The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  This, then, was what greeted the lost traveller as he rode through my gates. How his amazement must have grown, as the world around him melted from winter into spring and summer. I lit lanterns along his path, so he could better see the nodding blooms and ground free of frost, and I made sure every window of my house was ablaze with welcoming light.

  I led him first to the stables where the doors swung open to reveal fresh hay and warm oat mash. He dismounted, but did not directly lead his horse inside. This puzzled me until something registered in my mind. Something I had hitherto overlooked. This man was afraid. He had come from a winter forest steeped in a legend of terror, to a springtime paradise exhibiting magical opening stable doors.

  The man hesitated for some few minutes, but was eventually decided in his course of action by his horse. As the seconds trickled away it became obvious they were in no immediate danger. At least, the horse thought so. To it, the smell of oats became more important than the smell of magic, which, although strange, apparently offered no real threat. And after a while it began to demonstrate its interest in what lay beyond the threshold of the stable door. This must have made the traveller realise that, trap or no, his only alternative was the forest – which offered certain death. He eventually relented and led his horse inside, where it very sensibly went straight to its stall and began to consume the oat mash without even waiting to be divested of its livery.

  The man dithered awhile with his animal, making an attempt to care for it. I say attempt, for he had hardly touched the girth strap before it became unbuckled. And by the time he had taken the saddle off and placed it on its peg, the saddle blanket and bridle had also mysteriously found their way to their places and his pack and bags were nowhere to be seen. He only conceded defeat and left the horse to its mash after he discovered that, while he picked one of its tired feet clean, the other three had been done and its coat curried to perfection.

  As he left the stables, a series of well-placed lamps lit to show him the path to the entrance hall where a marvellous feast awaited him. And as he made his way through the garden, I left my library and also went to the entrance hall. I was excited beyond words and could no longer satisfy myself with the vague sense of him in my house. I had to see him with my eyes.

  I did not go down into the hall, but rather to one of the curtained galleries overlooking it. I intended to watch him as he ate, and measure the kind of man he was. I would let him eat his meal and then I would come down the staircase, and we would sit by the fire and talk as men should. I expected him to be afraid at first, but, I reasoned, after a good meal he would be more relaxed. He would find me fearsome, but he would have already experienced my hospitality and good care and surely that would reassure him as to my good intentions.

  I waited in darkness, peering through the gap in the velvet drapes. The seconds passed me by and I felt each and every one, like single drops of water falling into a crystal bowl. Then he entered. Even allowing for his exhaustion, his gait and posture were not those of a young man. He stopped when he saw the table laid out before him and was so taken with it, he did not notice my unseen servants remove his cloak. His chair slid out from its place and turned invitingly towards him, and a flask arose from the table and poured him a glass of wine. His mouth gaped open and again he just stood and stared.

  ‘Sit!’ I growled in frustration, as his astonished, lack-witted response began to grate on my nerves – and was astonished myself when he started, looked fearfully around and quickly seated himself. I, too, glanced around. Perhaps it was echoes or perhaps it was magic, but if I was to frighten him as little as possible I would have to be more careful.

  I watched him eat with interest. He ate quickly as a hungry man would, but he did not gobble his food. It became obvious he was a man of some breeding – or at least his table etiquette was excellent and seemed unconsciously so. He ate a lot, but did not gorge himself, and when he was done, he folded his napkin and pushed back his chair and stood up. He cleared his throat uncertainly and began to speak.

  ‘I do not know if there is anyone to hear me or not,’ he said loudly, ‘but if there is, I thank you for your hospitality. You must forgive my hesitation. I am by no means ungrateful, but this chateau is a strange place and I have had a very hard journey.’

  I sat motionless. His was the first human voice I had heard in perhaps a century and to me it sounded as beautiful as the finest music. But what held me frozen in my chair was the quaver of uncertainty the man had not been able to keep from his voice. He was still afraid. All this – my forest, my lands, my house, my servants – perhaps it was all too much. When I had lived in the world, magic was certainly rare. I had been living apart for so many, many years. What if, as was inevitable, the world had changed? What if magic was unheard of? I leaned forward and peered again through the curtains. The man had seated himself on the edge of one of the chairs by the fire and was twisting his hands nervously.

