The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

Yves’ silence stretched on; he did not meet Marie-Josèphe’s gaze. He took a long, weary breath.

  “Your Majesty, I have no proof one way or the other. I cannot gather evidence without killing the sea monster—or capturing more of the creatures, if any still live.”

  “Dear brother,” Marie-Josèphe said, in despair, “no matter what you do not know—you do know Sherzad is human.”

  “Sire,” Lucien said, “you may always take the sea woman’s life.”

  “Are you asking me to spare it?”

  “I’m offering my counsel, which in the past Your Majesty has condescended to request.”

  “M. Boursin begs for time to prepare the monster’s flesh. I shall give him one day, though he will spoil my peace with complaints. You may have until midnight of Carrousel, midnight tomorrow, to find the treasure.”

  “And if Sherzad finds it—you’ll spare her life?”

  His Majesty offered no conciliation. “I will see.”

  Marie-Josèphe hurried to the Fountain of Apollo and Sherzad. The sea woman swam slowly to her, drifting without energy. Needing comfort herself, Marie-Josèphe comforted Sherzad.

  “Count Lucien has sent his fastest racehorse with His Majesty’s orders,” she said. “The ship will sail—it will find your treasure. And you’ll be free.”

  Sherzad leaned against Marie-Josèphe’s knee.

  At home, she sang to Marie-Josèphe, we could shout our wishes into the sea. Everyone would hear. But if you shout into the wind, your voice disappears.

  Marie-Josèphe laughed sadly. “You have the truth of it, sister.”

  Swim with me, Sherzad sang. I am dying, friend, I need the touch of other people to sustain me.

  “I cannot,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “I’m so sorry, dear Sherzad, it’s impossible.”

  The musketeers opened the tent and allowed the visitors to enter. They clustered around the cage, calling to Sherzad, whistling, stretching their hands through the bars to attract her attention.

  A footman brought His Majesty’s portrait and settled it in his armchair.

  “We must tell another story,” Marie-Josèphe said to Sherzad. “A cheerful story, please, Sherzad.”

  Lorraine, Chartres, and the duke of Berwick strolled in. They sat in the front row, bowing with exaggerated courtesy to His Majesty’s picture. Marie-Josèphe pretended they were not there, even when they whispered together, laughed, and insulted her with significant glances.

  If they come one step toward me, she thought, I’ll slam the cage door in their faces!

  “We’ve come for a story, Mlle de la Croix!” Chartres exclaimed.

  Marie-Josèphe ignored him, a dangerous discourtesy. She stretched her hand to Sherzad, who enclosed her fingers with the silk-soft swimming webs, then broke away and swam across the pool at a hazardous speed. She leaped, soaring out of the water, arcing over Triton’s trumpet.

  “Sherzad, stop, be careful!”

  Lorraine laughed. “Make her do that again!”

  “No!” Marie-Josèphe cried, too distressed, too furious to pretend Lorraine did not exist. “She hasn’t enough room in this tiny cage.”

  “His Majesty gives the sea monster more space than he gives his courtiers.”

  Sherzad swam back to her, leaping again, coming down perilously close to the platform. Her gold eyes shone with wild rage and desperation.

  “Brava!” cried Lorraine.

  “If you please, Mlle de la Croix,” Chartres said, “give us our story.”

  Sherzad swam across the pool, turned at the last instant, and swam across again. The prison tormented her. She dove to the inlet and struggled with the grating. It never moved. The fountain contained nothing she could use as a tool or a pry, for the bits of metal littering its bottom were all soft and useless; the gray metal and the sun-colored metal alike bent in her hands.

  Marie-Josèphe called to her; Sherzad ignored her. She swam back and forth, as fast and as hard as she could in the small space, not nearly as fast as she could swim in the open ocean. She keened and cried into the murky water. A fish swam past. She snatched it and ripped it to bits. Scales flickered and floated away.

  She leaped. With her powerful legs she propelled her body entirely out of the water. She let herself fall with a great splash. Water washed over the steps and gushed above the stone rim, soaking Marie-Josèphe’s feet. Marie-Josèphe drew back with a cry of dismay. Sherzad could not understand why she never wanted to keep her feet wet.

