Food for the Gods by Charlotte

I retreated further behind the bush as the old man came into view. I watched with curiosity as he crept up to the altar, where a great feast had been laid out as an offering to the gods. He took a cautious look around, then produced a large, deerskin sack and began stuffing the sacred food into it.
I shook my head in disbelief as the moonlight glanced off the waters of Loch Ness. I had waited for years to see the gods eat their feast. Night after lonely night, whenever I could, whenever an offering was laid out. But never before had I glimpsed even the swish of a bearskin cloak or the glint of golden trinkets as the gods claimed their gift. Always, I had either fallen asleep or been dragged back home by my cantankerous mother. But here, after so long, was a god. A real god.
A surge of excitement rose up inside me as the god poured the last of the food into his sack. What would happen now? Would a shaft of light lift him up into the sky? Would he disappear in a cloud of smoke?
To my disappointment, he merely turned and, wary eyes still scanning the area, hurried off along the side of the loch. I hesitated for a moment before following him, my rabbit skin shoes moving swiftly yet silently through the grass.
He walked quickly, for nearly half an hour, heading away from my village. Anticipation welled within me – he was obviously going to do something so spectacular he couldn’t risk doing it anywhere near other people!
Eventually, we reached a small bay with a sandy beach. I crouched behind a rock to watch as the god put his sack down and rubbed his back. I narrowed my eyes, peering through the gloom. The god was putting a cow’s horn to his lips and blowing. I could hear his breath spluttering and spitting out the sides of his mouth, but the horn seemed not to be making any sound at all. It sounded like the noise you get when you squeeze the air pockets on a bit of seaweed.
Despite this apparent failure, he put his horn away and waited a few seconds. I hardly dared to breathe lest he hear me. Suddenly, there was a gurgle in the loch behind me. I turned, just in time to see a great, ugly head rear out of the water with a huge splash. I gave a gasp of horror. It was the monster – the creature which, for generations, had plagued our fishing boats and devoured our flocks. I had never seen it before, but the men in our village condemned it as an evil spirit.
I cast a fearful glance toward the god. Was this some nightly ritual? Did he have to banish this monster before he could return to heaven? The odds didn’t look good. The god was old – he had a bad back and couldn’t even blow his own horn. And he had to fight a fifteen-foot loch-monster with teeth like daggers? Rather him than me.
The monster swam for the shore, and began to climb out onto the beach. I recoiled in disgust at its slimy, warty body, its four huge flippers, stubby tail and long neck with a tiny head. Its eyes gleamed in the starlit night. Then it bowed its head down to the old god – to swallow him up, perhaps? To shred him into little pieces?
The god reached up his hand – but not to defend himself. His wrinkled fingers met the monster’s snout and he began to rub it vigorously, as I might rub the head of one of our hunting hounds. Confusion toiled within me – was this monster the god’s pet? His mount?
I strained my eyes against the darkness and saw the old god feeding the monster with the food from our altar. Once the beast had wolfed down every last scrap, the old man took its head in his arms and lay down beside it, caressing its skin and murmuring gentle words which were lost in the sigh of the breeze.
They stayed there all night while I sat behind my rock and thought. By the first light of dawn, I had worked out what was going on. The monster was no demon – it was obviously a friend of the gods. It was good. We needed to worship it, not hunt it. We would have to put out extra food on our altar – evidently the gods were giving up their rations to this creature. No wonder the old man was so thin.
As the soft light crept over the hills, the god and the monster began to stir. The monster yawned, nuzzled the old man fondly, then slipped away, back into the water, before the first rays of sunlight hit the loch. The old man stood up, stretched, and began to make his way up the hillside, his empty deerskin sack hung over his shoulder. I hesitated – where was he going? What was he doing?

