The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  I closed my eyes and let my head sink into my hands, blocking out the unbearably brilliant morning sunshine. There was nothing else I could do. I would just have to wait to see what would happen.

  I barely slept in the month before the traveller returned. The days were endless, and the nights worse. I could not concentrate on anything. The weather around my house responded to my agitated mood by becoming blustery and unsettled. Clouds scuttled across the sky so fast the sunlight flickered. Brief cold showers came and went, and the wind was relentless.

  My guilt over my unworthy deception gnawed at my gut and warred with the unbearable suspense I found myself in. What would I do but send him away again when he came on his own to meet his death? I had no hope he would bring his daughter. But, if he did, what then? The days passed. The moon grew from a sliver to a perfect pearl, then shrank to a sliver again.

  I could feel her from the moment she entered the forest. As soon as she came beneath the canopy of the vast, dark trees, I knew it. The sun had not yet showed itself above the horizon and I was still in my bed. I leaped out and rushed to my window, although there was no hope of seeing anything yet.

  She rode quickly and, I realised after the first few breathless minutes, she was alone. Where was her father? Or was I mistaken? Was it someone else? I leaned my forehead upon the chill glass of the window and concentrated all my focus on the person riding full tilt through the trees. No, it was most certainly a young woman upon a horse. Making straight as an arrow for the heart of my forest.

  For an hour or so I watched her ride with my strange sixth sense. Then a second person burst through the edge of my forest, riding hard along the path to my gate. There was no doubting who this was: the traveller. With a cold, crawling sensation, I understood what must have happened: the girl had clearly left without him, hoping to reach my domain first and save him from the nameless doom I had promised.

  But her father was riding fast. Faster than she. What if he caught her up? She had a significant head start, but her horse had slackened its pace and I was not sure she was travelling fast enough to stay ahead of him. What could I do? I wanted so desperately just to meet her. I could slow him down. Just enough to allow time to … I hardly knew. The ruined road she travelled began to twist and wind and stretch behind her.

  I did not know where to wait. Despite their speed, they had several hours of travel ahead of them. I paced through dusty, unused hallways and prowled through the library. I spent an hour half-heartedly fencing in the upstairs gallery, stopping every few minutes to monitor the two people racing through my forest. I remembered I had not eaten properly for days and summoned a meal, but finally sent it away, merely picked at. I went out to walk in the rose arbour.

  Closer she came. And closer and closer he came behind her.

  The midwinter sun had climbed to its paltry zenith, and had begun to descend again, when she finally reached the iron gates. Despite my efforts with the road, her father was not far behind her at all. Another minute and he would be upon her.

  I stepped carefully out of the rose arbour to where I had a view of the gate, trying to gather my courage to go and greet her. She slid down off her horse, but did not come any further towards the gates; she simply stared at them as they swung slowly open.

  A moment later I heard a faint shout. Her father had arrived. Without thinking I moved to where they would not see me. The girl glanced over her shoulder and ran forward. When she stepped over the line marking the limit of my lands, I felt it as though I had been struck by a thunderbolt.

  As her father pelted up on his foaming horse, the girl stumbled further into my gardens. Slowly the gates began to close. The girl put her hands over her mouth as her father reined in his horse sharply and threw himself from the saddle. He stumbled across the overgrown gravel towards his daughter, but the iron gates met with a resonant clang just as he stretched out a hand to halt them.

  In that moment I knew something close to panic. The movement of the gate was none of my doing. It had never opened for me and I did not know how to make it open again now. What had just happened?

  Father and daughter stood on opposite sides of my gates, staring at each other in dismay. There was some argument and I found I could not bear to be where I could hear his desperate cries. I turned tail and crept away, back to my study, where I waited anxiously, unconsciously reducing the covering of the arm of my chair to shreds with my claws. The two of them stayed together at the gates for some time. Finally something was resolved. The girl turned away and began to walk down the path to the house. Her father stayed watching at the gate until she reached the doors of the entrance hall.

  As she came away from the gates, I panicked. I almost wished for a mirror in which to check my appearance. My invisible servants reacted to my agitation, grooming me again and again, until I growled at them to leave me alone. The meal in the entrance hall was assembled with more fuss and clatter than I had ever experienced before. I forced myself to breathe slowly and calm down, and eventually the invisible servants followed suit.

  I went to the gallery overlooking the hall to wait and watch for my new guest. The door swung open and she stepped inside. A wide ray of golden sunshine shone in through the door, and she stood in the centre of it, looking about the room. Of course she was lovely, I knew that from her father’s dreams, but I was not prepared for the effect her beauty had upon me. She stood there, not in any of the fine clothes I had sent home with her father, but in a plain, homespun dress, holding a small bag and looking cautiously about the room. The light shining in around her burned away all the dregs of drowsiness clinging to my poor brain. I felt as though I was awakening from some dream filled with immeasurable sadness and I began to weep. I had not wept in all the years I could remember, before the curse or after. But now an overwhelming grief gripped and shook me until something cracked and broke free. I had to drag my velvet sleeve across my face to mop away the tears spilling down the fur on my cheeks.

