The Path Read online

  But here was timelessness. Here was clear and perfect thought, perfect truth, perfect compassion. It was here he came to refresh his mind and see how best to guide his people—all his people; he counted Duncan MacLeod among them.

  He knew it was difficult for a man of MacLeod’s nature to spend his days in inactivity, no matter how important the lessons or whom the teacher. The restlessness was there in the constant shifting of his eyes, in fingers that were never quite still, even when he was deep in thought. The strength of MacLeod’s aura filled whatever room he occupied like the radiant energy of the noontime sun.

  It was a good aura, of a man who strove to do what was right, what was best, but it was not the aura of a man at peace, either with himself or the world around him. The Dalai Lama knew the Eightfold Path was the way to that peace. He knew it through the centuries of his own experience.

  In the quiet of his mind, the Dalai Lama smiled, knowing that to Duncan MacLeod he appeared only as a young man of twenty-three. But how else could it be? What could a man of the West, whose culture was blind to the truth of reincarnation, know about immortality?

  Chapter Twelve

  MacLeod and Xiao-nan wandered together into the hills. With each passing moment he found himself more charmed by her. She was like candlelight in a darkened room, warm and soft and golden.

  She led him to where the blue orchid grew and, as she promised, it was the most exquisite flower MacLeod had ever seen. By comparison, his memories of the gardens of Europe, with their mazes and topiaries—even the roses of France and England and the heather-covered hills of his native Scotland—seemed overblown.

  The ground was spongy and damp, so Duncan spread out his heavy coat and they sat on it, surrounded by the heady fragrance of the orchids and listening to the woodland symphony of breeze and birdsong. Xiao-nan laughed when Duncan wove a chain from some of the flowers and placed it on her head, but he could only think how even these orchids paled by comparison to the beauty of her eyes. Dark as a moonless night, they hinted at mysteries a man could gladly spend his lifetime trying to understand—even an Immortal.

  “How old are you, Xiao-nan?” he asked her suddenly.

  “I am nineteen,” she replied, giving him a sidelong smile that nearly made his breath catch in his throat.

  “Nineteen,” he repeated softly with a hint of wonder in his voice. He was two centuries and she not yet two decades. He knew that nineteen years was nothing, the slightest wink of time, but Xiao-nan seemed timeless, ageless, a creature of both youth and eternity.

  He knew, too, that in the life of mortality Xiao-nan lived nineteen was the age and past when young women thought to marry. He had to know if she was free.

  “Is there some young man in your life, Xiao-nan?” he asked. “Should I stay away?”

  She turned and looked him full in the face, saying nothing for a long moment as her eyes stared deeply into his own. Duncan wanted to curse himself for being three kinds of a fool. He should have gone more slowly, felt his way through their conversation more gently—but somehow he thought Xiao-nan would want nothing less than honesty from him.

  She was still looking at him in silence. As with the Dalai Lama, Xiao-nan seemed to possess the same ability to reach deep into Duncan’s soul with her eyes. Whatever she saw pleased her, for a slow smile lightened her features.

  “There is no one else, Duncan MacLeod,” she answered his honesty with her own. “None has brought light to my heart—until now.”

  Duncan reached out and drew a finger gently down the softness of her cheek. For this culture, it was a boldly intimate move to make when they had known each other so short a time, but Xiao-nan made no move to shift away. She seemed, rather, to welcome his touch.

  Slowly, giving her time to turn her head or in any way indicate his kiss was unwanted, Duncan leaned forward. She made no move, but waited in perfect stillness until his lips brushed hers. The touch was brief, the softest of kisses, and yet in that instant Duncan was filled with the urge to protect her, to keep her forever safe from anything that might rob Xiao-nan of joy or peace.

  Yet even as he thought it, another voice nagged inside his mind. And what of your Immortality? it whispered. Do you dare hope for her love once she knows the truth?

  Duncan had no answer; he did not want an answer yet. He wanted this day free of anything but Xiao-nan’s smile. He stood and held out his hand to her. When she took it and rose to her feet, it was only to flow against him, graceful as a cat, warm and soft as living water. Once more he kissed her, and she returned it without fear or hesitation.

