Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

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 monster 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 !”

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.