The Lights On Loch Ness

In this sleep story, you are commissioned to paint a series of landscapes of the legend-steeped shores of Loch Ness. During your stay, strange things keep occurring in and around the Loch – from uncanny lights that shine in the night to unconscious strokes on your canvas depicting a Nessie-like creature. You begin to suspect that something greater than a painting has brought you here to Loch Ness.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Tranquility by Drift Far Away, Meditation Aquatic by 369, Epidemic Sound
Featuring rain sounds

Transcript

Try to catch a glimpse of the legendary Loch Ness Monster in tonight's folklore-inspired bedtime story. Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series. My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey. Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story, One part guided meditation, And one part dreamy adventure. There is no formal meditation practice at the end of this story, But it contains some meditation and breathing cues which you can follow if you like. Otherwise, Simply let the words wash over you as you drift on towards sleep. In tonight's story, You are commissioned to paint a series of landscapes of the legend-steeped shores of Loch Ness. During your stay, Strange things keep happening in and around the loch, From uncanny lights that shine in the night to unconscious strokes on your canvas depicting a Nessie-like creature. You begin to suspect that something greater than a painting has brought you here to Loch Ness. What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams. Werner Herzog. Mist softens like a crystal blanket over the evergreen slopes of the highlands, Almost obscuring the glittering body of water that lies below. Serpentine and narrow, The loch stretches far beyond your line of sight, Vanishing in the glen. This is, You think, Exactly how you picture this part of the country. Small deep greens and suspended mist, Water gray and sparkling, Fern fronds and bracken curled and swaying on the shores. It's precisely the kind of moody, Mysterious environment that's such fertile ground for the growth and development of a timeless legend. Loch Ness, Long, Winding, And almost unfathomably deep, Is the perfect place for a monster. Do you believe in Nessie, Perhaps the world's most famous cryptid? You're not sure how to answer that. You like the idea of there being some mystery left in the world you suppose of there being places and ideas that will never be fully understood, Proven or disproven. But after all these years, With so many sightings, Explorations and studies, You'd think a more compelling case would have emerged in one way or another. At any rate, It's not why you're here. You won't be the one to prove or debunk the existence of the Loch Ness monster. The taxi pulls onto a rough road between evergreens as your lodging comes into sight. You're relieved to step out and stretch your legs. It's been a long day of travel, From the puddle jumper into Inverness Airport, Then straight into a car for the hour or so drive through the Scottish Highlands. The driver helps you with your luggage, Then departs, Disappearing behind the pines. You roll your bags up the modest steps to the front doors, Turning around to push one of them open with your shoulder. As you turn, You catch a glimpse of stone ramparts over the tops of the trees. It's so surreal to think that only days ago you glanced over satellite maps, Trying to measure the proximity of your hotel to Urquhart Castle and the shores of the Loch, But now it seems so close you can almost reach out and touch it. An attendant meets you at the door to help you with your luggage. He's a teenage boy with an earnest expression and unruly hair. He guides you to the reception desk and you take in the interior of the hotel on the way. The walls are mahogany panels, Floors draped with area rugs. There is a dark coziness to the lobby and foyer. You catch a glimpse of a cafe and bar tucked away around the corner. Your stomach growls and you plan to stop there after check-in to grab a bite. There's a kind-faced, Middle-aged woman behind the reception desk. She tears her gaze away from a tattered paperback as you approach, Dog-earing her page. She reaches for her glasses and greets you warmly, Wiggling a mouse to wake up the ancient computer before her. Everything in this hotel seems to be a few decades behind. The decor and the technology, But you don't mind. In fact, It makes the place feel even more inviting or home-like as opposed to bustling hyper-modern accommodations. After finding your reservation, She directs the boy. By her tone of familiarity, You deduce that the attendant is, In fact, Her son. To take your bags up to room number 12, She hands you a brass key on which is fastened a vintage, Diamond-shaped tag with your room number embossed beneath a cartoonish silhouette of a sea creature. The boy is already hosting your luggage up the carpeted stairs as the woman at reception retrieves some literature from behind the desk. There's a map of the area, A book of vouchers for breakfast in the cafe during your stay, And a trifold brochure of something called the Legend of Loch Ness Experience. If you come down to the cafe this evening, She explains, There's a local guide who sets up and puts on a bit of a show, Explains the legends of the loch, And the monster, And so on. He does a boat tour during the day, Too, If