The Path (25 page)

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 then? 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.

The rider returned quickly. His expression was almost a sneer as he told his leader what he had found.

“It’s a small village,” he said. “No more than a hundred people at most. Crops grow in the fields. No sentries—a few dogs.
I’m not even sure they have weapons.”

Nasiradeen nodded and gestured the man back to the line. If this had not been their first encounter, Nasiradeen might have
been tempted to take his warriors around the village in search of larger prey. But he would not deny his men the first of
their warriors’ pleasures.

He drew his sword and raised it. Behind him, the others did the same.

It was not a battle, it was a massacre, and it lasted even less time than Nasiradeen expected. He held his captains and his
cavalry back and let the foot soldiers swarm into the village. Men, women, children, even household pets had been cut down
at their morning meal, offering little or no resistance for their own survival.

I’ve seen sheep put up more of fight on their way to slaughter
, Nasiradeen thought as he rode his horse through the carnage. Dead bodies, human and animal, littered the ground. The smell
of blood was heavy in the air. Overturned cooking fires had caught two of the houses on fire, and Nasiradeen gave no order
to control the blaze.

Let them burn
, he thought.
Let the whole village burn. Let the smell of burning flesh be an offering to Shiva and let the smoke carry the message of
our presence to the other villages. Maybe next time we’ll find a worthy battle
.

Around him, he heard the screams of women his men had captured for their pleasure. This, too, he made no effort to stop. Most
of the women would die from their wounds or from the shock of grief and rape. But the ones who lived would give birth to sons
who would be warriors. They would grow up under a different regime—his regime—and they would be strong enough not to let this
happen to their mothers and sisters, wives and daughters.

Nasiradeen drew his horse to the outskirts of the village, inclined to wait this once until his men had wearied of their victory.
Then they would press onward toward the city of Lhasa, leaving a conquered country in their wake.

The days took on a surreal quality for Duncan MacLeod. It was as if he had entered into a time without time, a place where
pageantry and superstition, ancient symbols and future intent melded in elaborate union.

In his long life Duncan had been witness to countless rituals. He had attended weddings and ordinations, coronations and knightings,
births, deaths, and rites of passage. Yet this ceremony was different from anything he had seen.

For nine days, amid the tantric prayers led by the Dalai Lama, the initiates were made part of a spiritual lineage going back
centuries. The intricate dances of the first day, to claim and purify the site of the ceremony, had been only the beginning
of the rite.

After the first day the emphasis shifted to the preparation of the initiates, who were, in the essence of their beliefs, asking
for spiritual rebirth as children of the
varja
master, the Dalai Lama. Amid ever more elaborate prayers and blessings, the initiates made their
bodhisattva
bows, pledging themselves to eternal altruism. Offerings of flowers, incense, butter lamps, and food were exchanged between
initiate and master, symbolizing their union in Enlightenment.

Divinations were also made on behalf of each new practitioner of Kalachakra, so that they might individually know how best
to purify themselves along the Path. Even their sleeping each night was an ordered part of the ceremony. Blades of Kushi grass,
the grass upon which the Buddha was sitting when he attained Enlightenment, were handed out, to be put under the initiate’s
pillow and mattress—one to clear the mind of obscuring thoughts and the other to aid in the generation of beneficial dreams.

While the initiates were being thus prepared, the monks in the
thekpu
, the Mandala house, continued their work on the Great Kalachakra Mandala. Theirs was another ritual, as elaborate as the
one taking place outside. All 722 emanations of Kalachakra had to be visualized and their individual mantras recited, the
different sections of the Mandala purified with scented saffron water and each of the monks inside the
thekpu
likewise consecrated before the actual sand construction could begin.

All of this lasted for nine days. On the morning of the tenth day, the sand Mandala was completed, and the final steps of
the ceremony began. Duncan and Xiao-nan were seated on the
ground in their accustomed places amid the crowd. She had carefully explained each day’s action to him, wanting him to share
this experience as fully as possible.

