The king frowned. The locals had reported smelling blood.
He strained his ears, but heard only the wind.
Still sleeping, its steady breaths soughed through the wreaths of mist, parting them slightly. And now a footprint appeared in the soil, a few yards away to his right. He had a moment's clear vision before it was obscured again by the whirling grey. And in that fleeting vista he could just make out another one right before it, next to the gnarled roots of an old birch, before the trail faded into shadow. The king took a few wary strides forward.
The print was narrow like a bird’s, but with five long, knobbly toes, segmented by two joints. Yet instead of claws and a short hind toe for gripping, it had only a small, round heel making a deeper indent in the soil. The king exhaled a short breath, surprised. He had thought that he had long exhausted all this mountain had to offer, but what sort of creature was this? It looked like nothing he had ever seen.
The sweet, iron tang of blood grew stronger in his nose, and try as he might he could not shake it off.
Then the mist shifted, parted a little more. Under the cadaverous glow of the waxen moon he could just make out large smears of black on the ground. He put a finger to one of them and sniffed, thoughtfully; then his eyes gleamed.
The animal, judging by its footprint, was probably no predator, so it must have been injured. Yet what nocturnal predator here would tackle an animal of this size?
The king rose to follow the trail.
The scent of blood drew him, hot and biting, fazing his senses so he knew not when it attacked.
It tore suddenly through his neck, an excruciating pain; yelling, arms flailing, he reached up and behind to grab his attacker, but his fingers grasped only air. With wild amazement he swung around, heart pumping, eyes darting, but —
Nothing.
The only sign that his attacker had left of its presence was a wound the size of a child’s fist, a chunk of flesh ripped out between his neck and shoulder. Curse it, the beast was fast. Backing up against a tree to prevent another surprise attack from the rear, the king suppressed a wince as he lifted his bow, straining his eyes to scan the murky canopy.
At the corner of his eye, a flash of white. Then another flame of agony cleaved his arm and through the crimson haze that clogged his vision he heard the sound of his own tearing flesh. The next split second was choked in sheer terror.
Lost in a labyrinth of mist he had known not whether his eyes were open or shut, had known only that their grey wet fingers probed every orifice of his body and nauseatingly swirled and smothered him; he was struggling for breath, gasping, when suddenly the fingers parted, and the whirling interstices of black between them merged.
The king lurched back in the extremity of his horror.
Two gaping black holes howled before him with the terrible, empty voice of the wind—now rushing towards him—now pulling him under—now sucking him into their ardent, vertiginous depths—when out of this endless void suddenly there reared another flash of white! The king convulsed; and amid the spray of his own blood he glimpsed a set of leering, bone-white teeth.
And when, at last, the king lay on the ground, numb and dribbling, his head pounding, then out of the mist there came softly, almost lovingly, the lightest touch. Featherlight it glazed the skin of his cheek, like the tickle of a breath after a kiss; and the same heavy, mineral tang flooded his nose again, daubed with flowers, like summer fields gently soaked in blood.
The king’s jaws unhinged in a silent scream.
When dawn broke its golden yolk on the bed of leaves beneath him, the king staggered up, clutching his head. He groaned; his headache was back, the headache he had suffered unceasingly since as far back as he could remember. His mind was desperate, searching, reaching, until at last he stumbled out of the shadowed foliage into the verdant arbour where the temple stood, softly dappled in its cushion of peonies. And there, his salvation; there she was under that wildflower shade, skin plush as rosebuds and voice sweet as tender shoots, humming as she prepared his breakfast.
A strange warmth rose in his chest, and he strode forward to pick her up, crushing her in a fervent hug.
Anxiously she cried for him to release her; which eventually he did, hesitating an eternity before setting her down, as if she might evaporate once her feet touched the earth. But she only floated lightly before him like a bubble, and his dream remained whole.
“Are you well now, my king?” she fretted. “When I woke to find you gone, I rushed out and”—she waved her hand vaguely in the direction whence he had come—“there you were, with blood all over—I could not move you—” She swallowed, blinking back tears. "What happened?"