Well, I wasn’t just going to sit there - my curiosity had been sufficiently aroused for me to risk getting in trouble for being late for breakfast. So I crept after the old god, as quietly as I could, as he made his way through the heath.
We continued to climb for some time, until eventually he disappeared around a crag. I followed, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Furious with myself, I kicked the rock, hurting my toes. I hopped up and down, clutching them and hissing to myself. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder and whirled round to see the old god. He had changed his clothes – he was wearing a dark blue tunic and russet trousers now, hemmed with fur. Much more godlike, I thought.
“Who are you?” the god asked. He had a rumbling voice, like rocks dashing down the side of a mountain during a landslide.
“I’m wee Craig of Drumnadrochit,” I whimpered. The god had hard, grey eyes. It felt like they were boring into me.
“Douglas o’ the hills,” he growled. He rubbed his chin, where a wiry tangle of brown and grey hairs sprouted like heather on a moor. I was seriously taken aback. Since when had gods been called “Douglas” or had scraggly beards?
“But you are a god, though?” I asked conversationally, trying to keep my tone casual. Douglas froze, his stony eyes fixed with surprise.
“What in all ’e lochs makes ye ’hink ’at?”
“I saw you taking food from the altar and feeding it to the great beast,” I answered. My ears rang with the sound of his grating laugh.
“I’m no god … unfortunately for ye,” he took a firm grip on my shoulders and led me up the hill. “’Cause, if I wis a god, ye’d be able tae go hame tae yer mither ’n tell her ye’ve seen me takin’ food fae ’e altar.”
“But you’re not a god,” I pointed out, confused. “Does that mean I can’t tell my mother about you?”
“Oh, yer no telling aybody aboot me,” Douglas rumbled. “I’ll be makin’ sure o’ that …”

Douglas’s home was a tiny croft up in the hills. It had stone walls and a thatched roof, and loomed above us, much sturdier than the willow and grass homes in our village. He shoved me inside and slammed the door.
The tiny cottage had two rooms. Here, there was a fireplace, a window, a chair, a table and a box bed; the door to the other room was closed, and my imagination knotted itself about what might lie behind it. My heart pounded in my ears as he threw me down onto the cold, flagstone floor and stomped into the other room. He left me there for quite a while – I wasn’t sure how long, but it was long enough for me to calm down. By the time he emerged, carrying another chair, I was standing beside the window.
“Sit,” he growled, pointing to the chair. I sat. When I looked back up, the fire was burning merrily. “How … ?” I began to enquire, but I swallowed the question. Best not to ask.
Douglas went back into his other room again, and came out carrying a large glass of whisky – much larger, I thought, than I’d ever seen anyone else drink. Whisky was a rare treat in my village, not to be drunk by the cupful. Douglas didn’t seem to be aware of this, however, and sat down heavily in his chair which, I noticed, looked a lot more comfortable than my own.
“I should feed ye tae Nessie,” he grumped.
“Nessie?” I squeaked, terrified.
“’E beast,” he grunted. “I cannae hae ye tellin’ folk aboot me – nor her – ever. Never. No even if ’e stars go oot. I cannae hae yer tribe efter me fir stealin’ fae yer altar.”
“So …” I whispered, petrified, “What are you going to do to me?”
“’At’s chist fit I’ve bin wonderin’, lad,” Douglas’s voice broke off as he supped his whisky. “I should toss ye in ‘e loch an’ let ye droon.”
I stifled my whimper.
Douglas stayed silent for a long time as he worked his way through his dram. I watched his eyes grow softer as his glass became emptier.
“Ye ken,” he said at length. “I’ve ne’er been spotted afore. Yer a special lad.”
I did not respond, unsure if this was a compliment or a condemnation.
“A very special lad,” he murmured again. I decided he had drunk too much whisky as his misty eyes gazed into the fire. “Exceptional, in fact. I need a lad lek ye. I’ve bided by masel’ fur tae lang. No a friend in ’e world but dear Nessie. I’m gettin’ auld. I need someone tae gie me a hand … an’ I cannae send ye back the noo, can I?”
“You’re keeping me here as your slave?” I clarified with horror.
“Best ’hink on it as an apprenticeship,” Douglas winked. “I’ll teach ye all ’e tricks o’ ’e trade, at least.”
“Which trade’s that?”
There was a long silence as Douglas removed a whale bone pipe from his inside pocket. He flicked open a small knife and started picking away at the crusty, burnt remains of whatever it was he smoked. Still ignoring the question, he extracted a leather pouch from the folds of his velvety tunic and began prodding its dark contents into his pipe. He stuck it into his gnarled mouth as he tenderly put away his pouch and knife. When he reached for his pipe again, smoke was already roiling from between his lips. He watched it swirl away. I followed his gaze and saw strange shapes twisting and knotting themselves out of the blue smoke. Between the eerie kelpies and smoky serpents toiled five opaque but unmistakable letters:
M …
    A …
         G …
              I …
                  C…