Chapter 7: find Reese; To her shore
Manhattan, late December, 2014
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...
It was cold today, blustery, and grit from the street came flying up, stinging against his face in the wind, flapping his collar against his cheek.
No matter.
In his memory, home, the swish of grasslands just outside his door – incessant wind, big sky, the smell of tall grass bending in the wind, and charcoal burning.
Home. Always there behind his eyes. Whenever he wanted, he could go there in his mind. So strong was the pull of home.
Shaved head, round face, Ping pulled his jacket a little closer to his neck, held the collar from snapping in the wind against him.
He smelled jow on his hands, a fragrance like liniment, so thoroughly a part of him that he could not imagine a day without it on his skin. The dark brown elixir – brought, in glass, all this way from a cask buried deep in the ground near his home. Brought here from his home in the Steppes – down through Hong Kong; across the sea by tramp ship, to Portland; then cross-country, hitching by freight train, here, to New York.
Queens was so different from his home in the Steppes. So crowded; like cities back home in China. Cars, buses, fumes, bright lights, throngs of people around every corner.
Building after nameless building crowded together, dense-packing people into a few tight blocks.
Far from the sweet, tall grass, and the incessant wind that sang him to sleep each night.
Far from the giant yellow moon that hung all night in the black sky – like a cold eye – watching, but unmoved.
Far from the land where ancestors walked, fought, died. Generations before him, and still present, their spirits forever walking the grasslands. Invisible, but keenly felt.
Queens was so different from his home.
No matter. Whenever he wanted it, he could go there in his mind.
Ping looked down, shielding his eyes from the stinging grit kicked up by the cold fitful wind. He had come to Manhattan from Queens today, with a mission.
He pocketed his phone and considered the conversation. The woman, Kara Stanton, had called him from a ship, but did not tell him where. They had spoken in Mandarin of new plans. His benefactor, Mr. Greer, ordered him to find the tall American, the one who wore the suit and white shirt to battle.
Ping shook his head. There was nothing predictable about this man, this American. He was uneducated, ignorant in the ways of battle, and yet, something of a warrior. Like none Ping had ever fought before.
The American was uneducated in the Way. He followed no Master.
He was ignorant of the way to prepare for battle – even how to dress for battle.
He knew nothing of how to care for his wounds. He knew nothing of jow, nothing of bone-setting, nothing of how to use energy in battle – or in healing himself after. Profound ignorance.
And yet.
In him there was a flash of internal strength that Ping had not expected. A flash of power that had come at just the right moment to save him. As though he had walked the Warrior's Way before. As though he had summoned the spirit of the thing itself to him. Like a Warrior.
Ping had seen it in his eyes – when he'd surprised him in the basement, leaping from the shadows, swinging the long wooden pole, slashing toward his head. The American had sensed it coming, and pulled back just in time. The pole slashed across his wrist instead.
Across the right wrist, dominant side for most people. And Ping had been sure to aim for the one spot that would cripple the hand for hours, render it useless for gripping, for holding a weapon, for fighting with the hands.
But with his left hand, the American had flung a rope up, tangling the whirling pole in its coils – a Warrior's move. It had turned the tide of battle to his favor, changed defeat into escape.
Ping considered for a moment the battle – as he had seen it in his mind.
A slashing blow to the top of the right shoulder, numbing the arm on that side, the American lurching out with his right foot to gain balance – and then the whistling sound of the wooden pole whirling in the air – as Ping stepped back and to the left.
In one motion, Ping would swing the pole over his head, whirling, then down around to his right, gaining speed, slashing his pole to the inside of the right knee. Just where he'd seen the Zheng break the bone with the wood baton that night in the basement. The American was still wounded there, limping, vulnerable.
Ping's slashing pole would take the knee out from under him.
Right leg, right arm. Useless after two blows. The American would be down, helpless to stop him. A final blow would finish him, if he chose. Ping nodded to himself.
The next battle was coming.
He could feel it.
Ping could feel energy gathering around him, attracting their two spirits together, to meet - at just the right moment.
