The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  But he knew it was an idle thought. He would tell her the truth of who he was, all of it, before they wed. He would give her the chance to send him away. But if she still wanted him once she knew, he would stay. He loved her—heart, body, and soul.

  In spite of the two hundred years of life, or perhaps because of it, Duncan MacLeod still believed that love could conquer anything.

  When dawn finally came Duncan sent his apologies to the Dalai Lama, saying he would return later in the day, and headed down into Lhasa. The night had left him filled with a restless energy.

  He walked down the winding streets that had become so familiar to him, listening to the sounds of the city awakening and trying to picture how his life would be. Soft voices drifted out from the houses, as if carried on the smoke of cooking fires, birds twittered and sang in the trees, dogs barked; they were comforting sounds, sounds of home.

  Home—it had been a long time since he’d had a true home.

  MacLeod kept walking. The movement came easily now. His Immortal lungs had long since healed the strain of breathing in the thin Tibetan air. As always, movement freed his mind and it, too, began to travel familiar pathways, walking the streets of memory.

  MacLeod thought of his early life, his years in Glenfinnan and of all his travels since, trying to catalog the places he had been: Weeks, months, sometimes years spent in hundreds of places, but always as a traveler, a visitor, at least within his own heart. Even returning to Scotland for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s cause had not been a homecoming. The people he had known were long dead, and the places had changed with the centuries.

  But here on the other side of the world from where he was born, here he had found a home. Here he had found love.

  MacLeod paid no mind to where his feet were taking him until he stood outside the Capuchin mission house just as Brother Michael opened the door.

  “Mr. MacLeod,” the monk said pleasantly. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Good morning, Brother Michael,” Duncan returned.

  “Have you come to see one of us? Is there something we can do for you?”

  Duncan shook his head. “I was just walking and happened to pass.”

  “Well, come in,” the monk gestured, waving him inside. “Come and have a cup of tea with us.”

  Duncan found himself smiling. He nodded and stepped toward the door.

  “It is a glorious morning, is it not, Mr. MacLeod?” Brother Michael said as he stood aside to let Duncan pass. “I like to open the door on mornings such as this and let the air sweep in. It does more than clear the staleness from the house—fresh air clears the mind. Don’t you think, Mr. MacLeod?”

  “Aye, Brother, that I do.”

  Brother Michael led the way to the back of the house where the other monks were already seated at a table with a pot of tea before them.

  “We have a visitor, Brothers,” the eldest monk announced as they entered the room. “Get him a chair so he may be comfortable.”

  The youngest of the three, Brother Peter, was quickly on his feet. “Here, he may have mine,” he said as he hurried to get himself a stool. MacLeod soon found himself seated and being served tea from the steaming pot as if he had been visiting royalty and not someone who chanced by.

  “Were you on the way to call on Xiao-nan, Mr., MacLeod?” Brother Thomas, the third monk, spoke for the first time.

  Duncan shook his head. “As I told Brother Michael, I was just out for a walk. ‘Tis early to do much visiting.”

  “But you do plan to see her later?”

  Next to him, Brother Michael laughed. “Please excuse Thomas, Mr. MacLeod. He is known within our Order for his blunt tongue. Peter and I are used to it, but it sometimes takes others by surprise. I will admit,” he stopped and sipped his tea, “we are all curious about your… intentions… toward Xiao-nan. She is such a dear girl.”

  “You need have no fears, then,” MacLeod told them. “I’ve asked Xiao-nan to be my wife.”

  “Splendid,” Brother Michael beamed. “Splendid. When will the wedding take place?”

  “I only asked her yesterday,” MacLeod replied. “Nothing has been settled.”

  “A more important question,” Brother Thomas spoke again, “is how will the wedding take place. Has she converted to your faith, Mr. MacLeod, or have you become Buddhist?”

  “Softly, Thomas,” Brother Michael admonished. “Softly. Where love is present, the way for such things can always be found.”

