Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Yves spread a silk handkerchief over the man of the sea’s ruined face, and wrapped the canvas shroud around him. With his own hands he helped three servants lift Sherzad’s friend. They placed him in the coffin. Yves folded the canvas around him. The servants carried the coffin to the cage, so Sherzad could look on her friend one final time.

The sea woman fell silent. Though she would not touch her friend with her voice, she placed her webbed hand onto his chest. Her fingers trembled.

“He received no last rites,” Yves said. “I was with him, but I gave him no last rites…”

“Never mind,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea people aren’t Christians. They have no god.”

“I could have saved him,” Yves said. “If I’d known… I will save Sherzad, I’ll save her people.”

“Give Sherzad her ring.”

Sherzad plucked the ring from Yves’ palm with extended claws.

“I will bury your friend at sea,” Yves said. “I promise it.”

Sherzad whispered, I want to go, I want to acknowledge his death and contemplate my life.

Yves shook his head.

“Dear Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said, “I’m so sorry, it isn’t possible.” Sherzad’s grief made Marie-Josèphe want to weep, but how could she indulge her own sorrow in the face of the sea woman’s loss?

Sherzad freed one of her friend’s last straggled locks from beneath the kerchief; she knotted the ring into his hair.

She bent over the coffin, her long hair shadowing her face. Marie-Josèphe put her arm around Sherzad’s shoulders, but the sea woman shrugged her off, slid down the stairs, and submerged without a sound.

“Was he her husband, whom I allowed to die?”

“Her friend, her lover, not her husband,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea folk don’t marry, they make love for pleasure, and on Midsummer Day they mate—”

“I know it! I predicted it, I found it, I saw it—I should have known no mere beasts could behave with such depravity. Perhaps they’re demons, after all—”

“The Church says they aren’t. And isn’t the Church infallible?”

Yves flinched at the anger and sarcasm in her voice.

Yves helped the servants move the coffin back to its supports. They fitted its lid. Yves set the nails himself. He helped them carry the coffin to the freight-wagon, gave the driver a gold coin, and sent the wagon off on the road to Le Havre.

At the sea woman’s tent, Lucien asked Zelis to bow; he dismounted carefully. Pain edged his spine, creeping up on him like a tiger as the day went on. He regretted Juliette’s departure desperately, but he could not ask her to return.

You’re a fool, he said to himself, to be so respectful of Mlle de la Croix’ scruples.

He was far too proud to entice her into his bed—even if she were of a mind to be enticed—with promises he would not keep: promises of marriage, assurances of saving the sea woman’s life. If Marie-Josèphe did not want him for friendship, for love, for the pleasure they could give each other, he did not want her either.

But he would not delude himself; he liked her, he enjoyed talking with her, he sympathized with her dilemma.

He entered the tent, glad to have good news to give her.

“Hello, Count Lucien.” Marie-Josèphe turned her gaze away from a faint ripple that marked the course of the sea woman. She smiled at him, sadly, shyly. She showed him her arm. “Your salve did its work. Thank you.”

He took her hand, for no other reason than to touch her. Monsieur’s lotions had softened her work-roughened hands—the lotions, and her release from scrubbing the stone floors of a convent—but ink stained her fingers.

“I’m happy to see you recovered.” The heat that touched his face had nothing to do with Mlle de la Croix, only with the wine.

“Are you well? You seem a little…”

Lucien chuckled.

Mlle de la Croix blushed as furiously as when they first had met, when she thought she caused him offense with everything she said.

“Never mind,” she said, “it’s none of my business why you’re drunk this early in the evening.”

“I’m drunk this early in the evening, Mlle de la Croix, because I’m not making love this early in the evening.”

Is she more perceptive than the rest of His Majesty’s court, he wondered, who never notice when I dull the ache in my back with wine instead of ecstasy? Or is she the only person brave or ignorant enough to comment?

She glanced away; she only thought she had embarrassed him, while he had certainly embarrassed her. He regretted it, and his sense of humor failed him.

A curl of her hair slipped over her shoulder, caressing her. He almost touched the lock of hair; if she had been any other woman at court, and he had been moved to touch her hair, he would have done so, and things might have progressed from there. But Marie-Josèphe had made her wishes known already. Lucien reined himself in more violently than he would ever check one of his horses.

“Do you not think,” Marie-Josèphe said, still looking across the Fountain, “you would serve yourself better if you embraced your suffering? Do you not think your suffering would benefit your spiritual health?”

“I do not,” Lucien said. “I avoid suffering whenever possible and with whatever means come to hand.”

“The Church exalts suffering.”

“Did scrubbing floors in silent unhappiness do you any good? Does this prison elevate your friend Sherzad? Suffering only makes one miserable.”

“I can’t argue with you about my religion, sir. You’ll draw me into danger, for you’re much cleverer than I.”

“I never argue about religion, Mlle de la Croix, but I may, on occasion, make a statement of common sense.”

She made no reply. Her shoulders slumped with weariness and despair. No dry witticism could ease her fear, but his news might give her a moment’s respite.

“His Majesty requests—” he said.

“M. de Chrétien!” Marie-Josèphe’s brother strode into the tent. “I have something for you to do.”

“Yves, don’t interrupt Count Lucien.”

“What is it, Father de la Croix?” Lucien spoke courteously, though he did not much like the form of the request. No one commanded him, except the King.

Yves explained, and made his request. “The coffin is on the way to Le Havre. Can you have it sent to sea? Sent to sea and buried there?”

Lucien’s voice grew chill. “You have taken it upon yourself to dispose of His Majesty’s sea monster.”

“To give the man of the sea a decent burial. His Majesty wouldn’t deny—”

“Count Lucien, you believe the sea people are—”

Brother’s and sister’s protests collided.

“Why will you not understand this?” Lucien said, doubly provoked. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. His Majesty has not ruled the sea monsters to be men.”

“I promised Sherzad’s friend a sea burial,” Yves said.

“You had no right to make such a promise.” Lucien, furious, never raised his voice. “You certainly have no right to tell me to carry it out.”

Yves shook his head, confused. “But, M. de Chrétien, you told me, whatever I needed—”

“To satisfy His Majesty’s will!” Lucien exclaimed. “Not your own.”

“His Majesty cares nothing for the dead creature,” Yves said. “Only what I can discover about—”

Lucien raised his hand sharply; Yves fell silent.

“Mlle de la Croix,” he said, “you yourself begged His Majesty to study the sea monster’s skull. His Majesty has condescended to do so.”

Marie-Josèphe made a sound of despair, and buried her face in her hands.

“The wagon’s only an hour gone,” Yves said. “We can fetch it back.”