In Search of the Blue Tiger (32 page)

‘Nearly there,' proclaims Brother Saviour, as we crest one more hill and I get my first view of the Island of Goodhope. It stands before us dwarfed by the surrounding cliffs: an outcrop stranded in the bay as if it was left behind as the land moved on. It is green and wooded and I can just make out a path through the woods and the hint of an outline of a building through the treetops.

‘The tide's out, so we can cross,' says Brother Saviour.

We rumble down the hill and then the horse stops at the water's edge, looking at the uneven and slippery rocks of the causeway, waiting for the reassuring click of his master's tongue.

‘It's alright boy,' says the monk, as the horse finds his way on to the path.

As we trundle and rock our way towards the island I look out to sea and the rolling waves breaking on the sandbank. A flock of cormorants is terrorising a school of sardines. The sea sparkles and bristles with the frenzy of diving birds and panicking fish. The horse heaves us off the causeway and we rumble up the hill through the sweet-smelling pine and spruce trees.

‘Not long now,' says Brother Saviour to both the mare and me.

Soon enough the path evens out and up ahead the solid structure of the monastery comes into view. As we get closer I get a glimpse of beautiful stained-glass windows along the walls: blues and reds, yellows and sparkling whites glowing in the sunset. Somewhere in the near distance comes the sound of men singing in choir. We clutter to a halt and Brother Saviour jumps down, grabbing my bag as he goes.

‘Come on, Oscar,' he says enthusiastically, ‘we're here.'

I jump into his outstretched arms and he places me next to my bag.

‘First things first,' he adds as he unbridles the horse. ‘This mare has earned her corn. You wait here a minute while I settle her in the stable.'

The horse neighs in approval as she is led across the small courtyard. I look up at the building that is to be my home. The walls are old, made from slate-grey stone. At the very top is a weathervane that appears to be pointing in the right direction. The sound of the monks singing is distant, but somehow comforting. I rest my cheek on the wall to get a sense of this place. The stone is cold, but with a solidity that tells me I will be protected. Walking to the far corner I can just see a small bay, with its jetty jutting out to sea.

‘Ah, that's Open Bay,' says Brother Saviour, who has reappeared. ‘I'll take you down there in due course, but first I'll show you to your room.'

I follow him through a stone arch leading to a cloister enclosed by lovely carved columns. We cross a lush green lawn to the far corner, where he opens an unlatched door. Stepping down a single step I peer inside to see a simple room: a small bed, a table and chair, a shelf by a lead-framed window, a wash jug. But the walls are thick and the air is fresh and we both smile at each other.

‘It'll be dark soon,' he says, ‘time to rest. I sleep directly opposite on the other side of the cloister, so you needn't feel alone.' He touches my arm and smiles again. ‘I'll see you first thing in the morning.'

I open my bag and take out my new scrapbook, the one I started during the trial. I smooth out its pages and place it in pride of place on the small table.

It smells nice, round and about. The strong stone walls are the same texture on the inside as out. I stand in the middle of the room, breathe in deeply and smile to myself.

In Yunnan province of south-west China, the Naxi people practise Bon, a religion older than Tibetan Buddhism. You can see tigers in their ancient scroll paintings. The spirit of the tiger is important for Naxi shamans. The tiger image has been used for thousands of years to protect against evil.

The sun shines brightly on the cold stone floor. It is morning. Brother Saviour stands in the open door.

‘It's time to wake up, Brother Oscar,' he says. ‘Today you will work with me in the field. It's a lovely sunny day, but the cold weather's not long off and there's much to do before then.'

I stretch and yawn, contented to be in a room as familiar and comforting as warm buttered toast. I leap out of bed and dress in a hurry. Through the window I see Brother Saviour filling a watering can from the tap in the cloister.

‘Come on,' he says, watering a small patch of rosemary in the narrow bed fringing the wall, ‘you don't want to be late for your first breakfast.'

I follow Brother Saviour upstairs, around corners, down passageways, across courtyards and through arches. I imagine myself to be Alice, he the White Rabbit, his monk's tasselled cord the tail I keep in sight.

‘A real maze,' he says, as he disappears around another corner, ‘but, like life, you'll work it out if you're patient.'

By the time we arrive at the dining hall the other monks are already seated on benches on either side of the long oak tables. Smiles and welcoming nods greet me as Brother Saviour shows me to an empty place. Then a bell is rung and all the monks stand, make a single file and shuffle towards a trestle table along the far wall.

‘Just copy what I do,' whispers Brother Saviour. ‘We don't speak at meals. A time for quiet contemplation.'

The two ladles of honeyed porridge are delicious and I eat with relish. As soon as my bowl is empty Brother Saviour ushers me outside and leads me around the back of the main hall and along a narrow path towards an old conservatory and open fields. In the near distance, over the ridge of the hill, I can see the path leading down to the small bay. The sea is calm and the haze on the horizon joins it to the soft milky hue of the morning sky.

‘We thought you would enjoy working with me in the fields in the mornings,' says Brother Saviour, resting on his hoe, ‘and then helping out in the library in the afternoons.'

‘That sounds nice,' I say, memories of my days with Mrs April coming softly to mind.

