Dagger Magic

Chapter Twenty

"I wonder what the weather's like in the Gulf of Corinth A just now," Julia Lovat remarked with a sigh, as she turned west off the A78 the next morning, following the signs for Ardrossan and the Arran Ferry. The early morning sky was gloomy and overcast, with a light mist in the air, and she had the headlights and wipers on.

"Probably clear and balmy," her husband said around a yawn, hunched down in his seat beside her.

"Hmmm, yes." Julia down-shifted to overtake a milk float whose driver had stopped to make a delivery. "I find I have a sudden, unaccountable yearning to eat baklava and take a bus tour to Delphi."

The comment stirred Peregrine out of his early morning fog, and he removed his spectacles to rub at his bleary eyes. Despite an excellent meal the night before and a blissful evening spent in the arms of his loving wife, his sleep had been broken by fitful dreams, leaving him with a dull ache in his head and a flat metallic taste in his mouth. The disturbing quality of the dreams themselves was something he intended to take up later with Adam. In the meantime, blinking my-opically out at the blustery Scottish dawn, he asked, "Are you regretting we didn't book a cruise of the Aegean?"

"Let's just say that I'm beginning to appreciate Jane McLeod's rationale for insisting that she and Noel take their holiday this year in Tenerife," Julia said. "As I recall, her words were something along the lines of, The further away from home you go, the less likely you are to be recalled on business."

"You may be onto something," Peregrine agreed, yawning again. "The next time we plan a trip, maybe we should consider booking a sailing excursion to the Galapagos Islands, or a hiking expedition through the mountains of Sri Lanka."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to file those ideas away for future reference," she said, "finances permitting."

"Consider them filed," Peregrine said with a grin that was slightly forced.

He huddled back down in his seat, retiring like a turtle into the bulky warmth of his high-necked Arran pullover.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a couple of paracetamol?" Julia asked, after negotiating a mini-roundabout. "I've got some in my bag."

"I doubt they'd help, but thanks anyway," Peregrine mumbled. "There's nothing wrong with me that won't improve once I've had a chance to wake up."

"I hope you're right about that," she replied, "because we're almost there."

Forcing himself upright, Peregrine put his spectacles back on and scanned ahead. In the gradually brightening gloom, the ferry and its landing loomed ahead against a windswept backdrop of whitecapped water and cloudy sky. The great bow doors of the ship gaped open, and about a dozen vehicles were already lined up on the access ramp in its shadow, including a familiar black BMW toward the end of the queue. Two figures in tan trenchcoats were just getting back into the car, both of them wearing flat tweed caps.

"There they are," he said, pointing, "and I forgot a hat. We'll just have to hope it doesn't bucket, or I'll drown. You can let me out right here."

Julia pulled the Alvis to the curb and stopped, and Peregrine reached over the seat for his waxed jacket and portable sketchbox. As he did so, the diesel-tainted air was riven by the loud hoot of a klaxon horn.

"You'd better hurry," Julia said. "They're starting to board."

Peregrine kissed her hastily on the mouth and scrambled out of the car, shrugging on his waxed jacket.

"Give us till lunch time, then try ringing me up on Noel's cell phone. The number's written down inside the cover of the road atlas. Hopefully by then, we'll know what our afternoon's schedule is going to be like, and I'll be able to suggest a time and place for us to rendezvous. Goodbye! I won't be any longer than I have to!"

" 'Bye, darling."

Aching head notwithstanding, Peregrine hurried off down the ramp, weaving his way in and out between the other waiting vehicles. He reached the BMW just as the car ahead was starting to move forward.

"Glad you could join us, Mr. Lovat," McLeod said over his shoulder as Peregrine flung open the back door and piled inside behind them. "You could have cut it a little closer, but not by much."

"Sorry," Peregrine murmured. "I thought I'd allowed plenty of time."

"You did," Adam replied, with a backward glance and a smile. "It's just now quarter to seven. I'm sure we won't leave early."

Peregrine merely nodded. The brief burst of activity had left him feeling slightly lightheaded. He took several deep breaths to steady himself, and was relieved when the pounding in his temples subsided to a dull ache. Mentally praying that this hangover sensation wasn't going to last all day, he gave Julia a wave over his shoulder as McLeod put the car into gear and began easing the BMW down into the shadowy confines of the parking hold.