you're interested. The number is in the brochure. You thank her for the information and assistance. She's glad to be of any help. Just phone down to the desk and ask for grace if you need anything while you're a guest here. With that, You follow the boy up the steps to the next floor, Where he leaves you in room 12. Like the lobby and spaces downstairs, The room is furnished with darker tones. Damask curtains are drawn beside the windows and around the four-poster bed's canopy. The cherry wood floors creak slightly beneath your feet. Green-patterned wallpaper covers the walls, On which hang paintings in gilded frames, Portraits of noble people from ages past, And windswept landscapes, One which you vaguely recognize as the Isle of Skye. You smile at the providence of having such an evocative landscape hanging in your room, Given your purposes for being here. The circumstances of this trip are still beyond belief to you. It was after a modestly well-received group show at a local gallery that you received a call from the gallery's owner. Evidently, There was a collector present at the opening, Who took a shine to your work. To your surprise, The collector bought three of your pieces on the spot and arranged to have them delivered and installed after the closing. But according to the gallery owner, A longtime friend of yours, The collector was also connected with an organization that provided travel grants for artists and thought you'd be an ideal candidate to apply for funding. You've always wanted to travel the world, To seek inspiration in places of great beauty and complex history, So you submitted an application. You proposed an excursion to a place steeped in folklore, A subject you have some interest in, To develop a series of paintings en plein air, Or painted outside, In natural light and conditions. It was a strong application, You thought, But your name isn't known outside your own local circles, So you considered it a long shot and went on with your life. Besides, Your landscape paintings are almost always exclusively from photographs, Rendering real places in fantastical, Expressionistic ways. You didn't think you stood much of a chance against painters with more relevant experience. But months later, When you'd all but forgotten about the application, You received a call. The collector, It seems, Had advocated for you, And the organization agreed to fund your travel and lodging in the Scottish Highlands to Loch Ness. At first, You thought you were being had. This kind of thing just doesn't happen to emerging artists like you. Why would this mysterious art collector have tapped you for such a project, And put so much on the line to send you to the shores of the loch? But here you are, In any case, Unpacking a bag in a charming hotel beyond the pines, A stone's throw from the ruins of Urquhart Castle and the depths of Loch Ness. You've seized the opportunity, And already you feel the excitement of this place like a crackling in the air. One of your bags is full of essentials, Clothing, Toiletries, And other travel necessities. The other bag, Which barely made it through airport security, Contains your painting supplies, Packed thoroughly and carefully to avoid any mess or mishap. You unzip the suitcase, To ensure everything made it through the travel day in one piece. From the pristine canvases of various sizes, To the tightly wrapped tubes of gouache, All seems to be in order. Satisfied, You cross to the large window opposite the bed, To see what kind of view you have. You expect to see mostly trees, But in fact, The sight from your window simply takes your breath away. Over the pines, And mist, From the second floor elevation, You have an astonishing view of a slice of the loch, And of the ruined castle just to the north. You have half a mind to whip out your canvas and supplies now, So lovely is the vista from the comfort of your room. Only hunger and jet lag hold you back from doing so. Minutes later, You find yourself seated in the sleepy little cafe downstairs, Around lunch hour. A few other guests sit at the bar, But it's quiet. Most of the hotel's patrons, You assume, Are already out and about, Among the ruins, Or on monster-hunting cruises. You study the map, Given to you by Grace, At the reception desk, As you take in a humble meal. Afterward, You decide to make the trek up to the castle, To see the sights, And scout a location for your painting. The morning mist has heavy to full-on fog as the day lengthens. You don a raincoat and thick boots in response. The cloudy air has a way of heightening the mystery and magic of your surroundings. Despite the muggy weather, However, You find plenty of tourists milling about the ruins of Urquhart Castle in their galoshes. You suppose such conditions are common in Scotland. It's hard to picture the highlands cloud-free, Bathed only in shimmering sunlight. From the ramparts, You have an extraordinary panoramic view of the loch, Even with the fog diminishing its distant bends and curves. A boat glides by peacefully, Its horn penetrates the fog, Low and resonant, So you can feel it in your bones. Standing amid the crumbling ruins, You have a strange sense of atemporality, Of being out of time, Or perhaps existing in many times at once. It's as if the pale shadows of tourists cast upon the fog are the centuries of yesteryear patrolling the walls of the keep, As if the wind on the water stirs up the ancient memories of the