Kang Zou
~
Decoded translation as understood by General Kang:
Dearest Father,
Do not send soldiers! Do not tell the emperor anything! There is danger throughout the monastery. Fortunately the abbot is helping me. This religion is a wonderful breeding ground for strength and power. I am definitely bewitched by it.
Your prayerful son,
Zou Tun
A wise person understands that the great Tao of the universe lies within one's own heart, and that it isn't necessary to run around in search of it.
—Lao Tzu
Chapter 9
Zou Tun stood mountain-still as he waited to see what Joanna would do. But though his exterior remained quiet, inside a whirlwind of fears churned. He could see that she was furious. And truthfully, she had a right to be.
But that didn't mean he wanted her anywhere near his dragon. Not in this frame of mind.
Unfortunately he had little choice in the matter. If he wanted to pursue this learning—and he most definitely did—then this was the woman who needed to be his partner. He wasn't sure when or how he'd come to that conclusion. It was more of a feeling than a knowledge. But he had long since learned to trust the internal nudges of his spirit. Indeed, it had saved his life not too many days ago. And so, if it directed him to a white barbarian woman—even a furious one—then he would obey.
Assuming, of course, that she wished to continue.
She turned to him, her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed tightly together. He had been surprised when she spoke. He knew her throat was still swollen, and he had not thought she could withstand the pain enough to speak. But she had. And now she was likely suffering the consequences.
"I can ease the pain in your throat," he offered. He tried to make his voice soothing, but his nervousness betrayed him. His own throat felt tight and painful, almost as if he, too, had suffered her injury. Fortunately she didn't shy away. Instead she fixed him with such a glare that he felt his belly tremble.
No woman had ever intimidated him. But this woman—the woman who would soon be touching his most intimate places—could freeze his blood to ice.
He swallowed, knowing he had to make amends but unsure how to begin. "You wish an explanation of my actions. I will give one to you, as well as an apology. But I have need for secrecy, and we are standing in an open courtyard. Please, will you come to our chamber?"
She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes still icy cold. Then he watched in dismay as her gaze flicked to the darkened gate. She was thinking about leaving. He almost grabbed her. He nearly lifted her up in his arms to carry her to their bedchamber, where he could make his explanations. He did not want her to leave, and he feared another kidnapping was the only way to keep her by his side. But his reason kept him still. Violence of even the gentlest sort would not aid him now. She had to decide on her own.
And so he stood still, his breath barely flowing through his constricted throat.
He had a moment—in truth, an eternity—to realize how far he had strayed from the Tao, from the Middle Path. He was a Shaolin monk, sworn to a life of virtue and quiet harmony with nature. And yet here he was running from his father's soldiers, hiding from his father's enemies, training to harness his dragon's power, and barely restraining himself from abducting a barbarian woman in order to allow his dragon full rein between her thighs.
What had he come to?
His spinning thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Joanna sighed. He could tell from the way her entire body sagged that she had decided to stay. And though he had no ability to reason out her thought processes, he was able to give thanks to Heaven for her decision.
Without even looking at him, she spun on her heel, leading the way to their room. So stiff was his body that Zou Tun didn't immediately move to follow her. Instead he felt himself smile, his body softening as the grip of his fear eased.
She was such a magnificent woman. Barbarian or not, she was pleasingly formed, more intelligent than most men, and she walked with a regalness equal to the most arrogant imperial courtier. Magnificent. He could do much worse than spend many days in study with her.
He caught up with her easily. For all that she walked briskly, his legs were longer. Still, she pushed past him to enter their chamber first, her gaze flicking angrily past him. He grinned at that. He couldn't help himself. Now that he felt confident that she would stay, he found her anger pleasing. He had never wanted an imperial wife, a woman who bowed and spread her legs without thought, her only interest in his seed. This woman he would have to work to gain, to coax her into pleasure even if it was part of the Tigress teachings. And so he resolved to do just that: to woo her so that they could advance to the highest level of practice.
He shut the door, his immediate goal clear. She was standing in the middle of the room, her anger a palpable thing in the tiny space, so he put on his humblest expression and bowed deeply.
"Please allow me to fix the injury that I have inflicted upon your body," he said, his tone excruciatingly formal. "It will not cure the damage to your throat, but it will allow for speedy healing."
He stepped forward, but she took a hasty step back, clearly shaking her head to say no.
He paused, confused. "I will not harm you. I slowed the healing process earlier, so you would not tell my secrets. But now I understand the grave harm I have caused you. Please allow me to return the qi to your throat so you can heal quickly. Naturally." He paused, searching her tight expression for some kind of softening. "You should be better within a day, maybe two."
She gave no reaction. But again when he stepped forward, she shook her head.
He stilled, confused. She should be anxious to get her voice back.
"You do not trust me," he guessed, and from her wry expression, he knew he was correct. "But if I wished to harm you further, I would have done so long before this. You have agreed to remain here in seclusion with me as we learn the Tigress teachings. I trust you not to talk about my identity." In truth, he believed no such thing. But as her partner, he would never leave her side. There would be little opportunity for her to talk with anyone other than himself. "Please, allow me to help you."
