Moon Love

by Hester St. Jean

  “I’m willing to negotiate,” I said at last. My Immortal sense of self bristled, sorely taxed. I’d slid over into Mereling sensibilities. More importantly, I’d finally come to realize my true love. Though each of my lovers had taught me something about love in the Mereling world, it was the accumulation and culmination of all of those liaisons, all of those relationships, which led me now to the realization. I had fallen in love with all Merelings. Every one of them. I never wanted to leave them.

  Yet, he’d pointed out, and I couldn’t deny it, I couldn’t stay in the Underworld. The din truly deafening, I could see how it might be disturbing the peace. And I had to admit since the initial surprise and celebration had worn off, skirmishes were beginning to break out here and there. Merelings didn’t know how to abide in happiness, it seemed. Who knew how long it would be until full-scale conflict broke out?

  “Your terms?” he asked. “What will it take for you to bring your full self back to shine over mortals from their night sky?”

  I looked at Shug. At Sal. At Acer. At Amaro.

  “I want them with me,” I said. “Four stars. And”—I pointed to the young shepherd—“him. I want him up there, too. But make him sleep, so he can dream of his true love.”

  “Very well,” he said. “It is irregular, but I believe we can arrange one last transformation of this sort.”

  “I must have a place high in the sky,” I said. “Higher than the oak tree, not bound to Earth but free to move everywhere across the night sky. Finally, I want to see my brother again.”

  “Here is my offer,” he said. “Every morning at dawn, you’ll be able to see him. Generations of mortals—Merelings, as you call them—are yet to be born. You’ll watch over them at night, while your brother does the same by day. And while you cannot be considered Immortal in the new Order of Things, you will live and love as long as your brother lives, and that will give you time. Much time to watch over your dear Merelings.”

  “I don’t have to do this,” I said.

  He waited. He had the sense not to challenge me, though I had an uncomfortable suspicion perhaps I did, in fact, have to do this.

  “But I choose to do it. For my brother. For the Merelings who will stumble at night without my light. For the young and the lost, the lonely, the lovers, and the revelers who will seek me out.”

  I hugged each of my lovers fiercely and bade each good-bye. I led the way, till we’d passed the gates to the Underworld. He stepped out behind. A great wind ripped past us, accompanied by a blast of heat. Five streaks of light blazed across the sky. Then, a great clanging. The portal to the past slammed, forever closed.

  We rose then, he and I, into the sky. I found a spot where I could see something sparkling and turned to him in wonder.

  “The ocean,” he said. “There are many such, and now you’ll be able to see them all.”

  A little farther on, we were over a vast expanse without trees. “A desert,” he told me. “There are a few of those, too.”

  Then we passed over jagged rocks, thrusting up into the sky. “Mountains,” he said. “They’re everywhere as well.”

  And there were Merelings everywhere. In huts on the mountains, tents on the desert, even in boats on parts of the oceans. “And look,” I exclaimed. “They are gazing up at me.” I turned to ask him about the expanse of white, but he had slipped away. In the enormous distance, I heard another gate clang shut.

  I drifted alone in the night sky over what I have come to know as the South Pole. But I was not alone. Behind me, myriad stars, five of them especially bright. Beneath me, what I now realized was a globe. And in every part I drifted over, Merelings looked up at me in awe.

  Epilogue

  Ever After

  Well, Ancient One, I think I can anticipate your question. Didn’t I promise a happily ever after in this story? Where is the love of my life? The knight in shining armor, the handsome prince, the gypsy king? My shepherd come to a new sensibility? The Four become The One and Only?

  Here is how I can answer these questions.

  At day, in my dreams, I remember every detail. How each of their tongues touched mine, how each one’s body fit with mine in its own unique way. I remember all the caresses, the moans and shouts of physical ecstasy, the whispers and tears of shared griefs. I remember looking each of them in the eye, holding fierce focus and feeling my loins stir and my heart expand. I remember how each of them got hard. Steadily, or in spurts, or all at once. I remember the stories. Each one’s story. I remember how the more I learned their stories, the more I could not help but love them.