land. With the water so grey and murky, Reflecting the green of the hills and the ghostly shifting fog, It's easy to imagine the eyes playing tricks, Manufacturing monster tails or flippers breaking the turbid surface. You bring a small sketchbook in which to draw up rough landscapes, Experimenting with angle and composition. You find several vantage points within the castle grounds to scribble ferns and loch views, And you venture outside the grounds too, Onto the rolling hills and toward the shore. Within a couple hours, You have a handful of haphazard sketches to choose from. With luck, You'll have drier weather tomorrow, And you can start your first painting once you've settled on a spot. No sooner has the thought of sun entered your mind than the first rain clouds roll in, A deluge of tourists run for cover under the ramparts and in the smithy as heavy drops begin to fall. You draw the hood of your raincoat overhead, Tucking your sketchbook under the waterproof layers and make a run for it. The hotel's not far, And you find the cover of the pines sufficient to keep you only slightly soaked by the time you stumble into the lobby. On spotting you, Grace offers to send up a few extra towels if you like. There's a grand fireplace in the cafe bar, And you glimpse that it's already ablaze as you pass, Heading toward your room to freshen up. You draw a bath in the elegant clawfoot tub, And rip out the used sketchbook pages while it fills with steaming water. You hang the drawings by the window. They're somewhat wrinkled and damp from the rain, But salvageable enough to use in your scouting. When the bath is ready, You climb in for a soak, Letting your muscles loosen and relax in the hot water. Is there anything better, You think, Than sliding into a hot bath after running through the rain? The steam off the water opens your sinuses, Allowing you to breathe more fully and deeply than before. As you soften into place, You feel the stress and tightness of travel simply fall away, Like water rolling down off a surface, Or sand falling through an hourglass. All the tension simply leaving your body as your limbs float listlessly. The downpour strengthens outside the hotel. The crescendo of rain against the bathroom window flattens into a curtain of white noise that soothes and softens your mind even more. You close your eyes, And in this relaxed state of semi-consciousness, Your mind calls up photographic memories from your wanderings throughout the day. The play of black, White, Silver, And green hues on the surface of the loch, The tangle of bracken on the shore, The stark white sky disappearing into fog. In your mind's eye, The images swirl and fold into choppy brushstrokes, Oil paint, And watercolor. And once you see the loch painted in thick texture and vibrant color, And then in a pointillist style like the paintings of Georges Seurat, Composed of tiny dots that blend into coherent images when viewed from an appropriate distance, Now you can see the loch and the ruined castle rendered in a flat and rudimentary perspective, In the style of a medieval illuminated manuscript. A thousand distinct art styles flush through your mind, Disassembling and reassembling within your inner vision, Then tumbling together into blurry fog. You breathe in deeply, Letting the fog in your mind's eye swell and plume like clouds, And you exhale, Watching the mist dissipate to once more reveal the sweeping surface of Loch Ness. Your inhale summons the fog. Your exhale clears it, Melts it away. You are weightless in the water and enfolded by the sound of rain. The transition from late afternoon to evening is barely noticeable due to the storm clouds and dim atmosphere, But in time you leave the refuge of the bath and wrap yourself in one of the plush towels. The cold tile of the bathroom floor brings you back to your body from daydreams and painted visions. You dry off and dress for dinner in the cafe downstairs. You confess yourself intrigued by the promise of the evening's entertainment. You bring your sketchbook downstairs in case inspiration strikes. Down in the cafe, You find a considerably more energetic atmosphere than you've encountered in the hotel all day. Most of the inn's rooms must be full tonight, For there's a decent crowd already seated in the snug restaurant. You snag a small table near the fire. You feel cozy and safe, Even in the midst of so many strangers, And even as the casement windows rattle from the wind and rain. There's a tingle of excitement, A spark of curiosity in the room, Which lingers above the jovial din of conversation. You order dinner and wait for the program to begin, Passing the time with a bit of people watching. Unable to distinctly overhear many conversations, You pick up bits and pieces of diverse accents, People from all over the world, Of all ages. One thing you've always loved about travel is the observation of people who are different from you, The wondering about their lives and experiences. What brought them here, To the same place as you? What brings such vastly differing paths to intersect? You suppose most everyone has a similar reason for being in this room tonight, An interest in the legends of Loch Ness and its most famed, Fabled inhabitant, A secret lifelong wish to catch a glimpse of something impossible, A yearning for enchantment. But then again, Who's to say there isn't someone in this room who is just as improbable a cause for visiting the loch as