I mimic him, leaning on the rake he gave me to spread the straw on the strawberry patch we are preparing for the coming cold.

‘A good balance,' he adds, ‘indoors and outdoors. Body and mind, soul and spirit.'

I smile at him, pick up a piece of straw and chew it like a real man of the land.

He laughs and we carry on our work, tending to the new strawberry plants, still joined by runners to their parent. We clear away the old damp straw and carefully pack fresh straw around the plants to protect them from the frosts. Like a small family, two or three new plants are beginning to take root away from the parent, though the life-giving runner still holds them together until the offspring are strong enough to be set free.

All morning we kneel on the ground tending the tiny plants, snuggling them in straw as if swaddling babes, careful not to disturb their tender roots, nor break the runners. The wind is cold, but the sun is bright and the air deliciously fresh.

Soon enough, another bell rings and I follow Brother Saviour back along the path to the dining hall, like him, wiping my brow with the back of my hand to show a job well done.

‘Fine work,' he says, slapping me on the back, ‘you'll make a good gardener. A gardener in the morning; a librarian in the afternoon.'

Brother Moses is a tiny man. He wears the smallest cassock, but it has always been too big for him. The cuffs are too long, so he turns them back on themselves. The hem would drag on the floor if not for the belt and the folds at the waist. But his stature has never worried him and none of the monks have ever ridiculed him. He's always been accepted for who he is, size and all. But nonetheless, it's nice to have a child standing in front of him, someone he can look in the eye.

‘So you must be Oscar. Brother Saviour said you love books and want to help out in the library.'

‘Yes, I do love books,' I say, looking around at the long rectangular room, piled from ceiling to floor, shelf upon shelf, with finely bound books. ‘Mrs April sometimes let me help her in the library in Tidetown.'

‘Very good, so you'll be able to teach me some tricks too. I'm Brother Moses,' says the little man with the red curly hair. ‘Not a usual name for a monk, I know.'

‘Why, not?' I ask, not really knowing what monks ought to be called.

He smiles big and happy. I find myself smiling back and nodding my head.

You remember Moses from the Bible?'

‘Yes, God gave him the ten commandments after he rescued the Jews from Egypt. Then he got very angry because they worshipped idols when he went up the mountain.'

‘That's the fellow,' says the monk, clearly impressed with my knowledge. ‘He was also found as a baby, a foundling, floating in the river. The daughter of the Pharaoh spotted him and adopted him as her own. Well, it was a bit like me, but without the river and bulrushes. I was left in a basket in the porch of the monastery when I was a baby. So the Abbot called me Moses. On account of being found in a reed basket. And I had bright red hair even then, so it all fitted. Do you remember the story of the burning bush?'

‘A sign from God?' I say, memories of my Bible studies with the Fishcutter Twins overlaid with images of fires in coach-houses and church halls.

‘Yes,' he says, ‘to show Moses that God was with him. Anyway, I've been Moses since that day and been here ever since.'

I like this man. He feels like who I think I might be, but more sure of who he is.

He smiles some more and I smile back.

‘Maybe, you're Moses come back again,' I say.

‘Maybe, who knows?'

‘God?'

He scratches his head, twirls a lock of red hair between his fingers and taps the end of his nose.

‘Yes, my bright young man. God knows. I think we'll be good company for each other, I'm sure. So follow me,' he commands, walking between two shelves as if parting the mighty waters of the Red Sea, ‘we've jobs to do.'

All afternoon we work together: cataloguing and re-shelving books, putting aside those that are worn and weathered and in need of repair. After a break of tea and toast, topped with blackberry jam (from fruit harvested from the hedgerows), Brother Moses carefully examines the damaged books to see which require most urgent attention. These we take to a small room at the back of the library where Brother Moses sleeps.

I am carrying an over-sized and ancient volume whose spine is cracked and laid bare. It's nearly as big as me and I'm having trouble seeing my way forward. So I watch Brother Moses' feet preceding me and retrace his steps as we enter the room.

Inside, the room is a miniature version of the library, with books strewn over every surface and covering most of the floor. There is a strong smell of glue. In one corner is the only table. It looks like a field hospital, with injured books, in various stages of rehabilitation, carefully lined in rows.

‘They come here battered and bruised, so I fix them up, let them rest and then send them back into the fray,' says Brother Moses, carefully placing the new admissions in an empty space on the floor.

Except for the books the room is sparse. There is a narrow bed, a jug and basin for washing, and, beneath the small window, a two-drawer chest pushed up against the wall. The only objects on view in the room are atop the chest. There I see a statuette of a saintly figure standing next to a laughing Buddha. In front of them is a pile of shells and stones. Five candles form a circle around the objects.

‘Ah, you admire my altar,' says Brother Moses, standing behind me. ‘It's my special collection to remind me that God and mystery are everywhere, in all sorts of unexpected things.'

‘Unexpected things?'

‘Yes,' he says, stroking his statue of the saint, ‘like in feathers and stones. So when I find something I especially like, on a peaceful beach or under a tree, I bring it back here and put it on my altar. To remind me.'

‘To remind you?'

‘To remember that God is everywhere.'

‘Not just himself?' I say, thinking of the one and only Yahweh and the Kingdom Hall's message that ‘there is no God but me.'