Dagger Magic

"Seedlings." Their informant looked inordinately pleased with himself. "I expect you know that the Buddhists are very ecology-minded. The Samye Ling people are doing a lot of tree-planting on the island - which is where my interest comes in. They hope to reestablish a fruit orchard on the same site where the old Christian monastic community had theirs, over a thousand years ago."

The buzz of the outboard rendered further conversation difficult, so the four passengers subsided to gaze ahead as the boatman guided his small craft out to a larger vessel moored a hundred yards farther out. There they quickly transferred passengers and equipment to the larger boat, tying the dinghy to the stern before slipping the moorings to head on to the island beyond.

"We could make it in the dinghy," the boatman told them, "but the island's just that far, and the weather's just chancy enough today, that I prefer taking the bigger boat."

The wind was freshening as the larger boat cut a thin white wake across the steel-colored water, her passengers bracing themselves against railings and stanchions as she made for the rocky, mist-wreathed bulk of the island. Seen up close, Holy Island was even more rugged than it had appeared at a distance, though a shingle beach gentled the rock-bound shore where a jetty thrust a stony finger into the surf. Beyond the jetty, a weather-beaten farmhouse and a beached and battered fishing boat underlined the island's isolation, even though it was only a mile from the greater island of Arran, and less than fifteen from the Scottish coast. The mist lent the scene a surreal timelessness that the photographer, whose name was Thorsen, was already trying to capture on film.

A second short trip in the dinghy proved necessary to bridge the distance between the launch and the jetty. As they approached, Thorsen drew their attention to a splash of yel-low-and-blue banner snapping in the wind atop a pole beside the jetty, vivid against the earth colors of the shoreline.

"I'm told that the flag symbolizes the meeting of earth and sky," he informed them. "See the little wave-indentations in the dividing line between the yellow and the blue? And the little flags fluttering along either side of the path to the farmhouse are prayer flags. I gather they're meant to work rather like votive candles in a church."

Further discussion was curtailed by the physical mechanics of transferring passengers and equipment from the dinghy to the jetty, aided by the brawn of a cheerful, shaven-headed young monk with a thick Glaswegian accent who introduced himself as Gregor. With blithe disregard for sartorial consistency, Gregor was wearing a navy anorak over his skirted robe of deep maroon, with a pair of mud-spattered green Wellie boots on his feet. When he caught sight of the box of seedlings, his wind-burned face lit up in a broad grin.

"Hah! I've been waitin' for these!" he exclaimed, happily hefting the box. "Many thanks for bringing 'em across for us, Mr. Thorsen. We'll try an' see that ye get some braw pictures while ye're here. Now, which one of you other gentlemen is Dr. Sinclair?"

"I am," said Adam. "And these are my associates, Mr. McLeod and Mr. Lovat."

"Ah, guid Scots names, all! It's a pleasure tae meet ye. If ye'll all come with me, I'll get Mr. Thorsen settled an' take the three of ye along tae meet Lama Jigme."

With no apparent effort, he swept the largest of the photographer's bags up onto one broad shoulder and tucked the box of seedlings protectively under the other arm before leading the way up a well-trodden gravel footpath that headed up to the farmhouse. The photographer fell in behind him, also laden with equipment, followed by the three Huntsmen, Peregrine carrying his sketchbox. As they passed between the rows of prayer flags flanking the path, Peregrine noted that some of the paper shapes were in the form of small horses imprinted with mandala-like designs in Tibetan script.

"They're called wind-horses," Adam said in an undertone, not wishing to deflate the photographer's earlier identification of the items, if he overheard. "It's believed that the fluttering of the breeze brings them to life, so they can carry the prayers inscribed upon them to their intended destinations."

"I wish I had time to sketch some of them," Peregrine murmured, continuing on at Adam's side, close behind McLeod. ' 'This whole place has an incredible feel to it. If I could stop to concentrate for a moment, I'm sure I could resolve layers and layers of co-existent resonances, past and present. And oddly enough, they're all in harmony with what's happening now."

"Apparently the Oriental mysteries don't seen quite so daunting as they did back on the ship," Adam said with a droll smile.

"Maybe not." Peregrine cast a glance ahead at the shaven head of their guide. "Some of this is very different, but maybe what was bothering me has to do with why we're here - not the place itself. There's no question that this is a holy island."