  She kept her eyes open as they kissed and MacLeod felt that if he could look into them long enough, he would find the answers wise men had sought throughout the ages. Perhaps here, at last, was the woman to whom he could truly open his heart.

  * * *

  Hunger drew them back to the city. Duncan would have left Xiao-nan at her door and gone back to the Potala to find a meal, but she insisted he come inside with her.

  “My parents will be honored by your presence,” she told him. “Please, Duncan MacLeod.”

  How could anyone tell her no, he wondered, knowing he could not. He went with her into the little yellow house that was her home. Both her parents came to greet them, their kind words of welcome quickly setting to rest any uncertainties Duncan had about how they would respond to the stranger who had spent all morning with the daughter.

  The house, though small by Western standards, was elegant and furnished with the deceptive simplicity of the oriental mind. Duncan saw a single flower floating in a crystal bowl that was somehow more lovely than a full vase would have been. There was a sculptured screen inlaid with ivory and placed where the soft light of the window would sweep across it to highlight the carving of cranes in flight. The house smelled of ginger and jasmine.

  Duncan was taken through to the courtyard out back, where the garden was just beginning to bloom. Stone benches had been set beside a small fountain. Water trickled slowly over stone in the sound of serenity, to gather in a pool where white water lilies blossomed.

  Xiao-nan made sure Duncan was comfortably seated, then disappeared back into the house. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of food, sitting on the stone bench and putting the tray between them.

  “You must eat now, Duncan MacLeod,” she said, giving him a smile sweeter than the fruits and cakes she had brought. Some things on the tray Duncan recognized and others he did not, but it did not matter what he ate. Sitting here with Xiao-nan, MacLeod knew he was happy.

  They say the love of a good woman can heal a man’s heart of many things, Duncan thought. Yet the burdens his heart carried were very different from those of ordinary men, men whose lives lasted a few score years—if they were lucky. Would even the love of someone as precious and rare as Xiao-nan be enough to heal his heart for long? he wondered.

  What is happiness or joy? the Dalai Lama had said to him more than once in the last few days. And what also is sorrow? What is suffering? They are nothing, passing as the wind that blows in one direction, then another. It matters only what is done with these emotions. It matters only if by them compassion grows. In compassion only is found peace for the weary heart.

  “You are frowning, Duncan MacLeod,” Xiao-nan’s gentle voice broke across his thoughts. “You are displeased by something?”

  “Oh no, Xiao-nan. Everything is wonderful. I was just thinking about something His Holiness said. Sometimes his words are difficult.”

  “But you must try to understand, Duncan MacLeod,” she said, looking at him with her serenely serious eyes. “He is bodhisattva. Always he speaks the highest truth.”

  “Bodhisattva?” Duncan repeated the word slowly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Bodhisattva is one whose inner being is perfected in wisdom. Nirvana awaits him, but he chooses rebirth that he may teach others the Path. Our Dalai Lama is such a one. He is the Ocean of Wisdom. My people will travel many days to see him, to hear him, sometimes
to ask him a single question. That he teaches you is a great gift. You must listen to him, Duncan MacLeod.”

  “I will listen, Xiao-nan,” he assured her.

  “And you must hear not only with your ears, but with your heart.”

  “I will try.”

  Just then, Xiao-nan’s sister came bounding into the garden, erupting into the small space like a personal volcano. She threw herself onto the ground by their feet and snatched a plum cake off the tray.

  “Mingxia,” Xiao-nan said sternly, “we have a guest. Behave with respect.”

  “He’s your guest, not mine,” she replied. “Besides, he’s not a stranger—we met the other day on the trail from the warm pool.”

  She turned and smiled at Duncan, and he saw at once that though she looked much like Xiao-nan in facial structure, she was as different from her sister as the sun and the moon. She was also younger than Duncan had supposed when he met her on the trail—maybe thirteen or fourteen; the time when childhood and womanhood are mixed in both mind and body.

