Page 19 of The Last Kelpie

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.

We left the village behind. The path narrowed, became rougher. Trees closed in on either side, oak and birch with leaves turning gold and copper. The sound of tourists faded. There was only the wind in the branches, the water lapping against stone somewhere past the trees to the left, and the crunch of our footsteps on the path. After twenty minutes or so, we left the trees, and the loch appeared once more on our left. Áedán stepped onto a small promontory that jutted out into the loch.

“It's been many years since I'd heard that name.” He stared at the water, even when I moved to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.

“It's similar to the one you use now.” I sounded them out. “Ay-dahn. Ay-rin. Just the second syllable changes.”

“The smallest change can have the biggest impact. Names have power. True names, especially.” He was quiet for a moment. “I've spent the last decade hearing stories aboot myself that were wrong. Not exaggerated—wrong. Details that never happened. Cruelties I never committed. Stories humans insist are true even though I was there and I ken they're not.”

“A decade? That coincides with what Moira said. But ten years hardly seems long enough to create such drastic changes to your story.”

“Stories always change. That's nothing new.” Áedán looked at me at last. “My mother used to say every generation polishes a story until they can see their reflection.”

“But?”

“But this feels different.” He frowned, the look in his eyes darkening. “It's not just a little adaptation. It's obliteration. Everything I am has been twisted.”

I stared at him, fumbling for what to do. Julian had said that sometimes myths get so far removed from their origins that their living embodiment fades, but that change was supposed to happen incrementally.

“We need to find where and when the story changed,” I said. “At least now we have an idea of how far back to look. Don't worry, Áedán. This is what they sent me to do. Once I can figure out how your myth went wrong, we can correct it.”

“Do you really think you can correct this?”

“Yes.” I lifted my chin.

We started walking again. The path curved away from the water, cutting through another stretch of woodland. The trees were thick here, their branches forming a canopy overhead. It was cooler in the shade, and quieter. Even the sound of the water melted away.

We emerged from the trees near a smaller loch, barely more than a large pond. The water was still, reflecting the bright blue sky. No tourists were there. No boats on the pond. It was peaceful. I was about to suggest we rest at its shore when I saw it.