you? With dinner on the table and the rain dashing against the windows, You notice a man in his mid-fifties or so enter the restaurant. The bartender greets him with a smile, A firm handshake, And a frosty mug. You suspect this is the guide who hosts the legend of Loch Ness experience. Moments later, Drink in hand, The man addresses the room with a booming yet comforting voice and introduces himself as Jules McGowan of the Loch Ness experience. It's not his intention to interrupt your suppers, Courtesy of the marvelous cooks at the finest establishment this side of the loch, This to a round of quiet chuckles, Only to sprinkle a bit of history, Myth, And legend into your evening, All in hopes of eliciting tips, More laughter, And signups for his boat tour of the loch which runs every weekday morning. So please, He begs, Spare whatever crumb of attention you can his way, And otherwise enjoy your meals on this most pleasant of nights. As if to undercut or underscore this remark, A low rumble of thunder breathes from beyond the windows. All conversation in the cafe has faded to the occasional low whisper, Jules has a presence that seems to command attention. He's warm and kind-eyed, But also enigmatic, And above all, A performer. Under any other conditions, You might find his antics corny or tourist bait, But somehow with the rain coming down outside and the atmosphere within, There's a kind of sparkle to his act that reels you in. He begins by trying to drum up some interaction from the patrons. Where is everyone from? Who thinks they're from the furthest away? There are several couples from the UK, A family from Ghana, A small group of backpackers from Australia, And numerous other place names near and far. The whole world condensed within a small, Fire-lit room in Scotland. Jules wants to take you all back in time, Further back than you might suspect, If your knowledge of the Loch Ness Monster originates with sightings in the 1930s. Here he opens a thick, Three-ringed binder and removes a couple of pages in protective plastic covers. He hands these to tables near him, Instructing the guests to take a look and then pass the pages along. These images, He explains, Are of symbol stones from around the modern-day nation of Scotland. These are commonly called Pictish stones after the early medieval peoples who inhabited the northern regions of pre-Viking Britain. These standing stones all date between the 6th and 9th centuries of the Common Era, And each similarly depicts a rather curious creature. At this time, One of the pages makes its way to your table. You take in the image as Jules describes it. The relief carved on the standing stone certainly evokes an animal, But not one that's plainly recognizable. It's stylized and artistically simple, But at best it reminds you of a horse, Or a dragon, Or a seahorse. It has an elongated snout like an alligator's, And spiral details where a horse's hooves might be. This, Jules explains, Is known today as the Pictish beast, And its image is incredibly widespread across old stones like this in Scotland. You turn the page over to examine it from different angles. From some, It almost resembles a dolphin, And from others, An entirely imagined creature. Finally, You pass the page on to other eager listeners at the next table. Despite centuries of debate, Jules goes on, There's still no scholarly consensus over whether this Pictish beast represents any real animal. So why was it so widespread? Was this creature purely mythical, Or was it based on something the carvers had seen? Now Jules passes around another pair of plastic-covered pages and collects the images of the Pictish symbol stones. The Kelpie, He continues, Is a mythical beast whose hoofprints are all over Ireland and Scotland. They are shapeshifting water spirits with nefarious intentions. There are as many Kelpie stories as there are locks and rivers in the area. You'll see from the images, Though, That it can take many forms, Appearing as a black aquatic horse or sunbathing on the banks of streams in human form. Like many mythical monsters, Tales of Kelpies often serve to keep children from wandering too near the shores of locks or rivers, Lest the creature should lower them into the water. In this respect, The Kelpie has much in common with other mythological creatures from around the world. At this, A few patrons let out awes of revelation, Or even call out the name of their country's counterpart, The Nixie, The Brook Horse, The Bunya, And Rusalki. You're reminded even of the sirens whose alluring voices appealed to the weary sailors in the Odyssey. So, Jules wonders aloud, Could those symbol stones be trying to represent this ubiquitous mythical beast, The Kelpie? What was so important about that creature that it found its way onto so many monuments? Well, He carries on. The connection to Loch Ness deepens here. You see, Back in the 6th century, An Irish missionary called Columba, Later Saint Columba, Made his way here intending to Christianize the Picts. One account of his life tells of his encounter with a kind of water beast, Something like a Kelpie, In the river Ness, Which feeds the Loch. Miraculously, He banished the creature back to the depths. That's how far back the legends of this Loch go, He says. You may think of it as a modern myth, Spurred on by changing media, But you'll find that legend steeps these lands, Offering a window to a distant past, And an instinctual hunger