Mr. Tan wasted no time. He turned to Zou Tun. "Please tell me what has brought such a"—he swallowed—"a rare gift to the Tan family."
"I am the last of the students of Abbot Tseng Rui Po." Zou Tun hesitated, unwilling to go on, but he knew he owed it to his former mentor to say the rest without flinching. "The emperor discovered that the Shiyu monastery harbored and trained evil revolutionaries from the White Lotus Society."
Behind the divider, the Tigress Shi Po gasped in horror. In these troubled times, the emperor did not tolerate rebellion of any kind.
"The soldiers came at night," Zou Tun continued, his blood pounding as he struggled for control. "Abbot Tseng Rui Po died with these cradled in his arms. He asked me to bring them to you."
Mr. Tan reached out but did not actually touch the stained yellow scrolls. "How did you come to survive?"
It was a natural question, and one that Zou Tun expected. Still, it was difficult to answer, and to his shame his voice trembled as he spoke. "I am often troubled at night. I left the monastery to visit a barren place where I tried to meditate. It is a secluded grotto, hidden from view, and sound comes strangely to it. By the time I understood what I heard, it was too late. I could not stop it. Nor could I save any of my brethren."
He had tried, though. He had rushed nearly to his own death, and all to no avail. The last of his fellow students were executed without explanation or mercy. And he could do nothing but watch. And hide.
"After the soldiers left, I found the abbot and these scrolls. He told me his sister's name, asking me to..." Zou Tun paused, rephrasing his words to maintain appearances. After all, no woman could hold power. Such was unnatural. And so he could not suggest that Mr. Tan's wife was so bizarre a creature.
"The abbot said his sister knew the great leader of a secret religious sect—Shi Po. To honor my teacher's last request, I have taken the burden of delivering these texts to this great leader."
Mr. Tan simply shook his head. "I know nothing of these things, but perhaps my wife can assist."
It was an obvious lie, but a necessary one. Zou Tun nodded, his task complete. But before he could stand, the unheard-of occurred. Before he could do more than press his hands to his knees to rise, the wife of the house emerged from behind her screen.
She was a small woman with an imposing presence. Her hair was pressed in the Manchurian style: wrapped around a slim board that lay flat upon her head. Fresh flowers adorned the board, chrysanthemum and lotus, each costing a fortune at this time of year. Pearls dripped from her ears, and a single red dot graced her lower lip. Though dressed in the height of female fashion, to Zou Tun's mind Shi Po appeared more masculine dragon than feminine tigress, with a hardened skin rather than a soft, womanly heart.
And yet he could not deny her beauty. Indeed, she was as youthful as the morning dew and as magnificent as the evening sunset.
He bowed without thought, acknowledging her as he would his own abbot.
"You were with my brother when he died?" she asked. Her voice was soft, a sensuous whisper that skated across his skin. And yet her words brought a chill rather than the warmth they should have.
"I could not save him," he replied, his gaze seeking the floor in shame. The soldiers believed the abbot a leader of insurgents so did not grant him a quick, easy death. Instead, the great man was left to die slowly—painfully—choking on his own fluids.
"You could have taken these scrolls," she continued. "Set up your own school. That is the normal way of such things, is it not?"
It was. But he could not. "I am... not worthy." He was also expected back in Peking, though he was delaying his return as long as possible.
Then she stunned him by touching him. She reached out and lifted his chin with long nails that scratched. His gaze flew to hers, and he remained frozen in shock at her unwomanly behavior. And yet, how many times had Abbot Tseng done just this? How many times had he scrutinized Zou Tun and found him wanting?
Many times. And once more such was done by his sister. After a long, hard breath, Shi Po released Zou Tun's chin, turning away in disgust. "No," she spoke with angry disdain, "you are not worthy."
Zou Tun bristled. He was a Manchurian prince, one of the most likely heirs to the Dragon throne. How dare a woman pronounce him unworthy of anything? She was unworthy of tying his boots...
