The Path (22 page)

It was a long time before Duncan and Xiao-nan had the chance to be alone. After opening their gifts, Mingxia immediately replaited
her hair so that her new comb could be displayed and Xiao-nan’s mother made buttered tea, a Tibetan treat, which they drank
from her new bowls.

Xiao-nan’s father put his gift aside, reserving its use as he had said. But he brought out his old grinding bowl, and while
they talked he methodically and expertly ground the spices and tobacco to refill his small box of
natag
. Duncan was pleased; Yao-hui would never grind his snuff in front of anyone who was not accepted as family.

While he ground, they talked of other options besides farming Duncan might choose to support a wife. Soldier and seaman, bodyguard
and scout; these and similar occupations Duncan did not mention, but two hundred years gives a man time to develop many skills.
Among the ones Duncan knew were scribe and bookkeeper, horse trainer, weaver, laundryman, farrier, and cook.

“You are a young man to have gained knowledge of so many things, Duncan MacLeod,” Yao-hui said without looking up from his
grinding.

“I have spent many of my years traveling,” Duncan told him, understanding that there were still many questions Xiao-nan’s
father had not asked. Nor would he openly, now that his blessing had been given—but the questions remained, and Duncan would
do his best to answer them.

“When one travels,” he continued, “one must learn many skills in order to have food and lodging. The people of most lands
are not as generous as those of Tibet, who open their homes to the stranger.”

“A man who has spent so much time traveling may wish to
do so again,” Yao-hui said calmly, still not raising his eyes. Duncan heard again the unspoken question and the concern in
Yao-hui’s words.

He shook his head. “It is because I have traveled that I know I will be happy to stay in Tibet. It is a precious jewel among
nations, and those who live within its borders are doubly blessed, by its beauty and its peace.”

And so the afternoon passed. The women chattered quietly but happily among themselves, going in and out of the room like a
gentle tide as they refilled the teapot or put plates of food within easy reach. Otherwise, they left the men to their conversation.

It was a strange conversation, full of lulls of silence which grew longer as the hidden questions were satisfied. But the
silence was companionable, and each time Duncan’s eyes sought out Xiao-nan, he found her watching him with a soft smile that
spoke not only of her joy, but of her pride in his answers.

Duncan stayed through the evening meal. It was only after that was concluded that he and Xiao-nan were at last freed to be
alone. They sat in the garden, on the same stone bench by the fountain where they had sat on his first visit, and listened
to the soothing sounds of the evening closing in.

Duncan still had the earrings he had bought for Xiao-nan in the pocket of his trousers. He withdrew them now and held the
small package out to her. Her eyes were wide as she looked from it to his face, and he laughed gently.

“Well, take it. It won’t bite you,” he said.

She did not lift the package from his hand, but rather undid the ribbon where it lay and let the thin paper fall back on its
own. The deep red of the rubies glowed against their silver setting; the white paper making them look as if they were resting
on a cloud.

Xiao-nan still did not lift them from Duncan’s hand. She ran the tip of one finger across the earrings almost reverently,
as if she could hardly believe they existed.

“In my country,” Duncan said, “a ruby is the symbol of hearts that are true. I wanted you to have these to know that my heart
is truly yours and that there will always be truth between us.”

“And I shall wear them,” Xiao-nan said, finally taking the earrings and putting them on, “with the same meaning.”

Shining against the softness of Xiao-nan’s skin, framed by the darkness of her hair, the deep red of the rubies seemed to
bring a soft blush to Xiao-nan’s cheeks and lend their color to her lips. Duncan held out his arms to her, and, when he held
her close, her head resting on his heart, he felt an exquisite sense of completion.

There
shall
be truth between us
, he thought.
Soon you will know everything. Not here and now, where other ears might overhear—but soon. I promise you
.

Partway across town, other secrets were being thought, secrets their harborer hoped would have far-reaching results. Father
Edward sat in his room, where he had sat for most of the short retreat of Jesuit practice. The ten days had passed quickly,
filled with thoughts of invasion and revenge. These had been the fuel of his meditation; they kept his hatred alive in the
silence.

He had meditated, yes, and he had prayed, though not to any Christian God, whom he considered weak beyond contempt. He nearly
spat each time he looked at the large crucifix that adorned his wall. Nor had he prayed to the Compassionate Buddha whose
words were revered in Tibet.

He had prayed to the great Shiva, maker and destroyer. He had prostrated himself time and again, imploring the great god for
the privilege of being Shiva’s hand of destruction.

And he knew the god had heard him. He could feel Shiva’s strength flowing in his veins, keeping his heart alive with the fire
of his aims. The great Nasiradeen would arrive, and Edward saw himself riding at his master’s side. Together they would be
unstoppable. Together they would conquer Tibet.

The Gurkha spy smiled to himself, playing his fantasy on the fabric of his imagination. He saw Nasiradeen’s arrival, himself
opening the gates wide to admit the army, Nasiradeen smiling at him in acknowledgement of his good work. He saw himself mounting
one of the army’s horses and, by his master’s side, riding through the streets of Lhasa, fighting, hacking, trampling all
who stood in their way. The carnage would be great; the streets red with the blood that fed Shiva.

He would take Nasiradeen to the Potala and up the stairs into the great monastic palace. What treasures its fifteen hundred
rooms might contain, not even he could imagine. But in his mind’s eye he pictured the monks cowering in fear as he and his
master strode through the vast building until they found the Dalai Lama. Yes, Edward thought, he would wait until the great
Nasiradeen was with him before he accomplished his mission. He would show his master his skill and strength as he killed Tibet’s
religious ruler.

