by Davis Bunn
He slept the entire way across the Atlantic. The flight attendant had kept his meal hot, so he dined on overdry steak and wilted vegetables as they prepared for landing. All he saw of London’s Gatwick Airport was a sofa in the first-class lounge. Two and a half hours later an agent shook him awake and said he was about to miss his connecting flight. He stumbled through Gatwick, halting only long enough to change money at one of the exchange booths.
In Glasgow, Taylor took a room at the airport hotel, showered for almost an hour and a half, and collapsed across his bed. He awoke four hours later, ordered a massive room-service meal, and tried to ignore how his eyes still felt gritty from the journey and some very long days.
He took a taxi to the downtown train station and found himself totally defeated by the ticket master’s accent. The man clearly understood where Taylor wanted to go, but what he said in reply might as well have been in Romanian. Finally the ticket agent motioned in universal sign language. Taylor slipped through a bundle of bills. The man punched out a ticket and passed it back with the change. Most of the people in line behind Taylor were enjoying the show. A woman took him by the arm and led him down to the proper track. With a mother’s patience she made him understand that the name on his ticket, Oban, was as close as the train would come to his destination. She waved his train out of the station, clearly worried over this bedraggled American with the bandaged head.
The day was gray, the wind cold, the scenery dismal. Clay chimneys shaped like upside-down pots emerged from steep slate roofs. They emitted thin streams of smoke that rose to join the lowering sky. The streets were clogged with early morning traffic. The air tasted of diesel fumes and coming rain. Taylor shivered in his Florida-bought clothes and hunkered down in his seat. People crowded the sidewalks with blank faces. They all seemed to wear clothes as gray as the day. The houses were brick and jammed tight against one another. Little flecks of carefully tended green formed rear gardens scarcely larger than the window through which he looked. The sun and summer both seemed a million miles away from this place.
He dozed off, then jerked awake, fearful he had missed his stop. But a man in the passageway found great humor in slowing his speech and yelling overloud that Taylor had an hour yet to go.
Gradually the train emerged from the red-brick city confines. The countryside scenery was craggy and irregular. Steepsided hills fell into valleys lost to the rain now lashing his window. Villages emerged like gray havens and just as swiftly disappeared. Despite the wet chill, Taylor opened his window and took deep draughts of the morning. The next village was his destination. When Taylor stepped onto the platform, he was greeted by the unmistakable fragrance of open sea.
He left the station and pointed his face into the wind. The air might be forty degrees colder, the village utterly alien. But he was ocean born and bred. He knew this was a seaborne storm. Father Pellecier had told him Iona was an island. There had to be both a port and a boat.
Midway down the lane, however, he was halted by an utterly unexpected sight. He pushed through the door and had to laugh out loud.
There were two young men behind the counter. One grinned back and said something utterly incomprehensible.
Taylor asked, “Do you speak English?”
The servers shared a laugh over that. “Aye, that I do. I even speak a passable Yank. What can I do for you?”
“I need some warm clothes.” But his gaze remained fastened on the long array of boards stacked down the far wall. “Is there surf around here?”
That drew another laugh. “Fresh caught, are we, Yank?”
“Excuse me?”
“When did your ship get in?”
“I just flew over last night.”
“Right. And from the shade of your skin, I’d say it was warmer where you left.”
“Florida.”
“Flawda. Aye, we’ve heard of that spot, haven’t we, Eric? They even claim to have waves in Flawda. So what’s a Flawda man doing in the wilds of Scotland?”
Taylor drew out a new thruster, a three-finned surfboard with the long narrow dimensions required for big waves. “I’m headed for Iona.”
“Wrong answer, Flawda. That is, assuming you know what to do with that stick in your hand.” The guy was all Scots, right down to his red-gold beard and massive build and mocking tone. He had the windblown features of one blasted by storms far fiercer than those of today. “Know why? Cliffs. Rocks. Currents. Bad place for surfing, Iona.”
