The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  Duncan knew he must be ready to fight again.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Brother Michael and Father Jacques were there when he pounded on the gate. They asked him no questions, though the look in their eyes said they, too, had seen the fire of the Quickening, even if they had not understood. Together, they climbed the ladders to the top of the wall and watched.

  It was not long before they saw riders from the army come retrieve their leader’s body. Soon a long plume of black smoke rose from the funeral pyre. When Duncan made no move to turn away from the sight, the others stayed with him, waiting.

  Throughout the city, people began to creep from their homes, looking for news. They needed either direction or reassurance. When Duncan gave them neither, would not turn from his contemplation of the distant pillar of smoke, Brother Michael descended the ladder and took over the job himself. Soon the news was spreading throughout the city that Duncan had won the challenge and was now waiting to see that the army was departing. The ordeal was not over yet, but most of the people of Lhasa faced the morning with more hope than they had known throughout the night.

  Up on the wall, while Duncan watched the distance, Father Jacques watched him. The priest did not know the meaning of the wild pyrotechnics that had risen out of the little hollow where Duncan fought, nor would he try to guess. Father Jacques had long ago accepted the existence of Mysteries.

  What he did know, as he looked at the man next to him, was that Duncan MacLeod had battled with demons this day, demons that had nothing to do with swords and armies.

  The eternal battle, Father Jacques thought. Good versus evil, darkness or light. We all tread the narrow precipice between them, making our way warily through this life. But I think for this man the edge is much closer, the threat of falling a much more continuous danger.

  Off in the distance came the sound of men’s voices shouting indistinct orders; horses snorted and whickered, carts creaked. Father Jacques saw Duncan’s shoulders stiffen. The priest could feel the tension radiating from the man as he readied himself for whatever was to come.

  Father Jacques nodded silently. He saw the path this man walked, understood it clearly as he understood his own—perhaps more clearly than Duncan did himself.

  Always at the forefront of the war for what is right—one foot in Heaven and one foot, perhaps, in Hell. I do not envy you the road.

  The army folded as the wind swept away the smoke of its dead leader. Father Jacques did not have to watch the road to know; MacLeod’s posture told him everything. As the threat diminished, tension was replaced by release, and then by weariness, as if a bowstring had been unhooked and the weapon set to rest.

  “Monsieur MacLeod,” Father Jacques said softly as Duncan turned away from the view and headed toward the ladder. “What will you do now?”

  Duncan looked at the priest, and Father Jacques saw that he understood the question was not about the next few hours, but the years to come. There was a sad irony in his eyes as a brief, wan smile barely twitched the corners of his lips.

  “Go on living,” he replied as he swung himself onto the ladder and began to descend.

  When Duncan reached the Potala, he did not go to his room, though his body cried out for rest. There was no rest in this place anymore. He went to the audience chamber where he knew the Dalai Lama would be waiting. He knocked once, then entered without waiting for a reply.

  The young man was not sitting on his usual cushion. He stood contemplating a tapestry on the far wall. Duncan saw that his own belongings had been packed in his travel bundles and were piled at the Dalai Lama’s feet.

  Duncan sighed as he came into the room. The Dalai Lama did not turn, did not speak until Duncan was by his side.

  “It is done then,” the Dalai Lama stated flatly. “You have killed—willingly, despite my words.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied. He would give no further explanations, no excuses; he had made his choices as clearly as Nasiradeen had made his on the hills outside the city. And all that could be said between himself and the religious leader had been said last night.

  The Dalai Lama said nothing, but Duncan saw the tightening around his lips, the slight clenching of the hands behind his back. The young man continued to stare at the tapestry. Finally, Duncan also turned to look at it.

  He had seen it countless times as he sat in this chamber and though its vivid colors and designs had been beautiful, they had had no meaning to him. Now Duncan saw it for what it was; the great Kalachakra Mandala. The sight of it flooded him with the memory of days in the sun and Xiao-nan by his side.

  Xiao-nan…

  Though her love was still with him, so was the grief. In an odd way he now welcomed the pain of it, but he held it as a thing apart from this scene he knew must be played. For a moment he felt like a spectator to his own life, watching a half-remembered play where lines are heard with the dichotomy of recognition and surprise.

  “I have spent most of the night in this room,” the Dalai Lama said at last, “thinking of your words. Many things I sought to understand about you have now become clear. I will keep your secret, as I promised you last night, but you must leave Tibet and not return. Your path does not lie among my people, Duncan MacLeod. There is no place for a life of violence in the palace of Enlightenment.”

  “Perhaps not,” Duncan answered as he, too, stared at the tapestry, at the elemental circles of time enclosing the gardens and palace of the way to eternal peace.

  “Perhaps all I can do,” Duncan added softly, “is to guard the gates.”

  The Dalai Lama turned to look at him. In the young man’s eyes, Duncan saw the disappointment and the flashing anger of a teacher who knew his words had been abandoned, and of friendship strained perhaps beyond endurance. The look did not surprise Duncan, but it did sadden him.

  “You must go,” the Dalai Lama said.

