The Path (5 page)

“Our farewells are only temporary, Duncan MacLeod,” he said, stepping back and smiling his merry smile. “We will meet again,
if not in this life, then the next, when the Great Wheel spins.”

Taking the reins of the pack pony in one hand, Duncan mounted his horse and rode away. As the sound of the nomads’ voices
faded in the distance, so did Duncan’s smile. He thought of Zhi-yu’s parting words, and they brought him no comfort. Did reincarnation
exist, as the Tibetans believed, governed by the spinning Wheel of Time? Did lives that touched once keep finding each other
again and again? Duncan had no answers, but he knew that there were many people, mortal and Immortal alike, he had no desire
to see again in any life.

Perhaps for Immortals there was no returning. All spins of the Wheel gathered into one that could last through the millennia.

What about an afterlife?
he asked himself. He had believed in one once, and there were people—parents and friends, teachers, past loves—whom he would
like to think of as happy somewhere, eternally beyond the touch of pain or sorrow. He would like to believe he would see them
again.

The silence in his heart was the only answer he needed. It seemed that all such simple and comforting beliefs had died with
his mortality.

* * *

Duncan rode throughout the day in a solitude more profound than he had ever known. The eternal silence of the mountains. It
was different than being alone in the hills of his homeland. There the wildlife rustled and twittered and the trees, gorses,
and heather were in constant motion from the winds. It was different, too, from the solitude of the ocean, where whales and
dolphins danced among the waves and the waters below teemed with life, where seabirds would light upon the sails to rest from
their travels and the ship’s creaks and groans were overlaid by the voices of crew and passengers.

Here, on the mountain road of Tibet, it was as if those things belonged to another world, a world of grosser needs and appetites.
The only relief to his solitude was the sight of an occasional bird soaring high overhead, or even more rare, of a building
off in the distance. Constructed on tall stone outcroppings and rising upward like part of the mountains that surrounded them.
MacLeod was unsure whether they looked dreadful or wonderful in their isolation.

The silence in which he traveled soon became filled with memories, and his own thoughts turned deafening. By the time to make
evening camp, it felt as if his mind would surely burst from the cacophony of voices and the swirling kaleidoscope of faces
from the past two hundred years.

He found a sheltered spot that would protect himself and the horses from the worst of the night air. He needed to be busy;
he did not want to think or to remember. Not yet. He set up his small tent and made a fire, smiling with the thought of Zhi-yu
as he set a few pieces of Yeti-wood on the flames. Then he fed the horses and melted snow for their water.

His own dinner was no more elaborate—dried yak meat and strong, smoky tea. Duncan missed the fruits and vegetables of Europe.
The thought brought a strong wave of memories of home. It was late May, and he knew that in Scotland the days were lengthening
and turning warm and the nights were sweet with the fragrance of blooming heather.

“It still feels like bloody winter here,” he muttered to himself, putting some more fuel on the fire and pulling his coat
more tightly around his body. But in spite of the climate, MacLeod knew he did not want to be in Scotland.

With thoughts of home, the floodgates of memories opened and refused to be shut again. If he could not stop the memories,
he could at least control them, he thought grimly, fixing with determination on the happier times of his life. He saw again
the faces of his mother and father, of the clan in which he had been raised—of Debra Campbell, the girl he had loved and once
hoped to marry. It was all so long ago, and they were all dead now. He had seen so much death.

It was true he had been raised to be a warrior, in the Highland clan where fighting was as much a part of life as eating,
sleeping, or making love. He’d had a sword in his hand almost from the time he could walk, the wooden ones of childhood soon
enough replaced by blades of forged steel. Highland weapons were not weapons of grace or style, but of power, and Duncan MacLeod’s
strong arms had quickly learned to wield them well.

Like the other Highland clans, the MacLeods were a proud people, fierce in their independence. They fought each other in duels
of honor; they fought other clans out of blood-feuds or for the lands and possessions needed to survive; and sometimes, if
the cause was great enough, the clans put aside their differences and fought against the common foe—the English.

Though the Scots, as a people, fought most fiercely to keep their dreams alive, Duncan had no such illusions. In truth, he
had few illusions anymore. He tried to fight only when he must and to choose his battles carefully, but too few other Immortals
lived by the same code. When they came, he had to take their heads to survive. He was nearing his two hundredth birthday,
and it felt as if killing and death were all his life held anymore.

That was the Game, and he was tired of it. He was sick of being Immortal. He wanted peace.

Enough
, Duncan thought.
Enough—I’ll remember no more
. Other names, other faces, a hundred different times and places still clamored for attention.

Mortal man was not meant to have so many memories
, Duncan thought, then he shook his head in the darkness. He was not mortal; he was Immortal, and the burden of memories was
one of the costs he carried.

It’s all this bloody silence
, his thoughts continued.
It might serve for monks or hermits, but not for me
.

This thought, too, brought a wave of memories—of Brother
Paul and his monastery, Holy Ground where Immortals could rest. Duncan had stayed there for a time and had quickly realized
he would never be called to the religious life.

Even the monastery had not been as silent as the mountains of Tibet. Along with the inevitable noise humans made, there had
been music, beautiful, glorious music. Duncan knew that a singing voice was not among his strongest attributes but a song,
even from him, would banish the silence for a time and, he hoped, quiet the memories.

He began to sing, lifting his voice in old folk tunes he had learned as a child.

“As I gaed doon by Strichen toon,

I heard a fair maid mournin’

And she was making sair complaint

for her true love ne’er returnin’
.

Sae fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,

where oft-times I’ve been cheery;

O fare ye weel, ye Mormond Braes,

for it’s there I lost my dearie….
”

A few feet away, the horses blew and stomped nervously at the sudden noise. Duncan chuckled.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” he told them as he rose from his seat by the fire and went to reassure them. The songs had
done their trick, however, and Duncan felt once more in control of his thoughts. Still humming, more quietly now, he banked
the fire and crawled inside his tent, ready to welcome the mini-oblivion of sleep.