Taylor started pulling clothes off the racks. “How do I get there?”
“Point your nose into the wind and walk downhill. Boats leave for Mull every other hour.”
“But I want to go—”
“To Iona. Aye, I heard you the first time.” He spoke with the musical cadence of one addressing a small child. “Take the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry to Craignure on the island of Mull. Cross the island by bus to Fionnphort. Catch the ferry from there to Iona.”
“Is all life in Scotland this complicated?”
“Only the things that matter. Here, I’ll write it out for you.”
“Thanks.” All the surf shop’s clothes were fashioned for heavy weather. Chain-knit pullovers, fur-lined boots, doublethick sweats, hooded foul-weather gear. Taylor made a pile on the counter. “I don’t have enough pounds to pay for this. Do you take dollars?”
“There’s a bank down the road; they’ll give you a better rate.”
“I’m sort of in a hurry.”
“Just like a Yank. Sure, we’ll be delighted to rob you gently.” He made a merry procedure of ringing up the sale. As he watched Taylor stow away his new gear, he offered, “Funny, you don’t strike us as one made for the holy orders.”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
The two Scots exchanged a look and said together, “A lass.”
Taylor did not deny it.
“Is she a Yank like yourself, then?”
Taylor’s only response was to zip his carryall closed and ask, “How much do I owe you?”
“Sure, now. Nothing wrong with a man who keeps his business close.” He handed Taylor his change in sterling. “You get done mixing it up across the waters, stop on by. Should be a nice swell after this blow.”
THE FERRY CROSSINGS WERE ELONGATED BY A RUSHING tide and waves compressed within narrow rocky straits. The current sweeping between the mainland port and the first set of islands was strong as a flooded river. The rain fell in heavy sheets. The wind defied Taylor to call the month August.
Iona appeared like a storm cloud too heavy to rise from the sea. Sheer cliffs gray as the sky ignored the booming waves. The craft steamed well clear of the raging backwash, rounded the island’s southern tip, and entered a miniature harbor formed by two rocky arms.
The island was craggy and wind-swept and largely desolate. The church rose like a gray stone beacon. A series of stone structures stretched along the headlands facing across the inner waters. They were washed utterly colorless from the day.
As he ascended the road leading up from the harbor, Taylor found a trio of young people trimming rocks and laying stones into a partially completed wall. He asked them if they knew a Brother Jonah.
They shared a quick smirk before the girl replied, “Everybody knows him.”
“Can you tell me where I’d find him?”
Her head was bared to the weather, her face streaked with rain and simple good cheer. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Excuse me?”
Every word she spoke carried a musical lilt. “Do you not know the man you’re after?”
“All I have is a name.”
“Then a word to the wise.” She accepted the next stone and set it into place. “Head for the kitchen, but don’t say anything about his cooking.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
The kitchen and dining hall occupied a central position among the simple stone structures. Only the church stood out, rising like a man-made cliff from the cluster. Taylor followed the odors of c
ooking until he stood before an open door and called, “Brother Jonah?”
A voice cried out, “Are you the chef?”
“No.”
A burly man bearing a steaming pot in one hand and a ladle in the other stumped into view. “You’re absolutely certain you’re not my new cook?”
“Sorry.”
“Then what good are you?” He glared at Taylor as though expecting open defiance. “I specifically asked God to bring me a cook. The Good Book says He delivers when His servants ask, or has my addled brain mislaid the quotation along with the cooking salt?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“You can’t cook and you don’t know your Scriptures. Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a sad state when I’m forced to admit a man’s eyes are his only attribute.” He spun away. “What are you standing there in the rain for? Get in here!”
Taylor dropped his carryall by the sink. “Actually, I’m here—”
“I know why you’re here. You’re here because you’re hungry. And it won’t do you a bit of good carrying on about your belly when I’ve burned the roast and I can’t see what it says about the sprouts!” He jabbed his ladle at an open book. “Read me what it says I’m supposed to do next.”