  Duncan nodded. It had all been like a dream, living here, hoping for a different life than the one he lived. It was now time to wake up.

  Duncan looked for a moment longer into the Dalai Lama’s face. He knew that whatever the young man might think at this moment, his words and the memory of his friendship would stay with MacLeod for a long, long time, changing him in ways he had only begun to understand.

  Duncan bowed to the religious leader. Then he picked up the bundles at his feet and turned away.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Two hundred years older and, he hoped, a little wiser, Duncan MacLeod knew the Dalai Lama had been right to send him away. Part of him had known it at the time, though he had been too heartsore to realize it.

  The long, overland trip back to Europe had been a dark tunnel of grief. He returned to a world on the brink of madness. The American War for Independence was over, but its repercussions were only beginning to be felt.

  In England, King George III teetered on the edge of insanity while his son played at being Regent. The British Parliament was tightening its hold on its other conquered lands, particularly India, afraid of losing them as they had lost the colonies in the West. But as their grip tightened, the seeds of future insurrections were sown.

  In France, the taxation had become so oppressive, the people were starving, and, with the success of the American Revolution, they saw a way to throw off their own bondage. Civil unrest had begun the slow boil that would soon lead to their own war for independence, but one that quickly disintegrated into an era of terror and blood.

  The French Revolution opened the way for the Napoleonic era. Looking back, it seemed to Duncan as if the whole century had been filled with war. He had fought for the causes he found just and, in doing so, had locked the memory of his time in Tibet away into a secret corner of his heart visited only in the safety of half-remembered dreams.

  The sound of the door opening banished past thoughts. It was the present he must deal with now.

  Duncan turned; the fourteenth Dalai Lama, exiled ruler of Tibet, stood in the doorway. Duncan kept hi
s face carefully neutral though once more he felt his stomach tighten. Facing the past was never easy, even when you have four hundred years experience doing so.

  The Dalai Lama said nothing for a moment. His eyes remained as dark and unreadable as they had been all evening. Duncan made the first move; he bowed slightly to the Tibetan leader and waited for whatever words—whether of friendship or recrimination—were to come.

  The Dalai Lama returned the gesture. He turned to the two attendant monks that stood behind him and spoke in rapid Tibetan. Duncan almost smiled to hear the language again. The monks bowed and stepped away, closing the door and leaving Duncan and the Dalai Lama alone together.

  “Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, “we may speak freely with each other, without worry about what others might hear or say. I have kept your secret through many lifetimes, as the holy Jam-dpal Rgya-mtsho, the eighth of my line, promised so long ago. I will not break that promise now.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness,” Duncan said. The Dalai Lama crossed to a cushion and dropped easily into a seated position. He motioned to the place next to him, inviting Duncan to sit.

  The action brought a strong wave of déjà vu for Duncan. Standing in this room, half a world and two centuries away, he was for an instant transported back to the many weeks he had spent in the holy city of Lhasa.

  The current Dalai Lama was watching him, dark eyes now twinkling, and in his eyes Duncan saw none of the hurt, the anger, or the disappointment that had been in the eyes of the eighth Dalai Lama the last time they met.

  “Well, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, “You are unchanged, as you said you would be. Through each of my lifetimes, the memory of you has remained clear, and I have wondered if we would ever meet again.”

  The Dalai Lama stopped and stared at him for a moment. Another wave of déjà vu swept through Duncan. As with his predecessor, Duncan felt in the Dalai Lama’s gaze as if his soul were somehow opened and read.

  “But you are also not as unchanged as your face would tell me,” the Dalai Lama said, cocking his head to one side in the old familiar gesture. “It has been a difficult life you have lived. Darkness and light have both touched you, I think. Yes?”

  Darkness and light, joy and sorrow, hope and despair; Duncan knew these forces shaped him now as they had two hundred years ago. Somewhere between them he walked the narrow path that was his truth.

  “It has been two centuries, Your Holiness,” he replied. “What man is immune to such things? If he does not know them, is he truly alive?”

  The Dalai Lama nodded. “Ah, Duncan MacLeod, always did you ask such questions. It is good, this seeking for answers, but it does not make the living any easier.”

  “No, Your Holiness, it does not.”

  Duncan looked around the room at the many tapestries that lined the walls. Once more his eyes came to rest on the Great Mandala.

  “Yes, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said. “It is the same tapestry. I took it from the Potala when I fled into exile. When we looked at it last together it was an unhappy time.”

  That one day, yes, there had been sorrow—but before that, sunlight and joy. It was these Duncan thought of as he looked at the tapestry.

  “What happened after I left Tibet?” he asked softly. There were many people he had cared about—Mingxia and her parents, Father Jacques, the Capuchin monks; he hoped they had lived good, happy lives.

  The Dalai Lama shook his head. “I am sorry, Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “My memories are not as yours. Some things I remember the whole of, others only pieces.”

  Duncan nodded a little sadly. The Great Wheel has spun, he thought, still not turning his eyes from the tapestry. What is it the Rubaiyat says? “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on…” Words from a different land and a different time, yet the same truth. I accept it, but it still would have been good to know that all had been well.

  “And you, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said. “What have you done these many years?”

