The Path (6 page)

“That is Jam-dpal Rgya-mtsho,” one of them answered. “His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”

The Dalai Lama, the Ocean of Wisdom
—Duncan had heard that title spoken with reverence among his nomad friends. The Dalai Lama was both temporal and spiritual
leader of this land, the Priest-King, an “Enlightened One” who embodied the Path of Peace.

Well, peace—peace of mind, peace in his soul—was what Duncan MacLeod needed right now. He remounted his horse and, gathering
up the reins of the pony who carried his possessions, slowly guided them to the back of the procession.

Duncan rode behind the procession for eight more miles. Everywhere the crowd stared at him as he passed, the great white stranger
towering over the litter of their Holy One. Some even drew back in fear. It did not take long before MacLeod was wishing for
some other means of travel, some form of anonymity. But despite the number of people he saw, not once did he feel the presence
of another Immortal.
Perhaps
, he told himself as he sat a little straighter in his saddle and tried in vain to ignore the staring eyes,
that is anonymity enough
.

Finally, another crest in the road, and Lhasa, the holy city, capital of Tibet, appeared like a city out of a fairy tale,
filling the valley before them. The lower city where the people lived, where they worked and loved and played, was enclosed
behind a high stone wall. Even from astride his horse, MacLeod could see little of it, but what he glimpsed gave the impression
of a pleasure garden, a place cultivated to please the senses and calm the mind.

Rising at the back of this beautiful city stood the great Potala, the home of the Dalai Lama. It was a religious house and
royal residence combined, and, like the other Tibetan monasteries MacLeod had seen, it had been built atop a tall stone outcropping.
There was to this building a special grace, however, an impression of airiness given by the many windows and archways, as
if the stone was trying to melt into the sky, and its whitewashed walls made it gleam like a palace of silver.

The altitude was lower here, a mere twelve thousand feet, and the vegetation, which had been so lacking where the nomads wandered,
was rich and lush. The hills leading down to the city were a carpet of green, dotted with the whites, pinks, purples, yellows,
and blues of wildflowers.

And there were trees—not just the stunted stands of Alpine
willow and
Glang-ma
, whose long branches the nomads used to weave their intricate basketry, or the twisted bush that provided the Yeti-wood for
their fires—but around Lhasa were forests of spruce and fir, pine and spreading yew, black and white birches, oaks and poplar.
MacLeod had not realized how hungry his eyes were for the sight of real trees until he saw them. It was as if something inside
of him relaxed and felt at home.

More people lined the road in a thick mass; the population of Lhasa had turned out to welcome their spiritual leader home.
MacLeod found he was glad of his horse as the people fell into line behind the procession, escorting the Dalai Lama into his
city and staying with him all through the winding roads up to the great stone steps of the Potala. Traveling through the city,
Duncan saw flowering fruit trees, blooming shrubs, finely painted houses and well-tended gardens, but with the crowd of people
all around him, the sights were fleeting. He looked forward to exploring the city later, after the excitement died down.

When they reached the Potala, the Dalai Lama disembarked from his litter. With great patience, he sat on the palace steps
and let all those who had not received his blessing approach him now. Not knowing what else to do, Duncan dismounted and stood
off to one side. He waited and watched, wondering about a man who, even at so young an age, could inspire an entire nation
to such devotion.

An hour passed before the last of the supplicants filed by. Through it all, the Dalai Lama’s smile never wavered. Freed from
this responsibility at last, he rose with no sign of fatigue and approached. Duncan bowed.

“Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, giving a strange, almost musical pronunciation to the unfamiliar
words, “we have a time that we may talk before my duties call me away again. Do not be concerned for your horses. They will
be cared for, and your belongings taken to your room. Come with me with an easy mind.”

“As you wish, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied, bowing again and hoping he had chosen the correct manner of address.

The Dalai Lama again cocked his head to one side and looked up into Duncan’s eyes. His face looked almost babyish in its contours,
yet his eyes held hints of ancient, even timeless,
wisdom. The contrast was startling until he smiled. It was the kindest smile Duncan had ever seen.

After a few seconds, the Dalai Lama gave a little nod and turned away. He began walking up the long staircase that led into
the palace. It was one of several such stairways, each having, MacLeod guessed, over a hundred steps. By the time they reached
the top, the high altitude had winded Duncan. The Dalai Lama stopped and waited for him to catch his breath, himself unaffected
by the climb.

Duncan was a bit embarrassed, but the Dalai Lama merely smiled at him again. “One must be born to our air, I think, to be
at ease here,” he said. “You have done very well. The first of the missionaries who came to visit me could not climb these
stairs without many rests.”

His words made Duncan feel a little better, but not good enough. In the last weeks he had become lax in his physical training,
excusing himself for being tired in the thin mountain air. Now he vowed silently that such excuses were at an end. Morning
and evening, starting tonight, he would again drill himself in the skills that had kept him alive for two centuries.

He followed the Dalai Lama through the great doors. It was as though they stepped into another world, a world that combined
the glories of a palace with the harmonious silence of a monastery. At either end of a long hall, giant gold-washed statues
of the Buddha glowed in the soft light of hundreds of tiny votive lamps. Along the wall, tiered stands of burning candles
alternated with long tapestries, illuminating their strange and glorious images.