Taylor stepped to the book. “Where were you?”
“If I knew that I wouldn’t need help, now, would I? Go on, step aside, step aside.” He muttered his way down the page, then cried, “Blanch? What in heaven’s name does it mean to blanch the legumes?”
“I think it’s a sort of steaming.”
He glared at Taylor. “Did you write this nonsense?”
“Me, what? No!”
“Never mind, you know more than I do.” He pointed at a vast pile of greens rising from the sink. “Go on, then. Blanch away.”
Taylor decided he was better off doing what he could. He recalled Ada’s movements from many stolen moments in the Revell’s kitchen, sought out a metal strainer, filled the largest pot he could find with water, and set it on the stove. He washed the vegetables and set the overstuffed strainer above the heating water.
The kitchen subsided into a rather sullen calm. Brother Jonah had a mild argument with the oven, scolded the meat, whipped the gravy into brown froth, and had nothing nice to say about the potatoes. But he found enough favor in Taylor’s actions to refrain from shouting anything further in his direction.
Two hours later, several young people silently entered the kitchen. One of them was the young lady Taylor had seen working on the wall. The newcomers kept as much distance as possible between themselves and Jonah. They gathered plates and glasses and silverware and returned to the dining hall.
During one of the interims when they had the kitchen to themselves, Brother Jonah sidled over, tasted one of the sprouts, and confided, “I positively loathe cooking.”
“Really?” Taylor was weary enough to maintain a straight face. “I had no idea.”
“Loathe it. Why the good Lord couldn’t simply deposit His bounty upon this earth fully cooked is beyond me. But our resident chef is laid up with the croup, and the director-general said serving kitchen duty would do wonders for my soul. Here, why don’t you finish preparing the joint.” He handed Taylor his carving knife. “Our director-general is getting old. I fear age has addled his brains.”
The roast looked as if it had been attacked with a blunt ax. Taylor decided this was as good a time as any to confess, “I’m actually looking for Kirra Revell.”
“Don’t saw it so thick; you’re not cutting logs. You can’t possibly imagine the problems of cooking in robes. Kitchens and robes. Robes and kitchens. Such a bother. I was standing here yesterday when this sullen-looking wasp fell off the window and landed on me. One moment it was on my sleeve. The next, whish. It disappeared. Where did it go? I can only imagine.” He forked sliced meat onto a serving tray. “Seven holes I have in this robe. So many for him to choose from. I never did find that wasp.”
“Do you know Kirra?”
“I heard you the first time.” Jonah poured tureens full of gravy and handed them to the incoming servers. “She said someone might be showing up, asking for her.”
“Is she here?”
“Aye, that is the question.”
Jonah moved to the far counter where he began mashing potatoes. Taylor knew nothing was to be gained by pushing this man. He finished carving the joint and piled the remaining meat on another serving dish.
The young lady returned, picked up the carved meat, and said softly to Taylor, “Two hours in the place and already the handsome stranger’s being called a miracle worker.”
“Excuse me?”
She had a dancer’s ability to shimmer even when standing still. “You’re the first who’s managed to last this long in Jonah’s company.”
Taylor kept his back to the brother. “He’s okay.”
“That he most definitely is not.” She had a musical laugh. “I’m Gabrielle.”
Taylor faced her fully to reply, “And I am here looking for a lady.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
“Yes,” Taylor replied. “It was.”
“Well then.” She picked up the platter and headed for the dining room. “Best hurry or you won’t find a thing save crumbs.”
But when Taylor wiped his hands and turned around, he found Jonah watching him with something akin to approval. The older man scraped out the remains of his potatoes, handed the bowl to a final server, then waited until the kitchen was theirs alone to say, “Tell me something that would make it proper to trust you.”
“I can’t and you know it.”
He liked that response enough to say, “Kirra is not here.”
