Dagger Magic

Chapter Twenty-Two

BACK on Holy Island, Lama Jigme listened without comment, his tea long grown cold, while Adam unfolded the mysterious and troubling circumstances surrounding the death of Michael Scanlan. Having produced Peregrine's photographs and the Nazi flag, he then allowed McLeod to describe and to review the forensic findings from Scanlan's post-mortem and to review what Somerville had researched concerning U-636. Finally, Peregrine presented his various sketches, including the green-washed study based on his dream of the night before, and reiterated what he had described to Adam on the ferry earlier.

The three of them waited in silence while Jigme examined each of the items in turn, absently fingering an edge of the flag while he studied Peregrine's photos and drawings. A silence settled over the room, broken only by a faint clatter of domestic noises from other parts of the house. The monk's dark eyes were troubled as he set the flag aside and raised his gaze to his visitors.

"You were very right to come here, gentlemen," he announced gravely. "Apart from this flag - whose connection I must confess escapes me - all the other evidence you have shown me points to a debased and evil offshoot of that branch of Tibetan spiritual practice sometimes labelled 'dagger magic.' Some say it is pre-Buddhist in its origins - and in the wrong hands, even anti-Buddhist."

He indicated Peregrine's drawing of the falling Scanlan and the detail of the triple-edged blade piercing his back.

"Central to Tibetan dagger magic is the Phurba itself," the lama continued, "a blade endowed with mystical properties. The name can mean 'flyer' or 'rocket.' Amongst legitimate adherents to our doctrines, such daggers are relatively common as objects of devotion. Allow me to show you one."

Rising nimbly to his feet, he went to the Buddha figure in the corner and removed from behind it a bundle wrapped in soft folds of maroon silk brocade. This he unwrapped as he came back to sink down again before them, handling it through the silk as he displayed it for their scrutiny.

Like the dagger Peregrine had sketched, this one had a heavy, tapering blade of three edges. The hilt was likewise adorned with an assortment of grotesque demon-faces all around, whose ferocity sent a shiver up Peregrine's spine.

Their host did not offer the Phurba for hands-on inspection. Instead, still grasping the hilt through the silk, he gave the blade a light fillip with a fingernail. The response was a bright metallic chime. Jigme's expression as he laid the blade in his lap was slightly abstracted, as if he were listening for some distant echo.

"It is said that a blade possessing true power rings true to the music of the cosmos," he murmured softly, "and that the resonances that it makes are songs in praise of the Adibuddha."

"The Adibuddha?" Adam repeated softly in question.

"It is what we call the supreme source of all knowledge and truth, common to all Buddhist sects." Jigme smiled wistfully. "A Westerner might liken the blade's song to 'the music of the spheres.'"

"Ah," Adam breathed with a nod, though Peregrine found himself squirming uneasily.

"But the faces on the hilt are so - grotesque," the artist murmured.

"And aptly so," Jigme replied, "for they are meant to symbolize the wrathful destruction of delusion and evil. The blades themselves, of course, are morally neutral to start with, being creations of human beings. Their subsequent affinity for either good or evil comes about as the result of the interaction that takes place between the mind of the meditator and the intent toward which the practice is addressed."

"You speak of a tool, then," Adam said, "neutral in itself but usable in a variety of contexts."

"Yes, but it is more than that," Jigme replied. "To those who embrace the Dagger Cult, the Phurba is both an object and a meditational framework. We would call it a deity, but that term does not have quite the same meaning for us that it has in a Western perspective. In righteous hands, the Phurba can be a powerful force for good; turned to evil, a formidable weapon. Even His Holiness the Dalai Lama recognizes the Phurba practice. He is known to have a Phurba lama in his entourage," Jigme conceded.

"Then, these - dagger practitioners are within mainstream Buddhism?" McLeod asked.

"That is correct."

"Interesting," Adam murmured. "Then despite our evidence to the contrary, we must infer that in its optimal form, dagger practice is benign; if it weren't, the great lamas certainly would have nothing to do with it. Could you perhaps tell us more about its basic tenets?"