  “Where were you?” Xiao-nan asked her. “And what have you been doing? Your hands are filthy.”

  Mingxia shrugged, indifferent as only a teenager can be. “Old Huilan needed some help with her garden. You know her daughter-in-law is worthless with such things.”

  “Mingxia,” Xiao-nan said sharply, “that was unkind. Someday, when you are eight months pregnant, you will probably be ‘worthless’ in the garden, too.”

  Mingxia stood, snatching another treat from the tray on her way up. “I’ll never be eight months pregnant,” she said. “I don’t intend to marry.”

  With that, she turned and hurried from the garden, throwing them one more smile over her shoulder as she went. When her absence finally settled back over the place, it seemed twice as quiet as before.

  Duncan burst out laughing, and Xiao-nan turned to him with an embarrassed expression.

  “I am sorry, Duncan MacLeod,” she said. “My sister is young. She often speaks without thinking and still has much to learn about respect and compassion.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize,” Duncan said. “I think your sister is delightful, and certainly not—” He searched for a word in Tibetan, but finally had to resort to his native tongue “—boring.”

  It was Xiao-nan’s turn to look perplexed. “Boring?” she asked. “What is that?”

  “Boring is, well, it’s everything Mingxia is not,” he replied.

  Xiao-nan still looked a bit confused, but she smiled anyway. “You are very kind, Duncan MacLeod,” she said, “to forgive my sister her poor manners.”

  Duncan did not want to talk about Mingxia anymore; just wanted Xiao-nan to go on smiling at him.

  “Xiao-nan,” he said, “among my people it is not necessary to say a person’s full name each time. Once you know them, one name only is used. Please call me Duncan.”

  “Duncan,” she repeated, her smile turning gently pleased. “What does it mean, this Duncan?”

  Duncan shrugged. “It means ‘dark chieftain,’ “he said, “but that’s not why we give names among my people, or not the only reason.”

  She reached out and softly touched his hair. “Still,” she said, “it suits you. Are you truly a chieftain?”

  “I was the son of a chieftain,” he answered. “But another leads my clan now.”

  “Your eyes say this makes you sad. Why do you not lead your people, Duncan?”

  “It is a long story, Xiao-nan. Perhaps someday I will tell you.”

  “Someday,” she agreed. “There is much time ahead for us.”

  “I hope so, Xiao-nan,” Duncan said. He took her hand and gently kissed her palm. “I truly hope so.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Duncan left Xiao-nan and walked back through Lhasa, whistling softly under his breath. He smiled at every person he saw, stopping often to bow at them and happily receiving their bow in return. In his current state of mind, the whole city, with its brightly painted houses, fluttering prayer flags, and well-tended gardens, seemed a place of transcendent beauty.

  MacLeod was unaware that his every movement was being watched with unfriendly eyes.

  Father Edward, the Gurkha spy posing as a priest, had seen MacLeod and Xiao-nan return to the city. He had seen them go together into the woman’s family home and noted how long it took MacLeod to emerge again.

  So, the Westerner has taken a lover, he thought to himself. How fortuitous. It will keep his mind off invasions while the great Nasiradeen, my master, prepares. He will want to have this information.

  It would also keep MacLeod from giving the Dalai Lama his full attention and protection, the spy’s thoughts continued almost gleefully. The impediment he feared MacLeod might present to his plans was fast becoming nothing more than a crumbling wall, easily broached.

  I will go visit the Choi household, Edward thought, and find out the depths of Xiao-nan’s involvement with MacLeod. That would certainly be in keeping with his role as priest. He knew the girls well—they had been among the first to visit and to welcome him and Father Jacques to the city. The family trusted him, and what would be more fitting than a priest expressing concern over Xiao-nan’s welfare?

  It truth, it was not the older sister who interested him. Beautiful though she was, she seemed to him too serene, too remote. But Mingxia—she was alive. She had a fire to her that he wanted to claim as his own. It was often difficult to remind himself of the role he was playing and keep his distance.

