The Red Heart of Jade Page 5

  “Strange,” he said again. “She had something embedded in her chest. Really, truly, embedded. Her flesh had grown over the edges of the thing. It was the devil to pry out.”

  “Is that it?” Miri asked, gesturing at the object cradled in his hands. It had a waxy sheen; nephrite, by the looks of it. Red jade. From this vantage point it appeared to be a beautiful specimen; high quality, most definitely chosen with care.

  “Remarkable,” Miri murmured. “Almost as remarkable as your terrible manners.”

  Owen flinched. “Miri—”

  “Did you bother telling anyone that you were going to perform an invasive procedure on that body? Did you, Owen? Or did you just go gung ho?”

  Owen said nothing. Miri had another terrible thought, a horrible premonition, and she said, “Oh. Oh, Owen. Tell me you contacted Kevin first. Please. If you didn’t get permission—”

  “Kevin Liao is a nincompoop. Of course I didn’t contact him. He would have ripped into that woman like a lumberjack with a chain saw. Destroyed her body just like he ruined that child we found in Alishan. I could not let that happen. Besides”—and Owen looked away, voice dropping to a mutter—”he’s out of town.”

  “Out of town looking for more grave sites.”

  “Of course. He can’t stand that I found those mummies.”

  “His ego is mighty,” Miri agreed, “but he’s also the head of this department, and like it or not, you are a guest. Back home you might rule the roost, but the rules are different here. I don’t care how much of a celebrity you are.”

  “You used to be such a rebel,” Owen said. “You never played it safe. What happened?”

  “You became an even bigger rebel than me. Which means you’re totally out of control.”

  “Ah. My golden years. Well, regardless, you needn’t fret, my dear. I did find those mummies, and that gives me some claim to first examination, regardless of the gnashing of teeth that might cause.”

  “Oh, there’s going to be gnashing, all right,” Miri muttered.

  Owen patted her hand. “It’s been hours since I extracted the artifact. The man has probably already found out what I did. His little spies, as you can guess, have been in and out of the lab all morning. I haven’t yet heard a single complaint.”

  The assistants. Kevin’s eyes and ears. The man wanted to make sure Owen did not try and steal his research during his brief forays away from the excavation site. Like Owen needed to. Although, this latest action would most definitely fall under the category of stealing Kevin’s thunder.

  Actually, Miri was okay with that. What the hell.

  “You should have called me.” She plopped down on the stool beside Owen and peered at the artifact, its red surface almost glowing beneath the light. She wanted to touch it.

  Owen leaned back in his chair. “You’re upset.”

  “Yes. If you wanted to be the one to do the procedure, that’s fine, but I thought—”

  “No,” he interrupted gently. “No, my dear. Only, I did not want you involved when I removed the stone. I may act flip about the consequences of today’s action, but truth is, not much can be done to me at this point in my career. You, on the other hand, are still young. I had to protect you.”

  “Owen.”

  “I know. Chivalry and paternalism stopped being fashionable long ago. But allow an old man his eccentricities. I only meant you well, Miri. You are like a daughter to me. My only daughter, and I know that Emily … Emily felt the same. She would never forgive me if I got you into trouble. In fact, she’s probably already quite vexed.”

  “Emily was an angel,” Miri muttered, staring at her hands, trying very hard not to think of Owen’s wife, now two years in the grave. “She never got angry with you.”

  Owen smiled ruefully. “My dear girl, you did not live with her for thirty years. She was pure fire, in both temperament and passion.” He held the red jade fragment out to her. “Truce?”

  “Oh, stop that,” Miri said, but she took the artifact and shouldered Owen aside as she stole his seat and placed the jade beneath the lens. The stone was larger than her palm, sharp on three ends and shaped like a rough triangle. One edge was softer than the others; she noted odd scratches, quite deep.

  “There’s been a cut or break,” she said, running her fingers down the opposing sides, sheer and smooth. “This is part of something bigger.”

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Tell me more.”

  Miri turned the artifact over in her hands. It felt warm. She blamed it on the light, on her own body heat, but holding it felt good, sweet on her palm. She made a closer examination of its waxy red surface, the scratches she had noted earlier.

  Only, the marks no longer looked so random. Lines, yes—but curving, delicate. Ordered.

  Miri sat back, blinking hard. Owen chuckled. She stared at him, then looked back at the jade “That’s writing. Those are words.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I wasn’t sure at first, but after three hours of staring at the thing, I have become more than a little convinced.”

  Miri traced the lines with her fingers, trying to stay calm. As she considered the possibilities, though, a chill stole through her, a weight that settled hard in her chest.

  “Owen,” she said quietly, “those men and women are almost four thousand years old. The earliest examples we have of Chinese pictograms don’t show up until twelve hundred BC, and those are only on oracle bones.”

  “Go on,” he said. Miri narrowed her eyes.