for the supernatural and the sublime. The fire crackles pleasantly, And the rain, Now calming down, Patters constant and gentle on the windowpanes. The patrons hang on Jules' every word. You have to admit, He's got a flair for the dramatic that draws you in as well. You're reminded of that uncanny sensation of being out of time you felt on the castle walls, Like you could reach out into the mist and draw the history and legends into life. Now, Jules resumes with a twinkle in his eye, Realizing he's successfully hooked the crowd. The modern sightings, The surgeon's photograph, The recent attempts to study the biodiversity of Loch Ness. This is all terribly interesting too, But it's another story altogether. Is there really a monster in Loch Ness? Is it a kelpie, A species of dinosaur that miraculously persists from the Cretaceous period? And which of you will come away from your visit to Scotland with a Nessie sighting under their belt? All these questions can be answered on the Legend of Loch Ness boat tour, Which leaves that precisely. As Jules details the departure, Fees, And scope of the boat tour, Your mind wanders. You take in the impressed expressions of your fellow guests. The Pictish beast and the shapeshifting kelpie swim through your thoughts. You can see them rendered in brushstrokes, Splashing playfully through pigments. You open your sketchbook and begin to scribble your own imagining of the creature, Equine and graceful, With fins and draconic ornament. After dinner, You return to your room, Head spinning with folklore and curiosity. You hang your sketch of the monster beside the landscape studies. The beast looks quite at home among them. The rain is slowing down, But the soothing sound still slows your thoughts. Your eyelids are becoming heavy. Tomorrow you'll start painting if the weather clears, But perhaps you'll start the day with a boat tour. You climb under the flannel covers in the large bed. You have every intention of drawing the damask curtains closed for that extra bit of snug coziness, But you find yourself so instantly comfortable, Sinking so deeply into the plush mattress that you can't bear to move even an inch to reach for them. So to the drumming sound of rain and wind, You drop, Sinking like a stone into a deep and dreamless slumber. It's still night when you awake, Though it takes a few moments to realize it. At first you think the sun is streaming brightly through your window, That you've slept through your alarm and missed the departure of the boat, But blinking in the pale luminescence you become aware of an unearthly quality in the atmosphere. The hue and temper of the light are not consistent with sun, And in fact it's like nothing you've seen before. You who've studied color theory with some rigor, Who've mixed and muddled pigments for hours on end, You cannot seem to identify the color with anything you know. Perhaps it's only the grogginess in the late hour that causes it to confound you so. It appears at one moment a pale and spectral yellow shifts on a dime to a smooth and silvery violet and then again to a mossy green. It's like the light consciously eludes identification, Fleeing from your attempts to seize its impression. Whatever the color, There is no denying the light. It streams effortlessly in through the window. You brush the sleep from your eyes, Squinting to try and pinpoint the source of the illumination, But you can't see it from your bed. Reluctantly you rise and go to the window. Your sketches still hang there, Casting shadows on the floor in the wake of the strange light. The rain has gone completely, And a grim cloudy sky remains. The moon is a narrow crescent overhead, Winking through the clouds. It's now that you realize where the eerie light is coming from. Not from the moon, Of course, Nor from some delivery vehicle outside the hotel, As you might have suspected. No, The unexpected illumination, With its wildly shifting hue, Is coming from the log. Its source, Concentrated somewhere in the center of the great body of water, Blinks or spirals out there. You're reminded of the rotation of warning lights in lighthouses, The way the light reflects ghostly on fog and rocks. Is there a vessel out there, You wonder? Is it some strange night-sailing boat that emanates this unusual brightness? But the more and more you gaze, Trying to focus your eyes on the distant, Moving source, The more you find yourself mesmerized by it, Swaying to its rhythm and almost anticipating the color change. Something about it is so hypnotic, So alluring, It's as if it's calling to you. You wonder if anyone else is awake and observing this midnight display, Or is it only you? The twisting light ignites your artist's heart, Inspiring an insatiable curiosity. You're seized with a consuming desire to uncover its mystery, To soak in its shifting colors till you can reproduce those hues. Before you know it, You've seized a coat and let your feet carry you out the door of your room, Down the stairs, And toward the hotel's exit. There's a desk light on at reception and a night clerk absorbed in reading. They don't notice you slipping through the doors and out onto the grounds. This is mad, You think. But you can't seem to resist the call of the lights on the loft. Summoned, Reeled in by them, You make your way through the pines and toward the quiet shore. There's much stillness here, You find, Stopping amid the ferns and rocks to gaze out over the