Then he would find MacLeod.

Here the man known as Father Edward allowed his fantasy to vary just a little. He and MacLeod would fight, but always he was
the victor. Sometimes he liked to envision MacLeod on his knees, begging for mercy. Other times, it was the swordplay that
held his fancy—the blade in his hand flashing like lightning straight from Shiva’s hand, overwhelming this Westerner who knew
nothing of the Destroyer’s might. In both scenes, the end was the same. His sword would pierce MacLeod’s heart, and he would
fall lifeless at Edward’s feet.

Thoughts of defeat, of his own mortality, never entered the impostor’s mind.

There was a knock on the door. Father Jacques opened it and looked in. “I am glad to see you smiling again, Edward,” he said.
“It has been a good retreat for you then?”

The Gurkha spy was ready to resume the role he was put here to play. His frustration had been eased by his fantasies; his
unrest calmed by the knowledge all this would soon be over. He kept the smile in his face, making sure it was cheerful and
did not turn into a grimace as he looked at the priest.

“Very good,” he replied.

Father Jacques came into the room. He sat beside Father Edward on the bed, hands resting on his knees. Father Edward noticed
that, as usual, he had dirt ground into the fibers of his cassock and caked under his fingernails. The spy suppressed a shudder
of distaste.

He’s as bad as an untouchable, a lowest caste, with his constant groveling in the dirt
, he thought, but he was careful to keep his face neutral. He waited for what the priest had come here to say.

Father Jacques cleared his throat. “Edward,” he began
slowly, as if each word was a difficult task. “I know I have not counseled you much during this retreat, but I felt you wanted,
even needed, to wrestle with this temptation alone for a time.”

Father Edward said nothing. After a moment Father Jacques sighed and continued. “Well—then I’ll say only this and speak no
more about it. It is easy when we are so far away from our home, our Community, to lose our perspective. But we must always
remember that we are the face of the Church to the people we serve, and our conduct must therefore be even more circumspect
than would be asked of us at home. To work in the mission field is a most difficult life. There is no shame to find one is
not called to it. If your retreat has revealed that you would better serve the Church in another manner, then I will make
the arrangements.”

“No,” the Gurkha spy answered. “I need to remain here. I am sure my… calling… is among these people.”

Father Jacques slowly nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll start fresh—a clean slate. But you understand this must
never
happen again. Should you fall to temptation a second time, you will be sent immediately home to the Vicar General for discipline.”

Edward did not reply. He kept his head properly bowed in an attitude of quiet submission, though his thoughts laughed at the
priest’s words.

Father Jacques stood. “Come,” he said. “We’ll have a Mass to celebrate your return to service, then we’ll walk through the
city to show the people that all is again well.”

Keeping his face in a false, and he hoped, properly humble expression, Edward stood to join the priest.

“I have fed and watered your birds each day,” Father Jacques said before he led the way from the room. “You will find them
well cared for. I also found some writing things behind the cages. Are they yours? It is a strange place to keep them.”

Edward felt his stomach tighten. He searched quickly for some acceptable explanation.

“Yes, they’re mine,” he said. “I sometimes write things—poems, little prayers. When I let the birds fly free, I send my writings
with then. An offering, you might call it.”

Father Jacques frowned. “I must remind myself often, Edward, that you come from a pagan country. But you have, with
your conversion and your vows, abandoned those beliefs and practices.
We
come to God
only
through Our Lord—not through fire or wind or the wings of a bird. If you must see physical form for your prayers, then Our
Lord’s presence in the Eucharist is enough. Do you understand?”

The Gurkha spy again bowed his head as if accepting the reprimand. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. In fact, I think that soon
we shall come to understand each other very well.”

“I hope so, Edward,” Father Jacques replied, his voice taking on its usual, more kindly note. And as the older priest turned
once again to lead the way to the little mission house chapel, Edward’s smile turned genuine.

Oh, we shall indeed
, the younger man thought.
When my master Nasiradeen arrives, and when I hold a sword to your throat, you shall understand everything
.

The next morning, Duncan paced restlessly in the Potala garden, waiting for his daily meeting with the Dalai Lama. He had
been here for nearly an hour already, and it was not like the religious leader to be so late. Duncan was becoming more concerned
with each moment that passed.

The Dalai Lama was a young man, it was true, and he appeared healthy enough, but there was also something otherworldly, almost
ethereal, about him. Moreover, he was mortal, and in the last two hundred years Duncan had seen many hale, energetic men fall—victims
of sudden illness, badly stored food, or the unexplained and inescapable weaknesses of the mortal body. Despite the Dalai
Lama’s protestations about the soul’s indestructibility and continuing incarnations, Duncan did not want to see anything happen
to
this
cycle of the young man’s existence.

He was about to go back into the Potala and find Gaikho or some other monk to ask about the Dalai Lama, when he saw the religious
leader hurrying along the pathway toward him. Although he wore a slight frown on his cherubic face, he otherwise looked as
well as ever.

He saw Duncan and lifted a hand in greeting. Duncan smiled at his own foolish worry, but he knew it stemmed from the affection
that had grown between himself and the young man over the last several weeks—and that he would not change.

“I am sorry, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said as he reached the clearing in the garden where Duncan waited. “I am late
this morning, I know. I meant to send you word, but my mind sometimes gets distracted, and I forget many things. There is
so much to do always, and now so much more, yes?”

“I do not wish these meetings to cause Your Holiness any hardship,” Duncan said. “I understand that you have many responsibilities.
You need not worry about me, I can find other things to do with my day if you need to be elsewhere.”