The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  He wanted to be back m uniform again, riding beside the invincible Nasiradeen, leader of the Gurkhas; he wanted to be sword in hand against the foe, any foe. Instead he was stuck here, pretending to be a priest because he had been educated by European missionaries. He spoke their language and knew the things they said about their God.

  He had hated the missionaries and their school when he was a child, and he hated them now. He smiled into the silence as he remembered the real Father Edward. How easy it had been to walk up to him, speaking a greeting in his own language. How the priest had smiled a welcome—a smile that turned to a scream when the sword pierced his heart.

  That sword, the one that had killed the priest, the spy had had to leave behind when he assumed Father Edward’s identity. He missed his weapon, but its discovery would have been a threat to his mission. Soon he would find another one, or something that would serve, and he would use this identity he had assumed to get within striking distance of the Dalai Lama. He, too, would soon fall by Edward’s hand.

  Nasiradeen, himself, had been pleased by this plan. The Gurkah leader wanted Tibet; he wanted to rule this city as he wanted few other things, and if it could be delivered to him, the rewards would be well worth the current discomfort.

  This thought brought the false priest’s mind back to MacLeod. What was he doing here? Are you a scout for some advancing army? he wondered, Or a fortune hunter on your own? What is your secret, Duncan MacLeod? Whoever you are, I will not let you stop me.

  The other Jesuit, Father Jacques, was already in bed. He would be up before dawn, full of energy and ready for the day ahead. But the Nepalese man he knew as Father Edward preferred the night. The darkness and the silence set his mind free and gave him solitude for his real work.

  He walked out into the little courtyard behind the house where rows of birdcages had been built. The Tibetans who visited here thought this was an amusing hobby, but it was much, much more. It was communication and contact with his real people and purpose. It had been an easy communication line to establish, effective in its simplicity.

  The cages contained pigeons. They had traveled here amid Father Edward’s belongings, but were trained to return to their cages in Nepal, to the great temple in Kathmandu. Their counterparts had been bought here in Tibet, trained to these cages in Lhasa, then sent to Nepal with a traveling merchant. The birds gave Nasiradeen the eye into Tibet he craved and gave Edward a way to please his master; he took very good care of them.

  The pigeons cooed a gentle greeting as Edward reached behind for the paper and writing stylus he kept hidden there. A few quick lines and he was ready. He carefully folded the scrap of paper and placed it inside a metal ring that would soon grace a pigeon’s leg. Then he opened one of the cages.

  The bird he chose was a fine black male with a silver ruff around his neck. Father Edward put the ring on his leg, then stroked his back gently.

  “Fly well, my beauty,” he whispered, “and when you reach your destination there will be a special treat. Before long we’ll both have our rewards.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning Duncan rose early, before the first light of dawn appeared in the narrow window of his room. He had not slept well, and his mind was even more restless than his body, still filled with foreboding about the priests’ presence in Lhasa.

  Duncan had seen too much. He had lived through the Reformation and Counter-Reformation movements in Europe; he had seen the anger, hatred and betrayal they caused. He had both seen and heard tales of the Church’s ventures into other lands, other cultures; and where the Church went, fortune hunters and soldiers were never far behind.

  His thoughts flew back to his nomad friends and the way they had welcomed him into their tents and their lives. These were true innocents—and if the greed of the West came here, innocence would not survive.

  Perhaps the warlords were right in banning Westerners from Japan, Duncan thought for the first time. He still could not forgive the law for causing the death of Hideo Koto, but in the stillness of the Tibetan dawn, he could for the first time understand it.

  Perhaps, his thoughts continued, the Dalai Lama should pass such a law here.

  Yet the Dalai Lama had made it clear he would not listen to Duncan’s warnings. Despite being the ruler of his country, the Dalai Lama was an innocent as well. It was a nation of innocents, and Duncan wondered, a bit sadly, if there was truly anything that could be done to protect them.

