Jake Maroc - Shan Part 29

Senlin stared at him wordlessly.

"Would you go outside tomorrow if I went with you?"

"I do not care for the world outside." Emotion, electric and fleeting, transformed her face. "It is harsh and ugly. It is evil. I long only for the days before the war."

"We will never return to that."

"You can be most cruel." There were tears trembling at the corners of her eyes.

"I speak only the truth."

Those enormous eyes dropped from his and when she spoke next it was in a tiny whisper. "You asked before why I spoke with you and not with my husband. Now you have answered your own question."

Zilin thought about that for a moment. "He has lied to you."

Her head came up. "Only because he lies to himself."

The confirmation of his own suspicions came like an electric shock. He saw the tiny tremor in her temple and decided to change the subject. "You cannot stay inside the villa for the rest of your life. That is a kind of death."

"What does it matter? I am already dead!" Her eyes held in their depths the green burning flames of a land wholly alien to Zilin. He did not know what to do for her. He only knew that he must try to end her strange inner-directed torment.

Outside a crack of thunder reverberated nearby. Senlin started, her head jerking around on her neck. Her eyes were open wide as the first burst of rain slapped against the windowpanes.

"It is nothing," Zilin said. "Only the rain."

"It is everything." But she seemed not to be talking to him.

"Senlin."

She gave a great shudder and her eyes fluttered closed. He reached out and she slid against him. His arms went around her to hold her up. Then just to hold her.

Her face was but a breath from his. He felt her warmth and more, the pulse of her. He felt as if he had downed a bottle of whiskey in one thirsty gulp.

Light-headed, unable to catch his breath fully, he drew her closer to him.

"Senlin."

Her lips were half-open and her sweet breath fell upon his cheek like spring rain. The heavy cascade of her hair fanned out. It seemed to caress him as if, with a life of its own, it was part of some mythical creaturea Qilin, perhaps. Then he realized that she was swaying, her long pent-up emotions breaking through the barriers of icy iron she had erected so that now the two of them, linked by the warmth of their bodies, were tossed as if on a tide.

Closer and closer so that Zilin felt the softness of her cheek, a peony's petal, against him.

"No!" With an inarticulate cry, Senlin broke away from him and, staggering to her feet, ran across the length of the study.

"Senlin!"

"Please a" Thunder booming, rain beating its rapid tattoo. "Please!"

He took a quick step toward her, not knowing what she would do or even what she meant by that single strangled word.

The reflection of the rain ran obliquely across her pained face as she wrenched open the gla.s.s door out to the garden and the weather came rushing in with the fierce whip of a tiger's tail.

The shades rattled, an eerie unsettling sound, and Senlin rushed out into the rain. Zilin followed her, calling her name. The deluge had turned night into the pitch blackness of a well. Branches like a spirit's withered arms shuddered and shook in the wind which, caught between the side of the villa and the high garden wall, swirled around upon itself, picking up strength. The sound of its pa.s.sage through the trees moaned in their ears.

Zilin caught up with her just as a violent streak of lightning forked downward overhead. By the flutter of its acid illumination, he saw her abruptly reverse herself, flying into his arms, burying her head in his shoulders, molding her body to his.

He moved to bring her inside but she refused to be budged. She brought her face up to his, her lips opened. Rain danced off her face, flew through her hair as if they were both part of the wind. Zilin felt as he had atop the horse, riding bareback with Ross Davies up the slopes of the Red Silk Mountain. Together, they dropped to the sopping ground.

He pulled aside her clothes as she frantically opened his. Never hadhe felt such urgency, not with either of his wives, not with his mistress or all the women who had followed them into his bed. The physical, the emotional were both supplanted at this moment. But by what he could not say.

His flesh tingled at her touch, her lips, when he enclosed them in his, tasted of the most exquisite nectar. The rain drumming on them, all around them, pressing leaves and twigs to their bare flesh, felt to them like an extension of their own molten pa.s.sion. The rumbling of the thunder sounded in their ears like the growling of some great primitive cat, rampant and eager.

When Zilin bared her b.r.e.a.s.t.s he nearly wept with longing. His fingertips traced her skin, drinking in its superb smoothness, free of blemishes or wrinkles. His lips soon followed as he moved down her.

In the shadowed dell between her thighs, he discovered the heat and he made her cry out, her lithe body undulating upward, her head back, mouth open, drinking in the downpour while her neck arched.

In a moment she had taken him in her two hands, guiding him through portals flowering open like an anemone. Instantly he felt in the midst of a dream. In China, it was this way: as one slept, one's hunspiritemerged through the top of one's head at the spot where the bone was the last to harden at the beginning of one's life. What one dreamed, one experienced. It was as simple as that. Dreams, therefore, were no less real than waking life.

Now as Zilin penetrated to Senlin's soft, clinging core, his spirit rose out of his body. In the midst of the kinetic storm it mingled with that of his partner's.

Upward they flew in an endless helix of motion, sound, color, scent. The sweet smell of wet gra.s.s, the cant of a curious pair of plovers huddled within the shivering branches of a pine, the color of the wind, turned mauve and electric blue by the raging tempest. Motion.