"Of course." Jigme's graceful hands gently turned the Phurba as he went on. "In the eyes of those who have received the teachings, Phurbas embody the active aspect of intrinsic awareness or enlightened mind. To more primitive believers, the Phurba constitutes a tool for the procurement of good fortune. This latter view is based upon the notion held by some that all forms of bad luck and unhappiness are caused by demons. By contrast, happiness and good luck are to be secured through the intercession of one who uses a Phurba in the enactment of special rituals designed to drive away or liberate the demons in question."

He paused to survey each of his visitors in turn. "You may notice that I avoid using the word 'kill.' This is because we believe that even demons belong to that broad category of sentient beings whom the Lord Buddha forbids us to harm, for all deserve our compassion."

"So, you don't - 'kill the demons?" Peregrine asked tentatively - though it occurred to him that Adam had not killed the demons guarding the Templar treasure.

A wry smile touched Jigme's lips. "I must admit that the distinction may be largely a semantic one. We use the term sGrol, 'to liberate,' rather than sBad, 'to kill.' The intention is to destroy only the bad qualities of the demon, thus liberating its intrinsic awareness into a higher realm."

"Rather like the apostle Paul exhorting his followers to die to sin in order to be reborn into new life," Adam offered.

Jigme nodded approvingly. "An apt analogy, in Western terms. To destroy only the entity's bad qualities is taken to be an act of Special Compassion. Liberating through compassion in this way is neither killing - an act of anger - nor suppression, the consequence of ignorance. I must confess, however, that my own experience with this fine distinction is mostly academic. 1 am more familiar with the aspects of Phurba having to do with protection."

"Is that what the Dalai Lama's Phurba priest does?" McLeod asked. "Protection?"

The wry smile returned to Jigme's lips. "I believe the priest in question sometimes performs workings for propitious weather. In Tibet, dagger men are also sometimes called hail-masters, because of their ability to avert hailstorms that could ruin crops. If this application seems a bit primitive," he went on with a trace of whimsy, "it is also an indication of its antiquity. The first traces of the Phurba are said to occur at least a thousand years before the coming of the Lord Buddha - fifteen hundred years before the beginning of the Christian era - and not entirely in the Orient. Ritual daggers similar to this one have been found among the ruins of ancient Mesopotamia, in what is now called Iraq. It has been suggested that such implements were driven into the ground to mark out boundaries within which demons might not venture."

"A form of warding?" Adam asked.

"In a sense, perhaps," Jigme allowed. "I have heard it said that these early ritual daggers are perhaps related to the pegs by which nomadic peoples anchor their tents to the ground."

"The logic follows," Adam said. "A three-edged metal tent-peg has obvious advantages over a wooden one, in that you can drive it into stony ground and keep it anchored against wind and weather."

"Precisely," Jigme agreed, rewrapping the Phurba and laying it aside. "And of course, iron and the working of it have long had their association with magic. Given the vast superiority of iron tools and weapons over bronze, small wonder that the first smiths who learned to extract the iron from its ore and forge it were viewed as magicians. In many parts of the world, blacksmiths still retain something of their ancient mystique. I should point out, however, that certain types of Phurba are still made out of wood, if they are meant to mark boundaries or serve as votary objects rather than as instruments for subduing demons."

"But it wasn't any wooden dagger that killed that fisheries officer we've been telling you about," McLeod pointed out.

"Indeed not." Jigme's tone matched the seriousness of his expression as he picked up one of Peregrine's photos. "And the fact that the attack was fatal proves beyond all shadow of a doubt that these dagger-wielders are operating outside the pale of our beliefs. No orthodox Buddhist would countenance the deliberate killing of another sentient being. The true perversion of those you seek is that they have exchanged the intended destruction of evil for the promotion of evil.

"The presence of this flag likewise troubles me deeply," he went on, not touching it as he laid the photo aside again. "While I myself was born too recently to have any personal memory of the Second World War, no one living and working in the West today could be wholly ignorant of the monstrous evils that were committed against mankind under the aegis of flags like this one. As for the possibility of a German submarine secreted in an Irish sea cave - "

He broke off with a deprecatory shake of his head. "I feel certain that Tseten Rinpoche will wish to see you," he announced, taking up the Phurba, then gathering up the flag along with Peregrine's sketches and photos. "You, in particular, Dr. Sinclair. In addition to these properties which make up the evidence of your case, may I presume upon you for the loan of some personal item that Rinpoche might handle? I believe I need not tell you why."