loft. It's vast, Disappearing at the edges of your vision into blue darkness. The surface is glassy and black, Except when the lights, Which dance and rotate, Fall upon it, Reflecting the impossible hues. You're not sure why you do it. It's just a feeling. But you remove your boots and socks with care and consideration. You take a deep breath, Feeling a tugging in your chest as if there's a hook beneath your sternum and something draws you inexorably onward. You prepare to dip your toes in the lock, Bracing yourself for surely icy waters. But when you set foot in the shallows, You feel an unexpected sensation, One of tingling buoyancy. You look down, Expecting to see your feet flashing beneath shallow, Shifting waters. But instead, To your astonishment, You find that your feet rest atop the water, As if a pane of glass sits just beneath the surface, Holding you up. You're reminded of frozen lakes in winter and the daring act of sliding out upon the surface in your skates. Yet you feel none of the wobbly insecurity of such childhood memories. Instead, An inner calm and self-assuredness comes over you like a wave, A preternatural balance and poise. With your head high and eyes on the center of the lock, Or glow the oscillating lights in their unearthly hue, You take a step forward and another. Your footfalls on the surface of the water create small disturbances, Little ripples outward, Intersecting with each other as you go. You can only see the ripples in your fuzzy periphery, But you can feel them, Like resonant sound waves thrumming in the body. You can feel the majestic presence of towering slopes beyond the water's edge. In the age of yonder forests. Once again, You have the sense of being outside time, Or perhaps of standing on time's edge and looking across thousands of years, Hovering above the loch like a mist. You're drawing nearer and nearer to the source of the lights, But the closer you come to the center, The more indefinite the source becomes, As if the concentrated density is diffusing, Dissolving into clouds of mist. And soon, You're certain you've reached the center, But there's no boat, No buoy, No light source to be found. Rather, You seem to be immersed in an indistinct fog, Made up of water crystals that all vibrate at a different frequency. Perhaps, You think, That's what's causing the strange, Otherworldly color you perceive. The refraction and abstraction of a dazzling spectrum through millions of tiny water particles. It's not easy to see the shores of the loch from here, At the center, And bathed in the ethereal, Shifting glow. But it's thrilling, And at the same time, Profoundly serene. You breathe deeply, Surrendering to the magic and impossibility of the moment, And embracing the unthinkable colors that surround you. You imagine collecting the droplets of color in your hands like diamonds, And hanging them on little strings by the window, So the sunlight might fall through them and leave impressions upon a canvas. You picture yourself placing droplets in the night sky, Making new stars. And all at once, You can feel a low tremble in your chest, Like the vibrations of deep sound, And the light around you changes, Dims, And darkens gradually. You cast your eyes downward, Toward the watery surface on which you stand. For only an instant, You glimpse a great and overwhelming light source below the water, Fathoms beneath you like a submerged sun. But almost immediately, It is blocked out by shadow beneath your feet. Something moves. A long, Lumbering shadow, In a shape that calls up images from dreams and collective memory. Narrow neck, Widening to smooth curves. It seems to go on for miles, To spend an age in passing beneath you. Its sonorous vibrations troubling the water on which you stand. You do not move. You cannot look away from the hulking shadow, Passing so peacefully under a sunken sun. The light diffracts around the serpentine shape, So a corona glows beyond the edges. It is monumental and graceful, Stirring your mind to mythic imaginings. You are almost moved to follow it, To walk along its back to the farthest shore. But you stay still, Until the tip of the thing's twisting tail moves past the underwater light source, Into the tenebrous shadows of the law. Once again, The mist ignites with the likeness of sunlight, Shining from the bottom. Your mind swims with the dizzying improbability of what you've just experienced. Even here, Standing on water in a thundering wake, You doubt your senses. Can it be that you've just witnessed the nocturnal wanderings of Nessie, The long-sought monster in Loch Ness? What fathomless force is responsible for bringing you here? For showing you, And only you, The strange lights and luring you to the heart of the loch? What message does Loch Ness have for you? You squint as you try to behold the light beneath the water, Now unbroken by shadow and rippling in the still, Agitated wake. Even through the murky depths, It's almost too bright to look upon. You blink hard against the brilliance of it. A dazzling kaleidoscope erupts behind your eyelids. You take a deep breath and prepare to open your eyes again, This time to get a good look at the light's source. But when you do open them, You find lightness surrounds you, Golden and familiar, Sunlight, Pure and recognizable as ever, Streaming in through the curtains and playing across the flannel blankets. You prop yourself up on your elbows, Groggily taking in your