The Art of War (29 page)

Ben moved his head back and checked the pulse at her neck. Her heart was still beating. He watched her chest fall, then, leaning forward again, breathed into her mouth, then, three seconds later, once more.

Meg shuddered then began to gag. Quickly he turned her head to the side, allowing her to bring up seawater and the part-digested sandwich she had eaten only an hour before. Clearing her mouth with his fingers, he tilted her head back again and blew another breath into her, then turned her head again as she gagged a second time. But she was breathing now. Her chest rose and fell, then rose again. Her eyelids fluttered.

Carefully, he turned her over, on to her front, bending her arm and leg to support the lower body, then tilted her chin back to keep the airway open. Her breathing was more normal now, the colour returning to her lips.

Ben sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath. She had almost died. His darling Meg had almost died. He shuddered, then felt a faint tremor pass through him like an aftershock. Gods! For a moment he closed his eyes, feeling a strange giddiness, then opened them again and put his hand down to steady himself.

Below him another wave broke heavily against the rocks, throwing up a fine spray. The tide was still rising. Soon they would be cut off completely. Ben looked about him, noting from the length of the shadows how late it was. They had slept too long. He would have to carry her across, and he would have to do it now.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself, then put his arms beneath her and picked her up, turning her over and cradling her, tilting her head back against his upper arm. Then he began to climb, picking his way carefully across the mound of rocks and down, into shadow.

The water was almost waist deep and, for the first twenty or thirty feet he lifted Meg up above it, afraid to let the chill get at her again. Then he was carrying her through horseheads of spume little more than knee deep and up on to the shingle.

He set her down on the shingle close to where they had left their sandals. She was still unconscious, but there was colour in her cheeks now and a reassuring regularity to her breathing. He looked about him but there was nothing warm to lay over her, nothing to give her to help her body counter the shock it would be feeling.

He hesitated a moment, then, knowing there was nothing else to be done before help arrived, he lay down beside her on the shingle and held her close to him, letting the warmth of his body comfort her.

Meg woke before the dawn, her whole body tensed, shivering, remembering what had happened. She lay there, breathing deeply, calming herself, staring through the darkness at the far wall where her collection of shells lay in its glass case. She could see nothing, but she knew it was there, conch and cowrie, murex and auger, chambered nautilus and spotted babylon, red mitre and giant chiragra – each treasured and familiar, yet different now; no longer so important to her. She recalled what Ben had said of shells and memory, of sealed chambers and growth, and knew she had missed something. He had been trying to say something to her, to seed an idea in her mind. But what?

She reached up, touching the lump on the side of her head gingerly, examining it with her fingers. It was still tender, but it no longer ached. The cut had been superficial and the wound had already dried. She had been lucky. Very lucky.

She sat up, yawning, then went still. There was a vague rustling, then the noise of a window being raised in Ben’s room. For a moment she sat there, listening. Then she got up, pulled on her robe and went softly down the passage to his room. Ben was standing at the window, naked, leaning across the sill, staring out into the darkness.

Meg went to him and stood at his side, her hand on the small of his back, looking with him, trying to see what he was seeing. But to her it was only darkness. Her vision was undirected, uninformed.

She felt him shiver and turned her head to look into his face. He was smiling, his eyes bright with some knowledge she had been denied.

‘It has something to do with this,’ he said softly, looking back at her. ‘With dark and light and their simple interaction. With the sunlight and its absence. So simple that we’ve nearly always overlooked it. It’s there in the Tao, of course, but it’s more than a philosophy – more than simply a way of looking at things – it’s the very fabric of reality.’

He shivered, then smiled at her. ‘Anyway… how are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ she answered in a whisper.

She had a sudden sense of him. Not of his words, of the all-too-simple thing he’d said, but of his presence there beside her. Her hand still lay there on the firm, warm flesh of his back, pressing softly, almost unnoticed against his skin. She could feel his living pulse.

He was still looking at her, his eyes puzzling at something in her face. She looked down at the place where her hand rested against his back, feeling a strange connective flow, stronger than touch, aware of him standing there, watching her; of the tautness, the lean muscularity of his body.

