Not that that really mattered. What mattered was Ben. Ben . . . even more than herself. It had not always been so, but now . . . well, even when she slept with other men - with guests or guards or with that Osu creature - it was Ben to whom she returned, Ben with whom she shared it.
Catherine turned back, staring down the slope toward the craft again, knowing there was no hurry. The guards had to spray it first. And then Ben would have to shower in the special tent he'd had rigged up. But afterwards . . .
Smiling, she reached beneath her skirts and, slipping her fingers beneath the waist of her briefs, pulled them down over her legs and kicked them away. Then, the smile fixed mischievously on her face, she began to make her way down to meet him.
Ben closed his eyes, letting the water drum over his naked body, the force of it inducing a kind of trance-like state in him. It was one of the few moments when he found himself freed from the slavery of thought, when - as in those final, dark moments of sex - he was released and, in Keats' immortal phrase, found himself "dying into life". Ironically, it was only at such moments that he found himself capable of reaching beyond the normal level of his being and making leaps.
Leaps . . . From nothing they came. Or, rather, from some inaccessible recess deep within him - some deep, lightless well from which he could not consciously draw.
But for months that well had been capped, and the source of his muse had run dry. For months now he had waited. Until today.
He half turned, hearing a vague noise just behind him, a swishing of the plastic as someone came into the tent; then he laughed and turned to embrace Catherine as she stepped beneath the steady flow.
"You'll get soaked," he said, delighted to see her.
"I don't care," she said, pulling him close, her lips hungrily seeking his. "I don't fucking care!"
Ben broke from the second kiss and held her out at arm's length from him, studying her. The soft, sodden cotton clung to her, revealing her full figure, while her long bronze-red hair fell in wet ringlets over her breasts. She was magnificent.
She laughed softly, looking down the length of him. "I see you're pleased to see me again."
He grinned. "I'm always pleased to see you," then, drawing her close again, he rucked up her skirt, surprised and pleased to see that she'd anticipated him. Falling to his knees, he nuzzled his head between her thighs, rubbing his cheeks against them before kissing her softly, gently on her sex.
She held his head, her fingers deep in his fine black hair, her eyes closed as the water fell and fell and fell. For a moment she felt close to exploding, the feeling of it was so wonderful, and then Ben was standing again, pulling her wet blouse up over her shoulders, stripping her until she was naked. He lifted her gently up onto him, her legs wrapping about his waist, her mouth opening in a soft Oh of delight as he entered her and they began to make love.
Afterwards, in the quiet of the drying room, she made to help him, but, smiling, he turned the tables on her, making her sit while he dried her feet and legs, whistling to himself as he did.
"You're in a good mood," she said, running her fingers through his hair fondly.
He looked up at her and winked. "You know how it is." For once she had no idea what he was talking about; only that he was looking inordinately pleased with himself. "What is it?" she asked, curious now. "What happened in there?"
He laughed and sat back on his heels. "I've got it, Catherine. The whole of it."
She hesitated, then leaned toward him, her eyes wide. "The new work? You've got that?"
Ben nodded, then busied himself drying her flanks, making her lift her arms, as if he were drying a child. "It was on the way back. I was feeling disappointed. What I'd seen. . . well, it was strange, but not as strange as I'd expected. And then it came to me."
He leaned back and threw the towel aside, then stood, looking down at her.
"Well?" she said.
"I'll show you," he said enigmatically. "Later. But only if you're good."
"Good? I thought I was the best."
"Oh, you are," he said. "You and Meg." And with that he turned away, leaving her to stare at his naked back as he disappeared out of the tent, heading for the cottage.
"You and Meg," she said, after a moment, mimicking him perfectly, a look of pique on her face. Then, shrugging it off, she stretched, cat-like and began to smile, one hand going down to her sex, remembering.
"Meg?"
Meg appeared at the door on the far side of the living room, a finger to her lips. "Shh," she said. "Dogu's restless."
"Ah," he nodded, then went across to her, keeping his voice down to a whisper. "Would you bring some food down to me? I want to work on something for a while."
She smiled. "Hadn't you better put some clothes on?"
He shook his head.
She smoothed one hand down his chest until it rested between his legs. "Would you like me to come down and inspire you?"
"Later," he said, kissing her mouth softly. "Right now I've got to work. Why don't you take Catherine to bed. She's futt of beans."
Meg looked away. He'd often suggested that they slept together, but they never had. With him, yes, but not alone.
"It's rabbit stew," she said, moving past him, clearly miffed by his suggestion.
"My favourite," he said, watching her go through to the kitchen and smiling to himself. Then, knowing he had to set it all down while it was still fresh in his mind, he hurried across and, pulling open the door, padded down the steps into the cellar where his work room was.
He had been looking at the problem in the wrong light. He had been trying to follow the living into the land of the dead. But he'd been going about it all wrong. What he needed was to turn it all about; to follow the dead back into the world of the living.
Ben shivered, making sense of it at last.
He had to die. Yes, he had to die and be reborn.
At the foot of the ramp, Li Yuan turned and looked back toward the Eastern Palace, suddenly remembering something. "The portrait! Han Ch'in, you must go and get the portrait!" Han Ch'in looked to his half-brother, Kuei Jen, and shrugged.
"Portrait, father? What portrait?" "Of my mother. It is in my rest-room, just off the study. Go and bring it. I will not leave until I have it!"
After all that had happened, it seemed a strange little display of petulance, but Han Ch'in merely bowed to his father and, with a smile to Kuei Jen, hurried off to do his father's bidding.
"Go inside, father," Kuei Jen urged, laying a hand gently on his father's arm. "Han Ch'in will bring the portrait. Now go inside and rest."
Li Yuan hesitated a moment longer, then, with a fussy little gesture, hobbled up the ramp and into the big cruiser.
Kuei Jen sighed, shaking his head at his father's behaviour, but understanding it even so. Families! Sometimes they seemed as much a curse as a blessing. Not that his was by any means a typical family.
He half turned, hearing the cries of his infant son from within the cruiser and remembered briefly both the pain and joy of giving birth. Now that had been an experience - a test of sheer endurance unmatched by any other he had undergone. If anything, it had made him much more of a man than he had been before, for it had augmented his physical strength with the qualities of compassion and understanding.
He smiled, wondering what Chuang Tzu would have made of it. A man giving birth to his own son. A man with a woman's feelings, complete in himself. Only he wasn't complete. Content, yes, but complete? No. No being was ever complete. Take his father, for instance. Li Yuan, more than any of them, had been born incomplete - a motherless child, forever longing for that one relationship he had been denied. To be a man in a man's world, that had been his fate - and that, more than anything, was what had fucked him up. All of his mistakes, all of his thoughtless actions, had stemmed from that one root. No wonder, now, he called like a frightened child for his mother's portrait.