His thoughts spun away into silence. Zou Tun recognized the childish rantings of pride. For all that this Tigress was a woman, she had the power and strength of her brother, the abbot and mentor Zou Tun had cherished. Her disdain was not to be taken lightly.
But before he could phrase a question, the Tigress spoke again, her voice clipped and hard. "Do you wish to become worthy?"
Zou Tun froze, his heart trembling inside his chest. He could not deny the longing her words produced. To study the sacred texts. To continue his quest for enlightenment, even immortality. Such was a temptation that tormented him night and day.
But he was a Manchurian prince. Such things were denied him at a time when China was threatened by enemies within and beyond her borders. Zou Tun could not indulge fantasies. No more than a woman could choose her own fate.
And yet, looking at Shi Po as she stood before him, he could well imagine that anything was possible. That a woman could lead a religion. And that he, a lost Manchurian prince, could find peace.
But it was not possible, and so he shook his head. "I have performed my duty to my teacher..." he began.
"Your duty is to learn, and yet you turn away like a frightened child." She stepped close to him, her head bowed in the traditional position of a respectful, subordinate woman. But there was nothing submissive in her attitude. Indeed, because he was still seated, she was staring down at him as if he were a weevil in a rice bowl.
Slowly he stood, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Do you seek to instruct me, woman?"
"I seek to enlighten you, monk." Then she shook her head, stepping away from him as she would a muddy path. "I cannot discharge your task, monk. I know nothing of this Tigress Shi Po."
Zou Tun jerked forward, his hands clenching into fists. If she would not accept the scrolls, honor demanded that he continue to search for the Tigress who was right here. Who must accept the scroll in order for his task to be complete.
With effort, he relaxed and controlled his temper. "If you do not assist me," he pressed, "I cannot even discharge my task. I will be dishonored."
She simply shrugged, not bothering to look at him. Then she turned, her eyes narrowing as she pinned him with her regard. "You have learned the yang fire from my brother. Who will teach you of the yin?"
Yin. He knew she referred to the female power, the essence of femininity that must be balanced in every soul—man's or woman's—before one could reach enlightenment. Could it be that she had already seen his lack, understood why his training had faltered?
Impossible. This was a woman. And yet, who better than a woman to see a deficiency of yin?
"I must discharge my task," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. In truth, there was no reason for his urgency. His father would quickly point out that honor demanded he return home, not remain with some woman in unnatural study of obscene rituals—for wasn't that the essence of this Tigress religion?
He didn't know. And yet, could he refuse such an opportunity—to study with a woman who had trained two immortals? For that was what the abbott had said: His sister, the Tigress Shi Po, had trained two immortals who had since departed for their heavenly realm. Who better to lead Zou Tun on the path to immortality than one who had already taught others? Even if she was a woman.
Shi Po moved to Zou Tun's side, her voice a whisper. "Do you wish to learn, monk?"
"Yes." He answered with the truth because that was how one always answered a teacher.
"Then you must stay."
He trembled; he could not help it. Imperial pressure to return was very great. "How long?" he whispered.
He knew better than to ask; enlightenment c
ame when it would, when the heart and mind were ready. But mostly enlightenment came when one opened one's eyes to the truth. And even the great Tigress Shi Po could not say when a man would be ready to do that. Her answer was as predictable as it was surprising:
"As long as your stamina holds out."
He nodded, puzzling through the different meanings of her words. He had learned a little of the Tigress religion from his abbot. Where the Shaolin used celibacy and strict physical disciplines to smooth the path to immortality, the Tigresses used sexuality in a riotous, indulgent chaotic quest for the divine. Though how such a thing was possible, he could not fathom. He would learn, he supposed.
The thought drew a predictable response from him: His dragon, the organ between his legs, poked up its head.
Before joining the Shiyu monastery, he had entered into the bedroom battleground with relish. The idea of doing so again—and in the name of enlightenment—woke the lascivious side of his nature.
