The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  "In the name of Christian charity," she continued, "we cannot turn him out on the street."

  Thomas shifted anxiously. "A resolution may take some time. He could be housed with you for weeks. Maybe months."

  Jacob restrained a groan. These people would dicker for days on end! "No!" he snapped. He turned his glare on Thomas. "No, it will be accomplished as soon as possible. Within the week."

  Both solicitors widened their eyes with shock. "Sir," they cried in unison. "You do not understand the nature—"

  "I agree," inserted Christopher coldly. "A week, no more. I wish to be wed and done with this miscreant."

  The lawyers began to wheedle, and Jacob's vision whitened at the edges as flashes of pain became more frequent, more insistent. And with the pain came anger, fury. Soon he would step into unreasoning violence. He had to leave before his control broke. He grabbed his bride's arm without being careful of his grip. He only recalled his strength when she cried out.

  "My apologies," he murmured, softening his grip as quickly as he could. "Tell me where is your home."

  Her eyes narrowed on his face. What did she see? Did she remember him? Thankfully, she didn't ask questions. "Straight up the lane. It is some distance—"

  "My thanks." He turned and strode back up the aisle past everyone. He heard their gasps behind him, but didn't care. Would Zhi Min follow, he wondered. And Mei Li? Of course they would. But why was the aisle so damn long?

  The doors were heavy, but he could push them open well enough. Bloody hell, the sunlight was bright. Not so bright really, but the pain was sinking its claws into his breath. Each inhalation cut brutally at his lungs. Was it the cold air? Yes, of course it was. Dry, cold air like bones, and his chest and arm were still exposed because he hadn't adjusted his robes. But he was outside. No more echoes.

  Nausea churned in his gut. He would vomit soon. He had to reach for the Drastic Act. Lord, they would think him an idiot. He didn't care. Was it better to be an idiot or a vomit­ing monk? Maybe both? No, vomit. . . that was worse.

  Stop the pain now! Stop the thoughts!

  As best he could, he scanned the area. People loitered there. Women, men—all were staring at him with open-mouthed shock. Maybe one of them knew who had killed his family. There! What he needed was there! But in front of everybody?

  He stumbled forward, headed straight for the stone trough. Clothes! Keep the clothes dry!

  His hands shook as he whipped his robe back. Deep breath. Take a deep breath. Ignore the pain. He plunged his head down into the horse trough.

  The cold splintered through his consciousness, obliterating everything. The pain, his thoughts, even the image of his bride-to-be, all was lost in a seizing moment of total and ab­solute shock. He heard only the gurgle of muffled sound. He tasted brackish water. And he felt...

  Silence.

  Ahhhh. The fury slipped away. Frozen acceptance. It lasted only a split second, but it was so perfect in its silence. Soon his head would pound and his lungs scream. Soon his body would rebel and he would have to withdraw into a colder re­ality, a more-bitter present. But for this suspended moment, all was still.

  He held his breath as long as he could, but already it was too late—he needed to breathe! Without meaning to, he shifted the placement of his head and banged it on the back of the stone trough. Pain returned with a blistering heat. How was he such a clumsy idiot? Careful! Come out care­fully. Try to preserve some dignity.

  Gingerly, he pulled his head out of the water, then stood dripping and blind against the weak English sun. He felt a cloth pressed to his head, delicately patted by tiny hands. Mei Li, of course. Using the stone for support, he dropped to his knees before his pretend servant and allowed her to dry him off. She had done this for him before, and he focused com­pletely on her tiny movements, each light press of her finger­tips, each tiny explosion of pain where she touched. It was perfect—or as perfect as such a thing could be—and he lost himself in the present pain. Soon, when she was done, he would have relief. Soon.

  Now. He allowed the cold air to fill his lungs. A full breath taken with ease. The pain had receded enough for him to function.

  "The English think you are crazy," Zhi Min said in Chi­nese, his tone casual. Jacob started, ashamed that he hadn't re­alized his friend had joined him on his left side. None of the masters at the temple were ever startled. Had he just betrayed himself? Would Zhi Min notice? Of course Zhi Min no­ticed. He noticed everything! But Jacob's body was frozen statue still, so maybe not. Still, the failure chipped away at his calm and his answer came out curter than he intended.