Taylor nodded. He had already sensed this.
“Was she the only reason you came?”
“Yesterday I thought so.” He continued to wipe his hands with the dishtowel. “Now I’m so tired I really couldn’t tell you.”
“And is your fatigue the only reason for a lack of decent reasons, I wonder?”
The window was pelted with rain fierce as drumbeats. “I don’t even know enough to name what it is I’m facing.”
“So this could be a quest for yourself as well as for the lady.”
He nodded slowly, liking how that sounded, though he could not say why. “Maybe.”
Jonah came to stand beside him and watch the storm. “There was no place hit harder by the Great Depression than Scotland, and no place worse off in Scotland than Glasgow. People in these parts had every reason to give up and give in. Many did. But one man by the name of George MacLeod brought a group of unemployed here to Iona. They begged funds from people who had nothing to give. And they rebuilt the abbey you see there. It’s almost a thousand years old, this place. Deserted four long centuries, since the days of Henry VIII. You know why MacLeod and his men came?”
“I have no idea.”
“MacLeod said they wanted to set an example for the land as a whole. How such dark times can be a chance for great achievements, even the rebuilding of a holy place long lost to ruin.”
“I like that.”
“Do you now?” He turned to Taylor. “Here’s a question for you, then.”
“I’m not sure I need any more questions about myself.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, lad.” He might have smiled, but the flicker was so fast it may well have been just a twitch. “MacLeod called Iona a thin place. He meant there was not much separating the earthly from the divine.” He reached out, as though ready to pat Taylor’s shoulder, then thought better of it. “Come talk with me again when you think you’ve reached an understanding of the good man’s words.”
chapter 9
TAYLOR’S ABILITY TO WORK ALONGSIDE BROTHER Jonah earned him one of the center’s last unfilled berths. There was space for about fifty in the compound. The monastery offered the only decent housing on the island. Taylor bunked with four other men in a simple stone chamber. The bu
ilding had a slate-tiled roof, narrow storm-sheltered windows, and no heat. His bunkmates were an odd assortment of young and old, professional and longtime unemployed. They were friendly in a reserved sense, speaking little but making him feel welcome just the same. The entire island held to a quietness that anywhere else might have been unsettling. Here, however, it suited.
The wind blasted and the rain pelted all afternoon. Taylor dozed for a time, then awoke to the sound of a single lonely bell. He followed the others to the abbey and sat through a prayer service, watching and saying nothing.
Everyone worked. There was an unhurried intensity to the place, a quiet acceptance of the people and the weather and a life stripped down to bare bones. People smiled his way, said a few words, but did not press.
Late afternoon he returned unbidden to the kitchen. Brother Jonah accepted him in matter-of-fact gruffness and set him to making a dozen quiches. He had gained the rudiments of cooking from serving in Ada’s galley. He neither liked nor disliked the work. At least the kitchen was warm.
By the time the washing up was done, fatigue swept over him in time to the blasting winds. He stumbled into his bunk room and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
He awoke to a gray and blustery dawn. One man in the opposite bunk snored so loudly it drowned out the wind. But that was not what had disturbed Taylor’s sleep. He rose, found pants and shoes, and padded to the bathroom at the end of the long stone hall. Outside, the rain continued to drum its constant Scottish message.
The light was muted, the odors close and cold. Taylor crossed the courtyard and entered the dark kitchen. The wall clock read a quarter past six. Morning prayers were at seven, breakfast at seven thirty. Nothing was obligatory, but all overnight guests were asked to participate in the community’s life.
Taylor began carving slices from the great round loaves and filling the bread baskets. The tasks were similar to kitchen duty among the boat’s staff, and relatively mindless. Which was precisely what he wanted. He ignored the bell’s muted clang to prayer. He boiled water for three dozen pots of tea and filled the butter trays and set out the breakfast plates. All the while, his mind remained locked on what had driven him from his bed.