Two more days of riding down mountain trails and Duncan was heartily sick of the sound of his own voice. He talked to the
horses as he rode, telling them tales of his homeland and of the mighty victories of his forefathers. He talked to himself,
making lists of the places he had been and the places he still wanted to see. He sang through his entire repertoire, bawdy
songs to nursery rhymes, but in the end it was as if the mountains gobbled up the sound and spewed more silence back at him.

Silence and cold; cold was his other companion. His fur-lined coat and boots held off the worst of it during the day, as did
the
fire and his tent at night, but like the silence it was always present, always looking for a vulnerable moment to attack.

On the afternoon of the third day, the narrow path down which Duncan had been riding finally reached a main road. This was
the road Zhi-yu had said he would find, and with relief Duncan turned the horses onto its hard-packed surface. Neither muddy
nor dusty, it was as if centuries of feet had compacted the top of the soil into stone. The horses picked up their pace, eager
for the place of rest and food that might be ahead. Duncan wanted a warm fire and a hot drink to chase the chill from his
bones.

He rode for another hour. Finally, as he neared the crest of one of the road’s many rises, Duncan began to hear voices. Coming
over the rise, he saw in the distance that the road was lined with people as far as he could see. After so many hours of silent
solitude, the sight seemed unreal, and MacLeod blinked twice, trying to clear his mind of the mirage. Then he urged the horses
into a canter.

Another road merged with the road he was on, and it, too, was lined with people. Duncan saw that many among the crowd held
long white strips of cloth in their hands, while others, especially the children, carried bunches of the early wildflowers
he had seen growing in sparse clumps among the hills. They all chattered excitedly, speaking far too rapidly and in dialects
too diverse for Duncan’s limited knowledge of their language.

Suddenly, from down the other road, the noise built, and around him the excitement turned palpable. Two words were repeated
often enough for Duncan to finally understand.

“He’s coming,” the people whispered among themselves, shouted to each other. “He’s coming.”

Duncan turned his head and strained to see, same as the people around him. Down the long road came a line of Tibetan monks,
their robes of maroon and saffron creating a bright undulating stream of color. As they walked, they chanted and rang small
hand bells whose sound carried faintly through the still air.

Row upon row they came, walking in pairs. Duncan counted—twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty. Then, in the middle of the procession
was a covered litter, its yellow cloth glittering like gold in the sunlight. The people on the road surged toward it, but
there was an orderliness even to their enthusiasm.

Moments passed as the litter neared. Duncan sat on his horse,
watching the spectacle in fascination. One by one, the people stepped to the litter, bowing and presenting their offerings
of flowers and white scarves. From inside the litter two hands reached out. Constantly in motion, they seemed to flutter like
a bird’s wings as they touched the foreheads of the children in blessing, accepting their gifts or lifting the white cloths
from the outstretched hands of the adults, draping them over reverently bowed necks.

With the same orderly chaos, the people who had come forward backed away again, making room for the next. The crowd ebbed
and flowed like a great wave slowly rolling down the road toward MacLeod. He stayed seated astride his horse, too entranced
to ride on.

The rows of monks were passing now as the golden litter drew near. MacLeod could see that the bright yellow cloth had been
intricately embroidered with tiny figures of birds, flowers, trees, rivers, lakes and mountains, all outlined in threads of
gold and silver that flashed in the springtime sun.

A few words were spoken, and the monks carrying the litter slowed. Another word and they stopped in front of MacLeod, setting
the litter upon the ground. The people around him gasped as the monks quickly moved to help the person inside disembark.

MacLeod was not sure what he expected, but he was surprised as a young man, certainly no more than twenty-five and dressed
no differently than the monks around him, emerged from within the bright cloth. He waved any assistance away and sprang swiftly
to the roadway. Then, dark eyes twinkling in his smooth, unremarkable face, he looked up at the tall stranger on a horse and
smiled. With that smile, the young man’s face filled with radiance. Duncan suddenly knew that here was something more than
bishop or local prince, as he had assumed. Here was someone quite unique, someone truly holy. Duncan quickly dismounted and
bowed.

The young man walked toward him, blessing the people as he passed with his smile and his touch. When he reached MacLeod he
stopped and spoke, but too rapidly for Duncan to catch more than a word or two. He shrugged and shook his head. The young
man understood the gesture and began again, speaking slowly and carefully.

“Please tell me who you are,” he said.

“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Duncan answered.

“Your name is as strange to me as your face. But not too strange. Are you also a missionary, as the others of your kind who
live in my city?”

Duncan was startled to hear the Western word on the other man’s tongue. “Missionary?” he repeated.

“It is their word. Jesuit and Capuchin also. But no, I do not think you are as these men.” The young man stopped and cocked
his head to one side, looking deeply into MacLeod’s eyes. In a strange sensation, Duncan felt as if his soul were suddenly
laid bare and being read.

“You carry a great burden, I think,” the young man continued after a moment. “You must come to Lhasa, to the Potala and live
among my household. We have something to teach each other, I think.”

Duncan bowed again, acknowledging the young man’s words and his invitation. But Duncan was not certain he had understood correctly;
what could he, whose knowledge was of swords and warfare, of how to stay alive in the Game, possibly teach such a person?

The young man turned away and was walking back to his litter, obviously expecting MacLeod to follow. Before Duncan remounted
his horse, he turned and spoke softly to the Tibetan native nearest him.

“Tell me this young man’s name so that I may address him correctly,” he said as quickly as his limited language would allow.
All those who heard his words turned and looked at him in wonder. How could anyone not
know
, their faces seemed to say.