"One more thing," added Shi Po as she stepped back behind her screen. "You have brought a white barbarian to learn from me. She will be your partner."
Zou Tun's eyes shot up, anger whipping through him. "Do you seek to shame me?" he snarled.
To the side, Mr. Tan reacted for the first time since his wife's entrance. He growled low in his throat, his eyes narrowing significantly. But there was no other response, for Shi Po had disappeared behind her screen.
Mr. Tan's demeanor changed and he began to apologize, stammering as he tried to explain. "I am sure, sir, that she did not... I mean, she cannot know... She does not expect—"
"Cease," Zou Tun said, his voice low and heavy. "She can and does." Then, when the man obviously did not understand, he explained, "She wishes to test me, Mr. Tan. If I am a true seeker, I will take what knowledge I can—even from a white barbarian."
Mr. Tan nodded, albeit slowly and with a severe frown. Zou Tun could not tell if the man understood the rest of Shi Po's intent, the oldest and most powerful of court practices: blackmail.
No, the Tigress religion was not approved by the imperial court. If Zou Tun revealed the nature of Shi Po's practice, if he suggested it was immoral in any way or brought unwanted imperial attention to the Tan household, Shi Po would reveal that he had studied with her. And not only that he had studied with her, but that he had performed strange rites with a ghost barbarian as well.
Practicing with a Chinese woman might be forgiven, especially as he was a Manchurian prince. But not even the emperor himself could ignore relations with a barbarian woman. If revealed, Zou Tun would be killed—if he was lucky. Other, more gruesome possibilities existed, especially if he was left alive as an example to others.
His path was set. Especially since his bringing the white woman here was already enough to damn him. Shi Po could see him killed for that alone. So, honor and enlightenment aside, Zou Tun would study with the barbarian woman. It was that, or be revealed as a deviant traitor and die.
1 February, 1896
Dearest Kang Zou,
New Year's has come and gone, and you have not returned home. No celebration could lighten my spirit without your presence. Worse still, Father searches diligently for my bridegroom, but he delays in the hope that you can assist him. Pray, brother, can you not cease your studies for the short time it would take to visit us?
Your devoted sister,
Wen Ji
~
Decoded translation:
Son—
Time is slipping away and I grow impatient. Delays are costly, and I am anxious to take your report to the emperor. Can you give me an answer soon?
Your father,
General Kang
10 February, 1896
My sweet sister, Wen Ji,
The air warms, and I have begun to think of your garden. The mountain air is still cold, but I sense the coming spring. It teases me, just out of reach, and yesterday I pricked my finger on a thorn. Still, I know there will be fruit soon. And flowers. And much rejoicing. But not yet.
As for the matter of your bridegroom, Father has always been most intelligent in his choices. Trust him, my sister. You will be well married soon enough.
Your diligent brother,
Kang Zou
~
Decoded translation:
Dearest Father,
I have not forgotten my duties to you. I am nearing the conspirators, but they are suspicious and dangerous. I cannot move too quickly. As for our family fortunes, my father, you have always been most canny. Surely there is another path to the emperor's favor? All cannot depend exclusively on me.
Your diligent son,
Zou Tun
When the gale-force winds come, it is always the big tall trees that get blown over, while the pliant little grass just sways back and forth. That weakness overcomes strength seems obvious.
—Lao Tzu
Chapter 3
Joanna opened her eyes slowly, her body cold, her mind dull. The first thing she saw was wood. A wall. An unfamiliar wall of dark wood right next to her face. She was lying on a lumpy pallet with coarse sheets and a thick blanket that had slipped below her shoulder. That was why she was cold—because nothing covered her shoulder.
Nothing covered her bare shoulder. In fact, her entire body was bare. Naked. Beneath the sheet and blanket she was completely unclothed.
