SOLSTICE

Their wedding,

hastily arranged,

hastily performed,

took place in the courtyard

where the bride,

one week earlier,

had begged

that the groom

be executed.

Four guests,

three officials,

eighteen guards.

No musicians,

no attendants,

no dancing, no feast, no kiss.

Then a twelve-day ride

to the burnt ruins of Harmouth,

the marriage unconsummated,

and Mei (the bride) appalled

by the groom’s (Connol’s)

lackluster horsemanship.

At Harmouth,

winter drawing in,

Connol spent his days

out in the frost,

planning the reconstruction of the town;

came back each night

to his cold bride,

the fire of her past

an open book through which he leafed

(the hundred passions, tantrums, generosities

of her privileged, protected youth)—

all quenched now,

frozen.

Mei married him

out of duty.

She ran the house for him

out of duty.

She offered her body to him

out of duty.

He used her body

out of duty,

to beget sons,

he who had lusted for each inch

of her flesh:

the soft inside of her elbows,

her earlobes, fingers, buttocks, breasts,

nipples, neck, knees, navel,

but his lust lost

in the cold wasteland

of her disdain.

On the shortest day,

the longest night,

Connol handed her sheepskin boots,

a sheepskin coat

(she who had come to him in silk

embroidered in gold and scarlet),

led her down to the deep harbor,

the fishing boats rocking

on the dark water,

the fishermen standing

on the stone quay.

Connol and the fishermen

and the handful of other townspeople

and every farmer within a day’s walk

and the two dozen soldiers under Connol’s command

sang the sun back,

as it had been sung back in Harmouth

each winter solstice

since the first stone

was laid in the harbor wall.

No musical instruments,

only the voices raised,

over and over,

in chorus and chant,

canon, counterpoint, call-and-response,

and, twice, Connol sang

the long solos

in his rusty baritone.

Mei, listening,

forgot the smell

of fish and sweat and smoke and salt,

forgot how cold her nose was.

There, in the dark,

as she sang, softly, unobtrusively,

the words as she learned them.

SCHEDULE

“Draw up next week’s guard schedule.”

Tsung, captain of King Xau’s guards,

offered no further explanation,

merely handed Li a copy

of the king’s projected schedule.

If the younger guard was nervous,

he showed no sign of it.

Li studied the king’s appointments,

helped himself to paper and brush,

gridded the paper into shifts,

added Leong’s name in six places.

“Why Leong first?” asked Tsung.

“And why those times?”

“Because he doubles as surgeon.

When the king leaves the palace,

Leong should accompany him.”

Li waited a moment,

a questioning look on his face,

but the captain said no more

and Li bent back to his task.

Tsung reviewed Li’s effort, asked,

“You assigned me nine shifts. Why?”

“I judged that those occasions

offered more threat to the king.

Should I have done differently?”

“No,” said Tsung. “That is exactly

what I would have done. Until today.”

Tsung took the brush,