The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  How strange, she thought. In a dream I must be able to pass through the window and swim in the air like the sea monsters. I cannot; my imagination fails me. If I open the window and step out, I would fall. Everyone says that a dreamer who falls instead of flying must die.

  She ran down the stairs, hugging the cloak tight against the surprised glances of the servants. They were not used to seeing members of court an hour before dawn. For some courtiers, the hour before dawn was the only time they ever slept.

  Beyond the terrace, the gravel cut her feet. She dreamed herself on Zachi’s back. She dreamed herself a pair of stout shoes. Nothing happened. The gravel felt sharper. She ran down the stairs and stepped onto the Green Carpet. The grass was cold and wet, but it did not cut her. The candles verging the Carpet had burned to puddles of wax and smoking wicks.

  The radiant sea monsters led her to the tent. The guard slept, lulled by the sea monster’s song.

  Inside the tent, inside the cage, inside the fountain, the sea monster splashed furiously with both her tails. A waterfall of luminescence erupted around her.

  She sang.

  Marie-Josèphe sat on the rim of the Fountain.

  “If this were my dream,” she said, “if this were your dream, you wouldn’t be imprisoned.”

  The sea monster cried. A male sea monster—the sea monster whose body Yves was dissecting, brought back to life by the song—swam around the ceiling of the tent. Marie-Josèphe closed her eyes, but the image remained, fashioned in her mind by the singing, swimming in front of her as plain as anything real.

  “I see your songs,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And you understand what I say. Don’t you? Do you speak? Do you speak in words?”

  “Fishhh,” the sea monster said, and then she sang.

  A tiny fish, its edges made harsh by the rasp of the sea monster’s voice, flitted across her vision. The song described the fish itself, and its surroundings, the sound of its swimming, the taste of its flesh. The sea monsters spoke not in words, but in images, interconnections, associations.

  Marie-Josèphe hummed the fish’s melody. An indistinct image wavered before her and vanished. “Oh, sea monster, my song must be only a blur in your ears. I’ll do better, I promise. Sea monster, what’s your name?”

  The sea monster sang a complicated melody. The song described the sea monster, and it hinted, as well, at joy, and brashness, and youthful wisdom.

  “How beautiful! It’s perfect.”

  The sea monster swam to her. She trailed a glowing wake. The luminescence flowed down her shoulders and along her hair. The sea monster rested her elbows on the lowest step and gazed at Marie-Josèphe. Her whispered song formed shapes and scenes.

  Marie-Josèphe ran to the laboratory, snatched scraps of paper and charcoal, and hurried back to the sea monster. She sketched the songs, not in words or notes but rough scribbled pictures. Her eyes filled with tears; sometimes her tears smudged the paper. But the scenes remained clear, for she heard them.

  In her song, the sea monster swam alone. Filth and algae dimmed the fountain’s clarity. Litter and coins covered the bottom of the fountain.

  The sea monster’s song turned the water sapphire. The trash and the coins transmuted to white sand and living shells. Bright iridescent fish flitted past, changing color all together from blue to silver as they turned.

  A strange sea monster swam through the tropical sea. She was older than the captured creature, her skin a darker mahogany, her hair a lighter green, her tails dappled with silver. She was pregnant.

  She swam through swiftly shoaling water to a white beach, an isolated island in the expanse of the ocean. The sea monster struggled onto the sand, rolling in the warmth of it, nesting in it, pillowing her belly.

  Marie-Josèphe’s sea monster writhed onto the beach beside the pregnant monster. The male sea monster followed, and another. They surrounded the mother sea monster, grooming her hair, rubbing her back, stroking her belly.

  The mother sea monster moaned, and wailed, and her body tensed; the aunt and uncle sea monsters supported her so she lay reclining. Marie-Josèphe watched the birth with dread and fascination. It was difficult, painful for the mother, more like the birth of a baby than like the easy births of animals. But finally the wizened baby sea monster lay against its mother’s breast. She held it, crooned to it, and let it suckle while her family washed it with warm sea water and unfolded its wrinkled, webbed toes.