His shoulder and arm throbbed. He shook his head, crushed his face in her neck, letting her fresh, floral fragrance wash over him like balm. It worked like magic; already his headache was fading, leaving nothing but a senseless blank space over which the vision of her beauty floated, soothing, mending, and her small hands stroking his back wove their charms till slowly he felt himself relax.
His eyes ate her hungrily, clung to her feverishly as she checked his bandages and helped him don his robes. How she was staring, intrigued, at the those symbols of kingship embroidered over his collar, black upon black shot through with gold thread, roaring fire; how her fingers skittered with fear and fascination over those dragon-flames fanning wide across his chest; how her dark eyes reflected his own, swimming in a face so delectably curved, so slender, so breakable, like a rare porcelain vase! And now the king's thoughts raced to the memory of the night before—oh how desperately he longed to relive that memory, when beneath the gossamer layer of her lips had risen a wellspring of blood, and his own blood had surged to the thin vital winds of her greater fragility!
Shyly, she set a simple stone bowl down before him, eyelashes fanning downwards as a faint pink flush rose in her cheeks. He took her hand and smiled, prepared to love whatever she had given him.
His bowl was filled with greens, festooned with other vibrant splashes of colour. Mandarines, gilded chrysanthemums and cloud-white peonies with a delicate rose blush sat daintily enthroned on an ambrosial bed of leaves, lightly drizzled with a nectarine peach sauce.
“It looks heavenly,” he assured her, and took a bit bite. Melting gobbets of peach burst in his mouth—puffs of sun-shot mist, buried among the leaves. His headache was all gone now. Chewing, he added in a muffled voice, “Tastes heavenly too.”
She had been watching him anxiously, and now she relaxed with a small laugh, sliding into the stone stool opposite him.
“You haven’t finished your story,” he reminded her as he ate, chomping on his salad like a wolf. He ran his tongue over the peaches’ velvet skin, luxuriating in that fine layer of fuzz between him and the fruit’s honeyed flesh.
Her master had not noticed her immediately. Why would he? In that house, there were only women. Men would visit, but were not allowed to stay. He kept his women like he kept his gardens, and walked through them the same way too.
That night, her master had come to accompany her lady dowager out on their regular stroll. Like his mother, her master liked to be out admiring the gardens—the beautiful little forests with their cultured trees, and tiny waterfalls, all perfect replicas of Nature wrought neat and petite under his gardeners’ hands. With her head bowed the servants’ way, she had trailed behind them together with the rest of their entourage, carrying her instrument in her arms. Her master’s voice had drifted back to her, a deep rich baritone; and even though he spoke little and softly, and spoke only pleasantries, still she heard every word. Captivated, she had dissected them as a connoisseur would, struggling to sieve from them all she could about him who had become her god—his needs, fears and longings, all of that which fuelled his soul and powered his acts.
At that, the king felt a spark of jealousy—but also, fearfully, of kinship. He thought he felt the same way for her. White Peony, he called her in his mind, reaching for her, White Peony. But h
e kept her name to himself and spoke it not out loud, confounded by an inexplicable fear, and telling himself that he did not wish to disrupt her story.
At a pavilion they had rested for a while, her master and her lady dowager sitting themselves down and motioning for tea to be served. At a word from her lady she had set up her instrument on a low table, facing them. Behind her, she deliberately placed the backdrop of the pond. That night its smooth surface was an ornate mirror, with clusters of pearl-pink water lilies dotting the darkly shimmering facade, like glowing celestial bodies strewn across a violet night; spinning slowly around their own axes, lost in their own worlds.
And there, even as the sighing willows shivered and hid from the sight of their own reflections, the girl, usually so shy, suddenly shone. Seeing herself through her idol’s eyes, she felt as if she were lifted up—not out of, but into herself. The timbre of her life was clear as the water and melodious, leaping up like koi to bear her on its wings, giving her leave to weave like zephyrs through the voiceless trees. So she played and sang, her eyes on her zither, her heart on him.
