The Path by Rebecca Neason Page B

and a lighter pair of boots.
    His favorite of the shirts was a deep, almost iridescent blue. He picked it up and fingered the soft cloth, wondering again
     about the chance to wash before putting it on, when there was a faint knock on his door. A young monk entered and bowed.
    “The Dalai Lama wishes for you to join him at his evening meal. If you are willing, someone will guide you in one hour.”
    “Aye,” Duncan agreed. “I’ll have dinner with His Holiness.”
    The monk bowed again and started to turn away.
    “Wait,” Duncan called. “Is there a place where I can wash first? I’d like to bathe.”
    “You wish to go to the lake?” the monk asked, his voice cracking with youth and incredulity.
    “No,” Duncan answered quickly. He’d had more than enough of cold lakes and mountain streams. “I’m talking about a bath, in
     a tub of hot water, with soap. Have you such a thing?”
    “We have,” the monk answered hesitantly, “for His Holiness. I will ask about your use. You will wait, please.”
    “Aye, I’ll wait.”
    The monk left and Duncan laid the clean shirt aside. He might not have to put it on while he was dirty after all—and the prospect
     of a hot bath was worth waiting for.

Chapter Seven

    An hour later, the Dalai Lama sat in the room where he and Duncan had met before. He knew that MacLeod was being conducted
     toward him and he did not mind waiting. He never minded; there was always so much to contemplate.
    He sat on his cushion, legs crossed and his hands folded in the pattern of Mandala offering. His downcast eyes no longer saw
     his intricately folded fingers. He was hardly aware of the room in which he sat. His sight was turned deeply inward, focusing
     on the-Jewel-that-is-Compassion.
    The certainty that had come to him during the afternoon’s meditation had not left him. It was his karma to teach MacLeod the
     four Noble Truths and the Way of the Eightfold Path. These he knew would help MacLeod find peace, but how receptive would
     he be to instruction? The other Westerners who had come to Tibet, the missionaries who lived in the city, had no desire to
     hear any words but their own. Would the same be true of MacLeod?
If so
, the Dalai Lama wondered,
what then is my karma?
    The sound of the door opening seemed to come from far away, but the Dalai Lama recognized the sound and began to pull his
     thoughts back into the present. He changed the tone of his breathing, brought his focus back outward and his sight back to
     the room in which he sat. Then he looked up and smiled. MacLeod stood in the doorway, looking slightly less weary but hesitant
     to approach.
    “I did not mean to disturb your thoughts,” he said. “I can come back another time.”
    “Come in, come in,” the Dalai Lama replied. “I was waiting for you.”
    MacLeod walked quickly into the room. He was wearing his blue silk shirt. His long pants were tucked into the tops of highleather boots and his hair was loose about his shoulders. As he neared, the Dalai Lama could smell the clean scent that surrounded
     him.
    “You have then enjoyed your bath?” the young man asked as Duncan sat on the cushion next to him.
    “Oh, aye—though I think I shocked a few of your people by asking for one.”
    The Dalai Lama chuckled. “It is their way to wash themselves in the lake behind the Potala or go to the warm spring in the
     hills. I do not care for the cold water of the lake, and each time I leave this place a great procession forms. My people
     love me, as I do them, but I do not need to be escorted merely to wash the dust from this poor body. And so, the tub. Please
     make use of it whenever you wish.”
    “Thank you, Your Holiness.”
    The Dalai Lama inclined his head graciously, but his eyes were hooded as he considered how best to break down the barriers
     he sensed MacLeod had drawn around himself. Permanent barriers, he was sure, and not easily broached.
    “Tell me,” the young man said into the uneasy silence