The Woman Who Married the Man in the Moon Read online

  Mourra found herself holding her breath. Something smooth and cool moved in her hair — don’t let it be a snake, I’ll scream if it’s a snake — and the magician grunted with effort, as though he were hauling an anchor up from the depths of the sea. Then the coolness was fresh dew on her cheek, the smoothness a velvet petal. The magician was holding up a single flower as pale scarlet as the approaching sunset, as golden as a bee. There was nothing else in his hand.

  Mourra took the flower from him slowly, without speaking. Sairey was nearing them, her expression a mixture of anger and immense relief, her right arm occupied by a clinging Findros, the left reaching out for her daughter. Mourra put the flower into her hand, saying, “I found this for you. It’s a magic flower.” She closed her eyes then and leaned into her mother.

  Sairey was a small, dark, sturdily-made woman, with a quick eye and a disturbingly level glance. She considered the magician briefly, bent her head in acknowledgment, but immediately turned to Mourra and Findros, demanding, “Why are you so late? Where have you been?”

  “She got us losted, I told you,” Findros mumbled against her shoulder. “The Gician saved us. His name’s Schmoondrake.”

  Mourra was too tired to contradict him. She said only, “I’m sorry. I thought I knew the way home from the picnic.”

  Sairey swept her into her free arm before Mourra had finished speaking. “I kept looking for you under the willow.” The magician could hear that her voice was shaking. She waved her hand toward the huge old tree in front of their cottage. “I kept thinking that you might be having a tea party under there, and forgot it was getting dark. The way you do sometimes.”

  A child on either hip, she looked up at the magician, smiling slightly. “I thank you for bringing my pair of disasters home to me. Though perhaps you’ll be thanking me now for taking them off your hands.”

  Schmendrick bowed more formally than she had done. “A man with a cart’s more to be thanked than I, who only led them more astray than they already were, being lost myself. As I am still.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly; and then, “But where are my manners? Will you not come in and sit to dinner with us? It’s the least I can offer you, surely.” She eyed him more critically than she had at first meeting, and could not forbear adding, “And a good meal or two would do you no harm, I’ll say that much.”

  The magician hesitated — seemed about to decline the offer — then abruptly smiled and nodded. “My thanks. I do sometimes forget that I am hungry.”

  “I, never,” she said; then, quickly, laughing, “As you see, they never let me,” for Mourra and Findros were already tugging her toward the little house. “And getting food ready for them always makes me want to eat something myself, and will end by making me as big as a barn, I know this.” She shooed the children ahead of her, telling them briskly, “There’s lentil soup, and if you don’t wash your hands and your faces, nobody gets any.” They whooped and ran off, and she led the magician into the house, calling after them, “And, Findros, the turtle egg is not coming to dinner.”

  There was a vegetable stew as well as the soup, and cold, sweet well water. Dinner was — according to Sairey — a quieter affair than usual, the children both being too weary to squabble. Findros actually fell asleep at the table, but Mourra lingered, fishing sleepily but stubbornly for reasons not to go up to bed. She still avoided sitting close to the magician, nor did she meet his glance often. But the flower that he had taken from her hair reposed precariously in a lopsided clay drinking mug next to her own, and now and then she brushed it against her closed eyes, as though to feel its colors through the lids.

  A dog howled, somewhere nearby, and Sairey half-rose from her chair, apologizing as she sat back. “I don’t know why that one always startles me. There’s no harm in him — he’s only an old sheepdog baying at the moon.”

  “He sleeps all day,” Mourra muttered scornfully. “The sheep make fun of him.”

  Schmendrick asked, “Do you know why dogs do that?” Both mother and daughter stared at him. “Because the moon used to be part of the Earth, and that is the part that all the dogs come from. But the moon wanted to be free, and it struggled and struggled until one night it broke loose from the Earth and sailed right off into the sky, the way it is now. Only all the dogs had their families there, all their mothers and fathers, and their children, their houses and all their buried bones, and their books —”

  Mourra giggled. “Not books. Dogs don’t read books —”

  “Of course not, because they’re all gone up in the sky, you see. And every night the moon comes out and all the dogs in the world see it, and they cry for their families. That is why they always sound so terribly sad.”

