The Moon and the Sun

23

Sunday morning, when the King walked to Mass with his family, Marie-Josèphe plunged through the crowd of petitioners and flung herself at his feet. She said nothing, but held a letter out to him in both hands. She feared he would not take it. She dared to look at him. He gazed at her, impassive, showing neither annoyance at her presence nor satisfaction at her submission.

He took the letter.

Lucien felt ridiculous, standing in the Marble Courtyard with red and white ribbons sewn to his hunting coat and breeches and falling around his feet. If it were spring, he thought, I could play the Maypole.

“More ribbons, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said. “Your horse must be accustomed to the motion.” Louis wore a coat similarly decorated.

“My horse is accustomed to the chaos of war, Your Majesty,” Lucien said. “Zelis won’t jibe at a few fancy banners.”

Zelis stood by the courtyard stairs, tied by nothing more than her reins dropped to the ground, as the King’s Carrousel team galloped their mounts across the Place d’Armes, ribbons flapping from their wrists and shoulders and knees. The spotted Chinese horses bucked and squealed when the ribbons blew around their flanks. Their eyes showed white with fear or excitement. Nearby, the King’s master of horse tried to calm His Majesty’s snorting mount. It wanted to join its stablemates in playing at fear.

“More ribbons,” His Majesty said.

The royal tailor tacked more ribbons to Lucien’s good velvet hunting coat.

His Majesty handed Lucien a folded piece of paper.

Lucien opened Marie-Josèphe’s letter. He knew what it said. He had recommended its simplicity:

Your Majesty:

Sherzad offers you her ransom: a great treasure ship.

“Explain this, if you please, M. de Chrétien,” said the King.

“The sea people play among the wrecks, Your Majesty,” Lucien replied. “They use gold pieces and jewels as decoration. As toys for their children, who dandle pearl necklaces and drop them as they swim—for they can always find more.”

“Mlle de la Croix says this to save the life of the sea monster. Enough ribbons!” The tailor backed away, bowing.

“Yes. But I believe it’s true.”

“And do you believe the sea monster’s stories as well?”

“I believe Mlle de la Croix accurately describes what the sea woman sings to her.”

“There’s no proof.”

Lucien drew Sherzad’s ruby ring from his pocket and offered it to His Majesty. He had taken the ring from the retrieved coffin of the dead sea monster.

“Sherzad carried this when she was captured.”

“How do I know this?”

“Because I say it’s true,” Lucien said, in a tone he had never before used to the King. He bowed stiffly. “May I withdraw, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly not. The team misses you in the patterns.”

Lucien left the Marble Courtyard and spoke to Zelis; she bowed for him to mount.

The Arabian strode across the cobblestones of the Ministers’ Courtyard, trotted onto the hard-packed dirt of the Place d’Armes, and cantered into position in His Majesty’s Carrousel team. The ribbons waved wildly behind Lucien, their ends chattering in the wind of his speed. His Majesty rode out, his horse prancing nervously, his ribbons flowing and bouncing in time with the curls of his copper-colored perruke. He took his place in the center.

Shoulder to shoulder, His Majesty’s team crossed the Place d’Armes at a dignified walk. The line split, the horses wheeling past each other, sixteen to one side, sixteen to the other, at the trot. His Majesty led the first line, the duke de Bourgogne led the second, mirroring the pattern of the first. The two lines split into four, the new lines led by Anjou and Berri on their spotted ponies in a double mirror image. At the canter, the four lines performed an intricate drill.

From the four quarters of the Place d’Armes, the four lines of horses turned inward, leapt to the gallop, and ran headlong toward each other. In the center of the Place, the horses passed head-to-tail, close enough to touch, racing through a dangerous crosshatch at top speed.

The four lines interlaced into two; the two lines faced each other. The riders bowed, Bourgogne to His Majesty, Berri to Anjou. Lucien’s counterpart was Berwick; they saluted stiffly. The two lines wheeled again, melded again, and came to a halt shoulder to shoulder facing the King.

