The Red Thread
Page 35
No young man ever in the little maid’s house
The wind and waves know no pity for the frail pond-chestnut’s branches
In the moon and the dew who can sweeten the scentless cassia leaves?
We tell ourselves all love is foolishness—
And still disappointment is a lucid madness’
Now he confronted her. ‘This ship take you? You want this? Leave me?’
She nodded, head down, unable to look at him.
‘Come back?’
Charlotte shook her head, not trusting her voice.
He took her hand and kissed the palm. The feel of his lips, at this parting, was not soft but like sand. Then he put a box into her hand. She could see that it was the one he had given her at the chapel. When was that? Ten lifetimes ago?
She opened it, and there was the pearl. He had made it into a necklace. It lay under a delicate, latticed silver mount shaped like the upturned eaves of a Chinese temple roof, on an entwined rope of red silk threads. The pearl was perfectly round, like the moon. She took it from the box and held it in her hand, and then he took it and turned her so he could put it round her neck. It felt light as it lay on her skin. A touch as light as him. As he tied the silk ribbon, his thoughts were bitter.
‘The East wind sighs, the fine rains come,
Beyond the pool of water lilies, the noise of faint thunder.
A gold toad gnaws at the lock. Open it. Burn the incense,
A tiger of jade pulls the rope. Draw from the well and escape,
Chia’s daughter peeped through the screen when Han the clerk was young,
The goddess of the river left her pillow for the Great Prince of Wei,
Never let your heart open with the Spring flowers,
One inch of love is an inch of ashes.’
‘One inch of love is an inch of ashes.’
She did not understand the Chinese words but heard the harshness of his voice.
She faced him and saw that his eyes were narrow, angry. He knew he should find tenderness, but he could find none, only a cold burning, the words of the Taoteching echoing dimly: ‘The deeper the love the higher the cost, the bigger the treasure the greater the loss. Seek restraint and contentment.’ It was wisdom he could not find. Maybe only withered old men could find it, and he was angry at these dead philosophers, at her, at everything.
‘One inch of love is an inch of ashes.’
At the jetty, the launch had arrived, its purple covering floating in the breeze. Tigran had made a royal barge for her, as he had for his sister. Azan was helping load the chests and cases which had stood ready, waiting for this journey. Tigran had waited on the ship, and she knew he had not wanted to hurry her, wanted to let her make her farewells. Perhaps Takouhi had told him about Zhen.
Out there, in the harbour, they both knew, the boat stood ready now. Zhen had wanted to kiss her, but abruptly he could not bear it, furious, filled with a cold hard wish to smash everything.
He turned. She put her hand on his arm. He shook it off and let out a roar of anguish. She caught his hand as he moved away. He stopped, wanting to strike her, but when their eyes met, he felt turned to stone.
She moved to him and put her hand to his cheek, pulling him to her face, holding him quietly. He tried to hold on to his anger, fearful of what would rush in to take its place when it had gone.
But he could not, and he held her fast, releasing her only as he heard Robert come into the room.
She took his hand, laying a scroll of paper tied with a red ribbon into the palm. He looked perplexed, holding it. Then, as Robert came to his sister’s side, he went down the verandah and disappeared.
Charlotte put her hand to her cheek, where his had been, then to her throat and touched the pearl. She took a breath and straightened her back.
From the rocks under the fort, Zhen watched the black brig turn slowly towards the south. Suddenly the slack sails stretched on the rigging, hearing the call of their mistress, the wind. In a breath she commanded, and with a snap they obeyed. The ship moved swiftly away.
He gasped. Tears sprang to his eyes. He remembered Qian’s words. He had tried to weave a net to catch the wind. Then she was gone.
He looked down at the paper in his hand, opened it, read the black characters painted there. He gazed at the far horizon. Tears remained, but bitterness flew away.
The wind tasted blue, of brine and foamy swells, and the sea looked like her eyes as red threads crept up the sky.
About the Author
Dawn Farnham was born in Portsmouth, England in 1949. Her parents emigrated to Perth, Western Australia, when she was two. She grew up a sandgroper, barefoot and free, roaming the bushy suburbs and beaches with her friends. In the 1960s she, like so many other young Aussies, left on a ship for London, aged seventeen. In the Swinging Sixties she met and married her journalist husband, moved to Paris, learned French and travelled round Europe in a Volkswagen Beetle.
As a foreign correspondent, her husband was posted to exotic locations and they lived in China, Hong Kong, Korea and Japan in the 1980s and 1990s. During this time she raised two daughters and taught English. Back in London she returned to school, doing a BA in Japanese at The School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) and a Master’s Degree at Kings College.
She and her husband now live in Singapore where she is a volunteer guide at the Asian Civilisations Museum. It is in this thriving port city-state that she found her muse and began to write, finding particular pleasure in Singapore’s colourful and often wild past. This is her first novel.
The Shallow Seas
A Tale of Two Towns: Singapore & Batavia
{ The Straits Quartet, Vol.2 }
Dawn Farnham
Fleeing the scandal of an illicit love affair, young Charlotte Macleod arrives in Batavia under the protection of one of the richest merchants in the Dutch East Indies. Marriage to him will give her security, but can she forget the man she left behind in Singapore, the lover whose child she is carrying? Against the background of the most cosmopolitan city in the Far East and its extraordinary mix of slave, Portuguese mestizo, Arab, Dutch, English and Chinese Indies culture, Charlotte must struggle to come to terms with a marriage to a man she does not love in a city she does not understand. This is the second volume in The Straits Quartet.
Drawing on real-life historical personalities of that exciting period, Dawn Farnham deftly mixes fact and fiction to paint a vivid portrait of mid-19th century Javanese royal courts; Java’s vast, sprawling colonial capital, Batavia (the city we know as Jakarta); and its annoying commercial rival—the young, ambitious Singapore.
The Hills of Singapore
A Landscape of Loss, Longing and Love
{ The Straits Quartet, Vol.3 }
Dawn Farnham
Young, beautiful and wealthy, widow Charlotte Macleod leaves Batavia in the 1850s and returns to Singapore for the English education of her two young sons. She is determined not to be drawn back into a secret affair with Zhen, the married Chinese merchant, triad-member and man she loves who is, unbeknownst to him, the father of her eldest son, Alex. Charlotte is convinced she can find happiness in a respectable marriage with the attractive but reticent Captain Maitland. But when murder and death strike, Singapore erupts in the violence of triad wars and Zhen’s growing affection for Alex gives cause for alarm, she must make some hard decisions, for her children and herself. This is the third volume in The Straits Quartet.
Drawing on the real-life historical personalities of the time, Dawn Farnham mixes fact and fiction to paint a rich portrait of midnineteenth century Singapore and the realm of the White Rajah of Sarawak, at a time when triads, piracy and crime were rife and life in colonial Southeast Asia was anything but safe.
First published in print in 2007 by Monsoon Books
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Monsoon Books
ISBN (epub): 978-981-4358-40-8
ISBN (paperback): 978-981-05-7567-0
; Copyright©Dawn Farnham, 2007
Cover photograph©National Museum of Singapore, National Heritage Board
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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