Barbara Faith - Kiss of the dragon

by mag

  Bethany was silent on the way up into the hills. Her heart thudded with excitement as she gazed out of the taxi window. The taxi drove away from the city, then wound up the mountain to where the beauty of trees hung heavy with summer blossoms and the air was filled with summer silence.

  The monastery, which stood on a peak overlooking the Yangtze, looked as though it had been hewn out of the mountain, ancient and forever, a part of the landscape that was China. The breath caught in Bethany's throat as she looked up at it. This was another world, a world she had not even dared to dream about. The early morning mist had not yet lifted from the surrounding blue-shadowed mountains. The air was clean and pure and still.

  The taxi driver left them at a tall iron gate that marked the entrance. "I'll call for you in one hour," he agreed when Tiger paid him. "I'll wait at the gate. If you don't come I'll return to the city."

  "In case we're not here it'll be worth your while to wait for at least thirty minutes."

  The driver nodded. "Thirty minutes," he said.

  When the taxi drove off Tiger stepped up to the gate and pulled a bell rope. The sound of the ancient bell reverberated in the clear morning air.

  Bethany wiped her damp palms against her trousers.

  A Buddhist monk in a white robe approached the gate. He bowed formally and said, "Good morning, travelers. How may I serve you?"

  Tiger bowed in return. "Good morning," he said. "A long time ago my father was allowed to leave something of value here at your monastery. I have come to claim it."

  "I know nothing of this, but perhaps the elders do." The monk opened the gate and stood aside for Bethany and Tiger to enter, then beckoned them to follow him.

  Bethany glanced nervously around her. It's so quiet, she thought. It's as though we were at the top of the world. There was no sound except for the wind through the poplar trees and the soft slap of the monk's straw slippers.

  Before their guide could knock, a door of the monastery opened and another monk motioned them inside. The first man spoke rapidly in a dialect Tiger didn't understand, then said to him, "Wait here, please."

  Then they were left alone.

  Bethany reached for Tiger's hand. "We're almost there," she said in a low voice.

  He squeezed her hand. "Yes," he said, whispering as she had whispered, for this was a holy place. It seemed strange to him that an object that had caused so much violence should be here in this ancient, peaceful setting. Why had their fathers chosen the monastery to hide the dragon? It was so far from everything, so removed from civilization. Perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps they'd known that in this inviolate place their treasure would be safe.

  Tiger looked down at Bethany. She had removed the Mao cap and stood quietly, her head bowed. He wanted to reach out and touch her. But he didn't; he only waited until the monk who had opened the door returned and said, "Follow me, please. The Saka Muni Buddha will see you now."

  They were led down a long, silent hall and through an open corridor that bordered a flower-filled central patio. When they stopped before a tall, carved door, Bethany looked up at Tiger. The monk knocked. Tiger. took a deep breath as the door opened.

  The monk seated behind the cherry wood desk was very old. His skin looked like dried parchment, the hand that bade them enter was blue veined and wrinkled.

  "My brother tells me that you have come for something that we have held for many years," he said in a thin, high voice. "I am glad that you have come, for if the object is what I think it is, it is too beautiful to hide away." He indicated two straight, high-backed chairs, and when Tiger and Bethany were seated he said, "Do you have the keys."

  "Yes, Eminence." Tiger bowed, then handed over the two keys.

  With a shaking hand the monk took a pair of glasses from his desk and put them on. "There were two men," he said. He looked at Bethany. "She is not Chinese. Does she understand what we are saying?"

  "No, Eminence. Her father was with my father when they brought the... the package here."

  "Yes, I remember." The monk spoke now in careful English. "There were two young men, handsome lads in the prime of their youth. Why have they not come themselves?"

  "They are both dead, honored sir. We are their only heirs."

  "I see." The monk took the keys Tiger had given him and slowly he got up and moved around his desk to a heavy wooden trunk bound with brass fittings. Leaning down, holding the edge of the trunk for support, he fitted the two keys into two separate locks. "Please help me," he said. "I fear the lid is too heavy for me."