  When I wake at night, I rise in the glow of my memories and of my brother’s afterlight, and as I ascend, I see those bright stars. All the feelings of love I’ve ever learned to feel for all five, The Four and the shepherd blend, knitting together, spilling over, washing over every Mereling on the ground below. I love them. I love them all.

  So you see, as long as I have my memories which I have shared with you tonight, I will be happy. As long as I can wave to my brother when he rises and I go to bed, I will be happy. As long as lovers stroll hand in hand on beaches below, or sit across from one another in late night cafes, or huddle together by a campfire or hearth, I will be happy. As long as Merelings find their way by my light, and exclaim when I am full, and delight when I pass behind shadows and emerge again whole, I will be happy. As long as I hear the songs they sing of my light, and implore me to shine down on them to light their way, I will be happy.

  So what say you, Ancient One? Is my story worth your coin?

  A Note from Hester

  “Oh, Mister Moon, moon, bright and shining moon, won’t you please shine down on me?” In my childhood, the moon was always presented as “he.” In college, I discovered that the moon is more often associated with profoundly feminine qualities and powers. In either case, something about the moon’s dominance of the night sky has always been very reassuring to me. Like many, I noticed as a child how the moon always seemed to follow along when I went for a walk or ride at night. When my own children travelled half way around the world, one to study in Africa, another to explore Asia, I took comfort in knowing wherever they were, they saw the same moon I saw (albeit a few hours earlier or later).

  In its Grimm way, the brothers’ story of The Moon—which inspired my tale of Moon Love—paints the moon as victim, and rather passive. I loved making her instead a survivor, robust and unapologetic in her sexuality, made wiser and more compassionate by all she experiences. And I love looking up at night to see her in all her phases keeping an eye on all of us here on the earth, but especially on lovers.

  I’d love to hear from readers. Contact me at hesterst.jean@gmail.com.

  Also from Decadent Publishing

  www.decadentpublishing.com

  The Willfully Wedded Virgin by D.L. Jackson

  Chapter One

  June 1905, somewhere in the Peruvian jungle….

  Elizabeth reached up and brushed the damp hair from her forehead. She blew out a breath as a trickle of perspiration traveled down her spine, running beneath the laces of her corset and soaking into the already overly damp muslin shirtwaist, certainly leaving a stain. “Insufferable heat.” A thick vine dangled in her face, taunting her. “Hell would certainly be cooler and much more comfortable. Ooooh—these bloody flies are a nuisance.” She swatted at a buzzing insect, missed, and took a half-hearted whack at the overgrowth with her machete.

  She could only blame herself since she’d insisted they could move faster if they let her help and had refused to take no for an answer. Ah, but she had learned the hard way. Some work suited men much better, especially since they weren’t draped in acres of fabric. If she’d known cutting a path would take so much work, she would have kept her mouth shut.

  “Mind your language. A lady doesn’t curse. It shows ill-breeding, though at times when I hear you speak, it makes me wonder if I should have shipped you off to my sister’s when your mother passed. I should not have let yo
u spend all your time around the institute. I fear it’s put bad ideas in your head and foul words in your mouth.”

  “It is just so—”

  Her father glanced over his shoulder. “You insisted, Elizabeth. I don’t want to hear your complaints.”

  “I did not insist on this sticky humidity or the bugs, and I most certainly didn’t insist on wearing a skirt and corset into the jungle. And these boots are much more suited to a country outing. I have blisters on the tops of my toes, for heaven’s sake. If only you’d let me wear the dunnage—”

  “Clothes, Elizabeth. Don’t speak like a Philistine. We are not discussing that again. I will not have my daughter traipsing about in men’s breeches. I raised a young lady, not a son.”

  “And she must dress so, lest a potential husband see her as manly,” she mumbled under her breath, still irritated she couldn’t don pants as some of the female adventurers she’d read about—women like Isabella Bird—did. Oh, she’d devoured all Bird’s tales, regardless of her father’s feelings on the matter, and thus felt compelled to shun social inequalities. He’d no idea how far women had come, and the new century was certain to usher in more of the freedoms the previous one had denied females. She fully planned to lead the charge.