She had never felt this before. Never felt so strange, so conscious of her own physical being, there, in proximity to his own. His nakedness disturbed her and fascinated her, making her take a long, slow breath, as if breathing were suddenly hard.

As he turned towards her, her hand slipped across the flesh of his back until it rested against his hip. She shivered, watching his face, his eyes, surprised by the need she found in them.

She closed her eyes, feeling his fingers on her neck, moving down to gently stroke her shoulders. For a moment she felt consciousness slipping, then caught herself, steadying herself against him. Her fingers rested against the smooth channels of his groin, the coarse pubic hair tickling the knuckles of her thumbs.

She looked down at him and saw how fierce and proud he stood for her. Without thinking, she let her right hand move down and brush against his sex.

‘Meg…’ It was a low, desirous sound. His hands moved down her body, lifting her nightgown at the waist until his hands held her naked hips, his fingers gently caressing the soft smoothness of her flesh. She closed her eyes again, wanting him to go further, to push down and touch her, there where she ached for him.

‘Meg…?’

She opened her eyes, seeing at once the strange mixture of fear and hurt, confusion and desire in his eyes.

‘It’s all right… ’ she whispered, drawing him to her, reassuring him. She led him to the bed and lay there, letting him take the gown from her.

It hurt. For all his gentleness, his care, it hurt to take him inside her. And then the pain eased and she found she was crying, saying his name over and over, softly, breathlessly, as he moved against her. She responded eagerly, pressing up against him again and again until his movements told her he was coming. Trembling, she held him tighter, pulling him down into her, her hands gripping his buttocks, wanting him to spill his seed inside her. Then, as his whole body convulsed, she gasped, a wave of pure, almost painful pleasure washing over her. For a time she lapsed from consciousness, then, with a tiny shudder, she opened her eyes again.

They lay there, brother and sister, naked on the bloodied bed, their arms about each other. Ben slept, his chest rising and falling slowly while she watched its movement closely. She looked at his face, at his long dark lashes, his fine, straight nose and firm, full lips. A face the mirror of her own. Narcissistically, she traced the shape of his lips with her fingers, then let her hand rest on his neck, feeling the pulse there.

The look of him reminded her of something in Nietzsche, from the section in the
Zarathustra
called ‘The Dance Song’. She said the words softly, tenderly, her voice almost a whisper.

‘“To be sure, I am a forest and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find rosebowers too under my cypresses.

‘“And he will surely find too the little god whom girls love best: he lies beside the fountain, still, with his eyes closed.”’

She shivered and looked down the length of their bodies, studying the differences that gender made between them. The fullness of her breasts and hips, the slenderness of his. The strangeness of his penis, so very different in rest; so sweet and harmless now, all the brutality, the lovely strength of it dissipated.

She felt a warmth, an achingly sweet tenderness rise up in her, looking at him, seeing how vulnerable he was in sleep. Unguarded and open. A different creature from his waking self. She wanted to kiss him there and wake that tiny bud, making it flower splendidly once more.

Meg closed her eyes and shivered. She knew what they had done. But there was no shame in her, no regret.

She loved him. It was quite simple. Sisters should love their brothers. But her love for him was different in kind. She loved him with more than a simple, sisterly devotion. For a long time she had loved him like this: wholly, without barriers.

And now he knew.

She got up, careful not to disturb him, and put on her gown. For a moment longer she stood there, looking down at his sleeping, perfect form, then left him, returning to her room.

And as she lay there, her eyes closed, drifting into sleep, her left hand pressed softly against her sex, as if it were his.

‘How’s my invalid?’

Beth Shepherd set the tray down on the floor, then went to the window and pulled back the curtains, letting the summer sunlight spill into the room.

Meg opened her eyes slowly, smiling. ‘I’m fine. Really I am.’

Beth sat on the bed beside her daughter and parted her hair, examining the wound. ‘Hmm. It looks all right. A nice clean cut, anyway.’ For a moment she held her hand to Meg’s brow, then, satisfied that she wasn’t feverish, smiled and began to stroke her daughter’s hair.

