The Path (18 page)

Her smile broadened. “Yes,” she said, eyes shining, lips lingering on the word.

“It would mean leaving your household behind. I’ll not be encumbered by cartloads of women’s trinkets.”

She gave a shrug that caused her breasts to move enticingly beneath the sheet. “The servants are loyal to my husband, not
to me,” she said, “and besides a few clothes, what can Tibet not provide once I am there? When you are victorious, you will
be ruler, and all her wealth will be for your taking. I have no fear you will be miserly with me.”

So far, she had said nothing to change his mind. She was, in fact, showing herself possessed of a spirit wasted in a woman,
Nasiradeen thought.

“What of your husband?” he asked. “Are you willing to leave him, to accept the scandal? Your family will disown you. You will
never be able to return. Think well, Anuja.”

“Pah,” she said with disgust. “This marriage was arranged with my father. It has never been
my
desire. I did not know what desire was until you taught me. You showed me how it could fill every hour.”

She turned on her side and looked him full in the face. Her eyes were calm and serious. She knew the full meaning of her next
words.

“Sandep will not let me go without a fight,” she said. “I am his possession, and he is very… greedy. He does not love me,
but that will not matter.”

“And if I kill him?” Nasiradeen asked.

“Then I won’t be leaving him,” Anuja replied evenly. “I will be a widow and free in my choices. I do
not
choose
suttee
. I will not throw myself on my husband’s funeral pyre.”

Yes
, Nasiradeen thought,
she will do. A woman who can understand a warrior’s heart is a rare thing. One who
thinks
with a warrior’s heart is rarer still. This one has the body of a goddess and the mind worthy of a man. Yes, she will do
.

Nasiradeen reached out and pulled her on top of him. Immediately she began to move her body in a way that she knew gave him
pleasure. Nasiradeen closed his eyes and smiled at the sensations mounting in his body.

Yes
, he thought again,
this woman will do
.

The week passed swiftly for Duncan MacLeod, swiftly and pleasantly. More than pleasantly; he could not remember when he had
last been so happy.

Hours with the Dalai Lama filled his mornings. The doubts MacLeod had felt during his first days at the Potala, when he wondered
about the motives behind the Dalai Lama’s kindness, seemed like foolishness now. Duncan could only attribute them to his deep
weariness when he arrived in Tibet.

The weariness was passing; the memories were healing. Peace and patience, taught by the Dalai Lama and enhanced by Xiao-nan’s
living example, had slowly, gently, begun to replace the pain that had filled him.

He and the Dalai Lama sat in the Potala garden, as they did most days now that the weather was fine. Duncan was content to
sit on the grass in a patch of morning sunlight while the young man sat on a bench a couple of feet away, speaking in his
quiet, singsong voice.

“To follow the Eightfold Path: right thought, right action, right intention, right speech, right livelihood, right effort,
mindfulness, and meditation,” he was saying, running through the list with long-practiced ease, “one must be willing to give
up their opposite. The giving up and the embracing are two separate and conscious actions. It is not enough to wish for right
thoughts or to welcome them when they come, or even to seek them. There must be the willing and active abandonment of all
unwholesome thoughts—and of the actions they generate. Do you understand this, Duncan MacLeod?”

“I understand the words,” Duncan answered, “and their intent. But how can a man govern his every thought? Life has a way of
interfering with even the best intentions.”

The Dalai Lama smiled at him, eyes dancing merrily in his
unlined face. “That is so, Duncan MacLeod, and it is well said. Although Buddha himself set out the steps anyone many follow,
the Path to Enlightenment is not easy. We govern our thoughts by
training
, by
meditations
, and by
consciousness
. Yes, that is the key.”

“Then you’re saying that a man, a
conscious
man, does choose his thoughts.”

“The answer is both yes and no,” the young man said, and Duncan had to smile. That was so often the answer.

The Dalai Lama saw his expression. “Ah, you smile,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied quickly.

“No, no, no,” The Dalai Lama held up his hands to stop Duncan’s words. “It is good that you smile. Humor, pleasantness, delight—these
are good thoughts, right thinking. But, to your question—what, Duncan MacLeod, does consciousness mean?”

Duncan paused, unsure of his answer. “It means he is awake,” he said at last.

“Awake, yes,” the Dalai Lama nodded, “but what is awake? For a man it is more. The tree here”—he gestured—“it, in its own
way, is awake. Its sap flows, it seeks the sun. So, too, the grass and flowers. Also the birds and animals. All are awake
with the day, the season, the sun.

“A human being,” he continued, “is more. He or she is awake but also
aware
. Of what? Of surroundings, of day or night? Yes, but so are the animals. It is
choices
of which we are aware, choices of thoughts of actions, of
karma
. We can change our situation because we can change ourselves.”

“But situations can arrive over which there is no control, no choice,” Duncan said. “Sometimes all you can do is respond.”

“No, Duncan MacLeod,” the Dalai Lama replied. “Always there is a choice. Always.”

Duncan became very silent, very still, looking down at the grass beneath him. What could this holy man know of the situations
he faced all too often? A choice, yes—live or die, and he chose
life
. Was it wrong to want to go on living?

Duncan stood and began to pace restlessly, searching for an answer to the question he had posed himself. He knew the Dalai
Lama was waiting for him to speak, but this was something
he could not ask aloud without revealing all of who he was and what a life such as his entailed.

Finally he turned and looked at the young man. As was so often the case, MacLeod was struck by the dichotomy of the Dalai
Lama’s gaze. The eyes that met his were pools of endless compassion, of understanding that was at odds with his mortal years.
Seeing them, Duncan was tempted to reveal his long-kept secret. But habit, and perhaps a touch of fear, stayed his tongue;
he did not want to lose this young man’s friendship.