  My courage failed me. I was a beast and not fit for him to look at. If I went down he would try to run, or to kill me, or he would faint with fright. I could never have a conversation with him as I had wished. I fell back into my chair with my hairy, taloned paws covering my human eyes. Below me the lights in the entrance hall dimmed, and lamps leading up the stairway and to a bedchamber flickered alight. I did not watch him go.

  That night, in my own rooms, I tore off my costly garments, shredding the fine cloth and gilt embroidery with my claws. Clothed only in my own dark pelt I ran from the house and out into the night. I was a beast again, and my strange body flowed back into the shape of a creature for which it is natural to prowl on four legs. I roamed my gardens and roared in anger and disappointment at the blank face of the moon. Until, through my howls, I heard the screams of my guest’s terrified horse. I hadn’t wanted to frighten it, I had only come out to indulge in my own bitter rage. Ashamed, I slunk away to my old haunt among the rooftops.

  As I lay there, subdued and humiliated, I noticed something new in the magical fabric of my house. I closed my eyes and lay my shaggy head on my forepaws and tried to concentrate. Within moments I realised what it was. My guest was dreaming.

  And such dreams! There was never anything new in my life, so my dreams were always the same. But this man had a life, and a family. Three daughters. He must have loved them very much for their faces kept on appearing in the unfolding images of his dream. A thin current of worry threaded the flow of his reveries, however, and the youngest daughter kept asking him for roses. Every time her sweet face appeared, she said laughing, ‘Bring me a rose, Papa!’ and a wave of unhappiness swept through the dream.

  I cannot tell all the emotions that arose in my breast as I eavesdropped on my dreaming guest. The warmth of his love for his children first suffused me, then became a bitter ache as I realised I could never hope for such. My heart soared at the tenderness in the youngest daughter’s eyes, and shrivelled as I ground my teeth in rage at the remembered image of my own face, covered with fur and crowned with twisted horns. Eventually, I shut my mind to his sleeping visions, unable to bear them any longer.

  I lay on the rooftops, exhausted by the ordeal I had put myself through. I felt as though my heart was breaking. I even fancied I heard a noise that sounded like the shattering of glass. I could not summon the energy to rise and howl to the heavens as I had first sought to do. The hopelessness of my situation consumed me and I lay with my muzzle on my paws, too sick at heart to even move.

  I slept, and I dreamed. But this time I did not dream of forests and terror and painted gardens. My sleeping mind plucked images from the traveller’s dreams and wove them together anew in my head. Now the youngest daughter was smiling for me, and not with the eyes of a daughter, but those of a sweetheart, a lover, a wife.

  Her hands were full of roses, in every colour, and they were woven into her hair and strewn about her feet. She plucked one from her breast and lifted it up to her face. As the creamy white petals touched her lips, they blushed. First a delica
te shade of pink, then, as she presented the flower to me, the petals darkened to a vibrant crimson. Unable to resist her gift, I reached my hand out and, with a shock that jolted me awake, saw human fingers, a human palm, and a hairless, human wrist.

  Chapter IV

  I could barely breathe for wanting.

  I had never seen a woman smile at me that way. I had never wished to. I had been witness to the misery and terror my father visited upon the objects of his ungoverned lusts, and I had eschewed the company of women for fear of treading in his footsteps. But at that moment, still reeling from my dream, it seemed as though my whole existence depended upon this man’s daughter.

  Dawn was not far off, but even in the greying light I could see my hairy paws. A pale ray of sunlight broke over the distant hills and speared the ragged clouds gathering at the edge of the sky. As I watched it grow and produce more pale shafts of light, an idea unfurled in my mind. I could not stop it. I saw it for the canker it was, God help me, and I trembled as I realised I did not know how to withstand the temptation of it.

