Dagger Magic

"No, indeed," Adam replied softly.

Up ahead, perhaps as many as a dozen men and women in the more conventional work attire of jeans, Wellie boots, bright-colored parkas, and wooly hats were dispersing from the farmhouse. Several of them also sported the traditional maroon robes and shaven head favored by their guide. One of the shaved heads belonged to a woman. Most of them carried scythes, billhooks, and other cutting implements.

"They're goin' out tae cut rhododendron," Gregor remarked over his shoulder. "It turns into a weed if ye dinnae keep after it. It'll choke out everything else."

"I'm familiar with the problem," Adam replied with a smile. ' 'My gardener fights the constant battle, along with the battle of the ivy. Are those all members of your community?''

"Hmmm, more like temporary lay members," Gregor allowed. "They're mostly conservation volunteers, here tae help with one of our reforestation projects. These are Scottish oak and whitebeam Mr. Thorsen's brought. They'll go in the old monastic orchard we're restorin'. There's a hellish amount of work to be done, but it's goin' to be worth it, to see the island come alive again." He grinned. "Come back again in five years, an' you'll scarce recognize the place."

As they approached the house, a faint sound of hammering grew gradually more distinct. Its source became immediately apparent as they came abreast of a sheltered side yard, where an energetic knot of workers were busy cobbling together a new weather stoop above an open side door.

When no one noticed their arrival, the Glaswegian monk stepped just inside the yard and gave a high, sweet whistle to attract their attention above the din of hammers. The hammering stopped and five pairs of eyes tracked to the sound. Four of them belonged to Westerners of assorted ages, several sporting shaggy beards, but the fifth carpenter, helping shoulder a heavy support beam into place, was a youngish-looking monk who resembled photos Adam had seen of the Dalai Lama as a young man.

"Ah, Gregor, I see our visitors have arrived," the monk said, gold-wire spectacles catching the light as he yielded his place to another and headed toward them, dusting off his hands. In common with the man who had just hailed him, he wore an open smile and a navy anorak over his maroon robe, though his Wellie boots were lemon-yellow.

"This is Mr. Thorsen, come to shoot those photos, Jigme-la," Gregor announced with a grin, sketching a bow that conveyed a mixture of affection and respect. "He's also brought the seedlings from Samye Ling."

"And we thank him for it," the monk replied, favoring Thorsen with a smile and a nod. His pleasantly modulated voice carried but a trace of an accent. "Welcome to Holy Island, Mr. Thorsen. I am Lama Jigme. We are very pleased to have you with us."

"I'm very pleased to be here, sir," Thorsen replied, raising his voice as the hammering resumed. "I'll try not to get in anyone's way."

"Not to worry." Jigme gave an apologetic shrug toward the intruding noise. "Please feel free to stay as long as you like. You've met the incomparable Gregor; he is one of my more promising students. He will show you to your quarters and see that you have anything else you may require that we can provide. I give you notice that he is one of our most knowledgeable conservation enthusiasts. May I suggest that, as an introduction to our work here, you allow him to give you a complete tour."

"Thank you, sir. I'd like that."

"Excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon."

As Gregor took Thorsen and his equipment into the house, Jigme turned a discerning gaze to his remaining guests, shrewd black eyes singling out Adam.

"You must be Dr. Sinclair," he declared, extending a hand in Western greeting. "I apologize for the distraction. Welcome to all of you."

Adam inclined his head and bowed slightly over the lama's slender hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Jigme-la. These are the associates I mentioned in speaking with you yesterday: Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, of the Lothian and Borders Police, and Mr. Peregrine Lovat, who frequently assists us in his capacity as an artist."

Peregrine found himself under close but friendly scrutiny as Jigme turned from McLeod to shake his hand. Something in the other man's aspect encouraged him to return that regard. A host of compound images blossomed before his eyes, serenely unfolding before him like the petals of a lotus flower, begging to be sketched. Then Jigme returned his gaze to Adam, and all the manifold images coalesced into the single image of a simple Buddhist monk, not nearly as young as Peregrine had first supposed.

"I believe a cup of tea might be in order, to thaw out the chill after your boat ride," Jigme said easily, gesturing toward the farmhouse. "Please come inside, and we shall see what can be organized."