Ben looked across and picked up his spoon again. "About the team?" "No. About the other thing. I've arranged it."
"Ah . . ." Ben glanced at Meg, then bent his head slightly, spooning stew into his mouth.
"What other thing?" Meg asked, looking at Ben, a sudden hardness in her face.
Ben stared down at his plate. "You know. Oxford. Father's said I can go." There was a moment's silence; then, abruptly, Meg pushed her plate away and stood. "Then you are going?"
He turned and looked at her, a strange defiance in his eyes. "Yes."
She stood there a moment longer, then turned away, storming out down the steps. They could hear her feet pounding on the stairs. A moment later a door slammed. Then there was silence.
Ben looked across and met his mother's eyes. "She's bound to take it hard." Beth looked at her son, then away to the open window. "Well. . ." She sighed. "I suppose you can't stay here forever." She looked down, beginning to fill her own plate. "When do you plan to go?"
"Three months," Hal answered for him. "Ben's going to work on something with me before then. Something new."
She turned, looking at Hal, surprised. "So you'll be here?"
But before Hal could answer, Ben pushed back his chair and stood. "I'd best go to her. See she's all right."
"There's no need. . ." she began. But Ben had already gone. Down the steps and away through the dining room, leaving her alone with Hal. "You're ill," she said, letting her concern for him show at last. "Yes," he said. "I'm ill."
THE DOOR WAS partly open, the room beyond in shadow. Through the window on the far side of the room the moon shone, cold and white and distant. Meg sat on her bed, her head and shoulder turned from him, the moonlight glistening in her long dark hair.
He shivered, struck by the beauty of her, then stepped inside.
"Meg . . ." he whispered. "Meg, I've got to talk to you."
She didn't move; didn't answer him. He moved past her, looking out across the bay, conscious of how the meadows, the water, the trees of the far bank—all were silvered by the clear, unnatural light. Barren, reflected light; no strength or life in it. Nothing grew in that light. Nothing but the darkness.
He looked down. There, on the bedside table, beside the dull silver of his hand, lay a book. He lifted it and looked. It was Nietzsche's Zarathustra, the Hans Old etching on the cover. From the ancient paper cover Nietzsche stared out at the world, fierce-eyed and bushy browed, uncompromising in the ferocity of his gaze. So he himself would be. So he would stare back at the world, with an honest contempt for the falseness of its values. He opened the book where the leather bookmark was and read the words Meg had underlined. To be sure, 1 am a forest and a night of dark trees. . . . Beside it, in the margin, she had written "Ben." He felt a small shiver pass down his spine, then set the book down, turning to look at her again.
"Are you angry with me?"
She made a small noise of disgust. He hesitated, then reached out and lifted her chin gently with his good hand, turning her face into the light. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes liquid with tears, but her eyes were angry.
"You want it all, don't you?"
"Why not? If it's there to be had?"
"And never mind who you hurt?"
"You can't breathe fresh air without hurting someone. People bind each other with obligation. Tie each other down. Make one another suffocate in old, used-up air. I thought you understood that, Meg. I thought we'd agreed?"
"Oh yes," she said bitterly. "We agreed all right. You told me how it would be and what my choices were. Take it or leave it. I had no say."
"And you wanted a say?"
She hesitated, then drew her face back, looking down, away from him. "I don't know ... I just feel. . . hurt by it all. It feels like you're rejecting me. Pushing me away."
He reached out again, this time with his other hand, not thinking. She pushed it from her, shuddering. And when she looked up, he could see the aversion in her eyes.
"There's a part of you that's like that, Ben. Cold. Brutal. Mechanical. It's not all of you. Not yet. But what you're doing, what you plan . . . I've said it before, but it's true. I fear for you. Fear that that—" she pointed to the hand—"will take you over, cell by cell, like some awful, insidious disease, changing you to its own kind of thing. It won't show on the surface, of course, but I'll know. I'll see it in your eyes, and know it from the coldness of your touch. That's what I fear. That's what hurts. Not you going, but your reasons for going."
He was silent for a moment, then he sat down next to her. "I see."
She was watching him, the bitterness purged now from her eyes. She had said it now, had brought to the surface what was eating at her. She reached out and took his hand—his human hand—and held it loosely.
"What do you want, Ben? What, more than anything, do you want?"
He said it without hesitation; almost, it seemed, without thought. "Perfection. Some pure and perfect form."
She shivered and looked away. Perfection. Like the hand. Or like the moonlight. Something dead. "Do you love me?"
She heard him sigh; sensed the impatience in him. "You know I do." She turned slightly, looking at him, her smile sad, resigned now. Letting his hand fall from hers, she stood and lifted her dress up over her head, then lay down on the bed beside him, naked, pulling him down toward her.
"Then make love to me."
As he slipped from his clothes she watched him, knowing that for all his words, this much was genuine—this need of his for her.
You asked what's real, she thought. This—this alone is real. This thing between us. This unworded darkness in which we meet and merge. This and this only. Until we die. "I love you," he said softly, looking down at her. "You know that."
"Yes," she said, closing her eyes, shuddering as he pressed down into her. "I know . . ."
And yet it wasn't enough. For him it would never be enough.
PART 3 | AUTUMN 2206
An Inch of Ashes
The East wind sighs, the fine rains come:
Beyond the pool of water-lilies, the noise of faint thunder.
A gold toad gnaws the lock. Open it, burn the incense.
A tiger of jade pulls the rope. Draw from the well and escape.
Chia's daughter peeped through the screen when Han the clerk was young,
The goddess of the river left her pillow for the great Prince of Wei.
Never let your heart open with the spring flowers:
One inch of love is an inch of ashes.
—LI SHANG-YIN, Untitled Poem, ninth century A. D.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Pool in the Ruins
sERVANTS CAME running to take their horses, leading them back to the stables. Fei Yen seemed flushed, excited by the ride, her eyes wide with enjoyment. Li Yuan laughed, looking at her, and touched her arm. "It suits you, my love. You should ride more often."
Tsu Ma came up and stood between them, an arm about each of their shoulders. "That was good, my friends. And this"—he gestured with his head, his strong neck turning to encompass the huge estate, the palace, the lake, the orchards, the view of the distant mountains—"it's beautiful. Why, the ancient emperors would envy you."
Tsu Ma's eyes sparkled and his pure white teeth—strong, square, well-formed teeth—flashed a smile.
"You are welcome here any time, Tsu Ma," Li Yuan answered him. "You must treat our stables as your own."
"Thank you, Li Yuan." Tsu Ma gave a slight bow, then turned, looking down at Fei Yen. "You ride well, Lady Fei. Where did you learn?"
She looked away, a slight color in her cheeks. "I've ridden since I was a child. My father had two horses." She turned back, the way she held her head displaying an intense pride. In a world where animals were rare, to own two horses was a matter of some prestige. Only the Seven took such things for granted.