  “The Chinese written language is based on a logo-graphic system. Symbols, with each one representing an idea. The inscriptions discovered on the oracle bones show that more than two thousand years ago there was already a highly developed writing system in China, one that is similar to modern day classical Chinese. It takes time to develop those kinds of systems, Owen. Even if the writing on this stone is almost a thousand years older than those other inscriptions, there should be some resemblance between the two. Some kind of kinship.” She turned the jade in her hands and pressed her fingernail against the swirling ordered lines. “Look at this. Nothing of these inscriptions resembles a logo-graphic system. In fact, it looks almost like modern day Arabic.”

  “That would certainly be impossible,” he said. “Nor is this a derivative of cuneiform. But yes, there is a certain … melody … in them, isn’t there?”

  “Are you sure it’s writing? It could be art.” Which in itself was a kind of language.

  “Miri, you know as well as I do that without more evidence, it is impossible to say for certain. But”—and here he placed a fist against his heart—”I feel it. All my instincts say it is so. And so do yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re not. But what, then? The ancient people who migrated from China to Taiwan had their own writing system? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it show at least some relation to the system that later developed on the mainland?”

  “Yes. One would expect certain similarities. Which is why I believe this is something completely different. Different enough that I am not convinced that its origins are Asian.”

  Miri stared. “What are you saying? These people migrated from somewhere out of the region and died on the island?”

  “The preliminary genetic tests haven’t yet come back, but perhaps the stone was inscribed somewhere distant and brought there—either by these individuals, or by others.”

  “Nephrite is typically found in the southwest part of Xinjiang, part of the Silk Road.”

  “And we already know, based on the Urumchi mummies, that humans traveled far greater distances than was ever previously imagined.”

  Miri chewed her bottom lip. Just outside Urumchi, the capital of Xinjiang, exceptionally well preserved mummies with European features had been found. They dated back as far as four thousand years, and still had archaeologists and anthropologists scratching their heads. The timing was perfect. No less inexplicable, but every theory had to start somewhere.

  “Miri,” Owen sai
d.

  “This is big,” she said. “This is … really big.”

  “Oh yes.” He leaned against the table, folding his arms over his round belly. “This is the kind of thing that rewrites history.”

  “The kind of thing traditionalists will hate.”

  “Making us the harbingers of the best bad news of the last decade.”

  Miri shook her head. “We need more evidence before we can publish anything. Before we can even apply for a grant. Right now this is less than speculation.”

  “Of course, of course.” Owen pushed himself away from the table and spun on his heel, pacing. “We know, based on the breaking point in the stone, that this is just one segment of a larger artifact. We need to go back to Yushan, see if there are similar men or women buried with pieces of jade—perhaps other fragments of the larger stone. There might be pottery that survived, inscriptions on bones, other jade artifacts—anything to support the theory that there was cross-cultural contact or migration into Southeast Asia during this time period.”

  “Or evidence that refutes it,” Miri reminded him. “This jade might not be what we think it is.”

  Owen’s mouth quirked. “I think our bigger problem is Kevin. I might be the government-appointed leader on this dig, but he can still make trouble for us.”

  “Us now?” Miri swiveled around on her stool. “Why, that is very kind of you, Dr. Wills.”

  “Not at all, Dr. Lee. Your expertise will be most valued.”

  My trust, too. Owen was going to need someone to watch his back once word spread—and it would, that was inevitable. People talked, especially in this part of the world, where it was not just intellectual politics that got nasty, but other elements of the illegal, black market kind. This red jade, and anything associated with it, was going to become a very hot piece of property.

  “I suppose you’ve already recorded evidence of your initial findings with the folks back home, right? Sent some pictures to sit on the Stanford server?”

  “Of course.” Owen gave her an affronted look. “Kevin will not be able to claim we stole any ideas from him. Everything is documented.”

  “Well, good. But you realize, don’t you, that he’s got every right to be on the team?” And once that happened, the games would begin. Kevin cared more about politics than good science, cared more about making himself look good instead of getting the job done.

  “I could always arrange to break his kneecaps,” Owen said, with the mock gruffness of a man who had never ever attempted to take a crowbar to another person’s legs.

  Miri had. It was not something she thought Owen would have the stomach for. Nor would it really solve any of their problems. Although, hearing Kevin scream might be very satisfying.

  She picked up the red jade. The color was soft, but rich. She could not stop staring at it, those words in the stone curling light in her eyes. It poured such heat into her palm, moving up her arm …

  She put it down. “You said this was in the woman’s chest?”

  “Embedded. Rather gruesome, I suppose. Part of her breastbone was removed to make room for it. The stone was partially cradled in the bone.”

  “That should have killed her.”

  “It clearly didn’t. The flesh had time to grow around the artifact.”

  Then it hurt like hell, Miri thought, wondering what it would take, with only primitive tools, to remove enough bone to embed this flat piece of jade inside someone’s chest. Unable to help herself, she pressed the red stone between her breasts and tried to imagine it hanging there, in her body, as part of her skeleton. Flesh and blood.

  She shivered. Owen touched her shoulder.

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  Miri placed the stone on the table. She did not want to touch it, not anymore, though as soon as the thought passed through her, she felt the urge to press skin to stone, and soak up its warmth.

  “What could be so important that a person would go through that kind of torture?” She looked at Owen. “What would be the point?”

  “Why do cultures ever practice mutilation? Beauty, rites of passage—”

  “Protection,” Miri interrupted, thinking of the tiny scar just above her own heart.