  Beyond the bars of the cage, the land people in their strange chaotic coverings gathered to listen to her. Most stood—Sherzad wondered how they could bear the pain of standing—but a few sat. Marie-Josèphe had tried to explain why this was; she had begged Sherzad to lower her eyes when the toothless man looked at her. Sherzad found no reason to do so.

  The toothless man’s picture sat in his place today. The people of land made pictures with colors on surfaces, poor flat representations of their subjects. They should set someone to sing the image of absent guests.

  Sherzad leaped again. The land people exclaimed and slapped their hands together. She leaped again, and again they covered her with a wave of meaningless noise. Meaningless to her, but significant to them, their way of showing interest or approval.

  The small man came into the tent. Sherzad snarled and dived. She no longer hoped to trust him. He had smeared that nasty black stuff on Marie-Josèphe’s arm. Did he want to kill her? She would claw him if she got the chance, for trying to hurt Marie-Josèphe. She wished she could warn her friend, but she would have to explain how Marie-Josèphe came to be healed. She did not dare.

  All the land people suddenly stood up. The man in white, with the gold cross, came into the tent. All the land people bowed until he sat beside the picture of the toothless one. Marie-Josèphe ran out and knelt and kissed his hand. The action puzzled Sherzad, for the man in white responded to the kiss without pleasure, and Marie-Josèphe gained no pleasure from kissing him.

  Marie-Josèphe returned to the Fountain and sang, begging Sherzad to tell a story. Sherzad leaped again, testing the reaction of the land people. She landed dangerously near the rim of the Fountain, splashing hard. The land people made a considerable noise.

  Sherzad swam to the steps and clambered over the sharp corners to lie on the rim beside Marie-Josèphe.

  “Dear Sherzad, you frighten me so when you leap like that…”

  Sherzad turned her attention to the man in white. Now and again she found some kindness in his face, though he wore the gold cross that terrified Sherzad’s heart.

  Can I draw him to my cause? Sherzad wondered. Or is his attachment to murdering us too strong?

  Marie-Josèphe spoke, like a child, for her untrained voice produced single notes. Sherzad replied with a trill of harmonies, fixed her gaze upon the Pope, and began.

  She sang of her kind’s first encounter with the golden cross.

  The people of the sea gained some respite by fleeing, by choosing birth islands far out in the middle of the ocean, by removing themselves to great mats of seaweed too dense for ships to traverse.

  They did not move their mating place. Its indigo depths lay between treacherous shallows. All the families gathered there, on a single day each year, then dispersed again. Surely the men of land could not find them.

  One year, a great storm preceded Midsummer’s Day. The sea people gloried in it, riding the immense waves, diving through the spume, submerging, when the weather became too violent, to drift into lethargy and sleep. When the storm broke, the sea people rose to the surface and swam in the bright hot sun. Leaving the adolescents in charge of the children, the adults gathered for their mating.

  Marie-Josèphe stopped singing, stopped speaking. Sherzad gripped her wrist, pricking her with her sharp claws, snarling in disgust at her cowardice. Tell them, she said, you must tell them. How will they know we are people, if they don’t believe we feel joy?

  The mating haze crept over them. They crowded together, swimming in
a contracting circle; they created a great whirlpool with their delight. They swam against each other, sliding and touching, arousing themselves, arousing each other, losing themselves in their ecstasy.

  Marie-Josèphe faced the Pope squarely and spoke as Sherzad sang.

  In the midst of the haze, a lost ship staggered toward the mating orgy, its sails tattered from the storm. Among the rips and tears of the galleon’s mainsail, painted in sunlight, a cross burned.

  The men of land spied the people of the sea in their mating haze. The ship pitched toward the gathering. The men of land were jealous of the sea people’s pleasure, rapturous and terrified at their discovery of such a mass of demons. Their ship plunged into the orgy, through clusters of joyous sea people unaware of the ship’s presence.

  The ship crushed sea people, who did not even try to escape. The sailors flung casks over the side, screaming, Demons! demons!

