dead. Her brothers, dead. Her uncles, dead. All dead.
And me. My heart is dead. Cold. Without compassion. Without love .
She rose from full prostration onto her knees. She shook her head, lolled it back and forth. She felt the iron band around her throat. I cut off my terror with an iron grip, and cut myself off from my heart .
Suddenly the sound and smell of the convent rose like warm mist in her mind. She saw the butter lamps, smelled the incense, heard the chants.
Life has scalded that away. I can only boil, and boil. Does anger ever transform itself into anything better?
A hundred lingams brushed her imagination.
No!
She bolted upright, lightninged. She looked hard at the altar and pictured Mahakala, the skulls, the corpses, the bloody mouth. In her mind she heard the wild, mad, joyous laughter of mayhem.
I will escape, or I will kill .
She waited, in tumult.
Tarim didn’t come back that night.
She touched her own neck with her hands. She massaged it. She couldn’t ease the clamp of the iron band within, which was killing her. And saving her.
Tarim accepted a bowl of food from her indifferently, as though from a servant. She ate her tsampa standing at the stove used for both heating and cooking. His eyes skittered all around the room, everywhere but at her.
He finished and set down the bowl before he broached the subject. She had been dreading this, whatever it was, since he announced this morning that they would eat lunch together.
“You do well in the store,” he said in Chinese, as always. “Very well.”
She squelched her surprise, and grew more wary. “Thank you.” He would be offended by her not adding the honorific Elder Brother, she knew.
“The customers like you. You are learning English very fast.”
“Thank you.” I don’t mind English. I hate speaking Chinese with you .
Tarim looked up at her, and she saw a flicker of wild light in his eyes. He deadened it immediately. Something would come now.
“I erred in considering making you a hundred-men’s-wife.”
Gratitude spurted in her heart like a warm spring. Careful!
“Thank you.”
“I will get a better return on my investment this way.”
Her heart turned cold.
He turned a bitter smile on her and switched to English. “You will be one man’s whore. Mine.”
She bit her cheeks until she felt the warm blood in her mouth. I knew it was coming . Far fewer than one in ten Chinese people in this Land of the Golden Mountain were women. A wife was a treasure. A concubine might be a greater treasure.
She pictured herself being cared for, given fine clothes, pampered.
Her guts churned with revulsion. “No!”
Even uttered quietly, the word burst out, offensive.
Tarim’s mouth snarled. He said it in English again, patiently, as though to a child or a deaf old woman. “You will be one man’s whore. Mine.”
Involuntarily she bunched her robes in her lap and shook her head no, no, no. She shook and shook it. She felt her face as some puppet visage, her mouth pulled open and shut by a string. “No!”
The iron band around her throat tightened. She moved her hand toward the pocketknife. As though against her will her fingers clasped it. She eased it from the folds of her robes and showed it.
Tarim flung up a casual hand.
“If you try to use me,” she said, “I will kill you.”
Tarim spat the words out slowly. “You will move your belongings into my room tomorrow morning. Tonight you have alone.” He smirked at her. “For your prayers.”
2
In the dark, in the middle of the night, Sun Moon stood up from Tarim’s body. I have done it . She had poured the laudanum he sold for medicinal purposes liberally into his evening tea, and he had passed out. She had tied his hands and feet ferociously with hemp. She would have until morning, when Tarim would not appear and the whores would investigate. She bent again, licked her finger, and held it at his nostrils. She could feel the breath—he only slept.
She slipped from
And me. My heart is dead. Cold. Without compassion. Without love .
She rose from full prostration onto her knees. She shook her head, lolled it back and forth. She felt the iron band around her throat. I cut off my terror with an iron grip, and cut myself off from my heart .
Suddenly the sound and smell of the convent rose like warm mist in her mind. She saw the butter lamps, smelled the incense, heard the chants.
Life has scalded that away. I can only boil, and boil. Does anger ever transform itself into anything better?
A hundred lingams brushed her imagination.
No!
She bolted upright, lightninged. She looked hard at the altar and pictured Mahakala, the skulls, the corpses, the bloody mouth. In her mind she heard the wild, mad, joyous laughter of mayhem.
I will escape, or I will kill .
She waited, in tumult.
Tarim didn’t come back that night.
She touched her own neck with her hands. She massaged it. She couldn’t ease the clamp of the iron band within, which was killing her. And saving her.
Tarim accepted a bowl of food from her indifferently, as though from a servant. She ate her tsampa standing at the stove used for both heating and cooking. His eyes skittered all around the room, everywhere but at her.
He finished and set down the bowl before he broached the subject. She had been dreading this, whatever it was, since he announced this morning that they would eat lunch together.
“You do well in the store,” he said in Chinese, as always. “Very well.”
She squelched her surprise, and grew more wary. “Thank you.” He would be offended by her not adding the honorific Elder Brother, she knew.
“The customers like you. You are learning English very fast.”
“Thank you.” I don’t mind English. I hate speaking Chinese with you .
Tarim looked up at her, and she saw a flicker of wild light in his eyes. He deadened it immediately. Something would come now.
“I erred in considering making you a hundred-men’s-wife.”
Gratitude spurted in her heart like a warm spring. Careful!
“Thank you.”
“I will get a better return on my investment this way.”
Her heart turned cold.
He turned a bitter smile on her and switched to English. “You will be one man’s whore. Mine.”
She bit her cheeks until she felt the warm blood in her mouth. I knew it was coming . Far fewer than one in ten Chinese people in this Land of the Golden Mountain were women. A wife was a treasure. A concubine might be a greater treasure.
She pictured herself being cared for, given fine clothes, pampered.
Her guts churned with revulsion. “No!”
Even uttered quietly, the word burst out, offensive.
Tarim’s mouth snarled. He said it in English again, patiently, as though to a child or a deaf old woman. “You will be one man’s whore. Mine.”
Involuntarily she bunched her robes in her lap and shook her head no, no, no. She shook and shook it. She felt her face as some puppet visage, her mouth pulled open and shut by a string. “No!”
The iron band around her throat tightened. She moved her hand toward the pocketknife. As though against her will her fingers clasped it. She eased it from the folds of her robes and showed it.
Tarim flung up a casual hand.
“If you try to use me,” she said, “I will kill you.”
Tarim spat the words out slowly. “You will move your belongings into my room tomorrow morning. Tonight you have alone.” He smirked at her. “For your prayers.”
2
In the dark, in the middle of the night, Sun Moon stood up from Tarim’s body. I have done it . She had poured the laudanum he sold for medicinal purposes liberally into his evening tea, and he had passed out. She had tied his hands and feet ferociously with hemp. She would have until morning, when Tarim would not appear and the whores would investigate. She bent again, licked her finger, and held it at his nostrils. She could feel the breath—he only slept.
She slipped from
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