  "Peasants always think the enlightened are crazy".

  He heard Zhi Min lean against the stone trough. "At first I thought it was something all English did—plunge their heads in freezing water—but these people stared at you then whis­pered like fishwives. So . . . now I believe it was you all along. You are crazy."

  Jacob refused to be baited. His body was still reacting to the cold; his belly quivered, his muscles jumped. But his mind was blessedly quiet, and so he could respond in a calm, emo­tionless tone.

  "Perhaps I am crazy." He opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. A smile and a bow of thanks to Mei Li, then another full breath, and his mind centered on one thought: "I am only sane at the temple. I must return there soon."

  His friend tilted his head, dark eyes reflecting the sunlight with a surprising brightness. "You plunge your head in water there, too." Then he shrugged. "No matter. I think I like you better crazy."

  Jacob smiled. No, he corrected himself, he was not Jacob. He was Jie Ke. And as Jie Ke, he could easily punch his friend in the shoulder. "That is because you enjoy studying disease."

  Zhi Min blocked the blow with a casual movement of his hand. If this had been ten years ago, they would quickly have descended into combat, testing each other's skills and speed. But at this moment they were men with a task, so Jie Ke sim­ply grabbed his pack. His head was beginning to throb again, though the pain was manageable and his thoughts relatively quiet. Plus, they were outdoors and Zhi Min was here to dis­tract him, so all was well—or as well as it could be in England.

  "She said her home was up this road a long way," Jie Ke said.

  Zhi Min sighed as they began walking. "You couldn't ask for a horse? This pack is heavy."

  "Not if I wanted to live. My uncle wishes me at the bot­tom of the ocean, and I was in no condition to fight them all." It was a he. If they had attacked him when his head pounded, he would have killed them all. He would not have been able to stop himself. He paused a moment, remember­ing each of their faces in turn. Evelyn's lingered longest. Nana's image appeared, and was immediately pushed away as too confusing.

  "None of them remember me," he said.

  "Your lawyer friend does."

  "But my family doesn't." He tried to shrug it off. He tried to remind himself that Buddha had no family except everyone and no one. But for all his strength of will, Jie Ke still could not repress a wave of sadness.

  "The grandmother remembers," his friend offered.

  Jie Ke shook his head. "She sees my grandfather, not me."

  "Such is the way with the old. As they gain wisdom, they see all time as one." He turned to look his friend in the eye. "That is enlightenment, not error."

  Jie Ke grimaced. "This is the rambling of an old woman. It means nothing." He said the words, even tried to believe them, but in his heart he knew something else was at work. Some­thing that made him despise his grandmother for no reason at all. Maybe she knew who had killed his family. Maybe she . . .

  He sneezed. Pain banged through his forehead, dull but excruciatingly heavy. So he resolutely blanked his thoughts and his feelings. No thoughts, no emotion, and no ties—no speculation!—meant no pain. He would be a Buddha and lift himself away from all pain.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was fully present in that moment without attachment to anything. He could walk be­side his friend, look at the houses and th
e shops along the lane, and not think of anything beyond how different they appeared from those in China. He blanked his mind to the stares and whispers that followed them, and as usual, his friend kept up a running list of questions.

  "Why is your temple so gray? Stone and wood with little color."

  "Why do the men wear clothing so tight that they cannot breathe? And their pants—do they not hurt the ability to breed?"

  "What kind of roof is that? What advantage does it give?"

  Jie Ke did not know the answers to his friend's questions. He never did. He was trying to blank his thoughts, not add to them, and yet Zhi Min continued.

  "Why are the women's dresses cut so low on their chests? Does that make feeding babies easier?"

  Jie Ke spun around, irrational fury suddenly bursting from him. "Shut up! Shut up! You are ridiculous, asking me all this!"

