The Red Heart of Jade

by Marjorie M. Liu

  On her chest, between her breasts, a shadow. A series of words, like the ones on the jade.

  Miri blinked—the vision snapped, faded—and suddenly she was in the bathroom again and the world was normal.

  No such thing as normal, she thought, still staring at the mirror as a great and terrible dread filled her body, prickling her skin with heat. Not anymore. She almost ran from the bathroom, but forced herself to stay put. If she ran now in fear, she knew she would keep running, and now was not the time to chicken out. No matter how weird or unsettling her life was.

  Breathe, she told herself, and she did, slow and deep, still looking at the mirror, still focused, body alive with fear, and her vision narrowed on the skin between her breasts. She imagined those words from her vision and for a moment saw them again, so clear she touched herself. The moment she did the words disappeared, but she pressed even harder and imagined lines, a ridge, curving and twisting.

  Stupid. Getting caught up. This is nothing, just your imagination. You’ve been seeing so much crazy stuff for the past couple of days, your mind is running on overdrive.

  It made perfect sense, but Miri could not turn away from looking at herself, and she wished suddenly that she could just peel up her skin, tear it apart, because underneath, underneath that layer of flesh—

  Miri dug her nails into her body, pressing as hard as she could. Outside the bathroom, she heard movement. Dean called her name. Soft at first, and then louder as he stood outside the bathroom. Miri ignored him, still digging with her nails, raking—so hard she made terrible welts, red marks that seemed like some kind of reminder, hypnotic and strange.

  “Miri?” Dean said, voice muffled. “Why won’t you answer me?”

  She could not answer because she could not speak. The doorknob rattled and Dean entered the bathroom. He did not say anything for a moment—simply stared—and then he was there, pressed up against her body, holding down her hand as she tried to mark herself again.

  “No,” he breathed. “No, bao bei. Stop.”

  “There’s something there,” she said, and her voice sounded faraway. “Like what you have. Beneath the skin. I can feel it, Dean.”

  “Okay,” he said, still holding her. “I believe you. But this isn’t right. You have to stop. Miri, listen to me.”

  And she listened, and it was like having a veil torn away, or lines cut. She staggered and Dean caught her, cradling her against his body. He carried her back to the bed and laid her down, crawling close. He did not turn on the light, but pressed his warm hand between her breasts.

  “It hurts,” she murmured.

  “Why did you do it?”

  Miri shut her eyes. “My reflection in the mirror … I was different. It was me, Dean, but my face belonged to someone else and there were mountains behind me. Lights. Words on my chest. I could see them so clearly.”

  Dean said nothing. He pressed his lips against the welts, and wrapped her up tight in his arms and legs until her heart calmed and all around her body, the only thing she could feel was him, holding her, taking care with that gentle ease that was so like him. Heart of gold.

  “We are going to get through this,” he whispered in her ear. “But you can’t scare me like that again. You have to promise me, Miri. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” So surreal, having to say that. She was a rational woman, practical. Not prone to wild fits.

  “I know,” he said, and then, softer, “I won’t live without you again, Miri. I won’t do it.”

  “Dean.”

  “No. I won’t kill myself. It’s not like that. But live? Live for any length of time? I wouldn’t last long, babe. It would just be me and my shadow, and then just my shadow, and then … zip. Gone. I don’t have enough heart left inside me to come back. I lost most of it the first time around, and a man can only pretend to be happy for so long.”

  Her throat hurt. She turned in his arms and kissed his mouth. Dean let her pull away only far enough to turn her head, and they lay cheek to cheek, sharing breath and heartbeats. Miri remembered a little boy, she remembered a young man, she remembered grief and memory and years of dreams, and she thought, I’m going to keep this. I’m not going to let go.

  Not ever. But her throat would not work, and she could not find the words to tell him. All she had was her body. Her very willing heart and body.

  And that was more than enough.