  “I would never ask Xiao-nan to change who she is or what she believes,” MacLeod answered Brother Thomas’s question. “Nor would I ask her to participate in a ceremony that for her has no meaning. For myself—I am neither Buddhist nor Catholic. Whatever Xiao-nan wants for her wedding will be fine with me.”

  “But surely you will want a marriage your family will recognize as valid when you return home?” Brother Peter, the youngest monk asked.

  “I’ve no intention of taking Xiao-nan away from her family,” Duncan replied. “Lhasa will be my home as it is hers.”

  “But what of your family?” Brother Peter continued.

  MacLeod was beginning to lose his patience. “There is no one in Scotland I want to see more than I want to be here,” he said sternly, hoping his tone would put an end to these questions.

  Brother Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Brother Michael held up his hand. “Peace, my Brother,” he said, then he turned to Duncan.

  “Mr. MacLeod,” he said, “it is truly not our intention to interfere with the happiness of this occasion, but perhaps there is a way for all to be satisfied. You say you have no wish to leave Lhasa—but that may change, or Xiao-nan herself may wish one day to see your homeland. You would not want others think less than well of her, I’m sure, or failing to recognize her as your wife. What I am suggesting is that we blend the two ceremonies—a few prayers, a blessing, nothing more. A union of East and West, as your marriage union will be.”

  MacLeod was grateful for Brother Michael’s calm and reasoned argument. “Perhaps, Brother,” he said. “I’ll talk to Xiao-nan when the time comes.”

  “That’s fine,” the monk replied with a smile. “Now, let us all have another cup of tea and speak of other matters. Tell me, Mr. MacLeod, do you by chance play chess?”

  MacLeod smiled. “Aye, I’ve been known to enjoy the game.”

  “Splendid—then maybe sometime you’ll favor me with a match. I’ve a board and a set of players I carved myself, but I’m afraid they’ve rarely been out of their box. My brothers here to not share my fascination with the game.”

  “Mere foolishness,” Brother Thomas said bluntly. “A waste of time.”

  “Not so, Thomas,” said the older monk. “It is a way of opening the mind to see the possibilities. I’m sure Mr. MacLeod will agree with me.”

  Brother Thomas grunted noncommittally and Brother Michael sighed. “It is an old standing argument,” he told MacLeod. “One of many.”

  “Aye, I can see that,” MacLeod said as he raised the small drinking bowl to his lips.

  They were very different, these three monks, yet they made an harmonious whole. MacLeod knew, with sudden and absolute certainty, that here were men he could call on if there was need—and if something were to happen to him, they would watch over and care for Xiao-nan.

  Oddly, he found the thought gave him comfort.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nasiradeen sat astride his favorite horse far at the head of his army, where all his men could see him. They were moving at last.

  Behind him rode his captains, twenty of them—men whose hearts and loyalties he knew as well as he knew his own; men he trusted above all others. Behind them, marching four abreast and stretching back for almost half a mile, was his army. His army, warriors that he had personally chosen for this campaign.

  How they cheered when he rode through their ranks at dawn. They were, every one of them, proud to be his men.

  The King had not bothered to come out this morning and see t
he army on its way. Nasiradeen was not surprised. Coming out to view the army would have meant leaving the comfort of his bed before the sun had fully risen—not something the King was personally inclined to do or something the regents encouraged. The regents encouraged little that did not keep the King under their control.

  It does not matter, not anymore, Nasiradeen thought. He had obtained what he wanted from the King; he had permission to leave the court and to lead this invasion, with the crown’s backing. In the end, all of the regents, even old Kumar, had urged the King’s support. They were happy to see Nasiradeen go. It removed his influence over the King’s imagination. They had even provisioned the baggage carts that rolled at the end of the line from out of the royal stores.

  They knew nothing of the extra cart that had been added, a cart loaded with Nasiradeen’s belongings including two coffers of gold and another of jewels that he had collected over the centuries. The regents in their stale, underused imaginations could not conceive that Nasiradeen and the army would not return to Nepal—except as invaders and conquerors.