Force.

Qi.

As their cries of pleasure mingled with the long moaning cries of the wind, Zilin was at last made witness to Senlin's unleashed qi.

And understood everything.

"War."

As Zilin had predicted, the following day had turned out fine. But Mao was in a foul mood; even the exceptionally clear weather had failed to soften his att.i.tude.

"War," he fumed, "is all around us. Our economy can ill affordanother warespecially one in the foreign land of Korea. Our people cry out for peace. They look to us for leadership and support not for a further effort which will leave Chinese blood soaking into the ground of another country."

"Perhaps," Zilin said, "we should be looking for a way to turn war to our advantage."

"You do not understand," Mao said impatiently. "The Americans, the Nationalists are like hungry sharks lurking in the waters just offsh.o.r.e. If we go to war they will wait until the military expenditures have further weakened us. Then they will strike. As of now the counterrevolutionists are relatively few and weak. A renewal of war will give them fuel. Like pouring kerosene on a fire, their cause abetted by the Nationalist agents will begin to pose a serious threat. Do you suppose I can allow that to occur?"

"Not at all," Zilin said.

Mao stood quite still. They were still in quarters that had been turned into a suite of offices from hotel rooms. Out the window was Tienanmen Square. The whirring of the clouds of bicycles through the wide avenues was a constant sound through the open windows. "I want you to understand this clearly so that, at a later time when, perhaps, you have a different taste in your mouth, you will not come to me with your conscience bleeding and pet.i.tion me for surcease."

"What are you asking me?" From another office, Zilin could hear the clack-clack of a barrage of antiquated typewriters upon which propaganda leaflets were being banged out by a squadron of efficient clerks.

"Just this," Mao said. "War with Korea will bring disaster here, no matter what advantage you may cook up for us internationally. The economy will collapse yet again and, worse, there is the distinct possibility that our actions will create our own political nemesis.

"In order to forestall such a catastrophe, we will be forced to depend more and more on the Ministry of Public Security."

"The secret police."

"If you would call them that, yes."

"I cannot condone a reign of terror."

For an instant, Zilin feared that he had gone too far. There was some color to Mao's cheeks, unnatural as women's rouge. There was silence between them so taut that Zilin could imagine biting through it with one snap of his jaws.

Mao sat down. He closed his eyes, ma.s.saging the lids with his thumbs. When he was sufficiently calm, he said, "I do not believethat either of us have a choice. You believe that war with Korea is inevitable."

"Inevitable," Zilin said, "and desirable,"

Intermittently, there were bells ringing, tiny sounds as the typewriters came to the end of their lines. Some minister stopped in to ask Mao a question and was quickly dismissed.

After a time, Mao said, "You had better make yourself clear, Shi tong zhi. I am in no mood for jests."

"You know me better than that, Mao zhu xi."

Hearing the formal address, Mao turned. "Let us be rid of this tension between us, my friend. It serves both of us ill. I have no wish to be at odds with my most trusted minister."

Zilin bowed, pressed the palms of his hands together in front of him, moving them up and down in the honorific.

As a physical manifestation of his words, Mao set about making tea and nothing more of a business nature was said until it had been brewed, served in the traditional manner and savored by both men. By that time, they had talked about many other topics of a personal and, sometimes, trivial nature.

Following the natural pause at the end of the easy dialogue, Mao said, "Please be good enough to explain to me your theory concerning war with Korea."

Zilin nodded, poured himself more tea. "You have already told me that Stalin is adamant about acting should the Americans cross the Yalu and invade North Korea."

"I have said that he is of two minds about this," Mao corrected. "He is committed to seeing that all of Korea is eventually ruled by the Communists. To this end he sees no alternative but to dispatch Russian troops to the site of the conflict."

"If the Americans come to the aid of the South Koreans, such a decision would spell disaster for both sides, perhaps the entire world." Zilin shook his head. "No, Mao tong zhi, it is China which holds the key to Stalin's dilemma, and with it we may open the door to our own salvation."

"How?"

"We inform Stalin that should MacArthur advance across the Yalu we will send troops into Korea. We are in a much better position than he to do this since we can say to the world at large that we have merely sent volunteers to aid a neighboring fraternal Communist regime. Will any Westerner not believe that the Koreans are our brothers? In that way we may join the battle even if the United States intervenes. Theywill be on as tentative ground as will we. They could not afford a direct attack on us. World opinion would be against them."

"Yes, I see," Mao said. "And Stalin would be put into our debt. I could get out of him more aidperhaps even unenc.u.mbered aid this time. But there is the matter of troops to be sent."

"Transport the remnants of the Guomindang armies stranded here. Let them shed their blood for our cause; let them be the first Chinese to join the Koreans in expelling the Americans from the North." Zilin put his teacup down. "And we both know that will happen, Mao long zhi. We have made it our business to study General MacArthur. He will cross the Yalu."

