With that thought, Duncan knew he would go see the Dalai Lama; he did not want to carry this regret forever.
Chapter Two
MacLeod’s assessment of Richie’s libido might have been correct, but he forgot about the young man’s tenaciousness. Like the Airedale terrier his curly hair made him resemble, whose jaws closed upon prey and locked, not letting go until one of them was dead, Richie would not so easily give up his original idea. He had bought these tickets for himself and MacLeod—a gift for the teacher who had given him so much.
And there was still a part of Richie that needed to prove himself to MacLeod, that needed the older man’s approval. The need was less obvious than it had once been and manifested less frequently, but it was there. So he returned to the dojo a few hours later determined to persuade MacLeod to come with him to the peace rally.
He arrived at the martial arts school just as one group of members was leaving. The dojo would be empty now for a couple of hours. Plenty of time.
MacLeod was back in his office again. Richie waved at him as he hung his jacket on a peg, then walked over and drew one of the practice katanas off the wall. This, he knew, was one sure way to draw MacLeod onto the floor. He would pretend not to watch at first, but soon he would be out here correcting something in Richie’s form, showing him how a slight variation in balance or swing could make it more effective—and help him keep his head.
A few stretches to wake up his muscles and get the blood flowing, then Richie began moving through the basic motions he had been taught: guard, slice, thrust, upward cut, downward cut, diagonal left, right, different angles, entries, and parries, keeping his balance on the balls of his feet, imagining an opponent’s sword, his body, his head.
Soon Richie was sweating; his taut muscles warmed and loosened. He almost forgot about MacLeod as he tightened his focus on what he was doing. Make the sword a part of yourself, an extension of your arm; in the past few years these words had become as familiar to him as the sound of his own name. Extend your energy, your ch’i, to the tip of the blade. Let the sword do the work.
“You dropped your left shoulder on that one,” said the familiar voice behind him. “It left your guard open. I could have disarmed you and taken your head.”
Richie nearly smiled. MacLeod was just the right kind of predictable. He turned to face his teacher. Duncan stood there with a sword in his hand. It was not his own katana—he never drew that lightly—it was the other practice sword from the wall.
Without further discussion, MacLeod saluted Richie, one swordsman to another, then dropped into his favorite stance with the graceful ease of a big cat stretching. His movements were always so precise they inspired, and slightly intimidated, Richie. He did his best to match MacLeod’s position.
A few seconds later the dojo rang with the clash of blade upon blade. The sound echoed off the walls, filling the space like a miniature thunderstorm. Richie pressed his advantage every time MacLeod gave him an opening, and each time Duncan forced him back. Whenever Richie dropped his shoulder, MacLeod’s blade would come up and slap him. Through it all, the older man kept smiling. It was infuriating.
Finally, shoulders sore and forearm aching, Richie stepped back and saluted, signaling a halt.
“You’re improving,” MacLeod said, still smiling.
“Yeah, right. Then why do I still come out of these encounters with my shoulders bruised?”
“Because you keep dropping your guard. Don’t worry, Richie—another couple centuries of practice and maybe you’ll beat me.”
“I doubt it.”
MacLeod smiled over his shoulder as he walked to the wall and returned the katana to its holder. “So how did your search for a date go?”
Richie shook his head. “It seems that listening to the Dalai Lama isn’t what most girls think of as a fun way to spend a Friday night. I guess I’ll just have to eat the cost of these tickets. Unless—”
MacLeod turned and leaned back against the wall, casually folding his arms across his chest. He was still smiling his same infuriating I-know-what-you’re-going-to-do-before-you-do-it smile.
“Unless what?” he said.
“Unless you go with me.”
“I already said no.”
“I know, Mac, but I’ve been thinking. I know I said these are good seats—and don’t get me wrong, they are—but there’ll be hundreds of people there. You’ll see the Dalai Lama okay from where you’re sitting, clear as a bell, but there’s no reason to think he’ll see you.”
