Page 76 of The Last Kelpie

Inside, were pages covered in Latin handwriting, which didn't surprise me. Latin was the first written language in Scotland, introduced by the Romans around 450 AD. Then came Ogham, which originated around the 4th century AD. Scottish Gaelic appeared around the 12th century, and then Early Scots around the 14th century. Of course, Latin was used in books until around the mid-15th century. So, the language didn't date the book, but the stories did. The earliest one was dated 505. I assumed it meant AD, but that wasn't noted.

The stories were about ocean-dwelling creatures, none of which I knew. I put it back and took down another. It told the tale of a race of beings, only a foot tall, with hooked noses and claws. I flipped forward to another tale about yet another creature I didn't recognize. I kept looking, taking down book after book, then replacing them. Finally, I found something familiar—phookas, a type of shapeshifter from Celtic mythology.

“These are about myths.” I set the book down and pulled another one. “All of them. Look—this one's about selkies. And they all have that spiral on their covers.”

Áedán had moved to the far end of the chamber. “Ethan.”

I turned to find him in front of a stone desk—a simple slab of rock supported by two carved pillars. On top of it sat a single book. Not an ancient one, but a modern bound book, with a modern pen lying beside it.

I crossed the chamber in four steps and added my light to Áedán's. It was open to a page only half full, as if the writer had paused and meant to return later. The handwriting was neatly done in black ink. I flipped to the first page and went still.

Across the top of the first page, written in that same precise hand, was a single word. A name—Áedán.

My heart stopped.

Áedán reached for it with a hand that trembled slightly. I caught his wrist.

“Wait.” My voice came out hoarse. “We don't know what this is.”

“It has my name on it.” He pulled free gently and picked up the manuscript. His hands steadied as he opened it.

I moved closer, reading over his shoulder. The text began without preamble, no introduction. The first paragraph described a winter night when a fishing boat was caught in a storm. The man in it cried out for help as waves crashed over the bow.

I recognized the story immediately. Áedán had told it to me when we were at his cottage. He'd rescued the fisherman and pulled his boat to shore. The man had lived for another forty years.

But that wasn't what the manuscript said.

The kelpie heard the fisherman's cries and smiled. Here was sport. Here was entertainment on a dull winter night. He swam closer, circling the boat like a shark, letting the man see him. Letting hope kindle. Then he rose from the water in his true form—magnificent, terrible—and the fisherman reached for him with desperate hands.

The kelpie let him touch. Let him believe for one beautiful moment that salvation had arrived. Then he dragged the man under and held him there until his struggling stopped.

The truth yields to the tale most often told.

Áedán made a wounded sound.

I kept reading, unable to stop. The next paragraph described another incident. A child had wandered too close to the water's edge, and found Áedán, wearing the shape of a beautiful pony. The pony was gentle until she climbed onto his back. Then he galloped into the loch and tossed her into the deepest part, watching as she sank. The story ended with that terrible sentence.

“This isnae—” Áedán's voice cracked. “Nae, I frightened her away from the water. She never drowned.”

“I know.” I tried to take the book from him, but he held on.

He turned the page. Another story. Another systematic replacement of mercy with malice. A shepherd he'd guided through fog became a shepherd he'd led over a cliff. A woman he'd warned about thin ice became a woman he'd convinced to walk across it.

Every page was the same. Every act of compassion rewritten as cruelty. Every moment of protection transformed into predatory intent. Every saved life became a terrible murder. And after each story was that sentence about truth.

This was the same technique employed to change the kelpie myth. Instead of inventing an entirely new story, it simply altered enough details to change its basic truth. Except these changes weren't to a myth as a whole, but to Áedán. It was an edit to his life.

Áedán kept reading, his breathing shallow.

“Stop, Áedán. Don't read any more.”

“I need to ken what they wrote.” But his voice was distant. Uncertain.

“Áedán, look at me.”

He didn't. His eyes were fixed on the page, scanning the next paragraph. His lips moved slightly, forming words. I watched his face change. Confusion flickered across his features, then doubt. I smacked my hand down on the page.

“The fisherman.” Áedán looked up at me. “I remember pulling him out of the water. I remember carrying him to shore. He was so cold. I wrapped him in my coat and stayed with him until his son arrived.”