  The tribal women they’d seen didn’t even wear blouses, yet her wearing trousers offended him? Every woman around here seemed more relaxed than Henry Dodge’s daughter. Heaven forbid anyone see her not at her best. She didn’t want to skip naked through the forest or anything. Merely wear something that didn’t constrict her movement, garments other females had already adopted.

  She reached up and touched her locket. What would her mother have said about his insisting he’d find her a good husband when they got back? From what she’d heard about her mother, her headstrong ways he always complained about didn’t come from her father. Her mother would more than likely have taken her side on this, letting her find her own spouse when good and ready. “This is a new century, and women can actually dress in trousers, and not every ‘young lady’ wants or needs a husband hand-picked by her daddy. I’m perfectly capable of securing a man on my own, when I decide I want one.”

  “What?”

  She snorted. “Nothing.” Not worth the argument that would follow. She hacked at the vine again and sighed. “Can we stop to rest? As you have so kindly pointed out, I am a female, delicate and so thoroughly exhausted.”

  At first, a grand adventure had seemed like just the thing she needed to shake off her stagnant life of tea parties and gossip and make her stand, raising her banner for equality, but the whole ordeal had quickly proved more work than she’d expected.

  How she craved the excitement of days gone by. Life had been a bore since she’d become old enough for marriage. Of course, her father put the institute off limits when he realized she was no longer the little girl in braids, following him around like a puppy, but a woman grown…with puppies of her own.

  Unsuitable puppies.

  Elizabeth swiped her glove-covered hand across her forehead. In Egypt, they were discovering the tombs of kings and treasures so immense it would leave a person breathless. They were making history—she’d wanted to be part of that. Who wouldn’t?

  “Here is as good a spot as I’ve seen.” Her father nodded, and she blew out a breath.

  “Finally.” Thank God for proper English gentlemen and old-fashioned chivalry. She wiggled her toes in her boots and groaned. Most likely, there were blisters on top of her blisters.

  “We’ll set up camp here for the night. Clear a spot, gentlemen.”

  Elizabeth dropped onto a large rock and plucked at her tan summer-skirt, picking off a leech stuck on one of the folds. “Oh, that’s bally vile.” Were there any others? She shook it off her fingers, flinging it somewhere in the jungle’s depths, and began to examine the acres of fabric that made up her skirt, sifting through the folds like a monkey picking lice.

  “Your mouth, young lady. I don’t know where you acquired such vulgar expressions, but I don’t want to hear any of them again.”

  He ought to know. He worked every day with the same people who taught her to sling a naughty word or two. She rolled her eyes and then her shoulders, dropping the fabric, satisfied her blood would be safe for the night. One of the guides offered her a canteen, which she snatched out of his grasp, swilling down its contents to the last drop in a most unladylike fashion. “Thanks,” she muttered and shoved it at him, returning it empty.

  He stared at it for several seconds and then gave the canteen a slight shake, jabbering something in Spanish that sounded rather unpleasant and more than likely was, if she could translate. She’d never applied herself wholeheartedly to her foreign language lessons.

  The guide stormed off to where her father had their tent stretched out over the ground and helped put it together, babbling in Spanish and pointing at her. Her father glanced her way, frowned, said something she couldn’t hear, and patted the man on the shoulder, most likely begging his pardon for her behavior—an all too familiar action. If she’d had a cock, the man would not have reacted the way he did, assuming the thirst came from hard, manly work, and therefore could be excused. But because women were held to higher ideals…. No need to go further. She’d silently made her point, even if they didn’t get it.

  “So, does it really exist—this lost city of gold?” she asked her father, blowing out a breath and waving her hand in front of her face to break up a cloud of gnats zeroing in on her perfume. If she’d known expensive fragrance would attract them, she would have opted to roll in poo instead. Oh, the horror. She put her fingers to her mouth to stifle a giggle when her father glanced her way.