  They entered Jiuzhaigou early the next afternoon, after a ride through grasslands tumbling high among purple ice-capped mountains, stark peaks that inspired such feelings of awe and thrill that for a time, Miri forgot her troubles and could not help but imagine herself a climber, a trekker, another kind of adventurer, braving the wilds in search of archaeological treasures. She had no doubt that some lost civilization, extinct or not, lived in that virgin wilderness; the world was still large enough for mystery. Mysteries of all kinds and shapes and forms. It felt like home.

  Nomads had their camps along the road; colorful striped tents that reminded Miri of the circus, and which dotted the landscape like waving flowers. Cattle grazed. Men roamed on horseback, tall and dark and lean, and Miri thought they looked so handsome dirty, she could not imagine how fantastic they might look if they were clean.

  The road curved away from the grassland into lower ground, the Minshan Mountains, within which Jiuzhaigou was tucked deep and away like a jewel of pine and straw grass valleys. Miri caught distant glimpses of it through breaks in the tree line as their car made the slow and curving descent.

  “Reminds me of Montana,” Dean said.

  “Just wait,” Miri said, trying to hide her excitement. “Just you wait.”

  He had to wait quite some time. The road leading to Jiuzhaigou was rather crowded with hotels, and at the monument itself, tour buses and cars packed the extremely large parking lot, which was framed by mountains and wild cloud-covered hills.

  “They only let in a certain number of people every day,” Miri told him, as they made the trek to the ticket counter. “And technically, you’re supposed to be out of the park by five-thirty. No camping, no staying overnight. No wandering away from the marked paths.”

  “Technically?”

  Miri smiled. “Some of the villages inside the park offer rooms. It’s hush-hush. The only reason I found out is that Owen knows some of the ladies who live there, and they were more than willing to earn some extra cash. We stay with them, we can sneak out. Do what we have to do. We may not even have to sneak. They know I’m an archaeologist. They think it makes me more qualified to do the wilderness thing on my own.”

  “Girl power rocks,” Dean said, and dodged a light blow to his arm.

  The quota for the day had not been met, so Dean and Miri walked through a metal swinging gate to the lines waiting for buses. It did not take all that long to get a ride, and Miri and Dean soon found themselves bumping along a narrow road, carried past ribbons of water that were the colors of pure emerald and turquoise, glittering clear as crystal as the sun peaked occasionally through the pearly clouds.

  “This place is beautiful,” he said, and then, in a voice only she could hear, “The jade is so close I can practically feel my teeth vibrating.”

  “Good,” she said. “That means my hunch may not be far wrong.”

  “Though we were wrong last time.”

  “It was the body,” Miri said. “For some reason you had a strong connection with that man.”

  Twenty minutes later, Miri made them get off the bus at a spot in front of Huohahai, the Sparkling Lake. Around them tourists mingled, taking photos, oohing and aahing over the deep turquoise surface that was a color so rich and pure, it was almost a taste in Miri’s mouth: juicy and cool. The lake was quite large, surrounded by pine and wild grass. No one but locals were allowed near its edge, but Miri saw a few intrepid souls trying to creep off the boardwalk.

  A low stone wall bordered the road. As Miri and Dean walked up to it, she pointed at the water. “Take a look at the
middle of the lake, Dean. You see that yellowish stuff? Tell me what it resembles.”

  It took him some time, but when he finally made the connection, a small sound escaped him. Miri smiled.

  “I see a dragon,” he said.

  “It’s called the Lying Dragon,” Miri told him. “It sits in about sixty feet of water, and when the winds come down from the mountain and the lake surface ripples, it looks like its stretching itself. And when the wind is really strong … well, wait.”

  Several minutes later a powerful breeze swept over them, and though it died quickly, more followed until the surface of the lake whipped up into frenzy—and through the clear water, the dragon appeared to shake its head and wag its tail. It was a powerful illusion, and had Miri not been recently encountering the fantastic, she would have chalked it up to a curiosity of nature, and nothing more.

  But things had changed.

  “I saw this exact place in my vision,” Miri said. “It means something.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I saw this lake, too, but just not with the dragon. The jade is nearby, but I can’t tell if it’s in the water. I hope to God it’s not.”

  “You may be going for a swim tonight, handsome.”