  Zhi Min simply smiled, his satisfaction clear. It took a mo­ment for Jie Ke to realize that once again his friend had bested him. Once again, he had pushed Jie Ke to lose all con­trol while Zhi Min maintained a calm, peaceful presence. Jie Ke turned around and stomped forward, a single curse on his Ups. "You! You are pig snot."

  Zhi Min laughed, as he always did when he won. But a moment later, he started up again. "I really do want to know if the men's clothing damages their ability to create babies. Do you think your church is so dark because your men's pri­vates cannot breathe? Why give color to something when you can't inhale for fear of squeezing yourself to death? And the women . . ."

  Jie Ke let the questions flow past him like water streaming down a mountain. In this way, he walked without pain, with­out anger, without violence. And if he tried very hard, he would stay in this peaceful place until he could return to the warmth of China.

  Jie Ke was halfway up the mountain. His body rested in the cross-legged lotus form, his back was just starting to ache, but his mind was resolutely climbing the mountain to Heaven where all his earthly cares would cease. His neck tensed and pain lanced from the inside of one shoulder blade down across his middle back. He breathed into it and pushed the awareness away. His mind needed to be blank, empty . . . holy.

  I am as still as a mountain. I am the mountain that I scale.

  He strained. He reached. Almost. . .

  "Goodness gracious!"

  Someone had entered the room. Jie Ke did not open his eyes. This was a holy task and the external world was of no relevance.

  He heard a rustle as the nameless woman left. English women had no understanding of how to be silent. Worse, she forgot to shut the door. That left space for lots of other sounds and more gawkers to interfere with his meditation. But, of course, that was of no relevance. He was climbing the mountain. He should be able to meditate in the middle of a busy marketplace.

  I am the mountain that I climb.

  "Yes, Aunt Betsy, I see him." His bride's voice blew like a hot fast wind through his mountain serenity. It took an act of will, but Jie Ke did not open his eyes. The woman's presence did not disturb him.

  "He is sitting on the harpsichord!" The older woman's voice buzzed like a wasp. If he asked her, would she tell him about his family? About how and why they died?

  "Yes, I see that." His bride-to-be had a kind voice, soothing and deeply patient. It was the type of voice the best mothers used with children: gentle, but still in control. He admired that. "Do go on and play some cards. I believe Mrs. Wilkins is most anxious to partner with you."

  "But shouldn't I stay here?" The woman's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Just in case? I mean, he's Chinese"

  I am the mountain, unaffected by the moaning wind.

  "No, he's not, Aunt Betsy. He's as white as you and I. He just. . . um . . . dresses Chinese. And sits in odd places."

  "It's a harpsichord," the wasp woman snapped. "You're supposed to play it!"

  "I know, Aunt. Let me talk to him in private."

  A gasp of horror. "But what about a chaperone? I could—"

  "I'll leave the door open. Go on. It will be fine."

  The wasp woman would just spy from the doorway, thought Jie Ke, but that didn't matter. Let them all gawk so long as they did not speak. Of course, the two women con­tinued their whispered squabble just low enough that it re­quired all his attention to catch half the words. But he wasn't supposed to be listening. He was the mountain. He was . . .

  His bride-to-be prevailed, thank Heaven! With a heavy sigh, the aunt left. Now, of course, he would have to deal with his bride. She would not know about meditation. He was lucky she understood the style in which he dressed. At least English women were given some education. He deplored that about the Chinese—how the women weren't allowed any. But then again, such things didn't matter. His path was as the mountain. No, it was to climb the mountain, to climb to Heaven where all earthly cares would cease.

  To be honest, he'd never understood how he was supposed to be the mountain and climb the mountain at the same time. Why did he not understand? The abbot had said something about that, but he couldn't remember it right now because his bride was present.

  She was here, wasn't she? Why wasn't she interrupting him? Had she left? Wouldn't he hear her breathing or the rustle her skirt? She would speak soon. She would be unable to stop herself. Then he would be annoyed with her inter­ruption.

  I am the . . . I am climbing . . . Damn it!

  He opened his eyes then nearly fell backwards from his seat. She was standing less than a foot from him, her expression completely calm, her gaze unnervingly direct—especially since it came from a woman.