  Days passed; it grew; in the shallows of the island, it splashed and played with its mother and its aunts and their friends. Its mother nursed it; Marie-Josèphe’s and Yves’ sea monsters fed the mother with fish and beche-de-mer, clams and whelks and bits of seaweed for garnish.

  The sea monsters taught the baby to swim; they taught it to love the sea. The took it underwater, showing it when to breathe and how to hold its breath, showing it the wonders of the ocean, warning it of the dangers. A shark glided by, hungrily eying the baby, wary of the adults, and vanished into distant blue. Dolphins sped past, replying to the sea monsters’ songs with the percussion of their clicks and squeaks. The sea monsters swam between the tentacles of a huge tame octopus that lived within the skeleton of a Spanish galleon. The sea monsters played with gold pieces and jewelry fit for kings and emperors, dropped the riches unheeded on the sea bottom, and swam away.

  At times of great danger, or during hurricanes too wild to play in, the sea monsters sank beneath the waves, exhaling great clouds of bubbles, and grew very still. They ceased rising to the surface. They lay with their eyes closed, their mouths open, and every little while their chests heaved as if they were breathing water.

  After the baby sea monster had learned how to sleep safely at the bottom of the sea, the little family group swam away from the birth island. They took turns carrying the child, and disappeared into the depths.

  The scenes shuddered. The captive sea monster’s voice failed, in a hoarse croak, and the visions with it.

  Sunrise dimmed the glowing water.

  Shivering with cold and understanding, Marie-Josèphe gripped the uneven stack of paper that documented what she had heard and envisioned. The last bit of charcoal fell onto the planks, hitting as quietly as a drift of ash.

  “You’ve shown me your life,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Your life, your family…”

  The sea monster sang again.

  Yves appeared before Marie-Josèphe, as he had appeared in apparition, standing silent and cold, bleeding. In distress, Marie-Josèphe covered her eyes. The image still hovered before her, cupped in the palms of her hands. She covered her ears. The image of her wounded brother blurred, and disappeared.

  The sea monster sang to her, in images unrelated to any words, I offered your brother the fate he visited upon my friend, but I could not frighten you by threatening to rip him open from pulse to balls.

  The tiger burned bright in the dawn, and vanished.

  The sea monster sang to her, I sang a warning against the predator, for I feared it would smell your blood, as sharks smell blood from a great distance. I sang until you must be safe, or dead, and until my throat hurt from crying. But you are fearless, and I could not make you my ally by warning you.

  The whirlwind of sea monsters streamed around the peak of the cage, sleekly stroking mates and friends, sighing their pleasure.

  I abandoned fear, the sea monster cried, and sang to you of love and passion, and finally, you heard me, and listened.

  “Sea monster…” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

  The sea monster groaned harshly and clambered up the steps. Marie-Josèphe held her, stopped her. The drawings spilled onto the ground.

  “Don’t, please, stop.”

  The sea monster cried. Her claws could have ripped Marie-Josèphe cruelly, but she remained quiet.

  “I can’t free you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Where would you go? The sea’s too far, even the river’s too far. You belong to His Majesty. My brother would be ruined if you escaped.”

  The sea monste
r snarled, baring her teeth, before she flung herself into the fountain, sending up a great angry splash.

  Marie-Josèphe began to cry. “Oh, sea monster, sea woman!”

  16

  MARIE-JOSÈPHE STUMBLED up the Green Carpet, anxious to leave the gardens before anyone saw her running bedraggled and dew-damp and barefoot. She wished she had Zachi to ride. She could hardly feel her toes. She clutched the sheaf of sketches, shielding her dangerous new knowledge beneath the Chevalier’s warm cape. The sea woman’s despair stalked her like a beast.

  Upstairs, she peeked into Yves’ room. He snored softly. His cassock, shirt, and boots lay in an untidy path from doorway to bed. She put her sketches on his desk, shook him till he sat up mumbling that he was awake, changed her mind about the drawings, and hid them away.

