The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  He wanted her to know this place so that their lovemaking, when they wished it, would be long, textured, full of sensual richness. From ancient texts of the Taoist teachings he had absorbed the lessons of lovemaking with the fourth concubine. They could play the game of clouds and rain only until rain fell. The woman could make a thousand clouds, but once he had released the rain, the game was over. Prolonging her joy and absorbing her yin essence would make him stronger, the concubine had said. While he was young, rain storms returned quickly; it did not matter so much, but as he grew older, one cloudburst might be all that was in the sky.

  He lifted her head and looked into her eyes. She smiled, and the cool blueness of her eyes trickled over him.

  Zhang knew then that he would be able to do this right for them both. Reaching over her to the side of the bed, he took a small bottle and showed it to her. He took out the stopper and put a little on his finger. She sniffed. It smelled of sandalwood and moist earth. Not unpleasant, but she wasn’t sure of its purpose. She was sure it had one, for she realised in this bed he controlled everything. If she had only known how many times in the last short while he had come to an utterly unprecedented loss of control, she might have been surprised, perhaps flattered.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Not make baby, not get pox,’ Zhen explained.

  He was pleased at the way he had remembered this word. He had looked up lots of medical words in the dictionary but could not remember many. This one had been easy.

  Charlotte was astounded. What miraculous salve was this that could change the fate of women. Could it be true? She had really not thought this far. But it was too late in any case. She wasn’t stopping now. This man was a revelation, more god than any heavenly deity. She had every intention of abandoning herself to him completely. With this body I thee worship, she thought, and suddenly she meant it.

  Taking some of the oil on his fingers, he began to touch her with it. Charlotte moaned, as he knew she would.

  Crimoney, Kitt Macleod, she thought dazedly. Lucky girl to have married fire and water.

  Then thought fled, and only craving came. Zhen, saw her eyes close, her teeth grip her bottom lip. Good, he would not hurt her as he ended her virginity. He had learned how to do this with the fourth concubine’s willing maid, under her mistress’s expert eye, when he was sixteen.

  The fourth concubine had smuggled in young virginal girls destined for miserable concubinage with ancient mandarins, girls who wanted, just once at least, to touch young male skin and feel young male arms. It was easy to fool the old pigs with fake blood, the fourth concubine had told him. These leathery relics were desperate to believe, hoping to prolong their worthless lives by soaking up virgin essences. She had laughed bitterly when she spoke of it. Then they might never come to the girl again, locking her away in the harem to an inescapable life of boredom, cattiness and frustration. She was lucky, she supposed: her master still came to her occasionally, was not so old, could still get it up. She had a daughter, this house and a limited freedom, which was impossible in the hougong, the royal harems. But it was a little life.

  She liked to watch him from behind her gauzy curtain, drinking wine, and as he gave each girl this gift she would sometimes come to him, pushing the girl away, and take him, still wet from the girl’s climax, in her mouth, push him to the edge. Her maid would tie her hands together, for when this drunken mood was on her she could scratch him to a bloody mess. Then he took her roughly, sometimes from the front, often from the back, thrusting into her, the maid oiling and preparing her anus for his entry, which she always wanted in the most violent way, howling with pain as he assaulted her, his blood up and unable to stop. This was, at first, engrossingly intoxicating, but as he matured he had put a stop to it. He knew she needed to feel herself, that pain was a way of somehow affirming her life, but he feared she also sought death in the throes of passion, in his arms. He began to dislike himself. He grew tired of this contract of the flesh, these women’s cloistered appetites and increasingly violent erotic obsessions.

  He had spent a year in the monastery, meditating and studying the Way, practising the movements of the tai chi. Only the fourth concubine’s tears and his affection for her had brought him back to her, but on his terms this time. There were no more virgins.

  Until this one, this little goddess of pure white jade. He wanted her to know fountains of pleasure. Slowly pushing his fingers, he felt for her hymen, spreading the oil. Using his thumb, rubbing and circling the little pearl on the jade step, he knew she would not feel it as he pushed through the web. There was no blood. She had had no pain. The sounds she was making were not pain. She was slick and wet, but he did not want her to go too fast. He searched with feathery gentleness for her most tender and provoking place. He knew he had found it when she suddenly stiffened and began to shake and move her hips.

  He withdrew his fingers. Charlotte moaned in disappointment, but he knew he would find this place again. ‘Sh,’ he whispered, drawing her to him. She looked up at him, questioning, her face angry. Zhen smiled at her little fury, knowing the reason. He began again to circle and tease her, and she quickly forgave him.

  Stimulating and releasing her, he listened to her sounds and watched her face. When her breathing became short and shallow he knew she was near. With the tiniest of movements he brought her to the top, and with deep groans she arched her back; her head jerked, and her essence flowed over his hand. He waited until she had passed through the rushing river of the high uplands, down to the cooler streams of the meadows, floating on the rivulets and looked up at him with languid eyes of wonderment.

  Coming between her legs, he placed them around his waist. ‘Look,’ he said.