  The feeling of sadness and fatalism did not leave him as he waited for the Dalai Lama’s messenger to come escort him to the young man’s company. When the monk arrived, however, he stood in the doorway and bowed formally to MacLeod.

  “His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, sends a message to Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “His Holiness begs your understanding, but he cannot meet with you this morning. Other matters have come to him that demand his presence and attendance. He says that he will see you at the evening meal.”

  As the young monk spoke, MacLeod’s brow furrowed with concern fed by the dark foreboding that had filled his night. Perhaps danger was closer than he realized. The Dalai Lama might, even now, be trying to deal with matters whose full consequence he could not possibly understand. Duncan almost rose to push past the monk and go to the Tibetan’s leader’s side.

  His past dealings with royalty stopped him. Undesired interference often caused more harm than it prevented. Once more Duncan reminded himself that he was only a visitor in Tibet.

  “Is His Holiness all right? he asked, carefully watching the monk’s face for any signs of worry or confusion. “I would happily lend my aid, if he has any need for my services.”

  The only emotions the young monk showed were peaceful confidence overlaid with a touch of hauteur. “The Dalai Lama has no need of your help,” he said. “He is the Ocean of Wisdom and needs no advice from the unEnlightened.” The monk bowed and turned away.

  Well, Duncan thought, slightly amused, I’ve been put in my place. If I’m to have my day free, I think I’ll go into the hills. Perhaps I’ll find those hot springs His Holiness once mentioned. He quickly changed his soft-soled boots for his stout fur-lined pair, grabbed his coat, and headed for the outdoors. The prospect of wandering alone in the hills was suddenly extremely appealing.

  Duncan exited the Potala through the palace gardens, stopping to sit for a while beside the lake. The peace of the setting helped him lay to rest, at least for the moment, the fears that had kept him awake all night, and he was able to set off for the hills with a lighter step.

  Not many minutes had passed before he realized how much he needed this day of freedom. He’d had enough of indoor hours and occupations. He needed movement, and even doing kata twice a day was no substitute for the feel of his own feet under him. This had always been his way, even as a child. Whenever he was confused or troubled, he had gone off alone to wander the Highlands until his thoughts cleared again.

  The trail into the hills was a good one, and MacLeod soon fell into a steady rhythm. He began to notice that the hills were not as barren as they had looked from a distance. Lichens and cresses spread intricate patterns of greens, grays, and muted reds across the rocks while stands of tiny wildflowers provided splashes of unexpected color. The silence of the mountains closed in on him again, but for the moment he welcomed it.

  As he walked, Duncan felt the remainder of his worries drain away. Instead of feeding his loneliness, as the silence had done on the trip into Lhasa, today it was as if the mountains absorbed all troubles of the heart and mind and by their massive existence made human concerns insignificant.

  Here, in the bright sunlight, he nearly laughed at himself. Two hundred years has turned you into a clucking old hen, he thought, seeing predators where none, perhaps, exist.

  But that has kept you alive, another part of him whispered.

  He continued walking, slowing his pace as the trail steepened, letting the combination of movement and fresh air soothe him. It took a few minutes for him
to become aware of the sound he heard growing in the distance. It was a gentle sound—the sound of women’s laughter.

  Duncan slowed his pace again. Whoever the women were, whatever they were doing, he did not want to frighten them away. In all his long life, he had never seen anything more miraculous than a woman. Old or young, women were, in his opinion, the true glory of creation.

  The vegetation was thicker here, indicating the presence of water, and the chatting, laughing voices were louder. Coming around a bend in the trail, he was met by a sight that filled him with wonder.

  Whatever he expected from the hot springs, it was not what he saw now. The pool was surrounded by wild flowering shrubs, tall enough to provide a sense of privacy but not so tall as to block the sun. The rocks provided ledges and gentle steps down into the water that was deep and wide enough for the women in it to splash and swim with ease.