  I will not! I staggered to my feet in horror. I will not become the gaoler in this prison!

  But, even as I struggled to banish the hateful idea, a plan was taking shape in my head.

  I just want to meet her, I told myself. Just speak to her.

  My head spun at the enormity of the wrong I knew I was about to commit.

  I should do nothing, I thought. I should not move from this rooftop. I will stay here and when it grows light, he will leave and never even know there is a beast here. But even as I formed this counsel in my mind, I saw again the vast stretch of years I had lived here alone and my heart quailed at the prospect of the next incalculable aeon of isolation I would likely face. I could not go back to my solitary life. I would rather die.

  I took a step towards the edge of the roof.

  A sudden sense of movement dragged my eye down to my gardens below, still lying in deep shadow. A ripple of fear ran down my back, lifting my fur. Something huge was stirring there. Something indistinct and spreading that reached and thrashed. I strained my eyes against the gloom the new sun had not yet dispelled. My sensitive snout caught the diamond scent of new magic a moment before my senses were overwhelmed by the perfume of roses.

  It was happening. Exactly as I had wished, even though I had tried my hardest not to.

  I turned away from the edge of the roof and began to make my way back to my quarters. Already the path from the front door of my house to the wrought-iron gates wound past a walled garden, grown out of nothing in the moments between dawn and morning. But not just any garden – this one overflowed with glorious roses, the door tantalisingly ajar. If he wanted roses for his daughter, he would have his choice; but at a price. And just in case he did not venture into my rose arbour, plenty of perfect blooms spilled generously over the stone wall to hang nodding above the path – at exactly the right height for a man mounted on horseback.

  I walled off my trepidations from the rest of my mind and dressed with care. I just want to meet her! Most likely her father would see only a fearsome beast, but on the slim chance he would look past my savage face, he may see I dressed as elegantly as any man. Would it make him think better of me? Would he relay this to his daughter? Might it ease her fears a little?

  Guiltily I caused his deflated saddlebags to be filled with all manner of fine things, including a parcel of good food appropriate to eat while travelling, a flask of wine and a jewelled goblet to drink from. It was a small reparation for the distress I was about to inflict upon him and his family. Perhaps if she sees I am generous … I included a great deal of money and presents for all three daughters. I had his clothes replaced with much finer apparel, and his horse’s livery improved upon. His own clothes gave me cause for speculation, as they were poor, simple garments that had obviously seen much wear. This was at odds with his behaviour of the previous evening.

  When I was ready, I made my way to the curtained gallery overlooking the entrance hall. My guest was still fast asleep in his chamber, clearly exhausted from his ordeal, but it was not long before he awoke to find a steaming bath and his new clothes laid out ready for him.

  Eventually he appeared at the top of the staircase, and slowly made his way down. He was wearing his new clothes, but still looked nervous and uncomfortable. The chair at the head of the table drew itself out to welcome him and he went to it, and put his hand on the high, carved back. Before he sat down to the meal awaiting him, however, he turned and said to the room, ‘Again, I thank you. You have been more than generous and I am sure I would have died last night had you not brought me into your home. I am overwhelmed by your gift of clothing.’ He stopped and looked confused for a moment. ‘I have no way of repaying you. You have my most sincere thanks.’

  He took his seat and I sank back in my own chair feeling guilty and dishonourable. My guest had had little alternative but to accept my hospitality. Now I would take advantage of his love for his daughter and his desire to bring her what she had asked for.

  My guest ate hurriedly and soon finished his meal. I silently wished that after his encounter with me, luck and good fortune would follow him for the rest of his days. I was surprised then by the scent of new magic drifting past, and I sincerely hoped this meant my wishes would become reality. I left my curtained gallery to the sound of my guest expressing more thanks, and taking his leave of the empty room.

  I made my way to the rose arbour and waited.

