by Davis Bunn
THE RED-BEARDED SCOT WAS ALONE BEHIND THE SURF-shop’s counter. He greeted Taylor with a huge grin and the words, “Thought I might find you slinking back today, Flawda.”
“Where’s your mate?”
“We rolled the dice, and I got stuck with the work detail.” He pretended it mattered little. “Never you mind. I’ll get me a double portion next go-round.”
“Maybe you can get out tomorrow.”
“Shows how much you know. Take it when you can; that’s the first and only rule of surfing Scots-style.” Eyes tightened in merry avarice. “You aiming on giving it a go?”
“No board, no wet suit, no ride to the break.”
“Buy the board; we’ll loan you the suit and find you the ride.”
“Done.”
“A couple of blokes showed up last night, fresh caught like yourself. I put them up with a mate of mine, runs a B&B down the lane.”
“And took a cut for the service, I bet.”
The bearded giant showed a fistful of gleaming teeth. “Stick around these parts long enough, you’ll find there’s little in life that makes a Scots happier than the next honest quid.”
THEY WOULD NEVER HAVE FOUND THE BREAK WITHOUT instructions. Never in a million years.
They followed tiny roads lined with ancient stone walls and hedgerows. They toured the Scottish moors and passed through timeless stone hamlets. All the world was either an emerald green so brilliant it hurt the eye or blue or gray. The same rock that jutted from the earth had been taken and carved and formed by man. Every wall was of this stone, every house, even the roofs with their blankets of lichen. The strongest sounds were of sheep and of perfumed wind blowing through the van’s open windows. The roads tracked politely across the fells and around the forests, so in tune with nature the lanes refused to maintain a straight line. Turnings were marked either by ancient stone markers or tiny white signs, both of which were easily missed. The one time they lost their way and asked directions from a passing shepherd, they might as well have begged help from his sheepdog, for all the good it did them. Not even the Brit who drove their creaking van could understand a highland word.
Taylor and his traveling companions had nothing in common save their love of the sea. This and the brilliant day were enough to make for a very pleasant drive. The distance from the surf shop to the break could not have been more than twenty-five miles. It took them over two hours. The only way they knew they had arrived was from the motley collection of cars parked on the wayside. Board straps dangled like beacons from roof racks. They parked tight against a moss-covered wall and pulled out their gear. They set their boards and wet suits across the wall, clambered over, and hiked across the meadow. The ground was hard, the grass stunted. Heather bloomed up a neighboring hillside, the color aching in its purity. Songbirds sprang from half-hidden nests at their approach, chirping frantically to draw their attention away from little ones. In the distance a sheepdog barked. There was not a breath of wind.
The ocean was a muted rush of sound that grew with every step. They mounted a steep rise, crested the ridge, and found themselves staring down at a rocky beach shaped like a sliver of new moon. Ancient fortress walls adorned the high points, with a series of rusted cannon pointed seaward. To their left a watchtower had crumbled into a pile of scenic rubble.
The local surfers had gathered driftwood and started a massive fire near the point. It was a curious way to begin a summer surf on a day in the low eighties. But by the time they made it down the rise and approached the locals, the sea radiated a bitter chill. The waves sounded like the growl of a winter behemoth, one unused to being caged by summer, not even for a single day.
Taylor held back and let his two fellow travelers make the greetings. The locals were neither hostile nor wary. Surfing in water only a few degrees above freezing created a special clanship. A single slip, a bad fall, an unseen rock caught after a wipeout, and suddenly the only thing between the surfer and hypothermia was a watchful mate. When his companions let it slip that Taylor was visiting the Iona cloister, it was good for a bit of gentle ribbing, the sign that even the silent one was welcome this day.
It was not out of shyness that Taylor kept himself aside. He was finding it difficult to come to grips with the sudden canting to his world. He sat on a rocky outcrop at the base of a cliff, well away from the others. They donned suits and hefted boards and called an impatient demand. He waved to their invitation and remained where he was. There was a rightness to the moment. One he could not have discovered until now, seated alone upon this hardscrabble beach. He had been headed here all along. Here to this nameless cove on the coast of an alien land.
He was no longer filled with the tragic isolation that had been his constant burden for so very long. Taylor watched waves rise and roar in a frigid sea and marveled at how easy it seemed. Here in this moment, there was no longer an internal struggle. Nor a sense of shame over his decision.
He bowed his head and said his few words. In truth, it felt as though the words were spoken before they had been formed. The act was that natural. The moment that full.
He lifted his face back to the sun and waited. Perhaps there was a hint of change within his being. All he could say was that he seemed very aware. He noted the rise and fall of his chest. He watched the sunlight being captured by each arriving wave. He heard the crackle of the surfers’ fire. He tasted the fragrances of Scotland’s summer on his tongue. And somehow found the day incomplete because he could not yet name the seed planted at the very core of his being.
THE WET SUIT LOANED TO HIM BY THE SURF SHOP WAS the thickest rubber he had ever worn, five millimeters on the chest, three in the legs and arms, titanium ribbing throughout. Boots cinched beneath the suit. He squatted in the shore waves and waxed his new board thoroughly, the water’s chill burning into his exposed face and hands. He rose and stepped into the water. The cold bit like acid. He squinted into the afternoon sun, waiting for another of the regular lulls. Then he gripped his board and dove under, screaming into the next incoming wave to punch away the cold.