She arched a single eyebrow at him, clearly showing she did not believe him. He sighed.
"How can I gain your trust?"
She thought for a moment, then unfolded her arms enough to point to him.
"Me?"
She nodded.
"What do you want me to do?"
She shook her head. Then, when he still did not understand, she pointed to herself.
"You?"
She nodded, pointing to herself again.
"You. What about you?" When she grimaced in response, he continued speaking out loud as he thought. "You. You are Joanna Crane. You—"
She nodded vigorously, interrupting his words.
He frowned. "You are Joanna Crane?"
Again she nodded. Then she pointed to him, and at last he understood, though his heart sank at her meaning.
"You want my name. That is how you will trust me?"
Again she nodded.
He bowed his head, anxiety filling his throat. He tried to weigh his options perfectly, but he could not. There were too many variables, too much to guess. Except for one thing: One glance at her face told him she would accept nothing less than his true name.
He could give her a false one, of course. He could name any one of a dozen high-ranking Mandarins. She would not know the difference. And yet part of him longed to tell her the truth. Part of him was sick to death of hiding his real name, his real soul.
He delayed, though he could sense her anger growing every moment he remained silent. Indeed, he could feel the heat in the air around them. He lifted his head, speaking his thoughts out loud.
"You must understand," he said. "I have hidden my identity for so long, the name seems like it belongs to someone else. It is not me at all."
He looked at her, and she appeared t
o be listening, her expression softening with his words. But not softening enough. She still would have his name.
"Zou Tun," he finally blurted. "I cannot tell you my banner name, but my name is Zou Tun."
She nodded and mouthed the words, Thank you.
He looked away, expecting to feel sick worry in his belly. But instead he felt a loosening, an easing of his pain. Frowning, he turned back to her, but he didn't have anything to say. Only questions whirled in his mind. Why would telling her his true name give him relief? And why would her smile appear like an angel's blessing?
He moved without thinking, extending his hand to her throat. She was in pain. He could feel it, but only as a twinge of guilt. Closing his eyes, he used his will and his monk's training to restore the flow of qi to her throat. She didn't fight him. Just the opposite; she lifted her chin, giving him greater access.
And when he was finished, she smiled and whispered, "Thank you."
"The fault was mine. The remedy my burden."
She frowned, taking hold of his hand and drawing it back to her throat. Then she spoke, though still in a bare whisper. "How?"
He shrugged, doing his best to explain. "The Shaolin monks teach of the body's energy and call it qi. The Tigresses divide that energy into male yang and female yin. But either way it is qi. It flows like a river and can be diverted in a similar manner—away from a place in the body like your throat, or back to its natural course." He paused, shifting to sit on the bed. "As to how such things are done, the mind controls them. I merely will it to be so and focus all my attention upon it. The change happens as I will it."
She frowned, clearly not believing that was all there was to the process. And for some reason he grinned. He remembered his own similar reaction some years ago, when he'd first joined the monastery.
"I swear to you, it is that easy. In truth, the harder one makes it, the less effective it is. A man's mind is everything. It guides his power, and it will move another's qi as well."
She stared at him a moment, obviously thinking through his words. It was a strange feeling having a woman consider his words so carefully, so clearly. Especially since he knew she weighed his words not only for logic but also for intent. She still did not fully trust him.
"I have no reason to lie to you," he answered, hearing the note of pique in his voice.
She continued to regard him with a clear and steady expression. Only one woman had ever dared to look at him in such a way, and it was disconcerting to feel the same attention from a white barbarian as he had from the dowager empress. Indeed, he was beginning to feel as if Joanna Crane and Empress Cixi had more in common than either would appreciate.
Rather than follow the direction of his thoughts, he decided to shift his attention.
"We must continue purifying your yin," he said, trying to keep his expression bland. He had no wish to reveal to her how much he sincerely wanted to assist her with the task. And yet she must have sensed it, because she shook her head. Instead she gestured to his jade stem.
He hesitated, wary of her mood. Did she intend to hurt him when he was most vulnerable?
As if in answer to his thoughts, she settled onto her knees before him, just as Little Pearl had done for the beggar. She brought a basin of water and a washcloth over, then bowed her head and appeared as subservient as any Chinese female. But was it a ruse? Could he trust her?
She lifted her gaze, her right eyebrow arched. This, too, was part of her challenge to him. She would not trust him unless he trusted her. And so he nodded, steeling himself to take the risk.
"You understand that you are not to draw my essence out like Little Pearl did," he warned. "You are to press upon the jen-mo point to prevent the dragon cloud."
She nodded. She had indeed been listening during the Tigress's lecture.
He swallowed. He knew he had to do this. He knew, but... Straightening his shoulders, he made his decision. With quick movements he stripped off his shirt and pants. He stood naked before her, his muscles taut with anxiety. His dragon hid in fear.
