All he could do was stare, watching the silvery trails merge into her hair.
In the sacred Shaolin texts of Lao Tzu, the master spoke of the weak overcoming the strong. Of how water in its formless, harmless state gently penetrated and overcame the most solid of barriers. So too had this woman's tears dissolved Zou Tun's iron will.
It was a message to him, her tears, that he could not conquer her resistance by force. That her non-action was indeed more powerful than his determination. And he could not continue this action without completely abandoning the Tao—the middle path—by which all monks lived.
He withdrew his hand.
"Perhaps you are not strong enough for this exercise yet," he said. He sighed, once again feeling frustration eat at him. Now seemed the perfect time to begin. She had to accept her situation. Her struggles had ceased, and she lay docile upon the bed. Now was the absolutely perfect time to begin, and yet he could not. What a weak child he had become, when the sight of a ghost woman's tears swayed him from his course! And yet, much as he railed at himself, he knew that she had vanquished him.
He would not touch her without consent. So he turned to the second scroll, resolved to begin his own exercises.
Like the text on female yin purification, the yang ritual was equally explicit. Zou Tun cringed at the thought of performing such tasks in front of a white woman, but he knew it was necessary. If they were to become partners in this training, then she would have to grow accustomed to the sight of his dragon. And since he could not purify her, he needed to begin purifying himself. Still he paused, turning to the woman to explain.
"Since we cannot begin cleansing your yin, I shall have to start on my yang. I will not touch you, as this is not for you. But it would be helpful if you do not distract me during the process. It is very complicated," he lied. In truth, it was very simple. It was merely the control of his dragon that would be difficult.
She nodded in understanding, and so he took a deep breath, steeling himself to begin his task. He stood, excruciatingly aware of her eyes upon him, and slowly stripped off all his clothing. He did not have much. His shirt was wet anyway, so it was no loss to remove its clammy fabric from his body. His socks and boots were an equal pleasure to remove, as Shanghai was warmer than the north, and his feet appreciated the gentle air.
But then it came time to pull off his pants. He heard the woman hold her breath, obviously startled by his intentions. His back was to her, but he knew how she looked. Her eyes would be wide with maidenly shock, while underneath would be a woman's sly glee. All women enjoyed seeing a man at his most vulnerable—naked and hard, aching for what they offered.
Fortunately, he was not at his full length, and given this humiliating situation, he was not likely to be. Possibly never again. So he resolved to be a man, to accomplish his task whatever the cost. And so, with a stiff back and angry gestures, he untied his belt and let both pants and rope fall to the floor.
Before he lost his nerve he turned around. Let her look her fill. Let her reveal the sly character inside her female breast. Then he would have no interest in her at all, for he would see that this was just a woman like any other. Less than any other woman, in fact, because she was a barbarian.
That was his plan. Except, when he turned to face her, to let her look her fill, he saw no maidenly horror. Not even a sly superiority. Instead, she revealed a simple and unabashed curiosity.
As he stood there, naked before her, her eyes narrowed in study. She looked at him completely, from the top of his dark head all the way down his chest, and finally, ultimately, to his jade stem. He could not tell what she thought, and she had no voice to tell him. So he stood there, watching her study him with an intensity he had seen only in the most dedicated of students. Indeed, her gaze moved with a doctor's care over his entire form while she tilted and strained her head one way and the other to apparently see from a better angle.
She even wet her lips unconsciously, her tiny pink tongue bringing them to a glistening sheen. He did not believe she had lascivious thoughts; her manner was much too scholarly. And yet his body seemed to respond as if she were the most alluring seductress.
And under her scrutiny, his stem thickened and lengthened. His dragon had decided to appear, pushing its head out in hunger.
"I will begin the exercises now," he said, his voice tight with self-consciousness. Taking the seat opposite her, he sat down, his legs wide for better access. He placed the scroll on the floor, narrowing his eyes in the dim light to make sure he read the instructions correctly.
" 'That which is exhausted will be renewed,' " he read aloud.