  And the women themselves—MacLeod realized he was staring and quickly backed away, but not before the sight of two naked bodies, shining with water and sunlight, imprinted itself on his memory. He stood for a moment, fighting the desire to steal into the bushes and quietly watch them at their ablutions. Perhaps it was only good manners that kept him from the impulse, perhaps a sense of chivalry and honor, but it was enough.

  He wondered what to do. Should he return to the Potala or find some place to wait until he saw the women coming back down the trail? Looking around for a place to sit comfortably, he noticed the bell hanging from a tree limb. It was old, and the mosses that covered it made it blend with its surroundings, but MacLeod could guess its use. He crossed to it and rang it once, its deep gong filling the silence.

  He heard the sound of the women’s voices change. Their laughter stilled and there was a moment of purposeful splashing, then all was silent. A few minutes later they appeared, properly attired in long wrapped skirts, boots, and short jackets. As they neared, Duncan saw that one of them was the young woman he had noticed yesterday at the well.

  The women passed by him, hardly sparing him a glance. On impulse, he stepped out onto the trail after them.

  “Wait,” he called. Both women turned to look at him, but he could hardly tear his eyes from the one. She was even more beautiful here in a natural setting than she had seemed yesterday. Duncan stepped toward her.

  “Please,” he said, “who are you? What is your name?”

  She glanced at her companion, then lowered her eyes. “I am Xiao-nan Choi,” she said softly.

  Her voice was low and had a breathless quality, like an intimate whisper. Duncan was at once entranced by it.

  “Xiao-nan Choi,” he repeated. “Please don’t go. I do not know the area around here. I would be glad of some company.”

  Xiao-nan looked up at him, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “Did you not come here for the water?” she asked.

  Duncan smiled. “I can bathe another time. I would rather have your conversation.”

  Behind her the other woman giggled. Xiao-nan quickly turned and hushed her.

  “I meant you and your companion,” MacLeod added, not wanting to violate any cultural taboos.

  “No,” Xiao-nan answered. “My sister must return home. Our mother will be waiting. I will stay and talk with you for a time.” She stopped and smiled at him. “But you must tell me your name.”

  Duncan found that when she smiled she was among the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished jet and yet were gentle even in her laughter. Her skin shone like the golden sky when still touched by the first blooming light of dawn. Even, white teeth stood like petals of a flower behind flowerbud lips so red Duncan found himself wanting to kiss them, to see if they were indeed as soft as they must be.

  She was looking at him expectantly now, still waiting for him to speak. “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he said almost automatically, still dazed by her beauty. “Your sister may assure your mother you are safe. I mean you no harm or disrespect.”

  Xiao-nan laughed gently. Duncan found he was as delighted by the sound as by everything else about her.

  “She already knows this, Duncan MacLeod,” she said his name slowly, as if embracing it with her lips and tongue. “You are the friend of the Dalai Lama, and he would not have one with him whose heart could not be trusted.”

  This simple statement of faith, in the Dalai Lama and in himself, touched Duncan. He bowed deeply and formally to Xiao-nan Choi. She acknowledged his bow with one of her own, then turned and said a few rapid words to her sister. As the young girl started off down the trail, Xiao-nan turned again to MacLeod.

  “If you have not come to this place for the waters, have you another place you wish to see? There are many beautiful places in the mountains.”

  Duncan smiled at her. “Lead the way wherever you wish, Xiao-nan Choi,” he said, “and I will surely follow.”

  Chapter Ten

  Xiao-nan led the way farther into the hills, up to a glen where the wild marmots played in the sunlight. It was a quiet place where she often came when she wanted to sit and feel the world in balance.

  She did not know why she had chosen this place to bring MacLeod; there were many others just as beautiful and less personal she could have shown him. But somehow, she thought as they settled on the stone outcropping where she habitually sat and waited for the marmots to lose their fear of intruders, it felt right that he should be here.