She had been wearing a soft smile of victory. He had seen it, for all that she tried to hide it from him. But now, as she gazed up at him, her challenge faded. Her eyes widened and her hands shifted restlessly in her lap. He knew he was an impressive sight. It was not vanity that made him think so; it was simply excellent food as he'd been growing and the monastic exercises he practiced so devotedly. Still, he could not stop a masculine surge of pride at the admiration in her eyes.
"What do you wish me to do?" he asked, thankful that his voice remained level, as if he were not still trembling with tension.
She gestured to the bed, and he complied, lying down on his stomach because he was too wary to lie on his back. Then he closed his eyes and prepared for the worst. Even in this position she still had access to vulnerable places. But he had resolved to trust her, and so he did his best to relax.
Tepid water hit his skin, thick drops that made him flinch. And then the washcloth. She held it firmly, pressing too hard as she scrubbed his back. He said nothing, but in his mind he wondered if she intended to treat his jade stem with equal fervor. The pain might very well be unbearable.
But then she gentled, her hands growing tired. Or perhaps she realized that his back would soon be raw if she continued as she had. In any event, she began to stroke more than scrub, to soothe more than cleanse. And Zou Tun exhaled in relief until his thoughts pushed into his mind.
Was this a ruse?
No, he answered himself. This was a Taoist challenge and a metaphor for life. Worry for the future only destroyed the present. A man who walked the Middle Way neither concerned himself with what was to come nor with worries about what might have been. He contented himself with the present. And so Zou Tun took another deep breath, and with his exhalation he resolved to enjoy the experience without any thought beyond it.
So began his meditative exercise. Another breath helped him attune himself to his surroundings. He felt the scratch of the sheets beneath him, heard the creak of the mattress as Joanna Crane moved, but mostly he felt the gentle stroke of a beautiful woman's hands. He heard her breath and felt her movements, easily synching his rhythms to hers. The water was tepid, the cloth rough, but where she moved, his body heated. And when she passed by, the flesh cooled and eased.
Then, as sometimes had happened before, pictures began to form in his mind. Imagination or true awareness, he was never sure which, allowed him to see her even though he lay on his stomach with his eyes closed. He saw her flushed from her exertions, her hair clinging wetly to her neck. Her eyes were bright, unusually so, and she focused completely on her task. She had begun with his back, moving on to his arms. Now she washed the fingers of his right hand, gently easing the cloth between each as she stroked his calluses.
He wanted to curl his fingers around hers. He wanted to entwine himself with her, holding her tightly to him in the most basic of ways. And yet he wanted more than that—a meeting of minds, perhaps, though the thought of wanting intellectual connection with a ghost woman felt completely bizarre. But in meditation one accepted everything—every thought, every image, and every feeling no matter how strange, in order to allow them to pass through.
Zou Tun remained lax, accepting all she chose to give without pushing her for more. And soon she finished with his arms and hands and moved to his feet.
As a cosseted imperial bannerman, Zou Tun had received many baths: from his mother when he was young, from servant women as he matured. He still remembered the experiences as pleasurable and potentially erotic, depending on his age and the intention of the woman who assisted him. But this experience was different. This bath was intended to be stimulating. Yet he was not supposed to pursue the woman. Unlike the beggar, he was to accept her ministrations, allow her to take him to his peak, then not release his seed.
So it was that no matter how relaxed she made him, no matter how much her touch coaxed his dragon to rear its head, he found himself settling deeper a
nd deeper into his meditations.
Until she asked him to turn over.
He knew the instruction was coming, indeed, had been preparing for just this moment. But as he settled on his back, his focus was interrupted. His dreamlike state dissolved into the very present experience of her kneeling beside him, of his legs and feet still cooling from the stroke of her cloth. His dragon was no longer afraid but poking proudly out of its tunnel.
He looked at her, seeing that her face was flushed and her eyes were half closed, as if she, too, mediated as she worked. She had loosely braided her hair away from her face, but her breasts swung free, her nipples pointed against the slightly wet fabric of her shirt. If it weren't for the quiet in her face, he would have thought her aroused.
"Take off your shirt," he ordered.
He didn't understand where the command came from. The last thing he needed was to be more stimulated, to see the rosy blush on her ghost skin. But he was angry with her for being so disinterested when he could not breathe, when his dragon danced with her every stroke even though she touched only his chest.
"I wish to see your breasts." He kept his voice cold, trying to discomfort her. If he roused her anger, she would change her methods and he could keep his honor intact.
But she wasn't bothered. She merely looked at him, meeting his gaze with a calm, flat regard. He saw a rapid pulse beat in her throat. Her heart was not as calm as her face. She merely dipped her head and boldly lifted off her light tunic. Then she was bare to the waist, her rose-tipped breasts within a short hand's reach from him.
His dragon reared in interest.
She arched a single brow at him. A challenge? Clear as day. Could he retain his yang fluid despite her determined attentions?
He curled his hands into fists. He was a Shaolin monk, trained to the highest level in Paochui. He had spent thousands of hours disciplining his mind and body to the Middle Path. He would not let any woman, much less a ghost barbarian, rip him from that. He would allow her to stimulate him; she would heat the fire of his yang to boiling, but he would not release. He would use it and her yin to gain enlightenment.
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