The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  No, the snail’s pace at which the army moved could be blamed on no living thing. It was the mountains. Even the passes seemed determined to stay closed. There were rocks and logs and other debris, not there when Nasiradeen had scouted this route the year before, that had to be cleared so the supply carts could pass. New trenches had been formed by snows and rains and runoff that were treacherous to horses’ hooves and wagon wheels alike.

  Well, the incalculable strength of the mountains had just met the indominability of Immortal will. Nasiradeen would not allow even the mighty Himalayas to keep him from his prize.

  “We will stop here until the wagon is repaired,” he told the still kneeling messenger from the rear guard. “Take as many men as you need to get it done quickly. This is no place to camp for the night, if we can help it.”

  “Yes, Great One,” the man answered before running back through the troops.

  After he was gone, Nasiradeen raised one hand in gesture and immediately his second-in-command rode to his side.

  “Take twenty men,” Nasiradeen ordered, “and clear the road ahead until you find a wider spot to make camp. We’ll catch up with you soon.”

  “And what if the road narrows?”

  “Then we’ll sleep on our feet,” Nasiradeen snapped, furious at being questioned. “Or we’ll march through the night. Take the men and go!”

  The man touched his hand to his heart and bowed as well as his saddle permitted. Then he wheeled his horse back toward the troops. Nasiradeen heard him shouting orders but did not bother to turn; his will would be obeyed.

  Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the great peaks. You won’t stop me, his thoughts snarled at them. I’ll dig a path with my bare hands if I must, but nothing will stop me.

  The population of Lhasa nearly doubled in the space of two days. People from throughout Tibet arrived in a steady, seemingly endless stream. Duncan watched with something akin to amazement as strangers were welcomed into the city like family members returning from a journey.

  It was a wondrous sight, this example of national kindness, and one the warrior MacLeod never thought to see. Individuals, yes; in two centuries Duncan had seen individual acts that were selfless to the point of martyrdom. But this was something else. This was an entire nation living an ethic too many others merely mouthed or followed only when it suited their political convenience.

  The Dalai Lama had little time to meet with Duncan now. When he was not in meditative preparation for the ceremony he would lead, he was hearing petitions, counseling and advising the people who had come to Lhasa from afar. He still invited Duncan to join him for their morning meal, but these were short and taken in the audience chamber, as of old.

  Duncan missed the young man’s company, but he did not mind a break from the constant influx of information and philosophy. Perhaps, he thought, the next two weeks would give him a chance to sort through all he had been told and return to his lessons with new understanding.

  The other benefit for Duncan was the extra time to spend with Xiao-nan. She, however, was also busy with additional duties, and although they spent the hours together, they had little time to be alone. They had no time at all for the one talk Duncan knew they must have—the truth about his Immortality.

  The air of expectation grew throughout the city as the days passed. A large pavilion was erected at the base of the Potala stairs; half of it was open to the air, containing a raised platform on which the Dalai Lama would sit. The other half was enclosed, but with steps leading both up and away.

  This was the thekpu, the Mandala house, and in here the monks would create the great Kalachakra Mandala out of fine grains of colored sand. It would take them nine days of the twelve-day ceremony to complete their task. In the evenings of the last two days of the ceremony, the people would line up to view the Mandala, standing in line long hours for the privilege of walking around the thekpu and circling the Mandala that contained the path and palace of Enlightenment. For many, it was a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage.

  Like a follower of Islam visiting Mecca or a Christian in the Holy Land, Duncan thought as he listened to Xiao-nan’s explanation. He had a new appreciation for what it meant to his nomad friends when they asked him to attend on their behalf. He had agreed indifferently, not caring then where he went or what he did. Now he was glad—not only because it had brought him to Lhasa and to Xiao-nan, but because of the joy he now understood this action was providing for those who had shown him such kindness.

  The morning of the third day, the day the ceremony was to begin, Duncan rose long before dawn. He spent his usual hour doing kata, but he did them slowly this morning, meditatively, using the movements to draw and focus his mind inward. After, he sat for a long time upon his knees, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling his breath, reattuning himself before attending the religious ritual ahead.

  He looked back over the last weeks and saw the changes in his life, in himself. The weight of memory that had driven him to the point of despair was no longer a burden. It was a tapestry, rich and multihued, and he saw for the first time the possibility to change the manner of its weaving.

  He believed; he hoped; he prayed.

  Then, from the depths of his mind came another whisper, overriding the beatific vision he was holding. What of the Game? it said. The Game still exists—no changes, no choices.

  “There are always choices,” the Dalai Lama’s voice seemed to speak out of the air, but now as then Duncan wondered if it was true. Could there be a choice in the way one played the Game? The rules did not vary; in the end there could be only one.

  But the Game is not here, not now, Duncan’s heart answered. Not in Tibet. I am here—and for now, at least, I don’t have to play.

  Dawn was approaching. Duncan could see the first shimmer of light through the long windows of his room. He rose from his knees, cleaned and dressed himself quickly. He had promised Xiao-nan to be by her side throughout the different stages of the long ceremony ahead.

