To follow a Bucca

Two boys, two different worlds, one seashore

Photo by Jim Beaudoin on Unsplash

Story Story Commendation for Season Nine of the Lunar Awards.

This is the first tale in my collection, “You Want It Darker,” which brings together myths and monsters from across the British Isles. We start in Cornwall…

“Look,” Dad said, manoeuvring the gear stick. “It’s a holiday and a chance for you two to get to know each other. Try, eh, Callum? He’s going through a rough time.”

I sat in the passenger seat and sulked.

My half-term was spent at the bottom of the country babysitting my older half-brother, Dylan. What made it worse was that he was coming back with us to stay in my bedroom. Stacy got to keep her room. Mum and Dad weren’t making any changes.
Just me.

All my plans with my mates, ruined. No private time or a chance to see Aileen. We’d managed a few kisses behind the wall at school, but now it was the holidays, I’d hoped we could go further. Even make it official; it’d be cool to have a girlfriend. Everyone else in my gang did.

Huh. Instead, I’ve been crunched up in a car for eight hours to get from Dumfries to Tintagel.

Pretty area, I’ll give it that much. We went from moorland to cities, to long, boring motorway stretches, then chocolate-box villages and finally, something wild again.

I don’t like cities.

Dylan was waiting for us as we drove up. He was sixteen and gangly with bags under his eyes and light brown chin stubble. There was a smattering of spots across his cheeks. He looked lost.

Dad got out of the car and hugged him. I gave him a brief nod and got our stuff out of the boot. “Where do I put it?” I asked, walking up the narrow path to the terraced house.

“Er, back bedroom,” Dylan called out. “You can share with Dad or take the sofa bed downstairs. Sorry, it’s just two rooms here.”

Fan-bloody-tastic.

“How’s your Mum?” Dad asked.

Dylan shrugged. “I saw her at the hospital yesterday. Still going through the tests before the operation. Aunt Sue’s coming over on Friday.”

Walking into the house was sad, just sad. You could see it had once been loved—the lampshades and curtains had been hand-dyed, and the walls were slapped with art. But the dining table was a mix of pill packets and leaflets, dirty plates littered the kitchen sink, and the bin stank.

“OK,” Dad said, looking at the mess. “Let’s get this fixed and stretch our legs. Have a walk on the beach, yeah?”

That’s how I ended up loitering behind Dylan on a small stone path down to the beach, which looked like a giant had taken a half-bite out of the cliff and spat the crumbs into the sea.

I didn’t like Dylan. He’d appeared about a half-dozen times in my life, always craving Dad’s attention and soaking up space whenever he’d made a trip to Scotland. Now, I measured him with my eyes. He was a head taller, and you could see the muscles move on his back through the thin T-shirt.

“S’up?” I asked awkwardly.

He snorted. “Everything.” He glanced back at Dad, who had stopped to take a phone call.

“Wanna talk about it?” I asked. I hoped not. I didn’t know anything about cancer.

“No.”

“Oh, OK. What d’you do down here?”

Dylan stared at the sea for a while. “I surf,” he said finally. “You can forget everything when you catch a wave.”

I fumbled around for a reply. “Like tricks and stuff?” I’d seen YouTube videos, and it looked vaguely similar to skateboarding.

Dylan shook his head. “Not here,” he explained. “You’d have to go somewhere like Newquay for the barrel rollers and big waves.” he gave me a sly half-smile. “You don’t come here for the waves.”

“What then?”

Dylan scratched his hairline. The ends of his hair were green, probably from some old dye job. “You can find Bucca’s down here,” he said.

“Is that some kind of fish?” I asked impatiently. I hoped Dad would catch up with us soon.

“No. Um - a Bucca is like a Kelpie, in Scotland. A sea spirit. Bucca Gwidden are the good ones and Bucca Dhu are the bad ones. Mum’s painted them before.”

I stared at the sea and back at him. “For real? You’re weird.”

“So’re you,” he retorted. “Black specs and Monster Mash on your T-shirt. Who even wears that?”

“Fuck off,” I snapped.

“Fine,” he said, just as curtly.

I peered over the edge of the cliff. The water was clear and cold. You could see the sand on the bottom. There weren’t any spirits. That’s like believing in Santa Claus, way past secondary school.

“Anything interesting?” Dad asked, puffing as he joined us.

“No,” I replied.

