Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Midsummer Days sun blazed white in the center of the sky. The sky burned blue to the horizon.

The flagship of the King crossed abruptly from the limpid green of shallow water to the dark indigo of limitless depths.

The galleons captain shouted orders; the sailors hurried to obey. Canvas flapped, then filled; the immense square sails snapped taut in the wind. The ship creaked and groaned and leaned into its turn. The flag of Louis XIV fluttered, writing Nec Pluribus Impar, the Kings motto, across the sky. The emblem of Louis XIV, a golden sunburst, shone from the galleons foretopsail.

Free of the treacherous shoals, the galleon plunged ahead. Water rushed against the ships sides. The gilt figurehead stretched its arms into sunlight and spray. Rainbows shimmered from its claws and from the flukes of its double tail. The carven sea monster flung colored light before it, for the glory of the King.

Yves de la Croix searched the sea from the ships bow to the horizon, seeking his quarry along the Tropic of Cancer, directly beneath the sun. He squinted into Midsummers Day and clenched his hands around the topdecks rail. The galleon moved with the wind, leaving the air on deck still and hot. The sun soaked into Yves black cassock and drenched his dark hair with heat. The tropical sea sparkled and shifted, dazzling and enrapturing the young Jesuit.

Dmons! the lookout cried.

Yves searched for what the lookout had spied, but the sun was too bright and the distance too long. The ship cut through the waves, rushing, roaring.

There!

Dead ahead, the ocean roiled. Shapes leapt. Sleek figures cavorted like dolphins in the sea foam.

The flagship sailed toward the turbulent water. A siren song, no dolphins call, floated through the air. The sailors fell into terrified silence.

Yves stood motionless, curbing his excitement. He had known he would find his quarry at this spot and on this day; he had never doubted his hypothesis. He should meet his success with composure.

The net! Captain Desheureuxs shout overwhelmed the song. The net, you bastards!

His command sent his crew scrambling. They feared him more than they feared sea monsters, more than they feared demons. The winch shrieked and groaned, wood against rope against metal. The net clattered over the side. A sailor muttered a profane prayer.

The creatures frolicked, oblivious to the approaching galleon. They breached like dolphins, splashing wildly, churning the sea. They caressed each other, twining their tails about one another, singing their animal sensuality. Their rutting whipped the ocean into froth.

Yves excitement surged, possessing his mind and his body, overcoming his resolution. Shocked by the intensity of his reaction, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, praying for humble tranquility.

The rattle of the net, its heavy cables knocking against the ships flank, brought him back to the world. Desheureux cursed. Yves ignored the words, as he had ignored casual profanity and blasphemy throughout the voyage.

Once more his own master, Yves waited, impassive. Calmly he noted the details of his prey: their size; their color; their number, much reduced from the horde reported a century before.

The galleon swept through the fornicating sea monsters. As Yves had planned, as he had hoped, as he had expected from his research, the sea monsters trapped themselves in their rapture. They never noticed the attack until the moment of onslaught.

The siren song disintegrated into animal cries and screams of pain. Hunted animals always shrieked at the shock of their capture. Yves doubted that beasts could feel fear, but he suspected they might feel pain.

The galleon crushed through them, drowning them in their own screams. The net swept through the thrashing waves.

Desheureux shouted abuse and orders. The sailors winched the nets cables. Underwater, powerful creatures thrashed against the side of the galleon. Their voices beat the planks like a drum.

The net hauled the creatures from the sea. Sunlight gleamed from their dark, leathery flanks.

Release the pigeons. Yves kept his voice level.

Its too far, whispered the apprentice to the royal pigeon keeper. Theyll die. Birds cooed and fluttered in their wicker cages.

Release them! If none reached France from this flight of birds, the next flight would succeed, or the one after that.

Yes, Father.

A dozen carrier pigeons lofted into the sky. Their wings beat the air. The soft sound faded to silence. Yves glanced over his shoulder. One of the pigeons wheeled, climbing higher. Its message capsule flashed silver, reflecting the sun, signaling Yves triumph.

The procession wound its way along the cobbled street, stretching fifty carriages long. The people of Le Havre pressed close on either side, cheering their King and his court, marvelling at the opulence of the carriages and the harnesses, admiring the flamboyant dress, the jewels and lace, the velvet and cloth-of-gold, the wide plumed hats of the young noblemen who accompanied their sovereign on horseback.

Marie-Josphe de la Croix had dreamed of riding in such a procession, but her dreams fell short of the reality. She traveled in the carriage of the duke and duchess dOrlans, a carriage second in magnificence only to the Kings. She sat across from the duke, the Kings brother, known always as Monsieur, and his wife Madame. Their daughter Mademoiselle sat beside her.

On her other side, Monsieurs friend the Chevalier de Lorraine lounged lazily, handsome and languorous, bored by the long journey from Versailles to Le Havre. LotteMademoiselle, I must always remember to call her, Marie-Josphe said to herself, now that Im at court, now that Im her lady-in-waitingleaned out the carriage window, nearly as excited as Marie-Josphe.

The Chevalier stretched his long legs diagonally so they crossed in front of Marie-Josphes feet.

Despite the dust, and the smells of the waterfront, and the noise of horses and riders and carriages clattering along the cobblestones, Madame insisted on opening both windows and curtains. She had a great fondness for fresh air, which Marie-Josphe shared. Despite her ageshe was over forty!Madame always rode on the hunt with the King. She hinted that Marie-Josphe might be invited to ride along.

Monsieur preferred to be protected from the evil humours of the outside air. He carried a silk handkerchief and a pomander. With the silk he brushed the dust from the velvet sleeves and gold lace of his coat; he held the clove-studded orange to his nose, perfuming away the odors of the street. As the coach neared the waterfront, the smell of rotting fish and drying seaweed rose, till Marie-Josphe wished she too had brought a pomander.

The carriage shuddered and slowed. The driver shouted to the horses. Their iron shoes rang on the cobblestones. Townspeople poured into the street, thumping against the sides of the carriage, shouting, begging.

Look, Mademoiselle de la Croix! Lotte drew Marie-Josphe forward so they could both see out the carriage window. Marie-Josphe wanted to see everything; she wanted to remember forever every detail of the procession. On either side of the street, ragged people waved and cheered, cried Long live the King! and shouted Give us bread!

One rider moved undaunted through the crowd. Marie-Josphe took him for a boy, a page on a pony, then noticed that he wore the justaucorps brevet, the gold-embroidered blue coat reserved for the Kings most intimate associates. Realizing her mistake, she blushed with embarrassment.

The desperate townspeople clutched at the courtier, plucked at his gold lace, pulled at his horses saddle. Instead of whipping them away, he gave them the Kings alms. He handed coins to the nearer people, and flung coins to the people at the edges of the throng, the old women, the crippled men, the ragged children. The crowd formed a whirlpool around him, as powerful as the ocean, as filthy as the water in the harbor of le Havre.