Scale-Bright (7 page)

The illusion dissipates. Borderland fog rolls over them, colorless, damp without odor.

Houyi removes the knife and slides it between two wooden ribs. There's resistance and this is not an ideal tool, but she has both patience and strength. "Most of your kind know better than to bait me."

The creature's face is crossbred between man and art. Poreless and polished, carved rather than born. He, or it, does not answer.

"Ah," she murmurs, "you'd be more afraid of fire."

Her control of it is poor—this has never been hers, the sun-heat she's absorbed over the sentence of punishment and duty. The wood spirit blackens. Smoke pours between its green teeth.

It takes more effort to stopper the power than it took to release it, and when some of the flame's gone she feels an easing in her muscles, as of a swollen lymph node going down. "You may have been commanded to silence."

The spirit looks at her with square eyes.

"But few saw the moment of my death. Few watched it so closely, so well, as to pass the vision on for reenactment. I would say perhaps two." Her wife and the god who plotted her downfall with such determination he sacrificed his ten sons. "Will you burn for your master, then?"

A sandpaper tongue flicks out. "No," the voice a croak before the spirit ignites.

Houyi is on her feet before the combustion can reach her. She's certain she could not have done that; there is only ashes where the wood spirit was, mingling with the mist in clumps and eddies. The sun-father, by all accounts, chides his servants harshly.

She leaves banbuduo behind. This would have to be settled elsewhere.

* * *

Under a tree all knife-edges Houyi stands. The soil was earth once, but it is now blades, fallen fruits and roots of the Fusang. She does not flinch when a leaf falls; it cuts the air and would have left a long red line between her eyes. Perhaps it would have blinded her.

She is a god. Vision would have returned in a day or two; so it has been when she takes the chariot. There were times when her sight burned out and her hands melded to the reins, her skin crisping until she lost the membrane of eyelids, the webbing between fingers, the lining of lips. They took days to regrow, diaphragm and lungs twisting in her chest. She considers it just for the crime of killing nine sun-crows.

It is the tenth and last that Houyi now wait for as chariot, crow and goddess descend.

The crow gives her a three-legged bow before taking his leave. He knows when to be absent.

The goddess Xihe is not cut by Fusang when she strokes its trunk. Winter simmers around her, the mother of suns. "In my presence you ought to be on your knees," Xihe says.

Houyi can feel her eyes begin to dry, her mouth begin to parch. "Were it to satisfy you truly, I'd kneel and put my head to your feet. It is the least I can do."

"It must sting, to let your pride be subsumed by your sense of justice. Even to His Majesty you can barely make yourself bend." The goddess' hand lifts, slow grace; touches.

Cooking flesh always smells sweet.

Houyi does not flinch as the skin of her cheek gives way to blisters. Her voice does not catch as the bridge of her nose peels and reddens.

"What does your wife have to say about this?"

She has to swallow before she can speak, her throat like sand. "Nothing in particular."

"You don't tell her, then, that you allow yourself to be subjected to this. Finally a thing that violates that sacred wifely trust—your gluttony for penance." The goddess steps away. "I often ponder how far you'd go to serve this little perversion, what you'd do on my demand."

"I have a sense of proportion. I will not accept more reproach from you, or anyone else, than is just."

"And your offense was grave. I had ten children once; now I have memory of nine arrows, nine scorch marks, and this one final son. It's unbearable that you are as useful as you are or I'd see you roast always. Out with it, then."

Houyi does not touch the places where she's been seared. They will, with luck, heal and fade before Chang'e can see them. "Dijun's servant sought to test me but turned to ashes before I could question him. As for the monk Fahai, another of your husband's creatures guided him into banbuduo to hunt demon flesh."

"That hardly suffices."

"Associating with a mortal who consumes demon meat to prolong his life is hardly appropriate for any god, let alone one of your husband's rank. It'll add weight to your case when you petition the emperor."

Xihe glances seaward, where her son is a blot in the waters, his wings black as a storm's arrival. "I'll never offer you absolution, archer."

"Nor have I asked for any. It's not my habit to request what I do not deserve."

"You bargained for a year of freedom from duty."

