The Path (16 page)

“Then, Father Jacques, you are indeed different than the others of your Order I have met.”

As their paths continued in the same direction, with MacLeod making no move to turn down a different street, Father Jacques
could guess where he was going; the Choi house was only a quarter mile up the road. How much farther he was going he did not
know, but he would be sorry to lose the Scotsman’s company.

“You must come by our mission house sometimes, Monsieur MacLeod,” he said, watching as up ahead the band of children rounded
a bend in the meandering street. “Do you like gardens?”

“Aye, Father, I do. I enjoy the look and the smell of them, though life has not granted me much time in them, and I’m not
much of a hand at their care.”

“Well, you must come by then. We’ll sit in my garden, share a glass of wine, and, perhaps, talk of France. The wine is quite
vin ordinaire
, but I should like to talk of my homeland with one who has been there.”

Before MacLeod could answer, they followed the children’s
footsteps around the bend in the road. Up ahead was the Choi household.

And in front of the house stood Father Edward—with Mingxia.

There was nothing religious in his pose. She stood leaning her back to the house and he with his hands on either side of her,
like a lover about to claim a kiss. Both Father Jacques and MacLeod stopped, shocked into stillness. As they watched, Father
Edward reached up and took a strand of Mingxia’s hair. He began twirling it between his fingers as he spoke to her, bending
his face close in an intimate whisper.

Whatever he said pleased Mingxia. Her eyes sparkled, and she shifted her stance slightly into a pose as old as Eve and provocative
as Lilith. Her back arched, so that her young breasts pushed upward and her body preened invitingly.

Father Jacques quickly glanced up at his companion. The words “face like thunder” popped into his head when he saw MacLeod’s
expression. The Scotsman suddenly strode forward, quickly covering the distance between himself and the couple. Father Jacques
hurried along behind.

MacLeod spoke no word to Father Edward, and Father Jacques found he admired MacLeod’s control. Another man might have struck
the young priest. Father Jacques could see that MacLeod was tempted, but instead he grabbed Mingxia by the hand and, without
stopping to knock, pulled her into the house. Then he slammed the door, leaving the two priests standing together outside.

Father Jacques waited while Father Edward turned toward him, wondering what explanation the other priest would offer. He found
himself taking a step backward from the look of anger and hatred on Father Edward’s face.

“One of your birds has arrived,” Father Jacques said coldly. “Perhaps that is a better place for your attention than this
house.”

“Oh, it is,” Father Edward replied. The words held such an odd tone that as he turned away and began walking home, Father
Jacques could not help but think they contained a hidden meaning.

What are those birds of his?
the French priest wondered.
Perhaps I should take a closer interest in them
.

Ahead on the street the children were chasing each other, playing the universal game of tag. “Come play with us, Bo-Bo,” they
called to him again, oblivious of the scene that had just passed.

He waved at them. “I’m coming,” he called back, glad to put thoughts of Father Edward from his mind.

At least for now.

“I tell you, Mingxia, that is not the way a priest should act,” Duncan MacLeod’s voice was loud. He was not shouting, not
quite, but he was angry. It was more than the presence of Father Jacques, a man whose honor MacLeod felt instinctively to
be true, that had kept Duncan’s temper in check and his fist out of Father Edward’s face. It was the years of childhood training.
It surprised MacLeod that after two hundred years, the conditioning should still be so strong.

One did not hit, or do any violence, upon the person of a holy man. Although Father Edward’s actions seemed to rob him of
that accolade, he still wore the cloth, the collar and habit of the office. It was this which had stayed Duncan’s hand.

The whole family had come running into the main room when he had pulled Mingxia into the house, and now they were gathered
around, flinching at his anger. Except Xiao-nan; she sat with her arm wrapped protectively around her little sister, staring
up at MacLeod with dark and serene eyes, watching as his hands clenched and unclenched almost rhythmically by his side.

“My sister is young, Duncan,” she said, her voice creating a pool of calm in a charged atmosphere.

“She was not
acting
young,” Duncan snapped. “I’ve seen tarts on the streets of London and Paris with the same looks on their faces as the one
she was giving that… that priest.” He spat the word.

Mingxia began to cry quietly. She turned her head into her sister’s shoulder, and Xiao-nan’s arm tightened around her. The
gesture touched MacLeod, reaching through his anger. He took a deep breath and then another, each time concentrating on exhaling
his anger with the air. Then he sat down next to the girl.

“Listen to me, Mingxia,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“Priests of Father Edward’s church take vows, sacred vows, never to be, well, as a man is with a woman. Think of Father Jacques.
He would not act as Father Edward did.”

Still sniffling, Mingxia turned to him. “Father Jacques is
old.”
she said a little defiantly.

“That does not matter, Mingxia,” Duncan continued. “Father Edward’s actions today were wrong. If he does not keep the vows
he has taken, then he is a false priest and a man without honor. Either way, you must not encourage him. Do you understand?”

Mingxia turned her head back into her sister’s shoulder, but she nodded.

“She understands, Duncan,” Xiao-nan said. “She will stay away from the priest.”

“I’m only trying to protect you, Mingxia,” MacLeod told the young girl. “I know more about such men than you do. Please trust
me.”

When Duncan sat down, Xiao-nan’s mother had slipped silently from the room, sensing the worst of his anger was spent. She
returned now carrying a tray with tea and drinking bowls. As she set it on the table in the center of the room, Yao-hui Choi
came and sat near his daughters. He looked at Duncan with the same calm expression Xiao-nan wore.

“The matter is over, Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “My daughter will obey your words, and mine.”