Still silent, he sat back down and waited for the Dalai Lama’s next words.

The young man sighed, knowing a moment, a choice, had passed.

“So what then is right thinking, Duncan MacLeod?” he said, resuming their discussion. “It is
Compassion
. When Compassion fills us, there is no room for negative thinking, negative actions. If someone is angry at me, what are
my choices? To return anger for anger, yes—or to return compassion for anger. I can choose to think he is my enemy or not
my enemy. He is a man, like me—with choices, like me. Each time I choose compassion, I am training my mind so that next time
the choice becomes easier.”

“Are there then no just battles, no causes worthy enough to fight for?” Duncan asked him.

“No man may answer that for another,” the Dalai Lama said. “For me, there is never a reason for violence, and that is what
I teach my people. Another man? He must ask himself his own questions, he must look at his own thinking, his actions, his
intentions. Is compassion served by what is being done? he must ask. Choices, always choices.”

“What about justice?” Duncan said.

“There is always justice,” the Dalai Lama replied evenly. “There is
karma
. Positive out creates positive returning; negative out creates negative back in. The Great Wheel spins, and it is perfect
justice.”

Duncan shook his head slightly. It sounded so reasonable, and yet in the world outside this graced kingdom, he doubted it
was possible to live only by the laws of compassion and karma. At least for him. Holy men, perhaps, like the Dalai Lama, like
saints and martyrs—but he was none of these. For all his Immortality, he was just a man.

And there was the Game.

Duncan sighed. The Dalai Lama smiled at him.

“It is a journey, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, “not traveled in a day or a year or even a single lifetime. You have become aware
that the journey exists, and that alone is progress. Yes?”

Duncan nodded, trying to find encouragement in the young man’s words. “If you say so, Your Holiness,” he answered.

Xiao-nan was watching for him. She ran out to meet him while he was still several doors away. The joy of her greeting cleared
the last of thought-induced fog from Duncan’s mind. Her arms slid around his waist and nothing else mattered. When he looked
into her eyes, the only journey that existed was the one to bring her joy.

Duncan MacLeod knew, for well and certain, that he was in love.

They walked arm in arm down the city streets. People smiled at them as they passed, perhaps sensing that here love was still
fresh and new. Or perhaps, in a place like Lhasa, where everyone knew and cared for each other, they were as pleased as MacLeod
to see Xiao-nan happy.

Duncan did not ask where they were going as they left the city and began to walk down the long road. Over the last weeks Xiao-nan
had shown him many places he would never have found on his own; beautiful places—not just the blue orchids, but hidden stands
of silver birch and wild cherry, sudden meadows carpeted with wildflowers, eagle aeries and marmot dens; all places of life
and wonder.

Today they returned to the river, to a place where the rocks were flat and warm in the sunshine and the gentle sound of the
water was soothing to both mind and spirit. Xiao-nan had told him once that this was a favorite thinking spot of hers, and
Duncan understood the attraction.

They sat on the rocks, content to hold each other in silence while they watched the birds dip and dive through the air, feeding
on a fresh hatch of aquatic insects. Being in Xiao-nan’s company was like sitting in a pool of calm. It radiated from her,
blessing everything around her with peace. Duncan realized
how much he had come to need that peace as part of his life—to need Xiao-nan.

He turned to kiss her and she lifted her face to his. As their lips touched and hers parted gently beneath his, Duncan felt
again the need to protect her, to keep her warm and safe and happy; it was a feeling that few other women had awakened to
such depths in him. He wanted to hold her forever, in his heart and in his arms.

The kiss went on for a long, timeless moment. When it ended, Duncan pulled away slightly to look into her face. He reached
up with one hand and ran a finger gently down her cheek and across her lips. He desired her, yes, but most of all he loved
her and wanted to go on loving her for however long her life allowed.

“Xiao-nan,” he said softly, “I do not know the customs of your country, so forgive me if I am speaking in the wrong way or
breaking any traditions—but I want us to be together. Husband and wife. I love you. Will you marry me?”

The look on Xiao-nan’s face as she smiled at him was so filled with love and tenderness that Duncan’s breath caught in his
throat.

“Yes, Duncan,” she said. “I will be your wife. I, too, want us to be together.” She moved away and sat a little straighter.
“There are customs to be observed,” she continued. “The blessing of my parents must be given. You must bring a gift for both
my father and my mother, to give them respect and to show them that this marriage will not create want or loss in the family.”

“What sort of gifts, Xiao-nan?” Duncan asked. “You must guide me in this.”

“For my mother it is easy. Spices for her kitchen, perhaps. A pound of good tea and a new set of drinking bowls. There are
many choices. My father, however, is not so easy.”

Xiao-nan stopped and thought for a moment. Duncan was content to watch her, amused as always by the little frown she wore
when she concentrated. He ran a hand down her long, thick hair; it felt like strands of silk beneath his fingertips, and he
found himself wanting to bury his face in it, to inhale the scent of it, the scent of
her
.

“My father is a good man,” Xiao-nan said, her low, breathless
voice breaking into MacLeod’s thoughts—and it was not of her
father
he had been thinking. He quickly pulled his mind back to the subject at hand.

“He is not a man who seeks after many passing pleasures,” she was saying, “but there is one thing I know will please him.
My father enjoys
natag
, and his grinding bowl is now very old. A new one would be a good gift.”

“Then a new one it is,” Duncan replied, feeling pleased with anything and everything she wanted. “We’ll go to the merchants
tomorrow and see what we can find. Perhaps there will be something for Mingxia, too.”