‘I’m sorry…’ Meg began, but her mother shook her head.

‘Ben’s told me what happened. It was an accident, that’s all. You’ll know better in future, won’t you?’

‘If it wasn’t for Ben…’

Beth’s fingers hesitated, then continued to comb Meg’s thick, dark hair. ‘I’d say that made you even, wouldn’t you? A life for a life.’

Meg looked up at her. ‘No. It was different. Totally different. He risked himself. He could have died.’

‘Maybe. But would you have done less?’

Meg hesitated, then answered quietly, ‘I guess not.’ She shivered and looked across at the glass case that held her shells. ‘You know, I can’t imagine what it would be like here without Ben.’

‘Nor I. But have your breakfast. That’s if you feel like eating.’

Meg laughed. ‘I’m ravenous, and it smells delicious.’

Beth helped Meg sit up, plumping pillows behind her, then took the tray from the floor and set it down on Meg’s lap. There was grapefruit and pancakes, fresh orange and coffee, two thick slices of buttered toast and a small pot of honey.

Meg tucked in heartily, watched by her mother. When she was done, Beth clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Goodness, Meg! You should fall in the water more often if it gives you an appetite like that!’

Meg sighed and lay back against the pillows, letting her mother take the tray from her and set it aside.

Beth turned back to her, smiling. ‘Well? Are you staying in bed, or do you want to get up?’

Meg looked down, embarrassed. ‘I want to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘About you, and Father. About how you met and fell in love.’

Beth laughed, surprised. ‘Goodness! What brings this on?’

Meg coloured slightly. ‘Nothing. It’s just that I realized I didn’t know.’

‘Well… all right. I’ll tell you.’ She took a deep breath, then began. ‘It was like this. When I was eighteen I was a pianist. I played all the great halls of the world, performing before the very highest of First Level society – the
Supernal
, as they call themselves. And then, one day, I was asked to play before the T’ang and his court.’

‘That must have been exciting.’

‘Very.’ She took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Anyway, that night, after the performance, everyone was telling me how well I’d played, but I was angry with myself. I had played badly. Not poorly, but by my own standards I had let myself down. And before the T’ang of all people. It seemed that only your father sensed something was wrong. It was he, I later found out, who had arranged the whole affair. He had seen me perform before and knew what I was capable of.

‘Well. After the reception he took me aside and asked me if I’d been nervous. I had, of course. It’s not every day that an eighteen-year-old is called to perform before one of the Seven. But that wasn’t an excuse. I told him how ashamed I was at having let the T’ang down, and – to my surprise and chagrin – he agreed with me. Right there and then he took me into the T’ang’s own quarters and, craving Li Shai Tung’s forgiveness for intruding, made me sit at the piano again and play. “Your best this time, Elizabeth,” he said. “Show the T’ang why I boasted of you.” And I did, and this time, with just your father and the T’ang listening, I played better than I’d ever played in my life.’

‘What did you play? Can you remember?’

Her mother smiled, looking off into the distance. ‘Yes. It was Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, the
Appassionata.
It was only when I had finished that I realized I had just committed a capital offence.’

Meg’s mouth fell open. ‘Gods! Of course! It’s a prohibited piece, isn’t it? Like all of Beethoven’s work! But what did the T’ang do?’

Beth looked down at her daughter and ruffled her hair. ‘He clapped. He stood up and applauded me. Then he turned to your father and said, “I don’t know what that was, Hal, and I don’t want to know, but you were right to bring the girl back. She’s in a class of her own.”’

‘And?’

‘And for a year nothing. I thought your father had forgotten me, though I often thought of him and of what he had done for me that evening. But then, out of the blue, I received an invitation from him, asking me to come and visit the Domain.’

Meg sat forward eagerly. ‘And that’s when it all happened?’

Beth shook her head. ‘No. Not at all. I was flattered, naturally, but such a request was impossible to comply with. I was only nineteen. It was six years before I would come of age, and my mother and father would have forbidden me to go even if I had asked them.’