Hours with the Dalai Lama filled his mornings. The doubts MacLeod had felt during his first days at the Potala, when he wondered about the motives behind the Dalai Lama’s kindness, seemed like foolishness now. Duncan could only attribute them to his deep weariness when he arrived in Tibet.
The weariness was passing; the memories were healing. Peace and patience, taught by the Dalai Lama and enhanced by Xiao-nan’s living example, had slowly, gently, begun to replace the pain that had filled him.
He and the Dalai Lama sat in the Potala garden, as they did most days now that the weather was fine. Duncan was content to sit on the grass in a patch of morning sunlight while the young man sat on a bench a couple of feet away, speaking in his quiet, singsong voice.
“To follow the Eightfold Path: right thought, right action, right intention, right speech, right livelihood, right effort, mindfulness, and meditation,” he was saying, running through the list with long-practiced ease, “one must be willing to give up their opposite. The giving up and the embracing are two separate and conscious actions. It is not enough to wish for right thoughts or to welcome them when they come, or even to seek them. There must be the willing and active abandonment of all unwholesome thoughts—and of the actions they generate. Do you understand this, Duncan MacLeod?”
“I understand the words,” Duncan answered, “and their intent. But how can a man govern his every thought? Life has a way of interfering with even the best intentions.”
The Dalai Lama smiled at him, eyes dancing merrily in his unlined face. “That is so, Duncan MacLeod, and it is well said. Although Buddha himself set out the steps anyone many follow, the Path to Enlightenment is not easy. We govern our thoughts by training, by meditations, and by consciousness. Yes, that is the key.”
“Then you’re saying that a man, a conscious man, does choose his thoughts.”
“The answer is both yes and no,” the young man said, and Duncan had to smile. That was so often the answer.
The Dalai Lama saw his expression. “Ah, you smile,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied quickly.
“No, no, no,” The Dalai Lama held up his hands to stop Duncan’s words. “It is good that you smile. Humor, pleasantness, delight—these are good thoughts, right thinking. But, to your question—what, Duncan MacLeod, does consciousness mean?”
Duncan paused, unsure of his answer. “It means he is awake,” he said at last.
“Awake, yes,” the Dalai Lama nodded, “but what is awake? For a man it is more. The tree here”—he gestured—“it, in its own way, is awake. Its sap flows, it seeks the sun. So, too, the grass and flowers. Also the birds and animals. All are awake with the day, the season, the sun.
“A human being,” he continued, “is more. He or she is awake but also aware. Of what? Of surroundings, of day or night? Yes, but so are the animals. It is choices of which we are aware, choices of thoughts of actions, of karma. We can change our situation because we can change ourselves.”
“But situations can arrive over which there is no control, no choice,” Duncan said. “Sometimes all you can do is respond.”
“No, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama replied. “Always there is a choice. Always.”
Duncan became very silent, very still, looking down at the grass beneath him. What could this holy man know of the situations he faced all too often? A choice, yes—live or die, and he chose life. Was it wrong to want to go on living?
Duncan stood and began to pace restlessly, searching for an answer to the question he had posed himself. He knew the Dalai Lama was waiting for him to speak, but this was something he could not ask aloud without revealing all of who he was and what a life such as his entailed.
Finally he turned and looked at the young man. As was so often the case, MacLeod was struck by the dichotomy of the Dalai Lama’s gaze. The eyes that met his were pools of endless compassion, of understanding that was at odds with his mortal years. Seeing them, Duncan was tempted to reveal his long-kept secret. But habit, and perhaps a touch of fear, stayed his tongue; he did not want to lose this young man’s friendship.
Still silent, he sat back down and waited for the Dalai Lama’s next words.
The young man sighed, knowing a moment, a choice, had passed.
