“Aye, so Gaikho said,” Duncan answered.
He tried to keep himself from frowning as he crossed the room and sat upon the cushion, but the feeling of sadness and worry that emanated from the Dalai Lama made Duncan immediately want to offer his sword in the young man’s defense.
Other courts in other lands, however, had taught Duncan that such offers had to be made carefully. He was not certain his knowledge of the language was up to the challenge of fancy phrases such as he might use in France or Spain, Italy or England, where he would know how to strike the proper blend of flattery and deference.
But for all his travels, he was still a Scotsman, a Highlander, direct and plainspoken. With the Dalai Lama, he would just have to speak his mind and hope the young man understood the intent without taking offense.
Duncan drew a deep breath. “Your Holiness,” he began, “I can tell you’ve something on your mind. I know I’m not one of your people, but I’ve a strong arm and a good sword. Both are yours if you’ve need of them.”
The Dalai Lama looked at him with an expression of infinite gentleness, as a parent might gaze upon a child struggling to shoulder a burden too heavy for tender years. Again, Duncan was struck by the dichotomy of youth and age.
The Dalai Lama said nothing while his look seeped down, deeper and deeper into MacLeod’s soul. For a moment, Duncan thought he could see other faces overlaying the young man’s, each with the same tender look in their eyes.
Immortality, the word sprang quickly through his mind. Immortality was something Duncan knew down to the very sinews of his body; it was the reality of every breath he took. And yet—as he looked at the young man before him, Duncan could not help but think how much akin and how very different their types of immortality must be.
Duncan had not chosen his long life, though he did choose survival. If his head came away from his body, he was through. The Dalai Lama’s immortality was based on rebirth, continuing remembered cycles of life. So different, yes, but they both witnessed the fleeting nature of mortal existence. They both saw time, that unstoppable river, carry away loves and hopes and dreams, changing forever the landscape of the soul. They both lived with the lessons only the centuries could teach.
This was the connection between them; it was as slender—and as strong—as a silken thread.
The Dalai Lama smiled and the vision faded. “Thank you, Duncan MacLeod,” he said gently. “I know your words are well meant, but the answer for my people is not found on the point of a sword.”
“Is there something else I can do then?” Duncan asked. “I want to help you if I can.”
“I want to help you,” the Dalai Lama repeated softly. “These are good words, Duncan MacLeod. Words of Wisdom, and it lightens my heart to hear them. All through this day I have listened to those who came to me for answers but did not want the words I would give them. They came seeking only their own way and brought with them the suffering such selfish thoughts always carry. They left with their burdens no lighter.”
The Dalai Lama stopped and sighed. He ran a weary hand across his eyes. “Oh, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, “it is true that all unEnlightened life is dukkah.”
It was a word Duncan had never heard before. “I’m sorry, Your Holiness, I don’t understand.”
“It is the first Noble Truth taught by the Compassionate Buddha. Each year of my many lives has shown me the reality of it. Dukkah means suffering, but it is the suffering of a wheel out of balance constantly grinding against itself as it tries to find the center it does not have. So it is with the life that is not bound in compassion. The unEnlightened life is truly a life of pain. Do you not find it so, Duncan MacLeod?”
Duncan thought for a moment, still not quite certain what the Dalai Lama meant. Surely there were times of pure joy; today in Xiao-nan’s company he had experienced such times—hadn’t he?
“What about love, Your Holiness?” Duncan asked. “If life is suffering, what about love?”
The Dalai Lama cocked his head to one side and looked at Duncan for a long, silent moment. “Love that is pure, free of self,” he said, “perhaps. But how many of us can claim such feeling? And for the rest, is there truly no suffering in love, Duncan MacLeod?”
Duncan thought about the past loves he had known. They had filled his life with joy, yet amid the joy was pain—the uncertainties and misunderstandings, the needs of heart and soul that love alone awakened, the union that no matter how perfect only accentuated separateness, the separation that is death—yes, love also contained suffering.
The Dalai Lama was still awaiting his answer. All Duncan could do was bow his head.
The Dalai Lama nodded. “You see, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, “all life is dukkah. We are out of joint, dislocated from the truth.”
“What is the truth, then?” Duncan asked.
“Ah, a good question. It begins with the acknowledgment that all is suffering. That is the first Truth. The second Truth teaches that suffering comes from within ourselves, from the selfishness of our desires, from Tanha. Always we must ask ourselves what is it we truly desire. Do you know, Duncan MacLeod?”
MacLeod felt his mind reeling. Of course he had desires—what man did not? But he was no Religious or mystic to have put such things into words. He was a man of action, a warrior who for two centuries had lived by the strength of his arm, his wits, and his sword. Soldier or mercenary, scout or bodyguard, that had been enough for him.
Until recently. Until now.
Looking into the Dalai Lama’s eyes, Duncan saw an elusive something for which he knew he was seeking. It was more than acceptance or resignation to the human condition. It was more than peace or humor or compassion. The word used by his nomadic friends when they spoke of their Dalai Lama had been Enlightened. Perhaps that was the only word that fit.