  If I tell Yves about the sea woman, how can he believe me? she thought. But if I show him…if I show everyone…

  Odelette returned, carrying a tray of bread and chocolate. In a new morning dress of sprigged muslin and lace, she glowed with health and beauty.

  “I’ll stay with you.” Odelette’s expression was somber. She put the tray on the table near the window.

  Marie-Josèphe, distracted and distressed, could not think what she was talking about, could not think where the dress could have come from. Then she remembered: Chartres’ assault; her own promise; Mary of Modena’s favor.

  “But only until the family fortunes are repaired, or until I may return home unashamed. I’ll make my own fortune, if I can. I’ll no longer serve you—but I will help you, if you request it, because, Mlle Marie, you know nothing of fashion. No one may ever again call me a slave.”

  “I accept your terms, Mlle Odelette, and I’ll be grateful for your help.” Marie-Josèphe kissed her cheek. Odelette embraced her and leaned her forehead on Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder. She began to tremble; she drew back abruptly. Her dark eyes glistened.

  “When you go, I’ll miss you as my sister,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Nevertheless, I’ll do everything I can to speed your independence.”

  Self-possessed again, Odelette gave an elegant bow of her head. She sat at the breakfast table. Marie-Josèphe joined her, sitting in the window-seat. Marie-Josèphe poured chocolate for them both. Hercules followed, miaowing; Marie-Josèphe gave him a saucer of warm milk.

  “Do I smell chocolate?” Yves strolled in. He ran his hands through his hair. It fell into curls as graceful as any perruke. He glanced at Odelette. “Where am I to sit?”

  “You may bring yourself a chair,” Odelette said, perfectly composed. “You’re strong and fit.”

  He frowned. “Enough—I’m hungry. Let me have my place, Odelette.”

  “My name is not Odelette. My name is Haleeda.”

  Yves laughed. “Haleeda! Next you’ll tell me you’ve become a Mahometan!”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “I’ve given Mlle Haleeda her freedom, and adopted her as our sister.”

  “What!”

  “I freed her.”

  “On a whim? She’s our only possession of value.”

  “She belonged to me—I’ll free her if I wish.”

  “In five years, when you’re of age, you may free her.”

  “I gave her my word. She is free. She is our sister.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll sign no papers to that effect.” To Haleeda he said, “Never fear there’s a question of my selling you—but we cannot live at court without a servant.”

  Odelette—Haleeda—rose from table so quickly that the chair crashed over. She fled to Marie-Josèphe’s bedroom.

  “Yves, how could you!”

  He righted the chair, sat down, and poured the chocolate.

  “I? I’m guilty only of protecting our station.”

  He dipped his bread into his chocolate and ate the sweet and soggy mass, wiping his chin with his hand.

  “It isn’t right to own another human being.” Or to keep one imprisoned in a cage, she thought.

  “Nonsense. Who have you been talking to? What other dangerous ideas have you adopted?”

  She did not dare to speak of the sea woman now. She took Yves’ hand. “Don’t be angry—You have the King’s favor. He’s promised me a dowry—a husband! You can afford to be magnanimous. Our sister—”

  Yves flung down his soggy bread. “A dowry? A dowry! The King never mentioned your marriage to me.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said.

  “I don’t like these changes in you,” he said. “You say your greatest wish is to assist me in my work, but—”

  “How can I assist you, locked away in a convent—”

  “You must live somewhere while I travel—”

  “—forbidden to study, accused of—”

  “—and Versailles is no place for a maiden.”

  “If I were married, I wouldn’t be a maiden.”

  “Perhaps,” Yves said, “if you returned to Saint-Cyr…”

  Marie-Josèphe struggled to remain calm. If she showed her brother how terrified she was of his suggestion, he would think she had gone mad. Perhaps he would be right.

  “Mme de Maintenon ordered all the instructresses to take holy orders. That’s why I had to leave.”

  “Go back. Give yourself to God.”

  “I’ll never take the veil!”

  The heavy clash and clink of gold interrupted them. Magnificent in outrage, Haleeda flung down a handful of louis d’or. The coins rolled and bounced across the carpet, clattered onto the planks, rattled to a stop in the corner.

