“Da! Da!” Their voices were shrill with alarm. “Da!”
As he heaved the door of the house away, his youngest burst into him. “Da! He’s a cloot. He’s a cloot!”
“The monster’s dead, Lad,” he tried to assure the boy, but the child only tugged and yelled. His eyes were wild and his little frame shook.
The fisherman held the frantic child by the arm as he scanned the rocks. Old Cloot lay in the water as he had left him the night before. Nearby, the boys had lit a fire. Then he saw his middle son, backed against the upturned hull of the boat, his face contorted in horror.
In front of the lad, lay a twisting, writhing mass of what looked like grey mud. As the fisherman ran toward his terrified child, a long neck rose out of the mound and roared.
“Run,” the man shouted. “Run!” But the boy did n