  That would change as soon as Nasiradeen invaded. Then, Father Edward told himself, he would have her. Girls of Mingxia’s age were often wed in his country, and he would take her—not to wife, for she would be of a conquered people, and it would not then be fitting, but as concubine. What a reward for his work that would be.

  Father Edward stopped outside the Choi house and composed himself before he knocked, smoothing down his black cassock as he cleared his thoughts of Mingxia’s young body.

  Old Yao-hui Choi, the father, answered the door. He bowed at the priest, gesturing for him to enter.

  “Peace be to this house,” Father Edward said, using the greeting he had so often heard from Father Tierney, the missionary he had known as a child. Much of what he said and did, in fact, was modeled after the old Irish priest.

  “Come in, Father Edward,” Yao-hui said, again gesturing for the priest to enter. “Come in and have tea with us. You have just missed our guest.”

  “I know,” Father Edward replied. “I saw him leave. I also saw him with your daughter earlier. That is why I am here.”

  Yao-hui led the way into the main room of the house. His wife rose when they entered and also bowed to the priest, then she hurried from the room. Father Edward glanced around, but the daughters were nowhere in sight.

  Unfortunate, Father Edward thought, but perhaps temporary. Usually the entire family gathered to greet a guest—and Father Edward wanted to see Mingxia.

  Father Edward took a seat on one of the cushions and politely waited while tea was brought and served. As he hoped, Xiao-nan and Mingxia joined them. Now, Father Edward thought, to play his part.

  “Yao-hui,” he said, addressing the head of the household formally, with seeming respect. “I know you care for your family and want the best for your daughters. You and your family have been very kind to myself and Father Jacques since we arrived in Lhasa. I also care that no harm come to this family, to your daughters. Therefore, I respectfully ask you what you know of this Duncan MacLeod?”

  “He is a good man, Father Edward,” Yao-hui replied.

  “How do you know this, Yao-hui?”

  “My daughter has told me, and I have no reason to doubt her.”

  “Young girl’s hearts are often fooled.”

  “That is true, Father Edward,” Yao-hui nodded gravely, sipping from his bowl of tea. “But the heart of the Dalai Lama is not. His heart and mind always see clearly, and he teaches Duncan MacLeod. Therefore, Duncan MacLeod is a good man, and I can trust him wi
th my daughter’s care.”

  Now came the important question. The Gurkha spy took care to phrase it well.

  “It is unusual for a man of the West to come to the holy city,” he said. “Has Xiao-nan told you why he is here?”

  Although Xiao-nan was sitting only a few feet away, Father Edward asked the question of her father, showing respect to his status; this was a polite discussion between men.

  Yao-hui turned and looked at his daughter. She answered quickly and quietly. Father Edward could hear her words, but he waited for the father to relay them.

  “Xiao-nan says that Duncan MacLeod has not spoken of his reason for being here, but she knows that his heart is sad. She believes he is here to find the Path to Enlightenment. This, the Dalai Lama will teach him.”

  Their conversation always comes back to that pathetic young man, the spy thought. He cannot hold a sword or ride a horse, but is carried everywhere in a covered litter like some feeble old woman—yet these people speak of him as if he can do all things. When the great Nasiradeen comes, he will show the people what a true leader is. The people will tremble before him, and the Dalai Lama will be returned to the dust from which he was made.

  The thought gave Father Edward pleasure, and he smiled. He covered the expression by taking a sip from the bowl of tea in his hands.

  “I’m sure that if your Dalai Lama accepts this Duncan MacLeod, you are right to do likewise,” he said pleasantly. “It is only my concern for this family that has caused my questions.”

  Yao-hui bowed to the priest-impostor. “You bless my house with your compassion,” he said.

  Father Edward stood. He bowed to Yao-hui and to each of the family, letting his eyes linger ever so slightly on Mingxia. Then he turned and took his leave; he had a message to send. As he walked back to the house he shared with Father Jacques, his thoughts turned again to the invasion and the prizes he would claim after its success.