The Path (24 page)

It was a wondrous sight, this example of national kindness, and one the warrior MacLeod never thought to see. Individuals,
yes; in two centuries Duncan had seen individual acts that were selfless to the point of martyrdom. But this was something
else. This was an entire nation living an ethic too many others merely mouthed or followed only when it suited their political
convenience.

The Dalai Lama had little time to meet with Duncan now. When he was not in meditative preparation for the ceremony he would
lead, he was hearing petitions, counseling and advising the people who had come to Lhasa from afar. He still invited Duncan
to join him for their morning meal, but these were short and taken in the audience chamber, as of old.

Duncan missed the young man’s company, but he did not mind a break from the constant influx of information and philosophy.
Perhaps, he thought, the next two weeks would give him a chance to sort through all he had been told and return to his lessons
with new understanding.

The other benefit for Duncan was the extra time to spend with Xiao-nan. She, however, was also busy with additional duties,
and although they spent the hours together, they had little time to be alone. They had no time at all for the one talk Duncan
knew they must have—the truth about his Immortality.

The air of expectation grew throughout the city as the days passed. A large pavilion was erected at the base of the Potala
stairs; half of it was open to the air, containing a raised platform on which the Dalai Lama would sit. The other half was
enclosed, but with steps leading both up and away.

This was the
thekpu
, the Mandala house, and in here the monks would create the great Kalachakra Mandala out of fine grains of colored sand. It
would take them nine days of the twelve-day ceremony to complete their task. In the evenings of the last two days of the ceremony,
the people would line up to view the Mandala, standing in line long hours for the privilege of walking around the
thekpu
and circling the Mandala that contained the path and palace of Enlightenment. For many, it was a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage.

Like a follower of Islam visiting Mecca or a Christian in the Holy Land
, Duncan thought as he listened to Xiao-nan’s explanation. He had a new appreciation for what it meant to his nomad friends
when they asked him to attend on their behalf. He had agreed indifferently, not caring then where he went or what he did.
Now he was glad—not only because it had brought him to Lhasa and to Xiao-nan, but because of the joy he now understood this
action was providing for those who had shown him such kindness.

The morning of the third day, the day the ceremony was to begin, Duncan rose long before dawn. He spent his usual hour doing
kata
, but he did them slowly this morning, meditatively, using the movements to draw and focus his mind inward. After, he sat
for a long time upon his knees, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling his breath, reattuning himself before attending
the religious ritual ahead.

He looked back over the last weeks and saw the changes in his life, in himself. The weight of memory that had driven him to
the point of despair was no longer a burden. It was a tapestry, rich and multihued, and he saw for the first time the possibility
to change the manner of its weaving.

He believed; he hoped; he prayed.

Then, from the depths of his mind came another whisper, overriding the beatific vision he was holding.
What of the Game?
it said.
The Game still exists—no changes, no choices
.

“There are always choices,” the Dalai Lama’s voice seemed to speak out of the air, but now as then Duncan wondered if it was
true. Could there be a choice in the way one played the
Game? The rules did not vary; in the end there could be only one.

But the Game is not here, not now
, Duncan’s heart answered.
Not in Tibet. I
am
here—and for now, at least, I don’t have to play
.

Dawn was approaching. Duncan could see the first shimmer of light through the long windows of his room. He rose from his knees,
cleaned and dressed himself quickly. He had promised Xiao-nan to be by her side throughout the different stages of the long
ceremony ahead.

The Potala was strangely quiet as he walked down the corridors. There was no sign of the monks who lived here or the many
visitors. There was no sound of walking feet or whisper of human voices. Once, Duncan thought he heard the faint tinkling
of a handbell, but the sound came and went so swiftly he was left wondering if he had heard it at all.

The city, by comparison, was a hive of activity. Already people were filing through the streets toward the base of the Potala,
where they would spend the next twelve days at the feet of their Dalai Lama, Ocean of Wisdom, Highest Enlightened One, Priest-King.

Going against the flow, Duncan hurried toward Xiao-nan’s home. She was waiting for him at her door with an anxious expression
on her face and two long white scarves in her hand.

She handed one to him. “These are for blessings,” she said. “They are symbols of respect.”

“Aye, I’ve seen them before,” he replied. “On the road when I first came to Lhasa.”

“Then you know that you must bow when you present them and His Holiness will return them with a blessing. They may also be
left at the base of the Mandala as an invocation for others. But we must hurry if we are to be there when the Dalai Lama arrives.

Taking Xiao-nan by the hand, Duncan led the way back toward the Potala. In spite of the vast number of people, Duncan noticed
there was no jostling, no pushing against one another for a better place, a clearer view. It was a peaceful procession, representative
of an entire nation whose collective mind was fixed on one purpose.

By the time they reached the open square at the base of the
Potala steps, many of the people had already taken their places. Monks from the Potala, some of whom Duncan recognized, sat
on their knees facing each other across the square, at ninety-degree angles from the raised platform. Their presence created
the side boundaries to the open area where the ceremony would take place.

Most of the visiting participants sat facing the platform, forming the fourth side of the square. Duncan noticed that the
younger monks and nuns sat to the fore. These, Xiao-nan had explained, had come to be initiated by the Dalai Lama himself
into the practice of the Kalachakra tantras for universal peace and compassion.