He touched my shoulder. “I need to talk to Dylan about the move, mate. Can you give us a minute? Find some more shells or something.”

I plodded around the small bay alone. It felt like I was five, but I found three smooth, black pebbles that fit just right in my palm. I kept them.

*

Dylan ignored me that night. Dad made a scratch pasta, and we watched a film on BBC iPlayer. My palms itched during a car cliff chase overlooking the sea.

When I went into the Master bedroom to sleep, I saw a black pebble on the dressing table that looked almost like mine. This one had a single trace of white running in a thin line from the edge to the centre. I pulled the rest out of my pocket and made a spiral from all four.

*

The following days were cleaning, housework and packing. Dylan took out bag after bag of trash from his room - old books, worn clothes and a box of Lego that I quickly nicked. Lego’s for any age, right? After each day’s chores, he would change into his wetsuit, take his surfboard and go down to the beach. He didn’t want company - after being prodded by Dad, I asked. Instead, I trailed him down to the beach on the pretence of fresh air and exercise. The sound of the waves battered my ears. I stuck a finger in the water and decided it was too cold to paddle. The beach irritated and enticed me in equal measure. Push-pull. Just like the waves.

Instead, I perched on a rock to watch Dylan. He went out to sea, beyond the waves’ breakpoint, bending low in the water. Was he looking for fish? Or something else?

According to Google, ‘Kelpie’ meant a sea spirit. Not nice ones, either. They try to drown you.

I found two more black pebbles.

*

“Slept well?” Dad asked grumpily on the third day.

“Yeah, why?” I asked, grabbing the cornflakes.

“You’ve been talking in your sleep. Weird stuff about souls and waves. What’ve you been watching on YouTube?”

“Nothing,” I said truthfully. The wifi reception at the house was crap.

“I’ve got to go to the hospital this morning alone. You OK to stay here?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan turned up an hour later, ate his way through coffee and toast and headed for the back door.

“Surfing again?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

“Need to make the most of it,” he replied.

I decided to join him. It was sunny enough, and I might find a shell for Aileen.

Instead, I found another pebble just by the water’s edge.

“Leave it,” Dylan ordered sharply.

Feeling contrary, I pocketed it and stuck my tongue out at him. I expected him to get angry, but instead, he looked worried.

“That’s from them,” he warned me. “It’s how they find you on land.”

I scoffed. “I’ve already got a pile at home,” I said. “You’re not gonna feart me with a fairy tale.”

Dylan grasped my wrist. His fingers were cold pressure points on my skin. “S’ not a tale,” he said seriously. “You’re a pain in the arse, but Dad loves you.” He held up his index finger for emphasis. “Put. The Pebble. Back.”

“Fine,” I huffed and tossed it on the ground.

Dylan nodded, satisfied. “We’ll toss the others when we get home,” he said.

I watched him surf. It was a moment of pleasure, with the sun out and the sea smacking the shore. Dylan laughed as the wave petered out, and he half-fell off his board into the water.

When my phone rang, I felt my heart sink. It was Dad.
“Callum? Can you get Dylan on the phone? It’s about his Mum.”

*

The news was not good. After a while, the misery got too much, and I waited in the hospital cafe. A tiny, birdlike woman found me there. She had soft green eyes with creases around the eyelids and a streak of white hair at her temple that stood out from her dark brown mane.

“Hi, Callum,” she said warmly. “I’m Dylan’s Aunt Sue. It’s getting late, so let’s get you home.”

Sue was nice. She plated me up sausage, chips and beans and chased me up the stairs to bed. I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

*

I woke up briefly, once, to shouting—an argument between Dylan and Dad.

“….you can’t make me! It was only supposed to be for a few weeks.”

A murmur from Dad.

“Like you’ve ever been there for me anyway. You left us when Callum was born! You’ve been gone for most of my life! Don’t pretend you care now.”

I stuck my pillow over my head and bit my lip. There was nowt I could do about this.

*

Sue woke me up. “Callum?” she said sharply. “Hey, Callum!”

I blinked awake. My mouth tasty salty and dried-out, like I’d been drinking seawater. When I lifted my hands there was dried seaweed stuck between my fingers. Weird.

Sue wasn’t concerned about that, though. She was staring wide-eyed at the pile of pebbles on the dressing table.

“Did you do that?” she asked, pointing at the stones. “Or Dylan?”

I blinked. “Me,” I croaked. “But there was one there when I arrived.”