"To expose your husband's dishonor."

"A poor lie, archer. You wanted it so that like a lovestruck bride you may be at your wife's side constantly."

Houyi does not mention that she rarely has the chance to see Chang'e. "She has a niece who requires care and I'm obliged by kinship to provide. It doesn't interfere with the problem of Dijun. I'm certain to discover enough to shame him. You'll have every legitimate reason to dissolve the marriage."

"It will be that or I shall have to tear his throat open before the court and bathe my son in whatever comes out. You can't imagine how it galls me to require you for anything, but I despise him more thoroughly than I do you."

The goddess bends to one of the fallen mulberries, picks one large enough to fill her palm. Between her fingers the fruit's skin brightens, metal in fire. With her nails she breaks off a piece, and forces it into Houyi's mouth.

She accepts, for this too is correct, part of her atonement. The fruit is acid-tart. Scalding the inside of her mouth it is heady, heightening her hurts until she is on her knees.

Xihe pins her against the roots, which are facets, which are lacerations in Houyi's back trickling as crimson as Fusang. Another piece of mulberry is pushed between her cracking lips. "In my youth I was as forgiving as I was foolish," says the goddess.

Houyi's heartbeat roils. Her breath snaps tight and she looks up at Xihe through a sunset haze. Behind the goddess the sea has gone to oil splats, the sky darkening to inkstains.

"Don't faint, archer. Haven't you always been arrogant of your discipline, your uncomplaining acceptance of pain? This fruit is for your good. As you are now no skill at arms will shield you from Dijun's fire, should it come to that. Once you've swallowed this, seed and skin, you will be impervious to him. For a time. So eat, archer, and waste not a drop."

"Another year," Houyi whispers against Xihe's wrist, which she grips in a slackening hand. "When I've finished this hunt for you, when you have what you've desired all these centuries. Another year."

The goddess' face has become smears. "Perhaps."

2.2

Julienne has always liked the harbor, but lately she seeks it with a frequency that startles her, as though these walks have been scheduled for her by someone else. She would go through her day between the glass cases, taking jewelry out and putting them back in. Occasionally the pieces she extracts from nests of velvet and resin will enter felt boxes, to be taken home like pets newly adopted. Then a need for the sea would seize her, and out she goes.

Sometimes she searches the pavement and thinks it doesn't feel right, that the signatures and handprints of celebrities do not belong down the Avenue of Stars. Today she looks into the sky. For clouds or storms perhaps; this morning there was an amber cloud alert on forecast.

There are three missed calls on her phone, all from Elena. The last is time-stamped six hours ago. Julienne still hasn't decided whether to ring back. Maybe not: Elena is probably on her way to the airport, if not already onboard. Her Hong Kong number will have been discarded, her Wan Chai flat emptied.

Rain happens gradually, in grudging obligation to the Observatory. She stays out until it begins to come down in sheets and ducks into the Shangri-La.

Her heels do not sink, deep and sudden, into the carpet. The lights are only electric chandeliers and the fountain just water. She pinches rain out of her hair and half-hopes to see the furniture—different. Not this beige orange. Something else. Different décor, different material.

She comes so often that the lobby staff must recognize her on sight and not for the first time she considers checking in: she can afford it, too. Ever since her aunts have taken over expenses her saving book has grown surplus-fat. She's been watching bemused as the figures chart an unrelenting upward curve.

Her aunts. She can't stop thinking about them. To adore each other so much after so long, for all the complications neither will voice. Julienne hopes that by the time she looks their age she'll have fixed herself. All her neuroses will be gone, as amusing and harmless as baby pictures. She doesn't want to think that it's taken Hau Ngai and Seung Ngo centuries to become who they are. They have forever, she has only a handful of decades. It doesn't seem right that at twenty-four she still finds herself with problems that should've been shed with adolescence, like bad hair and acne.

When she's gone will they get another niece to shelter; will Seung Ngo take some little girl shopping, plait her hair? Will they adopt a daughter? They enjoy having someone to care for.

