The Woman Who Married the Man in the Moon

“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.”

Resting her chin on her folded arms in the window, Mourra thought, yes, that was how she looked when Papa was here — shimmery. I remember. I do.

As though she had heard her, Sairey went on, “Her man suited this woman very well, in the moon or out of it, and so she lived contentedly for quite a long time. And the world jogged along serviceably with no Man in the Moon — especially since many folk see no Man there at all, but a Woman, or even a Fox. And they went on together as well, those two.”

Schmendrick said, “I can see sorrow coming. I can smell it on the wind. This story is going to end badly.”

“Stories never end. We end. If we could but live long enough, we would see how all tales go on and on past the telling. Now there came a night when the woman could tell that her lover was not falling restfully asleep in her arms, as he had always done, nights without number, even though he left her before each dawn. So she said to him, ‘Beloved, what troubles you? Tell me, and I will help if I can.’ For loving had made her sensible of others’ griefs and fears — which also happens, as I am sure you know.”

“I have been…told so. Go on.”

“And the Man in the Moon — if that indeed is what he was — answered her, ‘My dearest Earthwoman, one love of my endless lunar life, the time has come for me to return to my lonely home. It is home to me no longer — this, our bed, this is my true home — but the moon is my fate, the moon is where I am ordained to be. If I stay away even one day further, it will fall from the sky, likely causing the world’s end. Tonight must be our last together, for the very planet’s sake.’”

“What nonsense!” The magician was surprisingly indignant. “The scoundrel was just seeking to be rid of that poor woman!”

“Was he, then?” Sairey’s voice was as slow, and even tentative, as though she were telling the story for the first time. “Yet when she said to him, ‘May I not go with you, as I have been ready to go from the night we met?’ he replied, ‘I had not dared to ask you. I do not ask it now. You will be lonely for the Earth, and there will be no returning. I cannot take such advantage of you.’”

Schmendrick snorted contemptuously. “One of the oldest ruses in the world to discard a woman. Your Mourra would never be taken in so easily.”

“Perhaps not. She is a very perceptive child. But this woman answered, ‘I was lonely for the Earth until you came. You may be from the moon, but you are my planet — you are my Earth. I know this as an animal knows its home, if it knows nothing else of the universe. Take me with you.’

“‘My palace is a little cold,’ said her lover. ‘Bright, but cold. I should warn you of this.’

“‘Then we will warm it together,’ answered the woman. ‘Where did I leave my good shoes?’”

“And in what town, what miserable inn, what hovel, did he finally abandon her?” Schmendrick was on his feet now. “Or did they find her body in some river? On some dungheap?” He was shaking his head, half in anger, half in amusement. “Go ahead — tell me the wretched rest of it.”

“All I can tell you,” came the quiet answer, “is that on that same night there came a total eclipse of the moon, and when it passed, both the woman and the man were gone, and were never seen again. Nor was any trace of them ever found.”

As the magician drew breath to respond, she added, “I am sorry if my story displeases you. I told it for a reason.”

“Of course you did. To make the point that whether or not her lover was actually the Man in the Moon, the real magic was in her belief — it was belief that kept her blissful and shimmering, and what else matters, after all? Understood, but my fairy tale is a little different, and I have already known too many who flourished on the belief of others. Thank you once more for the meal and the delightful children. And so good night and farewell, mistress.”

He turned, tugging the old cloak closer around himself. Mourra could not see her mother’s face clearly, but she heard her begin to speak — then stop herself — then finally say “You are a fool.”

Over his shoulder, the magician answered her, “Oh, I know that.”

Sairey said, “I did not tell you that tale in praise of blind belief. I meant you to understand that it was her faith in herself — not in him, not for a moment — that made whatever magic there was. I’ve no least idea whether or not she ever credited a word that man told her, but what I am sure of is that she knew — not believed, she knew, always — that she was a woman for whom the Man in the Moon would certainly come down to Earth.” Her voice sounded strangely breathless to Mourra’s ears, as though she had been running. She said, “Magic is not what you think it is, magician.”

She had also risen to her feet, and was standing with her back fiercely straight and her hands on her hips. Schmendrick had stopped walking, but had not turned again. “All I know,” he said, “all I have ever known, is that there is just enough magic in me to do me no good.” He drew a deep breath and held himself as erect as she. “Your children found me in a tree, where I was looking for a certain branch, one strong enough to take my weight. I thought I had at last found the right one, but it broke and I fell at their feet. Do you understand me now?”

Mourra heard a strange sound in her mother’s throat: a muffled click, as of a soft lock closing. The magician said, “I had been searching for some while. It is not as simple a matter as one might suppose. Not just any tree or branch will do for a man with my…blessings.”

From her window, Mourra saw her mother’s lips move, but no sound came out. Schmendrick continued, “But then, of course, I was obliged to see your Findros and Mourra safely home — which I accomplished no more skillfully than I had that other. Not my finest showing, all in all.”

Sairey whispered “Why?” more clearly this time, and Mourra’s face was suddenly so cold that she did not even notice that she was crushing her flower against it. She was terribly thirsty, but she could not move from the window, even for a moment, to reach the pitcher of water near Findros’s bed. Sairey said, “Why?” again.

“Your son said it — magicians do tricks. I was weary of tricks before he was born.” His laugh sounded as painful as though his throat and his mouth were full of glass. “Before you were born.”

Sairey’s voice softened, as it had when she spoke of watching her children sleep. “Listen. Listen. You don’t know. That branch breaking when you…what if that were the magic, protecting itself and you? That farm cart coming when you were lost with the children, when you called for help together…”

“Mourra said that.” The magician might have been talking to himself. “But the child was being kind.”

Sairey said, “The woman in my story never thought about whether what she was doing was magic or not. She was no magician at all, she simply opened herself to whatever there might be within her. You must do just the