  The horse beneath him pranced and capered, sensing its rider’s excitement. Nasiradeen laid a hand on its neck to quiet it. Like everything else with him today, this horse had been personally chosen and trained. Nasiradeen had raised it from a foal, taught it to respond to his moods and his silent commands. Like the sword by his side, this horse was an extension of himself.

  Like each of the men behind him, Nasiradeen knew that this horse would willingly give its life for him, to ensure he obtained his desire. They trusted him for their reward. He would not fail them; he would give them Tibet.

  He drew his sword and lifted it high over head. Behind him, hundreds of hands did likewise. Sun glinted off the curved blades of polished steel. Nasiradeen could feel the heat of it behind him, knew the terror such a sight struck in the heart of the enemy.

  They would march into Lhasa—and thus, in a blaze of light, would they attack.

  “Your mind is not on the Teachings, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said.

  MacLeod looked up, startled, then he grinned a bit sheepishly. “No, Your Holiness,” he said. “I suppose it wasn’t. I apologize.”

  “And where are your thoughts today? They are in Lhasa, I think, where your feet took you this morning. Yes?”

  MacLeod’s smile broadened. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “And you will see Xiao-nan today?”

  Duncan nodded. “We’re to meet later.”

  The Dalai Lama cocked his head to one side. His eyes twinkled knowingly. “And you will speak to her parents today?”

  MacLeod sat up straighter. “How did you—?”

  The Dalai Lama laughed. “Oh, Duncan MacLeod, throughout my many lives I have looked on the faces of love more times than there are stars in the sky. Always it is the same—lovers believe they live in a world of their own. They think no one else can see what they feel and that no one else has ever loved as they do. But that is good, Duncan MacLeod. Men and women should love each other. They should marry, have children, and love their children. Love is the best thinking, the best action. Love, compassion, truth, peace—first internal, then external. These are the stepping-stones of Enlightenment. These are the meaning of all Buddha teaches.”

  Once more the Dalai Lama cocked his head to one side and looked at MacLeod. He was much more at peace than when he arrived in Lhasa, but sometimes the Dalai Lama could see the darkness lurking, waiting still to close in. It was not the darkness of evil, but of sorrow.

  Perhaps, the Dalai Lama admitted silently, for a man such as Duncan MacLeod, such darkness is always waiting. The only thing that can battle or overcome darkness is light. Enlightenment.

  “We were speaking of death, Duncan MacLeod, and of rebirth,” the Dalai Lama said. “I think maybe today is not the day for such words. You would rather be in Lhasa with Xiao-nan today. Yes?”

  “Xiao-nan would be most upset if I were to pass up any opportunity to learn from Your Holiness.”

  “And you, Duncan MacLeod? Speak the truth of what your heart is feeling.”

  “It is true,” Duncan said slowly, “that every moment I am apart from Xiao-nan I wish to be with her, but I also believe the hours I spend with Your Holiness are of great importance—and I am most humbly grateful for them.”

  The Dalai Lama inclined his head graciously. “Then we shall continue, but for a little while only. We feed here the mind, the soul, but the heart must be nourished also. Yes?”

  Duncan smiled at him, though his eyes remained grave. “You are very wise, Your Holiness.”

  “Yes,” the Dalai Lama replied, nodding. His voice held no pride, only honest acknowledgment. “Many lifetimes wise. You, also, have seen many lives, though you do not believe it I think. But it does not mater. The truth will come in its own time.

  “So now, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama continued before good manners could make MacLeod deny his disbelief, “we return to the Teachings. Tell me, why do you think death is feared?”

  “Is death feared, Your Holiness, or what comes after?”

  “Ah, Duncan MacLeod, you ask the good question. The answer is within each individual. Is death for them an end or a liberation? Do they face it in preparation or in ignorance? Death comes to all living things and that we cannot change, but what comes after… ah, there we can have influence. Not by our thoughts of past lives or future lives, but by our mindfulness of this life. By the karma we create.”