Since motorists were not allowed on the car deck once the ferry was at sea, there was a general exodus of drivers and passengers toward the motorists' lounge as soon as the cars were secured. Leaving McLeod to join the queue for coffee at the beverage counter, Adam and Peregrine went off to secure a table. Peregrine chose one in a far back corner, dim and away from the rest of the passengers.

"You're looking a bit fragile this morning," Adam observed, taking a good look at his young associate as they settled down to await McLeod's return. "Perhaps you ought to think about getting something more substantial than a cup of coffee."

"I don't think so. The way I feel at the moment, breakfast would just about be the end of me. I spent most of last night having some pretty strange dreams about flying."

"Something you ate?" Adam asked lightly, though Peregrine's immediate gesture of denial dashed any hope of the dreams being inconsequential.

"Tell me about the dreams," Adam said quietly, his right thumb absently caressing the band of the sapphire ring on his right hand.

Peregrine sighed and leaned a little closer to Adam, resting his elbows on the table as he knit his long fingers together.

"I said dreams just now," he began, "but actually it seemed to be just one dream that kept repeating itself all through the night. I kept dreaming I was imprisoned inside a round glass bubble, like a flying fishbowl. The fishbowl was hurtling through the air above a high range of mountains. I remember a loud humming sound, like a hornet's buzz, and the sensation of rushing wind. But nothing more than that seemed to come of it until early this morning, just before I woke up."

"What was different then?" Adam prompted.

"On the last recurrence, I caught sight of something new in the distance," Peregrine continued. "It appeared to be some kind of monument on top of a cliff. As I got closer, I could see it was some sort of Oriental shrine with a statue in it. Then, as I got closer still, the statue seemed to come suddenly to life."

He shivered and slid his hands up his arms as if against a sudden chill.

"It looked up and saw me. The glance it shot my way was like a laser beam. It hit the fishbowl - shattered it like broken crystal - and the next thing I knew, I was falling, plunging straight for the ground. I could see the ground rushing up to meet me, when someone suddenly grabbed me by the arm and called my name loud enough to wake me up."

He broke off with a wan attempt at a grin. ' 'It was Julia. Apparently I gave a yelp in my sleep, and she was trying to get my attention to ask me what was wrong. I'm damned glad she did. I've had flying dreams before - and dreams about falling - but this was the first time I've ever really thought I was going to die."

Another shiver accompanied this last disclosure, and Peregrine bowed his head over his close-clasped arms. If it had been anyone else, Adam might have encouraged him to make light of the whole experience. Where Peregrine was concerned, however, the occurrence of such a vivid dream had the makings of a worrisome development.

"This statue," Adam said thoughtfully, mentally reviewing everything the artist had just told him. "Can you describe what it looked like in any detail?"

"I can do better than that," Peregrine said. "As soon as I was wide enough awake to recover my wits, I sat down and made a sketch. Here, I'll show you."

Hefting his sketchbox up onto the table in front of him, he opened it up and pulled out one of his sketch pads, not opening it until he had set the sketchbox back between his feet. McLeod returned at that moment with three plastic cups of black coffee.

"Peregrine's done a sketch from a rather unpleasant dream he had last night," Adam murmured, taking one of the cups from McLeod as the inspector sat down across from him.

Peregrine flipped his pad open to the appropriate page and set it in front of Adam, then took a second cup of coffee off McLeod's hands.

"Anything familiar about him?" he asked.

Shaking his head, Adam cast his eyes over the figure of a princely male form seated cross-legged on a low throne. It reminded him at once of the votive images to be found amongst the shrines and holy places of India - except that the figure's face was blank. It wore the flowing robes of a bodhisattva, the head crowned with a peaked hat reminiscent of a bishop's mitre. But one hand cupped a drinking bowl made from a human skullcap; the other grasped an implement that Adam recognized as a stylized thunderbolt symbol, shaped something like a small, openwork dumbbell with pointed ends. The hands themselves were sheathed in gauntlet-like gloves which, like the robes and the mitre, had been given a watercolor wash of emerald green.