surroundings. You're back in your bed, In the hotel room. You fall back on the pillows with a sigh. You're not sure whether it's a sigh of relief or disappointment. It was all a dream. Of course it was. Walking out onto the glassy surface of Loch Ness, Lured by mysterious lights, Your sighting of the monster. Still, Even as the details of the dream become fuzzy and indistinct, You can't shake the sense of wonder or of deep mythological yearnings. Like your subconscious is reaching, Stretching outward, Hoping to grasp something of archaic substance. You note the time. You can still make it to the boat tour of the loch if you leave in the next few minutes. So you stumble out of bed, Squeeze in a quick shower and pull on some clothes. Strangely though, You can't find your hiking boots. They're not by the door or under the bed. Getting the time so close, You settle for the extra pair of sneakers you brought and hope there's not much mud on the paths after last night's rain. You'll stop back after the tour and do a thorough sweep for your boots. Grabbing your sketchbook, You fly out the door and down the stairs to the reception desk. Grace is there, Sipping on a cup of tea. Out of breath, You inquire whether there's time to make the boat tour and where you should go. She informs you that the shuttle is just outside. A group of other guests just left the lobby seconds ago, So you can certainly still join. Relieved, You step outside and join a queue that's formed alongside a small shuttle. It's a mostly clear day, Though the ghost of the rain hangs all around in cool, Unseen moisture. Morning dew sparkles on the grass. The shuttle takes you on a short journey to a nondescript dock where a small cruise boat waits. Jules is there to greet the passengers, A dozen or so from your hotel and others from different lodgings. Within a few minutes, The boat leaves the dock and cuts a smooth path across the dark surface of the water. You get a cup of coffee to wake your senses to the majesty all around. It's surreal being here, Really being here after your dream. Everything looks just the same, Albeit lit by the morning as it did in that strange vision. The images resound in your mind, Otherworldly lights and monstrous shadows beneath the waves. The cruise, For all its tourist trappings, Is immeasurably peaceful. You lean against the railing, Enjoying the little flecks of water that whip in the wind to kiss your face. Jules covers a wide range of topics related to the history of the loch and our cart castle. He talks about the abundant wildlife of the region and, Of course, The circumstances of many 20th century sightings of the purported monster in Loch Ness. Here, He again plays up the theatrics but stops just short of feeling trite. His delivery forms a pleasant backdrop to your observance of the loch by day. Overhead, An osprey hovers, Silhouetted against the sky, Then makes a dramatic dive to catch a fish. Your eyes trace the ripples left behind, Lingering in search of sunken lights or shadows in the wake. You sketch the mountainous highlands mindlessly as you listen to the talk. Something in you can't let go of the previous night's dream. If only you could drop back into it, Waking within the fountain of anomalous light, Feet planted on the fluid surface of the water. Then Jules says something, A kind of coda on his whole presentation, About mystery. We may never know, He says, If there really is a monster in Loch Ness, Whether she's a creature left over from the age when dinosaurs walked the earth, Or a sea serpent, A kelpie, An abnormally large catfish, Or sturgeon, Or merely the creation of a collective imagination that's hungry for enchantment, That yearns for mystery and the unexplained, For something in this world to still be unfound and unfindable. I, For one, Despite dedicating my life to the loch and its legends, Sometimes hope a definitive answer never emerges. That Nessie remains a mystery, Something to be searched for and longed for forever. Your heart hums to the sentiment, A yearning for mystery. You can feel that. It's magnified by your surroundings, Emerald trees and crumbling ruins, A little boat on the surface of eternity in this glacier-carved glen that sings with ancient memory. You didn't come here looking for the Loch Ness monster, But you found a poignant harmony with her legends. Just as she drifted beneath your feet in a dream world, She now floats to the top of your mind, Ringed with eerie changing light. By the time the boat docks, You're itching to get out with your canvas and begin to paint. Inspiration tingles in your fingertips, Buzzes in your brain. You feel all lit up. So it's with haste that you return to the hotel, Pack up your supplies, And head to the spot on the shore you've identified as an ideal place to paint en plein air. From here, You've got an extraordinary view of the loch and the silhouette of the castle. It's a place where you feel embedded in the scenery, And a place where you feel immeasurably small. A place where a yearning for mystery can be keenly felt. You lament the loss of your hiking boots as you trudge through the trees, Your sneakers sticking in the mud. But it's worth the trouble, For just as you emerge from the wooded area, The sunlight is bouncing playfully across the loch in a pattern that resembles a golden pathway across the water, Terminating right at the bank on which you stand. Like a yellow brick road upon which you could easily