  Sairey refilled his cup from the sweating pitcher of well water. She said, “I don’t believe I ever heard that story.”

  “It is well-known where I come from.” The magician’s expression was entirely serious.

  “And that would be…where?” He was savoring the cold water, and did not appear to have heard her. Sairey said, “Daughter. You are about to fall asleep in your stew. Go to bed.”

  Mourra did not protest. Drowsily finding her way to her feet, she asked, “Can I take my flower with me? Just tonight?”

  “I thought it was my flower,” her mother teased her. “Very well, I will lend it to you for the night.” She rose herself to give the girl a quick, warm hug; then prodded her gently toward the stair. “But you must not be upset when it dies, in a day or two. Flowers die.”

  Trudging up to the loft she shared with her brother, Mourra heard Schmendrick’s reply, “Perhaps not this one.” She looked over her shoulder to observe Sairey’s wordless surprise, and to hear the magician continue, “It did not come from the earth, after all, but from her hair — from her head. The flowers in our heads…those survive.”

  Her mother did not respond, not until Mourra had put on her nightdress and crawled under her blanket with the blue and green birds on it that Sairey had woven especially for her. She brought her flower with her, pressing the fragrant stem against her cheek. Then, distant but clear, Sairey’s quiet, even voice, “Who are you?”

  Mourra fell asleep before she heard the magician’s answer, but the full moon rose into her open window, and she woke to see it burning itself free of the willow branches that she could almost have touched. Like a firefly in a spiderweb, she thought, remembering the story of the woman whose clothes were made for her by spiders. She sat up and leaned her elbows on the windowsill to see her mother and Schmendrick standing near the old tree. The earliest stars were waking in the deep sky, one by one, and the magician was telling a story.

  “No, they used to stick straight up, just as though the tree were reaching for the sky. That is a fact — any willow will tell you that. Listen now. The rain god’s daughter fell in love with a mortal, a human, and they ran away together, for fear of his anger. He could never catch them, because they fled so fast, but they could never rest, either, for he would always find them, no matter where in the world they hid themselves. Because all the trees of the world were afraid of the rain god, and none would give them shelter. Only the willow.”

  Sairey laughed softly. “Yes, of course. It would be the willow.”

  “The willow felt sorry for them and said it would take them in, which obviously wasn’t much help, not with its branches as wide-apart as they were. So the willow tried and tried — slowly, painfully, so painfully, all night long —”

  Like that time I got my finger bent back, playing ball with Findros…

  “— but at last it managed to get all its branches turned down, all the way to the ground, touching the ground, and so they hid the rain god’s daughter and her husband, and the rain god never could find them. So then they were safe.”

  “The rain god must have been very angry. Gods don’t take that sort of thing well. As I know.”

  “Oh, naturally he was furious! So he commanded the willow to stay like that forever, with
its branches drooping down, as a warning to all the other trees.” Mourra heard the magician chuckle himself. “And he still makes certain to send rain, constant rain, wherever the willow trees are. But he forgot that the willow likes rain — indeed, loves rain — so he is content in his vengeance, his daughter is happy with her husband, the willow’s deep roots are always damp and happy —”

  “And my children have a place for their tea parties. Thank you.” They passed into the moon-traced shadow of the tree, and Mourra lost sight of them for a moment, but she heard her mother say, “I like that story. I will tell it to them.”

  Schmendrick said something in response that Mourra could not catch entirely, ending with “…sad story they told me. About the dragon.”

  “Dragon?” Sairey’s shadow stood still, turning to face the magician’s shadow. “What dragon?”

  “The one who killed their father. I am very sorry.”

  Another puzzled silence in the willow-shadow. “They told you — a dragon…?” There was a sound under the words that could have been laughter, and was not.

