I, Alien

wrinkled by years and the rippling water. She calls me by that name, the one I detest. Nessie, she whispers. She knows that I can easily hear quiet sounds, and that the loud ones hurt.

That awful name is the same one that the tourists use, as they stand on the viewing platform, or slog along the shore, with their tour buses fuming in the parking lot. So, even though the old woman leaves a gift behind, I begin my plunge into the deep trench of Loch Ness, ignoring her.

At the last minute, I have to admit I’m curious about what she’s brought this time. In a slow-motion fall through the water is a wooden machine with a round face, and numbers around the perimeter. As it sinks past me, it is still ticking. Just before it hits bottom, I snatch it with my jaws. It will make a fine addition to my collection, which includes coffee pots, beer bottles, fishing rods, old shoes, a nine metal vase, and various items that remain unidentified. After so long among these creatures, I have their names for most things, but not always their purposes. For example, the iron tray with a handle is a frying pan (whatever frying means). The shoes are obvious. I’ve seen them on tourists. Once I found an oval white chair with a hole in it. Since it was too big to lift with my jaws, I left it where it lay. I wonder what they’d make of that at Home.

But this ticking machine… as I swim home with it, I conclude that it is a device for marking the passage of time. The creatures are haunted by time. They bemoan its swift passage, but are surrounded by instruments to remind them of what is being lost. For myself, I have no need of reminding. It has been a long age since my exile. To be more accurate, it has been 10¹² picoseconds. I am rounding the numbers for simplicity, so as not to be obsessed with counting.

I deposit the time passage device next to the metal vase the old woman gave me last year. And near the representation (under glass) of her and the old man, in a nicely wrought silver frame. Nearby is my nautical collection including a mooring swivel, belaying pin, lanyard, an old deck lantern, and various anchors (not all of which I came by fairly, I’ll admit). There is also a ship’s mast, from the old days when I was stronger and could carry such things. I used to sort the entire collection by what I was planning to bring Home and what could be left behind. Back when I thought I was going Home.

The time passage device has stopped ticking now. Just as well. The smallest unit of time it counts is seconds—to my taste, far too gross an interval. A surprising lapse for such a semi-intelligent species.

Resuming my swim up the lake, I note that the old woman is already rowing home. The oars dip so slowly that I can tell she’s disappointed I didn’t do it. Well, I don’t perform on command. Monsters aren’t predictable; it’s part of their appeal. I make rare and random appearances—nothing too tasteless, just a curve of my neck or a flash of tail—but enough to give the locals a scare. It’s become a matter of pride. But sightings bring the inevitable rash of loud boats and oglers, and then I hate myself.

From what I gather, there are two competing theories about me. The ones who come with binoculars and cameras believe in the monster theory. I consider myself as siding with this group. The scientists, on the other hand, with their annoying echolocation devices, hold that I’m a prehistoric Earth creature, the last of my kind, cut off from my fellows. Sentimental drivel, of course. Drifting along under their hulls at night, I eavesdrop. They think I’m some kind of fish. But if they ever caught me, the DNA analysis would give them a bit of a jolt.

Inevitably, I find myself swimming up the fjord to the Going Home Place. Murk and silence greet me here, where it all began. When the chute is active, it glows. I’ve grown old waiting for it to glow once more. But even should it spring to life, there’s no getting through, because of the hillside slump 10⁹ picoseconds ago, when the world tremor sent a slurry of rock and boulders off the cliff, sealing off my route Home.

Coming here is an old habit, rather like the visits of the lady in the rowboat. She used to come out here with an old man. He was a busybody, always clanging his sonar echoes at the lake bottom, and marking things down in his notebook. I had him pegged for a retired engineer. She packed the sandwiches. Now, rowing out on the water alone, she dispenses with the sonar. Lately, she hasn’t bothered with sandwiches either. Yet she’s out here almost every day, dropping things into the lake, each gift more lavish than the last. I assume they’re meant for me— perhaps as bribes to show myself—or perhaps just acts of charity toward an old monster who no longer horrifies.

