The Path (26 page)

It had been a frustrating and fruitless search. The house, including Father Jacques’s belongings, yielded nothing but a few
kitchen knives, appropriate for cutting vegetables but useless for anything else. Edward tucked one into his boot and went
to search through Father Jacques’s tools. Here, too, he was frustrated. Two hand trowels, a shovel, a small hand rake, and
a
pair of shears; nothing he could turn into a weapon to fit his hand and his training.

This morning he waited until Father Jacques was out of sight, then headed in the opposite direction. His goal was the marketplace.
Surely, he thought, some of the stalls would be open for business—and if they weren’t, well that would not stop him, not if
he saw what he wanted.

And if he could not find it there, then what? he wondered as he walked down the silent streets. Start going through the homes
in the city? It would be an easy task; there were no bolts or bars to the doors in Lhasa. Or, perhaps outside the gates, someone
among the visitors would have something he could barter and then sharpen into the weapon he wanted. But he had only today
and tomorrow to find out.

He entered the market to find most of the stalls closed. Here and there, a vendor selling incense or fresh hot food still
had his shutters open to any who might pass by, but otherwise all was still. That suited Edward. Ignoring the vendors who
looked up hopefully at the sound of his steps, he headed toward the far end of the market where the various metal crafters
had their shops.

He passed the stalls of jewelers and artisans without a glance. He was not after something ornamental. The blacksmith’s shop
was another matter. Edward had heard Father Jacques speak of this man as an artist in his own right, creating farm tools and
blades as well as decorative work. Here, Edward would begin his search.

What he wanted was not likely to be found in the front shop, so he did not waste his time searching amid the candlesticks
and cooking pots, the kitchen knives and household tools. Making certain no one was watching his movements, he went around
to the back of the building where the smith had his forge.

Like the other buildings in Lhasa, this, too, was unlocked, and Edward had no trouble slipping inside. He left the door ever
so slightly ajar to admit some additional light, then set to work, trying not to make enough noise to alert the few shopkeepers
down the road.

Minutes of mounting frustration passed as he found only hand plows and ropes of chain, ornate grillwork and large iron
kettles, brazier grates and small cooking stoves. There were some long metal stakes that, with enough time and the right tools,
Edward thought he could turn into pikes—but time was something he did not have, not that kind of time, and there was no place
to do that kind of work.

Then, in the back of the shop he found the knives. There were blades and cleavers of several sizes, many not yet fastened
to handles and all of them still not sharpened. That did not matter; there was a sharpening stone back at the mission house
that Father Jacques used on his shears. But a handle was necessary; that Edward could not fit himself.

He began to rummage through the blades, carefully, still trying not to leave too much evidence of his passage. If the theft
was not discovered for a few days, it would be too late.

Finally he found what he wanted and lifted it close to examine in the dim light. The blade was about twenty-eight inches long
and thick. It was the type of blade used to cut through brush and small trees. But the handle felt good in his palm. He swung
it a few times, testing the feel. It was not the curved blade he was used to, and it did not have the balance of a true sword,
but it would do. Oh, it felt good to be armed again.

For the first time Edward was glad of the cassock he wore. He hid the blade beneath the long black robe and carefully exited
the shop. He would not take the chance of walking back through the marketplace, but instead began to cut between buildings,
taking the quickest way possible back to the mission house.

Soon, the blade would be honed, and he would be ready for the army to arrive. He would be Shiva’s warrior once again.

It was the final day of the ceremony, the day the sand Mandala would be destroyed. Yesterday Duncan and Xiao-nan had stood
in line far into the evening for their chance to view the Great Wheel of Time and symbol of the Path to Enlightenment, and
the sight of it was more amazing than Duncan anticipated. The colors were bright, vivid, the design so intricate he knew he
could study it for hours and still not take in every detail.

In his travels he had seen masterpieces from all over the world, works of art crafted in paint or stone, bronze or wood, ivory,
gold, and jewels. He had seen pictures in caves and designs
cut into rocks that dated back to the time when humankind had no other language, messages so old their meaning had been lost.
He had also seen artwork so new the paint was still wet and the chisel marks had not yet been polished away.

But the sand Mandala was somehow both; like the whole ceremony, it was a bridge between the past and future. Its symbols were
stepped in antiquity but it was a living, breathing past that drew the mind not backward to what had been, but forward into
what might someday come to pass—for the individual viewer and, Duncan found himself hoping, for the peace of the world.

As he continued his slow progress around the Mandala that measured seven feet to a side, he could not help but wonder if it
was a vain hope.

As she had with everything he had witnessed over the last twelve days, Xiao-nan acted as guide to what he was viewing. He
learned that the bands of colored sand surrounding the great inner structure, which was the Mandala itself, all had their
meanings:

The outermost circle was done in stripes of different colors. This was the circle of fire that protected all within the Mandala
and represented bliss consciousness and pristine awareness. The green circle within that was the symbol of space. It contained
a chain of
varjas
which were the indestructible mind. Next came the gray sand of wind and the pink-red of fire, the white of water, and the
yellow of earth. Within the band of yellow, a greet pattern swirled, representing stability.

The circles were the six elements, and inside them was an ornate square surrounded by four crescents. These were the gardens
which contained offerings to the deities and the gates into the heart of the Mandala. The square itself was the palace of
Enlightenment, each floor a step closer to that perfected state.

The outer square was the Mandala of the Enlightened Body. Inside that were the Mandala of Enlightened Speech, of the Enlightened
Mind and the Enlightened Wisdom. Finally, the innermost square was the Mandala of Enlightened Great Bliss.

