The Path (15 page)

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Duncan answered.

“So it is that we train our minds to follow the Eightfold Path. The lessons take only a short time to say, perhaps a few hours,
but the training, the mastery—ah, that can take many lifetimes.”

“Your Holiness,” Duncan said, “the other day Xiao-nan said something I did not understand. She said that you are—how did she
put it?—‘perfected in wisdom.’ Does this mean you no longer know the suffering of human life, or
dukkah
, to use your word?”

The young man sighed. “Again, Duncan MacLeod, the answer to your question is both yes and no. Let us consider the three types
of suffering. First there is the suffering called misery, which is the physical or mental pain such as illness or injury.
None of us while living can escape such burdens. But they are passing, insubstantial.”

The Dalai Lama stopped, and a look of tender sadness crossed his face. “There are some,” he said, “who choose to remain
in this state of suffering. They will not free their thoughts or remember the truth of impermanence. Instead they see only
this
moment,
this
pain, until even when the pain is gone the weight of it continues to rule their minds with fear of its return. For these,
Enlightenment is still many lifetimes away. But such is not my Path, nor do I think, Duncan MacLeod, that it is yours.”

As the Dalai Lama watched, a look of weary acceptance came into Duncan’s eyes, as if the passage of physical illness and pain
was a thing he knew beyond knowing. As was so often the case, it left the young man wondering about the secrets in MacLeod’s
life.

“The second branch of
dukkah,”
the Dalai Lama continued, “is the suffering of change. Those who were young grow old or die; that which was new wears out,
becomes worn, tattered, withers away. What began as happiness gives way to loneliness, disappointment, loss, grief. This,
too, is life, and in this do some also become trapped. But the knowledge of impermanence frees the mind from this as well.
Change comes and goes. It is insubstantial.”

Again, a look came into MacLeod’s eyes that made the Dalai Lama pause in what he was saying.
So, this, too, then, is a suffering you have known very well
, the young man thought as he saw the shadows of memories crowd Duncan’s face.
You have, I think, known all the faces of change until now impermanence has become your reality. But has it freed you, Duncan
MacLeod, or trapped you?

“The third suffering,” the Dalai Lama said before Duncan could go on too long in the silence of his memories, “is the suffering,
the dislocation from peace and compassion, that comes through afflicted emotions. Negative thoughts and actions create this
suffering—anger, greed, ignorance, aversion, pride, lust, envy; the list continues. These emotions afflict all who are still
traveling
samsara
, the cycles of birth, death and rebirth.”

“Xiao-nan said you are freed from this cycle, but
choose
to be reborn,” Duncan said.

The Dalai Lama nodded. “Eight times have I chosen not to enter the final liberation. I return to teach my people for their
own Enlightenment. For myself, I no longer suffer with anger or pride or greed. No longer does change cause me unhappiness
or the weakness of my body rob me of peace. But for my people,” he stopped and shook his head. “My people come to me, and
their pain is great. Then I must share their suffering, take their suffering and ease it. For my people, I suffer—and not
my people only, but any who comes to me in need.”

The young man looked up at the sky. “Remember, Duncan MacLeod, that as suffering can be identified, so can it be overcome.
But that is for another day. Let us talk now of pleasant things, like the warmth of the sun and the beauty of this garden.
They, too, are passing, but they are pleasures for now.”

Father Jacques Beauchamps was kneeling in the dirt, tending the little garden he had planted behind the house. He had left
off the cape and biretta so distinctive to his order, preferring the simplicity of a plain cassock for his work.

He often went about dressed as simply as possible, much to the disgust of Father Edward.
He
was always fully attired and immaculate—and he would never consider kneeling in the dirt.

But Father Jacques knew he was happiest here, planting seeds or pulling weeds, and watching as the neat little rows he had
turned went from bare soil to thick growths of vegetables and flowers. The study of botany had been his work, and his joy,
in France, and he was delighted to continue his labors here, where there were so many new varieties to catalog.

The only thing that made him as happy was playing with the children of the city. They called him Bo-Bo, derived he supposed
form the word “boo,” with which he would surprise them from behind a tree or bush when they were playing games together. Whatever
the origin of the name, he was pleased with it.

Behind him, he heard one of Father Edward’s birds enter the row of cages built next to the house. Father Jacques often thought
it was an odd hobby his brother priest had, keeping pigeons only to set them free and watch them return.
But then
, he thought as he stood and dusted the dirt from the front of his black cassock, noticing how much of it refused to come
out,
he doesn’t understand why I like to spend my time in the garden. We are each of us different, unique, as God made us
.

He left his hand spade in the dirt and hurried toward the cages to close the door and shut the newly arrived bird inside.
Edward will want to know of the bird’s return
, he thought,
and I could use a walk
. Not stopping to change into a clean cassock
or add the cape and biretta, he headed out through the side gate in the garden wall.

As he walked down the city streets, people called out greetings, and he waved to them as he passed, occasionally stopping
to ask if anyone had seen Father Edward. Before long a group of children, all about six or eight years old, had gathered around
him.

“Come and play, Bo-Bo,” they said, their happy voices chattering like the squirrels that filled the trees in his native France.

“No, not now,” he told them. “Later. I’m looking for someone now.”

“Who, Bo-Bo?” they asked, skipping and running round and around him. He often thought that children of this age were like
spinning tops, either madly active or utterly at rest.

“I am looking for Father Edward,” he told them. Then he patted the pockets of the trousers under his cassock and felt the
lumps of candy he habitually kept there.

“Run and find Father Edward for me,” he said, “and when you come tell me where he is, each of you will get a sweet.”

