White Tigress (39 page)

The rage lasted less than fifteen minutes. Sheng Fu had lost much in physical stamina and could not sustain his emotions for long. Still, he tried, roaring and stumbling about like a mad boar. Fortunately, Zun Ran was too fast to be hit by his grandfather's cane, and Ru Shan was still strong, easily blocking whatever violence came his way. In the end, all his father had left were curses to release upon the air, wounding barbs that Ru Shan expected. They hurt nonetheless.

He was called all manner of ugly things; his character, body, and mind all attacked. Everything was damned as worthless, but in the end, his father retained some sense. He did not disown Ru Shan. He did not break the tablet on the family altar that bore Ru Shan's name. He spit on it. He gripped it and raised it high over his head as if he were going to shatter it into a thousand pieces. But in the end, he let it drop unharmed back into its place. He knew that the Cheng family would starve if Ru Shan left. He knew, too, that Ru Shan was his only hope for redemption.

And that was the insight that Heaven visited upon Ru Shan as he stood there watching his father. The venom in his sire's words, the black qi of hatred flowing from Sheng Fu's body and soul, was directed at the one person who still damned him for murdering his wife.

Ru Shan.

Which meant Ru Shan was also the one person who could help his father find peace. For until he forgave his father's crime, Sheng Fu would remain bitter and dried up and wounded in body and soul. Until he found forgiveness.

From Ru Shan.

That realization vibrated in the air between the two men just before Sheng Fu collapsed in a sobbing heap at the base of the family altar. His hair was askew, his body filthy with sweat and grime, but his eyes were crystal clear. He looked at Ru Shan, the question clear despite the fact that it went unspoken.

Could Ru Shan forgive his father? Would he?

The pull was unmistakable. The need and pain in his father's eyes tugged at Ru Shan the way a dying man pulled at all who cared for him. Added to that was the weight of Ru Shan's entire culture; like the mountain he was named for, it pressed upon him, telling him to go to his father, for that was what a son did.
Forgive your father,
it said in powerful words that all heard but none spoke.
Forgive him, and support him in his old age. That is what good sons do.

Ru Shan took a step forward, a single step, as if pushed from behind. But that was all he could do before dropping to his knees. He wasn't even sure how he landed there, his feet behind him, his knees in a puddle of oily water. Then the motion continued, the weight pulling his head down, exposing the back of his neck while his hands remained tucked in his lap.

He was laying himself bare, not before his father but before his mother's ghost. Before the sword he imagined she held in her hand. And in that moment, he longed for death.

He was Ru Shan, faithful as a mountain. And yet he had failed his mother and abandoned his father. He could not forgive the man who had sired him. He could not release his mother's spirit to the afterlife. He could not even hold on to a white wife who could save the Cheng family.

He could do none of those things until he accomplished one single task. He even knew what the task was. Shi Po had told him. She had seen it in a dream and knew it to be a true divination. So she had told him, and so he had done it—or so he thought.

He had bought a white pet and milked her for her yin water to cool his yang fire.

He had done this thing, risking what was left of the Cheng fortune on the task. And yet, he now understood that he had done nothing at all. Nothing at all, for Shi Po had neglected to tell him the last piece of her divination. It was a small thing, no doubt ignored by the tigress as a natural extension of the work they did. After all, who could spend hours milking a woman—even a white one—and not feel affection for the pet?

It was such a simple thing, she had forgotten to tell him. But he saw it now. Saw it in the oily water before him as clearly as he had seen it in his father's tirade and his son's wide, somber eyes.

He had to buy a white pet and milk her for her yin. During this process, he had to love her. In the last, he had failed completely.

Which is the nearer to you, your name or your person?

Which is the more precious, your person or your wealth?

Which is the greater evil, to gain or to lose? Great devotion requires great sacrifice. Great wealth implies great loss.

—Tao Te Ching

~

Chapter 17

Ru Shan walked into his bedroom. He did not stumble, he did not crawl. But it felt that way nonetheless. He felt as if his entire spirit were broken as he inched his way to the sanctuary of his room. Indeed, he waited a moment outside the step up into his chamber, like a cursed ghost, before forcing up his legs to enter.

Once he arrived, he felt the darkness enfold him. Though the sun continued to shine through the dull covering of clouds, its weak rays could not touch him. If any dared try, he quickly closed the interior shutters to ensure his utter bleakness.

Why could he not love Lydia?

He closed his eyes, understanding the question for a stupidity. Of course he could not love Lydia. She was white, a barbarian and a pet. A smart one, to be sure, but still beneath any true child of China, the blessed kingdom of Heaven.

And yet the question still plagued him. Why could he not love Lydia?

He shouldn't love her. She was a tool. A second wife, of little importance except that she could make the designs that would bring gold to the Cheng family. And, of course, that she supply the yin he needed to attain immortality.

Except it wasn't her yin he needed. It was her love.

He sighed. No, it was
not
her love; he already had that. Indeed, he had seen and felt her love last night. It had been a pure thing of joy that had humbled him with its power. Indeed, last night, Lydia his barbarian pet had humbled him.

It was not her love he needed. It was his own for her. And yet, he could not.