  “That water is going to be cold, Miri.”

  “No pain, no gain.”

  They took a bus to one of the nine native Tibetan villages inside the park. Tall posts stood near the borders of village and wilderness, red and blue and yellow flags cut like gigantic ribbons, hanging and fluttering from tassels dyed in similar colors. Near the rivers and waterfalls, other lines had been hung with flags, lovely in the sharp and constant breeze. In the water itself, Tibetan prayer wheels turned in the current. It was summer, but the air was still comfortably cool. Miri had to remind herself that they were not so distant from glaciers.

  Miri led Dean to a small home selling food: buns and sodas and other snacks. An old woman stood out front, dressed in navy blue robes. Silver dangled from her ears. She had bright clear eyes and a smile to die for, which she used on Miri when she finally noticed her.

  It was easy enough to get a room; not many visitors realized local stays were possible, and upstairs in her home the old woman pulled aside a curtain, revealing a relatively clean bed tucked within a small alcove. She gave Dean a sly look, took Miri’s money, and then scampered off.

  “I just know that lady has a dirty mind,” Dean said.

  “It can’t be as dirty as yours,” Miri replied.

  They spent the rest of the day exploring, Miri following Dean as he traveled a path of his own making, exploring the vibrations of the jade. They passed along boardwalks that led through marshes and crystalline streams, walked around waters so blue she wanted to fall into them and make her skin the same color. They passed Pearl Shoal, a stream that splashed water about like millions of bouncing silver pearls, and later, Hanging Dagger Spring, which overlooked Swan Lake and resembled a dagger cutting the sky. Waters rushed from the peak, creating a waterfall almost a thousand feet tall.

  Occasionally during their walk, Dean’s chest burned. He did not have to tell her. She saw him rub himself. She imagined it glowing, soft, out of sight.

  “Lysander?” she asked him, feeling the pit of her stomach drop away as she remembered the scene in that chamber: the white body covered in blood, Kevin torn apart, and that pitiless voice that had shaken down her bones like thunder.

  “Maybe something else,” he said, though he was clearly doubtful. “It doesn’t happen around regular people. Not even all shape-shifters. But I felt it with Robert, Lysander, Bai Shen …”

  “What do they all have in common?”

  “Magic, I assume.”

  Miri frowned. “Robert had magic done to him. But Lysander? He’s a shape-shifter. And yes, he can set people on fire, but …”

  “Magic,” Dean said again. “Maybe he can do it. Or maybe we’re missing out on some other clues, and it’s something else entirely. There isn’t any good way to find out.”

  “Not until it’s too late,” Miri muttered. “I’m scared, Dean. I admit it. I’m terrified.”

  “I am, too,” Dean said quietly, and kissed the top of her head. Miri’s skin tingled, but not from his lips. She rubbed her arms and Dean frowned.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “I feel it, too.”

  There was also a burning sensation in her chest. Pain.

  You hurt yourself last night. That’s why.

  But it felt different, as though the heat and discomfort were pushing up through her body. She remembered the dead woman with the jade in her chest, and though she did not understand what was happening to her, she felt on a deeper level some kinship, some sense of why the jade had been placed into that spot. The significance was very real.

  A crow cawed above their heads. Miri looked up and saw a large black bird winging down. She glimpsed others, very high in the sky, but they kept their distance. Dean held up his hand; the crow settled on it, flapping its wings to balance. Golden eyes glowed.

  “I was beginning to wonder,” Dean said. “Slow ass. You were probably picking up chicks on the way in.”

  The crow bit his hand. Dean, swearing, tossed him back up into the sky. Miri laughed, but it was short-lived.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go back to the village and rest. We’re going to have a long night.”

  But when they arrived at the small home, with the mists rolling in and the sun fading into a deeper chill, it was difficult to sleep. There were too many sounds, the bed uncomfortable—and she wanted suddenly to be anywhere but here. Hiding sounded good. Any kind of hiding, as long as it kept her away from craziness. Danger.