With his left hand, he stroked his thumb from the base of his stem all the way to its dragon head. It was stimulating, of course. The exercise was designed to strengthen his resistance to just such activities. Fortunately, he had plenty of practice quieting his mind no matter what was happening to his body. Usually he ignored pain, not eroticism. No one could train as a Shaolin without pain. Nor could they sit without moving for twelve hours without learning to ignore great discomfort. But essentially the techniques were the same. And so he accomplished the seventy-two left-handed strokes without much more than a flushed face and a fully extended dragon.
It was only when he switched to repeat the process with the right hand that he began to experience difficulties. He had to shift positions slightly, adjusting his right elbow as he switched hands. That naturally broke his meditative state, and for the first time since he began, he again grew aware of the white woman watching him.
She didn't make a sound. Indeed, he doubted she had moved. But her eyes caught his, and when he met her gaze, he could not look away.
She had been watching his hand movements; he was sure of it. But not anymore. Now she looked at him, her focus intent, her face flushed, and her breath coming in soft, shallow pants. It was one thing to perform physical movements while maintaining a meditative state. He had mastered such things during his fighting exercises even before entering the monastery. But to stroke one's jade stem while a woman watched was something else entirely.
He could not return to his isolated thoughts. He could not imagine himself in a quiet center of stillness. She was there. In his center. In his circle of peace. And no silence could be found between them even as neither said a word.
Her expression was no longer accusing. He could detect no lingering anger that she was bound to the bed. Even her intellectual curiosity had faded, though he still saw sparks. She was not even absorbed by lascivious thoughts, though her body was obviously excited. Indeed, as he watched and continued his right-handed strokes, he saw her lips grow redder, glistening as she wet them again with her pink tongue. The silk covering her breasts fluttered as she breathed, and Zou Tun could not resist letting his gaze slip to the temptingly jiggling soft mounds.
But even that could not hold him for long. His gaze returned to her face. To her eyes, as she watched him watch her. And all the while, his dragon flushed larger and fuller in its hunger. A hunger for her.
He felt his groin tighten, and he knew he was close to release. He knew he could not contain himself much longer. And still, he could not look away. He could not see anything but this white woman's eyes of polished bronze.
What was she thinking? Did she like what she saw? Did she want to touch him? To taste him? Those thoughts spun in his mind when all should have been quiet. Images came as well, adding potency to the sound of her soft breathing.
Her legs twitched on the bed, her silk robe slipping open the tiniest bit as she moved. She stilled immediately, but the damage was done. Zou Tun's eyes jerked to a tiny sliver of white thigh visible in a crack between the folds. The fabric was trembling slightly with her breath, holding his gaze, teasing his mind with thoughts of what lay beneath. Would she be as warm as a Chinese woman? Given the heat that pulsed in the tiny room, he could not believe she would be cold.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of her, struggling to regain his focus. He
brought his attention back to his task, appalled to discover that he no longer stroked his dragon with one thumb, but gripped it in a full fist. He stopped, shifting back to using his right thumb, but his dragon clenched in protest at the sudden change.
And then her scent penetrated his focus, unique and distracting as nothing else could be. He knew the smells of men in all their varieties—sick or healthy, in ecstasy or drunkenness. Through odor Zou Tun had been able to identify a man's state by the time he was eighteen. Women, too, were no particular challenge. Mongolian or Han, young or old, in heat or in menses, he had made a catalog of such scents long before he'd found the peace offered in the Tao.
But this woman was different. And her scent was not covered in flowers or doused in opium. Her scent gave a honeyed taste to the air, fogged his mind with pepper spice. He opened his eyes, knowing her smell was more deadly to him than the vision of her flushed body. But sight did not stop her olfactory assault, and the perfume of her continued to fog his mind.
Once again he met her gaze and gripped his dragon. He tried to return to study, to the practice of this most bizarre Taoist path, but he could not find the meditative peace he sought. He tasted her on the air and saw the fire blazing in her eyes. Witch fire. Ghost-people flame. It seemed to consume his mind.
