Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

When Mlle d’Armagnac saw Marie-Josèphe, she rose to her feet. All the other ladies followed her lead. Baffled, Marie-Josèphe curtsied to them.

She knelt at the edge of the fountain and sang the sea woman’s name. “Sea woman, will you tell these people of land a story?”

The sea woman swam to the foot of the stairs. She lifted her arms; Marie-Josèphe slipped her fingers into the sea woman’s webbed hands.

The sea woman snorted; the swellings on her face rippled. She drew Marie-Josèphe’s left hand toward her, forcing Marie-Josèphe to stoop. She prodded the bandage and nibbled at the knot that held it. The pressure increased the throbbing.

“Please, don’t.” Marie-Josèphe pulled her hand away. “You’re hurting me.”

A group of noblemen entered, laughing and pushing their way past the visitors. Lorraine led half a dozen young men to the front of the audience. They bowed with exaggerated courtesy to the ladies and to His Majesty’s portrait; they threw themselves into their chairs, lounging and slouching and smoking. Marie-Josèphe turned away from Lorraine, away from Chartres.

“Please, sea woman,” Marie-Josèphe said. “A story?”

Madame arrived, with Lotte; Count Lucien accompanied them. Marie-Josèphe rose and curtsied. She smiled shyly, tentatively, at Count Lucien, hoping he would forgive her for her foolishness this morning. He nodded to her in a gentlemanly fashion. Madame’s presence—or was it Count Lucien’s?—brought the men to proper behavior.

The sea woman began her tale in a melodious whisper.

“She will tell you a story,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“ ‘The ocean cradled the sea people for a thousand hundred years. We lived in peace with the men of land.’ ”

Marie-Josèphe found herself in the midst of the story. The sea surrounded her, cool on her bare skin. She continued to speak, to sing, to tell the story, but her audience vanished and the people of the sea surrounded her. She swam, and sang; she caught fish and ate them raw; laughing, she played with sea-children among the spark-speckled tentacles of a giant octopus.

“ ‘Then the men of land discovered good sport in pursuing us from their ships…’ ”

A strange sound raked the water. She and her family surfaced into the sunlight. Curious and unafraid, ready to welcome the land people as they had greeted the Minoans, the sea people swam toward the dragon-prowed ship floating on the waves.

“ ‘They sailed into our waters…’ ”

A great net soared over the sea people, fell among them, and captured one of her brothers and two of her sisters. Men of land leaned over the side of the ship, laughing and shouting. They landed the sea people, ignoring their cries.

“ ‘They raided the sea people.’ ”

With sails and long oars, the Northmen set their ship in motion. The free sea people followed, horrified. The screams of their friends echoed through the wooden sides of the ship, filling the sea with pain.

“ ‘And they tortured us.’ ”

The Northmen tied the sea man to their dragon prow. His screams warned them of rocks and reefs. Sometimes they aimed their figurehead toward the rocks, and laughed at his cries.

“ ‘They used the sea women against their will, as no woman wishes to be used.’ ”

The Northmen threw the sea women overboard. They floated, limp, bruised, bleeding from secret places.

“The sea people—” Marie-Josèphe choked on tears. “Please, sea woman, please, no more.”

You must finish, the sea woman sang. You promised to finish the story.

Marie-Josèphe continued. The sea people comforted the injured sea women. But just out of the sight of the eyes, sleek and deadly shapes appeared. Hunting sharks surrounded the group, scenting the blood, moving in to attack.

The sea people turned outward to defend themselves, circling their injured friends and their children for protection. They sang a song of description and warning into the sea, so other families would hear it and beware the men of land and their marauding ships.

Yves stared at Marie-Josèphe, shocked. He had arrived, with Dr. Fagon, while the story surrounded her, filling her sight. Marie-Josèphe stammered out the end of the tale; she covered her face with her hands, hiding her tears. Her heart thrashed wildly, driven by horror on the sea woman’s behalf, fear and embarrassment on her own.

The visitors and most of the courtiers applauded, cheering as they would for the greatest drama of Racine.

“There, there, my dear,” Madame said softly. The Princess Palatine embraced Marie-Josèphe, holding her gently against her ample bosom, stroking her hair. Lotte joined them, patting Marie-Josèphe’s hand.

“What a tragic story! How imaginative you are!”

“Overwrought melodrama,” Lorraine said.

“You’re too harsh, sir,” Chartres said mildly.

“Come along, child,” Madame said. “We’ll ride with the King’s hunt. The fresh air will have you well in no time.”

“Fagon,” Lorraine said, “you should bleed her again.”

Marie-Josèphe started, ready to fly to Zachi, ready to run. Lorraine laughed, her first true enemy.

Count Lucien cleared his throat.

“Letting blood is not,” Fagon said nervously, “is not indicated, at this time.”

In the midst of a chaos of horses and dogs, carriages and shouting, Zachi stepped delicately across the paving stones of the courtyard. Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s sleek red-gold neck.

“Do you know my frailties, dear Zachi?” she whispered. I’m only tired, she thought, though her feverish despair resembled no exhaustion she had ever felt.

Zachi swiveled one fine ear, then pricked both ears forward and arched her neck. Her walk was as smooth as still water.

Shouting, beating their leopard-spotted ponies’ sides with their heels, the young princes clattered across the paving stones. A half-grown hound bayed and scrabbled to chase them. Its leash, fastened to the collar of an experienced old bitch, strangled it back. The bitch growled; the pup cowered. The King’s hunt assembled, fifty horses and riders, a dozen open caleches. The stallions snorted and reared; the courtiers preened as proudly.

Horse sweat, human sweat, dung, smoke, and perfume mingled with the scent of orange blossoms and the cool sharp air of September. The sky glowed blue.

Monsieur and the Chevalier de Lorraine rode out on matched black Spanish chargers. Monsieur’s diamond patches glittered against his powdered skin, his new coat gleamed with gold lace, and white plumes spilled nearly to the cantle of his saddle. He cocked his hat in the most stylish manner. Lorraine, impossibly elegant in his embroidered blue coat, sported a new diamond ring, displayed over his glove on his forefinger.

Marie-Josèphe hoped she could avoid him in the crowd.

“Unusual to see Monsieur riding astride,” the Duke du Maine said. His heavy hunter shouldered up beside Zachi.

“He has a beautiful seat, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “See how his horse responds to him.”

“He wishes he could put that bridle on Lorraine, and make him admire his seat.” Maine chuckled.

Marie-Josèphe could make no sense of Maine’s comment, except the insulting tone.

“I have heard he led bravely,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Riding at the head of his company in battle.”

“Not until he’d spent two hours before his mirror. He must have taken four hours, to get himself up today.” Maine’s horse moved closer. Maine’s knee brushed against Marie-Josèphe’s leg. Zachi flattened her ears and nipped at the horse. Marie-Josèphe did not correct her.