“Thank you, Yao-hui,” Duncan replied. “And I ask your pardon for disrupting the peace of this household.”

“You sought only my daughter’s well-being, and you have blessed us by your act,” Yao-hui said, his hand waving a dismissive
gesture into the air.

Xiao-nan looked at her father in a silent request to speak, to continue the subject he had all but closed. He gave a barely
perceptible nod, and she then turned to MacLeod.

“As you have said, Duncan, we know little of these men and their ways, so I must ask you, what about the other men of the
Western faith in our city? Are we not to trust them or to show them compassion through our friendship? Must we punish all
because of one false action?”

MacLeod smiled tenderly at her, his own heart gentled by the beauty of hers. “No, Xiao-nan,” he said. “I met Father Jacques
this day, and although I bear no love for the Religious Order he follows, I believe he is a kind and honorable man. I have
not met the Brothers in the city, but if you think they are also honorable, then I’m sure they are. You have a mind and a
heart that sees clearly.”

Xiao-nan’s mother passed the tea around and, as they drank, the silence put a seal on the conversation. MacLeod’s own unnamed
suspicion of the priest had notched a bit higher, but for now all that needed to be said had been said; Mingxia and her family
had been warned. MacLeod felt a sense of relief settle over him. He knew, however, that he had best not see Father Edward,
at least for a few days, or he could not promise to hold his anger in check a second time.

With the resiliency of youth, Mingxia had already recovered from her tears. She finished her tea first and started to rise.

“Mingxia,” her mother said, “you will remain at home today.”

“But—”

“No, there has been enough trouble. You will remain at home.”

Mingxia turned and fled into the garden. As he stared after her, MacLeod was sorry to see the young girl so unhappy. It showed
on his face, and Xiao-nan gently laid her hand over his.

“Do not worry,” she said. “By tomorrow she will have forgotten all about her feelings today. Some new activity will capture
her attention and she will be fine. My sister is truly proof that all things are impermanent and insubstantial.”

“Not all things, Xiao-nan,” MacLeod said softly as he intertwined his fingers into hers. With his other hand, he put his small
drinking bowl back on the tray. Then he stood, and Xiao-nan came to her feet beside him.

“I think I should go now,” he said to her parents, “and let this house return to its usual quiet.”

“I will come, too,” Xiao-nan said.

MacLeod looked at her, staring deeply into her eyes. The serenity in them seemed to flow from her to him. It warmed him, embraced
him until he did not know if a second or an hour passed while he looked at her—nor did he care.

“I have something I would show you,” she continued, smiling
a little smile that was for him alone and held just a hint of mischief.

He returned it, not knowing what her plans were, but caring only that they would be together. He reached up and drew a finger
softly down her cheek.

“All right,” he said. He turned toward her parents in time to see them exchange a knowing glance. Were his growing feelings
for Xiao-nan so obvious? he wondered. Well, perhaps they were.

They took their leave quickly and stepped out into the afternoon sun. Tibet seemed a timeless place, and somehow, without
his noticing, spring had given way to summer. The sun’s rays were almost hot on Duncan’s shoulders. They felt wonderful; he
felt wonderful as he walked down the street with Xiao-nan.

She said no word about where they were going, and he was content to follow her lead. But as they neared a house with a wooden
cross nailed above the door, his steps faltered.

“You said you had not met the Brothers who live in the city,” she said to him. “It is time you did. Kindness and compassion
can only be shown in person, Duncan MacLeod.”

Duncan recognized in her voice the same tone her mother had used to Mingxia. Like the young girl, he knew that an argument
was useless. He could only say what he had told her once before.

“Lead the way, Xiao-nan,” he said, “and I will surely follow.”

Her smile was all he needed to know she recognized the words and all of his heart that was in them. She went and knocked on
the door.

Duncan and Xiao-nan spent over an hour with the Capuchin Brothers, and Duncan had to admit he liked them. They were quiet,
gentle men who radiated the spirit of kindness and of devotion. He understood why Xiao-nan had brought him here.

Of the three of them—Brother Thomas, Brother Peter, and Brother Michael—MacLeod felt he had the most in common with the latter.
He was older than the other two, perhaps in his late fifties, Duncan thought, and he had seen much of life before
becoming a monastic. It showed in the tolerance he had toward human foibles and in his wry sense of humor.

All three Brothers saw them off at the door with an invitation to return soon. After the door had closed, MacLeod slipped
an arm around Xiao-nan’s waist and hugged her.

“Thank you,” he said, “for your patience with my anger—and for how gently you remind me of the good people in the world.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “You are welcome, Duncan,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head, smiling into her hair. Honesty was one of the things he loved about her. No demurrings or prevarications;
she knew what she had done and why, and she acknowledged it.

“Xiao-nan,” Duncan said on sudden impulse. “Have you ever been to the Potala—inside, I mean?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been to the steps of course, with the rest of my people to greet the Dalai Lama, and twice I have
delivered a gift at the great doors. But I have never entered.”

“Then come with me now,” Duncan said. “There is a beautiful garden with a lake where we can sit and watch the afternoon pass.
Will you come, Xiao-nan?”

She laughed, delighted by the eagerness in his voice. “Yes, Duncan MacLeod,” she said. “This time you will lead, and I will
follow.”

Duncan’s usual wont when he walked down the streets of Lhasa was to go slowly, savoring the happy sights and sounds of the
city. But now his stride was purposeful as he and Xiao-nan headed for the Potala. It was, at least for the present, his home—and
he wanted to share with her the beauty of the monastic palace. He wanted to share all things he found beautiful with her.

He was beginning to realize he wanted to share the rest of her life with her.