  Tiger moved quickly to the monk's side and opened the trunk.

  The monk pointed a bony finger. "Take out the oblong box."

  Carefully, scarcely daring to breath, Tiger took the box. It was heavy. He put it down, then closed the trunk. At the monk's nod, Tiger picked up the box and carried it to the desk.

  "Open it," the old man said. "You must be sure."

  "Yes." Tiger glanced at Bethany. She pressed trembling hands against her face.

  Tiger undid the cord that bound the box. He took off the lid. The statue had been wrapped in scarlet silk. He removed it from the box and placed it on the desk. He looked at Bethany, waiting.

  "Unwrap it." Her voice was husky when she spoke.

  Tiger took a deep breath. The silk was soft beneath his fingertips. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped the statue. Hardly daring to speak he freed the golden dragon from its wrapping and placed it on the desk.

  He heard Bethany gasp and the ancient monk murmur. But he couldn't speak, he could only stare at the object before him.

  The dragon stood almost two feet tall. More man than beast, half standing, half reclining, it was an object of ancient, priceless beauty.

  "I didn't know," Bethany said in a hushed voice, "I didn't know it would be this beautiful." With a trembling hand she touched the dragon. It seemed... it seemed to quiver beneath her fingers. The emerald eyes seemed to look directly into her eyes. Bethany's breath stopped, her body stilled. She saw the golden tear. She passed a finger over it, then, scarcely know-, ing what she was doing, brought her finger to her lips—and tasted salt.

  The Hotel of the Swallows was almost new. It had been built only four years before when tourists began flooding into China. At first the tourists had traveled only to the well-known cities like Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. Now they came up the Yangtze River to cities like Chungtai.

  There were twin beds in their fourth-floor room. There was also a cupboard for their clothes and a separate bathroom. On a table opposite the bed there was a thermos of boiled water and a tin of green tea.

  Bethany sank down on one of the beds. She took off the black slippers, lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The taxi had not been at the gate when they left the monastery. They had waited, hoping he would come, then started the long trek down the mountain road that led to the town. Half way down they had seen the taxi chugging up.

  "I was delayed," the driver explained.

  "It's all right," Tiger said. "Just take us to a hotel."

  Now they were here and suddenly Bethany was too tired to move. Perhaps it was the reaction, the letdown after finding the golden treasure at the end of the rainbow. She hadn't expected to feel like this; she'd expected to feel jubilant and rich. But she no longer saw the dragon in terms of dollar signs. It was an ancient object of art, of beauty and of grace.

  Tiger unwrapped the dragon and placed it on the other bed. "Is it what you expected?" he asked in a low voice.

  "No...no, it isn't. I've never seen anything so magnificent." "Nor have I."

  "Will it be difficult, taking it back to Tsingyun, I mean?"

  "We will go by another route. But first we will rest here for a few days. I don't think that whoever has been after us will trace us to here, but it is best that we not wander around the town. One of us must be here in the room all of the time to watch the dragon."

  Bethany nodded. "We should let your mother know rat we've found it."

&nbs
p; "I don't think that would be wise," Tiger said. "It's possible that someone is still watching the house in Tsingyun. I know that Mother is worried, but I don't .ink we should risk trying to contact her. We will be there before the week is over, then she will know that all is well." He ran his hand down the dragon's back. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

  "The poet," Bethany said. "Yes, he's beautiful."

  Tiger looked at her. But before he could speak Bethany got up from the bed and into the bathroom. She stayed in the shower for a long time, her eyes closed against the rush of the water. For a reason she would have found impossible to explain, she needed this time alone. Away from Tiger, away from the beauty of the golden dragon.

  When at last she stepped out of the shower she wrapped the clothes she'd worn for almost a week into a bundle, and covering herself with a towel, left the bathroom. She took the half-slip out of the basket and put it on.

  "Can we get someone to do the laundry?" she asked Tiger. "Everything is dirty."