  She said as much to Dean, and his only reply was “I love you, Miri.” And that, she found, was enough to calm her. She settled into sleep, and chased herself into dreams.

  Ren was waiting for them, golden and shining, with a softness to his edges made it seem like she was looking at him through a filter or soft focus lense. His presence was unexpected—as was Dean’s, whose body looked much the same, like some cheesy soap opera dreamscape of the Man She Loved. At first Miri thought they were all still awake, but the background was different—more woods, shadows—and she was lucid enough to resign herself to the fact that not even her sleep was sacred anymore.

  “This better be good,” Dean said.

  “I think I found a way to access more of those dreams,” Ren said. “I can’t fix your memories, but I can help you ride your unconscious all the way down to the root, which might be enough to let you see everything else that’s been taken from you.”

  “And if it’s not?” he asked.

  “What do we have to lose?” Miri said to him. “And besides, I want to know if what we’re really seeing in our heads is the same thing. We’ll be doing this together, right?”

  “I’ll provide the link,” Ren said. “You’ll have access to each other’s dreams at the same time.”

  He reached for their hands. Dean first, and then Miri. As soon as he touched her, even the dreamworld slipped away, and she felt herself falling and falling. She kept expecting to hit ground, but it never happened; like Alice in that damn rabbit hole, she could see things around her as she moved—or maybe it was the world moving, and she was standing still—but nonetheless there were glimpses of her life, tiny picture shows, and she realized just how good it had really been. So much wonderful in her life, and all the bad that happened was just another stepping stone. She had to believe that. She had to believe she had the rest of her life to make and find more that was good.

  Movement stopped, everything lurching like a elevator slamming rock bottom, and as Miri stumbled, all around her the world seemed unchanged—woods, water, mountains—except there was an added weight to the air that was heavy with age, with the still quiet of a place that had never seen human life—and that any life, big or small, was inconsequential under the weight of such endless time.

  We forget, Miri thought, remembering all those shards of the past t
hat regularly passed through her hands. We forget that we are nothing.

  Ren was gone, but Dean stood beside her, holding her hand.

  “Which way do we go?” he asked.

  Miri turned in a full circle; some distance away, set into the trees, she saw a great darkness. The mouth of a cave. Dread hit her when she saw it, but she tugged on Dean’s hand and they set out walking. It should have taken them several minutes to reach the cave, but in seconds—just steps—they were there, craning their necks to look up into a gaping maw that was all rock and shadows, and beyond, inside, nothing but more of the same.

  Dean squeezed her hand, and they stepped inside.

  Again, it was as though they floated; Miri expected pitfalls, uneven ground, but nothing caught her feet and she traveled with a feeling of exceptional grace and speed, flowing through darkness, through the empty space like a ghost. The only thing that felt truly solid and real was Dean’s hand clamped tight around her own, and she focused on that, on his strength, and for a moment thought she touched his gift. She felt energy inside him, a great flickering warmth, and she wondered what it would be to always see that side of people, to have the world stripped away to nothing but energy.

  And to be able to use that energy, all that power, as he had done for her.

  “I hear something,” Dean said, stopping them. Miri listened hard, and sure enough, she caught the sound of a woman weeping. Hoarse sobs. A terrible noise to float from the darkness, and it was accompanied by the clink of chains.

  Behind them, Miri heard movement. Dean tugged and they ran, flying, and ahead she saw a pinprick of light, and then closer: a ring of white, like a halo, surrounding a large sandy circle. Nothing else existed beyond the darkness, but within the light, bones covered the ground. Human bones—and some that might not have been human, though the shapes were certainly similar.

  Buried in the bones was a man. Miri recognized him. His body was the one she had glimpsed during her vision in the university lab, a lifetime ago. Brown lean body, compact and small. Chains bound his ankles. There was a woman behind him, just out of reach. She was tied, spread-eagled, to a stone platform. She wore a loincloth, though her chest was bare, and on it were words—curling words, red words, hanging like jewels between her breasts. Miri looked into her face, wet with tears, and saw that miserable gaze bear down on the man. The woman said something to him. It sounded like she was begging.