  She looked at him, engorged with blood, and again reached for him, her mind still half-dimmed from orgasm and desire. Taking a little of the oil, he put it in her hand and let her rub it gently on him, guiding her; he felt the rain clouds gathering.

  Lifting her hips, he entered the dark velvet cave in which men for all the ages have sought oblivion. Charlotte felt this smooth thickness like a gentle sliding into her soul, a small white flame in her mind. She let out a cry at the purity of this act of light with a man who felt like silk. He stopped, caressed her face with his lips, listened to her breath.

  ‘Yes, hao?’ he whispered into her cheek.

  For answer she pulled him close, this thief of speech.

  He began to move gently, shallow, deep. She abandoned herself to this new sensation, knowing now the flame would grow into a cloud, for she had recently returned from these snowy uplands. Occasionally he stopped and waited, kissing her neck, ears and lips and then began again. She was consumed with this feeling of him in her, all conscious thought gone. She began to move her hips, urging him.

  Zhen felt the pendulum of yin and yang, the divine balance, swing together. Holding her hips in one arm he found again the place which would make her come with him on this cosmic journey. She was holding him desperately now, moaning into his chest, and with a shuddering of her body he felt a gush of hot liquid. It was her gao chao, her high tide, a rush of fevered blood, and he flooded into her, together, together, deeply together, souls embedded. Clouds and rain, the eternal and exquisite mystery of the flesh.

  ‘License my roving hands, and let them go

  Before, behind, between, above, below.

  O my America! my new-found-land,

  My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,

  My mine of precious stones, my empery,

  How blest am I in this discovering thee!

  To enter in these bonds is to be free;

  Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.’

  They lay until he felt her relax. Now he would dot the dragon’s eye, seal his mark on her like the calligrapher his work of art. She looked at him, and tears came. They were both bathed in sweat. She could not believe what he had done. What he had made her feel. Was this what love was like? She had had no idea.
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  He smiled at her and rolled on his back, taking her with him still connected by his slowly waning erection. Straddling him, she felt him grow smaller inside her, the sensuality of liquids dripping. He knew if they wanted he could wait and grow again, begin again without ever parting. She put her hands to his neck, asking him to come up to her and, taking his head in her hands, sobbing quietly, kissed him on his lips, his eyes, his cheeks. He knew she was feeling a great love, a deep gratitude for the way he had opened up her longings and satisfied them. When his young body had matured and he had grown very skilful, the fourth concubine had often cried after a long session of lovemaking. The young girls almost always did. The fourth concubine had been a clever lover, knew more than Charlotte could. But if they were allowed the gift of time he would teach her the art and craft of love. And one thing was very different. He had not loved the fourth concubine. They had played this game a hundred different ways, but he had not loved her. Not like this. This love moved his mind, made him sumptuous and vast, exalted them.

  Zhen knew she would kiss him like this as long as he let her, but he suddenly felt the heat of the room, of their conjoined bodies. Gently he gathered her up and moved off the bed. She gave a little whimper as he slipped out of her. Her legs around him, raining kisses over his face and neck, he carried her to the big jar and ladled cool water over them, drenching them from head to toe, drinking and kissing. Then, dropping her feet to the floor, he began slowly to wash them both of the sweat and oil. Light came from the bedroom through the carved porcelain lattice screen halfway up the wall, and she simply watched him, his body moving in the semi-darkness as he went about this strangely mundane yet intensely intimate activity, the smell of coconut-oil soap rising from their skin. She put out her hand to his head, pulling his face down to hers, feeling his wet lips as water dripped from their bodies. This langourous cleansing had made her crave again. She could still feel him inside her. Wanted him there again already. It was incredible.

  Motioning her to sit on the cool wet tiles, he gently opened her legs, washing her of the oil and semen seeping from her, cleaning her, scooping water on her, drenching her in this sweet dew, this prime and most northerly of the elements. She leaned back on her elbows. He put down the ladle and smiled at her, a slow, enigmatic smile. She watched him, telling him with her eyes that she did not know what to expect. Parting the wet black hair, he lowered his head and began to run his tongue around her. Charlotte gasped and involuntarily pulled back her hips. Would he always surprise her?

  ‘No?’ He looked into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, oh, yes. Sorry, just surprised me that’s all. I’m new to this, you know.’

  Zhen didn’t understand everything she said, but he knew her tone of voice now. The surprising thing about this language of hers was the way words did not always matter. Watching her face and listening to her voice he could detect many messages, although this time he understood most of what she had said.

  Pulling her up into his arms, he kissed her, a deep kiss that she fell into as one might sink into a feather bed. Then, lightly, he began to run his tongue around her mouth, sucking and biting the tip of her tongue, her lips. She followed his lead, and soon they were kissing wildly. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs round his waist. Charlotte, eyes glazed, almost overcome, was biting and licking him. She felt feral. She bit into his neck and he winced, pulling away. Another time he would use this feeling to take her roughly, letting her bite him to blood, but not this time. He knew he could hurt her, bruise her when this mood was on them. But he wanted to let her glimpse into the exquisite rooms of this erotic palace of the flesh which they could explore together, as millions of millions had done for eons before them.