  The casks exploded, blowing splinters, nails, fragments of chain across the waves. The sea folk came to themselves as their pleasure turned to agony and their blood swirled in the water. The whirlpool, cut by the ship, vanished into the depths. Panicked youths saw their families die before them, as they held the terrified, crying babies.

  The Pope stared stonily at Sherzad. No kindness came into his face; he showed no more pity than the priest who stood in the lost ship’s stern, holding up a cross of the sunlight metal, proclaiming his responsibility for the devastation of wounded and dying sea folk.

  “I am the Hammer of Demons, the scourge of Lucifer,” Marie-Josèphe sang.

  The Pope rose. Sherzad loosed Marie-Josèphe’s wrist. Marie-Josèphe clutched the bars of the cage to steady herself. The spectators burst into applause at the pathos and tragedy of the story.

  “I didn’t make it up,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “How could I make it up?”

  “I must have the creature in my keeping,” the Pope said.

  24

  THE GOLD SUNBURSTS, the gilded candle-stands covered with fresh flowers, the scent of orange blossoms and heavy perfume, the elaborate hangings and the exquisite paintings oppressed Marie-Josèphe. Following Madame and Lotte, she hesitated at the entryway of Apollo’s salon. The press of courtiers forced her into the room, and the crowd held her immobile.

  The usher knocked his staff against the floor.

  “His Majesty the King.”

  All the men removed their flamboyant hats. The courtiers made way for their monarch. Marie-Josèphe remained with Madame and Lotte, too close to the front of the crowd and too much in public view to have any chance of creeping out, of fleeing to Sherzad. Sherzad’s voice whispered to her, but she could not tell if she heard it truly, or only imagined it in the crush and noise and smell and heat.

  This must be the first time I’ve been too warm at Versailles, she thought.

  She peeked over Lotte’s shoulder. In all other directions, the fanciful headdresses of the women and the high, leonine periwigs of the men blocked her view.

  Everyone bowed. Before she dropped into a curtsy, Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of the King. He had replaced his copper perruke with one of bright blond. The shining curls contrasted elegantly with His Majesty’s dark blue eyes. White plumes cascaded from his hat. Gold embroidery and rubies covered the flame-colored velvet of his coat. He wore old-fashioned red satin petticoat-breeches, and shoes with diamond buckles and high scarlet heels.

  “He’s a young man again,” Madame whispered into Lotte’s ear. “Exactly as he was when he was young!” Her voice quavered. “So brilliant—so fair—” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Emotion nearly overcame Madame, who made unremitting fun of court ladies because they acted younger than their age, who made unremitting fun of herself for never bothering to fight the changes of growing older. The portly duchess wrapped her hand around Lotte’s arm. At Lotte’s glance, Marie-Josèphe moved up beside Madame. She slipped her hand beneath Madame’s elbow to support her.

  “Let us take you to your room, Mama,” Lotte said.

  “No!” Madame whispered. “The King would not like us to leave.” She straightened up, trembling, maintaining the illusion of her usual stolid self.

  His Majesty mounted his throne. His sons and grandsons took their proper positions.

  “His Holiness Pope Innocent of Rome.”

  Innocent entered the room, in shining white, surrounded by his cardinals. Yves followed, bearing an elaborate monstrance of silver and crystal. The monstrance carried within its sculpted starburst its holy burden of the Body of Christ. Yves placed the monstrance before Louis’ throne. The crystal windows magnified the Host.

  “We welcome the consummation of our treaty,” Innocent said.

  “As do I, cousin,” Louis said.

  The usher thumped the floor again. “His Majesty James of England and Her Majesty Queen Mary.”

  James entered, Mary of Modena on his arm. They wore white velvet covered all over with pearls, gifts of His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the Queen’s fantastical headdress. She detected the hand of Haleeda, and she thought, I must find a way to return my sister to her home—or Queen Mary will surely kidnap her off to the cold island of England!

  “Cousin,” James said, hardly lisping at all, “I’ve caused a gift to be made for you.”

