The Path by Rebecca Neason

my city, the missionaries. They speak humble words
     but do not have humble hearts. This one, this Duncan MacLeod, has the humility of a burden carried too long in silence. He
     is a man who has lost his path
.
    How can I help him?
the Dalai Lama wondered as he entered the meditation chamber and sat in his accustomed place.
    His small brass handbell, the
darja
, and string of prayer beads sat on the floor in front of his cushion. Before him, the monks sat in long rows facing each
     other, ready to begin chanting the subtle triple tone that was the sound of the universe at harmony with the soul. The expectation
     on their faces slowly turned to patient puzzlement when he made no move to pick up the handbell.
    The Dalai Lama bowed his head and waited for either inspiration or silence to enter his mind. Although in this life he was
     a young man, only twenty-three, he had lived through seven previous Enlightened incarnations, and he had the memories ofthose lifetimes to guide him. Suffering was something he thought he knew in all its forms—but never had he seen eyes as haunted
     as those that looked at him today. It was as if each word spoken brought back memories too painful to be borne.
    And what of the age I saw in those eyes?
the Dalai Lama wondered, head still bowed in silent contemplation.
How many lifetimes has Duncan MacLeod lived and by what spin of the Great Wheel has he come to this place?
    The Dalai Lama raised his eyes and looked out at the rows of monks still awaiting his signal. Old and young alike, he knew
     he had only to ask and each one of them would try to lighten his burden with their compassion and advice. But helping MacLeod
     was something the Dalai Lama knew was his karma alone.
    Suddenly, into the expectant silence, came the inspiration he had been seeking. They were teachings so basic to his beliefs
     he had looked past them, searching for some more esoteric words that would both inspire MacLeod and give answer to the complicated
     questions he felt surrounding this strange Westerner.
    Ah, foolish man
, he chided himself.
It is from simplicity that truth arises
.
    He picked up the handbell.
    Duncan did not visit the Potala gardens, as the Dalai Lama had offered; neither did he go into the city of Lhasa. After his
     weeks in the nomads’ camp and his days on the trail, being inside a building with walls and windows, heat and light was a
     luxury.
    He was given a room of simple elegance, where spaciousness felt like part of the decor. The furnishings were few—a bed, a
     chest, a small table—but each one was a work of beauty. There was a chimneyed brazier in one corner and two oil lamps, one
     on a long chain from the ceiling, one on the table, that had been lit and filled the room with warmth. More light came in
     through the long narrow window. There were rugs upon the floor, two large pillows to sit on, and a privacy screen in the far
     corner. Above all there was room, space to move, to think with his body.
    Alone in his room, Duncan removed his shirt, his fur-lined boots, and stockings. The warm air on his bare skin was a sensualpleasure. He felt his body
breathe
. Going to the center of the room, he began to stretch, muscle by muscle: feet, ankles, knees on up through his arms, shoulders,
     neck. He stretched out the stiffness of his long ride and the weeks of inattention.
    From the stretches, Duncan moved into
kata
, the precise series of movements used to train the body, focus the mind, and control the breath. They flowed together like
     a ritual dance. This was a practice he had begun in Japan under the tutelage of Hideo Koto—a mortal and one of Duncan’s greatest
     teachers.
    Was it really only three years ago?
Duncan thought, wondering at the twists of time that made some things, especially actions of his youth, feel as if they happened
     only an instant before while other events felt distant, belonging to another person or a different life.
    Perhaps it was not time, but pain that kept