The Path (8 page)

“Ah, then your family, your clan,” the Dalai Lama pronounced the new word carefully, “believe that in you the spirit of your
ancestor is reborn.”

“No, Your Holiness. My people do not believe that the spirits of the dead return.”

“You believe then in this heaven of which the missionaries teach?”

“Those are the beliefs of my people,” Duncan said.

So carefully answered
, the Dalai Lama thought.
What do you believe, Duncan MacLeod? Do you know?

“Tell me about your people,” he said aloud as their dinner arrived. “Tell me of this Scotland from which you come.”

“Ach, it is a beautiful land, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied, his gentle brogue deepening as he thought of home. “It is a
land
of green forests and deep rivers, of whole hillsides covered with the purple blooms of heather…”

Duncan continued talking as they ate their meal, and the Dalai Lama watched him, noting how his face glowed with love and
pride while he spoke of his homeland. Yet neither did the young man miss the shadow that filled MacLeod’s eyes.

Why did you leave this land of yours?
the Dalai Lama wondered,
and what is it that you fear? Perhaps soon you will tell me—but not today. Today we will speak only of pleasant things. This
we will do until you see that you can trust me
.

Over the next days, Duncan and the Dalai Lama fell into a pattern. Each morning and evening the young monk would come to Duncan’s
room and escort him to the religious leader’s presence. Then Duncan and the Dalai Lama would share a meal and conversation.
Usually these consisted of Duncan answering questions about someplace he had seen and people he had known. The Dalai Lama’s
curiosity about such things appeared to be insatiable.

At first Duncan was wary, with the guarded watchfulness that had become the habit of two hundred years. Surely, Duncan thought
time and again, the Dalai Lama wanted more than a guided tour through his memories. But with each hour in the young man’s
presence, the wariness was breaking down.

There was a freshness about him, as if he held each moment as a gift, an excuse for laughter. Duncan thought it must be a
product of the Dalai Lama’s youth, of years as yet untouched by pain or suffering, heart-wrenching decisions and bitter loss.
Yet, there was also something ancient, something that stood outside the realm of time, about the young man. It shone from
his eyes and from the look of utter compassion that so often graced his features. Slowly, it was setting MacLeod’s heart at
rest.

During his first few days, Duncan spent his afternoons exploring the Potala and its grounds. Despite its beauty and its fifteen
hundred rooms, it was more of a monastery than a palace, filled with countless prayer wheels of every size, from a few inches
tall to twice the height of a man. Set in individual niches, they lined the walls in corridors and stairwells or outside walkways.
They were the central figures in gardens and meditation rooms. Some were plain and made of brass. Others
were brightly painted in reds, yellows, and blues; all were filled with thousands of invocations that when spun were believed
to ascend to the Compassionate Heart of Buddha. MacLeod often spun them as he passed, each time remembering his nomad friends
and the promises he had made to them.

The gardens behind the Potala contained a sight Duncan had not thought to see at this high an elevation. Here several fruit
trees, stands of peach and walnut, apple, pear, and apricot grew in happy cultivation along with poppies and tiger lilies,
marigolds, hydrangea, hollyhocks, and carnations, all carefully tended by the monks as part of their contemplative duties.
The gardens were places of serene beauty enhanced by the presence of the lake created by excavating the materials to build
the massive structure of the Potala. The lake was fed by underground springs and runoff from the mountains. Out of curiosity,
Duncan put his hand in the lake and came away shaking his head, wondering how anyone, even a Tibetan monk, could bring himself
to bathe in such frigid water.

On the afternoon of his fifth day at the Potala, MacLeod decided to venture down into the city of Lhasa. The day was bright
with sunshine and the air about forty-five degrees; a warm spring day for Tibet. Duncan left the Potala with no more destination
than a pleasant walk in mind.

The streets of the city were not laid out with the orderly progression of a European city. They curved and meandered like
a strolling path in a woodland park. The entire city had a parklike air with small, brightly painted houses bordered by flowering
shrubs and well-tended gardens. Everywhere they could be hung, prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, gay as banners on a parade
ground.

The people, too, wore colorful clothing, predominately shades of blues and greens, white, pink, and coral, with black bands
and trims that made the lighter colors appear all the more vibrant. Here, as among the nomads, men’s clothing was darker and
married women wore the five-colored aprons that denoted their status. Occasionally Duncan saw someone wearing yellow, orange,
or red. These, he knew, were religious colors marking someone who had taken a vow. He was careful to respectfully bow to any
such person who passed him.

The people of Lhasa showed no fear of the tall white stranger
walking their streets. Children ran to him, calling out their greetings and squealing with delight when he answered them.
Adults paused in their work to smile at him. It was like walking through the garden of paradise, and Duncan found himself
more warmed by the people than by the sun.

Following the curve of the streets, Duncan came suddenly upon one of the city wells. Clustered around it, a group of six young
women sat chatting and laughing. Wrapped in the soft sunlight, it was such a scene of feminine beauty that Duncan stopped,
not wanting to move and shatter the moment.

The young women were all of an age when the full bloom of adulthood had ripened their bodies but the ravages of worries and
weather had not yet touched them. Lovely as they were, there was one among them who seemed to sparkle with an inner light.
Duncan could not take his eyes from her.

“The Tibetans are comely people, aren’t they?” said a voice by his side.

Duncan quickly turned to find a man in clerical garb standing next to him. His long black cassock looked out of place among
the brightly colored houses, and the English he spoke was both welcome for its familiarity and an intrusion, a reminder of
the life Duncan wanted to forget.

