The Red Thread Read Online Free

settlement. Charlotte had laughed, but in between the lines she read of sad loneliness, of long nights far from her, from their deep affection for each other; she had shed tears for him. Now she smiled. This soft dawn would bring her to him and to her new home. She forgot the Chinese ship and went below to make her final preparations.
    The coolies had stirred when the schooner drew anchor, and they moved to see this sleek little ship, with its white sails, move gracefully towards shore. All hoped to catch a glimpse again of this Ch’ang O of the western seas, as she had now been named. Superstitious and afraid, they felt she might be an extra good omen in Si Lat Po, this land of no winters, of tigers, snakes and barbarians. Zhen did not step forward this time, but watched silently as the foreign woman glided past. He could see her quite clearly from his vantage point at the stern. Her dress was white, with a wide, pale gold sash. The top was tight-fitting, with a kind of puffed sleeve. She was slender. The skirts were large and of some gauzy material. She looked as if she was standing in a cloud. Her hair was long, black, like Chinese hair, held back by shining gold ribbons that floated below her waist; her features were delicate. Despite the morning heat, she looked as cool as moonlight on a river. He was surprised; he had heard that people from the Western lands were red and coarse.
    He could not make out her eyes. Then she turned and looked to shore. Within a minute she had disappeared, and the schooner grew smaller.
    Zhen grinned and turned to Qian.

    â€˜Her robe a cloud, her face a flower …
    Meeting on the dew-edged roof of paradise.’

    They were lines from Li Bai’s ‘Song of Pure Happiness’. With him, Zhen carried two books. In one he had copied all his favourite poems. Waiting in Amoy for the coolie ship to leave, he and Qian had discovered a mutual love for this ancient, reckless, romantic and drunken poet and his steady and loyal friend, Du Fu. Zhen had deliberately changed ‘moon’ to ‘dew’ to give a sensual liquid overtone. ‘Playing the game of clouds and rain’ had been the poetic allusion to lovemaking between men and women since time immemorial.
    â€˜Perhaps Yi will meet Ch’ang O again.’
    â€˜Perhaps, but don’t forget how Li Bai ended up. Up ended, trying to capture the moon in the river, poet no more.’
    â€˜Yes, but it was a fine death. Drunk on poetry and wine.’
    They both laughed, but a small tic began to twitch alongside Qian’s right eye. He knew from their long conversations that he was the Du Fu to Zhen’s Li Bai. Perhaps that was why they had formed such a strong bond. Surely he would not mix himself up with these ang mo gui , these foreign devils whom no one could understand.
    He sighed. There was always something dangerously Taoist about Zhen. He had grown to love him, though. Despite the miseries of their journey, Zhen stayed resolute and cheerful. At those times, the words of Du Fu’s ode to Li Bai came to him: ‘caught in a net, how is it you still have wings?’ When he had said this, Zhen had told him a story.
    â€˜There was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbours came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said. “Maybe,” said the farmer. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbours exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following morning, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown and broke his leg. Again the neighbours came to offer their sympathy for his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbours congratulated the