And her throat hurt like the very devil. She tried to swallow, but that produced a soft mewl of pain. Or it should have been a mewl of pain, but it came out as a kind of gurgle that scraped with hot needles against her throat. Abruptly all her breath stopped. She cut it off but the pain lingered, a low burning that made her close her eyes again. Whatever had happened to her was not in the least bit pleasant, and she wanted it all to go away.
It didn't, of course. Instead of disappearing, her memories began to return. One by one they lined up for her perusal despite all her efforts at dismissal. Why couldn't she wait just a moment longer before dealing with what had happened to her?
She remembered the fight with her father. She remembered feeling trapped like a bird in a gilded cage and not wanting to sing at all. So she'd gone for a ride—a wild one to vent her anger. She'd been looking for revolutionaries with a strange thought to join them. Well, not a strange thought. She had been thinking of such ever since reading the letters of several American revolutionaries. Wouldn't it be nice to be part of a movement like that—to help the tide of freedom overwhelm a country?
So she'd gone looking for the people the English called Boxers, whose name actually was the Fists of Righteous Harmony. Then...
It all came rushing back: Octavia's wrenched shoulder. The revolutionaries who weren't revolutionaries at all, at least not how she thought of them. They had acted more like bandits. They had—
She leapt right over that part, to her rescuer: the tall Chinese man with hands as fast as lightning. She remembered him being handsome as well, his eyes hypnotizing. And his touch had been gentle as a summer's breeze on her shoulder. And on Octavia's as well. She remembered his voice as... as haughty and arid as a desert wind. And yet, the thought of him warmed her. Not in a tender way, but heating her blood as she recalled his demand that she be whipped!
She began to shift on the bed, intending to sit up. Then the rest of her memories intruded. Her discussion with him on the walk back to Shanghai. And her deductions: The man was a prince, an heir to the imperial throne.
And he had hit her!
She sat bolt upright, alarm crackling through her. Pain tightened her throat, cutting off her breath. He had hit her, and she had stopped breathing! Just like now, she had gasped and sputtered and choked until she'd died.
She stilled. She breathed in light pants, only gradually realizing her hands were on her throat. She hadn't died, she told herself. She had lost consciousness. And she would lose consciousness again if she didn't control herself. The flesh beneath her fingers felt hot and swollen, but not bloody. Perhaps she was only bruised. She had to remain calm.
But she couldn't breathe! She closed her eyes, focusing. But her heart was pounding and she had to breathe! She inhaled, trying to calm herself, but succeeded only in creating more pain, more panic as the bite of cold air clawed at her throat.
A male voice sounded in her ear. Soft, low, and in Chinese, it came to her mind as so much gibberish. Her entire focus was on her throat, on breathing slowly and quietly. But, God, the pain was unbearable!
Then she felt a hand. Warm and large, it touched her shoulder and infused heat throughout her body. It calmed her racing heart but did little to soothe her throat. Or perhaps it did because the pain began to fade a little. And with the easing pain, the tightening in her chest loosened. Her shoulders dropped a little, and air flowed through her raw throat. Slowly, like water through a narrow, dirty tube. But it flowed.
"You must not panic or you will harm yourself further."
This time she could translate the Chinese words. So she nodded her understanding, even as the man's voice continued.
"I have taken away your voice but not your life. If you struggle, that will only make things worse. You could cause enough swelling to suffocate yourself. If you wish to live, you must remain calm."
She whimpered in frustration, and pain lanced through her. No sounds, she told herself. No sounds at all—or she'd die for sure.
Again the man spoke, the ring of authority hardening his tone. "Do not use your throat. Do you understand me, barbarian? It could kill you. You must remain calm or you will d—"
She whipped around, flattening her hand against his mouth. Didn't he understand that threatening her life did not induce calm? If he would just be silent for a moment, she could regain control of herself. If he would just stop talking, if the pain would just ease up a bit, if she could just close her eyes in silence for a moment...
The Way of the Tigress 1-4 Page 34