In her eyes he saw intelligence, curiosity, and a desire that had her body twitching beneath her robe. Some part of his mind registered the slight widening of her legs, the tremble of her belly and even the jiggling of her breasts. He knew what happened, absorbed the evidence of her arousal, but his attention stayed on her eyes: liquid bronze, shimmering in firelight.
His body clenched. His center was lost in the mists of those eyes. He was with her, and with one quick flash he leaped the distance between them.
Or so he imagined. In truth it was his yang, leaping forth from his dragon's mouth. White flame leaped forth as it had not done since before he'd entered the monastery. And with it went his yang power—not poured into the white woman's yin, but spilled uselessly onto his hand and the floor as if he were a boy seeing his first powdered breast.
He stared down at his hand, humiliation burning through his trembling body. What had he done? How could he fail at this simplest of tasks? And then, without warning, the bedroom door burst open.
Or so it seemed. Thinking back, perhaps he'd heard knocking. He'd ignored it, wanting only the roaring that preceded the dragon fire. It mattered little. The Tigress Shi Po stood before him now, her dark eyebrows arched in disgust.
He could not look at her. Indeed, he could do little but reach for his tea-stained shirt and use it to clean up his shame. This most simple of tasks was for the lowest practitioner, and he had not accomplished it.
"It is as I feared," Shi Po said, her voice low and sad. "My brother's monks have no discipline."
Zou Tun wanted to defend himself. He wanted to explain about the white woman and her witch fire. But he did not. Whatever the ghost woman's power, he was the one to blame. Only empty men blamed their failings on a woman, and he was not so. He pressed his lips together and waited while the Tigress sniffed the air with a wrinkled nose.
"Impure. Both of you." She advanced farther into the room. "Immature yang. Polluted yin." She waved at a servant who held a tea tray just outside the door. "I feared as much. I brought tea to restore you."
The servant entered, quietly setting her tray on the single table tucked behind the chair. Zou Tun did not speak. There was nothing to say. He waited like an errant child while the servant poured the tea and then bowed out of the room. Then, with a tightened jaw, he quickly downed the liquid though it burned his throat.
Shi Po crossed the room, going to the ghost woman's side. "You have not begun with her," she accused.
"No," Zou Tun responded. "She is not yet ready."
The Tigress curled her lip in disdain. "She is more than ready. Her body cries out in pain. Her blood swims with pollutants." She turned, looking pointedly at his dragon. "You feared your reaction should you touch her." She nodded to herself. "A wise man knows his limitations." She sighed and rolled up her sleeves. "Very well. I will do it this time."
Zou Tun straightened in alarm, but it was nothing compared to the white woman's reaction. Though it must have pained her, she whispered a harsh cry. She shook her head, fighting against her bonds, straining her arms and legs as she had not done before. Earlier, Zou Tun had feared for the woman's hands and feet. Now he feared she would break her wrists. Already her skin was discolored from bruising. Blood would soon follow.
"She grows frightened whenever someone nears," he said, moving toward the Tigress.
Shi Po shrugged. "Do not fear for my safety. Those bonds are stronger than they appear. They will not break." She reached down and flipped open the top of the girl's robe. One pert breast stood out stark and white.
Then Zou Tun did the unthinkable: He broke his vow against violence once again. Striking as a snake would, he snatched the Tigress's hand and held her still when she tried to pull away.
"Miss Crane does not wish to learn today." With his free hand, he pulled the ghost woman's robe closed.
Shi Po's eyes narrowed. "All animals fear what they do not understand." When Zou Tun still did not release her, her gaze froze him. "Can you not feel her sickness? She needs to be purified even more than you do. This is the only way with those who cannot learn."
"She is a barbarian, not an idiot." He glanced down at the white woman, seeing the way she panted fast and frightened. Yes, she looked like a terrified animal, but he knew she was smarter than most Chinese women he had met. That shallow panting was the only way she could manage her panic without passing out. It gave her the air she needed to breathe. "Her injury is greater than it appears," he admitted.
