Read Online The Path by Rebecca Neason - Free Book Online

that had fallen, “what does it mean ‘Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod’?”
    “In my country, Scotland, clan is the word we use for family,” Duncan explained. “It means I belong to the family of the MacLeods.
     Duncan was my great-grandfather’s name, and it was given to me in his memory.”
    “Ah, then your family, your clan,” the Dalai Lama pronounced the new word carefully, “believe that in you the spirit of your
     ancestor is reborn.”
    “No, Your Holiness. My people do not believe that the spirits of the dead return.”
    “You believe then in this heaven of which the missionaries teach?”
    “Those are the beliefs of my people,” Duncan said.
    So carefully answered
, the Dalai Lama thought.
What do you believe, Duncan MacLeod? Do you know?
    “Tell me about your people,” he said aloud as their dinner arrived. “Tell me of this Scotland from which you come.”
    “Ach, it is a beautiful land, Your Holiness,” Duncan replied, his gentle brogue deepening as he thought of home. “It is a
     landof green forests and deep rivers, of whole hillsides covered with the purple blooms of heather…”
    Duncan continued talking as they ate their meal, and the Dalai Lama watched him, noting how his face glowed with love and
     pride while he spoke of his homeland. Yet neither did the young man miss the shadow that filled MacLeod’s eyes.
    Why did you leave this land of yours?
the Dalai Lama wondered,
and what is it that you fear? Perhaps soon you will tell me—but not today. Today we will speak only of pleasant things. This
     we will do until you see that you can trust me
.
    Over the next days, Duncan and the Dalai Lama fell into a pattern. Each morning and evening the young monk would come to Duncan’s
     room and escort him to the religious leader’s presence. Then Duncan and the Dalai Lama would share a meal and conversation.
     Usually these consisted of Duncan answering questions about someplace he had seen and people he had known. The Dalai Lama’s
     curiosity about such things appeared to be insatiable.
    At first Duncan was wary, with the guarded watchfulness that had become the habit of two hundred years. Surely, Duncan thought
     time and again, the Dalai Lama wanted more than a guided tour through his memories. But with each hour in the young man’s
     presence, the wariness was breaking down.
    There was a freshness about him, as if he held each moment as a gift, an excuse for laughter. Duncan thought it must be a
     product of the Dalai Lama’s youth, of years as yet untouched by pain or suffering, heart-wrenching decisions and bitter loss.
     Yet, there was also something ancient, something that stood outside the realm of time, about the young man. It shone from
     his eyes and from the look of utter compassion that so often graced his features. Slowly, it was setting MacLeod’s heart at
     rest.
    During his first few days, Duncan spent his afternoons exploring the Potala and its grounds. Despite its beauty and its fifteen
     hundred rooms, it was more of a monastery than a palace, filled with countless prayer wheels of every size, from a few inches
     tall to twice the height of a man. Set in individual niches, they lined the walls in corridors and stairwells or outside walkways.
     They were the central figures in gardens and meditation rooms. Some were plain and made of brass. Otherswere brightly painted in reds, yellows, and blues; all were filled with thousands of invocations that when spun were believed
     to ascend to the Compassionate Heart of Buddha. MacLeod often spun them as he passed, each time remembering his nomad friends
     and the promises he had made to them.
    The gardens behind the Potala contained a sight Duncan had not thought to see at this high an elevation. Here several fruit
     trees, stands of peach and walnut, apple, pear, and apricot grew in happy cultivation along with poppies and tiger lilies,
     marigolds, hydrangea, hollyhocks, and carnations, all carefully tended by the