The Path (11 page)

“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.”

“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?

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 valley 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
.