When her last note hung, trembling, like a globe of dew suspended before it falls and fades forever from the air, the king nodded his approval and asked for her name. Heart soaring, she kept eyes down, though every muscle quivered and she yearned to look up at his face, to see the sun there. He had liked her song; he had heard her soul! “Caia,” she had said, blushing apple-red. But three days later her master had come to visit his mother again, and she could tell by the way his eyes had glazed over her that already he had forgotten her name.
Caia. The king mused. So that was her name. The name seemed to ring a bell, distant and absonant. He decided he did not like it. "White Peony" was a better fit, polished and more flattering.
His attention drifted back toward his meal. Slowly he chewed, taking his time to savour it now that his morning hunger pangs had abated. There seemed to be something missing—a taste. The meal was too light, too insubstantial; it felt incomplete.
“White Peony, we need meat.”
He studied her face carefully when he said that, hopeful, yearning. Then his heart lifted; relief and gratification washed over him when she lowered her eyes, unresisting, pulled into the name he had given her.
“Yes,” he continued, suddenly ebullient. Agreeing with himself, he nodded as he munched. “Pork, maybe, or beef. Something to fill the stomach.”
She bowed. “Yes, of course. A man must have his meat.” Then she looked up at him, a quick helpless glance, before her lashes flitted down again. “But, my king, I cannot hunt.”
Of course! How could he have been so insensitive?
“I’ll hunt for you,” he declared, “but after I return. First I must slay her, the beast.” Filled suddenly with a venturous vigour, the king stood up. “Will you lead me to its lair?”
Her lip trembled. “Must you go?”
He comforted her, promising to return. His heart soared. She feared for him; he was important to her.
“Stay,” she pleaded. “Just a little longer.”
The king hesitated, but her imploring eyes drew him. She wanted, needed him. Just one more day, he supposed, would hardly make a difference.
Flying out with her sheer white skirts glowing pale red in the setting sun, White Peony greeted him as he returned with two carcasses slung over his shoulders. Her eyes sparkled when she saw them, accompanied by little exclamations of surprise and awe. He laughed jubilantly, swooping her up for a kiss.
She whipped up a splendid meal that evening, complemented with fine wine that he had stored in the temple for whenever the royal family came to visit their ancestors. Between them they finished two whole pots. He was surprised that such a small body could hold so much wine, almost as much as a man. Still, in the end he made sure she drank less than him.
After that, full and satisfied, eyelids heavy with contentment, they lay down once again in their silken bed. At his urging, she continued her tale.
Caia, she had been called, but then no longer. “What happened?” the king asked. White Peony smiled. Well, she had married him.
Perhaps it had been the subtle change in her music, or perhaps the dowager was simply an observant lady, but it was not long before she had opened her mouth and for once uttered more than the few imperatives that typically formed the bulk of her dialogues with the servants.
“You love him,” she had said. It had been an autumn evening, after her favourite servant girl had sung her plaintive song. Caia’s eyes had flown up in panic, caught like wild deer; but the old lady’s face had not been accusing, merely impassive. The dowager had sipped her tea, the long, curved nail sheaths on her last two fingers glittering with golden jewels, like pale slivers of sun, then she had set down her cup and sighed. “When a woman loves a man, what can she do but give herself to him?" Her fingers had wistfully curved up to lightly stroke the dragons woven on her sleeve. "Which is better—love, or power?" At that, a shadow had crossed her face. "Perhaps you think a powerful woman is a lonely one," she had said quietly, and then she had looked up, dark eyes glimmering. "So a woman must give of herself, all of herself, and only then will he notice her, and cherish her like the rarest jade.” The white-haired dowager had contemplated her, and though her smooth face had remained aloof and dispassionate in her usual frigid mask, even then her eyes had been slightly pitying.
“I wish you luck,” she had said, “One day, perhaps, he may find his tongue more finely tuned, to taste your devotion in the broths you cook for him.”
