"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.