Within the different levels of gardens and squares, were figures of animals and dancing deities, humans in different poses,
flowers, trees and the heavenly wheels. So much to see; Duncan
could only open his mind and let it imprint itself on his memory, to be called up later and pondered.

But now it was all being swept away. The colored sand was being pulled together into a pile, into a vase to be poured into
the river. Duncan felt a vague sense of loss to know that the beauty of these last days would not be repeated for another
forty years. The Dalai Lama had been right when he had said they would pass swiftly. But then, Duncan admitted to himself,
the young man was usually right in the things he said.

Usually.

Duncan and Xiao-nan walked with the rest of the people, following the Dalai Lama to the river to watch the sand cascade into
the water and be carried on to bless the land. The ritual completed, the mood turned to one of celebration.

Returning to the city as dusk fell, large bonfires had been lit in the square where the initiation had taken place. While
the Dalai Lama and monks returned to the Potala, the people of the city gathered in the square for a night of social gaiety
and the usually quiet city of Lhasa seemed to erupt in laughter.

People brought food from their homes and from the camp outside the city walls. Musical instruments—drums and cymbals, flutes,
bells, and horns—appeared and added their noise to the night. Children set off firecrackers, ran and danced around the fire
while the adults talked and sang and told stories from the past.

Duncan left Xiao-nan chatting with a group of friends while he went to stretch his legs. The last twelve days had been a wonderful
experience, but now that it was over he found himself weary of sitting.

He walked through the crowd, listening to the sounds of Lhasa at play. Now and then, someone would beckon to him, inviting
him to join their conversation. But he would only smile and wave and move on. Then he spotted Brother Michael, the eldest
of the Capuchin monks, standing along the edges of the crowd, and went to join him.

“Good evening, Brother Michael,” he said when he drew close. The monk turned and looked at him, squinting in the growing darkness.
Then a bright smile spread across his face.

“Ah, good evening, Mr. MacLeod. It is indeed a fine night
for a party. I saw you sitting among the people at the ceremony these past days. Tell me, what did you think of it?”

“Like everything else in this land, I found it to be unique—beautiful, moving, and yet often difficult to comprehend.”

Brother Michael laughed at his words. “And there, Mr. MacLeod,” he said, “you have truly described Tibet.”

Duncan also smiled. “I have to admit I’m surprised to hear you attended the ceremony,” he told the monk.

Brother Michael shook his head. “Attended is too strong a word,” he replied. “Watched, perhaps. It was too great an opportunity
to miss. Even Father Jacques was there, though his brother priest was nowhere to be seen.”

Brother Michael’s words reminded Duncan that he had not seen the younger Jesuit since that day outside the Choi house with
Mingxia, and, content in the pattern of his days, MacLeod had let the absence calm his previous suspicions. Perhaps they had
been based on nothing more than personal distaste after all, he thought briefly.

But another part of him still whispered a warning, and MacLeod silently promised himself to be more wary. It would be so easy,
here in this land of pace, to drop his guard—but if he did, who might pay the price of his negligence?

Duncan knew he would continue to heed that small inner voice he had come to trust over the centuries. He would renew his vigilance.

Brother Michael’s gesture recalled MacLeod’s attention. A little distance away he saw Father Jacques sitting surrounded by
a group of children. What story the priest was telling MacLeod could not hear, but the children squealed with delight as he
made faces and changed his voice with the characters.

“He’s a strange man, is Father Jacques,” the monk said softly, unaware of the misgivings his words had caused in MacLeod.
“One would hardly guess that someone with a soul of such genuine love and simplicity also has a brilliant mind. He was a professor
of botany back in France, you know. He taught for many years, but when he heard this mission was opening up, he begged to
come here. The children adore him. They call him Bo-Bo.”

Duncan smiled again. “Aye, I’ve heard them,” he said.

“Well, don’t let his gentle spirit fool you, Mr. MacLeod. Father
Jacques also plays a very mean game of chess. Speaking of which, you said you might come by for a game.”

“Aye, so I did. Next week?”

“I’ll look forward to it. Perhaps you can explain the ceremony to me. There was much I could not see from where I was and
less I understood.”

The conversation was ended by a loud crash of cymbals. All around them drums began to pound in a steady rhythm. MacLeod looked
toward the center of the square and saw dancers in costumes and headdresses performing around the fire. One had the head of
a deer, another of a dragon. The third was wearing a huge black hat with the face of a fierce deity. All were dressed in bright
multicolored robes that flowed around them as they moved.

“This dance I have seen before,” Brother Michael said over the noise. “It is the Tibetan version of a morality play. Soon
they will bright out an effigy representing evil that they will dance around and eventually destroy. When that is accomplished,
the dancers climb to the next step of rebirth by the animals becoming human and the fierce deity changing to a face of compassion.”

Duncan stayed by Brother Michael to watch the dance, and he clapped with the rest of the crowd at its completion. When it
was over, he headed back to Xiao-nan to spend the rest of this celebration in her company.

Tomorrow
, he told himself as he slid an arm around her waist,
tomorrow there will be time to be alone. Tomorrow I will tell her the truth of who I am
.

There was no time for Duncan and Xiao-nan to be alone the next day, or the day after that. Finally, on the third day after
the Kalachakra ceremony concluded, when the last of the visitors had truly left Lhasa, Xiao-nan packed a basket of food for
them, and they headed out into the hills.