  The Potala was strangely quiet as he walked down the corridors. There was no sign of the monks who lived here or the many visitors. There was no sound of walking feet or whisper of human voices. Once, Duncan thought he heard the faint tinkling of a handbell, but the sound came and went so swiftly he was left wondering if he had heard it at all.

  The city, by comparison, was a hive of activity. Already people were filing through the streets toward the base of the Potala, where they would spend the next twelve days at the feet of their Dalai Lama, Ocean of Wisdom, Highest Enlightened One, Priest-King.

  Going against the flow, Duncan hurried toward Xiao-nan’s home. She was waiting for him at her door with an anxious expression on her face and two long white scarves in her hand.

  She handed one to him. “These are for blessings,” she said. “They are symbols of respect.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen them before,” he replied. “On the road when I first came to Lhasa.”

  “Then you know that you must bow when you present them and His Holiness will return them with a blessing. They may also be left at the base of the Mandala as an invocation for others. But we must hurry if we are to be there when the Dalai Lama arrives.

  Taking Xiao-nan by the hand, Duncan led the way back toward the Potala. In spite of the vast number of people, Duncan noticed there was no jostling, no pushing against one another for a better place, a clearer view. It was a peaceful procession, representative of an entire nation whose collective mind was fixed on one purpose.

  By the time they reached the open square at the base of the Potala steps, many of the people had already taken their places. Monks from the Potala, some of whom Duncan recognized, sat on their knees facing each other across the square, at ninety-degree angles from the raised platform. Their presence created the side boundaries to the open area where the ceremony would take place.

  Most of the visiting participants sat facing the platform, forming the fourth side of the square. Duncan noticed that the younger monks and
nuns sat to the fore. These, Xiao-nan had explained, had come to be initiated by the Dalai Lama himself into the practice of the Kalachakra tantras for universal peace and compassion.

  The older members of the samgha, the Buddhist religious life of monks and nuns, sat behind the initiates; the people of Lhasa and the mass of visitors to the city filled the rear in row upon row of silent witnesses. Their part in the initiation was to watch, to join their voices in the prayers and mantras, and above all, to add their will of compassion.

  Duncan and Xiao-nan took their place among the crowd. In the ensuing silence, MacLeod had a chance to look around him. The platform and Mandala house had been completed. The thekpu was now painted yellow, with lotus flowers decorating the eaves and bright, multicolored banners hanging from the corners and framing the glass that would protect the sand of the Mandala from the wind.

  The platform, too, had been decorated. Long silken tapestries were draped down the front, on which more lotus flowers flowed in colors of red, yellow, white, and blue. To the right of where the Dalai Lama would sit, ritual implements of polished brass rested, shining dully in the morning light. MacLeod recognized the vases that he knew held purified water and the ornate lamps that burned a combination of oil and butter. The rest he could not see from this distance, but he knew that Xiao-nan would explain each item as it was used.

  Duncan turned his attention from the platform to the people. They were all dressed in their finest. The women wore soft colored shirts and short, black jackets. Their wraparound skirts were made from bands of bright cloth. Many of the older women wore headdresses that flowed down their back, studded with beads of turquoise. The men also wore bright shirts, predominately blues and greens, and their black pants were tied at the waist with multicolored sashes. Some sat on their knees, others sat cross-legged, hands folded in different patterns. Many spun prayer wheels or counted off the mantras on circlets of prayer beads while their lips moved silently. Young and old alike, all seemed to wear the same expression of looking inward in contentment.

  Off in the distance Duncan heard the sound of handbells being rung. It was a pure sound, like a mountain stream rippling across stone or a young child’s laughter. High up, at the top of the great stairs, the doors to the Potala opened. The monks came out, nine of them, in their plain maroon-and-saffron robes. Five more followed, wearing ornate costumes of brilliant yellow ankle-length jackets with bright red-and-orange scapulars, embroidered in intricate designs. They also wore high multisided headdresses that from a distance looked almost like crowns. Behind them, walking alone, was the Dalai Lama.

  He looks so small and very, very young, Duncan thought, as the procession started down the long stairway. The monks to the fore carried the handbells, ringing them in unison with each step. As they neared, the monks in the square took up the triple-toned chant of Tibetan religious meditation, creating a rumbling undercurrent to the high tinkling of the bells. To Duncan, it seemed as if he could feel the sounds reverberating through his body all the way down to his bones.

  The procession reached the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, majestically, it walked into the square and up onto the platform. After the Dalai Lama had seated himself, an expectant hush descended. Following the long minutes of chanting, the silence felt alive, as if it, too, was an entity, a participant in the ritual yet to come.

  The Dalai Lama picked up the darja and handbell that rested on the platform in front of him. With practiced ease, he began reciting the first of the Kalachakra tantras, his voice floating out softly over the crowd. With a single motion, the rows of initiates stood and began prostrating themselves. Over and over, they stretched themselves in the dust, yet the movements were natural and graceful, like the rise and fall of waves upon the sea.