  Duncan’s thoughts slid quickly over the centuries. Memories of faces and places swirled before him like a vast kaleidoscope of loves and hates, successes and failures, journeys and battles and longings.

  “I have gone on living,” Duncan replied.

  The Dalai Lama nodded once more, slowly, his gentle middle-aged face filled with compassion. “Once I would not have understood the cost of those words,” he said. “But now—tell me, Duncan MacLeod, have you found peace in the path you walk?”

  Duncan did not answer right away; there were no easy words for such a question. No, he admitted to himself, it was not peace he had found. It was, perhaps, something more important.

  “I found myself,” he said at last, hoping the man next to him would understand.

  The dark eyes that met his twinkled gently in a timeless face. But these eyes possessed a knowledge of the world his predecessor’s had lacked. They had seen Tibet fall to invasion and his people suffer all the atrocities Duncan had fought to prevent two hundred years earlier.

  Yes—this Dalai Lama knew the meaning of the words Duncan had just uttered.

  “And do you still guard the gates?” he asked softly.

  Duncan smiled. “Someone still must, Your Holiness.”

  The Dalai Lama nodded very slowly. “And will you never find a way to put down your sword and enter the gate?”

  “Perhaps in time, Your Holiness. When the Great Wheel spins again.”

  “And when that day comes, Duncan MacLeod, I hope that we will sit together once more in the beauty and sunlight of the Potala gardens.”

  The Dalai Lama’s words sent a flood of warmth through Duncan. The thought of returning to Tibet, of walking again down the streets of the holy city, of sitting again in the hills among the blue orchids, brought a joy that was like the gentle caress of love and laughter. Even after two hundred years, he knew he was not alone; Xiao-nan was still with him. She lived in his soul.

  For all the lives to come, they had promised. He thought about the other great loves he had known; he thought about Tessa. Perhaps Xiao-nan had been part of each of them, as she was and would always be part of Duncan MacLeod.

  He looked at the Dalai Lama and smiled. “So do I, Your Holiness,” he said. “So do I.”

  Author’s Notes

  For the purposes of the story, I have changed the date of the Gurkha invasion of Tibet to 1781. In reality, the Gurkhas, the army of the royal house of Nepal, invaded Tibet and attacked the holy city of Lhasa in 1792. It was the troops of the Chinese Emperor, not Duncan MacLeod, who repelled the invaders.

  The people of Tibet were once as warlike as their neighbors. But in the seventh century, the teachings of Buddha were brought to the high plateau and swept through the nation. By the thirteenth century, the people had embraced a life of nonviolence to such a degree that the fame of their masters and Lamas spread throughout the East. A treaty was eventually signed with the Chinese Emperors: they would come to Tibet, to the Dalai Lama, for spiritual guidance and in return the Emperor’s troops would protect Tibet whenever necessary.

  Unfortunately, the people of Tibet are paying a high price for that relationship now.

  In the 1950s China began its occupation of Tibet. By 1959, conditions had become so bad that the Dalai Lama was forced to flee the country. He now lives in Dharmasala, India, from where he travels, lecturing, writing, teaching, and continuing to bring his message of nonviolence and compassion to the world.

  I have tried to encapsulate some of the most basic teachings of Tibetan Buddhism in the book. Any errors of either understanding or presentation are entirely my own, and for them I humbly apologize.

  Those wishing to know more about Tibet, the Dalai Lama, and this extremely complex religion might try the following books:

  The Teachings of the Compassionate Buddha, edited by E.A. Burtt, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, translated by Robert A.F. Thurman, Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism,
by John Powers, Inside Tibetan Buddhism, Rituals and Symbols, text by Robert A.F. Thurman, The Four Noble Truths, by the Venerable Lobsang Gyatso, The Modern Buddhist-Christian Dialogue, Two Universalistic Religions in Transformation, by Paul O. Ingram, The Religions of Man, by Huston Smith, The Wheel of Time Sand Mandala, by Barry Bryant in cooperation with the Namgyal Monastery, and the many writings of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, especially, The World of Tibetan Buddhism and Beyond Dogma: Dialogues and Discourses.

  Finally, they say no good deed ever goes unpunished and with that in mind I wish to thank the following people whose aid has been invaluable in the creation of this book:

  First of all, to the people of Filmline International Highlander, Inc., for such a wonderful and complex character as Duncan MacLeod, and particularly to Gillian Horvath, Associate Creative Consultant, for her timely suggestions and shared vision of what this book might become.

  Betsy Mitchell—kind, patient, encouraging, insightful, all the things an editor should be—working with you has been a delight.

  Wayne Chang—for all the help, and the shared jokes.

  Mike Moscoe—who can see with the eyes of a soldier and a priest.

  Donna—for reading, and reading, and trips to the library, and reading and reading….

  And, as always, to Stephen—husband and friend—who understands that having a writer for a wife might not produce a great deal of domesticity, but it is never boring.

  —Peace—

  Rebecca Neason

  Watch for ZEALOT, the new Highlander novel by Donna Lettow, on sale in October 1997 from Warner Aspect!

  THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE…