“You make me so hot,” she whispered, but her white fingers felt cool on my heated skin, like the lap of the sea on a hot summer’s day. They rippled over me, bringing life and yearning to every part they caressed, and then they dove inside me, darting in and out with a touch that both burned and soothed. I gasped as her mouth closed over my nipple, feeling the heat of it deep within me. Her tongue teased me without mercy, but I ached for my loss as it left me—only for my Freyja to murmur soothing sounds as her dark head dipped lower, her silky hair flowing like water over my body. I had to stifle my cries in case Col might hear as she found me again, this time right at my center. She suckled on my clitoris as her fingers moved within me, bringing me higher and higher on a wave of sensation, and I cried out aloud as I crested that wave and broke, tumbling down to float on smooth water, little ripples moving me still.
Afterward, I held her in my arms and we basked together in a tangle of cool sheets and warm bodies. “I’m going to see you again,” I told her.
“I can’t stay,” she said sadly, her hair caressing my skin like warm, dry sand as she shook her head.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to see you again.”
•
If I were a man, I might have stolen her wetsuit as she slept, and never let her swim away from me.
But I’m not a man, and despite my name I’m not one to cling onto what’s not mine by right. So I kissed my love in the dawn’s pink glow, and I walked her down to the beach before anyone was up. I turned my back once more as she swam away while the gulls mourned for the both of us.
But then again, what do gulls know? I booked a flight to Reykjavik with my credit card and started looking for a job there over the Internet.
“Why do you have to go to Iceland? There’s nothing there!” Col grumbled as I packed my bags.
“Well, it’s like you said. You don’t get seals on the Isle of Wight.” I shut my case with a snap, and Col sneered at me and twirled a finger round by the side of his head, muttering “Briony Basket-case.”
And I smiled, and started counting the days until I’d see my selkie again.
•
Chang’e Dashes from the Moon
Benjanun Sriduangkaew
1.
There’s a lady on the moon and she has a rabbit; at mid-autumn we have mooncakes when her husband visits.
Long ago the moon grew a city on its skin like nacreous shell around a pearl, and in this barren city lives a goddess who was once a girl.
The goddess counts the years, at the beginning.
She folds gold paper and silver paper in the proper months, and burns them for her mother. She makes houses of glassy yellow windows and pale walls, double-storeyed, and burns those so that her mother will have a comfortable residence in her passage through death. She makes animals, companions, furniture. When she begins counting in decades instead of years she starts burning offerings for her niece. It is the wrong way around; she is the elder, and she should be the one waiting beyond for her niece’s sendings.
But she is immortal, and her family is not.
After the first century she burns offerings for her mother, her niece, and her niece’s children. Who knows what descendants do now, whether they remember their duty? So she takes it upon herself, just to be safe. She watches the houses in the mortal realms change and lengthen, until they become towers which pierce the clouds, until their cities are thick and thronged and she can’t imagine locating her kin anymore in the million-millions that overwhelm the streets.
Sometimes her name slips away from her. In defiance she etches into the soft stone of the lunar city, I am Chang’e, and I have a wife whom every night I long to meet. Her chiseling erases itself before an hour finishes.
The walls are high to fill her sight. The houses are huge to make her small.
In moments where she can rouse herself from lassitude, Chang’e indulges in fury. Though her mortal life she learned much, the knife and the bow. Cut though she might, the moon does not bleed. She loosens flaming arrows into the dark, but the moon does not burn. There are moments where, stepping through a garden gate or passing through a door, she glimpses a world under sunlight. It does not last.
Often she watches the rabbit toil at its mortar. It makes no mention of leaving; this it seems to consider its rightful place. But it is the closest she has to a friend.
“Does the moon think?” she asks, as though in idle wonderment.
The rabbit pauses its pounding. “What makes you think so, Lady Chang’e?”
“It is only a thought.” She nods at its jars and pots. “What are you making?”
This medicine, it explains, reunites flesh and spirit: those chased out of their own skin by malicious devils, those who have spent too long in dreams, those sent to the underworld by an accounting error. Many ills require such a cure.
Chang’e peers into the mortar at the thick, glittering purple paste. “It’ll work on any body?”
“Even ones not of flesh,” the rabbit says with solemn pride. “My pharmacology is unrivaled, though many have tried to match it.”
She smiles and strokes its long ears. “Perhaps one day you can make me a pill to make me heavy, so heavy that I will sink from the sky and return to the earth.”
Its nose twitches and it looks at her with sad red eyes. “I wish you would be happy, Lady Chang’e.”
“I’m happy, rabbit.”
She does not say that happy does not come from wishing. Once she thought that was so, swept into the arms of the archer god who came into being full-grown and graceful as though born from a wish. Centuries later she has learned otherwise.
A ghost butterfly alights on her shoulder. There are many of those in the gardens of the moon, phantom swans and mute songbirds, wisps of feathers and beaks that come apart if she looks at them too hard. A menagerie on the verge of breaking down.
Chang’e will not break with them.
She inhales the scent of the rabbit’s works, smells bitter and tart, fierce and demure. In the chambers of her heart she holds an idea, a solution. Clutching it behind her sternum—so the moon will not hear, so the moon will not see—she leaves the rabbit and, steps light as the passing of autumn, follows the ghosts.
•
Heroic Houyi shot down nine sun-crows to save humanity, and through schemes of the jealous came to his ruin; in death he rose to the tenth sun, where ever after he made his home.
For material Chang’e would have liked clay, soft and obedient to her hands, but the city is pavement end to end, and hard soil or harder rock where it is not. She settles with cherrywood, which is all they have to make anything from, there being an endless supply from the one tree. Over and over she’s watched its leaves unfurl green and fresh and branches burst forth stronger and steelier than before. The faster Wu Gang hews, the faster it regrows. Like the rabbit he never mentions escape, content to suffer and wait out his sentence on the moon, but sometimes she thinks it is merely that he has no one to return to.
Appropriating chisel and saw from the woodsman’s cache she learns the fundamentals of carving, and over the months comes to understand where to chip, where to cut, where to etch: the subtleties of grain and knots, the differences between sap- and heartwood. Though she isn’t done when Houyi’s visit nears, it is progress and it keeps her busy, elbow-deep in shavings and dust.
On this day mortals kindle lanterns for her and Houyi, she hears, and put on dragon dances. And marry: it’s been absorbed into the matchmakers’ calendars, one of the most favorable dates in the year and certainly the most in the season. Chang’e doesn’t know how to feel about that. Perhaps mortals are different now, and marriages are happier things. Houyi has suggested they might be, but she finds that beyond the reach of imagination.
Zhongqiujie has become an annual celebration for the inhabitants of the moon—which is to say, all three of them—as though to make up for the lack of congratulations and liquor when Chang’e wedded Houyi. Wu Gang brings lante
rns shaped as vast lotuses and serpents. The rabbit makes cakes, viscous lotus paste inside and the salted yolks of ghost birds: they were pale rather than orange, but they taste no less rich. She thanks them, heartfelt. “It means more than I can say, both to me and Houyi.”
“It is good for husband and wife to unite, Lady Chang’e.”
Her smile stiffens. With effort she keeps it from hardening into a rictus. Tact has become as necessary as the air they breathe, and so Chang’e has ever avoided the subject. “You have met Houyi.”
His mouth sets. “I have had the honor of acquaintance with heaven’s best archer, Lady Chang’e.”
“I realize Houyi doesn’t dress as most women do. It pleases her to dress as she does, and she requires no more reason than that.”
“Goddess, it’s never been my place to criticize how the divine garb their sacred persons.”
“Very good. So, Houyi is a woman. On this we can at least establish a common ground?”
The woodsman nods.
She wishes she could say this marks progress. Unfortunately Wu Gang has never mistaken Houyi’s gender: he has always recognized that her wife is female, that Chang’e is monogamous. Yet he puts that side by side with the idea that Chang’e has a husband, and in a stunning blast of illogic reconciles the two. “Houyi is married to me. This makes her my wife, as I am hers. There is no one else.”
He looks down at his feet. He looks up at the moon’s roof. Delicately, he hedges, “Have you considered, Lady Chang’e, that the archer is in truth a lord, and when he comes to you puts on a woman’s guise to please your tastes?”
Chang’e very much would like to remain poised, graceful, unassailable. Instead she wants to strike him. “I was there when she entered the court. She’s always been as she is, and must’ve lost count of the times she is asked whether she would like to incarnate as a man.”
The woodsman kneels by one of the lantern beasts and makes a pretense of patting the silk flat. “Husbands do not always tell their wives everything, goddess. On this I can attest. It’s not maliciously meant; men cannot give themselves wholly to their spouses.”
For a long time she looks at him. “Then it is quite fortunate I didn’t marry a man, isn’t it?”
“Lady Chang’e, I didn’t mean to give offense. You know that.”
“No,” she says, “you didn’t.” It would profit neither of them to say that only makes it worse.
To his credit Wu Gang has done much to ensure their privacy, having built from nothing a pavilion large enough to contain a small court: embellishing and furnishing it with enough ornaments for the same. All colors, all light: the rabbit’s wine steams amber, the wood shines defiant red.
She takes one of the lacquered chairs, sits, and counts. Cherrywood armrests dig into her palms.
She feels her wife’s arrival on her eyelids, a finger of heat down her cheeks. When she looks again Houyi is there, warm and real, a little breathless.
The first moments are always difficult: they have gotten used to over three hundred days without the other. Absence has become more familiar than presence. Neither knows what to say, how to reacquaint herself to the actuality of her wife.
Chang’e stands. They embrace and habit takes charge. Habit makes Chang’e take Houyi by the wrist, and lead her to the cushions, silk and satin the color of bridal drapes.
“There are no walls,” Houyi murmurs.
“No one will watch,” Chang’e says and discovers there is more than habit, that despite everything—the sheer stretch of the centuries—there is still desire. She draws her wife down with her, and for the next moments they do not speak at all.
Eventually they come to the wine, a single cup between the two of them. Chang’e straddles Houyi’s lap, sipping amber heat that goes down scalding, tangerine-tart. Given their position, which they settle into as surely as key into lock, she feels awkward when she finally asks, “What have you been doing?”
“Bearing your absence without grace.”
She traces a line down the archer’s breast, doubling and circling back. Her palm pushes gently against Houyi’s heart. “Do you still think of us as married? Or just—”
“Friends who become lovers, very briefly, once a year?” Houyi leans into her touch, eyelids fluttering against her cheek. “I have thought on it, though I feel the time differently.”
“My kin are all dead.”
“Yes,” the archer says gently, “that’s why the centuries pass unmarked for me, for I’ve nothing on the changing mortal earth, but for you…I’ve consulted many gods, many sages. Most continue to say that in a few centuries perhaps your sentence will lift, and you need only to wait it out. Obviously I disagree.”
Chang’e presses her nails to the edge of her mouth. “I can’t—not another century. Not another decade.”
“I know.” Houyi exhales. “If there’s a way we will find it; if there’s anything I can do I will do it, and none will stand between me and your freedom. I swear this.”
Chang’e makes herself smile. She might have made herself say that she is absolute, that she has no doubts, that what is between them is steadfast as the moorings of a continent. But it was Houyi’s forthrightness that first made her say, Oh, may we have a thing like marriage, might we become wife and wife? It was that, and many things besides, which Chang’e loved. Between them there can be no lies, and few secrets. So she whispers, while they’re still so close their teeth are on each other’s lips, the fragment of a thought she’s been hoarding close to her breast.
Long after the chariot has gone Chang’e remains to watch its trail, wisps of gold that too quickly dissipate, a thin memory of stars.
2.
On earth Houyi, too, dresses like a man. But in this place of chrome and skyscrapers it is less remarkable than it once was. Having let her hair down she becomes even more ordinary, for mortal men now keep theirs very short. Some are clean-shaven entirely, even though they aren’t monks.
She comes at night, when her duty relents, and haunts the ocean’s side. She watches the ferries crossing the gulf between city districts: strange to think that Hong Kong and Kowloon, once very much unlike, can now be counted two parts of the same whole. It’s taken her several centuries, to track as she has never before, not prey of hooves and fangs and tiger-fur, but a thin faded line of blood. A long time ago she met the mother, brother and niece of her wife, and when she looked again they were all gone.
But the hunt is Houyi’s domain and delight. Though there is nothing left she could recognize, no commonality of name—for people speak differently now, and name their children differently especially on this isle—and little to see in the cast of skull and shape of eyes, she’s chased the tracks of genealogy to Hong Kong.
It is not that she keeps secrets from Chang’e. But she doesn’t want to hold out a false hope, when it’s taken her this long, when it’s this thin and flimsy a thing.
In the Space Museum it is almost empty, climate-controlled air whispering against her skin, a quiet hum of electricity. She goes past the glass cases of spacesuits and shuttle models, the gravity well demonstration with its whirling metal spheres, the instrument panels that simulate a cockpit. But it is the photographs of lunar landings that snatch at her attention, make her linger.
“You’ve been showing up every other night.”
She glances up, unsurprised. “You work here.”
“Unfortunately.” The young woman is in the process of locking down doors, dressed for the cold. Belatedly Houyi realizes she is not. “Well, we’re closing soon.”
They leave the museum separately, and board the same boat off Star Ferry to Wanchai. Houyi sits by the railing, where the winds buffet her hair and tear at her skin. When the young woman settles beside her, Houyi hears her frown before she even asks, “Aren’t you even a little cold?”
“It doesn’t bother me. You are Julienne, I think?”
Julienne’s hand brushes the spot on her sweater that corresponds to where her em
ployee’s card has been. “People don’t wear name tags in real life. It’s awful.”
“Hau Ngai.”
The young woman blinks, but offers no commentary nor wonders aloud just why it is that she has a name so masculine.
•
Chang’e continues in testing and measuring her enemy.
With no drop of joy but plenty of grim clarity, she sets one of the houses on fire. No small feat, for the moon is cold and the building pure rock, but the rabbit keeps bottles of phoenix flame. Small collection—even in heaven the substance is rare—but she pinches one anyway, guilty but not guilty enough to seek another solution. After a stone house is reduced to blackened rubble, Chang’e finds herself unable to leave the pavilion Wu Gang built for days after. The surrounding courtyard turns in upon itself, and she can venture no further than the edges. Like an impertinent child in need of correction she has been punished.
The rabbit visits with sticky rice wrapped in ghostly lotus leaves. It plucks at its whiskers nervously. “Why did you do this?”
To that she only gives a serene smile. “What could be done to me?”
“If you wreak such ruin regularly? Banishment to earth as a mortal, or a demon. Or worse, Lady. You aren’t beyond the wheel, and when it turns it can break you, pulping flesh and grinding bones. Immortal doesn’t mean impervious.”
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