That was the Game, and he was tired of it. He was sick of being Immortal. He wanted peace.
Enough, Duncan thought. Enough—I’ll remember no more. Other names, other faces, a hundred different times and places still clamored for attention.
Mortal man was not meant to have so many memories, Duncan thought, then he shook his head in the darkness. He was not mortal; he was Immortal, and the burden of memories was one of the costs he carried.
It’s all this bloody silence, his thoughts continued. It might serve for monks or hermits, but not for me.
This thought, too, brought a wave of memories—of Brother Paul and his monastery, Holy Ground where Immortals could rest. Duncan had stayed there for a time and had quickly realized he would never be called to the religious life.
Even the monastery had not been as silent as the mountains of Tibet. Along with the inevitable noise humans made, there had been music, beautiful, glorious music. Duncan knew that a singing voice was not among his strongest attributes but a song, even from him, would banish the silence for a time and, he hoped, quiet the memories.
He began to sing, lifting his voice in old folk tunes he had learned as a child.
“As I gaed doon by Strichen toon,
I heard a fair maid mournin’
And she was making sair complaint
for her true love ne’er returnin’.
Sae fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,
where oft-times I’ve been cheery;
O fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,
for it’s there I lost my dearie….”
A few feet away, the horses blew and stomped nervously at the sudden noise. Duncan chuckled.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” he told them as he rose from his seat by the fire and went to reassure them. The songs had done their trick, however, and Duncan felt once more in control of his thoughts. Still humming, more quietly now, he banked the fire and crawled inside his tent, ready to welcome the mini-oblivion of sleep.
Two more days of riding down mountain trails and Duncan was heartily sick of the sound of his own voice. He talked to the horses as he rode, telling them tales of his homeland and of the mighty victories of his forefathers. He talked to himself, making lists of the places he had been and the places he still wanted to see. He sang through his entire repertoire, bawdy songs to nursery rhymes, but in the end it was as if the mountains gobbled up the sound and spewed more silence back at him.
Silence and cold; cold was his other companion. His fur-lined coat and boots held off the worst of it during the day, as did the fire and his tent at night, but like the silence it was always present, always looking for a vulnerable moment to attack.
On the afternoon of the third day, the narrow path down which Duncan had been riding finally reached a main road. This was the road Zhi-yu had said he would find, and with relief Duncan turned the horses onto its hard-packed surface. Neither muddy nor dusty, it was as if centuries of feet had compacted the top of the soil into stone. The horses picked up their pace, eager for the place of rest and food that might be ahead. Duncan wanted a warm fire and a hot drink to chase the chill from his bones.
He rode for another hour. Finally, as he neared the crest of one of the road’s many rises, Duncan began to hear voices. Coming over the rise, he saw in the distance that the road was lined with people as far as he could see. After so many hours of silent solitude, the sight seemed unreal, and MacLeod blinked twice, trying to clear his mind of the mirage. Then he urged the horses into a canter.
Another road merged with the road he was on, and it, too, was lined with people. Duncan saw that many among the crowd held long white strips of cloth in their hands, while others, especially the children, carried bunches of the early wildflowers he had seen growing in sparse clumps among the hills. They all chattered excitedly, speaking far too rapidly and in dialects too diverse for Duncan’s limited knowledge of their language.
Suddenly, from down the other road, the noise built, and around him the excitement turned palpable. Two words were repeated often enough for Duncan to finally understand.
“He’s coming,” the people whispered among themselves, shouted to each other. “He’s coming.”
Duncan turned his head and strained to see, same as the people around him. Down the long road came a line of Tibetan monks, their robes of maroon and saffron creating a bright undulating stream of color. As they walked, they chanted and rang small hand bells whose sound carried faintly through the still air.
Row upon row they came, walking in pairs. Duncan counted—twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty. Then, in the middle of the procession was a covered litter, its yellow cloth glittering like gold in the sunlight. The people on the road surged toward it, but there was an orderliness even to their enthusiasm.
Moments passed as the litter neared. Duncan sat on his horse, watching the spectacle in fascination. One by one, the people stepped to the litter, bowing and presenting their offerings of flowers and white scarves. From inside the litter two hands reached out. Constantly in motion, they seemed to flutter like a bird’s wings as they touched the foreheads of the children in blessing, accepting their gifts or lifting the white cloths from the outstretched hands of the adults, draping them over reverently bowed necks.
With the same orderly chaos, the people who had come forward backed away again, making room for the next. The crowd ebbed and flowed like a great wave slowly rolling down the road toward MacLeod. He stayed seated astride his horse, too entranced to ride on.
The rows of monks were passing now as the golden litter drew near. MacLeod could see that the bright yellow cloth had been intricately embroidered with tiny figures of birds, flowers, trees, rivers, lakes and mountains, all outlined in threads of gold and silver that flashed in the springtime sun.
A few words were spoken, and the monks carrying the litter slowed. Another word and they stopped in front of MacLeod, setting the litter upon the ground. The people around him gasped as the monks quickly moved to help the person inside disembark.