The young man was watching him now with his gentle, aged smile. “You are impatient, yes?” he said. “But also you are young. The questions you ask yourself are often many lifetimes in the making—and many more in answering. But to those who seek, Enlightenment does come.”
Duncan opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. How was it that this man who was barely more than a boy, should call MacLeod young with such authority? And how long is a lifetime? Duncan almost asked. Is it twenty years, fifty, one hundred?
How would you answer if you knew my truth?
Chapter Eleven
The black homing pigeon flew fast and true, not caring about the message it carried or the lives it might change. It only knew that at the end of the flight was the safety of a cage, was food, water, and rest. It flew through the mountain passes, riding the wind currents that added speed to its wings, avoiding the talons of the hawk and eagle, on into the heart of Nepal. It flew to Kathmandu.
On the roof of the sacred temple of Pashupatinatha, home of the servants of Shiva, its cage waited. When it set its feet upon the perch, a bell rang within the temple, alerting the Hindu priest who served there of the bird’s return. The priest had neither concern nor curiosity about the message the bird carried; their dutiful care was for the bird itself. A sacred duty.
Nasiradeen Satish, leader of the Gurkha army, did not care about the bird; it was only a tool. He wanted the words on the paper banded to its leg. He wanted the power the words would bring him. He wanted Tibet.
It was he who had chosen the temple for the bird’s cage, and he came every day to see if it had arrived. No one questioned his daily attendance at the temple. It was assumed he was as devout in his service to the gods as to the King. In truth, he was neither, but it served his purpose that the people—and the court—thought it so.
He had no love for the boy-King who occupied the throne or for the council of regents who actually ruled. The late King, Pathvi Narayan Shah, had been of another kind. He had been a warrior who let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. He had conquered the other two principalities and created a united kingdom of Nepal, then moved his capital to the fertile valle
y of Kathmandu. Nasiradeen had been proud to serve him; they had understood each other, recognized their kindred spirits despite the separation of mortality.
But he had died, as even the best mortals do, and for the last six years Nasiradeen Satish had found no one else worthy of his respect. He had returned to the practice that had brought him out of the filth of his childhood, that had given him power and kept him alive. Nasiradeen supported no one but himself.
Oh, he did it carefully, mouthing phrases of flattery to the young King, who cared about nothing but his own amusement. All the while the leader of the Gurkhas made certain his men stayed loyal to him first and all else, including the throne, second.
And he made his plans, here on Holy Ground where no one could touch him. In this small antechamber built for the meditation of priests, he kept his maps, his lists and tallies of men and supplies, and here he received the messages from his spy. While he was here, mortals would respect his solitude and other Immortals that chanced to come to Kathmandu would honor the rules of the Game.
In the 312 years Nasiradeen had been alive he had learned to play all the games well.
He received the latest message, still tightly folded, from the hands of the priest, who then turned away, glad to leave Nasiradeen to the solitude he demanded. The Gurkha Immortal quickly unfolded the paper and scanned the words. As he read, a scowl darkened his visage and suspicions began to crowd his mind.
A Westerner in Lhasa, the message said. Not a missionary. Befriended by Dalai Lama. Scout or mercenary?
Or maybe something more, Nasiradeen’s thoughts finished what the message could not say. Whoever you are, you’re too late. Lhasa is mine—Tibet is mine, and I’ll soon be there to take it.
Nasiradeen strode across the room and pulled the bell rope to summon a priest. He stood tapping his foot impatiently while he waited. It took only a few moments for the priest to arrive but to Nasiradeen it felt much, much longer.
“A pen and paper,” the Gurkha Immortal ordered before the priest had entered the room. “Bring them quickly.”
The priest bowed and left as silently as he had arrived. Nasiradeen paced around the small chamber. His long robes swirled around his ankles, and the sandals he wore made slapping noises upon the mosaic floor, reminding him with each step these were court clothes, good for nothing but idleness.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword, the long, curved saber not even court life could strip from his side. Soon, he thought, I’ll be back in proper clothes, a warrior’s clothes.
That day could not come swiftly enough for Nasiradeen. The only impediment was the King’s regents; they had not yet agreed either to support the invasion of Tibet or release Nasiradeen from court service so he could lead the army on his own.
But the Gurkha leader had almost convinced the young King of the need for the venture. Nasiradeen played to the boy’s vanity—it was such an easy thing to do—filling his head with tales of glory, making him think he could be the great leader his father had been.
Soon, Nasiradeen thought again. A few weeks at most, and I’ll take my army to the north.
The Hindu priest returned with paper and pen. Nasiradeen snatched them from his hand.
“Wait,” he ordered as he quickly scribbled a return message to his spy. Watch carefully, it said. Report often. Invasion soon.
Folding the paper, he turned and handed it to the priest. “This must go out at once,” he said.
The priest sighed and bowed, then turned away. Nasiradeen could tell he was not happy with his charge—but he would obey. The Gurkha paid this temple enough gold to make certain of their obedience.
After the priest was gone, Nasiradeen left the small antechamber and went into the main temple. On the raised dais at the far end, the statue of the god Shiva sat behind a cloud of incense. The white stone from which it had been carved was changed to ash-colored from the years of smoke encircling it and the blue on its throat faded now to an indistinct gray.
