Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Without waiting for His Majesty’s leave, Lucien bowed, backed away, and fled.

Marie-Josèphe rode Zachi past the marble statues overlooking the Green Carpet. Grateful for a moment’s peace, she looked into each serene stone face, wishing for their calmness.

The orators would never hesitate to speak of the sea woman, she thought, and no one would hesitate to believe them. Roman gods and orators would never feel guilty about skipping Mass; they would set out on adventures, they would win righteous battles, and never think twice about arguing with their brothers or failing to attend Mademoiselle.

Haleeda will arrange Lotte’s hair, Marie-Josèphe said to herself, and Duke Charles will compliment her, and she will never notice my absence.

At the bottom of the garden, a line of visitors snaked onto the Green Carpet, filing into the tent, crowding around the Fountain of Apollo, applauding the sea woman.

She shouldn’t be on display, like an animal in the Menagerie! Marie-Josèphe thought. It’s beneath her dignity! And I’m responsible—I taught her the foolish tricks.

Marie-Josèphe had no authority to close the tent.

Zachi tossed her head and pranced, asking to gallop, asking to run until her mane flew in the wind and Lorraine’s cloak swept back like wings.

“No, my charger,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “We must keep to a stately pace. We might trample someone, if we swooped down to steal the sea woman away.”

She wondered if the sea woman could ride, if perhaps she rode great whales through the ocean. If she could…

Marie-Josèphe dismissed the wild idea. She would never get the sea woman past the guards. Double-burdened, Zachi could not outrace even a cold-blooded horse. She might try, and break her heart.

“It would be to no avail,” Marie-Josèphe said, “for the rescue could not succeed. Yves would never forgive me, for the sake of his work. Count Lucien would never forgive me, for the sake of His Majesty. And I’d never forgive myself, for the sake of you.”

“What time to return, mamselle?” Jacques held the stairs and helped her dismount.

“I cannot say.” She patted Zachi’s sleek neck and her soft muzzle; she breathed into her flaring nostrils. “I’ll send for her.”

“You’re a wonder, mademoiselle,” said one musketeer, “training the sea monster to entertain the visitors.”

“Shame it’s for such a short time,” said the other.

Marie-Josèphe hurried to the cage. The sea woman swam back and forth, around and around, tantalizing the spectators.

The sea woman vanished. The pool stilled.

The surface roiled. The sea woman burst from the water in a rush of spray. Her naked body gleamed. She leaped completely over Triton, flipping her tails—her webbed feet—at the top of her arch. She arrowed down, vanishing without a splash or ripple.

The spectators applauded. “Throw it a fish!”

“Make it leap again!”

Marie-Josèphe ignored the demands.

I will not ask the sea woman to perform like a trick dog, she thought. She sang the sea woman’s name; the sea woman trilled, creating curtains of light and sound that glowed and hissed like the northern lights. Marie-Josèphe walked between them. All oblivious to the coruscating shimmer, the visitors waited for their entertainment.

“Guard,” Marie-Josèphe said, “kindly call the lackeys, to pour the fish-barrel into the Fountain.”

“ Give the fish to—”

She gave him a haughty look. He bowed.

The lackeys tilted the barrel. Sea water and live fish gushed over the rim of the fountain. With a shriek of pleasure, the sea woman burst through the river of sea-water. Terrified, the lackeys dropped the barrel; it tumbled into the fountain. The sea woman dived to evade it. The servants fled, ignoring the curses of the musketeers.

The visitors laughed and applauded. They might as well have been watching an Italian comedy. Her back to the rabble, Marie-Josèphe scowled.

“Now you’ve got no fish to throw to the monster!” a visitor shouted. “We want to see the sea monster!”

“Throw the monster a fish!”

“She’s no monster!” No one heard her. Water rushed; the sea woman leapt, flung a fish, and splashed flamboyantly. The fish flew through the air, between the bars of the cage, and hit the visitor in the chest. Water spattered Marie-Josèphe’s face and her riding habit. Waves surged over her feet, soaking her shoes.

Delighted, the visitors laughed. A child scampered forward and snatched up the fish and flung the flopping creature back through the bars. The sea woman leapt again, caught it, and ate it in two bites. The tail vanished last. The child laughed; the sea woman trilled at her.

“The sea monster wishes to train us!” said the child’s mother. All the crowd and the musketeers joined her laughter. The sea woman flipped her tails and vanished.

The floating barrel bobbed. The sea woman pushed it around the fountain. She made it turn and spin; she rode the spin upward and launched herself, flying into a dive. Her audience applauded.

“Stop it!” Marie-Josèphe cried, humiliated for the sea woman, furious. No one paid the least attention.

“Mlle de la Croix, control yourself, I beg you.”

Count Lucien stood by the Fountain, frowning, leaning lightly on his walking stick.

“Make them stop, please, Count Lucien.”

“What are they doing, that upsets you so?”

“Teasing her—baiting her, like a bear!”

“I doubt you’ve ever seen a bear-baiting, for this is nothing like. Your sea monster plays for them, as she plays for you.”

“It isn’t fitting.”

Count Lucien chuckled.

“Please don’t laugh at me.”

“I had no intention of doing so. On the contrary, I’m sad for you, if you don’t know the pleasure play can bring. To people as well as to animals.”

“She isn’t—”

The barrel bumped up against the platform, interrupting Marie-Josèphe, thudding loudly again and again. Water splashed on Marie-Josèphe’s shoes.

Marie-Josèphe knelt and plunged her hands into the water. The sea woman left off battering the barrel and swam to her, sleeking past her fingers.

With one short burst of song, the sea woman sketched her life. She caught her food, she swam through bright coral reefs in tropical seas. In the north, she capered among inverted iceberg mountains. She traced the depths with an exploration of sound. She played with the children of her family. She swam among the tentacles of a tame giant octopus with her friend—her friend, the man of the sea who lay dead and flayed on the dissection table. She and her friend made love, love for pleasure’s sinful sake with no thought of procreation, in the illumination of the octopus’ spark-spotted skin. When desperate danger threatened, the sea woman sank into the lightless depths and nearly ceased breathing. Ever, and always, the touch and the songs of other sea people surrounded her.

“I only thought of your fear,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “I didn’t think of how bored you must be. How lonely.” She sat with her wet feet on the water-level platform, her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists.

The visitors grew impatient. “Make it leap! Make it scream and laugh!”

“Sing your story again,” Marie-Josèphe whispered to the sea woman. “So they can hear it.” She rose and spoke to the visitors. “The sea woman tires of leaping, but she’ll tell you a story.”

The sea woman sang, not the story of her life, but a story from her people’s history. Surprised, apprehensive, Marie-Josèphe described the images with inadequate words.

“Four hundreds and three thousands of years ago, the people of the sea first met the people of the land.”