The Path (7 page)

As Duncan left the room, the Dalai Lama cocked his head to one side and stood for a moment thinking.
What is this burden you carry, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? What is the sorrow that fills your eyes with such weariness,
and what has brought you to my city?

Again the gong sounded in the distance. It was time for meditation and prayer. The Dalai Lama knew that throughout the Potala
the monks would be leaving their other occupations to gather in the inner chamber and wait for him to come lead them. This
was his joy and his duty. Yet as he walked down the beautiful corridors of the Potala, his mind was not on the Teachings.
He could not stop thinking about Duncan MacLeod.

All Westerners are strange
, he thought,
but this one is different. He has none of the arrogance of the others in my city, the missionaries. They speak humble words
but do not have humble hearts. This one, this Duncan MacLeod, has the humility of a burden carried too long in silence. He
is a man who has lost his path
.

How can I help him?
the Dalai Lama wondered as he entered the meditation chamber and sat in his accustomed place.

His small brass handbell, the
darja
, and string of prayer beads sat on the floor in front of his cushion. Before him, the monks sat in long rows facing each
other, ready to begin chanting the subtle triple tone that was the sound of the universe at harmony with the soul. The expectation
on their faces slowly turned to patient puzzlement when he made no move to pick up the handbell.

The Dalai Lama bowed his head and waited for either inspiration or silence to enter his mind. Although in this life he was
a young man, only twenty-three, he had lived through seven previous Enlightened incarnations, and he had the memories of
those lifetimes to guide him. Suffering was something he thought he knew in all its forms—but never had he seen eyes as haunted
as those that looked at him today. It was as if each word spoken brought back memories too painful to be borne.

And what of the age I saw in those eyes?
the Dalai Lama wondered, head still bowed in silent contemplation.
How many lifetimes has Duncan MacLeod lived and by what spin of the Great Wheel has he come to this place?

The Dalai Lama raised his eyes and looked out at the rows of monks still awaiting his signal. Old and young alike, he knew
he had only to ask and each one of them would try to lighten his burden with their compassion and advice. But helping MacLeod
was something the Dalai Lama knew was his karma alone.

Suddenly, into the expectant silence, came the inspiration he had been seeking. They were teachings so basic to his beliefs
he had looked past them, searching for some more esoteric words that would both inspire MacLeod and give answer to the complicated
questions he felt surrounding this strange Westerner.

Ah, foolish man
, he chided himself.
It is from simplicity that truth arises
.

He picked up the handbell.

Duncan did not visit the Potala gardens, as the Dalai Lama had offered; neither did he go into the city of Lhasa. After his
weeks in the nomads’ camp and his days on the trail, being inside a building with walls and windows, heat and light was a
luxury.

He was given a room of simple elegance, where spaciousness felt like part of the decor. The furnishings were few—a bed, a
chest, a small table—but each one was a work of beauty. There was a chimneyed brazier in one corner and two oil lamps, one
on a long chain from the ceiling, one on the table, that had been lit and filled the room with warmth. More light came in
through the long narrow window. There were rugs upon the floor, two large pillows to sit on, and a privacy screen in the far
corner. Above all there was room, space to move, to think with his body.

Alone in his room, Duncan removed his shirt, his fur-lined boots, and stockings. The warm air on his bare skin was a sensual
pleasure. He felt his body
breathe
. Going to the center of the room, he began to stretch, muscle by muscle: feet, ankles, knees on up through his arms, shoulders,
neck. He stretched out the stiffness of his long ride and the weeks of inattention.

From the stretches, Duncan moved into
kata
, the precise series of movements used to train the body, focus the mind, and control the breath. They flowed together like
a ritual dance. This was a practice he had begun in Japan under the tutelage of Hideo Koto—a mortal and one of Duncan’s greatest
teachers.

Was it really only three years ago?
Duncan thought, wondering at the twists of time that made some things, especially actions of his youth, feel as if they happened
only an instant before while other events felt distant, belonging to another person or a different life.

Perhaps it was not time, but pain that kept them separate, Duncan realized as his body warmed. Memory is stored in the muscles,
Kiem Sun had once told him and as Duncan kicked and lunged, struck, turned, and parried, images of the months he had spent
in Japan emerged. He saw again Hideo Koto’s face as he had first seen it; eyes shining, sword in hand—every inch the proud
and fierce warrior MacLeod came to know and respect.

His death had been a hard blow. Harder still was the knowledge that his death had come for MacLeod’s sake. The samurai had
known about the law forbidding the harboring of Westerners, of “barbarians,” yet when MacLeod had found himself alive once
more on the shores of Japan, still surrounded by the flotsam of his destroyed ship, Koto had taken him in as the honorable
thing to do for the stranger who had saved his life.

Honor governed every moment of Hideo Koto’s life—and it had governed his death. To save his family’s name and honor, he had
chosen
seppuku
, the ritual suicide, rather than execution for his disobedience of the law. It had been one of the most difficult acts of
MacLeod’s long life to stand as Koto’s second; one of the hardest blows he had ever had to strike, to use Koto’s own
katana
to sever his head and end the ritual.

At that moment, and at this, MacLeod hated death.

He’d had enough of memories. Too much. He pushed away the image of Koto’s lifeless body, pushed his own body harder, until
all he could think of was controlling his breath in the thin
Tibetan air. Soon his blood was pounding in his ears, his body bathed in sweat. He did not want to remember; he had come here
to forget.

Forget
.

That single word became a mantra of his own making. He breathed it in and held it deeply. It fed his soul like the oxygen
that sustained his body.

