Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [110]
Marco followed. I did not look at him, but I knew exactly where he was, and was content to know he was following.
The beach narrowed to a rocky strip at the point of land, but the tide was low enough that I could walk around the point. On the other side was a smaller beach, rimmed by trees, quiet and empty. The warm night air was still. The moon, three-quarters full, lit the sky with a shimmering light.
Just after I passed the last couple, I looked back. Marco was no longer walking behind me. I panicked for a moment, then saw him sitting on a rock, removing his boots. He ran across the sand toward me, smiling.
“It’s much easier barefoot.”
I sat on a drift log, and he pulled off my boots. My toes were moist and rank from spending too much time inside my boots in warm weather. He lifted some sand and dusted my feet with it. It felt cool and soft and refreshing. He rubbed my feet. A jolt of pleasure shot through to every part of my body.
“You did it,” he said to me in wonder.
“Now you can show me your homeland,” I said.
“Venezia.” With his voice, he caressed each of the foreign syllables. He touched his forehead to my foot, as if to say, Thank you for saving Venezia.
“Fay-nay-shya,” I said. I had often imagined its streets of water and singing boatmen. Now I might see it.
“To Fay-nay-shya!” I shouted. Barefoot, I dashed down the empty beach, away from the others.
He sprinted after me and caught up quickly. He took my hand and angled toward the sea, which was pounding the beach, black and menacing. I tried to divert him. Even the bravest Mongol soldiers fear and distrust water. Venetians, by nature, are drawn to it.
He pulled me to the edge of the ocean, where the sand was wet and soft. My feet sank slightly into it, making footprints. A wave, cold and perilous, lapped at my land-bound Mongolian feet. I pulled away, shrieking, and sprinted along the dry sand, parallel to the water. He ran after me, staying on the wet sand near the waves.
I discovered that it is easier to run on wet sand than on dry sand. It felt good to let loose and gallop. We covered the entire length of the beach, then rounded another small point onto a deserted arc of sand.
Marco caught up to me and took my hand. Again, he pulled me toward the dangerous black void of water. I tugged back. We fell into the wet sand, and a cool wave washed over us, soaking our trousers. I shrieked again, only half afraid now that I saw how confident Marco was in the ocean.
He grabbed both my hands and pinned me to the sand. He hesitated, checking my eyes. The wave moved away. I stopped struggling. His body drew close to mine, lying on the wet sand, and he nuzzled my nose. I opened my mouth and kissed him with all the passion that had been bottled up inside me those many days and months. Another cold wave came up and I jumped.
He laughed and pulled me up to sit beside him. He turned so that our feet faced straight into the water. Lit by the moon, the waves crested with white foam and crashed against my feet. I remembered voices of warning, tales of strong undercurrents ripping people out to sea and certain death by drowning.
I scrambled to stand up, and so did Marco. “You fear not blood, but you fear the sea?” he asked. I looked again at the water. It was calmer here, in a protected cove.
Slowly, deliberately, Marco led me, his hand in mine, into the dark sea.
My mind rebelled, shouting, Danger! Water! but my heart chose to trust Marco. Marco, who had elevated me to a legend. Marco, who had showed me a new way of seeing the world. There would be danger, yes. But Marco would be my partner as we tried to build peace between our homelands.
This water felt warm, soft, safe. I could still feel the current, but it was tamer