Nasiradeen hardly noticed as he took his place among the worshipers. His eyes went instead to the bone held in one of the god’s many hands, to the necklace of skulls around its neck and finally to the three eyes in the statue’s face.
It was the third eye on which Nasiradeen fixed his attention. It bestowed inward vision, yet when turned outward brought burning destruction on those toward whom it was focused. Shiva was the great god, the Auspicious One, but he was also the Destroyer. It was to this aspect Nasiradeen prayed.
He bowed and touched his forehead to the floor, seeking the words that would win the god’s power to his side.
I will build you a great temple in the hert of Lhasa itself, he told the god. The holy city will become your city. I will destroy all who will not worship you, and you will drink the blood of their sacrifice. Be my aid and my strength, great Shiva, and nothing will stand before us.
Duncan MacLeod left the Potala early, when the sun had barely risen. He left before the monk Gaikho could summon him to his usual morning meal with the Dalai Lama.
MacLeod meant no disrespect to the spiritual leader and hoped his absence would not be taken as such. But for the last two days they had spent most of their time together, student and teacher, while Duncan learned of the four Noble Truths that made up the basis of Tibetan Buddhism.
Although Duncan was grateful for the many hours the Dalai Lama was giving up from his other duties, today he needed to get away. He needed time to think, to absorb what he had already heard, to let his mind breathe.
His first thought was to go to the mountains, to the beauty and the quiet. Yet he found himself heading down into the city of Lhasa, where another beauty awaited him. The living beauty that was Xiao-nan. He knew it was early to be calling at her door but maybe, just maybe, he could persuade her to take a walk with him. Her company—the light of her eyes, the gentle sound that was her laughter—would help him put everything in perspective.
He found her house easily, remembering the route from the day he had walked her home. But when he arrived he stood uncertainly at her door, feeling like a schoolboy come courting instead of a two-hundred-year-old Immortal. What, his sudden doubts said, if she did not want to see him, if her pleasant company the other day had been nothing more than the compassion to a stranger that seemed to be the unwritten law of this land?
He did not know that Xiao-nan had watched for him each day and was just on the other side of the door waiting for his knock.
Seconds ticked by as he stood there, battling his fears and chiding himself for his foolishness. If she said no—well, it was not the first time in his long life a beautiful woman had turned him down. Ye’ll never know by standing here, ye daft fool, he told himself, his mind slipping into the brogue of his childhood. He raised his hand and knocked.
The door opened so quickly he nearly fell through the sudden space. And Xiao-nan was there, smiling up at him, even more beautiful than he remembered her.
“I… I know it’s early,” MacLeod stammered, groaning silently as he stated the obvious. Truth be told, something about her left him feeling awkward, even tongue-tied. It had to be more than her beauty; he had known beautiful women all over the world, and he had two centuries practice of how to talk to them, charm them, win their favor. But something about Xiao-nan said she was different, and the difference disconcerted him.
“Will you take a walk with me?” he asked her. “We won’t go far.”
“I would like very much to walk with you, Duncan MacLeod,” she answered, her voice making music of his name. Duncan knew he wanted to hear her say it again and again.
A voice called from within the house. Xiao-nan turned and answered it quickly. Then she stepped out beside MacLeod and gently closed the door.
“I have told my mother we are going, so now we may walk together. Where would you like to go?” she asked.
“Anywhere you want,” Duncan answered.
MacLeod was delighted to stand and watch her as she thought about a destination. As a little f
rown creased a line between her eyebrows, he fought the urge to bend and kiss it away. Then, suddenly, her face lightened.
“I know where we will go,” she said. “There is a place where the blue orchid blooms on the hill. It is very beautiful in the early light.”
As are you, Xiao-nan, Duncan thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blue orchid,” he said aloud as they started toward the city gate. “Is it truly blue?”
“Oh, yes,” Xiao-nan replied. “Blue as the summer sky, with little black flecks at its heart and a sweet scent that is like no other flower.”
She picked up the pace, eager to show it to him. “Hurry, Duncan MacLeod,” she said. “We must be there before the light passes.”
He laughed and walked faster. He wanted to take her hand and run together like happy children, but he knew that in Tibet men and women did not touch casually in public. All he could do was stay by her side, delighting in each moment. Somehow that was enough. In her company, Duncan felt as if the weight of his years vanished and his heart was freer than it had been for a century gone.
Up in the Potala, the monk Gaikho reported Duncan’s absence to the Dalai Lama. The spiritual leader nodded and dismissed him. He suspected whom Duncan had gone to see, and he approved; it would be a good match—for both of them.
The Dalai Lama took a deep breath, folded his hands in a pattern of serenity, and closed his eyes. He chose no direction for his meditation, but let his thoughts overlap like gentle waves upon a shore. Soon, it was as if he floated in a golden ocean of bliss, where all striving had ceased, all hopes had been realized, all was peace.
Here was the gateway of Nirvana. On one side, only a breath away, was the final state of liberation he would enter only after his work upon this earth was done and all beings had attained Enlightenment. On the other side was samsara, the cycles of birth, death, and rebirth he willed to enter again and again.
The Path Page 8