There was work to do to prepare. Iron palm. Meditation. Practicing his form. Time immersing himself into the rhythm and the flow of his life-long Practice.
One goal. To defeat the enemy. He would defeat the American.
On the phone, Kara Stanton had told him where to look. In Manhattan, she had already found the tall American – the one who wore the suit and white shirt to battle.
She'd told him where to look – she'd told him how to find Reese.
Manhattan, late December, 2014
Wind whistled around the brick corner, three stories up, rattling something metal out on the balcony. Bear lifted his head and listened, ears forward, cocking his head to one side, but not rising from his spot.
Light was still dim in the apartment, as if this were just after dawn, rather than noon.
Still cloud-covered, cold, and windy out there.
More rattling on the balcony.
This time Bear got up and jogged to the french doors, pushing the curtain to one side with his nose, staring outside there. Left, right, up and back to the gray concrete – nothing caught his attention. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the wind. The fitful wind, that rattled the metal table out there – one leg a bit shorter than the others, so tipping it and rattling it in the wind.
When nothing happened, he turned back to his spot, banished to the other side of the bedroom door, on the carpet, where he curled himself and settled in. He could hear them on the other side.
Reese stood at the side of her bed, where she'd dropped her sweats and tee on the floor before. His toes wiggled against the softness. He could smell her soap on him, fresh from a shower down the hall. He liked to watch her like this, in the dim light, stretched out with her shoulder showing above the edge of the comforter. He couldn't see her face, just the long line of her cheek and jaw, her long neck, and the outline of her collar bone. He thought of the softness of her skin under his fingertips, the fullness of her lips, the way she dragged them across the skin of his neck.
And when he thought of her like that, when she was stretched out full length like this, like the other night – on him, her chest on his, her belly on his, and her thigh full length against his – it made him breathe a little harder.
It would be so easy to stay.
Slip in between the sheets; reach for her. He could feel it – how warm she'd be, asleep for hours next to him in bed. He could see her stirring when he reached for her; turning, smiling when she found him there with her.
Perhaps she'd reach out, too. Pull him closer. Whisper something near his ear. Make him smile.
But then, overcome with her, breathing in the scent of her soap: on her, on him, mingling, heated by their skin so close to one another. He could see where this would lead. Her lips would touch him, and he would feel the heat of her breath, sighing, on the way to his.
So easy to let it happen. Let her melt him all over again. Empty him. Leave him adrift - like a boat on a quiet river, deep in pine woods.
He breathed it in – he could almost smell the pines, hear the water lapping at the sides.
But, what if.
What if he didn't. What if he found his clothes, dressed in the dim light, left her there, dreaming her dreams, alone in her bed.
He could just walk away. Keep things simple. Let it be.
So easy to just walk away right now.
He closed his eyes for a moment, head down. In his mind, he was remembering a dream. It all came back to him as he stood at her bedside, watching her sleep.
He was at the beach, looking out at the water at dusk, the line of water at the horizon slowly rising and falling in the dimming light, like the Earth breathing. So quiet there, except for the roll of waves coming in on the beach. And then, her hand was on his shoulder. Joss was there.
"Let's walk," she'd said – and she took him by the hand down onto the sand. At first, he hadn't wanted to look at her. He kept his eyes away, anywhere but her face.
She'd asked how he was doing, and he'd mumbled something back. She wouldn't take that as an answer.
"I have eyes, John," she'd said. Joss had seen them together in the diner, when he'd taken Gelila to breakfast after she'd worked through the night to save Bear.
Just breakfast. Nothing more, he'd thought. What was Joss saying?
"I think you chose well," she'd said. Chose?
He hadn't.
This was nothing. This was nothing. He hadn't chosen.
What was Joss saying?
This was really nothing.
He could leave at any time.
Any time.
Even now.
But-
What if.
What if he dropped the towel from his waist, dropped it on the soft sweats she'd left on the floor at his feet.
What if he just slid in, in between the sheets. Reached for her.
He knew where this would lead.
Like a boat adrift -
To her shore.