  Soon, a small white-and-brown face peeked out from the bushes across the glen. Xiao-nan saw it and gently touched MacLeod’s arm. Slowly, using no swift motions that might again frighten the creature, she pointed. MacLeod saw the marmot and smiled.

  It is a good smile, Xiao-nan thought, a smile of the heart as well as the face. It warmed Xiao-nan to see it.

  Why should it matter if he smiles? she asked herself, knowing only that it did. What was there about this man that so instinctively drew her. She felt as if somewhere inside, far beyond the realm of conscious thought, a spark of recognition flared, touching soul to soul.

  They stayed in the glen, speaking only occasionally and in muted voices. But the silences between the words were not empty. Unlike many people whom Xiao-nan knew, even the most quiet moments seemed to ring with his calm, unfrenzied strength.

  The marmots soon accepted their presence. MacLeod watched them as they scampered in the sunlight, and Xiao-nan continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye. She would not be so impolite as to stare, but she liked the way his white teeth shone against the weathered tan of his skin when he smiled; of the soft waves in his dark hair, so unlike her own, which fell in a straight black cascade to her waist, and she liked the look of his strong fingers as he absently twirled a leaf he had found on the stone next to where he sat.

  His look pleased her, but it was his company that affected her most deeply. She felt comfortable and safe, and again she asked herself why? Had they known each other in some previous life? she wondered. Or had they always been searching for each other, wandering through the circles of existence until the Great Wheel should bring them together?

  It was something only time could answer.

  When Duncan returned to the Potala several hours later, he felt better than he had for many weeks. Xiao-nan’s company had worked on him like a patent medicine “guaranteed to lighten the heart and brighten the eyes.”

  It was not anything she said that so affected MacLeod. Her conversation had, in fact, been limited. But her smile had been eloquent, and her gentle laugh of delight had said more than words ever could.

  Laughter came easily to Xiao-nan. It was the laughter of true innocence, like a child at play unafraid of adult censure. Nor did that laughter come at anyone’s expense. Instead it was the feel of the breeze lifting her long hair from the back of her neck, the sight of the marmots they had watched and the birds flying their intricate mating ritual that brought joy to her lips.

  From her lips to Duncan’s heart; she fascinated him and even as he left her at her parents’ doo
r he knew that he must see her again.

  Duncan had barely reached his room in the Potala when the familiar young monk appeared at his door.

  “His Holiness has sent for you,” he said solemnly.

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting, m’lad,” MacLeod answered, his voice loud and full of life. He walked over and gave the monk a good-natured slap on the shoulder, nearly laughing aloud at the wide-eyed look of surprise that spread over the young man’s face.

  Duncan stepped past him, this time leading the way to the audience chamber himself. His companion had to rush to keep up.

  “What are you called, boy?” MacLeod asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Gaikho,” the monk answered hesitantly. MacLeod could see him wondering what mood had taken hold of the strange Westerner. MacLeod did not care; he felt too good to care how odd others might think him. He knew the elation would not last, and he was intent upon enjoying it.

  MacLeod no longer needed a guide to reach the audience chamber, but the monk stayed with him, doing his duty to the Dalai Lama by delivering Duncan. When they reached the outer door of the chamber, MacLeod turned and bowed with a flourish to his companion.

  “Thank you, Gaikho, for your fine company,” he said.

  The monk again looked startled as he returned MacLeod’s bow. Once more Duncan clapped him on the shoulder then turned away, knocking once on the chamber door before entering.

  From the moment he stepped into the room, he could see that the Dalai Lama was weary. The young man’s shoulders were slumped, and although he greeted Duncan with his usual smile, the merriment was lacking from his eyes. MacLeod felt some of his own joviality fade in response.

  With a small wave, the Dalai Lama gestured toward Duncan’s habitual seat. “Come and sit,” he said. “Tell me of your day while we wait for the meal to arrive. I am sorry I could not speak with you this morning, but other matters arose.”