ling

        Hank found Ling in the kitchen, brewing green tea. He could see through the porous yellow blouse from Abercrombie & Fitch. Her hair was losing its magenta. Black and Asian, it lay like silk upon her shoulders. No more the buzzcut edges.
        "How's it going?" he asked.
        "Just fine, sir. I see you got into my bindi kit."
        "It was YOURS?"
        "I'm no shrink. But I know a way to help someone out of a mild depression. Let he or she paint on a new face. A new mask. A new persona emerges."
        Hank laughed merrily. "You're quite the witchdoctor."
        Ling made a sweeping theatrical bow. "I try."
        "Your method works. Admirably."
        "When I arrived I discovered your daughter in no need of henna."


                                                                             
        At dusk the bloody yolk of the sun whirled within Phaeton's cloudtrails. Sage-colored shadows reached across the quiet lawn toward the gazebo. Ling was engaged in Tai Chi. She wore gray leg-warmers and a black leotard. Waterfowl face, blank in deep non-thought.
        From the gazebo Bernice watched her, remembering what Ling had said. Such movements took her down the river of mind to the placid repose of her ancestors. She loved Ling. They were united as sisters, dedicated to healing body, mind and spirit. Ling's way was a way of wisdom. Bernice's way was a way of power. Together they led  people into sacred places.
        Ling's first patient was an elderly Chinese woman living alone above a fishmarket in Vancouver. She had outlived all of her brothers and sisters, her husband and, sadly so, her children too. She was blind, and all she wished for was someone to read to her.
        When Ling returned from the first session Bernice asked: "How did it go?"
        "Oh my gosh!"
        "Eh?"
        "She had me read a story by Lu Xun, a great and very revered modern writer."
        "Splendid."
        "In Chinese."
        "Oh my gosh!"
        "I meditated for a moment and it all came back. Miraculously. What a fine story. Remembrances Of The Past. Beautiful language. Marvelous dialogue. It taught me some structures of Chinese poetry and gave me a few insights, I think, on Confucious."
        "Charity has its own rewards."
        "Ahem. The only trouble I had was the old woman scolding me. She said my command of Bejing dialect was atrocious."