Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (30 page)

Gasping, Ben
broke surface some twenty feet out from the rocks and turned onto his
back, cradling Meg against him, face up, her head against his neck.

At first the
waves helped him, carrying him in toward the rocks, but then he
realized what danger he was in. He turned his head and looked. As the
wave ebbed, it revealed a sharp, uneven shelf of rock. If he let the
waves carry them in, they might be dashed against that shelf. But
what other option was there? If he tried to swim around the rocks and
into the cove he would be swimming against the current and it would
take too long. And he had little time if he was to save Meg. He would
have to risk it.

He slowed
himself in the water, trying to judge the rise and fall of the waves,
then kicked out. The first wave took him halfway to the rocks. The
second lifted them violently and carried them almost there.

Almost. The wave
was beginning to ebb as he reached out with his left hand and gripped
the ledge. As the water surged back a spear of pain jolted through
his arm, making him cry out. Then he was falling, his body twisting
round, his side banging painfully against the rock.

For a moment it
felt as if his hand were being torn from his arm, but he held on,
waiting for the water to return, his artificial fingers biting into
the rock, Meg gripped tightly against him. And when it came he kicked
out fiercely, forcing himself up onto the land, then scrambled
backward, pushing desperately with his feet against the rock, away
from the water, Meg a dead weight against him.

Ignoring the
pain in his hand, he carried Meg up onto a ledge above the water and
put her down, fear making his movements urgent. Her lips and the
lobes of her ears were tinged with blue.

He tilted her
head back, forcing her chin up, then pinched her nose shut with the
finger and thumb of his left hand. Leaning over her, he sealed his
lips about her open mouth and gave four quick, full breaths.

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, allowing her to bring
up seawater and the part-digested sandwich she had eaten only an hour
before. Clearing her mouth with his ringers, 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, onto 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 color 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 onto the shingle.

He set her down
on the shingle close to where they had left their sandals. She was
still unconscious, but there was color 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 about shells and memory, 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 became 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
toward 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 hair of his sex
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 she
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, she 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?"

Meg nodded. "If
it weren'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, then away. "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."

Beth smiled.
"Nor I. But anyway, 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 her lap. There were grapefruit and pancakes,
fresh orange and coffee, two thick slices of buttered toast and a
small pot of honey.

Meg ate
heartily, watched by her mother. When she was finished, 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."

"Okay. What
about?"

"About you,
and Father. About how you met and fell in love."