“I don’t know, Richie—”
“Think about it, Mac. It’s not like he’s one of us who’d be able to feel your presence, right? You’ll just be a face in the crowd, same as everyone else.”
“Okay, Richie.”
“What—you mean you’ll go?” Richie could hardly believe it. This had gone a lot more easily than he expected.
Then it hit him. He had not talked Duncan into anything. MacLeod had given in this easily only because he had already changed his mind. That made it Duncan MacLeod 2—Richie Ryan 0, all in the space of an hour.
Someday, Richie thought, someday I’ll win one.
“So what time does this thing start?” MacLeod asked him.
“Eight o’clock.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Eight rows back and on the aisle, and just as Richie had promised, they were good seats. The indoor playing field at the Seacouver Municipal Stadium had been transformed into the site of an Event. Across the field that usually hosted football, soccer, and baseball games, folding chairs in neat sections and rows and a large wooden stage had been assembled. The quest for victory had, at least for a single day, given way to the quest for world peace. In spite of his earlier reluctance, Duncan found that he was glad Richie had invited him.
The place was filling up fast. Richie turned to MacLeod and smiled at him triumphantly.
“See, Mac, it’s like I said—hundreds of people. Nothing—”
“—to worry about, I know. And thanks, Richie.”
“Hey, anytime.”
Out of the corner of his eye, MacLeod watched the young man’s face beam with pleasure and pride and felt a certain gratification at having changed his mind. Richie, the foundling, the child of orphanages and foster homes, had had few people in his life he cared enough about to want to please. MacLeod was glad he was among the few.
Duncan, too, had been a foundling, but he had been lucky enough not to learn of it until after he “died” the first time, as a grown man. Then his father had cast him out and the people of his clan had turned from him in superstitious fear, but they could not take from him the memories of a childhood filled with love and belonging. He was still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—and always would be.
But that first winter alone, bereft of all that he had known and loved, had been one of the worst times of his life: days and nights of cold and loneliness, belonging nowhere. Duncan could only imagine what Richie’s early life had been like, when that feeling of never belonging, never being at home, was his constant existence.
Well, Connor MacLeod had eventually found Duncan and given him more than the rules of the Game and the training to stay alive. Connor had given him friendship, a sense of belonging again, and a reason to go on living. It was a gift beyond price that Duncan could only repay by passing the gift on—to Richie.
The room around him quieted, then erupted in applause as a group of men walked onto the wooden stage. Most of them were dressed in business suits, but at their center, dressed in the saffron and maroon robes of his religion, walked the fourteenth Dalai Lama.
He was of unremarkable appearance. Dressed in other clothes he would be easy to pass on the street, merely an oriental man of late middle age, with a balding hairline, a slight paunch, and glasses. But even from where he sat, Duncan could feel a special aura about the man. Others must have felt it, too, for the arena quieted again.
The master of ceremonies stepped up to the sing
le microphone. MacLeod recognized him at once. It was Victor Paulus, a mortal and onetime student of Darius—priest, Immortal, and to Duncan a good friend. Duncan had not seen Paulus in a couple of years, not since he had twice saved him from the Immortal Grayson, who was systematically killing all of Darius’s protégés in an attempt to draw the priest off of Holy Ground and into battle. MacLeod had followed Paulus’s career, and although he had not yet won the Nobel Peace Prize, there were many, MacLeod among them, who thought he should.
Paulus began to introduce the people behind him. They were civic and religious leaders from the city who, like himself, were known for their advocacy of world peace, human rights, hunger relief, and other social/moral causes. It was an impressive lineup, but Duncan’s attention was fixed on the man in the center who sat with his head quietly bowed.
Only once during the long introductions did the Dalai Lama look up. His eyes scanned quickly across the audience until they met and locked with MacLeod’s. In that instant Duncan knew he had been recognized.