MacLeod was not sure what he expected, but he was surprised as a young man, certainly no more than twenty-five and dressed no differently than the monks around him, emerged from within the bright cloth. He waved any assistance away and sprang swiftly to the roadway. Then, dark eyes twinkling in his smooth, unremarkable face, he looked up at the tall stranger on a horse and smiled. With that smile, the young man’s face filled with radiance. Duncan suddenly knew that here was something more than bishop or local prince, as he had assumed. Here was someone quite unique, someone truly holy. Duncan quickly dismounted and bowed.
The young man walked toward him, blessing the people as he passed with his smile and his touch. When he reached MacLeod he stopped and spoke, but too rapidly for Duncan to catch more than a word or two. He shrugged and shook his head. The young man understood the gesture and began again, speaking slowly and carefully.
“Please tell me who you are,” he said.
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Duncan answered.
“Your name is as strange to me as your face. But not too strange. Are you also a missionary, as the others of your kind who live in my city?”
Duncan was startled to hear the Western word on the other man’s tongue. “Missionary?” he repeated.
“It is their word. Jesuit and Capuchin also. But no, I do not think you are as these men.” The young man stopped and cocked his head to one side, looking deeply into MacLeod’s eyes. In a strange sensation, Duncan felt as if his soul were suddenly laid bare and being read.
“You carry a great burden, I think,” the young man continued after a moment. “You must come to Lhasa, to the Potala and live among my household. We have something to teach each other, I think.”
Duncan bowed again, acknowledging the young man’s words and his invitation. But Duncan was not certain he had understood correctly; what could he, whose knowledge was of swords and warfare, of how to stay alive in the Game, possibly teach such a person?
The young man turned away and was walking back to his litter, obviously expecting MacLeod to follow. Before Duncan remounted his horse, he turned and spoke softly to the Tibetan native nearest him.
“Tell me this young man’s name so that I may address him correctly,” he said as quickly as his limited language would allow. All those who heard his words turned and looked at him in wonder. How could anyone not know, their faces seemed to say.
“That is Jam-dpal Rgya-mtsho,” one of them answered. “His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”
The Dalai Lama, the Ocean of Wisdom—Duncan had heard that title spoken with reverence among his nomad friends. The Dalai Lama was both temporal and spiritual leader of this land, the Priest-King, an “Enlightened One” who embodied the Path of Peace.
Well, peace—peace of mind, peace in his soul—was what Duncan MacLeod needed right now. He remounted his horse and, gathering up the reins of the pony who carried his possessions, slowly guided them to the back of the procession.
Chapter Five
Duncan rode behind the procession for eight more miles. Everywhere the crowd stared at him as he passed, the great white stranger towering over the litter of their Holy One. Some even drew back in fear. It did not take long before MacLeod was wishing for some other means of travel, some form of anonymity. But despite the number of people he saw, not once did he feel the presence of another Immortal. Perhaps, he told himself as he sat a little straighter in his saddle and tried in vain to ignore the staring eyes, that is anonymity enough.
Finally, another crest in the road, and Lhasa, the holy city, capital of Tibet, appeared like a city out of a fairy tale, filling the valley before them. The lower city where the people lived, where they worked and loved and played, was enclosed behind a high stone wall. Even from astride his horse, MacLeod could see little of it, but what he glimpsed gave the impression of a pleasure garden, a place cultivated to please the senses and calm the mind.
Rising at the back of this beautiful city stood the great Potala, the home of the Dalai Lama. It was a religious house and royal residence combined, and, like the other Tibetan monasteries MacLeod had seen, it had been built atop a tall stone outcropping. There was to this building a special grace, however, an impression of airiness given by the many windows and archways, as if the stone was trying to melt into the sky, and its whitewashed walls made it gleam like a palace of silver.
The altitude was lower here, a mere twelve thousand feet, and the vegetation, which had been so lacking where the nomads wandered, was rich and lush. The hills leading down to the city were a carpet of green, dotted with the whites, pinks, purples, yellows, and blues of wildflowers.
And there were trees—not just the stunted stands of Alpine willow and Glang-ma, whose long branches the nomads used to weave their intricate basketry, or the twisted bush that provided the Yeti-wood for their fires—but around Lhasa were forests of spruce and fir, pine and spreading yew, black and white birches, oaks and poplar. MacLeod had not realized how hungry his eyes were for the sight of real trees until he saw them. It was as if something inside of him relaxed and felt at home.
More people lined the road in a thick mass; the population of Lhasa had turned out to welcome their spiritual leader home. MacLeod found he was glad of his horse as the people fell into line behind the procession, escorting the Dalai Lama into his city and staying with him all through the winding roads up to the great stone steps of the Potala. Traveling through the city, Duncan saw flowering fruit trees, blooming shrubs, finely painted houses and well-tended gardens, but with the crowd of people all around him, the sights were fleeting. He looked forward to exploring the city later, after the excitement died down.
When they reached the Potala, the Dalai Lama disembarked from his litter. With great patience, he sat on the palace steps and let all those who had not received his blessing approach him now. Not knowing what else to do, Duncan dismounted and stood off to one side. He waited and watched, wondering about a man who, even at so young an age, could inspire an entire nation to such devotion.