“So what then is right thinking, Duncan MacLeod?” he said, resuming their discussion. “It is Compassion. When Compassion fills us, there is no room for negative thinking, negative actions. If someone is angry at me, what are my choices? To return anger for anger, yes—or to return compassion for anger. I can choose to think he is my enemy or not my enemy. He is a man, like me—with choices, like me. Each time I choose compassion, I am training my mind so that next time the choice becomes easier.”
“Are there then no just battles, no causes worthy enough to fight for?” Duncan asked him.
“No man may answer that for another,” the Dalai Lama said. “For me, there is never a reason for violence, and that is what I teach my people. Another man? He must ask himself his own questions, he must look at his own thinking, his actions, his intentions. Is compassion served by what is being done? he must ask. Choices, always choices.”
“What about justice?” Duncan said.
“There is always justice,” the Dalai Lama replied evenly. “There is karma. Positive out creates positive returning; negative out creates negative back in. The Great Wheel spins, and it is perfect justice.”
Duncan shook his head slightly. It sounded so reasonable, and yet in the world outside this graced kingdom, he doubted it was possible to live only by the laws of compassion and karma. At least for him. Holy men, perhaps, like the Dalai Lama, like saints and martyrs—but he was none of these. For all his Immortality, he was just a man.
And there was the Game.
Duncan sighed. The Dalai Lama smiled at him.
“It is a journey, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, “not traveled in a day or a year or even a single lifetime. You have become aware that the journey exists, and that alone is progress. Yes?”
Duncan nodded, trying to find encouragement in the young man’s words. “If you say so, Your Holiness,” he answered.
Xiao-nan was watching for him. She ran out to meet him while he was still several doors away. The joy of her greeting cleared the last of thought-induced fog from Duncan’s mind. Her arms slid around his waist and nothing else mattered. When he looked into her eyes, the only journey that existed was the one to bring her joy.
Duncan MacLeod knew, for well and certain, that he was in love.
They walked arm in arm down the city streets. People smiled at them as they passed, perhaps sensing that here love was still fresh and new. Or perhaps, in a place like Lhasa, where everyone knew and cared for each other, they were as pleased as MacLeod to see Xiao-nan happy.
Duncan did not ask where they were going as they left the city and began to walk down the long road. Over the last weeks Xiao-nan had shown him many places he would never have found on his own; beautiful places—not just the blue orchids, but hidden stands of silver birch and wild cherry, sudden meadows carpeted with wildflowers, eagle aeries and marmot dens; all places of life and wonder.
Today they returned to the river, to a place where the rocks were flat and warm in the sunshine and the gentle sound of the water was soothing to both mind and spirit. Xiao-nan had told him once that this was a favorite thinking spot of hers, and Duncan understood the attraction.
They sat on the rocks, content to hold each other in silence while they watched the birds dip and dive through the air, feeding on a fresh hatch of aquatic insects. Being in Xiao-nan’s company was like sitting in a pool of calm. It radiated from her, blessing everything around her with peace. Duncan realized how much he had come to need that peace as part of his life—to need Xiao-nan.
He turned to kiss her and she lifted her face to his. As their lips touched and hers parted gently beneath his, Duncan felt again the need to protect her, to keep her warm and safe and happy; it
was a feeling that few other women had awakened to such depths in him. He wanted to hold her forever, in his heart and in his arms.
The kiss went on for a long, timeless moment. When it ended, Duncan pulled away slightly to look into her face. He reached up with one hand and ran a finger gently down her cheek and across her lips. He desired her, yes, but most of all he loved her and wanted to go on loving her for however long her life allowed.
“Xiao-nan,” he said softly, “I do not know the customs of your country, so forgive me if I am speaking in the wrong way or breaking any traditions—but I want us to be together. Husband and wife. I love you. Will you marry me?”
The look on Xiao-nan’s face as she smiled at him was so filled with love and tenderness that Duncan’s breath caught in his throat.