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Sacrifice is easier when done for the good of others or oneself.”

  Something Miri understood all too well, even if it was a hard knowledge, and bitter. “Anything else you need to tell me? If we’re heading down to Yushan for an extended period of time, I need to go back to the hotel and make some calls.”

  “Just clear your schedule for this evening. Wendy Long wants to meet with us tonight. When I told her about the find—”

  Miri made a small sound of protest. “You called Wendy before me?”

  A deep scarlet flush stained his neck, rising high into his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but Miri—resigned—cut him off with a curt wave of her hand. “Just ask the woman out on a date. It’s not that hard, Owen.”

  His expression grew pained. “I can’t.”

  “Owen.”

  He held up his hand. He still wore his wedding ring.

  “But you like her,” Miri said softly. “There’s no crime in that.”

  “I know, my dear. I know. But … I was with my wife so very long, and to think that I could possibly love another …” He stopped, shaking his head. “Other men do it all the time. I don’t know why I find it so difficult.”

  “Because you’ve got a heart of gold,” Miri said. “Because you’re the kind of man who believes in loving one person and no other. But hey, you don’t have to marry Wendy. Just because you go out with her one time doesn’t mean you have to pledge the rest of your life to her. Just … be friends. Have coffee. Or tea. Tea is better. Take her to that ritzy dim sum place over by the hotel where I’m staying. You can talk dead people. It’ll be the start of something beautiful.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  Miri said nothing. She was not going to beg Owen to ask Wendy Long out on a date. Not when she knew exactly what he was going through. Of course, the alternatives to being alone had not exactly been all that attractive over the years.

  Because when was the last time you met someone who kept you interested for more than ten minutes?

  Long enough that she could not remember his name. Which was pretty damn long. Not that she was all that surprised or bothered. It seemed to Miri that all the relationships of her adult life could be summed up by boring, boring, shallow, self-absorbed, boring, and boring. And while not all of those relationships had been terrible—even the lawyer had made her laugh—Miri was not the kind of woman to waste her time with people who, ultimately, did not understand her. She liked herself too much. That, and she knew what it was to be in love—to find love in only one moment, eye to eye; to have love stay in that moment, in that person, and never fail her. Anything less paled, was not worth her heart. Better to have loved like that only once, than to try again and again, and tarnish the memory.

  Which, really, when she thought about it, was so sickening sweet she wanted to vomit.

  Not to mention the itty-bitty problem of being alone for the rest of your life. You really want that for yourself?

  No, but there were worse things in life, so thanks but no, thanks. Single women unite. Books and cats and all that crap.

  But then a memory came to her, sudden, like always, the image hot and fierce; a face familiar as her own, blue eyes smiling beneath a crown of short blond hair, one strong hand giving her a rock in the shape of a heart, and that voice, that low, sweet voice, saying, “Here, I know you like these.”

  She gritted her teeth. Owen, sounding worried, said, “My dear, I’m sorry about contacting her first. Truly. I just … got carried away.”

  At first she did not understand what he was saying, but then she blinked, hard, and said, “Oh no, Owen. Don’t worry about it. I was just thinking about … about something else. The artifact. The dead woman carrying that stone in her chest.”


  Carrying a stone like she carried one, though Miri suspected her own might be the heavier burden. Which was just great. She was a total melodramatic sap. What a time for a reminder. She was definitely the wrong person to give Owen advice about moving on.

  “I’m heading back to the hotel.” Miri stood. Ignoring Owen’s concern, she gave him a smile that probably looked as cheap and fake as she felt, and then left his office. One of the assistants had put away the bodies. Probably listened at the office door, too.

  Miri was glad the mummies were gone, out of sight. She did not want to look into the face of a woman four thousand years dead and wonder at mystery and pain, at how that could remind her of a childhood friend who had given her both and more, and then disappeared and died.

  She did not want to think about why she still dreamed of that boy.

  Miri took a cab back to the hotel, but made the driver drop her off several blocks away from the Far Eastern. She did not have a particularly good reason for doing so; the man at the wheel simply talked too much, drove too fast. Miri could only take so much car sickness, in addition to questions about her marital status, and whether she, as a huaqiao, a foreign Chinese, had come to Taiwan to look for a good man. Apparently (according to the driver), America did not have any decent catches for a girl who wanted her kids to belong to the motherland. Blood mattered, he said.

  Yes, Miri thought, but only because she was imagining quite a bit of it streaming from the broken nose she was going to give him if he said one more word. Which he did. He acted like it was cute.

  She paid her fare and got out to walk the last few blocks to the hotel. The heat was terrible, and though the sun hid behind a sullen sheet of clouds, the daylight felt too bright, like the inside of a steel oven. She shrugged off her tweed jacket, carrying it over her purse as she moved on light feet. Miri remembered other walks, other kinds of heat, nights spent running through steaming back alleys with the smells of grease and exhaust in the air, firecrackers spitting somewhere distant—and at her side a boy with his hand wrapped tight around her own, laughing hard. Wild times. She could feel him even now, like a shadow rubbing her shoulder, glued to her side.