  After a few moments, the prostrations ended in the same fluid motion as they had begun. Again, a deep silence followed. Without marring that silence, a single initiate stood and stepped forward. Not even his robes seemed to move. Xiao-nan had already told Duncan this monk represented all the initiates. On their behalf, he asked to become practitioners of the ancient teachings, dedicating themselves to the way of universal compassion.

  When the initiate reached the base of the platform, he bowed and held out the long white cloth symbolizing his petition. The Dalai Lama leaned forward and lifted it from his hands. With this action, the chanting began again and the bells, but this time with a different cadence. Drums Duncan had not noticed were picked up and struck in a steady, heart-rhythmic beat.

  As the initiate returned to his knees in the front row, the ornately clad monks descended from the platform to the open square and began a long, intricate dance. Instruments flashed in their hands. Xiao-nan leaned close to Duncan and whispered.

  “The dancers now claim and purify the site,” she said softly. “They carry the purba daggers to cut the influence of any negative thoughts or karma that might defile the ceremony, and their prayers asked the help and blessings of the Kalachakra deities. See, on their robes and crowns are the figures of 722 positive emanations.”

  Duncan understood now, as he would not have several weeks ago, that the deities to which she referred were not separate gods. They were different aspects of the Buddhanature. He was so intent upon watching the dancers, he almost did not see the Dalai Lama rise and, with six of the remaining monks on the platform, enter the thekpu. They would now begin the elaborate sand drawing that held the symbols and steps of Enlightenment.

  The Dalai Lama would snap the chalked threads, the strings of wisdom, to lay out the selections and make the first marks. Then he would return to the initiation. For the next nine days the monks would apply the colored sand of the Mandala.

  Duncan’s thoughts went back to his nomad friends. In his mind’s eye he could see each of their faces as plainly as if he sat among them. He felt again the warmth of their care, heard their happy voices as they sent him on his way to Lhasa.

  Well, my friends, he thought fondly, I have spun the prayer wheels for you many times, and I sit here holding you in my memory and my heart, as I promised Each day I will pray for the blessings and benefits of your tribe.

  Yet, as Duncan MacLeod sat in the warmth of the Tibetan sun next to the woman he loved, he knew he was the one who had been blessed.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Nasiradeen Satish led his men onward. Sometimes he rode; sometimes, when the way became too treacherous, he dismounted and walked his horse over the crumbling trails and washed-out gullies. But always he was at the fore of the army, and his men knew that if he had made it, so would they.

  They followed him into the heights of the Himalayan passes where, though it was high summer, their breath still formed crusts of ice on their beards and eyebrows. At night they huddled together for warmth around pitiful fires that sputtered and smoked more than burned. The passes had felt endless, and Nasiradeen knew that without the sight of their leader struggling and suffering beside them, the men would have turned back to Nepal.

  But they followed him. They would follow him wherever he led, and they would give him his dream.

  Now the passes were behind them. Last night, Nasiradeen and his men slept on the Tibetan plateau—or rather, his men slept. Nasiradeen had tried, but for the first time in over a century, he had been haunted by childhood dreams, nightmares of the rotting corpses of the two whom he had known as parents.

  The dreams would not leave him. Each time he closed his eyes they returned until, finally, Nasiradeen had risen in the darkness. He would be awake to greet his first dawn in Tibet—and rather than weaken him, the dreams served only to strengthen his resolve to succeed, to conquer.

  He did not mind the darkness. It was neither silent nor lonely. It was filled with the voices of his plans, the company of his desire. He could feel Tibet like a living fire in his bones. Possession would be a consummation greater than any physical union or release.

  And after Tibet? a small voice inside of him whispered. When this land kneels at your feet, what t
hen? You have centuries ahead, endless, ageless time.

  In that moment, Nasiradeen felt the hand of destiny close about him. He would take Tibet; he was sure of it. By the time the children now living had passed to dust, Tibet would become a warrior nation, his warrior nation. He would lead them back into Nepal, into India, perhaps into Mongolia and China. With a nation of warriors behind him, he could conquer the continent and build an empire such as the world had never seen. He, who had begun his life as an untouchable, would rule over the mortals as the Emperor and demigod his kind were meant to be.

  As the first light of dawn blushed in the eastern sky, it was greeted by Nasiradeen’s laughter.

  His army had not been marching long when smoke rising from a village greeted them. Here they would strike their first blow. Nasiradeen had no illusions about it being a worthy battle, but his men needed something to whet their appetites for what lay ahead. They needed the sight and smell of blood, the screams of dying men, of women for the taking, and the heat of battle and victory to wipe out the memory of their long, cold march.

  Nasiradeen would give those to his men now, their first full day in Tibet. They would feel the power and the rewards of being his army, and from this day on they would be unstoppable.

  He raised a hand to call a halt, then beckoned his captains to his side. They, too, had seen the smoke and knew what he wanted. A moment later a rider was sent out to scout the distance, terrain, and size of the village.

  While they waited, Nasiradeen could hear his men drawing and checking their weapons. Here and there was the rasp of stone upon steel as an edge was made more keen, more deadly. Nasiradeen smiled savagely; they were ready, even eager, for battle.