Delighted, the children ran off, leaving Father Jacques in a sudden pool of silence. He watched them until they were out of
sight. Then, with a smile, he resumed his walk, shaking his head at the wonderment of childhood, when every activity is a
game and an excuse for happiness.

He had only taken a few steps when he saw MacLeod turn onto the street a few yards ahead. Father Jacques had heard talk of
another European in Lhasa. He was, they said, a friend and student of the Dalai Lama himself. Father Jacques was glad this
sudden opportunity had presented itself; he was eager to meet this other man of the West.

He began to walk faster, hoping to catch up to MacLeod, but it soon became evident that he was no match for the youth and
vigor of the man ahead of him.

“Wait,” he called out in French, panting slightly in the thin Tibetan air. “You, sir, please wait.”

MacLeod turned at the sound of the French words behind him. Father Jacques saw the slightly startled expression on his face,
the way MacLeod’s eyes looked up and down the front of his cassock, and he grinned sheepishly. He knew he was a disheveled
sight.

Father Jacques harbored no vanity about the type of figure he cut, even at the best of times. He knew that his wispy hair,
once the color of straw, had faded to an indeterminate gray, and that he was thin as an old dog with narrow shoulders that
were permanently hunched from years of bending over a shovel or a book. He sometimes thought the Vicar General had sent him
to the mission field just so he would no longer have to look at him.

I should have joined another Order
, he thought, not for the first time as he hurried to catch up to MacLeod.
I think the Franciscans would have found me easier to accept
.

But his father had wanted him to be a Jesuit and Jesuit he was—if one of unusual sensibilities for the elite Order.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,”
he greeted MacLeod, enjoying the treat of speaking his native French again and hoping this obviously well-traveled European
understood. Other than Tibetan, and Latin of course, it was the only language Father Jacques knew. “I am pleased to finally
meet you. I am Father Jacques Beauchamps.”

“How do you do, Father. I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

Father Jacques was relieved to hear him speaking such good French, even if some of the words were spoken with a trace of a
Scottish brogue. MacLeod was still looking at the priest with an amused expression, and Father Jacques made another swipe
at the dirt encrusting his cassock where he had knelt on it.

“Yes, I know your name,” he said. “I think everyone in Lhasa does by now. I heard it from my brother priest, Father Edward,
whom I believe you’ve already met—and from Xiao-nan, of course.”

Father Jacques saw MacLeod’s back stiffen slightly at the mention of Father Edward, and he inwardly sighed. His fellow priest
was not an easy man to like even for himself, though out of duty and Christian charity he tried.

“You’re another Jesuit, then?” MacLeod was saying. “From your habit, I wasn’t sure.”

Father Jacques laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you were. Yes, I am a member of the Society of Jesus, though not, I’m afraid,
a very pristine representative.”

“Bo-Bo,” the children came running back in a crowd, dancing
like miniwhirlwinds around him. “Bo-Bo, we’ve found him. Come and see.”

“You’ve found him already?” Father Jacques at once turned his attention from MacLeod to the children, switching easily to
the language of Tibet. “Then you shall each have the sweet I promised you. Let’s see,” he quickly counted the children, “eight
of you. Yes, I’m sure I have that many.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out his horde of candy. The children again squealed with delight as he handed them
around. Father Jacques found he had two pieces left over and he offered one to MacLeod. When the Scotsman shook his head,
Father Jacques shrugged, popped one candy into his mouth, and returned the other to his pocket.

“Come, Bo-Bo,” the children resumed their calls, now speaking around the hard sweets in their mouths. They pulled on his hands
and cassock with sticky fingers. “Come with us to Father Edward. Then come play with us.”

Father Jacques smiled at them. “You lead the way, and I’ll follow. Go on now, I’m right behind.”

That satisfied the children, and they ran off again. The priest turned back to his adult companion and the pleasantries of
his native tongue.

“Will you walk with me a little, Monsieur MacLeod?” he asked, once more in French. “I don’t often get to speak my own language,
and you would be doing me a kindness.”

“Certainly, Father, for as long as we go in the same direction,” MacLeod answered. “I have to say,” he continued as they resumed
their walk, “you seem little like the other Jesuits I have known.”

Father Jacques laughed. “No doubt they would be pleased to hear that. Have you known many of my Order?”

“A few,” MacLeod answered, his expression turning shut and hard.

And you did not like them
, Father Jacques thought.
Ah, well, there have been many I did not like, either
.

“Have you traveled much, Monsieur MacLeod?” he asked, thinking it best to change the subject.

“Aye, Father,” Duncan answered, but his expression remained shut, as if this too was a subject he preferred not to discuss.

Are you running from something, Monsieur MacLeod?
Father Jacques wondered,
or from yourself, perhaps?

“You said Xiao-nan had spoken of me,” MacLeod said as if offering a safe subject. “Do you know her well?”

“Oh, yes,” the priest answered quickly. He understood the offering and was grateful for it. “She comes frequently to see me.
She is truly one of God’s sweetest children. They all are in this land. It is a haven of innocence, trust, and kindness.”

“Aye, Father, that it is—and I would not like to see anything, or anyone, try to change it.”

Father Jacques did not miss the edge in MacLeod’s voice. “Do you think that is why we are here, Monsieur MacLeod?” he asked
softly.

“Isn’t that what your kind do?” MacLeod answered. “Don’t you come to foreign lands to convert the people, to change them from
their own culture and beliefs into your own?”

“We come to tell them of God’s love for them, that is true, Monsieur MacLeod. But I would never force others into a belief
they cannot share or try to change them from who they are.”