Up on the stage, the Dalai Lama bowed his head, but his mind was far from silent. He had felt MacLeod’s aura from the moment he walked into the arena; its strength and vibrance, so well remembered, had drawn his eyes unerringly to its owner’s face.
“Like attracts like,” the Dalai Lama knew modern science would say. With his contemporary education and world travels, he had been exposed to the laws of physics in ways his predecessors had never dreamed existed. But in spite of the scientific knowledge he had gained over the years, he knew there was more at work here than one type of immortality recognizing another. He knew it now the same way he had known it two hundred years before when the eighth Dalai Lama, whose spirit he carried, had first met Duncan MacLeod.
Once more, the holy man raised his eyes slightly, looking out through the tops of his glasses over the crowd. So many people. He could feel their collective goodwill, and from some their doubts, swirling around him like warm and living breath. Over them all, the presence of MacLeod shone like a beacon through the fog.
As their eyes met, the Dalai Lama gave a small, internal nod. You have grown, the Tibetan leader thought, but there is still much unfinished between us. Do you feel it, too, Duncan MacLeod? After so long a time, how much of Tibet do you remember?
Duncan tried to keep his mind on each of the speakers. As interesting as they were, MacLeod’s attention continually drifted back to the Dalai Lama. Often he found his gaze returned. But there was no expression, however small, that revealed the religious leader’s emotion. Each time their eyes met, the Dalai Lama would bow his head again, leaving Duncan to wonder what he read in those dark eyes, what, if any, signal he was receiving.
At last the Dalai Lama came to the microphone. In spite of his heavy accent and quiet voice, he proved to be a consummate speaker. Like the predecessor MacLeod had known, this Dalai Lama had the gift of drawing his listeners in and making each one of them feel an important part of the whole, as if their personal involvement was the key to ultimate success. It was a gift modern politicians should envy.
Peace through Compassion was the Dalai Lama’s theme and, for Duncan, listening to him was like going back in time. These were the same words, just a different voice speaking them, and despite the accented English coming out of the microphone, the slightly uncomfortable seats, and the modern surroundings, MacLeod had only to close his eyes halfway for the man on the stage to transform into the Dalai Lama Duncan had known so well.
A touch on his arm brought Duncan’s thoughts back to the present. Standing beside him was one of the stadium’s security guards. The sight made his stomach tighten; he was certain he would be asked to leave.
At least he knew now what expression he had read on the Dalai Lama’s face. The friendship they had once known was indeed to remain buried in the past. There would be no healing of misunderstandings, no regrets laid to rest.
Well, Duncan would accept the Dalai Lama’s wishes now, as he had two hundred years ago. He was about to stand, ready to leave, when the guard handed him a note.
Mr. MacLeod, it said, His Holiness the Dalai Lama requests that you come to the green room to speak with him. The guard will escort you. I did not realize you and His Holiness were acquainted, but after your help the last time we met I find it does not surprise me. I am glad to know you are in the audience. It was signed Victor Paulus.
Duncan looked up at the stage. He found the Dalai Lama watching him with the same immutable expression he had worn all evening. Duncan nodded once to the Dalai Lama, then slipped the note into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The rally was close to ending, and Duncan had been to enough such events to know exactly what would happen. There would be a summing up by Victor Paulus, again in his role as master of ceremonies, hearty handshakes all around, crowds milling in the outer hallways and lobby where books and fund-raising efforts were displayed; Richie would find plenty to occupy him while Duncan was busy. He nudged the young man.
“I’ll be back in a while,” he said.
Richie looked at him quizzically, but said nothing more as Duncan stood and followed the guard. Like most security personnel, the man was taciturn and offered no conversation as he led the way up into the lobby, then around the building to the back of the stage where the mechanics of such an event took place. MacLeod ignored the milling stagehands, as he stepped around cables and amplifiers, unused lighting racks, folding chairs, and abandoned clutter.