Forget
.

He pushed the memories out with his breath, exhaling them like poison. He struck at them with his hands, kicked at them with
his legs.

Forget
.

The past is a darkness filled with ghosts. Put them to rest.

The future is a chasm, a void unseen.

Forget
.

Forget
.

He continued through all the multiple
kata
, changing from the karate forms he had learned from Hideo Koto to the
kata
of the Way of the White Crane he had been taught by May-Ling. Light from the window moved toward shadow, and finally he sank
to his knees, too exhausted to push his body further. His muscles burned, and he welcomed the pain. It gave him focus. For
a moment the voices were silent, the faces withdrawn. For this instant there was nothing more than here and now.

A gong sounded somewhere in the Potala. Duncan tried to ignore it, but it shattered the delicate silence in which he was existing.
Reality crashed back in upon him.

Duncan sighed and reached for his shirt.
I wonder how they feel about baths in this place
, he thought as he began to wipe the sweat from his torso. Frequent bathing was also a habit he had picked up in Japan. It
was difficult to maintain during his travels and had been close to impossible while living with his nomad friends. Maybe here
in this great palace there would be the chance of hot water.

I’ll ask
, he told himself.
All they can do is think I’m as crazy as I probably am
.

With a wry grin, he stood and looked around for where they had put his bag with his change of clothes. He would like to wash
before he put on clean things, but he could not run half-naked through the palace trying to find a tub.

It took him a few minutes to find his possessions, neatly folded and stacked behind the privacy screen. He left the small
tent and blankets, the water pouch and the sack of food, and carried the long, narrow bag that held his few traveling clothes
to the bed. Unlacing it quickly, he lifted and shook out each of the three silk shirts he had brought with him from China,
the extra pair of wool pants, and, finally, the long robe that he had carried from Japan. In the bag were a pair of soft-soled
sandals, also from Japan, and a lighter pair of boots.

His favorite of the shirts was a deep, almost iridescent blue. He picked it up and fingered the soft cloth, wondering again
about the chance to wash before putting it on, when there was a faint knock on his door. A young monk entered and bowed.

“The Dalai Lama wishes for you to join him at his evening meal. If you are willing, someone will guide you in one hour.”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “I’ll have dinner with His Holiness.”

The monk bowed again and started to turn away.

“Wait,” Duncan called. “Is there a place where I can wash first? I’d like to bathe.”

“You wish to go to the lake?” the monk asked, his voice cracking with youth and incredulity.

“No,” Duncan answered quickly. He’d had more than enough of cold lakes and mountain streams. “I’m talking about a bath, in
a tub of hot water, with soap. Have you such a thing?”

“We have,” the monk answered hesitantly, “for His Holiness. I will ask about your use. You will wait, please.”

“Aye, I’ll wait.”

The monk left and Duncan laid the clean shirt aside. He might not have to put it on while he was dirty after all—and the prospect
of a hot bath was worth waiting for.

An hour later, the Dalai Lama sat in the room where he and Duncan had met before. He knew that MacLeod was being conducted
toward him and he did not mind waiting. He never minded; there was always so much to contemplate.

He sat on his cushion, legs crossed and his hands folded in the pattern of Mandala offering. His downcast eyes no longer saw
his intricately folded fingers. He was hardly aware of the room in which he sat. His sight was turned deeply inward, focusing
on the-Jewel-that-is-Compassion.

The certainty that had come to him during the afternoon’s meditation had not left him. It was his karma to teach MacLeod the
four Noble Truths and the Way of the Eightfold Path. These he knew would help MacLeod find peace, but how receptive would
he be to instruction? The other Westerners who had come to Tibet, the missionaries who lived in the city, had no desire to
hear any words but their own. Would the same be true of MacLeod?
If so
, the Dalai Lama wondered,
what then is my karma?

The sound of the door opening seemed to come from far away, but the Dalai Lama recognized the sound and began to pull his
thoughts back into the present. He changed the tone of his breathing, brought his focus back outward and his sight back to
the room in which he sat. Then he looked up and smiled. MacLeod stood in the doorway, looking slightly less weary but hesitant
to approach.

“I did not mean to disturb your thoughts,” he said. “I can come back another time.”

“Come in, come in,” the Dalai Lama replied. “I was waiting for you.”

MacLeod walked quickly into the room. He was wearing his blue silk shirt. His long pants were tucked into the tops of high
leather boots and his hair was loose about his shoulders. As he neared, the Dalai Lama could smell the clean scent that surrounded
him.

“You have then enjoyed your bath?” the young man asked as Duncan sat on the cushion next to him.

“Oh, aye—though I think I shocked a few of your people by asking for one.”

The Dalai Lama chuckled. “It is their way to wash themselves in the lake behind the Potala or go to the warm spring in the
hills. I do not care for the cold water of the lake, and each time I leave this place a great procession forms. My people
love me, as I do them, but I do not need to be escorted merely to wash the dust from this poor body. And so, the tub. Please
make use of it whenever you wish.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama inclined his head graciously, but his eyes were hooded as he considered how best to break down the barriers
he sensed MacLeod had drawn around himself. Permanent barriers, he was sure, and not easily broached.

“Tell me,” the young man said into the uneasy silence that had fallen, “what does it mean ‘Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod’?”

“In my country, Scotland, clan is the word we use for family,” Duncan explained. “It means I belong to the family of the MacLeods.
Duncan was my great-grandfather’s name, and it was given to me in his memory.”