step, You're reminded of the dream lights and of your midnight stroll on the loch's surface. As you set up, Your mind wanders through the memories of the last 24 hours, Real and imagined, Through the sketches and stories. You begin to paint, Imagining kelpies on the shore, Sliding into the water to change their shape, Imagining monster hunters and fraudsters planting prints in the mud, Imagining pigs with painted faces carving their legends into stone monuments. The painting flows almost automatically from a subconscious space, You're barely in control of your actions. An unseen force guides your hand across the canvas. You blend paints on the palette and on the canvas itself in search of the dream shade, The one you can't describe, The mystery hue. The landscape begins to take shape, Layer upon layer. Time drifts lazily by, The sun moving across the sky, Its golden walkway lengthening on the water. The smell of peat and evergreen are all around you as you work. Birds flit in the trees, Sometimes serenading you. An otter slides into the loch from a bank of rocks and disappears. You can see cruise boats crossing the water at intervals and even make out the muffled sounds of tour guides on the microphone, Though their words are unintelligible. All the wildlife, Lapping water and wind, Forms a low buzz in your ears, A comforting landscape of sound to animate the one forming on your canvas. You listen carefully for the hum of movement beneath the water's surface, Imagining the vibrant ecosystem that lies within the murky depths, Imagining what wonders live in the shadows. The hours pass, You hardly stop for breaks, Except once or twice to roll your shoulders or stretch your arms to work out the kinks. You're in your stride. The changing light inspires you to create new layers of color and shadow, Evoking the mystery of the time of day. Your breathing is soft and steady. It rises and falls with the glittering wakes on the water. And in time, As the light begins to wane, You find your canvas filled. You've always been a swift worker. You're not sure if it's finished, But you know you're at a stopping point for today. You stand back for the first time to take in the whole work. On the first impression, You're quite pleased with the outcome. It's a recognizable representation of the law and surrounding environment, And you're happy with the play of light and color across the canvas. Wiping your hands on a towel, Your eyes trace the corners and curves, Scanning the painting inch by inch for errors, Imperfections, And opportunities. You've rendered the path of reflective sunlight, The impermanent golden bridge across the water with some elegance. And now you squint to look closer. Your eyes travel across the sunlit path to its vanishing point on the canvas. It's funny. It must have been a slip of your hand or an unconscious stroke, But there's a sort of hazy shadow, Muddled and murky beneath a layer of ochre. The more you look at it, The more you try to wrap your mind around its shape, The more the silhouette reminds you of the characteristic carvings of the Pictish beasts. But you certainly didn't paint it there, Not consciously at least. Maybe it's just apophenia, Your mind reaching to recognize a pattern in a meaningless glob of paint. You need some distance from it. You look away from the shadowy smudge to the opposite corner of the canvas, But there in the abstractly rendered bracken is another confusing form. A streak of black and brown pigment where the painted shore meets the water. There, Without thinking, You've painted a pair of discarded boots. Now with your mind alight, You peer around the edges of the canvas and there behind your painting, Right on the banks where you ought to have seen them, Were it not for the camouflage among the decaying ferns or your hiking boots. You pull them from the mud and cast your eyes across the water where the late afternoon sun reflects crimson and sparkling. Is it only an illusion or does another light rise to meet it through the dark cloudy depths of the loch? A light that's impossible to describe, Ethereal and confounding. Is it the light of mystery, An enchantment which call you here? The painting now on your easel is a good one, But it won't be the centerpiece of your output from this adventure. Already forming in your mind are a dozen unique landscapes, Inner landscapes, Renderings of the other world that you can only enter in dreams. The world of myth that lies beneath the surface of the loch, In the halls of collective memory and that hums in the history of the place. Paintings of beckoning lights on the midnight water, Of lumbering shadows, Cretaceous and folkloric. Landscapes of deep longing for mystery. You wait for the sun to set, For the boats to dock, For the locals and tourists to sleep, For the land to settle under a blanket of stars, For the summoning lights to shine again, Only for you. And with your artist's supplies and wild wonder-struck imagination, You step out once more into the night, Onto the glassy surface of Loch Ness. Good night.

Reviews

Magical!

Soothing and enchanting story, loved it❤️ I fell asleep before the end though 😅so I’ll listen to it again 😊

Great story, great reading, and good night's sleep. Thank you.

Would love to visit the Loch Ness monster. Thanks for for taking me there In dreams, until I can get there for real x

Beautiful and engaging story. Thank you for sharing your creativity - what a gift!