The guard’s presence gave MacLeod the passport he needed through the organized chaos. Although people stared as he passed, no one questioned him, and MacLeod was glad of the silence, glad to be left to his own thoughts.
This was an odd moment in his life. Few enough mortals knew the secret of his existence. There were the Watchers, of course—they had been observing Immortals for centuries before he had become aware of them. But other mortals who were still alive from some other when, like the members of the French Resistance with whom he had fought in World War II, those he carefully avoided. The few who had seen him thought he was the son of their old companion, whom a twist of fate and genetics had given his father’s face.
Now the roles were reversed; he would see not the physical, but the spiritual descendant of the man he had known. Just what memories will this Dalai Lama carry? MacLeod wondered. Am I just a name and a face he wants to put in perspective? Will he remember the friendship or only the reason I left Tibet?
Immortality, his thoughts lingered on the word. Are our lives the same song, just danced to a different tune? he wondered. Even after four hundred years, Duncan knew his own Immortality was something he did not understand; it was merely a reality he confronted every day.
But the Dalai Lama’s life of continuing remembered reincarnation—that was as strange a thought to him now as it had been two hundred years ago. What would it be like, Duncan wondered, to begin each new generation as a child, having to learn to walk and talk and think again, but without the question of moral and spiritual identity that was the strongest thread binding mortal and Immortal together? How did it feel to begin life already knowing who you are and what you are meant to do? Did that make it easier or harder?
Well, he would have an answer soon, he thought, as the guard opened the door to the green room. After a terse “please wait here,” the guard turned and walked away.
Duncan stepped into the room, and it was like walking back in time. The floors were covered with Tibetan rugs and scattered cushions took the place of chairs or couches. The lighting in the room was soft with the glow of golden-shaded lamps, and a faint smell of incense clung to the air. Modern artwork had been replaced by tapestries. Scenes from the Buddha’s life and depictions of the Compassionate Deities smiled benevolently at him. But one tapestry directly caught and held his eyes in a shock of recognition. He went to stand before it.
The once-vivid colors had faded with age, but it was still the Kalachakra Mandala, the Wheel of Time and Palace of Enlightenment. Looking at it, MacLeo
d remembered all that Tibet had meant to him.
It had been 1781, a bad time, a time when Immortality seemed too heavy a burden to carry, and Duncan MacLeod felt as if his whole life reeked with the stench of death.
He was not certain he would have survived without the help of the Dalai Lama….
Chapter Three
“You must go to Lhasa.” The words were said kindly, with no hint of reproach or sadness over his decision to leave. Duncan MacLeod was grateful, as he was grateful for the many kindnesses he had received from this tribe of Tibetan nomads. He had come over the passes from Mongolia and lived with them for six weeks now. In all of his travels he had never met a people more gentle or more eager to be kind.
“Yes, you must go to Lhasa,” the nomadic leader, Zhi-yu, said again. “Soon it will be the time of the Kalachakra ceremony. We cannot leave our herds—calves are being born, and soon we must find better grazing. But you can go for us, Duncan MacLeod. You can spin the prayer wheels in the holy city for us. You can see the great Kalachakra Mandala for us. You can join in the prayers for peace while keeping this people in your heart. It will be an act of great compassion. Will you do this for us, Duncan MacLeod?”
Duncan looked at the faces around him. Their usually merry expressions had turned pensive as they awaited his answer. He did not care where he went; Lhasa or elsewhere, it was all the same anymore. But these people had been kind to him. They had welcomed him into their tents and their lives, shared with him their food and their warmth, and helped him to laugh at a time when his heart ached with the lack of joy. To them it mattered, and for them he would go.
“Yes,” he said aloud, “I will go to Lhasa. I will do all that you have asked with this people in my heart.”
“You will be blessed by this action, Duncan MacLeod,” Zhi-yu added sagely. “Your karma will benefit from your compassion.”
“As you say,” Duncan answered vaguely.
The Path Page 2