The Woman Who Married the Man in the Moon

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.