Beauty: A Retelling of the Story of Beauty and the Beast Read online

  “No,” I said, “The rose was for me. And I’m the youngest—and the ugliest. The world isn’t losing much in me. Besides, Hope couldn’t get along without you, nor could the babies, while my best skills are cutting wood and tending the garden. You can get any lad in the village to do that.”

  Grace looked at me a long minute. “You know I always wear you down in the end,” I said.

  “I see you are very determined,” she said. “I don’t understand why.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I’m turned eighteen. I’m ready for an adventure.”

  “I can’t—” began Father.

  “I’d let her have her way, if I were you,” said Ger.

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” shouted Father, standing up abruptly and spilling the empty leather satchel off his lap. “I have seen this Beast, this monster, this horror, and you have not. And you are willing that I should give him—//—my youngest daughter, your sister, to spare my own wretched life!”

  “You are the one who does not understand, Papa,” I said. “We are not asking that I be killed in your stead, but that I be allowed to save your life. It is an honourable Beast at least; I am not afraid.” Father stared at me, as if he saw the Beast reflected in my eyes. I said: “He cannot be so bad if he loves roses so much.”

  “But he is a Beast,” said Father helplessly.

  I saw that he was weakening, and wishing only to comfort him I said, “Cannot a Beast be tamed?”

  As Grace had a few minutes before, Father stared down at me as I sac curled up on the floor with the little wooden box in my Jap. “I always get my own way in the end, Papa,” I said.

  “Yes, child, I know; and now I regret it,” he said heavily. “You ask the impossible, and yet—this is an impossible thing. Very well. When the month is up, we will go together.”

  “You won’t see your roses bloom,” murmured Hope.

  “I’ll plant them tomorrow. They’re enchanted too—if I’m lucky, maybe I will see them,” I said.

  2

  That night I couldn’t sleep. Father had gone upstairs immediately after he agreed to let me go to the castle with him in a month’s time; he had said no further word, and I followed him up the stairs only a few minutes later, fearing questions, and sensing an ominous quiver in the silence.

  I sat on my bed and looked out at the quiet woods, black and silver in snow and moonlight, and serene. There was nothing watchful or brooding about that stillness; whatever secrets were hidden in that forest were so perfectly kept that their existence could not be suspected nor even imagined by any rational faculty.

  So

  I had been granted my wish; I would go and claim the Beast’s promise to take the daughter in the father’s place. Grace’s question came back to me, and the beaten look on Father’s face: Why was I so determined? “I wish I knew,” I said aloud. I believed that my decision was correct, that I and no other should fulfill the obligation; but a sense of responsibility, if that was what it was, did not explain the intensity of my determination.

  I had brought the little wooden box with my initial on it upstairs with me. I poured its contents onto my bed; the tiny dark drops gleamed dully in the moonlight as they clattered one over another. The last thing to fall out of the box was bigger, an icy yellow under the pale light, and it bounced and rang as it landed, spraying seeds across the bed. I picked it up. It was a ring, shaped like a griffin, like the silver handle of the corkscrew downstairs. But this griffin was gold, and it had its mouth open, with diamond fangs glittering cold, and its wings spread: The wings were the band that fitted around the finger; they overlapped at the back, next to the palm of the hand. The creature was rearing up, claws stretched out. It looked fine and noble, with its neck arched and its head thrown back, the line of its body making a taut and graceful curve. It did not look evil, nor predatory; it was proud, not vicious. I put it on my finger, which it fitted perfectly, and hastily scooped the seeds back into the brown box. I would have only a few hours of sleep now, and I could ill afford to waste a day by being tired—especially after tonight, I thought, my hand pausing as I closed the lid. Especially during my last four weeks. Three weeks and five days.

  I dreamed of the castle that Father had told us about. I seemed to walk quickly down long halls with high ceilings. I was looking for something, anxious that I could not find it. I seemed to know the castle very well; I did not hesitate as I turned corners, went up stairs, down stairs, opened doors; nor did I linger to look at the wonderful rooms, the frescoed ceilings, the paintings on the walls, the carved furniture. My sleeping self was dazzled, bewildered; but the dream self went on, more and more anxious, till I awoke shivering with the first light of dawn fingering my face. I dressed hurriedly, hesitated, looking at my hand, then pulled the ring off and hid it under my pillow; a needless gesture since no one but myself ever entered my little attic room. I finished lacing my boots as I went downstairs—two activities that did not mix well, and I had to do my boots all over again when I sat down at the kitchen table.

  The same uneasy silence that had characterized Father’s first day home continued; but with a difference. Yesterday we had feared a doom we did nor know; today the doom was known by us all, and feared no less. No one spoke at breakfast except the babies, and I left the table first.

  I frowned at the ground outside. Most of the snow from the blizzard Father had been lost in had melted quickly under yesterday’s warm sun, and from the warm touch of the morning wind on my cheek I thought that what remained would soon disappear; but the ground was still much too hard to be planting anything. Nor, if I managed to chop a few holes, would the seeds be likely to find the cold earth very hospitable. They’re magical, after all, I thought. I’ll do what I can.

  I borrowed a pick from Ger, and fetched a spade from my gardening tools, and set to work cutting a narrow, shallow trench around the house, close to the outside wall where perhaps the ground was a little warmer than in the meadow or the garden. By lunchtime I was tired and sweating, but I had sprinkled my seeds in the trench and covered them over roughly; and had a few left to bury along one wall of the stable and one wall of the shop. No one said anything to me, although I should have been tending the animals and chopping wood.

  At the noon meal Grace said, “I can’t just ignore what we decided—or what Beauty decided for us—last night, as we all seem to be trying to do. Beauty, child, I won’t try to dissuade you—” She hesitated. “But is there any-thing we can do? Anything you’d like, perhaps, to take with you?” The tone of her voice said that she felt she was offering me silk thread to build a bridge across a ravine.

  “It will be so lonesome,” said Hope, timidly. “Not even any birds in the trees.” The canary was singing his early-afternoon-on-the-threshold-of-spring song.

  There was a pause while I stared at my soup and thought: There isn’t anything I want to take. The clothes I stand up in, and one change—about all I’ve got anyway. They can keep the dress I wore to Hope’s wedding, and cut it up and use it for baby clothes. The skirt I wear to church will fit either of my sisters with just a little alteration. If the Beast wants me to look fine, he’ll have to produce his own tailor. I thought of Father’s description of velvet and lace; and it occurred to me that in my dream

  I had been richly dressed in rustling embroidered skirts and soft shoes. I could almost feel those shoes on my feet, instead of my scratched and dirty boots. I was still staring at my soup, but I saw only beans and onions and carrots; I rearranged the pattern with my spoon.

  Ger said: “Greatheart will be a little company for her, at least.”

  I looked up. “I had hoped to ride him there, but I’ll send him back with Father. You need him here.”

  “Nay, girl,” said Ger in an inflection not his own, “he’ll not eat if you go off and leave him, He goes with you.”

  I put down my spoon. “Stop it, Ger, don’t tease me. I can’t take him. You need him here.”

  “We’ll get along without,�
� Ger said in his own voice. “We have an extra horse now, don’t forget, and we can buy another if we need it—with the money your father brought back from the city. They won’t be Greatheart’s equal, but they’ll do us.”

  “But—” I said.

  “Oh, do take him,” Hope said. “It’ll seem like we haven’t quite forsaken you, if you have your horse.” She stopped abruptly, and fiddled with her napkin.

  “He is your horse, you know,” said Ger. “For all his sweet ways it’s you he watches for, and listens to. I won’t say he wouldn’t eat, but he’d perform no prodigies for me or any of the rest of us. He’d just be a big strong horse.”

  “But—” I said again, uncertainly. I could feel my first tears pricking my eyes; I realized that I would feel much less desolate if I could keep Greatheart with me.

  “Enough,” said Father. “I agree with Hope: Your keeping your horse will comfort us at least. If you were a little less stubborn, girl, you’d be comforted too.” A little more gently he added: “Child, do you understand?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and picked up my spoon again. The tension was broken; we were a family again, discussing the weather, and the work to be done in the coming weeks—and the necessary preparations for the youngest daughter’s coming journey. We had accepted it and could begin to cope with it.

  Those last few weeks passed very quickly. The knowledge that I was leaving changed the tenor of all our lives very little, once we had adjusted to the simple fact of it. The story we devised for the town’s benefit was that an old aunt, nearing the end of her life and finding herself without heir, had offered to take one of us in; and it was decided that I would benefit most (and could best be spared from home), because I would be able to take up my studies again. All our friends were sorry to hear I was leaving, but were glad of what they thought would be a “grand chance” for me—even the ones who had scant respect for book learning were polite if not cordial, for my family’s sake. Melinda said, “You must come visit us when you’re home for a holiday—she’ll let you come home for a spell, sometimes, surely?”

  “Oh yes—please come see us,” put in Molly. “I want to hear all about the city.” Melinda sniffed; she didn’t approve of cities, nor of wanting to hear about them. She felt that we had survived our lengthy exposure very well, considering, and while she approved of my going because she recognized the claims of things like aunts, it was still an unfortunate risk.

  “She’s seen the city before,” Melinda said drily, and Molly flushed: They’d been careful not to ask us what life in the city was like, since we had left it under such unhappy circumstances. “We wish you well, in all events, Beauty,” Melinda continued. “But before we leave, say that you will come say hello to us when you come back to visit your family.”

  “I will if I can,” I said uncomfortably. “Thank you for all your good wishes.”

  Melinda looked a little surprised at my answer and remarked to no one in particular, “Is this aunt such an ogre then?” and kissed me, and she and Molly left to go home. We were in the kitchen, Father smoking a pipe and looking thoughtful, Grace peeling potatoes, Hope feeding the babies; I was mending the throat latch of Greatheart’s bridle. Ger was still in the shop. We had never discussed just how long I would be gone—the Beast’s words led one to believe that it would be forever, which didn’t bear thinking of, so we didn’t think of it.

  To break the silence I said, “This ogreish aunt may not be a complete fiction after all. I probably shall be able to get on with my studies: He must have a library in that great castle of his. He must do something with the days besides guard his roses and frighten travelers.”

  Father shook his head. “You cannot know; he is a Beast.”

  “A Beast who talks like a man,” I said. “Perhaps he reads like a man too.”

  Grace finished slicing the potatoes and put them in the skillet where onions were frying. I had grown very fond of fried potatoes and onions since we’d left the city; I wondered if I would get any at the castle. I would have refused such a humble dish five years ago, if our cook could ever have thought of offering us such a thing.

  “Beauty, you assume that everyone must be like you,” said Grace. “There are a lot of us who find reading more a burdensome task than anything else. Never mind Latin and Greek and so forth.”

  “I could almost feel sorry for this Beast,” said Hope cheerfully, wiping tomato soup from Richard’s chin. “I still remember Beauty trying to teach me declensions, which I had no desire to learn.” The potatoes were sizzling.

  “Stop it,” said Father harshly; and Ger came in just then, so no more was said. He handed me a thin piece of leather. “Thought this might help. That strap has about reached the end of its usefulness.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Supper,” said Grace.

  Winter began to slide away from us in good earnest; the blizzard Father had come home in seemed to be the last of the year, and spring arrived to take charge. The brook from the forest tore off the ice that had built up along its banks and hurled it downstream with the strength of the seasonal high water. The track from house to shop to stable turned to mud. Grace swept the kitchen and parlour floor twice a day, and I couldn’t keep Great-heart’s stockings white, and spent a lot of time sponging the mud off his grey belly and leather harness.

  For three weeks there was no sign of my roses; I worried that perhaps the seeds would be washed away in the churned-up mud, because I hadn’t been able to bury them very deeply; and told myself often and with increasing sternness as time passed that I had been a complete fool to try to plant them so early. I told myself that they were lost now and would do no one any good, and all was due to my own stupid folly in supposing that even magical seeds could grow at this time of year.

  The rose on the mantelpiece stayed as fresh and bright as it had been when Father first handed it to me. It dropped no more petals; it didn’t even drink much water. Grace had put it in a tall crystal vase from among the lovely things that had been found so mysteriously in Father’s saddle-bags, and taken the pottery cup it had first rested in back to the kitchen.

  Then, seven days before we were to ride into the forest, I found three little green shoots along one stable wall. I stared at them, sucking in my breath, and ran back to the house to look for more. I found at least a dozen, in a straight little row under the kitchen window that faced the forest. They weren’t weeds, I was sure, although I had wished so hard for some sign of my roses that I could almost believe that I was imagining things. There were a few more along the front of the house, and I found what I thought might be two more of the same thin tender green bits poking their heads tentatively aboveground outside the shop. It was morning, and I had been on my way to curry and feed the horses. When I went back to the stable, I saw five little green sprouts. I must have overlooked the last two.

  Returning to the house for the noon meal, I found a whole regimental line of short green spikes lined up by the wall of the house looking towards the forest; some of them were quite three inches high. “My roses!” I yelled through the kitchen door. “Come see my roses!”

  They grew so fast those last few days that I found myself watching them out of the corners of my eyes as if I would catch them at something: hastily unrolling a leaf, threading a new runner up the vines that were joyously climbing the sides of the house, shop, and barn. The seedlings nearest the forest did the best, as if there were some radiated strength emanating from their place of origin. On the fifth day there were tiny buds beginning; on the sixth day the buds swelled till touches of colour, red or pink, could be seen at their tips. Father and I would ride away the morning of the next day.

  Like the night following the telling of Father’s fantastic story, again on my last night at home I found myself unable to sleep. After supper I had gone outside again, oppressed by the unspoken tension indoors, and walked around the meadow. The stream’s voice was almost articulate, but I couldn’t quite catch the words;
and I fete that I was being taunted for my dullness. The pebbles on the banks of the stream watched me knowingly, I went to the stable, although I knew everything was in military order there, the appropriate tack cleaned ruthlessly and laid out for tomorrow’s journey. I had groomed Greatheart till he gleamed like polished marble, and combed his long mane and tail over and over again till he must have wondered what was wrong with me. He had been a little uneasy the last few days, as uneasy as a great placid horse can be, sensing some change in the air. At least he knew where I was when I was shining him; he put his head over the door and pointed his eats at me with a little anxious quiver of his nostrils when I blew the lantern out and left him at last. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you’re coming too,” and closed the barn door as he watched me. The moon was three-quarters full, and there were just a few little, dancing clouds in the sky. The forest was quiet, except for the sounds that trees make.

  I went up to bed immediately, pausing downstairs only long enough to nod to everyone, sitting around the fire in the front room with their hands busy, although it was past the usual hour that we all went to bed, and to hang the lantern on its hook by the door. “You’re all ready?” Ger asked quietly. “Yes,” I said. “Good night.”

  I paused on the second floor at the foot of the ladder to my loft. The forest looked different here. I was used to looking at it from my attic, or from ground level. The difference intrigued me, and I leaned out the window, teasing myself that there was an important difference, philosophical or moral, instead of just the fact of a few extra feet up or down, a change of physical perspective. There was a murmur of voices from downstairs. Suddenly I heard clearly, without wanting to.

  “Poor Ferdy,” said Ger. “I told him he needn’t come till afternoon tomorrow.” Ger’s wish to hire the boy full time, so that he could teach him the smith’s trade, was about to be fulfilled: Ferdy would work here daily, dividing his time between the shop and wood-cutting. He’d be invited to live here, once I was gone, probably in Ger’s old attic room, since Hope had said loudly, when we had discussed his staying here, “Of course we’ll leave Beauty’s room alone.”