"So this is to be our fate," Mao said. "We must serve as Moscow's cat's-paw in order to earn their trust and their capital aid."

"It is always thus with the weak," Zilin said. "But history is mutable. We must endeavor to make our own so that one day we will be strong enough that Moscow will fear us, not the other way around."

The first thing they saw was Fazhan's spirit screen. In its center was the symbol of the creation of the world which, as every Chinese knew, came about as the result of the union of a tortoise and a serpent.

Surrounding the central symbol were arrayed the Eight Trigrams. These consisted of a series of combinations of continuous and broken lines, symbolizing male and female, respectively. The possibly mythical emperor Fu Hsi claimed that the Trigrams were the basis for mathematics. Every possible combination and juxtaposition were to be found within the Trigrams from power to submission, to representations of all the important animals in the Chinese mythology to the points of the compa.s.s.

The spirit screen was a sign. In accordance with the precepts of feng shui, the ancient art of geomancy, screens such as this were set at a site filled with evil spirits. In order to get past this screen, evil demons were obliged to make a right turn, which every Chinese knew that they could not do.

In Fazhan's foyer was an enormous mirror. It was painted in the same manner as the spirit screen outside had been carved. This was a further sign of the virulence of the evil influences that must be deflected in order to make this place safe.

Senlin balked when she saw the mirror. The spirit screen and its obvious significance had disturbed her enough. The mirror seemed to unnerve her completely.

She turned away from it and Zilin felt her trembling like a doe against him.

"It is all right," he said, staring at their reflection in the interstices of unpainted mirror. "There is nothing here to fear."

"Why have you brought me to this place?" Her voice was small, wavery as water.

"Because you must be helped," Zilin said gently. "Your husband was correct on one count. No physical doctor can cure your malady. That is why we have come here."

"But it is an evil place."

"No," he said, "it is merely a place where evil dwells. Fazhan, the feng shui man, picked this spot specifically in order to draw the evil spirits inward, to confine them, chain them down and thus render them powerless."

"But the spirit screen, this mirror. Both will repel them."

Zilin nodded. "The evil is not within this house. Within Fazhan's garden is a well. A spirit well. It is, he says, a well without bottom. It is within the spirit well's depths that he imprisons the evil spirits."

Something in his voice caused her to look up into his face. "You do not believe any of this, do you?"

"I believe there is a xin jing in Fazhan's garden," Zilin said slowly. "But as to what dwells within its depths I am not at all certain."

Senlin gave a great shudder and, drawing in her breath, said, "Well, I am. I'm very sure."

Fazhan had a fierce Mongol's face. His skin where it appeared from out of the voluminous folds of his black robes was as parched and leathery as an elephant's skin. His head was long and narrow; his body followed suit. He was also tall, which added immeasurably to the sense of power he exuded.

Fazhan was a Black Hat feng shui man. There were many forms of geomancy; this was the most ancient and the most mystical.

The origins of Black Hat feng shui were said to have been in India, the birthplace of Buddha. From there, it traveled northward into Tibet. When at last it migrated from out of the land of great mountains, it drifted south into China. By then it had gained power and influence from each country and culture where it had been practiced over the centuries.

Zilin bowed in front of the feng shui man and Senlin did the same. She was plainly terrified of him.

"Greetings, Great Lion," Fazhan said, using a play on Zilin's name. "It is good to see you again." His voice was a vast rumbling, seeming to fill the room like faraway thunder.

"The good fortune is mine, Silver Burtons," Zilin said, "to be here." With that he handed over a slim red envelope. For just the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat it appeared. Then it had disappeared within the folds of the feng shui man's robes.

Senlin observed these exchanges silently but with a great deal of interest. Neither of these men used the modern honorific, tong zhi, comrade. Further, they used nicknames that connoted a deep and abiding personal friendship.

Zilin turned and, speaking softly, presented Senlin and a capsule summation of her recent history. Even before he was done, Fazhan had begun to move. Zilin stood off to one side of the room, leaving Senlin on her own in the center.

The feng shui man's gaze, so much like black fire, was intolerable for her so she kept her mind occupied by staring at her surroundings. They were in a room nine meters by nine meters. The ceiling was painted a stark white but the walls were overhung by a series of calligraphic scrolls. While Senlin could not read them since the style of writing was ornate and the language archaic, she was certain that these were surras, or perhaps extracts, since one complete sutra, she knew, could fill an entire book. Oddly, she did not question how she knew such an arcane thing.

By the time Zilin had finished recounting Senlin's history, the feng shui man had made three complete circuits around her. At length, he stopped in front of her. He said, "She has the aspect of the phoenix. That is good. The phoenix has its roots in royalty. With the dragon, it rules the capital of China." He turned and lit three josssticks. He placed them one at a time before a small apple-green figurine that crouched by the side of a gilt Buddha.

"Please speak to me," Fazhan said and Senlin trembled at his voice. It was dark as woodsmoke and seemed to her to be as aromatic. Surely it was the joss sticks she was smelling. Had voices a scent? "You were tortured." It was not a question.

"Yes," she whispered.