Sue hunted through the pile and picked one from the bottom. “This one?”

It was the stone with the white streak.

“Yeah.”

Sue shook her head. “That’s mine. The others are…not friendly.”

I rubbed my lips and tasted blood from where the skin broke. “You’re a bucca?! I thought Dylan was making that up.”

Sue rolled her eyes. “Oh, to be fourteen and to know everything! Where did you find these?” She wore a green summer dress, and as she spoke, she bunched up the skirt in a makeshift pocket. She slid the pebbles from the table into the fabric with her other hand.

“Down in the bay,” I said, confused. “So what?”

“Dylan’s missing.” She turned around to glare at my hands. “And judging by the state of you, you’re next.”

*

“I don’t understand,” I panted. I had pulled on some jeans and trainers but was still in my pyjama top. People gave me odd looks as I ran down the street after Sue, who was marching like she was in the army. The pebbles had been transferred to a woven beach bag, and she now wore a sunhat. To everyone else, she looked like a daytripper, whilst I was the crazy teenager.

“Wait and see,” she called over her shoulder.

She kept up the pace until we reached the cliffs. Dad was sitting there, head in his hands. He was red-eyed and didn’t look like he’d slept at all. I sat down next to him and gave him a fierce hug. He sniffed into my shoulder.

“I’ve got bad news and good,” Sue said gently.

Dad wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Hit me with it,” he said, attempting to smile.

“We can protect Callum.” She cut her eyes at me with an expression that said I was seven types of ejit.

“And Dylan?” I asked.

Sue shook her head. “Gone. They came last night, and I think he distracted them from your younger son.”

“Can you get him back?” Dad asked, his voice hoarse.
“No. My deep cousins drown their prey.”

Dad’s face creased. “When we got drunk at that Christmas party, you once told me Bucca held the souls of the drowned. If that’s the case, you can get him back.”

Sue looked annoyed. “I didn’t think you’d remember that,” she said.

“Please. He’s m’boy.”

“The boy you left behind.”

Dad’s face crumpled. I squeezed his shoulder and turned to face Sue.

“Yeah, Dad went to Scotland, but he didn’t forget about Dylan. He came back for him. He’s family, and I’m just getting to know him. Can you give us a second chance?”

Sue pulled out one of the stones and held it in her hands, considering. “I would have to whistle up a fog,” she said thoughtfully. “And we would need an offering.”

“OK,” I said. “What kind of offering?”

*

Three hours later, a thick fog was rolling in. I shivered. We’d got an entire salmon from the supermarket, and I retrieved my hoodie from the bedroom. It stank of the sea, but it was still warmer than my summer coat. I wish I had a hat and gloves, too.

Dad waited by the shore with the fish on the ground. I was next to him. The waves were muffled now, and you could barely see your hand in front of your face.

Sue was chanting somewhere off to our right. I didn’t know the language, but it sounded similar to Gaelic.

“Stay close to me,” Dad muttered. “And don’t step in the water.”

I nodded, my heart thumping away. This was way beyond eerie.

More hooves. I could feel the press of large animals passing by us in the fog. There were raised voices, then a mare’s scream. I jumped.

I saw a face.

It was not like a human face, with skin and eyes and stuff. This face formed itself out of the fog, like a mask. It had eyebrows, eye sockets, a flared nose, and pouted lips. When the mouth spoke, I saw jagged shark teeth.

“Who pulls us from the swells to the shore?” The voice was soft, like a cough.

Dad shuddered. “He's afraid,” I realised.

Shit, would we make it?

I wanted to run, but I was frozen to the spot. Dad gave his name and lifted the fish. The mask sneered.

“Not enough,” it said.

“What, then?” Dad asked desperately. “What will bring my son back?”

The mask drifted closer to me. ‘You,’ it said to me.

I jerked my head from side to side. Like I was gonna do that!

Dad half-raised his hand. “Take me,” he said.

The mask considered.

“No!” I screamed. The fear coated my tongue like pennies, but now I was moving, lobbing stones and swearing, the little street monster of Dumfries. I saw Dylan’s face briefly in the mist, despair etching his features. Then he was gone, and I was sobbing on the sand as the sea receded.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I repeated, like a mantra. For messing up, fighting with Dylan, and choosing Dad.

Dad’s arms wrapped around me like a rope. I could tell by the hitch in his breath he was crying, too.

Sue was nowhere to be seen. I hoped she was with him.