"Interesting," Adam murmured, angling the pad 180 degrees so McLeod could look at it. "Was this figure literally faceless?"

Peregrine frowned. "I don't think so - no. But I didn't have time to make anything of the features, and I couldn't tell you now what I saw."

"What made you color in the vestments?"

Peregrine's frown yielded to an expression of perplexity. "I don't know. It just seemed - important."

As McLeod wordlessly closed the sketchbook, casting a questioning glance at Adam as he pushed it back in front of Peregrine, Adam clasped his hands before him, the fingers of his left hand cupped over the sapphire on his right.

"Whatever else may be said of this 'dream' of yours," he said slowly, "I think we may safely agree that it was no ordinary nightmare. We'll show the sketch to Lama Jigme, along with our evidence, but I expect he'll confirm that there is some connection. The clothing on the figure is similar to what you sketched before, except for the mitre and the gloves. The human skullcap makes me very uneasy. That's a thunderbolt symbol in the figure's other hand. In Sanskrit, it's called a vajra - I think the Tibetan term is dorje - and they're usually made of bronze. Both are suggestive of a cultural link, if nothing else, between whoever this individual may be and the kind of weapon used to kill Mick Scanlan."

Peregrine gave a shudder and cupped his hands around his coffee. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that," he murmured. "I don't mind telling you, Adam, all this Oriental esoterica makes me more than a little queasy. I mean, I've just started to become reasonably comfortable with Western European magic, and now it looks like I've dragged us into something that none of us knows that much about.''

"That's why we're consulting experts," Adam replied with a wan smile. "And I wouldn't say you 'dragged' anyone into anything. It's true that the involvement of the Hunting Lodge stems from your finding of that body at Mull of Kintyre. However, all of us serve as the catalyst for cosmic justice, on occasion; every assignment has to start somewhere. Having become Initiate, it was only a matter of time before you were judged sufficiently advanced to be dragooned directly by our mutual superiors on the Inner Planes."

Peregrine looked at him a little incredulously.

"Is that meant to be reassuring?"

"Actually, it was," Adam replied, with a glance at McLeod. "Why don't you put your head down and have a bit of a nap until we get to Brodick? I assure you, you'll feel the better for it."

Without even attempting to argue, Peregrine took off his glasses and laid them on the table, slumping forward then to rest his forehead on his crossed forearms. He could feel all his tension and anxiety draining away as Adam's hand came to rest on the back of his neck, as if someone had pulled a plug; and the next thing he knew, that hand was gently kneading his neck and bringing him back to awareness. He could not remember any passage of time or any words spoken.

"Feeling better?" Adam murmured. "It's time to go back to the car. Don't stand up too quickly."

Peregrine found he did feel better as they made their way back down to the car deck, his anxiety largely replaced by eager anticipation. The ferry docked at Brodick a few minutes before eight o'clock. The weather had improved somewhat, but a fine mist still hung on the air, making rain gear desirable. They were off the boat within five minutes, heading south along the coast road, and another five minutes brought them to the harbor at Lamlash, a natural anchorage overlooking the Firth of Clyde, with the Holy Island looming out of the mist a mile beyond. Leaving the BMW in the car park, they made their way along the quay till they located a man in bright orange oilskins, helping hand equipment down to a second man in a large fiberglass dinghy equipped with an outboard motor.

"Morning," the boatman said, eyeing the three of them. "One of you called Sinclair?"

"I'm Sinclair," Adam replied. "I hope we haven't delayed you."

"Not so far," the man replied. "Got any equipment?"

"Just the sketchbox," Adam said, gesturing toward Peregrine.

"Come on aboard, then."

Already on board was a robust-looking bearded man with a Dodgers baseball cap crammed firmly down on his crown of curly black hair. Over the shoulder of his well-worn waxed jacket was a state-of-the-art Japanese camera. The pockets of the olive-drab gadget vest beneath the jacket bulged with auxiliary lenses and filters. A silvery equipment case lay on the deck at his Wellie-shod feet, along with a battered rucksack and a larger-than-average camera tote, out of which protruded the legs of a portable tripod. Next to the tote bag was a large flat box plastered over with notices that read fragile, handle with care, and this end up. He nodded a tentative greeting to Adam and his companions as the boatman helped them climb down into the dinghy.