  "I'll find someone to do it." He put his hands on her shoulders. "You look very tired," he said. "I've sent down to the restaurant for our dinner. After we eat you must rest."

  A few minutes later a white-jacketed waiter brought up a tray. He set it on the table and bowed himself out.

  Bethany wasn't hungry, but she tried to eat. After only a few spoonfuls of rice and a couple of bites of meat she said, "I'm sorry, Tiger, I just can't eat."

  She stood up and when she did he came to her. Putting his hands on her shoulders he kissed her and looked at her strangely. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

  "No, of course not."

  But her voice was uncertain.

  Tiger let her go. "I'm going to shower now. Why don't you rest?"

  When he closed the bathroom door, Bethany turned back the bedspread and lay down. Pulling the sheet over her, she lay on her side so that she could look at the dragon. Her last thought was of his beauty. Then her eyes closed and she slept.

  Chapter 17

  Bethany barely awoke when Tiger slipped into the narrow bed beside her. Carefully he put his arm under her head and drew her close. For a moment her body stiffened, then she relaxed and her breathing deepened.

  Tiger rested his chin again the softness of her short cropped hair and sighed with the pleasure of having her close again. In a way that he didn't understand, Bethany had been withdrawn since their return from the monastery. He knew of course that she had been as deeply affected by the golden dragon as he had been, as stunned by its beauty. Her gray eyes had widened in astonishment when he unwrapped the statue and her hand had trembled when she reached to touch it. Tiger had looked at her. Then he'd looked at the old monk and he'd been puzzled at the strange smile on the ancient man's face.

  Then the moment had passed. The monk had said, "It was in the last days of the war that your fathers came to us. I knew, as everyone in China knew, of the daring exploits of the Flying Tigers. What gallant men they were, those young Americans who risked their lives to protect us. I had the utmost admiration for them, so I was surprised and pleased to meet two of the Tigers in person."

  The monk had closed his eyes, remembering. "They were brought to me and when we were alone they said they had a package they would like me to keep for them until after the war. It was the statue of a dragon, they said, and it was very valuable." The old man opened his eyes. "It was in this same box. I did not open it, but I think I knew, even then, what it was. They asked me to keep the statue safe, and because they were the valiant protectors of China, I agreed."

  The valiant protectors of China. In the quiet of the night Tiger closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the image of his Irish-American father. Bill Malone had been a tall man with sandy-colored hair, a ruddy complexion and green eyes. He'd talked a lot to his son about his days with the Flying Tigers, of the old P-40's they'd flown, and of the adventures he and his best friend, Ross Adams, had had together.

  Tiger had first learned of the dragon's existence when he was ten. They were living in Hong Kong then. He'd come home early from school and as he passed his mother's sitting room he heard his father say, "The dragon belongs to Ross and to me."

  His mother, in her cool and haughty voice answered, "No, it does not. It belongs to China."

  "It belongs to whoever possesses it," his father had roared, his Irish temper flaring. "I'm not going to give up a fortune because you've got some fool notion in that head of yours. One of these days China will open up again and when it does I'm going after the dragon."

  A few days later his father had taken him fishing, and he'd told Tiger about the dragon. "I may not make it back to China," Bill said, "what with your mother feeling the way she does. But some day, when you're a man, I want you to go after the statue. It's worth a lot of money, boy, enough to keep you and your mother in style for the rest of your lives."

  After his father's death Tiger had discussed with his mother the possibility of taking the statue out of China. But she had been so adamant in her refusal to tell him where it was that he had let the matter drop. Then Bethany had come to Hong Kong; now the golden dragon was theirs.

  Tiger looked across the room. By the pale ray of moonlight through the slatted blinds he could see the golden dragon reclining on the other bed. It had come between his father and mother; he would not let it come between Bethany and him. His arms tightened around her. Then he closed his eyes and he too slept.