  It was not long before I heard the brisk sound of hooves on the path: why would the traveller not be eager to return to his family as quickly as possible? When he came around the bend and saw the roses, however, the hoof beats slowed to a walk. I could see him now from my hiding place. He rode past me, and reined in the horse at the door to the rose garden.

  ‘Oh my,’ he murmured, so quietly I could barely hear him. ‘I had given up hope.’

  He rode forward, until he was level with a spray of perfect crimson blooms growing from a branch overhanging the path. He reached up and pulled them towards his face, breathing in the rich perfume. The horse was agitated, having picked up my scent, and fidgeted, blowing nervously. The traveller was too enraptured by the roses to pay it much heed, however. I held my breath as, smiling softly to himself, he searched through the spray of heavy blooms until he found one not quite open. Gently his gloved fingers found the base of its slender stem, and snapped it away.

  With a deafening roar, I leaped into the middle of the path behind him. The horse spun around and, confronted with the sight of me, reared up, screaming in terror. The man, taken by surprise, was thrown from his seat and fell to the ground. The rose fell onto the path between us. The man looked up and turned white when he saw what had frightened his animal.

  ‘Ungrateful wretch!’ I cried. ‘I take you in and provide you with shelter and food, and this is how you abuse my generosity? By stealing my roses?’

  ‘Sire! Lord!’ he stammered, scrambling to his knees before me. ‘Forgive me! I did not mean to offend you! I did not realise—’ He threw himself forward onto the path. I had to give him credit. He had not fainted away, or jabbered incoherently at my monstrous appearance.

  ‘All I have given you, and this is how you repay me?’ I growled.

  ‘Please,’ he gasped, ‘do not hurt me. I intended no disrespect. I only thought to take it as a gift to my youngest daughter. If you kill me I do not know what will become of her and her sisters.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, folding my arms, ‘I will not kill you for this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ he cried to the ground.

  ‘On one condition!’ I snapped. ‘You bring me your youngest daughter.’

  ‘No!’ he cried in horror, lifting his face to me. ‘You cannot ask it!’

  ‘I promise I will not hurt her,’ I said, trying to sound imperious and not desperate. ‘I just want to meet this connoisseur of roses.’

  ‘Never!’ he cried, beginning to anger. My desperation swel
led.

  ‘I will kill you now, unless you promise to return here with your daughter, within a month,’ I growled. My words horrified me. Had I really just threatened his very life? To my ears my voice shook with a craven tremor that spoke of everything I feared in that moment – that I found myself capable of such contemptible threats and that he would recognise my bluster for what it was. But he, at least, seemed to believe my tone was one of implacable fury. He rose up from the ground, paler than ever and shaking.

  ‘I promise,’ he said bleakly. ‘In one month I will return.’

  I realised immediately he was lying.

  He had no intention of bringing his daughter here. He would travel home to say goodbye to his family. Then he would return, alone, to meet the death he now imagined awaited him. I was rendered speechless by his courage.

  I stood, frozen, as he backed away from me and turned to look for his horse. The unseen forces tending my grounds had stopped the horse from fleeing in terror and it now stood, some distance away, trembling and rolling its eyes, its sides heaving. The moment he was in his seat the horse sprang away, bolting towards the wrought-iron gates, which swung open as they drew near. I stood and watched them go. Out in the forest I let the path he needed to follow unfold before him. It was a long time before the horse began to tire and slow down.

  Chapter V

  With the traveller’s departure I was left to contemplate the consequences of the morning. For the barest moment my heart soared in hope. Would he bring her? Of course not. He had – quite rightly – refused to even entertain the thought. But then why agree to return in a month? A chill settled over me. He believes my powers extend beyond the reach of the forest and I can claim what I want whether he promises or not.

  I staggered back against the wall of my new rose garden. What have I done? The first person to brave my cursed forest in a century would return to civilisation with tales of a vicious monster demanding the sacrifice of young women. My knees gave out and I sank down. Why did I not have the courage to go down and meet him last night? Now he had no cause to remember anything but the wild beast I was trying so hard not to be.