Though his words were English, his voice cultured and educated, his face was Nepalese. Here was one of the missionaries of
whom the Dalai Lama had spoken. From the manner of his attire—the black cassock that did not button down the front but fastened
at the neck and was tied by a sash at the waist, the knee-length black cape and the black biretta he wore—Duncan knew this
one was Jesuit. It did not surprise him, for the Jesuits, knowing there is no one so zealous as a convert, frequently ordained
from within the native population.

But at least he’s not an Immortal
, Duncan thought. The Game had still not found him.

Still, Duncan narrowed his eyes and looked at the man suspiciously; two hundred years of experience had left him with little
love for the members of the Society of Jesus.

“I am Father Edward,” the priest said, offering his hand.

Duncan hesitated the briefest moment before shaking it. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he answered formally.

“I had heard there was a European in Lhasa. The people regard you with a bit of awe, you know.”

“Me?” Duncan could not keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Oh, yes. You’re the special guest of their Dalai Lama. They think of him as the incarnation of their god, and that makes
you a person of importance—and of speculation. Father Jacques, the other of my Order who lives here, and the three Brothers
of the Capuchin Order of St. Francis are the only Europeans most of these people have ever seen, and we do not live at the
Potala. Indeed we would not, even had we been invited. All those heathen images.” The priest shuddered expressively. “Don’t
you find them offensive, Mr. MacLeod?”

Duncan was beginning to find
the priest’s
presence offensive; he spoke with a pomposity Duncan did find irritating. “No,” MacLeod answered quickly. “Many of them are
quite beautiful.”

“Of themselves, perhaps,” Father Edward agreed, “but not of what they represent. Indeed, it is their heathen beliefs and practices
that keeps this place from being a true paradise and these people from being among the most sanctified.”

“And you’re here to change all that, I suppose,” Duncan said, irritation turning to anger.

“Should God grant me that grace,” Father Edward replied, but his tone was fierce not meek.

“Well, you’ll get no help from me.” Duncan turned on his heel and strode off, leaving the priest staring after him.

Duncan walked quickly, letting the movement vent his anger. His own religious feelings were ambiguous at best, but intolerance
was the one thing that even as an Immortal he did not have
time
to practice.

MacLeod, intent upon distancing himself from the priest, had not seen the change that came over the man’s face when MacLeod
left him standing on the street of Lhasa. Black eyes narrowed, following Duncan’s movements, calculating stance, balance,
and strength. Here, he thought to MacLeod’s retreating back, is a threat to plans so carefully laid.

I must watch this one
, he thought.
When the time comes, he must not be allowed to interfere
.

Thoughts of Father Edward stayed with Duncan for the rest of the afternoon, casting a shadow over the brightness of the day.
Did the Dalai Lama know anything about these priests living in his city, Duncan wondered, about the type of men they were
and the opinions they held? Did he know of their plans to convert and control the people?

Duncan shook his head.
How can he, young as he is? He’s never really seen anyone from the world away from Tibet. He needs to be told that not all
men have generous hearts, no matter what they profess
.

Aye
, Duncan thought, accepting the responsibility and age experience laid upon him.
I’ll tell him this very evening. His Holiness must learn the truth about these
Jesuits.

Even his thoughts spat the word. He had seen too many atrocities for it to be otherwise—the Inquisition, the witch-hunts and
burnings, all in the name of their religion.
They may call themselves missionaries, but I call them fanatics and murderers
. It was the Jesuit activities in Japan that had led to the law forbidding the harboring of Westerners, and that in turn had
led to the death of Hideo Koto.

Duncan MacLeod had little cause to love men like Father Edward.

The priest’s presence and his words worked like a slow poison in Duncan’s mind as he sat in the Potala garden and watched
the afternoon slowly pass toward evening. They ate away at the fragile peace of mind that MacLeod had felt slowly descending
upon him. Once more, wariness surfaced. The missionaries had not been invited to live here in the Dalai Lama’s palace, Father
Edward had said, so why had he? Duncan wondered. What was it the young man wanted from him?

Duncan knew he needed to have his answer—and, if possible,
he meant to have it tonight. He hurried back to his room to await the Dalai Lama’s summons.

It was not long coming. Duncan had barely had time to remove his coat when the young monk appeared at his door. With a silent
bow, he turned and Duncan followed him. As they walked down the long corridors MacLeod tried for a conversation, hoping to
gain some insight into the Dalai Lama’s feelings about the missionaries before he reached the young man’s presence. The Dalai
Lama was, after all, a ruler, and in Duncan’s experience rulers tended to keep their true feelings hidden behind the veil
of necessity.

“I went down into Lhasa today,” Duncan said pleasantly. “ ’Tis a beautiful city. Do you go there often?”

“When my duties allow,” the monk answered.

“Have you met the other Westerners then, the priests who live in the city?” Out of the corner of his eye, MacLeod watched
the monk’s face, looking for any subtle change of expression that might reveal the young man’s feelings.

The monk’s face remained impassive as he gave a barely perceivable shrug. “I’ve met them,” he said. “They are just men like
any other, and so in need of compassion.”

“In need of—” MacLeod swallowed back the retort that nearly sprang from his lips. “Do many people in the city visit the priests?”
he asked instead.

“Everyone visits them.”

MacLeod was surprised by the answer, and immediately anxious for the welfare of this gentle people.

“Does His Holiness know?” he asked.

The monk smiled faintly. “The Dalai Lama knows everything,” he said in a tone that ended the conversation.

Aye
, Duncan thought,
I’m sure he does at that. He has his spies everywhere, no doubt. Are you one, my young monk? Is that why you’re the one who
comes for me each day?