The Path (13 page)

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.”

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 with 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.

Gold—yes, he wanted gold—and wine and fine foods to make up for the life he was now being forced to live, and he wanted silks
to wear instead of this black cassock. Mostly he wanted women, starting with Mingxia.

I’ll take Xiao-nan, too
, he thought.
They’ll both be my concubines, fire and ice for my pleasure. And if they please me, I’ll let their parents live—as my servants
.

The threat to her parents’ lives was, he knew, the only way he would bring Xiao-nan to his bed. Not that he cared about her
willingness, only her obedience.
That
he would have, that and her fear.

Mingxia he would woo more carefully, but not so much as to quench her fire. The thought of her excited him anew. The only
thought sweeter was of the battle that would come and the part he would play in it.

He would kill Father Jacques himself; he would kill all missionaries if he could, but Father Jacques would do. If he was lucky
and Shiva favored him, he would take MacLeod’s life as well. Then, with the smell of blood around him and the song of battle
filling his heart, he would have the women on whom to satiate his desire.