Without hesitation, Adam removed his Adept ring and handed it over, much to the shocked astonishment of McLeod and Peregrine.

"Thank you," Jigme said, bowing over the ring in his closed hand. "I will return as soon as I may - certainly within an hour. In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable. If you wish more tea, or there is anything else you require, just give a call and someone will assist you."

So saying, the young lama got to his feet and retired from the room. As the door closed behind him and his retreating footsteps died away, McLeod turned to Adam, his expression one of mingled shock and apprehension.

"Adam, your ring - " he said in a rare show of hesitation.

"It's all right," Adam assured him. "Believe me, I know exactly what I'm doing."

"But - I hope so," McLeod muttered, with a dubious shake of his head. "That ring of yours is probably the single most powerful psychic link to you that exists in physical form. If it were ever to fall into the wrong hands - "

"It won't. At least not through the offices of anyone here," Adam said firmly. "Don't be in any way misled by our host's youthful appearance, Noel. Even though Jigme may personally consider himself far short of his master's achievements, he's very advanced - a very old soul. And as for Tseten Rinpoche - ''

He paused. "Gentlemen, we may well be about to be granted audience with a Buddhist saint."

Leaving the farmhouse behind him, clad again in boots and anorak, Lama Jigme set out briskly along a grassy footpath that soon changed to mud. Over his shoulder was slung a green canvas satchel containing the Phurba and all the items entrusted to him by Adam Sinclair. The mist was turning to rain, spattering his spectacles, and he squinted slightly against it.

The path meandered gently along the shoreline, gradually climbing, flanked with flowering gorse and patches of swaying sea grass. After following the path for nearly a mile, and surprising an Eriskay pony and her foal, he came upon a square outcropping in the rocks to his left, where a rough course of stone steps led upward to a slash-like horizontal opening in the face of the cliff.

Hitching up the skirts of his robe, Jigme clambered swiftly up the steps toward the cave mouth. Below a sandstone cliff overhang, more stone steps descended into one end of a roughly crescent-shaped cave, perhaps ten feet wide and thirty feet long. Several feet beyond the bottom of the stair, on a straw mat rolled out on the floor of the cave, a bright-eyed and venerable figure in maroon robes and a red anorak looked up expectantly. Dark eyes sought and held Jigme's for a moment as the younger man gave a sign of respect, penetratingly keen amid a matrix of wrinkles. At once their owner wordlessly signalled the other man to approach.

Jigme paused to slip out of his muddy boots before hunkering down on the mat in front of his elder, bright red socks briefly flashing beneath him. Divesting himself of the green canvas satchel, he delved into it to produce Peregrine's photos and sketches, including his dream-sketch of the man in green vestments. To these items he added the Nazi flag.

The old man fingered each of the properties in turn, though he avoided the flag. His face darkened as he allowed his regard to linger for a moment or two over the drawing of the man in green. The flag he did not need to touch. When he had withdrawn briefly into silent meditation, he looked up expectantly at Jigme, who presented him with Adam's ring.

With a gentle exhalation, the old lama enfolded the ring in one graceful, fine-boned hand and bowed his head over it for a long moment. As he did so, his lined face underwent a change, one eyebrow lifting in thoughtful speculation. He gave his younger counterpart a wordless nod as he emerged from his short reverie.

Jigme acknowledged the unspoken message with a respectful bow, folded hands touched to his forehead, before rising to his feet and stepping back into his boots, departing the way he had come.

Jigme was absent for the better part of three-quarters of an hour. The waiting weighed heavily on Peregrine, but Adam appeared relaxed and composed, evidently confident of the outcome of Jigme's inquiries. After assuring his colleagues of Jigme's benign intent, Adam swivelled round to contemplate the graceful Buddha figure in the corner of the room, open palms cupped one atop the other between his splayed knees, and soon eased into a meditative trance. Though such composure eluded Peregrine, he tried to at least follow McLeod's example, either dozing or also meditating, head nodding over clasped hands; but as the minutes ticked ponderously away, the young artist found it increasingly difficult to hide his own impatience.