  “It was either black, with horns and things all over it, or it was the color of a thunderstorm, and had silver eyes. Depending on whom you talk to.” The magician’s voice was as quiet as the small night breeze in the willow branches. “Was that not so?”

  Sairey sighed. ”My husband’s name was Joris. He was killed plowing a field, when a sinkhole opened under his feet without warning and swallowed him up. One of the rocks in the hole broke his skull.” There was a laugh in her voice now, but it hurt Mourra to hear. “That was all there was to his death, and little more to his life as well. No wonder the children made up a brave ending for him.”

  No. No, that isn’t how it happened. There was a dragon — there was! Mourra fought back the urge to shut the window and clap her hands over her ears, She leaned against the frame, head bowed, hugging herself, rocking back and forth.

  Schmendrick’s voice remained expressionless. “Death is death — loss is loss. Grief is grief. What difference?”

  “None, except to children — children nourished on the fairy tales their father so loved to tell them. Findros was too young, but Mourra…Mourra knows.”

  I didn’t make it up! Mourra ground her knuckles painfully into her eyes, warning them against tears. The magician said, somewhere far away, “Have you ever faced her with the truth? I rarely recommend it, but sometimes…”

  “Once. Not again.”

  “Ah. Quite wise.” Her mother made a sound that Mourra could not translate. Grownup talk, grownup noises. They were clear of the willow shadow now, and Sairey had seated herself in the wooden chair that the children’s father had made for her shortly before his death. Mourra knew from her own experience that Joris had not been a particularly good carpenter: the chair was ruthlessly uncomfortable, however one shifted position; there was no natural headrest; and there were always previously-unnoticed splinters to be dealt with. She could never imagine how her mother could possibly find any ease on the rough planks, but from time to time she would stubbornly sit there herself, as long as she could bear it.

  Sairey was saying, “I’m sorry, I have no other chair.”

  “As well. I have far to go, and if I sat down it might be a long time before I rose again. Thank you for your kindness. I will not forget.”

  Her mother’s answer came slowly. “The pathway back to the main road is elusive at night. You may lose your way.”

  “I have no way, as you mean it, and my road is elusive by any light. As I told you, when I encountered your children, they were a little bit lost, yes, but I was much more so. Lost and very weary, and out of stories to tell myself, out of all the games I know to persuade myself that I am what I pretend to be. The children’s company…helped.”

  She wants him to stay, I know she does. My mother wants him to stay.

  “Well, you’re a storyteller, no doubt of that.” Sairey was leaning back in the old wooden chair, considering him with her arms folded across her breast. “And you may ask my children if you need reassurance about being a magician. Findros would have taken that silly turtle egg to bed with him if I’d permitted it, the same way you saw Mourra asking to have her flower. They recognize you, those two.”

  “As a trickster, nothing more. What I did to amuse them — to distract them from their fear — any half-competent parlor entertainer could have done. In truth, I am amazed that I managed those common little flummeries as well as I did. It is not always so.”

  In the moonlight Mourra could see her mother lightly touch Schmendrick’s arm, then draw her hand back quickly. “But they tell me you knew their names without being told — and mine as well. True?”

  “Mmm. Yes, well. A very small charm, much less difficult than people imagine. A beginner’s practice spell, really — I get it right perhaps half the time. Perhaps a little less.”

  “So? But Mourra’s flower?” When he did not reply she pressed further. “Mourra’s flower that you said would never fade. Surely, anyone who could manage such a thing…” She left the words hanging in the air.

  “Ah,” the magician said. “Mourra. Yes.” He chuckled dryly. “Well, if that bloody flower does die, I won’t know about it, will I?”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Mourra’s mother said. “And I think that flower may very well survive.”

  “Then it will be her doing, the magic of that child’s will, and none of mine.” Schmendrick’s voice had risen sharply. “No, I didn’t put it in her hair…but I didn’t find it in her head, either. Or perhaps I did, and never knew. I never know why any attempt at enchantment succeeds or dissolves in my hands. I search for patterns, for signs, guideposts, masters, for anything to tell me who I am — what I am, wizard or carnival cardsharp, either one. I could live if I knew!”