  The cherry trees were in bloom. The delicate flowers made a carpet of white beneath her feet and perfumed the air with their sweet scent. Through the still night she heard the sound of a lute and knew that at last he had come. She pressed her pale hands together, trying to still the frantic beating of her heart as she looked fearfully back at her father's house.

  Silently she wept for the days of her childhood and the knowledge that she would never see her mother again. After tonight she would belong to another; she would never return to this house that she had always known. Then she heard his voice and her sadness was forgotten.

  Silently, hand in hand, they crept down through the willow trees to the river.

  "I have a boat," he told her. "It will take us safely away."

  Her hand trembled in his as he brought it to his lips. "Do not be afraid, little bird. With this journey our lives begin."

  He led her onto his boat, and with the moon to guide them, they began their journey down the river. They spoke little, but their gazes rested on each other as the boat moved silently through the water. When the hour grew late, he said, "I think I will die if I do not kiss you," and turned the boat toward the shore.

  Her heart beat like a captured bird's. The moment had come, the moment that would bind them together for all eternity.

  When they reached shallow water he jumped out of the boat and pulled it to the shore. She could smell the jasmine in the air as he took her hand and led her to a place that was hidden by leafy green bamboo. Gently he laid her down there, gently he undressed her. When she lay naked in the moonlight he gazed at the perfection of her body, then dropped to his knees beside her.

  "Your skin is as soft as the petal of a rose," he whispered as he touched her cheek. "Your hair drifts like silk through my fingers. Your pomegranate lips await my kiss."

  She looked up into his strange green eyes and the night seemed to stand still. From somewhere above them a nightingale sang a song of unutterable sweetness.

  "My love," she whispered. "Come to me. Come to me now."

  His mouth tasted of honey. She drank in the nectar of it, and sighed with a pleasure she had never known as her pale arms came around his neck to draw him closer.

  He touched her breasts and she quivered with desire. Her delicate fingers traced the line of his lips, moved over his shoulders, down to his chest. Her fingers lingered at his waist, trailed delicate patterns over the plane of his hips and stomach and followed the thin trail of hair below his waist.

  The breath caught in Tiger's throat. He spoke her name but she stopped his
words with her lips. She touched him and he moaned against her mouth. She took his lower lip between her fine white teeth, held it as she ran her tongue back and forth, then took it to suckle before she slipped her tongue into his mouth. And all the while her pale, cool hand caressed him.

  Tiger's heart raced as he drew her closer. "Give me your breasts," he whispered, and felt her shiver with the pleasure of his touch. Then her hands were on his shoulders, urging him over her to join his body to hers.

  Her body was fire and lightning streaking across the midnight sky. She was wild and wonderful and without restraint as she urged him to peaks of pleasure he had never dreamed possible.

  Lost in ecstasy, Tiger cried her name. He told her in Chinese how wonderful she was and how he loved the feel of her body against his.

  "I know," she whispered. "The feel of your body excites me too."

  He touched her silken skin and felt her quickened breath against his throat. "My love," he murmured in Chinese. "Take me to paradise."

  "To paradise," she whispered.

  Together then, in quickened cadence, they climbed the heights of love, spiraling up and up until then-bodies burst with rapture and they clung, heart to heart, in that sweet and final moment of ecstasy.

  It was only later, when she slept, that Tiger remembered he had, in the throes of passion, spoken to her in Chinese. And that she had responded.

  Bethany awoke slowly the next morning, conscious of the tickle of hair against her cheek and Tiger's slow and steady breathing. She opened her eyes. One hand was curled around Tiger's neck, her face rested against his chest. She frowned, trying to remember when he had joined her in bed. She'd slept so soundly. She remembered looking at the golden dragon, thinking how truly beautiful he was; then she must have drifted off to sleep. The dragon? Her body stiffened. Had she dreamed about him? But no, the dream hadn't been about the dragon, it had been about Flowering Peach and the young poet. About... Suddenly hot color flushed Bethany's cheeks. She raised her head and looked at Tiger. Had they made love? Had she... ?