It's irrational to be jealous this way, obsessive. Julienne knows that; she's been to so many child psychologists, courtesy of parents then relatives, and they've always said that Julienne was a girl prone to cries for attention. So she's quieted herself, stopped acting out, and learned to wear an epidermal silence.

A woman, in crisp uniform white and gold, comes by to inquire if she needs anything. Julienne stares at her uncomprehending, then, "Do you have a room?"

"How many nights, miss?"

"Just one. No. Three?"

She is ushered to the reception, where she is informed they have nothing cheaper than a premier. The price would have made her blanch if she didn't deal with figures more ridiculous every day at the shop. Still not something she can afford on a whim, but she can hardly back out. Embarrassed because it is too expensive, embarrassed because she doesn't have the social competence to step away, she hands over her debit card. No one asks why she, a Hong Kong native, needs a room. Maybe they think she's escaped an abusive husband. Does her uncertainty, her nerves—do they make her look like a victim, like she's hiding bruises under her sleeves and makeup?

The receptionist tells her, smiling in that practiced service-staff way, that she will have a room with a harbor view. She thanks them, takes the keycard, and realizes that she has no change of clothes. That must've deepened the impression that she's a runaway. In the lift she checks to make certain that she looks fine, composed, well-adjusted. Makeup plain but faultless.

Her nerves jangling she reminds herself that she's here for a reason. She dials her aunt.

"Yes," Hau Ngai answers on the third ring. Her breathing sounds erratic and—too much imagination, too little decorum—Julienne turns red.

"Is this a good time to call?"

A low, delayed chuckle. "I'm alone, child. And Seung Ngo and I can occasionally keep our hands off each other. We weren't wedded yesterday."

"I didn't mean... I checked in at the Kowloon Shangri-La. I don't suppose you could bring me my laptop and some clothes? Just clothes." The idea of Hau Ngai arranging her underwear in a suitcase mortifies her.

"When you said you'd stay at a hotel I assumed you weren't serious."

"I thought so too." She pitches her voice toward teasing laughter. "But you deserve a holiday from me."

"That's not the real reason."

Julienne gazes at her reflection, at its brittle edges. "I know I'm squandering, but it
is
close to the shop. I needed a change of pace."

"Nor that."

She stares at her hand. It is convulsing, for no good reason. "You sound angry."

"Not with you." A glassy tinkling. "I'll ask Seung Ngo to bring you clothes. She's be much better at picking outfits for you than I am. Stay safe. Don't put aside the arrowhead for any reason."

The arrowhead. She's almost forgotten that she wears it like a pendant, forgotten why or when it was given to her. Clutching it she says, "I won't."

In the ensuing silence she puts her head against her knees. When she's calmed down a little—just hormones, just body chemicals—she throws the curtains open. She's disappointed when she sees… what? Or doesn't see. The parameters and layout of the room too is familiar. The bed here, wall-mounted flatscreen there, even the placement of lamps.

She measures the width of the room, the length of the walls. Her heart hammers.

In the end Julienne finds herself, for no good reason either, in tears. It's been years since she last took antidepressants. These spells aren't bad enough for her to return to that yet. She hopes. She can get better.

* * *

Xihe's fruit—Xihe's fire—does not easily rest. Houyi's rhythms have not been regular since swallowing that, her heart hammering like a mouse's. She strips, inspects herself. Blisters from Xihe's hand have gone, but her back remains a banner of burn scars. She recalls waking up on those roots. It took a long time to extract herself, longer still to regain lucidity.

The clothes she's cast to the floor, Earth attire all artifice, are crusted. Over her waist there are spots where her skin is translucent. Beneath that frail layer tongues of light shimmer and swim. Carp in summer. There will be no hiding it.

So she remains as she is, half-bare and gold, when Chang'e arrives home.

Her wife drops everything she's been carrying, a pile of crackling paper and plastic. "What happened? What did you do to yourself?"

"Should that not be what did this to me?"

"Nothing could have done this to you unless you allowed it. You're very ill."

"Not exactly." She does not protest when Chang'e presses her to sit. "It's fine. They're only scars now, and in a day even those will heal. The rest is Fusang's fruit, a useful edge should I need to directly confront Dijun."