It took most of the paddle and three more dousings before the cold stopped burning so bad he could only bear it by shouting. The locals continued their good-natured jesting of the visiting pansies. Taylor sat slightly away from them, knowing he was welcome to move to the point but still preferring his own company. He caught his first wave because the others shouted at him to move.
His first ride was not a particularly large wave, but the form was perfect. It peeled with the constancy of a liquid orchestra. He scarcely needed to move. He stood with arms outstretched, gliding like a black highland gull upon neoprene wings.
He paddled back out and sat drinking great draughts of the hyperchilled air. The cold no longer bit so much as embraced. He could not capture enough of this day. He continued to sweep around, making circles upon his board, studying the cliffs and the ruins and the waves and the sky. The locals watched him good-naturedly, clearly approving of this silent stranger whose eyes were frozen in a wide-open state, gorging upon the beauty of their homeland.
The next set was huge, lumbering beasts of crystal and blue. Taylor waited his turn, then rode and swooped and shouted with glee.
Upon his return, he recognized a difference. In truth, it was just another day. Another ocean, another group communing upon another coast. The same, yet different. Yet the change was not outside. Nor was it something shouted. Taylor made another slow circle upon his board and finally pierced the subtle puzzle. He was not grieving. He was not accompanied by all the mistakes of his forlorn past. They were not gone; no, that would have been asking too much. But they did not own him. This moment, this day, he was made anew. He caught another wave, and another after that one. And he felt in truth that he had found his own chapel, a place where he could sit upon a pew of fiberglass and ocean and listen to the day’s celestial song.
chapter 11
THE BRIT’S NAME WAS KENNY DEAN; THE CALIFORNIA guy riding shotgun was Red
Harris. They traded tales on the way back, or at least the pair in the front seat did while Taylor mostly listened. They did not pry overmuch.
Surfers were perhaps the most eclectic bunch on the planet. Kenny was a wanderer by trade. He spoke of breaks around the globe with intense fondness. The two Americans knew not to ask about his job. Wanderers usually hated work and did it out of necessity. Red was spending a summer living his dream between university and the real world. Red had hooked up with Kenny when looking for someone to share traveling expenses. Normal landlocked topics of conversation were passed over as inconsequential. The talk revolved around where they had surfed last, where they were going next, where to stay, what to eat, when the waves were due to arrive.
Kenny’s van was in abysmal shape. The bolts holding Taylor’s rear seat in place had rusted through. He was kept from flying over backward by a surf leash attached in triangular fashion to the front seat and one door handle. The motor was louder than the stereo, which possessed four blown speakers and a cassette deck that ate tapes. The van’s rear was blanketed by swaths of black smoke. The interior smelled of overripe wet suits and a rain-washed tent and rank sleeping bags and damp towels and surf wax. A crate rattled at Taylor’s feet, containing dirty crockery and cans of tonight’s dinner. The four tires were utterly bald.
All this made for a glorious ride.
When Taylor did not offer his own turn at how he came to be where he was, talk moved to where the pair in the front seats were headed next. They were basically open to anywhere. The problem was funds. They had been sleeping in a tent until the recent rains flooded the campsite. The previous two nights in a B&B had pretty much emptied the larder. Red was two weeks away from returning to California and his own personal nine-to-five dungeon. His wallet was almost as bare as Kenny’s.
Clouds were gathering by the time they arrived back in the Scottish harbor town. A gentle sea breeze was wafting in with the sunset. But the western horizon was thick and black, dimming the day’s final light to seamless gray. The little village was once again a place of grim and colorless stone. Only a few swatches of gold and copper overhead reflected the glory they had found at Castle Bay. They halted at the port and the pair helped Taylor unload his gear. They did not even pretend to object when Taylor paid handsomely for the day’s outing.
In the midst of their farewells, Taylor spotted Brother Jonah seated upon a quayside bench. “Can you guys hang on here for just a second?”
“No problems.” Kenny possessed the perpetual patience and good cheer of a seasoned traveler. “With what you’ve just handed over, we’ve got ourselves enough for a bed and a bath and a pint along with our beans.”
Brother Jonah was on his feet by the time Taylor arrived. He wore thick wool socks beneath open-toed sandals, shapeless denim trousers, a tattered knit pullover, and a very grim expression. “We’ve had visitors while you were away.”
“They were looking for Kirra?”
“They were asking questions. Improper questions. Questions you saw fit to keep to yourself.”
Taylor realized the bag at Jonah’s feet was his own. “You’re kicking me out?”
“No, lad. But I am wondering if perhaps it is time for you to go.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Which is as good a sign as any that your coming here was ordained by God.” Jonah guided them both down onto the stone bench. “They were also asking about you.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“If you did, I wouldn’t care to hear.”
Taylor’s limbs felt thick and cottony from the surf. His bones still ached slightly from the water’s bite. His mind felt sluggish and resentful of being dragged back into the here and now. “What do you want me to do?”