  “Karma still seems difficult to understand sometimes,” Duncan said. “For instance, you have said that to take the life of any living thing, even an animal, is a negative action producing negative karma. Yet the nomads with whom I stayed raise herds of yak to feed and clothe themselves. When they kill a yak for food, is that also a negative action?”

  “The killing, yes,” the Dalai Lama nodded. “But remember, Duncan MacLeod, the Eightfold Path speaks not only of actions but of thoughts and of intentions. Is it compassion, right action, or thought to let one’s family starve or freeze? No. To kill for greed, for anger, for selfishness—these always are negative only. But the other, here balance may be found within karma with right intention.”

  Duncan sighed. Though he knew the Dalai Lama was waiting for a reply, an indication of understanding, Duncan found no words yet to speak. Memories of battles, mortal and Immortal, swirled in his mind. They tumbled over each other, melded together and separated yet again. So many battles.

  Killing is always wrong, always negative, the words loomed large in Duncan’s mind. What are right intentions? Does survival count?

  Duncan raised his eyes to the Dalai Lama’s and saw that the young man’s expression had changed to a look of infinite sadness.

  I’m sorry, Duncan told him wordlessly. Even here, I cannot lay aside my sword. Few of my kind ever can. The most I can do is be a warrior of honor. Hideo Koto tried to teach me his meaning of honor, but I only understood part of what he said. You have taught me the rest.

  “Have I not told you many times, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, breaking the silence between them, “that the Path to Enlightenment is not easily traveled? It takes many, many lifetimes.”

  “So you have, Your Holiness,” Duncan answered. “But what is a lifetime? How many chances are we granted?”

  The Dalai Lama smiled gently. “A lifetime is a lifetime,” he said, “from the moment of its inception to the instant of its end, whether that takes a season or a century. As for the number of chances we are given to advance along the Path, ah, Duncan MacLeod, that is as infinite as the Compassionate Heart. Were it not so, none of us would have hope. And now, Duncan MacLeod, we have talked enough today.”

  Duncan started to protest, but the Dalai Lama held up his hands. “No, Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “I must meditate, and you must go to Lhasa. Xiao-nan will be waiting. I said we would not speak long this morning. Are the words you have heard not enough for you to think on?”

  Duncan’s laugh had a slightly sard
onic note to it. “Every time you speak, Your Holiness, I find myself with enough and more to occupy my thoughts—now and for years to come.”

  “It is good, Duncan MacLeod, that you recognize this. Patience, with one’s self and with others, is the first step along the Path. Patience is part of compassion.

  “It is so much more difficult to be patient with one’s self.”

  “That is true,” the Dalai Lama agreed. “But like all else, patience must begin from within. If you do not possess it, you cannot give it. Yes?”

  “What if there comes a time when patience with one’s self and with another are in conflict?”

  “There can never be such a time,” the Dalai Lama said, “for the answer is always compassion. By showing compassion to another, one’s self also benefits. The mind, the soul, these grow and expand, advancing with each act of compassion. Karma then benefits, overcoming negative with positive.”

  Experience from Duncan’s past again flashed briefly through his mind. Sometimes the choices had seemed so clear, while others…

  “It is not always easy to know where compassion lies,” he said, not certain whether he was talking to himself or his teacher.

  The Dalai Lama nodded. “True compassion is difficult. It may appear harsh or even angry. Yet, true compassion lies not in what is easy, but in what is best.”

  The Dalai stopped and cocked his head in his familiar pose. In his saffron and maroon robes, he resembled a brightly colored bird—small, with delicate features and bones. Yet Duncan knew that like the robin in the depths of winter, the Dalai Lama possessed an ability to endure and survive. Every moment Duncan spent with him, he felt that the same part of himself was somehow strengthened.

  “Now, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said with a smile, “again I must say that we have talked enough for one morning. You must not keep Xiao-nan waiting any longer. I think that you will soon have news to tell me. Yes?”

  Duncan returned the young man’s smile. “I hope so, Your Holiness,” he said. “I truly hope so.”