  I cannot meet her like this!

  I stumbled out of the gallery, choking back sobs I did not want her to hear. I felt strangely light-headed, as though I had been shaken untimely from a deep slumber. I just wanted to meet her, talk to her. Then … I did not know what then. I could not think. It was hopeless – I could not meet her. I turned tail and ran.

  I ended up in my study: a small, safe, familiar room where I could close the door and hide my beastly self away. However, as I sank down into the armchair by the fire, something caught in the corner of my eye. There, in a recessed corner of the room, was a place where long ago I had wrenched a mirror from the wall and dashed it to the ground. Now something hung again in the empty space, covered with a drape of red cloth. I moved across the room and pulled the cloth away from the object. It was a mirror. The sight of my reflection drew a snarl from my throat, but as I lifted my arm to smash the offensive glass, it clouded, then cleared to reveal a view of tall, oppressive trees. A path wound through the trees, and on the path was a man on a horse. He was leading another horse, decked in saddle and bridle, but riderless. I recognised my traveller. He was moving slowly, and weeping as he rode. I snatched my hand away and the drape fell back. He had not stayed. He was returning home and leaving his daughter here. He did not expect to see her again.

  I did not know what to do next. Now that she was here, I was terrified of finally meeting this girl. I did not know what I feared most: her reaction to my beastly countenance, or her denunciation of the bargain I had forced upon her father. Would she give me a chance to explain before she left? I went to a chair and sat, and a goblet of wine appeared at my elbow. I drank it down gratefully and watched as it refilled itself. I drank the next glass more slowly, and this time it was not replenished. I did not want to compound her ill feeling towards me by being affected by drink at our first meeting. I had to laugh at this – as if I could make things any worse!

  I sat in my chair, rehearsing speeches, apologies, compliments and pleasantries in turn until the sunlight o
utside had darkened and faded to a dull orange glow. A fire sprang up in the hearth and candles lit themselves around the room.

  Then, I heard it, clear as striking crystal.

  ‘Beast!’

  I looked around in a panic, expecting to see her at my study door. But there was no one and I realised she was still in her chamber, in another part of the house entirely.

  ‘I am ready to meet you now.’ Her voice was clear, but very soft, as though she half thought she was talking to herself. I found myself grasping the arms of my chair in a death grip, and released my hold slowly, so I would not tear the fabric again. I rose unsteadily, and heard the blood drumming in my ears loud enough to drown out the crackle of the fire. On the other side of the house, I knew her bedroom door had opened itself, and lamps were springing into life down a hall. I retreated into the darkest part of the room, near the window, and all the candles were snuffed, save one on the table by the empty wine glass. She arrived at my open study door, to a darkened room smelling of warm wax and candle smoke.

  ‘Are you in here?’ she asked, and I could hear the nervousness in her voice. She stood with her hand on the door handle, leaning forward to look inside. The lamps in the hall lit her from behind, and turned her hair into a golden russet halo. Her face was partly in shadow, but where the light touched her cheek, it made her skin glow with a rosy hue. The lamplight also picked up the golden glints and rich red brocade in her gown – a very different dress to the one she had arrived in.

  ‘I am,’ I answered as softly as I could, trying to keep the beastly coarseness from my voice. She stepped inside the room and the candles closest to her sprang into life. I frowned in consternation and they guttered, but did not go out. I could see her peering into the darkness shrouding my corner of the room and had to stop myself from shrinking from her gaze.

  ‘Won’t you come where I can see you?’ she said.

  ‘You are not afraid to look upon me?’ I asked her.

  ‘My father said you promised not to harm me,’ she said bravely. I could see her left hand clench nervously, heard the way her voice tripped when she mentioned her father. I took a deep breath and stepped forward into the dim light. Her gaze travelled up from my chest to my face, but when her eyes met mine they skittered away, and she looked down at the floor. I noticed she was trembling only a heartbeat before I apprehended that so, too, was I.

  ‘Please,’ I indicated the chair opposite mine, with only a flash of curved talons under my ruffled cuffs, ‘won’t you have a seat.’

  She sat, poised on the edge of the velvet cushion, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and I sat too, trying to appear elegant and unbeastlike.

  ‘You are wearing one of the gowns from your wardrobe,’ I said carefully, trying to strike up a first conversation. ‘It becomes you.’

  She darted a look at me that was almost outraged.

  ‘They,’ she waved a hand to indicate the invisible servants, ‘took my other clothes. I had no choice.’

  ‘Don’t you like the clothes I’ve provided?’ I asked in consternation. The dress did look odd. It was cut low, exposing her shoulders, and the sleeves were loose, voluminous swathes of fabric that left half her arms bare.

  ‘My own were more comfortable,’ she said, then looked up, stricken. ‘Not that I’m not grateful,’ she gasped, ‘this is beautiful.’

  I tried not to mind that she feared an angry and possibly violent reprisal for her criticism.

  ‘You should wear what pleases you,’ I said, more roughly than I had intended. I took a breath to calm myself before I continued. ‘I won’t be angry if you wear your own clothes. I’m not going to eat you, you know.’ I added this last with a bitter twist of humour, hoping to make light of her apprehension.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, looking at the floor, ‘but I would like to know why I am here. You don’t need a servant, and you don’t want to … eat me …’ She blushed and looked uncomfortable.