An hour passed before the last of the supplicants filed by. Through it all, the Dalai Lama’s smile never wavered. Freed from this responsibility at last, he rose with no sign of fatigue and approached. Duncan bowed.
“Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, giving a strange, almost musical pronunciation to the unfamiliar words, “we have a time that we may talk before my duties call me away again. Do not be concerned for your horses. They will be cared for, and your belongings taken to your room. Come with me with an easy mind.”
“As you wish, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied, bowing again and hoping he had chosen the correct manner of address.
The Dalai Lama again cocked his head to one side and looked up into Duncan’s eyes. His face looked almost babyish in its contours, yet his eyes held hints of ancient, even timeless, wisdom. The contrast was startling until he smiled. It was the kindest smile Duncan had ever seen.
After a few seconds, the Dalai Lama gave a little nod and turned away. He began walking up the long staircase that led into the palace. It was one of several such stairways, each having, MacLeod guessed, over a hundred steps. By the time they reached the top, the high altitude had winded Duncan. The Dalai Lama stopped and waited for him to catch his breath, himself unaffected by the climb.
Duncan was a bit embarrassed, but the Dalai Lama merely smiled at him again. “One must be born to our air, I think, to be at ease here,” he said. “You have done very well. The first of the missionaries who came to visit me could not climb these stairs without many rests.”
His words made Duncan feel a little better, but not good enough. In the last weeks he had become lax in his physical training, excusing himself for being tired in the thin mountain air. Now he vowed silently that such excuses were at an end. Morning and evening, starting tonight, he would again drill himself in the skills that had kept him alive for two centuries.
He followed the Dalai Lama through the great doors. It was as though they stepped into another world, a world that combined the glories of a palace with the harmonious silence of a monastery. At either end of a long hall, giant gold-washed statues of the Buddha glowed in the soft light of hundreds of tiny votive lamps. Along the wall, tiered stands of burning candles alternated with long tapestries, illuminating their strange and glorious images.
In each of these, the Buddha seemed to be the central figure and Duncan guessed the tapestries represented important events in his mortal life. Duncan would have liked to examine them, but the Dalai Lama set a brisk pace down the long hall, and Duncan could do no more than admire the tapestries in passing.
The walked on through numerous twists and turns, through rooms of grace and splendor. MacLeod saw figurines of jade and alabaster, enameled bowls and lamps of gold and silver, intricately carved screens of wood or softly painted silks and bright oriental rugs. After a while he ceased to notice them individually and they became a blur of beauty upon beauty.
Finally they entered a room of more spartan luxuries. There were more rugs on the floor, hand-knotted in the flowing patterns of reds, blues, and yellows that were famous all over the world. On the rugs, instead of chairs, were large pillows of maroon silk. A few small tables were set between the pillows, with legs carved in delicate designs of trees, birds, and flowers, and tops of inlaid wood. Although lamps hung from the ceiling on long chains, most of the light came from the three large windows that filled one wall.
This room, too, had a gold-washed statue of the Buddha with rows of little votive lamps burning at his feet. The Dalai Lama prostrated himself three times before the image, then crossed to one of the pillows and sat down. Duncan stood, uncertain of what to do next; surely he was not expected to bow before the statue as his host had done?
From his cushion, the Dalai Lama laughed. It was a merry sound in the silent room, and Duncan turned instantly toward it. With a sweep of his hand the young man indicated a pillow next to him.<
br />
“Come and sit at ease, Duncan MacLeod. Tea will be brought and food to refresh us while we talk.”
The glass in the windows kept out the cold and concentrated the heat of the sunlight. As Duncan took a seat on the pillow, he finally felt warm enough to remove the heavy coat he had worn for his travels, realizing that he did feel at ease. What was it about this young man that made one’s heart relax? he wondered as he looked at the religious leader whose gentle, beatific smile had not faded.
One look into the Dalai Lama’s eyes and Duncan knew there was no simple answer. His eyes, though they, too, smiled and held a look of kindness and peace, were penetrating. Here, as on the road outside the city, Duncan felt as if the young man’s gaze held the power to reach in and read his soul.
“Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, “you must tell me of your homeland. It is very far away, I think.”
“It is, Your Holiness. Very far away. The land of my home is called Scotland.”
“Scotland,” the Dalai Lama repeated, trying out the word. “It is a big country?”
“No, Your Holiness, it is not, except in the hearts of its people. It is part of an island far to the west, on the edge of a great ocean.”
“Islands I have seen in mountain lakes, where birds nest in the summertime. It is difficult to picture an island large enough to be a country. An ocean, I have never seen. Teach me of the ocean, Duncan MacLeod.”
Before Duncan could speak, the tea and food arrived, carried by silent monks, who put the trays within reach of their leader, then bowed and backed away. After they had left, Duncan did his best to describe the ocean to the Dalai Lama, speaking of winds, currents, and waves, of seabirds and great mammals, of ships that rode upon the waters and the life that swam within it.
The Path Page 4