  "You wish to speak to me?" His voice was curt, his hands clenched into fists. Zhi Min would say his mountain looked remarkably like a frightened mouse.

  "I am sorry if I disturbed you," she said quite pleasantly, "but yes, I would like to have a word with you if I may." She was dressed in a russet gown made of velvet. He hardly re­membered what velvet was, except that his grandmother had favored the fabric. But his grandmother had liked her dresses plain. Evelyn had flowers painted on hers, bright dots of pink buds, strong strokes of rosy petals, and a long winding vine of stems and leaves along the trim. Quite beautiful, in a purely English way. He almost reached out to touch the gar­ment, but restrained himself at the last moment. He had no interest in touching his bride, he reminded himself. He was a mountain.

  "How much money do you want?"

  He blinked and said the first thought that came to mind. "I am a monk."

  Her lips compressed into a tight line. Odd, that he liked it when that happened. It showed she was not as calm as she ap­peared. But then, as he stared, the expression became a smile. It reminded him of another time, another place long ago. In fact, it was so long ago, that he wasn't even sure of his mem­ory. Had that been her before he'd left for China? Was she the girl who'd danced in the rainstorm, a wild thing? Did she re­member—

  His thoughts were cut short as her expression became flat, almost serene. She said, "I can see that you are a monk. Your yellow robe makes that more than clear." She frowned for a moment at his naked shoulder. "Aren't you cold?"

  There was a fire in the grate, but it wasn't enough to heat the room. Still, he didn't mind the chill. "Sometimes it helps. A comfortable body leads to comfort of mind."

  She frowned at his intonation, and a tiny furrow appeared between her eyebrows. Odd, how he found that so appealing, if in a purely worldly sense. Which meant that it was of no interest of all. "Is that bad?" she asked. "Comfort of mind?"

  "Only when it leads to sleep instead of meditation."

  She nodded, as if she now understood. But then she asked, "What is meditation?"

  He opened his mouth to answer but stopped. How did one answer so sweeping a question? Words failed.

  Her expression tightened into a grimace. "That is what I thought: you don't really know."

  He started to ask what she meant, but she didn't give him the chance.

  "Christopher will fight you in the courts until we are all old and gray. The e
arl will. . . well, he will probably beat you to a bloody pulp, so I would be careful where you walk at night. Me, I am of a more practical mind."

  He straightened his spine, feeling a familiar tightening in his lower back. It was easier to ignore the noise of the outside world when the inner one was equally demanding. He started to close his eyes to better focus on the pain, but she kept him from it.

  "I want you gone."

  Her voice was low and almost pleasant. That was what snapped his eyes back open: the dichotomy between her liltingly sweet tone and her bitter words.

  "If that means paying you, then so be it, but it will be once and no more. If I see you again, I will have you put in jail. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Perfectly." He closed his eyes. The abbot had taught him this trick. Whenever the young Jacob had tried to be imperious, had demanded this thing or that, the abbot had agreed quite pleasantly, then had blithely gone on his way and completely ignored the conversation. Everything and anything that Jacob had demanded was merely the noise of wind and no more.

  "I believe fifty pounds will be adequate?"

  I am climbing the Mountain of Immortality. "Is that a large amount?" He was playing dumb. He had a general idea of exactly how much money she was offering. But money was not a monk's concern—large or small. He could not help it if she did not understand who or what he was.

  "It's a huge amount. So, we are agreed? I will get you the money by morning."

  He smiled. He would enjoy seeing her face tomorrow when she realized that her money meant nothing to him, even so large a sum as fifty pounds.

  "Do you know that you are sitting on a harpsichord?"

  He smiled without opening his eyes. "Yes."

  "Do you know what a harpsichord is?"

  He could not resist taunting her. "It is what I'm sitting on."

  Silence. Then in a soft, rather gentle voice, she spoke. "It is a musical instrument. You sit at the bench here." She waited until he opened his eyes. "And you play notes here." She hit a few keys just to make her point, then straightened and folded her arms. "Jacob would have known that."