“Excellently done.” His Majesty accepted their salutes.

Provoked as he was by the King’s questioning his candor, Lucien still found His Majesty’s presence moving.

His Majesty wheeled his tall spotted horse and led his team from the field. The other riders jogged toward the stables, but His Majesty turned aside.

“Attend me, M. de Chrétien,” he said.

Lucien followed the King through the gardens and down the slope toward the Fountain of Apollo. He drew his dirk from his belt and used its point to sever the threads holding the ribbons to his coat wherever he could reach.

Beneath the tent, the sea woman’s mournful singing filled the hot, humid air. Father de la Croix waited in his laboratory, paler and more ascetic than ever. Mlle de la Croix conversed in whispers of melody with the sea woman. Servants set down a carved wooden frame and settled the painted globe of the world within it.

“Dismiss them, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said, “and fetch Mlle de la Croix.”

Sherzad growled and muttered and submerged herself in the murk. Marie-Josèphe recognized Lucien’s footsteps on the planks behind her.

He can no longer appear as if by magic, she said to herself. I always know when he’s near…

“His Majesty will see you.”

“Thank you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I am so grateful—”

“No more gratitude,” Lucien said. “This concerns us both.”

Marie-Josèphe gave Sherzad one last encouraging caress, rolled up the damp, crumpled sea chart, and followed Lucien to the laboratory. The wet hems of her gown and petticoats slapped her ankles. She had dressed carefully, in the grand habit that bared her shoulders, and revealed a decolletage she thought dangerously daring, though her gown was modest compared to what the princesses wore.

The King raised her from her curtsy. He was alone with brother, sister, and Lucien. Marie-Josèphe faced him, looking him almost straight in the eye. She thought, with a shock: He isn’t so much taller than I. I thought him as tall as Lorraine—taller!—but it was an illusion of his high shoes and his wig, an effect of his power.

“My relentless Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Explain yourself.” Red and white ribbons, like those on the back of Lucien’s coat, covered his coat and breeches.

Marie-Josèphe spread the chart on the laboratory table. Sherzad had puzzled over it, unable to comprehend the purpose of a drawing that was, in her view, horribly and dangerously inaccurate. What is the point, she had asked, when Marie-Josèphe finally succeeded in explaining it to her, of showing only the edge of the sea?

The sea woman sang. The long underwater slopes and sea-cliffs and treacherous rocks formed in Marie-Josèphe’s vision, a ghostly presence around her brother and Count Lucien and the King.

“Here.” Marie-Josèphe traced a spot on the chart, pointing out a group of jagged rocks in a cove near Le Havre. “A galleon sank here. The rocks hold it, and its treasure spills out.”

“Your Majesty’s flagship could reach the wreck in a few hours,” Lucien said.

“M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said, his impassive voice warming with a hint of humor and fondness, “you will not even sail on the Grand Canal. Who are you to give anyone advice about navigation?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

“However, you’re right. If the treasure exists. Has the creature played here—so close to shore?”

“She knows it from a story her family tells.” Marie-Josèphe hesitated, then plunged ahead. “The sea folk like to tell stories of ships that almost reached land.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. Sherzad’s grand-aunts visited it.”

“Two generations! The wreck could be dispersed, the treasure lost.”

“It’s a small risk, a small investment, Your Majesty,” Lucien said. “The sea woman’s life gives you treasure. Her death gives you a morsel of meat.”

“That morsel represents a feast as great as any of Charlemagne’s,” His Majesty said. “And the chance of immortality.”

“Your Majesty, I beg you to believe me, it’s a myth,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Sherzad cannot give you immortality.”

His Majesty turned to Yves. “You are silent, Father de la Croix.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Marie-Josèphe willed her brother to say what he must know, that Sherzad could not convey immortality upon anyone, even Louis le Grand or Pope Innocent.

“I wish you to speak, Father de la Croix.”

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.