And Duncan knew he had reaped the benefit here. He felt no closer to understanding the Buddhamind, as the Dalai Lama called
it, or to attaining Enlightenment. Those were both still concepts in words only. What he had found was peace. The restless
strivings that had filled him for so long had finally, somewhere in the last nine days, been set to ease. All of the ghosts
were quiet.

For Duncan MacLeod, that was Enlightenment enough.

Xiao-nan leaned close to him and whispered. “Do you see, my Duncan,” she said, “the blindfolds they are given now. These show
the spiritual blindness they must overcome.”

Duncan watched as strips of red cloth were handed out to the monks and nuns in the first rows. These were tied in symbolic
actions around their foreheads. Then pitchers of scented water began to make the circuit through them.

“The sips of water they now take,” Xiao-nan continued her explanation, “three sips to cleanse the gates of their bodies, speech,
and minds. Now they will make their pledges to turn from all wrong ways of conduct and repeat their vows of
bodhisattva
, then they will be taken to view the Great Mandala. We must pray for their benefit, my Duncan, as they will pray for ours
and for that of all beings.”

All around Duncan, the people were chanting again. The soft syllables of this mantra had a soothing, almost hypnotic effect.
Duncan joined his voice to the others. He had done so often over the last days so that now the sounds rolled easily off his
tongue.

OMAH HUNG HO HANG KHYA MA LA WA RA YA HUNG PHAT
.

The sounds, though chanted softly, seemed to hold the air in sudden stillness, a barrier against the evil of the world. The
mantra would continue for hours, until the initiates had all viewed the Mandala and retaken their seats before the Dalai Lama.

As Duncan chanted, he let his mind drift over the days past and the days yet to come. Tomorrow, the initiation rite would
be concluded and the Mandala house opened to the people so
that all could see the great sand map of Enlightenment. The day after that, the twelfth day, the colored sand would be swept
up and placed in a special receptacle, then carried to the river and poured into the moving water so that its blessing power
could move across the land. On that final night, the city would have a festival of celebration.

Then, finally, the visitors would leave Lhasa, and life would return to normal. Duncan was eager for that to happen. Although
he had spent each day and most of the evenings with Xiao-nan, there had been no time to be
alone
together. For Duncan, missing those times of shared solitude was like a subtle ache in his bones.

As eager as he was to be alone with Xiao-nan, to hold her again as they sat in the sun by the river or amid the sweet scents
of the garden, the thought also brought a little whisper of dread. Soon, before their wedding plans were allowed to go much
further, he had to tell her the full truth of who he was. He did not doubt the love, but a small part of him still feared
that the difference between them would be too much for her to accept.

His thoughts were interrupted by the feel of Xiao-nan’s hand sliding gently into his own. He turned to see her watching him
with eyes so full of love that all else in the world ceased to matter.

Duncan had seen many wondrous things in his two hundred years. He was living proof that the inexplicable existed. But it was
from Xiao-nan he was learning the true magic of life. It was the magic of needs met without speaking, of human hearts united.

It was the eternal magic of love.

Father Edward knew Nasiradeen must reach Lhasa soon, and the charade he was playing would finally be over. What he did not
know was whether the army would arrive before this Tibetan ceremony that occupied the city was over or after, when all was
quiet again. Either way, Father Edward would be prepared.

A part of him hoped Nasiradeen would arrive before all of the many visitors had departed. He had no doubt the army would cut
them down to a man; Nasiradeen was not known for his clemency to the vanquished. But the ceremony was almost concluded now.
Tomorrow was the twelfth and final day; after that, the people would go home. How many of them would Nasiradeen meet on the
roads? he wondered. They would have to be killed before they could bring back a warning.

So much fighting going on without him; Edward wanted his share in the victories.

For the last few days, Father Jacques had gone to watch the activities in the city square. He had tried to persuade Father
Edward to accompany him, saying that the more they understood about the people of Tibet, the better they could minister to
them, but Edward had refused. Oh, he used the phrases Father Jacques expected to hear about heathen practices and beliefs—but
the truth was far different. He needed time alone to find something he might use as a sword.