  “I shall buy myself. If that isn’t enough, I can get more.”

  Haughty as any court lady, Haleeda wore a new grand habit of midnight-blue silk. A long rope of lustrous pearls twined through her blue-black hair.

  “Where did this come from?” Yves asked. “Where did you get that dress, that jewelry?”

  “From Mademoiselle—from Mlle d’Armagnac—from Mme du Maine—and from Queen Mary!”

  Yves gathered up the coins. “I’ll consider your plea…after you correct your errors of religion.”

  Marie-Josèphe snatched the coins and pressed them into Haleeda’s hands. “Your prizes are yours, and your freedom.”

  “I mean what I say!” Yves stormed from the apartment.

  “Yves never meant it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “He—”

  “He was affected by that devil, who believes all Turks should be slaves. That Christian devil, the Pope.”

  Lucien toiled up the Queen’s staircase. His back hurt. He would rather be out riding, but he must listen to the marquis de Dangeau read his journal of the King’s activities, and record His Majesty’s approval.

  The musketeer bowed to him and opened the door to Mme de Maintenon’s apartment.

  His Majesty sat quietly speaking to his wife, who nodded to him as she bent over a tapestry. Lucien avoided looking at the tapestry; he did not care to see more heretics burning.

  “M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said. “Good day to you. Quentin, a glass of wine for M. de Chrétien.”

  Lucien bowed to the King, grateful for the courtesy his sovereign showed him.

  “And set out a goblet for M. de—”

  A fracas outside the apartment doors interrupted the valet. Quentin hurried to silence the disturbance.

  “That cannot be M. de Dangeau!” His Majesty exclaimed.

  “Monsieur, you may not enter,” Quentin said. “His Majesty is with his council—”

  “With his mistress, you mean! Let me pass.”

  Monsieur forced himself past the guard. Quentin, double Monsieur’s size and strength, mustache bristling, barred Monsieur’s way. Behind Monsieur, at the top of the stairs, M. de Dangeau hesitated, watched horrified for but a moment, then backed cautiously away and disappeared.

  “Let my brother pass,” His Majesty said to Quentin, who answered only to the King.

  “Sir, you must stop this farce!” Monsieur stamped in, as flustered and fancy as an angry circus pony.

/>   “Farce, brother?”

  “Why must I hear from common gossip that my intimate friend is to marry a colonial upstart?”

  “Perhaps because your `intimate friend’ did not choose to tell you,” Mme de Maintenon said.

  “You watched me give her to him—”

  “For a dance!”

  “—and you made no objection, dear brother.”

  “Dear brother!” Orléans’ voice trembled dangerously close to shouting. “How can I be your dear brother? You plan to steal all I care about, my only comfort, my only pleasure! In front of me, in my very sight, you give his hand to—to—”

  Lucien wished himself elsewhere. Observing this ugly scene would do him no good.

  M. de Dangeau is a fortunate gentleman, Lucien thought, shocked by Monsieur’s outburst. He receives a reward for being five minutes late.

  “But you approve of Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “She’s a member of your household, after all.”

  “My wife’s household! I cannot blame Mlle de la Croix—she’s an innocent in this! You planned it! You threw them together, to steal Lorraine’s affections from me!”

  “I gave him to you,” Louis said, his expression dark. “I will take him back if I wish. I will give him to another, if it pleases me.”

  “He’ll never leave me—he’ll defy you—I’ll—”

  “Philippe!” Louis leapt to his feet and shook his brother by the shoulders.

  Monsieur gaped, astonished. Lucien had never heard His Majesty address his brother by his given name; perhaps Monsieur never had, either.

  “I thought only of your protection, dear brother. I love you. If Lorraine marries—”

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “Do you not?”

  “And Lorraine doesn’t need a wife!”

  “She will shield him—and you—from accusations—”

  “He has any mistress he likes. I don’t mind!”

  No one contradicted him, though everyone in the room had witnessed Lorraine’s taunting him, paying public attention to each new mistress; everyone in the room had witnessed Monsieur’s spells of bitter jealousy and despair.