"Good morning," Adam responded, taking in the photo equipment. "I hope this mist burns off, or you won't get much in the way of photos."

The man gave a cheerful shrug and pulled off his baseball cap long enough to shake water off it.

"At least it makes for atmosphere," he said. His accent was vaguely Continental. "If you wait for the fine weather, you never get any work done."

"You must be a professional photographer," McLeod said as the boatman came aboard and made his way aft.

Their fellow passenger grinned and nodded, shifting some of his equipment so that everyone could sit. "That I am. The Ford Foundation sent me. The Holy Island Project is in the running for an important conservation award, and the organizers like to have a photo essay on each entry. I was doing some shooting over at Samye Ling yesterday. A fascinating place, very peaceful and serene. The Dalai Lama's speaking there next year. Do you know it?"

"We know of it," Adam said neutrally, as the boatman fired up the outboard and the photographer moved forward to cast off the bowline.

"Anyway," the man continued as he sat back down, "when word got around that I'd be coming to the island today, one of the staff asked if I'd mind delivering that." He gestured toward the flat box with a grin.

"What's in it?" Peregrine asked.

"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."

"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."

Leading them inside, he spoke briefly to a ginger-headed man with a beard before continuing up a flight of wooden stairs, beckoning them to follow. He shed his anorak as they climbed, revealing a sleeveless gold jacket over his maroon skirt. Upstairs, passing a closed door bearing a color poster of the Dalai Lama, Adam saw Peregrine do a double take.

"This way, please," Jigme said, ushering them into an alcove off a tidy landing, where a pair of stripped-pine benches flanked another closed door.

Here Jigme paused to hang his anorak on one of several wooden pegs above the benches, courteously inviting his guests to shed hats, coats, and shoes as he sat to remove his yellow Wellies. Before ushering them into the room beyond, he wrapped himself around in a toga-like maroon mantle, which he drew up over one shoulder.

"I hope you don't mind sitting on the floor," he said, switching on an overhead light and bending to hand out flat red cushions from a stack just inside the door.

Entering, Peregrine's first impression was one of orderly simplicity. Pale straw matting covered most of the floor - new, by the fresh smell of it. Everything was scrupulously clean, the walls newly whitewashed where they were not adorned with paintings of various Buddhas. One corner was dominated by the presence of a graceful bronze Buddha seated in an attitude of serene contemplation on a low stand in the form of a blossoming lotus.

On the floor before the statue stood a bronze incense burner, a yellow votive light set on a rectangle of native slate, and a bronze bowl brimming with the purple and yellow of heather and gorse. The room itself carried a subtle fragrance of jasmine and wild honeysuckle. Though Peregrine found many of the images somewhat strange to his Western eyes, the peace prevailing in the room made him feel oddly at home.

Jigme had closed the door behind them, and now moved into the center of the room to plop his cushion down and sit cross-legged, inviting them to do the same. They did, Peregrine and McLeod sinking down to Adam's left and right. Though Peregrine again felt the urge to sketch their host, he merely laid his sketchbox at his left side, ready to produce their evidence to Jigme at the appropriate time. While they waited for their tea, Jigme offered a casual commentary about the room's function as a meditation chamber.

Very shortly, the ginger-haired man from downstairs brought in a wooden tray supporting four mismatched china mugs. The rich aroma of Darjeeling tea wafted upwards as, to an accompanying murmur of thanks, he deposited the tray at Jigme's left elbow and then departed, closing the door behind him.

"Please forgive the informality," Jigme said, as he distributed steaming mugs all around, "but our accommodations here are still a bit primitive. Jasmine tea is the traditional offering to guests, but I thought you might prefer something more substantial. I hope you don't mind it black."

"Not at all," Adam replied. "We're grateful for any consideration."

The gentle reminder of why they were there was acknowledged by a graceful inclination of Jigme's head. Raising his mug slightly in salute, he sipped from it cautiously, then set it on the matting at his feet to cool.

"Very well, Dr. Sinclair," he said quietly. "You indicated yesterday that you desired guidance on a matter of grave concern, and invoked the name of a well-loved student of my master, Tseten Rinpoche. Please acquaint me with this matter, so that I may advise him."