"Her fear is great, and you are too tenderhearted to do what is needed," Shi Po accused.
Zou Tun frowned, turning back to the Tigress. Something in her tone was different; something lay beneath her words that he did not understand. Then another voice cut in from the door. A deep voice. A man's voice, low and questioning.
"Do you wish her to be initiated as you were? In violence and in pain?" It was Kui Yu, the Tigress's husband. His questions were soft-spoken, but no less powerful.
Zou Tun still held Shi Po's slender wrist, so he felt the sudden tension and anger that radiated from her. Her eyes narrowed, and such was her fury that Zou Tun's hand loosened in surprise as she rounded on her husband.
"You dare interfere in my instruction?" she hissed.
Zou Tun grew even more surprised. Women never spoke in such a way to their husbands! Certainly not in public. In Peking such a woman would be whipped or hanged. And yet Kui Yu did not respond with anger. Instead he simply smiled a warm, almost comical smile. Indeed, Zou Tun might have thought the man an idiot if not for the intelligence of his words.
"Of course not," he said lightly. "I know nothing of this practice and would not dream of interfering. I am simply home early and wished to share tea with you. The day is dull without your beauty before me." He flicked an almost disdainful glance at the white woman. "Is this not our guest's partner in practice? Surely it is his task to purify her. You need not sully your hands with her."
Then Kui Yu reached out, gently lifting his wife's hand out of Zou Tun's hold before escorting her to the door. But she would not leave. Not before she gave one last acid glance over her shoulder.
"The ghost people fill themselves with death. For her own sake, that girl must be purified. And I will not allow such sickness in my house any longer." She pinned Zou Tun with her angry stare. "Tell me now if you cannot do this."
Beside him, the white woman stiffened in fear, but Zou Tun knew better than to argue. Miss Crane would begin her exercises whether or not either of them wished it. So he bowed his head to the inevitable.
"I will accomplish what is required."
Next, the Tigress turned her acid stare on Joanna. "You went through much to come here. I don't know why, nor do I care
. Heaven has offered you a boon. Purity, health, perhaps even enlightenment can be found within these walls. Accept his attention now while your throat heals. Then, when you are ready, you may choose again. Enlightenment, or the sure steady withering of your body. You need not become a hag, white woman. But you will soon if you are not purified."
Zou Tun turned to see Joanna stiffen on the bed. Her eyes were wide, and he could see her gaze hopping from the Tigress to the servant. Both were beautiful, graceful women, both testaments to the restorative power of the Tigress regimen. Did Joanna Crane consider accepting this practice? he wondered. Surely not. Surely she was too intelligent to believe sex and enlightenment could be found together. And yet, he could not deny the simple lure of beauty. What woman would not wish for that?
He could see that Joanna wanted to speak. She stretched up from the bed, her eyes alight with intelligence. But there was no more time as the Tigress's husband interrupted once again.
"I grow thirsty, my wife. Do we have any more special tea? The kind with ginger and lily?"
Shi Po turned, frowning slightly even as her features softened. "Lily? There is no such thing as ginger and lily tea. Chrysanthemum flavors your tea, my husband. With other spices that only I know."
"Ah," he said, as they began walking down the hall. "I have no head for such things. Without you, I would probably drink mud and grass and be miserable."
So they departed, leaving Zou Tun and Joanna Crane alone in the room. Zou Tun quickly closed and secured the door, though obviously the Tigress had a key. Still, the locked door gave them some feeling of privacy, especially as he made sure it was stuck fast.
Then he turned, mentally scrambling for his own calm center so that he would have the strength to accomplish his task. He crossed to the white woman, slowly sitting down at her side.
"You understand that the Tigress feels these things. She will know if you do not perform her exercises."
The woman nodded her head—once—showing that she did indeed understand what was happening.
The Way of the Tigress 1-4 Page 37
