Okay, Wallace, you swore you'd take action when the time came, well, the clock's ticking.

I jogged back to the canoe, my muscles moving like liquid lead, my bladder tingling with fear. Reaching down, I flipped the algae- infested boat over, exposing a rotted wooden paddle and a dozen or so angry bullfrogs.

"Sorry, boys."

The inside of the canoe reeked of standing water. Using the waterlogged paddle, I pushed away curtains of cobwebs, then dragged the vessel over the grass toward the small pier.

Underwater… lungs on fire, the shadow rising with me… get to the light!

"Whoa!" I shook my head, fighting to clear the subliminal image. "Stay calm. Better to face your fear in daylight."

The Great Glen rumbled with thunder, its placid waters challenging me to violate their serenity.

Lowering the canoe into the water, I tried to imagine what William Wallace and his band of followers must have felt while they waited at Stirling to confront Longshanks's army. Outnumbered, they had confronted their fear head-on and, in doing so, won a decisive battle.

"Fear? Maybe the dragon represented fear? Maybe that's what Angus was trying to tell me. Everyone must face their own personal dragon at some point."

Idiot. Since when did Angus Wallace ever speak philosophically?

I checked the canoe, verified there were no leaks, then, leaving my backpack on the dock, climbed down a small wooded ladder and eased myself into the boat. Balancing myself; I gripped the rotted oar and began paddling away from shore in water deeper than the North Sea.

So far so good. You can do this.

With the fog rolling in, it took me a long moment before I could relocate the bobbing object. My shoulder muscles knotted as I paddled, ending each stroke by tracing a J in the water to keep the canoe moving along a straight course.

Two hundred yards away, the ripples increased in intensity.

Within minutes, the chill of Loch Ness began filtering through the bottom of the aluminum boat, numbing my feet. Ignoring the cold, I switched sides and continued paddling, the canoe's bow pushing through the thickening veils of fog.

I was close now, maybe twenty boat lengths away, when I heard splashing noises up ahead.

Something was struggling in the water… whatever was out there was still alive!

"Hello?"

I paddled harder, my imagination racing. Was it a capsized boater? How long could someone stay afloat in these frigid waters?

I thought I saw a head go under then rise again, perhaps arms slapping at the fog-strewn surface. "Hang on, I'm almost there!"

Reaching the body, I executed a wide C stroke, spun the bow around and leaned over.

"Oh, geez."

It wasn't a person and it wasn't alive. It was a massive fish, a sturgeon, seventeen feet long, only it was covered in dozens of gushing bite marks, each bloody divot measuring eight to ten inches around, four inches deep.