The older members of the
samgha
, the Buddhist religious life of monks and nuns, sat behind the initiates; the people of Lhasa and the mass of visitors to
the city filled the rear in row upon row of silent witnesses. Their part in the initiation was to watch, to join their voices
in the prayers and mantras, and above all, to add their will of compassion.

Duncan and Xiao-nan took their place among the crowd. In the ensuing silence, MacLeod had a chance to look around him. The
platform and Mandala house had been completed. The
thekpu
was now painted yellow, with lotus flowers decorating the eaves and bright, multicolored banners hanging from the corners
and framing the glass that would protect the sand of the Mandala from the wind.

The platform, too, had been decorated. Long silken tapestries were draped down the front, on which more lotus flowers flowed
in colors of red, yellow, white, and blue. To the right of where the Dalai Lama would sit, ritual implements of polished brass
rested, shining dully in the morning light. MacLeod recognized the vases that he knew held purified water and the ornate lamps
that burned a combination of oil and butter. The rest he could not see from this distance, but he knew that Xiao-nan would
explain each item as it was used.

Duncan turned his attention from the platform to the people. They were all dressed in their finest. The women wore soft colored
shirts and short, black jackets. Their wraparound skirts were made from bands of bright cloth. Many of the older women wore
headdresses that flowed down their back, studded with beads of turquoise. The men also wore bright shirts, predominately
blues and greens, and their black pants were tied at the waist with multicolored sashes. Some sat on their knees, others sat
cross-legged, hands folded in different patterns. Many spun prayer wheels or counted off the mantras on circlets of prayer
beads while their lips moved silently. Young and old alike, all seemed to wear the same expression of looking inward in contentment.

Off in the distance Duncan heard the sound of handbells being rung. It was a pure sound, like a mountain stream rippling across
stone or a young child’s laughter. High up, at the top of the great stairs, the doors to the Potala opened. The monks came
out, nine of them, in their plain maroon-and-saffron robes. Five more followed, wearing ornate costumes of brilliant yellow
ankle-length jackets with bright red-and-orange scapulars, embroidered in intricate designs. They also wore high multisided
headdresses that from a distance looked almost like crowns. Behind them, walking alone, was the Dalai Lama.

He looks so small and very, very young
, Duncan thought, as the procession started down the long stairway. The monks to the fore carried the handbells, ringing them
in unison with each step. As they neared, the monks in the square took up the triple-toned chant of Tibetan religious meditation,
creating a rumbling undercurrent to the high tinkling of the bells. To Duncan, it seemed as if he could feel the sounds reverberating
through his body all the way down to his bones.

The procession reached the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, majestically, it walked into the square and up onto the platform.
After the Dalai Lama had seated himself, an expectant hush descended. Following the long minutes of chanting, the silence
felt alive, as if it, too, was an entity, a participant in the ritual yet to come.

The Dalai Lama picked up the
darja
and handbell that rested on the platform in front of him. With practiced ease, he began reciting the first of the Kalachakra
tantras, his voice floating out softly over the crowd. With a single motion, the rows of initiates stood and began prostrating
themselves. Over and over, they stretched themselves in the dust, yet the movements were natural and graceful, like the rise
and fall of waves upon the sea.

After a few moments, the prostrations ended in the same fluid motion as they had begun. Again, a deep silence followed. Without
marring that silence, a single initiate stood and stepped forward. Not even his robes seemed to move. Xiao-nan had already
told Duncan this monk represented all the initiates. On their behalf, he asked to become practitioners of the ancient teachings,
dedicating themselves to the way of universal compassion.

When the initiate reached the base of the platform, he bowed and held out the long white cloth symbolizing his petition. The
Dalai Lama leaned forward and lifted it from his hands. With this action, the chanting began again and the bells, but this
time with a different cadence. Drums Duncan had not noticed were picked up and struck in a steady, heart-rhythmic beat.

As the initiate returned to his knees in the front row, the ornately clad monks descended from the platform to the open square
and began a long, intricate dance. Instruments flashed in their hands. Xiao-nan leaned close to Duncan and whispered.

“The dancers now claim and purify the site,” she said softly. “They carry the
purba
daggers to cut the influence of any negative thoughts or karma that might defile the ceremony, and their prayers asked the
help and blessings of the Kalachakra deities. See, on their robes and crowns are the figures of 722 positive emanations.”

Duncan understood now, as he would not have several weeks ago, that the deities to which she referred were not separate gods.
They were different aspects of the Buddhanature. He was so intent upon watching the dancers, he almost did not see the Dalai
Lama rise and, with six of the remaining monks on the platform, enter the
thekpu
. They would now begin the elaborate sand drawing that held the symbols and steps of Enlightenment.

The Dalai Lama would snap the chalked threads, the strings of wisdom, to lay out the selections and make the first marks.
Then he would return to the initiation. For the next nine days the monks would apply the colored sand of the Mandala.

Duncan’s thoughts went back to his nomad friends. In his mind’s eye he could see each of their faces as plainly as if he sat
among them. He felt again the warmth of their care, heard their happy voices as they sent him on his way to Lhasa.

Well, my friends
, he thought fondly,
I have spun the prayer wheels for you many times, and I sit here holding you in my memory and my heart, as I promised Each
day I will pray for the blessings and benefits of your tribe
.

Yet, as Duncan MacLeod sat in the warmth of the Tibetan sun next to the woman he loved, he knew he was the one who had been
blessed.