  “The letter from my colleague says it does. The map is in the handle of that ceremonial knife. If I read it correctly, we should be at the City of Souls no later than tomorrow afternoon.”

  That colleague would also be Doctor William Davidson. Well-respected. Married just six months ago. She’d heard his young bride already had had a child on the way after only two weeks of wedded bliss.

  She blushed thinking about what intimacies with one of the Davidsons would be like, especially the tall and handsome Alexander Davidson, William’s younger brother. Oh, she couldn’t blame Sarah Davidson for taking her wifely duties so seriously, if William looked anything like his brother.

  “City of Souls? That doesn’t sound like a golden city.” Propping her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin in her palm. She was able to bend in such a casual way only because she had refused to have her corset drawn tightly. If not for the wife of one of the guides, she would have been able to forgo the garment altogether. Drat. With another woman available to lace her up, she didn’t have the option not to wear it in her prim and proper father’s opinion. “Sounds like a graveyard,” she mumbled past her fingers and mushed cheek.

  Her father shot her an ugly glare. Elizabeth sat up lest she get a lecture on posture and grace.

  “It’s not. My colleague stated that hints to El Dorado’s location are buried there. Along the way, we’ll search for clues to William’s whereabouts. The map is so well drawn, I doubt he’s lost if he followed it.”

  “In this dreadful place, everything appears the same, if you ask me.”

  “It’s not, my dear. It’s why the men are in charge of this expedition. We simply have a better sense of direction.”

  “Obviously William didn’t, or he wouldn’t be lost.”

  “More than likely something else happened, an injury of some sort. He’s a clever chap, and it’s likely he could still be alive out there. Maybe in a native village somewhere.”

  Doubtful. Elizabeth sighed, earning another glance from her father before he returned to his task. The jungle was about as inhospitable as a place could be. In her experience, the natives wanted them in their villages as much as the vile little monkeys in the trees that screeched all the time and occasionally flung poo at them. Another of the many charms of Peru.

  Alexander had come back fr
om the recent expedition in Peru, reporting his brother missing nigh on four months past—one of the many reasons they were here. The night he’d arrived with the bad news had been the first time she’d met the dashing younger brother of the missing doctor.

  Evidence of the city couldn’t be more blatant. Elizabeth had seen the relic in her father’s study. The ancient metropolis existed. She believed that wholeheartedly. As to William still breathing…. Even Alexander had told her he doubted it.

  And the relic? She’d also begun to believe it cursed, much like the Hope Diamond. Ill fate certainly seemed to follow it. William had sent them the artifact by post shortly before he vanished. The parcel contained an obsidian knife with a solid gold handle forged into the shape of a feathered serpent with inset emerald eyes. Breathtaking and priceless.

  When it was shown to the local natives, they’d jabbered bruja over and over again. Her father’s team had had to leave the village because every person there had refused to help them in any manner. After that, her father had kept the knife under wraps. Superstitions held power in this part of the world, and the locals feared witchcraft. Their ignorance generated obstacles to archaeology not easily overcome, as Elizabeth and her father had recently discovered.

  Her father, archeologist Henry Dodge, worked for private collectors. Sometimes his work wasn’t exactly on the up and up. For the right price, a treasure could easily find its way into a private collection. Selling the past seemed so wrong, but seeing a tomb loaded with precious stones, statues, pottery, and art or a city filled with gold would be a once in a lifetime opportunity she refused to pass up, no matter the final destination of the treasures.

  Elizabeth had begged for weeks to take the trip after seeing what could to be gleaned from the jungle, but her father had argued that a woman’s place was at home. He’d refused to listen to anything she had to say on the subject, especially since one man had already come up missing. After a month of searching, during which she had sadly misplaced messages from several suitable candidates, Elizabeth had been unable to find a reliable replacement for William Davidson, and her father gave in to her pleas to accompany him, but not without terms. First, she would have to map out finds and document everything, and, second, she would have to refrain from wearing the trousers she’d nagged him relentlessly about, or any other unladylike garb.