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.
Chapter Eight
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?
MacLeod found the thought of royal spies was, in an odd way, comforting. He had been in courts around the world, been friend, advisor—and sometimes lover—to all manner of nobility. All of them had an intelligence system, a means of keeping their ears and eyes on the actions of their people. How else could they rule effectively?
It seemed the Dalai Lama, at least in this respect, was no different. It made Duncan feel that he had a better idea of what he was dealing with now and how to act accordingly.
They reached the room Duncan had come to think of as the audience chamber. Without another word, the young monk bowed and turned away. Duncan watched him go. Their conversation had only firmed his resolve to make certain the Dalai Lama was told the truth about the Jesuits. He might know his people visited them, but that did not mean he understood their zeal for conversion or the havoc their condemnation could incur.
Duncan knocked once on the door and then entered. As always, the Dalai Lama sat on his cushion, smiling serenely.
“Come in, Duncan MacLeod,” he called his customary greeting. “Come and sit so we may talk.”
As Duncan moved to obey, he wondered how to keep the conversation off his past travels and bring up the subject of the missionaries. For once, however, the Dalai Lama had no questions about foreign lands.
“You went down into my city today, I hear,” the young man said. “Was your visit enjoyable?”
“Much of it was, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied. “But not all.”
“Tell me, Duncan MacLeod, what troubled you. Were my people unkind?”
“Oh, no, Your Holiness, it was not your people.” Duncan stopped and took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “I met Father Edward today.”
“Ah, one of the missionaries,” the Dalai Lama said with a nod. “But why does he trouble you, Duncan MacLeod?”
“Because I have known others like him and have seen what their presence can do. You should banish them from your city, Your Holiness.”
“No, Duncan MacLeod.”
“But do you know what their purpose is?” Duncan could hear his voice becoming gruff, his tone curt as he tried to find the words that would make this young man listen to what experience had taught him. The price of those lessons was something MacLeod did not want to see the Tibetan people have to pay.
“Do you know that your people visit the priests?” he asked more softly.
“Of course my people visit them,” the Dalai Lama replied with a smile, his eyes calm and unperturbed. “How else may compassion be shown? I know that these missionaries have come here to speak the words of their God to my people. We do not fear their words. The Compassionate Buddha taught that all words of truth, whoever speaks them, are the words of Buddha. Let your mind be at peace about these missionaries, Duncan MacLeod. They will bring no harm to my people.”
Duncan wished he could believe it. There was more, much more, he wanted to say, but he recognized the tone of royal command. Father Edward and his intentions were a closed subject. Since he was a visitor to this city, Duncan would accept the Dalai Lama’s wishes, but he would also watch carefully. If his fears were indeed groundless, he would say nothing more—but if Father Edward or the others did anything that might harm the people of Lhasa, Duncan would not be so easily silenced again.
MacLeod cleared his throat. There was another question he still wished to pursue.
“Your Holiness,” he began, keeping his tone respectful, even humble, as past experience with royalty had taught him to do. “Why did you invite me to stay here?”
The Dalai Lama put down the bowl from which he had been drinking and turned toward Duncan, looking at him in silence. As on the occasion of their first meeting, Duncan felt as in the young man’s gaze plumbed the depths of his soul, both reading the secrets hidden there and inviting Duncan to freely speak of them. It was an unsettling feeling, but odder still to see eyes suddenly filled with such ancient awareness in such an inexperienced, unmarked face.
“Are you unhappy here, Duncan MacLeod?” the Dalai Lama asked. “Is there something more needed for your comfort?”
“No, Your Holiness. I am most happy here, and you have been very kind, but I know that you did not invite the missionaries to live in the Potala when they were strangers in your city.”
“That is true.” The Dalai Lama again nodded, his voice remaining patient and undisturbed. “When they came to the Potala and asked if they could live in my city, their eyes said they found no beauty here. They have room in their hearts for no words but their own. So why waste the words of invitation? Your eyes said you needed to be here, and so you are. The Wheel spins and brings all to where it should be.”
Duncan felt the conversation slipping away from him. It was not a sensation he particularly enjoyed. There were things he needed to understand—perhaps for his own peace of mind, perhaps only to impose the familiarity of Western logic on the evasive explanations of Eastern thought. In an effort to once more gain control, he tried another question.
“On the road outside Lhasa, why did you stop to talk to me?”
The young man seated next to him, cocked his head to one side, and smiled. “Every soul, Duncan MacLeod, has its own aura and yours is very strong. I felt it reaching out to me as we approached, so I stopped. I found that your aura is also wounded and in need of rest. You are here to rest and, I think, to heal.
“Now, Duncan MacLeod, what part of your travels shall we speak of today?”
There was no mistaking the tone of finality in the young man’s voice. Once again, MacLeod was reminded that in spite of the Dalai Lama’s apparent youth, he was the leader of his country. MacLeod knew he would receive no more information, and no explanation of the meaning behind the Dalai Lama’s words. They raised more questions than they answered and perhaps, Duncan realized, that was exactly what was intended.
Aye, he thought, he’s a crafty young fox. He knows that sooner or later I’ll have to ask him to explain.
Two hours later, Duncan took his leave of the Dalai Lama. After the door had shut behind him, the young man folded his hands and closed his eyes. He let the silence of the room envelop him with its peace.
I said you have a strong aura, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, he thought into the silence, and today in your agitation, it boiled around you, filling this room like a fire. I know you were angry that I would not let you speak your words against the missionaries. You fear for my people—but I fear for you. You carry so much
pain. I could not let you speak and give it more strength, more power over your soul. You must let go of your pain and your anger. They are passing. They are insubstantial.
The Dalai Lama opened his eyes and stared at the tapestry on the wall across from him. There was no Buddha figure in this one, no figures of fierce or compassionate deities, no saints or monks or Bodhi tree; no obvious symbols of Enlightenment. But this tapestry was Enlightenment itself. It was of the Kalachakra Mandala, the Wheel that is Time. During his fifth incarnation, the Dalai Lama had it hung in this room where so many came to him for counsel, to remind himself that all existence is fleeting; it was one of his most clear memories from that life. The reminder was often indispensable to his peace, for it helped ease the burden he too often felt as he opened his heart to compassion for those who came to him. And somehow the Dalai Lama felt that helping Duncan MacLeod was going to be both his greatest challenge and greatest necessity.
As the Dalai Lama stared at the tapestry, at the brightly colored designs flowing clockwise, his thoughts again returned to the age he felt surrounding MacLeod. It puzzled him. An old soul that had seen many other lifetimes, perhaps, but that was not the only answer. It was too simple—and the Dalai Lama knew there was nothing simple about Duncan MacLeod.
Tomorrow, my friend, the Dalai Lama thought, tomorrow, I think, we will cease this game we have been playing. Tomorrow we begin to walk the path of deeper truth. Are you ready? The only way to walk that path is to release your secrets and the pain they cause you.
But what is a man except his secrets—and his pain?
Down in the city of Lhasa, the man known as Father Edward was also thinking about Duncan MacLeod. The other Europeans in the city—his companion, Father Jacques, the three Capuchin Brothers—posed no threat, but MacLeod worried him.
The way he carries himself he must be a soldier, maybe a mercenary, Father Edward thought as he wandered through the rooms of the house that served as both home and church, tugging with irritation at the stiff white collar around his throat. He hated it, just as he hated the European clothes and the long black cassock he was forced to wear.
The Path Page 6