A flash comes to my peripheral vision. A watery pulse of gold. No doubt it’s just the sun penetrating the depths, reflecting off a copper lid, a gilt frame, a…

But I am swimming closer now. The jumble of mud and stones blocks my view. Yet as I make sweeps past the debris, a stuttering light escapes from beneath the pile. Nudging my face as close as I can, I manage to spy through a tiny gap. There, a strip of gold—is glowing. In my excitement, I thrust my jaws so far into the crevice that I nick my skin, clouding my vision with blood. But now I’m certain.

The chute is active.

I stare at it a long while. Then I turn away, my ventral fin digging a furrow in the soft bottom sand. I swim all the way to the western end of my prison. There, taking a deep drought of minnows and trout, I try to settle my stomach.

I can’t get past the stony slump. It has been many picoseconds since I had the strength to move rocks that size. Not, mind you, that I’m counting the passage of time.

The mast serves as a lever. Dragging it all the way from my home cave has left a sharp ache in my jaws, and carved up a plume of muck where its nether end dug into the lake bottom. Now I have wedged one end into a niche between boulders and, holding myself down by wrapping my tail around a rock, I use my neck and one of my pectoral flippers to pull down with all my strength upon the skyward end. It groans in its work—or is that me? The stone coughs up from its hole for a moment, then falls back. Finally it tilts and falls off the stack, but lodges close by, still impeding my goal.

Repositioning the mast, I begin on another stone in the pile. I am so far from the chute that I can’t see it glow, a reminder of how far I have to go. My underside is bruised from the labor, but still I pull down on the mast, bending it with my effort. This stone, though, will not budge.

I select another position on the rock slide, guiding the mast into a gap, and grasping one end of the lever with my flipper to keep it stable. Then, anchored by my tail once more, I pull down, down with my full strength.

In the exertion, memories escape from confinement, from the prison I’ve built for them to keep from going mad. I remember Itiia, and Ebiaria. They were so young! As were we all. We must have been foolish young pups to try such pranks as we did. To commandeer the chute for the purposes of mayhem. Some of my friends came back with fine monster stories. We snorted with happiness at the images of creatures running from grotesque freaks: ourselves! To our delight, many sentient life-forms were terrified of such as we. At the time, it seemed amusing. My courage was slow to kindle, so that I was one of the last to use the chute. I selected Earth, because the creatures there were known xenophobes, all the more hilarious. That must have been around the time they caught my companions and shut down the interstellar chute. Then, it seems, they went on with their lives, forgetting about me.

Until now.

When I go Home, who will remain among the old crowd? Itiia, I hope, and Ebiaria. Though we’ll have to act ashamed of what we did, I still plan on hearing their monster stories. We might be old by now, but I hope we can still laugh. Truthfully, my own stories will be a bit tame. The creatures aren’t really afraid of me, not like they used to be. You can’t keep a good horror story fresh forever. Because over time, people start to love their monsters.

That’s something I’ve learned.

I’ve also learned that the lever idea is a bust.

Something dangles in the water from the sunny top of the lake. Linked together are many small white globules.

I’m interested, but don’t like to admit it, because they’ve come—whoever they are—in a power craft. The propeller hangs in the water, churning it, scaring fish away, and worse, growling at a painful decibel level. I swim closer, to look at the item draped into the water. Strung together are many lovely white stones. The hand that grasps this item is wrinkled and spotted. It is the old woman, having forsaken the fine quiet boat for an obnoxious loud one. My spirits are low. I think about seeking out the quiet depths of the Loch. But instead, I move into the twilight realm, where just above me, I can see the hull rocking on a moderate chop of waves.

She turns off the engine. Sorry about the loud motor, she says. She leans over the side, sending her voice down to me, although this isn’t really necessary. Water carries sound all too well.