“I do,” the king declared, his wine-infused voice a little too loud. A rough hand tightened on her shoulder. “I taste it, even if he does not.” He sounded like a petulant boy now, wanting to prove his point.
She laughed and kissed his cheek. “I know.” Her breath was sweet as lilies, her laughter like the jewelled tassels that swayed, glittering, from his imperial crown. He wished that instead of it he could take her to court with him every morning.
He wanted to ask if she tasted his devotion too, but she had already carried on with her tale.
The dowager’s words had rung in her mind, and she had decided to do as advised. She would give herself, then, all of herself. Was self-sacrifice not, after all, the greatest love? She saw herself as a moth drawn to a flame, willing to die for the object of its affections.
Since the broths she prepared every meal for him were the only means by which she could reach him, they became the altar on which she sacrificed herself.
Initially, she dithered over the knife for ages. Which part of herself she should pick first? Should she give him a finger, like a caress, or a little piece of her upper lip, like a kiss? Eventually, she decided to cut herself at a spot where the gash would not be seen: the soft bit of flesh on the upper forearm, right below the inner elbow’s crease. She felt a pang of regret—she had always imagined him kissing her there, on the tender inside of her arm, from her wrist fluttering up to her elbow.
A couple of slices, dropped into his soup and double-boiled. It had turned his soup a thick, rich brown, effusing a scent of beef, but stronger.
With needle and thread she had stitched up her wound; then, heart in her mouth, served herself up in his gold-gilt, dragon-embossed bowl.
The king was drowsy, his chest slowly rising and falling. It was like the movement of the seabed, or of the earth’s plates as they sundered and merged, causing islands to cleave, and new lands to form.
His fingers absently stroked his lover’s ear. So delicately shaped, he thought. He wanted to nibble it, nuzzle at it. It reminded him of a fresh pink petal of the morning lotus, captured just as it blooms.
White Peony’s words washed over him, and he drifted between dreams, both his and hers. He liked the warm weight of her head when she lay on him like this. Love wrapped him as comfortably as a cloud. She rested one cheek like a moth’s wing against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat.
How steady it was. How speciously constant. Her fingers trailed
the dragons on his chest, following their sinuous curves, coiled over his heart.
A scent like beef, only stronger. Standing behind the curtains to the back door of his study, the young master's devoted broth-keeper had watched with bated breath as her master had lifted his lotus-shaped bowl to his chin, his eyes still fixed, preoccupied, on his work. His spoon had clinked serenely against the edge of its bowl as he had brought it towards his lips, and gently blown.
At his breath its fragrance had wafted, strong and flavourful, poignant as a song made flesh. Had he liked it?
His head had jerked up, his eyes torn clear of his work. “Summon the servant who cooked this soup,” he had ordered, “I must reward her.”
“So that was how you married him,” said the king, “By hurting yourself.” Once again he felt the stirrings of jealousy; not sharp as needles, like before, but dull and black like the blunt edge of a blade, a dismal quicksand of wine-cast shadow. “You should not have done that, White Peony.” Ardently he kissed her forearm, where she had torn out her flesh. It was whole now; she had healed well. “You are mine now, White Peony, mine, and you must not do that again.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, my king.”
He nodded. “Good girl.” He wanted her to continue, but sleep was already casting a pall over his mind. He bid her finish her story the next day, once his head was clear.
The following day, however, they woke up late. She did not feel too well, mumbling in a frangible voice that her head hurt; so as soon as he had washed the last dregs of wine from his eyes he left her to rest in bed while he went to hunt, thinking that some robust meat would do her good. She was too pale, he decided, almost like a ghost.
It was not long before he returned with a wild boar, its black body a mantle draped over his shoulders, its twin tusks curved like adorning rings. Its fatty flesh promised to return the colour to her cheeks. He chopped it up in pieces then simmered it over a flame, waiting patiently for hours till the broth turned white from the bone. Then, a little hesitantly, the king took a sip of the first dish he had cooked with his own hands.
9 Tales From Elsewhere 7 Page 8