At length, unable to keep still, he got to his feet and wandered over to the room's one window, which looked out toward the north of the island. The sky was glowering, and a light rain blurred the vista of rocky heights and wind-sculpted trees and shrubs. To keep his hands from fidgeting, he thrust them into his trouser pockets - and encountered the cool metallic shape of his own Adept ring. As he surreptitiously slipped it on, he realized that McLeod had done the same. He could not decide whether he found that dismaying or encouraging.

Just when Peregrine was beginning to think he could bear the suspense no longer, his straining ears heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. As all three men turned toward the doorway, it swung open to reveal Lama Jigme, now empty-handed, clad for the weather outside. He carried with him the outdoor scents of sea salt and wild heather, and his face held an odd mixture of satisfaction and concern.

"Rinpoche has agreed to see you," he announced. "He invites you to attend him at once at Saint Molaise's cave. I'm afraid it's almost a mile from here, but the trip will be worth your trouble. The accumulated power of many centuries of holy men has made it a secure retreat where you and he may speak freely, without fear of any intrusion from outside."

Adam was already on his feet, eager yet composed.

"We'll come at once," he told Jigme. "Thank you very much."

They donned their shoes and outerwear in silence, McLeod and Peregrine exchanging uneasy glances as they followed Jigme and Adam down the stairs. Outside, a stiff breeze had risen to accompany the rain, tugging at hats and coats as they set out southward along the grassy coastal footpath. After half a mile, a leftward bend to the path revealed a distant gleam of white thrusting upward from a far promontory.

"The old lighthouse," Jigme noted, gesturing in that direction as they negotiated a patch of mud. "When funding permits, we plan to refurbish the keeper's house as part of the retreat facilities. The lighthouse itself has been disused for some time, but the sea jetty will provide a useful second landing place for bringing supplies to the island."

They continued walking, kept from chill by their exertion, though a light rain continued to fall. The footpath became more mud than grass, not improved by the hooves of four shaggy, dun-colored Soay sheep with lambs at heel, who skittered off in alarm when McLeod's trenchcoat gave a particularly startling snap in the wind. A hundred yards beyond loomed a square rock outcropping that Jigme identified as the Judgement Stone, said to be the seat where the sixth-century St. Molaise had been wont to give his judgements to the pilgrims who came here to seek his guidance. Skirting the stone, Jigme led the party left up a succession of irregular steps paved with flat stones, to approach a wide, irregularly shaped cave-mouth opening in the cliff side.

The sea breeze died and the rain ceased as they climbed. The ensuing hush was deep and profound. Both McLeod and Peregrine pricked up their ears, listening intently to the silence. For all its outward calm, the air here was strangely vital, charged with expectancy.

Adam was likewise aware of the change in the air, so was not surprised when, following Jigme expectantly to the crest of the path, he found himself suddenly brought up short at the lip of the cave only barely visible from below. But it was not the cave but its occupant who immediately caught and held Adam's attention. Amid the dimness, seated cross-legged on a straw mat similar to the one back at the farmhouse, Lady Julian's old teacher was physically unimposing - only a diminutive, shaven-headed figure of ageless appearance - but one look at him, as their eyes met, told Adam that the vision of Tseten Rinpoche extended far beyond the need for any earthly source of illumination. Dressed much as Jigme, but with a red anorak instead of a navy one, his left hand was resting lightly closed on his knee, the right fingering the black beads of a mala, or rosary. The items Adam had sent with Jigme lay before him.

Going down the steps, Jigme gave him reverent salute over joined hands and began addressing the old lama in Tibetan. Hearing his name and those of his associates among the foreign syllables, Adam realized that the three of them were being introduced.

Tseten favored each of them in turn with a keen glance, and Adam set his palms together in the traditional gesture of respect and stepped forward, bowing slightly over his joined hands. As McLeod and Peregrine echoed the salute, the old lama's gaze warmed in response and he glanced at Jigme expectantly.

"Rinpoche invites you to be seated," Jigme said, indicating the straw matting. "I shall interpret."