Why?

His legs weakened beneath him and he dropped onto his prayer mat. There had been no conscious will in the movement, only the touch of Heaven's hand. He collapsed into an attitude of prayer, his forehead pressed forward onto the cured reeds, his legs bent and folded beneath him. And in this pose, he poured out his anguish.

To no avail.

He had no understanding of how long he stayed in that position. He roused himself only once, when a messenger from Fu De arrived. Ru Shan listened without comment as he learned that Fu De had taken Lydia to a safe hotel—a place most understanding of tigress/dragon practices. Ru Shan could meet her there if he wished.

But of course he could not. Without clearer understanding of his path, he could go nowhere. He had nothing to offer Lydia. Certainly as his Chinese wife, he could legally drag her back to his home—in chains if necessary. But he knew that would only deepen the evil that beset the Cheng family. She had to come willingly or any work she did would be cursed.

He paused, his brows drawing together into a frown that frightened the young messenger. Ru Shan had not even realized how angry he appeared until the boy dashed off in terror, without even a coin as payment for his service. But his thoughts had sparked a memory, and that memory would not release him.

And so he returned to his room, the image of paying for Lydia trapped in his mind.

He had paid for Lydia: a free woman who had been enslaved by a madame, forced into a lifetime of prostitution simply because she was young and beautiful and foolish enough to trust someone she should not. Yes, Lydia had been caught, and Ru Shan had bought her.

It did not matter that he had treated her honestly, that he had fed and cared for her better than he had for his own first wife. It did not matter that eventually she came to him freely, marrying him with an open heart and a pure love. He had taken advantage of her then as well, using her circumstances to push her into marriage.

In short, he had begun badly with Lydia, buying her when he should have simply freed her. And that one evil act had tainted his whole life thereafter. He had not attained immortality despite the power in Lydia's yin. He had not saved the Cheng family despite the money her designs would bring. And worse yet, his own emotional well—his yang, and what little yin he possessed—had completely deserted him. He could not forgive his father. He could not even face his son with an open heart. Little by little, the curse of his own evil act—buying a free woman—was destroying him.

He had to reverse this curse. He had to find a way to obtain forgiveness—from Lydia and Heaven—and in so doing, return to the middle path. But how? The answer was simple, for all that it made his body tremble. He had to release Lydia. He had to set her free, legally and morally.

The very thought terrified him. He still believed she contained the yin he required to reach immortality. He also thought her the only possible chance to save his family. How could he release her, cut all the ties that bound them together? Would she not flee in terror, just as she had earlier this day?

She would leave and never return. He and the Chengs would be lost.

There had to be another way. Had to be.

Resolved, he returned to his chamber and his prayer mat. He burned incense, paper money, and even his own clothing as a symbol to Heaven of his earnest pleas. He did not eat at all, not even water as he prostrated himself upon his mat before the tiny altar in his chamber. He begged and moaned and wept in prayer.

Yet as the hours slipped past, he came to one inescapable conclusion.

He was offering prayers to the wrong person. His earnestness, his devotion, and most especially his humiliation were useless before Heaven until he did the same before Lydia. There was no alternative, no other way to evade his fate. He had to release her and pray that she came to him of her own free will.

When the sun slipped beneath the smoky horizon, Ru Shan emerged from his chamber. He called for bathing water and his best clothing, but spoke no more than that. His every action was like a prayer, performed in complete consciousness of intention.

He went to the storage room, taking the best silk embroidery, stitched by his mother's own hand—and expensive oils from his grandmother's collection. From his father he gathered Imperial jade rods, the currency most often used between Chinese men of wealth. And from his first wife, he took diamond earrings. Then, finally, from his own back garden, he harvested his best ornamental plant, tended from a seed by his own hand.

These things he would give to Lydia, hoping that they would weigh down her feet and prevent her escape. Altogether, the price was barely a fraction of what he had already spent to buy her. But these things were owed to Lydia, and he didn't begrudge the expense.

Not so the rest of his family, but they knew better than to complain. His grandmother merely closed her eyes and reached for her opium pipe, finding she had to share the white smoke with Ru Shan's father. His first wife tried a different approach, bringing him sweetmeats and juicy fruits while dressed in her sheerest gown.

Ru Shan was tempted, though not by his wife. His interest in her had died the moment he began learning the ways of a jade dragon. Indeed, she had not graced his bed since he was a boy too young to understand such things. It was the food that tempted him, for he had not eaten since the day before. The steam rising from the dumplings alone nearly brought him to his knees. But he would not appear before Lydia impure. And he would certainly not allow his first wife to steer him from his course. So he passed her by, stepping quickly past the tray of food lest weakness overtake him.

It did not. Not until he had gathered everything together and was heading toward the front door. It was at that moment that he faltered.

His son stood before him, the boy's dark eyes somber and hands filled with a long velvet pouch. "You have not yet taken my gift, father," Zun Ran said, and he held out his package. Before Ru Shan could speak, the boy quietly opened the pouch, withdrawing a long scroll of finest parchment. "It is a prayer," he said, unrolling the paper to reveal the characters written upon it. "Though a poor example, it is the best I have ever done."