“Yes, Duncan,” she said. “I will be your wife. I, too, want us to be together.” She moved away and sat a little straighter. “There are customs to be observed,” she continued. “The blessing of my parents must be given. You must bring a gift for both my father and my mother, to give them respect and to show them that this marriage will not create want or loss in the family.”
“What sort of gifts, Xiao-nan?” Duncan asked. “You must guide me in this.”
“For my mother it is easy. Spices for her kitchen, perhaps. A pound of good tea and a new set of drinking bowls. There are many choices. My father, however, is not so easy.”
Xiao-nan stopped and thought for a moment. Duncan was content to watch her, amused as always by the little frown she wore when she concentrated. He ran a hand down her long, thick hair; it felt like strands of silk beneath his fingertips, and he found himself wanting to bury his face in it, to inhale the scent of it, the scent of her.
“My father is a good man,” Xiao-nan said, her low, breathless voice breaking into MacLeod’s thoughts—and it was not of her father he had been thinking. He quickly pulled his mind back to the subject at hand.
“He is not a man who seeks after many passing pleasures,” she was saying, “but there is one thing I know will please him. My father enjoys natag, and his grinding bowl is now very old. A new one would be a good gift.”
“Then a new one it is,” Duncan replied, feeling pleased with anything and everything she wanted. “We’ll go to the merchants tomorrow and see what we can find. Perhaps there will be something for Mingxia, too.”
“That is not necessary.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t want her to feel left out. Besides,” Duncan added with a grin, “I think she’s still mad at me, and this might get me back in her good graces.”
“Well, she should not be mad at you,” Xiao-nan said sternly. “She should be grateful you were there to watch over her. All this week she has been acting like a spoiled child, hardly speaking and looking with anger at anyone who speaks to her. I try to be patient with her, but sometimes I think Father should send her to live among the nuns until she again remembers the way of respect and compassion.”
“As you told me once,” Duncan said, “she is young, very young. At her age little things can take on great importance—until the next thing comes along. It will pass.”
Xiao-nan leaned back, settling herself again into his arms. “You are very kind, my Duncan,” she said, “to think so well of my sister.”
“How can I not think well of your sister, when her sister owns my heart. What you love, I must also love.”
Duncan had had enough of talking about families, for now anyway. His arms closed around Xiao-nan, holding her close to him, feeling the way their bodies melded together in perfect harmony. As he kissed her, he could only marvel that she had truly agreed to be his wife. The years ahead suddenly offered a realm of sweetness he had never hoped to see, and for the rest of Xiao-nan’s life, for whatever time they would have together, Duncan knew that his greatest joy would be to make her happy.
One kiss became another and with it, his desire for Xiao-nan mounted. He wanted their joining to be complete. But for her sake, he held himself back. The life of an Immortal, lived along such a different time line, could not help but be free of many of the cultural taboos that governed mortal lives. But Xiao-nan was not free of such rules, and he would do nothing to shame her. When at last they did come together, he wanted there to be only freedom between them—no reluctance, and, afterward, no feelings of guilt to mar their union. He could wait; he had time.
Chapter Nineteen
Xiao-nan could not sleep. Her mind and her heart were too busy tumbling over themselves, thinking the thoughts universal to lovers. She could hardly believe that today had happened. She would soon be the wife of Duncan MacLeod.
She had no doubt that her parents would give their blessing to the match, and that day could not come soon enough for her. Each time she was with Duncan, she wanted the hours to go on forever—and each moment they were apart felt like an eternity. Xiao-nan could not keep herself from laughing aloud that she, who had never thought to be in love, should be feeling this way.
On the sleeping mat next to hers, Mingxia stirred in the darkness. Xiao-nan immediately became silent, scolding herself; even in her happiness she must not lose sight of the feelings of others nor allow her present joy to disturb their peace.
But Mingxia was not sleeping. “Xiao-nan,” she whispered, “what happened to you today? You’ve been very quiet since you came home, even for you.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Xiao-nan answered, not sure she wanted to share her news yet. The joy of it was so deep, so personal.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
She could hear Mingxia turning toward her and Xiao-nan did the same, though nothing could be seen in the darkness.