In each of these, the Buddha seemed to be the central figure and Duncan guessed the tapestries represented important events
in his mortal life. Duncan would have liked to examine them, but the Dalai Lama set a brisk pace down the long hall, and Duncan
could do no more than admire the tapestries in passing.

The walked on through numerous twists and turns, through rooms of grace and splendor. MacLeod saw figurines of jade and alabaster,
enameled bowls and lamps of gold and silver, intricately carved screens of wood or softly painted silks and bright oriental
rugs. After a while he ceased to notice them individually and they became a blur of beauty upon beauty.

Finally they entered a room of more spartan luxuries. There were more rugs on the floor, hand-knotted in the flowing patterns
of reds, blues, and yellows that were famous all over the world. On the rugs, instead of chairs, were large pillows of maroon
silk. A few small tables were set between the pillows, with legs carved in delicate designs of trees, birds, and flowers,
and tops of inlaid wood. Although lamps hung from the ceiling on long chains, most of the light came from the three large
windows that filled one wall.

This room, too, had a gold-washed statue of the Buddha with rows of little votive lamps burning at his feet. The Dalai Lama
prostrated himself three times before the image, then crossed to one of the pillows and sat down. Duncan stood, uncertain
of what to do next; surely he was not expected to bow before the statue as his host had done?

From his cushion, the Dalai Lama laughed. It was a merry sound in the silent room, and Duncan turned instantly toward it.
With a sweep of his hand the young man indicated a pillow next to him.

“Come and sit at ease, Duncan MacLeod. Tea will be brought and food to refresh us while we talk.”

The glass in the windows kept out the cold and concentrated the heat of the sunlight. As Duncan took a seat on the pillow,
he finally felt warm enough to remove the heavy coat he had worn for his travels, realizing that he did feel at ease. What
was it about this young man that made one’s heart relax? he wondered as he looked at the religious leader whose gentle, beatific
smile had not faded.

One look into the Dalai Lama’s eyes and Duncan knew there was no simple answer. His eyes, though they, too, smiled and held
a look of kindness and peace, were penetrating. Here, as on the road outside the city, Duncan felt as if the young man’s gaze
held the power to reach in and read his soul.

“Now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama said, “you must tell me of your homeland. It is very far away, I
think.”

“It is, Your Holiness. Very far away. The land of my home is called Scotland.”

“Scotland,” the Dalai Lama repeated, trying out the word. “It is a big country?”

“No, Your Holiness, it is not, except in the hearts of its people. It is part of an island far to the west, on the edge of
a great ocean.”

“Islands I have seen in mountain lakes, where birds nest in the summertime. It is difficult to picture an island large enough
to be a country. An ocean, I have never seen. Teach me of the ocean, Duncan MacLeod.”

Before Duncan could speak, the tea and food arrived, carried by silent monks, who put the trays within reach of their leader,
then bowed and backed away. After they had left, Duncan did his best to describe the ocean to the Dalai Lama, speaking of
winds, currents, and waves, of seabirds and great mammals, of ships that rode upon the waters and the life that swam within
it.

When he had finished, the Dalai Lama smiled again. “You have seen great wonders, Duncan MacLeod, but I think they have not
made you happy.”

He stopped and cocked his head to one side, his smile fading as he stared into Duncan’s eyes in silence.

“You are a strange man, Duncan MacLeod,” he said at last. “Your face is a young man’s but your eyes have the look of the very
old who have seen too much suffering. Are you then, like they, ready to give up your life?”

The Dalai Lama’s words shocked Duncan. They cut through to the one question he had feared to ask himself.

It would be so easy—just stop fighting, not raise his sword at that critical instant, and it would all be over. No more of
the Game.

But he did fight, and he did raise his sword.

What then did he want?

A gong sounded off in the distance. An instant later, the doors opened. The Dalai Lama stood; Duncan hurried to do the same.

“I must leave you now, Duncan MacLeod. You will be shown to your rooms, but you need not remain there unless you wish. There
are gardens of beauty here at the Potala, or the people of my city would welcome you. Ask and you will be shown the way. We
will talk again soon. Go now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan McLeod, and be at peace.”

Duncan bowed. “Thank you, Your Holiness,” he said. “I look forward to speaking with you again.”

A young monk was waiting at the door. With another bow, Duncan turned and followed him. This time, as he walked down the long
corridors of the Dalai Lama’s palace, Duncan was oblivious to the loveliness around him. Each footstep seemed to echo the
religious leader’s question and open the door to others just as difficult to answer. By the time he reached his rooms, they
had all melded together until only one question remained.

What was the truth of Duncan MacLeod?

He thought he knew once. His life, his beliefs, had been black and white, like a fairy story in which good will always triumph.
But through the centuries he had seen too many good men die, too many just causes fail. Now the hopes and dreams, the ideals
that had once formed his soul seemed like shadow figures on a dimly lit wall, fading so soon into nothingness.

Fading so soon…

In the void that remained, he was left to wonder how a man lived without hope.