  He carried her back to the bedroom. But not to the bed. Slowly he began to turn round and round, calming her, until her hands rested on his queue, her head fell onto his shoulder, her breath returned to normal.

  He began to sing a tune full of eastern chords and oriental words which fell on her ear like the patter of soft rain:

  ‘Xiao baobei, xiao baobei. Little precious jewel, little treasure.’

  It was a lullaby which his mother had sung to him and his brothers. Turning, their shadows flitted on the walls like puppets in the wayang. In this slow dance he wanted to show her his joy at their union, which he could not put into words. She was glad that this was the man who had been her first man. Whatever was to come, how could she ever regret this night? With this body I thee worship. Word made flesh. She was calm now; her legs slipped from his waist, and he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

  She was sleepy, he knew, but she could not sleep yet. Eventually they would sleep like the dead, but not yet. Lying on his side next to her, one arm supporting his head, he took her hand in his, bringing the palm to his mouth and kissing it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Let us begin.’ This was said with such schoolmasterly gravity, she laughed with delight and woke from her torpor.

  He grinned. Zhen could feel a new erection beginning, but that would wait. Dropping her head over the edge of the bed, wet hair trailing the floor, he raised her hips and lowered his face between her legs. The fourth concubine had taught him this skill very well.

  32

  A chorus of songbirds. The old man in the house next door kept singing larks, bubbling thrushes, white-capped bulbuls. Their sweet sounds woke him most mornings. The dawn was not yet up, he could see from the light in the air well. He looked down at the woman cradled against him and remembered the night. She was sleeping deeply, lips parted, her breath making whispery sounds. He looked at her face, the slight downiness of her cheek, the shape of her ear, the curve of her shoulder, the undulations of waist and hips. Lovely, lovely. He ran a finger over his lips, swollen from her kissing and biting, the mark of her little white teeth on his neck, and smiled, luxuriating in the memory. The song of the finch rose, pure and haunting, its lilting call trembling on the air, then gathering energy, bursting into bubbling melody filled with images of Chinese mountain streams and the whispering of pines. The finch was teaching the lark to sing.

  The little lark curved into his body. He knew he should leave her alone, that he had done too much last night, but he had felt insatiable, and she had responded to his every call. Callously, almost, he wanted sex with her again today, knowing she would leave him soon, felt his arousal as he experienced the pain of this thought. He cursed himself for not using the balsam on her, caring for her last night, but after the last time, she had fallen asleep immediately, and he too, finally exhausted, had succumbed to the need for rest.

  He had a raging thirst and needed to relieve himself. As he left her side, she stirred and turned to where he had been. Gulping water and throwing it over his body, he heard sounds. It was the water cart man filling the two big earthenware jars in the front porch. He and the night-soil collector arrived before the sun, one at the front, the other in the back alley. Was Ah Pok here? Slightly alarmed, Zhen returned to the bedroom. Charlotte was still sleeping, and he threw on his loose trousers, tied the cord, and went to the bottom of the stairs, where he peered back into the kitchen area.

  The Indian water carrier was pouring a bucket of water into the jar. He heard the stream and splash, could hear his two buffaloes snuffling outside. Ah Pok did not seem to be here, but he would be back in a few hours. He went to the earth closet and pissed, contemplating his liquid falling through the wooden seat into the bucket, sighing at this relief. It had not been emptied. He threw some soil in and latched down the lid. Collection would be through the hatch at the back.

  Two hours, that was all they had. He wanted to make her tea, wedding her again to him in this simple timeless ceremony. He would show her the little buds from the high mountain peaks of his home, full of the flavour of fogs and snow. He would serve her in the tiny cups, watching her drink. Then he would change the sheet to fresh, wash her body in the water, slowly stoke the fire of desire. But the earthenware stove was not lit, and he was no
t sure where Ah Pok kept the linen. It would take too much time. He let out a low growl of discontent.

  Leaning over her, he kissed her on the lips, at first softly then more deeply. She responded sleepily, running her arms round his neck, pulling him down. Remembering. The sheet was stained, sweaty and gluey. Not here. He picked up the little bottle of oil, putting it into her hand, then lifted her and carried her, half-comatose, into the bathroom. He took the bottle and handed her a ladle of water to drink, dropped her feet to the floor and began rinsing her in the cool water, running his hands over her, into her. She protested, moving away from this touch, the inside of her body swollen and painful. She wanted to pee but didn’t know how to tell him, was so tired that she just let it run down her leg, shamed, wincing as it burned her raw tissues, then rinsing herself again as gently as she could.

  Zhen could see she was hurting, that he was taking her dignity, that she did not want him now. But he did not care. She was woman, and she was his. She would do what he wished. He released the cord of his trousers and let the garment drop wetly to the floor, showed her his virility. Here, he was lord. She would not escape this; it was his will. He sat on the washing stool and sharply motioned her to come, dropping oil on his hands. Charlotte didn’t understand this hard-eyed mood that was on him. She obeyed him, slowly, reluctantly. He knew he should stop. Every fibre of his being knew it. This was not the spontaneous flowing of the Tao which had washed over them in the night, bringing joy and peace.