“The night’s half-gone,” Mingxia replied, insisting. “It is tomorrow.”
Xiao-nan still hesitated—and yet, over the years she and her sister had shared many confidences here in the dark. Now that she was to be married, not many such moments between them remained.
“All right,” she said finally, “but you have to promise you’ll say nothing.”
“I promise. Now tell me.”
“Your most solemn word?”
“Yes—what is it?” Mingxia’s voice rose slightly with excitement.
“Shh,” Xiao-nan quieted her. “You’ll wake Mother and Father, and they mustn’t know yet. Not until later, when Duncan and I return from the merchants.”
“The merchants?”
“Duncan is going to buy marriage-gifts for our parents, to give them when he seeks their blessing. He has asked me to be his wife.”
There, it was said. Xiao-nan felt a little thrill speaking the words outloud. She was going to be a wife; Duncan MacLeod’s wife. In her joy, she almost failed to notice how silent her sister had become.
“Mingxia?” she said. “You aren’t upset, are you?”
“No,” she answered, though her voice was a little hesitant. “Not truly. I like Duncan MacLeod, and he is good to you.”
“He’ll be glad to hear you like him. He thought you were angry with him.”
“You mean because of Father Edward?” Mingxia asked. “I was at first, with both of you. But, well, I don’t really like Father Edward.”
“Then why—”
“Because of you and Duncan and the way he looks at you. Everything he feels shines out of his eyes. When Father Edward looked at me that day, his eyes were shining, too. He wanted me—and I liked the feeling. I know all of the boys here. I’ve grown up with them. Father Edward is like your Duncan. He’s different—there’s something mysterious about him.”
“Father Edward is nothing like Duncan,” Xiao-nan said sharply. “Duncan is a man of honor. Father Edward is—” she stopped herself. She would not speak unkindly about anyone, even Father Edward. “Well, he’s nothing like my Duncan,” she said more quietly.
“And, oh Mingxia,” she continued, wanting to hug and scold her sister at the same time. “Wanting isn’t enough—not without the love. When that comes, you will find that everything has been
worth the waiting. It will come for you, in the right time.”
Xiao-nan heard her sister sigh into the darkness. “Sometimes I don’t think so,” she said.
Xiao-nan found herself smiling at her sister’s words, a smile of compassion and understanding. How well she remembered being Mingxia’s age, when the feelings of womanhood were so new, when hopes and desires were as changeable as quicksilver; one moment wanting to be fiercely independent and the next, wanting only to be loved, to be held, to be cared for.
Well, she would find her path and her peace, this Xiao-nan knew.
“The right one will come for you, Mingxia,” she said. “I promise.”
Duncan MacLeod was also lying awake upon his bed, staring into the darkness. His thoughts were not nearly so pleasant as Xiao-nan’s.
Now that he was alone in the silence, a hundred doubts filled his mind. Not about loving Xiao-nan; that was the most right thing he had ever done. But he wondered if it was fair to her to have proposed marriage.
He was Immortal. That one word, that one difference, contained a world of potential problems. She would age and he would not; could she live with that or would it bring her only sorrow and pain? Duncan ground his teeth in the darkness; he could not stand the thought of causing Xiao-nan pain.
Children were another issue, the children she would not have if she married him—children which, as a mortal woman, she had the right to bear, to hold, to raise into adulthood. Would his love be enough to fill the void?
And there was the Game.
In all his time in Tibet, first in the higher elevations with his nomad friends and now all these weeks in Lhasa, he had not encountered another Immortal. But that did not mean there were none in this land. How long before they found him and challenged him? How would his gentle Xiao-nan feel knowing she had wed a man who must kill to stay alive?
Duncan turned on his narrow bed, filled with a sudden bitter restlessness. Perhaps I should leave, he thought, go now before I can harm her goodness.
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