  At the window Mourra clutched her flower, understanding nothing of his words but the sorrow and loneliness under them. The magician chuckled suddenly, mimicking himself. “‘I could live…’ Now, that’s funny. That is funny.” He turned and bowed to her mother, not at all mockingly, but with a kind of slow, formal courtesy. “Well. Thank you for that excellent dinner, and for…for the loan of your children. Good night.”

  He had been turning the funny many-pointed hat in his hands all the while they spoke. Now he set it on his head, bowed a second time, more briskly, and turned away. Even from her window, even in the dimness, Mourra could see him straighten his thin shoulders under the ragged cloak, as though settling a peddler’s pack. Then he set off, and the moon-shadows swallowed him quickly.

  Sairey said after him, “I will tell you a story.” Her voice was soft but very clear in the still night.

  Mourra could only tell that he had halted and turned by the angle of the funny hat. Her mother said, “You are a magician who cannot believe in his own gift. I am a widow with two children. I do not imagine that I will ever marry again, since I have no intention of ever giving another hostage to a sky that can snatch love away from me so randomly, so absurdly, so completely. So I believe in nothing — nothing — except looking at my sleeping Mourra, my Findros who always curls up into such a tight little ball, twice and three times during the night.” Sairey’s voice was now as tight and thin as her lips became when she was truly angry. Mourra put her fingers to her own mouth and bit down hard on them.

  Schmendrick did not respond. Sairey said, “So I tell myself stories, just as you do, to comfort myself, to endure — simply to get through to another morning. And there is one story in particular that has always meant something to me. Different things at different times, perhaps, but something always. Sit down where you are, magician, in the soft grass, and listen.”

  The night had grown so dark that Mourra could not even be certain whether Schmendrick was still there, until, after a moment, she saw the pointy hat slowly lower itself. Sairey began, “There was a woman once who fell in love with the Man in the Moon — yes, a moon story of my own. This woman loved the face she imagined she saw — everyone
sees something different in the moon, you know — and she let it be known that if that man should ever choose to walk on this earth, she would marry him instantly. As to whether or not he would have her, she never questioned that, no matter that she had always been a plain woman, even rather drab and dowdy. She knew beyond any doubt that the Man in the Moon would come for her in time.”

  “And so he did.” The tall man’s voice was almost without inflection.

  “Well, somebody did. Because one evening a strange man came to her door.”

  The pointy hat nodded. “And naturally told her that he was the Man in the Moon.”

  “That was not necessary. She merely looked at him and knew, as happens sometimes. To anyone with any doubts, she pointed out that there was no longer a man visible up there — which was true, because, for whatever reason, there had come a season of clouds and mist hiding the surface of the moon, and there was nothing at all to be seen but a few dark craters. It was plain for anyone to see that the Man in the Moon had at last come down to claim her.”

  “Which, of course, he had not done at all — merely taken advantage of a lonely woman’s foolish fantasy. I told you and your children better tales.”

  “Perhaps because we were not forever interrupting you, ordering the story this way and that. Listen to me now, pay for your dinner. Like herself, this lady’s lover was no great beauty, at least on earth, being rather short and decidedly gray-complected, with no grace that any of her friends ever noticed. Nevertheless, by all accounts he was kind to her, and she appeared to be blissful in his company. She listened enraptured to his own stories of his palace in the moon, and sighed in wonder as he described the beauty of shooting stars, comets and constellations seen from the far side no human ever sees. Who knows anything about anyone else’s happiness, after all?”

  “Go on, then,” the magician said when she fell silent. “What became of them?”

  “He only came to her by night, of course, just as the moon would, and she thought it perfectly proper that there were always one or two nights in the month when he did not come at all. And it must be said that his attentions made a wonderful difference in her appearance, for her hair and her skin and her manner alike all took on a certain shimmer very like that of the moon itself, and as time passed people began to say that she walked in moonlight, such was the radiance of her joy. It can happen so, even with foolish fantasies.”