To his astonishment, Jonah beamed in approval. “Ah, lad, that is a fine question indeed. You come, you bare your soul, you trust an old man enough to worship with him, and now you speak as an acolyte to his teacher.”
“That’s how I feel.”
“The Good Book tells us we must hold only one Teacher at the forefront. We must seek endlessly to know His will for us. Do you fathom what I’m telling you?”
“I think so.”
“The stripping away you’ve started here is a lifelong quest. We all grow at God’s timing, and where God plants us.”
“You are sending me away.”
Jonah’s tone was as kindly as Taylor had ever heard it. “You came with one quest; you found yourself another. That doesn’t mean the first has lost its importance. Life’s responsibilities don’t end with the finding of God. We must seek Him through all things. We seek in service as well as through prayer. We allow the story of our lives to be rewritten by His hand.” He patted Taylor’s knee. “Never you mind, lad. You’ll understand this in the proper time.”
“But I don’t know where to go.”
“Aye, and that brings us to the task at hand.” He turned and stared out to sea. “When I’m not occupied in the kitchen, I run the Iona library and help with the collation of documents. You have heard of our work?”
“You’re gathering information on herbs and medieval remedies.”
“Believers like to assume that the Age of Enlightenment and scientific reasoning caused the schism between faith and medicine. We now know that the rift goes much further back. We’ve discovered fragments of forgotten texts. We’re detailing medical treatments back through the Dark Ages. We’ve learned that physicians thought it impossible to be well in body but ill in spirit. Everywhere and always, God was referred to as their partner in healing.
“But at this same point in time, the Church was losing sway. Nations were being born, wars fought. The last thing the Church needed was another threat from within. What would happen to priests’ authority if patients listened to their physicians first? So around the year 1200, the Church issued an edict. All physicians were ordered to stop referring to God in their work. Medical texts that included God in the healing process were heaped in city squares and put to the torch. Doctors who invoked God’s name were branded as heretics.
“But some healers held to the old ways. If discovered, mind, they’d be burned at the stake. So they concealed themselves, their ways, their patients. They continued to seek a marriage between God and healing. They argued that God’s creation held numerous secrets, including the mysteries of good health. Such secrets could only be discovered with God’s help. For their troubles, these healers were hunted and branded and lashed and murdered.”
A sudden blast of wind shunted through the harbor, blowing whitecaps across the waters and sending the gray wall scuttling closer. Taylor huddled deeper in his anorak and said, “You found some records that have survived.”
“Remnants mostly. But yes, some have surfaced, and these have led us to others. Kirra was seeking to track down one such relic.” Brother Jonah slipped his hand into his pocket and passed over a folded slip of paper. “One of our sources is a healer working in the Basque country in the borderlands between France and Spain. You have heard of this region?”
Taylor nodded.
“Excellent. I suggest you travel there.”
“Thank you.”
Jonah drew Taylor to his feet. “You will take the advice of a grouchy old man?”
“Always.”
“When you find yourself faced with impossible choices, remember this. God’s path is called the narrow way. Not because it is more difficult, but because it is restricted.”
“Restricted how?”
Jonah offered Taylor his hand. “I would say that makes an excellent question to carry along with you.”
THE PAIR STOOD BY THEIR VAN AND PRETENDED NOT TO have been watching. “All right there?”
“Fine.” Taylor dropped his bag by his board. “I’m sort of in a jam.”
Kenny did not seem surprised. “Seeing as how you’re not overloose with the words, I sort of figured you for carting around some worries and woe.”
“I need a ride south.”
“How far south?”
“Across the English Channel.”
“Ah. Running from the law, are we?”
Taylor waved that off. “I’ll pay.”
“Whereabouts in France are you headed?”
“Let’s leave that for the time being, okay?”
“France,” Kenny mused. “Haven’t been there in years, strangely enough.”
“Heard they’ve got some killer surf,” Red offered.
“Aye, that they do. You’ll pay; did I hear you rightly?”
“All expenses for all of us.”
Kenny offered his brilliant grin. “I like the sound of that, mate. You’re on.”
THEY DROPPED TAYLOR AT THE SURF SHOP AND WENT BACK to the guesthouse to pack the rest of their gear. The red-bearded Scot greeted him with, “Hear you’ve not done too bad for yourself, Flawda.”
“The name is Taylor. Can I use your phone? I need to call America. I’ll pay you back.”
“Aye, I suppose we can work something out.” He cut down the music and tossed Taylor a cordless phone. “Make your call.”
He moved to the back of the shop. Since it was Saturday, he dialed Allison’s home number. She answered with a very sleepy hello.
“I’m really sorry to wake you. What time is it?”
“You obviously don’t have kids.”
“Excuse me?”
“Saturday I play catch-up on my rest. When she’s sleeping, I’m sleeping.” There was the rustle of bedcovers. “Where are you?”
“Scotland.”
“Where?”
“I really shouldn’t say anything more than that.”
Allison returned to her customary chill. “You still don’t trust me.”
“I want to.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that will have to do for now. Is everything okay?”
“Things,” he replied softly, “aren’t so good.”
“What’s the matter?”
