The Moon and the Sun

The sea woman’s images spun around Marie-Josèphe, a waterspout of mirages. Sea people sunbathed on a small sandy island. The sea stretched around it without interruption. The sea people, safe and happy, played with their family’s new child. The baby’s hand had begun to grow its webs, her toenails to thicken and withdraw into claws. Her hair was as soft as spume. She hummed and babbled, creating large amorphous pictures. Her mama, her sisters and brothers and cousins, her aunts and uncles, exclaimed with wonder and approval.

“On our birth islands, we are vulnerable, but we believed ourselves safe.”

Marie-Josèphe interpreted as well as she could, from a language with no words. She sketched rapidly as she spoke. The charcoal scribbles did no justice to the beauty of Sherzad’s songs, but they documented the story. Servants took the finished sketches, displayed them, pinned them up.

“We were not safe.”

A galleon appeared on the horizon. A cross blazed from its flag. Sherzad’s song broke into discord. The galleon’s cannons thrust through its gunports.

“The ships of the men of land sought us.”

The galleon came about, presenting its broadside to the tiny birth island. The cannons fired in a horrible rolling roar. Sherzad screamed in grief and pain. Men stormed the island with pikes and nets.

“They called us devils. They killed and captured us, for the glory of your god.”

Lucien heard again the sound of battle in the sea woman’s songs. He heard the screams of dying men and horses. Exhilaration took him like strong wine; despair overcame it. Sherzad’s song brought back Steenkirk, and Neerwinden.

“They took us to the mainland, to cities, they imprisoned us and tortured us, they killed us slowly.”

In Marie-Josèphe’s sketch, an Inquisitor shattered a man of the sea on the rack. In the background, a human figure burned at the stake.

Lucien heard again the catcalls of his youth, the other pages at court tormenting him: Dwarf, dwarf! Your papa is a devil and your mama is a witch!

They never stopped, until he earned the King’s esteem.

“The men of land went truly mad. They killed us, they killed their own people.”

The Church sought evidence of fornication between women and the sea demons. What it sought, it found. It condemned any woman with a dwarf child, for the child was pure proof of congress with the devil.

“The sea people knew the men of land as enemies.”

Marie-Josèphe stared in horror at her sketch: a woman broken on the wheel and thrown into the sea, her dwarf child holding tight, sinking with her, drowning. The servant took the drawing away before she could stop him.

The servant displayed the illustration. While the rest of the audience was still applauding the pathos of Marie-Josèphe’s story, the servant reached Lucien. He tried to hurry past, but Lucien caught his wrist, made him stop, and took the sketch from him.

Lucien thought: Not long since, that woman could have been my mother. That child would have been me.

The sea monster left off its singing.

“That is all.” Marie-Josèphe’s voice shook. She turned to the sea woman. “How could you?”

The sea monster shrieked, splashed backwards, and flung water everywhere. She laughed maniacally, laughed as no beast could laugh. If Lucien had doubted Marie-Josèphe de la Croix before, now he believed everything she had ever claimed about the being, and more.

At the edge of anger, Lucien rose and left the tent. He did not care to lose his temper in public.

* * *

Lucien sat by the Reflecting Pool. If he plunged into the water he might cool his fury.

If I plunge into the water, he said to himself, I might also drown. I prefer to remain angry.

“Count Lucien!” Mlle de la Croix ran toward him, pale with dismay. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—how could Sherzad be so cruel?”

“Have the courage to claim your own revenge.”

“My revenge? For what?”

“You offered, and I declined.”

“And I’m acting the rejected flirt? Sir, you wrong me.”

Lucien’s anger erupted. “What do you expect from a dwarf, ugly, misshapen—”

“Count Lucien, I love you.”

“That is your misfortune.”

“Your spirit is beautiful. You allowed me to see your kindness, and…” She hesitated. “Do you understand what I said? I love you.”

“Many women love me. I’m a generous man, and a knowledgeable lover.”

“You are arrogant, sir.”

“I have told you that I am. I have reason to be. I possess a title of the sword, the title of the companions of Charlemagne, a title already ancient when these upstart dukes and marquises were created. I enjoy the trust of the King. I’m heir to vast lands and great wealth—”

“I don’t care about that!” Marie-Josèphe said. “If you weren’t Lucien de Barenton, Count de Chrétien, I’d feel the same.”

“Ah. If I were a starving peasant, beaten because I couldn’t pay my taxes, my hovel pillaged by the soldiers of my own King—you’d love me?”

“You’re an atheist, and I love you.”