Auk of the Firth of Forth, the bloody Axe that appeared each year on the anniversary of the beheading of King Charles I, and the wailing Baby heard every Hogmanay near Hadrian’s Wall. Then he came to a section headed Boggarts.

  He read, “Kin to a brownie, a boggart is a house spirit of no malice but of endless mischief. Found exclusively in Scotland and the North of England, he is above all —”

  Mr. Maconochie turned the page, to read the rest. But lying on the next page, tucked into the binding of the book, he found an envelope. It was sealed, and on the flap was the crest of the MacDevon family. When he turned it over, he found it was addressed, in a flowing, delicate, scholarly hand:

  “To the New Owner of Castle Keep.”

  Mr. Maconochie stared at the envelope, overwhelmed by an emotion like nothing he had ever felt before. It was as though an unknown voice were calling his name, out of the past or perhaps the future. He found that his glasses were suddenly misty, so he took them off and polished them with his handkerchief. On the hearthrug, William stirred and whimpered in his sleep. Mr. Maconochie reached for the MacDevon’s letter-opener, a long slim dagger carved from the antler of a deer, and carefully slit the envelope open.

  There was only one sheet inside, written on crested paper in the same graceful old-fashioned hand. It had no date or greeting; it simply began:

  “So you’ve found him. And you have an intelligent head on your shoulders if you’ve come to this room and this book to find what to do. I’d have liked to meet you.

  “Don’t be feared of him. He means no harm, but his tricks will drive you wild if you let them. Be patient. He’s older than you or me or the castle or the clan, and he’ll be here when we’re all gone. He’s a thieving rascal, but he eats seldom and little. He likes porridge and cream and new wholemeal bread, apples and cheese, ice cream, ketchup, pickled onions, and fish. Fish above all — he is kin to the seals, as are we MacDevons. And like us too, he enjoys his dram. But if you’re short of whisky, he has a great taste for Ovaltine.”

  Mr. Maconochie looked at his mug, which he had left half-full on the desk before him. It was empty. He stared wildly around the room, but saw no sign of life anywhere, no flicker of light or sound.

  He looked back at the page, at the letter from dead Devon MacDevon, and read on.

  “He’s a good soul, but he’ll forget me when I’m gone. There’s not but a few left like him, cousins here and there, not many. Have him stay, if you can. He’s the Boggart of Castle Keep, and I’m fond of him.

  “Good luck to you.”

  Then there was a line in Gaelic, which Mr. Maconochie, though Scottish born and bred, could not translate, and a flowing signature, “MacDevon.” And that was all.

  Mr. Maconochie looked out across the library, at the books and the fading family portraits, and the stone walls that had been standing for five hundred years and more. He said in a husky tentative voice, “Boggart? Are you there?”

  From a high shelf in the far wall, in shadow from the light, he heard a thread of a laugh.

  * * *

  MOVING DOWN THE DARKENED aisle with her tray, the flight attendant noticed that Jessup was wide awake. She smiled at him. “Water?” she whispered. “Coke?”

  “Water,” said Jessup. “Thanks.”

  He reached past his sleeping sister Emily for the little plastic glass, and knocked it back in one gulp. The flight attendant grinned, exchanged it wordlessly for a full one, and moved on.

  Jessup stretched, sighed, drank his second glass of water, and switched off the little television screen in front of his seat. It had shown him one long unfunny comic film made ten years ago, when he was two, and now it was starting another, and Jessup had had enough. He seemed to be the only wakeful person in this part of the plane. Across the aisle his parents were propped against each other, deep in sleep; on his left Emily had been curled up in an unconscious ball ever since dinner, and the man on his right was snoring softly, like an elderly dog.

  Jessup looked at his watch. Two hours to London. He peered at the window beyond his neighbor, but saw only transatlantic darkness and the steady flash of the light on the airplane’s wing. Then his eyes dropped to the open book lying facedown on the sleeping man’s lap. Hunting the Loch Ness Monster, said the title in aggressive dark print. Beneath it was a picture of a monstrous creature half-submerged in a lake, with a huge body from which rose a long, curving neck, and a wide-open mouth filled with terrifyingly sharp teeth.

  Jessup brightened. Next-best to computers, he loved stories about monsters. He reached out a stealthy hand and removed the book.

  Forty minutes later he was deep in reading when another flight attendant came by, this time with a tray of glasses of orange juice. She was less cautious than the last. “Juice, anyone?” she enquired, brightly and loudly.

  Emily didn’t stir, but the man in the window seat said thickly, “Uuurrgh,” and held out his hand without opening his eyes. Jessup watched in fascination as he took and drank the orange juice while apparently still asleep. He was a chunky, middle-aged man with a shining bald head fringed by stringy grey hair, and wire-rimmed glasses hanging from a string around his neck. He was wearing faded jeans, sneakers and a rather grubby college basketball sweatshirt. Suddenly he opened his eyes and caught Jessup studying him, and he grinned. It was an engaging, friendly grin, showing a piratical gold tooth at one side of his mouth.

  “Greetings,” he said.

  “Hi,” said Jessup. He looked down guiltily at his lap. “Uh — I borrowed your book.”

  “Feel free,” said the man equably. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It’s great!” said Jessup, with honest fervor.

  The man grinned again. “That’s an excellent answer,” he said. “I wrote it.”

  “You wrote this?” Jessup looked down at the front cover. “You’re Harold Pindle Sc.D.?”

  “Call me Harold,” said the man. He held out a large callused hand, and Jessup’s considerably smaller fist was
swallowed up in a firm handshake. “I’m Jessup Volnik,” Jessup said.

  “Well met in midair, Jessup Volnik,” said Harold.

  “You really think the Loch Ness Monster is a plesiosaur?” said Jessup.

  Harold looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed wistfully. “You know, Jessup,” he said, “I have four daughters, and not one of them would be capable of asking a beautiful question like that at first meeting. Clearly the thing that is missing in my life is a son — a son just like you.”

  Jessup eyed him warily “A beautiful question?” he said.

  “The lovely natural assumption that the Monster is a fact,” said Harold. “The first thing most people say, including my rational daughters, is, ‘You really believe in the Loch Ness Monster?’”

  “I’m good at believing in things,” Jessup said. “But — a plesiosaur —”

  “I’m convinced of it,” said Harold warmly. “It’s the only theory that fits with the sightings, so far as you can trust them. Aquatic creature, air-breathing, cold-blooded, fish-eating, huge body, long neck, small head — did you know the word plesiosaur means ‘next to a lizard’?”

  Jessup said, “But plesiosaurs have been extinct for sixty thousand years.”

  “Seventy,” said Harold amiably. “And that’s what they said about the coelacanth, until some Filipino fisherman caught one in the South Pacific in nineteen fifty-four. I tell you, Jessup, there is absolutely a plesiosaur in that loch, not just one but a family of them, and I’m going to prove it. I’m heading a new expedition — we start next week. Take a look at this.”

  He pulled a briefcase from under the seat in front of him, and took out an envelope stuffed with technical leaflets. The envelope, Jessup noticed, was addressed to Professor Harold Pindle, Department of Biology, University of British Columbia. Harold perched his glasses on his nose and spread the leaflets on his tray table. “How about this baby, eh?” he said.

  Jessup looked. The leaflets, which appeared to be written in algebra, described a kind of tethered submersible called an ROV, a Remotely Operated Vehicle, like a miniature submarine manned by a computer instead of a person. As if he were talking to a fellow professor, Harold began happily expounding the merits of ROVs and their parent land-based computers, and Jessup listened. If he had been a normal twelve-year-old, he would have been lost and bored in forty-five seconds flat.