  Now it was my turn to look at the floor, as the misery of my condition threatened to overwhelm me.

  ‘I have been alone a long time,’ I said, my voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. ‘I just wanted to meet you. To talk to you.’

  ‘Is there no one else here?’ she asked, her voice straining against some strong emotion.

  ‘No,’ I admitted, ‘your father was the first person to enter my forest in a century, I think.’

  ‘And you forced him to bring me here – his youngest daughter!’ Her voice was full of rage and grief, and when I looked up at her she returned my gaze unflinchingly. She stood up quickly. I did not know what to say and sat before her in miserable silence.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning away. ‘I must bid you goodnight.’ She left, and the candlelight seemed the poorer for her absence.

  I realised, then, I had not even asked her name.

  Chapter VI

  I spent another sleepless night after our first meeting. Even so, the knowledge of her presence, as I watched the first rays of sunlight striking through my bedroom window, was one of the most intoxicating sensations I had ever felt. I spent a strangely conflicted morning. My guilt over the trickery I had resorted to in order to bring her here nagged at me and I was terrified of confronting her unhappiness again. Yet I felt such a sense of anticipation over meeting her once more, I barely touched my morning meal.

  I fretted over my clothes. The garments laid out for me that morning were of a strange, unfamiliar cut. The coat and pantaloons were longer and looser than I was used to wearing, and my shirt had sprouted a large collar, ornamented with lace. I growled in disapproval and stalked over to one of the chests where my clothes were kept. But when I threw open the lid to get the clothes I wanted, all the elegant doublets in my wardrobe had disappeared. I turned around to stare at the empty room in anger. What was going on?

  With a subdued roar, I snatched up the shirt with the preposterous collar and was about to tear it apart when I remembered the unfamiliar style of the dress the girl had worn last night. How long had I been here? Suppose the clothes I had been wearing were ancient? Ridiculous as I thought this attire looked, did I risk looking almost as ridiculous if I insisted on wearing the clothes I was used to? I dropped the shirt quickly and flexed the tension from my claws. I had to trust the magic knew better than I this morning.

  I let myself be dressed with bad grace, irritated at the way the lace caught on my talons. Once finished, I left the house to wander my gardens. She had not left her rooms and I thought perhaps it would be best if I allowed her to seek me out in her own time. Moments after I decided upon this course of action, I had a sudden, panicked fantasy that she would never be able to bear to look upon me again and I would have to hide myself away from her until she left. This had such a powerful effect upon me, I had to pause on the threshold of the great staircase in the entry hall and steady myself against the banister. With the weight of this new fear now firmly settled over my shoulders, I stepped outside.

  I knew when she entered the gardens and while I could not help but know where she walked, I stayed away from her. Following her, perhaps, but at so great a distance she could not have had sight of me. She walked slowly and I vacillated between hoping it was because she took joy from my beautiful grounds and despairing that her pace reflected a sense of oppression in being imprisoned here. Eventually, of course, she came upon the walled rose garden. She stopped for a few moments then turned and walked inside. I found a bench in a nearby shrubbery and sat myself down to wait in an anxiety of apprehension. I resolved I would meet her when she left the garden, even if only to bid her good morning and leave again. Perhaps she would even allow me to walk with her a while.

  She spent some time in the garden and I was daydreaming almost happily when I was surprised by the sound of her voice calling me. Again, my hearing her must have been the result of some magical echo, as her voice was barely above a speaking tone. This time, however, she sounded as though she expected to be heard.

  I rose and went to
the arched doorway leading into the rose garden. I stood looking within for a moment before I entered. My heart was pounding and my mouth suddenly dry, but the rose garden before me remained tranquil as ever. The mossy paths were dappled with fallen petals, yet not a one was bruised or brown. The way before me was lined with roses that tangled over my head in a cool green tunnel. I walked slowly down the covered avenue towards the heart of the garden.

  At the centre of the rose garden was a small pavilion. We came upon it at about the same time, she from a different path. I was a little closer, and saw her before she saw me. I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. She walked with her head bowed and her hair glowed like honey in the morning sun. The clothes she wore today were far simpler than those she had worn the night before, the soft tones of the plain cloth echoing the roses surrounding her. She looked as though she had been born out of the garden that very moment. As she came towards me, a small breeze breathed petals from the arching cane of a wild rose. They flew up into the air and caught the sunlight for an instant, glowing pink and gold. It was then that she looked up and saw me.

  She, too, stopped, but if she caught her breath it was because I had a vastly different effect on her than she had on me. Still, she came towards me again with a resolute air, and I am certain she was by far the more composed of the two of us.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said politely, in the manner of one determined to be pleasant.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied, suffused with relief at the change from the previous night. ‘I trust you slept well?’ I asked, and then wished I had not. How could she have?

  ‘Tolerably,’ she answered, with a tight smile. I looked at her and saw her eyes were red, and darkly shadowed underneath. I turned away.