  The Queen’s half-starved little Irish slaves hurried in, struggling under the weight of an enormous picture frame of carven, gilded wood. White silk covered the painting. Louis leaned forward eagerly, caught himself, and sat back at his ease, making it appear that he had only shifted his position on his throne. He loved the paintings of the great masters; among his most prized possessions were paintings by Titian, gifts from Italy. If James had brought him another, it was purchased with Louis’ own money, but no matter.

  James whipped the white silk away and revealed a larger than life image—a flattering image—of James himself in ermine robe and the crown jewels of England.

  “So we shall always be near,” James said.

  “Allied in the campaign against the heretics,” Mary said.

  His Majesty nodded his appreciation to James, to Mary. The young slaves lugged the painting aside and held it upright, where it could watch the proceedings. James placed himself where he could see the painting.

  “His Majesty the Shah of Persia.”

  What a conundrum this must be for the Introducer of Ambassadors! Marie-Josèphe thought. How can he know what rules to follow, what precedence to set? Perhaps His Majesty made up new rules for this concentration of royalty.

  Resplendent in gold robes of Eastern design and a tiered golden crown, the Shah strode into the throne room. He touched his forehead, his heart. Louis nodded courteously. The Shah’s viziers and attendants followed, in silk robes and white turbans, the servants carrying rolled-up carpets. They laid magnificent Persian rugs out before His Majesty, one after another, one on top of another, fifty of them, each more intricate, more magnificent, larger than the rest, till the pile stood waist-high. The topmost carpet covered the others, its corners and sides draping to the floor, as if it were risen from the ground, a magic carpet from the stories of Scheherazade.

  The Shah spoke; his vizier translated.

  “A token of our esteem and love for our ally, Louis the Great, King of Christendom.”

  The usher rapped his staff. “The Prince of Nippon.”

  The prince was a small and elegant man with straight black hair intricately arranged and lacquered. A dozen men in lacquered red armor accompanied him. He wore layers of silken kimono in autumn colors and patterns, very full white trousers, and a pair of curved swords. While the clothing of the French courtiers emphasized and increased their height, the robes of the prince widened his shoulders and his body.

  “I bring greetings from Shogun Tsunayoshi in the name of Higashiyama-tennou the Emperor, the greatest monarch of the East, as you are the greatest monarch of the West.”

  His attendants carried ches
ts of black and red lacquer, painted with golden dragons. The chests contained fifty bolts of patterned silk, fifty kimono of exquisite color and pattern, and fifty jade figurines on silken cords, each jade creature so lifelike that the puppy might leap from the prince’s hand and scamper around the floor, the frog might croak and leap into the reflecting pond. Jade curves interconnected and intertwined; it was impossible to imagine how anyone had carved them.

  Finally the prince took from beneath his outer robe a long narrow box of red lacquer, utterly plain.

  “The greatest treasure, from our finest artist.” He knelt and placed the box on a small lacquer table carried in by two of his attendants. Reverently, he drew out a scroll and unrolled it. The backing and border were of fine silk with a subtle pattern, but the scroll was nothing more than white paper marked with three scribbles of black ink. The prince held the scroll as if it were a relic or the original parchment of Scripture. The courtiers whispered; Madame said to Lotte, “Why, when the Siamese came, even their gifts were better than that one!”

  His Majesty nodded to the Prince without giving any hint that he might be disappointed or insulted.

  “Our allies the War Chiefs of the Huron.”

  Two wild Americans walked in, an elder and a younger man, side by side, wearing beaded deerskin, massive steel knives, and hats from Paris. They did not remove their hats, and no one corrected them. They never bowed; they never smiled, though Marie-Josèphe fancied she saw the younger man’s lips twitch with laughter. Lines of pain and age marked the older man’s face, for he had lived through the destruction of his village, his family, his people. The remnants of his band were the allies of the French in the same way as James and his court in exile.

  Two servants carried a birchbark canoe to the King and placed it at his feet. The younger Huron unrolled a shirt of fringed white deerskin sewn with porcupine quills in striking geometric patterns.

  His Majesty smiled. “You sent me beaded swaddling clothes when I was a child. It’s fitting that you give me a beaded shirt now that I’m an old man.”

  The older chief unwrapped a smaller leather parcel and brought out a pipe decorated with long, golden-brown, white-tipped feathers.