Jack Du Brul - Deep Fire Rising

For a while, Mercer and Tisa were uncomfortable together. The conversation started and stopped a dozen times. After her second glass of wine she admitted that this was the first date she’d been on in a long time.

“I find that hard to believe. You’re beautiful. You must have to beat men off with a stick.”

She looked into his eyes. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Good God, don’t you own a mirror? You’re stunning.”

Her smile spread and her cheeks turned flush with embarrassment and delight. “Thank you.”

“If I knew you could smile like that, I’d have told you hours ago.” Mercer was pleased with himself. “And truth be told I haven’t been on a real date in a while either.”

“Oh, please. You must have had dozens of women.”

“I — well, yes, sort of.” The comment had caught him off guard. “What I mean was I don’t date that much. I’m traveling seven or eight months out of the year, and I don’t think much of the idea of a one-night stand.”

“Though you have had them.”

“Uh, a few,” he admitted, not wanting to tell her the truth but unwilling to hide it from her. “I guess I just haven’t taken the time to get involved with anyone seriously.”

“Maybe you haven’t found the right person.”

Mercer laughed. “You don’t happen to know a guy named Harry White, do you?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“You two sound a lot alike.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“He’s my best friend. It’s good.”

“Now that’s someone I’d like to hear about. Philip Mercer’s best friend. Tell me about this Harry White.”

After that, things went better. With Harry as a subject, Mercer didn’t even have to try to get Tisa laughing. When they left the restaurant two hours later neither was surprised at how natural it felt to hold hands as they strolled. Mercer had removed his shoulder holster in the men’s room and tucked the gun into the back of his slacks so he could drape his blazer over Tisa’s shoulders.

There was no need for any artless wile on Mercer’s part or false coquettishness from Tisa. Both knew where the evening was headed as they walked and talked, and yet that certainty made neither impatient. Everything unfolded at such a natural pace that when they finally arrived back at Mercer’s hotel they simply continued down the stairs to his room without pause.

There wasn’t one moment of awkwardness. They felt only the joy of discovery as their lips met for the first time and as clothes began to pile on the floor. Together on the soft bed, their acts became more intimate until Mercer found himself doing things he hadn’t done since his days of college experimentation. But this wasn’t about pushing boundaries, it was about Tisa giving more and more of herself and he being willing to receive. There wasn’t any fear of going too far, for when he looked in her eyes he saw he’d just scratched the surface.

They did not separate, but clung tightly to each other as they both drifted toward sleep. It was only as the last spark of consciousness faded that Mercer recognized the words Tisa had panted as she reached her climax. He could have sworn she’d been repeating, “I love you. I love you.”

In the moments between sleep and consciousness, in the blending of the dream world and the real, there was a moment of clarity where Mercer often found inspiration. He was not yet aware of his surroundings — that was a minute away — but his mind felt unimpeded and open to new ideas. Without realizing why, he played back his conversation with Tisa about chi forces and locus points. Then that scene became over-dubbed with his own words to Ira Lasko a scant twenty-four hours earlier. They were talking about global warming and Mercer told his boss that the planet had rhythms and cycles we had yet to detect.

It seemed that he and Tisa had been discussing the same concepts, only she had a name for it. He’d dismissed her philosophy as Eastern legends and New Age bunk, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was the very same thing he believed, that we know more about outer space than our own planet and momentous discoveries await us if only we took the time to look.

And then the thoughts diverged once again, leaving him with two separate ideas that couldn’t be reconciled. That was his last thought before coming fully awake.

The light pouring into the room was pearly and wan. With the room’s door open, the air tasted fresh with the scent of the sea. As his eyes adjusted he saw Tisa on the balcony. Because the deck was screened on three sides and open only to the ancient volcanic caldera, she stood completely nude as she made the slow, balanced moves of the Tai Chi ritual, her supple body twisting in lissome poses. As he watched, his mind flashed back to their exploits during the night. He felt a familiar stirring.

Tisa’s moves became more complex, and intense. Soon she deviated from Tai Chi to commence her morning contortion exercises. She’d taken the quilt from the bed so she could practice more freely. As she moved, Mercer became entranced. She exercised without guile, but he found the poses increasingly erotic. At one point only the crown of her head and the tips of her toes remained on the ground as she formed a backward arch. Her skin was stretched across her torso and her breasts rode high and proud. He could not hold back a moan.

Tisa flipped around as agile as a cat, peering over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide and mischievous. “I was wondering when you’d notice me out here.” She swung up to her feet and sauntered to the bed. She dropped next to him and her hand disappeared under the covers. “So it is true. Men do have a thing for limber women.”

“Limber, hell. Some of what you were doing would shame Gumby.”

She bent and kissed him deeply, her lips soft against his. Mercer reached for her and dragged her into the bed. Her body had cooled from her exercises but quickly warmed against his and soon became almost hot to the touch.

It was another hour before they got out of bed. Tisa left Mercer in the shower so she could go to her own hotel and gather her things. They would meet at ten for brunch. When she returned, Mercer lounged on the terrace, a Bloody Mary at hand to ease the lingering effects of too much ouzo. She’d left her luggage with the concierge and carried only a beach bag.

She took a proprietary sip of Mercer’s drink. “Fur of the cat?”

He smiled. “Hair of the dog.”

“Ah, that’s right. English is an easy language to speak but has too many idioms.”

“What is your native language? If you don’t mind my asking, what is your ethnic background?”

“I grew up speaking Vietnamese at home. My father was half Vietnamese and half French. My mother was from Paris. In the village where I was born, the native language was a blend of Tibetan and Chinese.”

“You were born in China?”

“At Rinpoche-La,” she answered as if he should have known. “How do you think I know so much about Zhu and the archive and the oracle? I was raised to be a watcher until my mother fled the village with my half brother and me. I returned when I was eighteen.”

“Why?”

Tisa paused. “You must understand the size of the Order. Literally millions of people support us in one form or another. We control yoga studies, temples, and special schools. We also run organic farms on four continents. Go into any specialty food store in the United States and I can show you dozens of products that are produced by Order-owned companies. Most people who work for us have no idea. A yoga instructor in Miami pays a franchise fee to a company in California, who then pays a fee to another corporation in a country with loose banking laws. Eventually the money ends up in our coffers and no one knows we even exist.”