Free The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham Page A

further afield. Qian contemplated his slowly dwindling erection and what it could mean. He wasn’t a virgin; he’d been with several women. He hadn’t enjoyed it very much but doubted any young man did in the beginning, especially with the wrinkled old crones who sold their services in the nearby village. He shook the mental image of that encounter out of his head, and by the time Zhen returned, had recovered his poise.
    Having finished their meal, they attended to each other’s hair. Since they had met they had both discovered a common concern with their personal hygiene. Zhen was almost obsessive. His father had been a practitioner of Chinese medicine, a scholar who had taught his son to read and write and given him knowledge of plants. Health and cleanliness had been drummed into his brain since he was a boy. Until his father had fallen under the spell of opium, Zhen had been his apprentice, choosing the roots and leaves, blending the herbs, mixing the potions. The night before, he had picked up a broom and booted two coolies into action to clean up the hallway to his satisfaction. Now from his sack he took a porcelain bottle of a green, oily mixture and, having unpicked their long queues, they both combed a small amount through their hair. This concoction had served to keep them both free of the awful hair bugs which infested other men. Relieved that touching Zhen’s hair in this mindless routine had no physical effect on him, Qian relaxed. Finally, when they had finished replaiting, Zhen rose.
    At the door, Zhen shook Pock Face, who was sitting on the floor dozing.
    â€˜Oi, it’s late. Get up. We are going to the temple to give thanks, remember?’ he said, holding his yellow handkerchief balled in his hand.
    Pock Face grunted and stretched. Then, taking a large key, he unlocked the front door. They stepped gratefully out into the fresh air of the street. Zhen knew that Pock Face couldn’t have made the decision to let them out and calculated that someone higher up might be waiting for them at the temple.
    After a few minutes they found themselves before its doors. Pock Face motioned them to enter, and they stepped up over the great log which formed the entrance, went between the Fu lions and into the inner courtyard. Rain fell steadily, but the large, ornate double-roofed incense holder gave off a heady perfumed smoke. This temple was tiny compared to the great Kaiyuan Temple in Quanzhou, but it smelled like home.
    A large statue of the Sea Goddess, Ma Chu, golden and red, stared down on them impassively through her beaded headdress. Her faithful companions, red-faced wind-favouring ears and green-faced thousand li eyes, stood on either side of the altar. They lit incense and gave thanks for a safe arrival.
    When they had finished, a small figure appeared from the back of the temple and approached. Dressed in loose black trousers and a white jacket, he held his hands in front of his waist, fingers intertwined but for the index fingers, which were bent and connected at the first knuckle, and the thumbs which were touching each other. It was a kongsi brotherhood sign for peace. Zhen drew his right arm across his chest, making the sign for heaven by holding the thumb, index and middle finger pointed upwards, the two others remaining curled against his chest. He bowed and motioned Qian to do so also. Then all three went into a side room of the temple. Pock Face slumped down by the door and immediately fell asleep.
    â€˜Welcome, brother,’ the man said to Zhen and looked quizzically at Qian.
    â€˜I am Zhuang Zhen of the Green Lotus Kongsi in Zhangzhou,’ Zhen said. ‘This is Lim Qian, from Yangshan village in Quanzhou prefecture. He is not a brother yet. We seek the protection of the kongsi here and your help to find work in Si Lat Po, where we know no one.’ Zhen took from his cloth sack a paper, unfolded it and handed it to his interlocutor.
    â€˜I see,’ said the