Free The Path by Rebecca Neason Page A

was something MacLeod
     did not want to see the Tibetan people have to pay.
    “Do you know that your people visit the priests?” he asked more softly.
    “Of course my people visit them,” the Dalai Lama replied with a smile, his eyes calm and unperturbed. “How else may compassion
     be shown? I know that these missionaries have come here to speak the words of their God to my people. We do not fear their
     words. The Compassionate Buddha taught that all words of truth, whoever speaks them, are the words of Buddha. Let your mind
     be at peace about these missionaries, Duncan MacLeod. They will bring no harm to my people.”
    Duncan wished he could believe it. There was more, much more, he wanted to say, but he recognized the tone of royal command.
     Father Edward and his intentions were a closed subject. Since he was a visitor to this city, Duncan would accept the Dalai
     Lama’s wishes, but he would also watch carefully. If his fears were indeed groundless, he would say nothing more—but if Father
     Edward or the others did anything that might harm the people of Lhasa, Duncan would not be so easily silenced again.
    MacLeod cleared his throat. There was another question he still wished to pursue.
    “Your Holiness,” he began, keeping his tone respectful, even humble, as past experience with royalty had taught him to do.
     “Why did you invite me to stay here?”
    The Dalai Lama put down the bowl from which he had been drinking and turned toward Duncan, looking at him in silence. As on
     the occasion of their first meeting, Duncan felt as in the young man’s gaze plumbed the depths of his soul, both reading the
     secrets hidden there and inviting Duncan to freely speak of them. It was an unsettling feeling, but odder still to see eyes
     suddenly filled with such ancient awareness in such an inexperienced, unmarked face.
    “Are you unhappy here, Duncan MacLeod?” the Dalai Lama asked. “Is there something more needed for your comfort?”
    “No, Your Holiness. I am most happy here, and you have been very kind, but I know that you did not invite the missionaries
     to live in the Potala when they were strangers in your city.”
    “That is true.” The Dalai Lama again nodded, his voice remaining patient and undisturbed. “When they came to thePotala and asked if they could live in my city, their eyes said they found no beauty here. They have room in their hearts
     for no words but their own. So why waste the words of invitation? Your eyes said you needed to be here, and so you are. The
     Wheel spins and brings all to where it should be.”
    Duncan felt the conversation slipping away from him. It was not a sensation he particularly enjoyed. There were things he
     needed to understand—perhaps for his own peace of mind, perhaps only to impose the familiarity of Western logic on the evasive
     explanations of Eastern thought. In an effort to once more gain control, he tried another question.
    “On the road outside Lhasa, why did you stop to talk to me?”
    The young man seated next to him, cocked his head to one side, and smiled. “Every soul, Duncan MacLeod, has its own aura and
     yours is very strong. I felt it reaching out to me as we approached, so I stopped. I found that your aura is also wounded
     and in need of rest. You are here to rest and, I think, to heal.
    “Now, Duncan MacLeod, what part of your travels shall we speak of today?”
    There was no mistaking the tone of finality in the young man’s voice. Once again, MacLeod was reminded that in spite of the
     Dalai Lama’s apparent youth, he was the leader of his country. MacLeod knew he would receive no more information, and no explanation
     of the meaning behind the Dalai Lama’s words. They raised more questions than they answered and perhaps, Duncan realized,
     that was exactly what was intended.
    Aye
, he thought,
he’s a crafty young fox. He knows that sooner or later I’ll have to ask him to explain
.
    Two hours later, Duncan took his leave of