Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories

by Kaycee Browning

  Folding her hands in her lap, she resisted the urge to brush imaginary dust from her skirts. She had been reinstated as Bellenya’s lady-in-waiting, and the queen had given her an accolade for helping break the curse. It was strange returning to her old position after having once been treated as mistress of the entire palace, albeit by a very small household. Karyna felt a pang of longing. It had been hard work, but a part of her missed those days.

  How odd it was, sitting so close to Barend this way. Although the man he was inside had not changed, she could not deny the difference now that he was human again. They had been so close throughout his imprisonment, and though she rejoiced at his transformation, her heart ached at the thought of his leaving.

  She could never tell him that, though. She was, after all, simply a baron’s daughter, and he was a prince.

  “I half expected to find you tending the roses,” Barend said quietly.

  Karyna sighed. “No, the new gardeners tend them now. There isn’t anything for me to do out here anymore. There’s even a servant making sure roses are picked and dried to place in the princess’s room.” She stared at the ground, wondering if she would ever matter again. She would not wish the curse back, yet life now stretched before her in an endless stream of dull, monotonous days. She could easily envision herself buried in obscurity.

  “How is Bellenya?” Barend asked.

  “She seems well. Things haven’t been the same between us though.” Karyna hesitated, then added, “She’s healing, and I think she’s embarrassed. She won’t ask me to do anything for her, and she won’t talk to me, either. Not that she needs me. She has Ritter.”

  “A friendship like the one you two shared . . . it isn’t easily discarded,” Barend replied slowly. “I’m sure you’ll be friends again one day.”

  “I hope so.” Karyna sighed.

  Barend shifted on the bench. The silence stretched out between them. He looked down at Karyna, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. She wondered what he saw but dared not ask.

  “I wanted to thank you,” he said hesitantly. Puzzled by his tone, she looked up. “For your friendship when so many others left,” he continued. “You kept me sane.”

  “Oh.” Karyna made a small gesture with her hand. “I—”

  “That’s not all,” Barend rushed on. “I know you have a life here—your father, your loyalty to Bellenya . . . It would be wrong to ask you to leave all that.”

  Karyna frowned, still confused. “What do you mean?”

  Barend continued as if he had not heard, his voice impassioned: “I can imagine leaving you tomorrow no more than I could allow you to travel to Rivenloch alone. Even though I knew the beast would take control of me, I had to go with you. I could not live without you.”

  Karyna’s heart began to race as the glimmer of hope she had allowed herself to entertain only in her most precious of dreams shone through her thoughts. “Barend, I don’t—”

  “I’m making a mess of this,” he interrupted, running a hand through his dark hair and scratching the back of his head. “I can’t seem to find the right words. I’m no Ritter.” He made an exasperated sound deep in his throat then took her hand in both of his, cradling it tenderly. Even by starlight she recognized the longing, fear, and love in his expression, and her heart responded with leaping bounds.

  “Karyna, you are like my own heart. I thought, hoped, dreamed, that perhaps you felt the same, that I had seen in your eyes some gentle feeling toward me even when I was a beast. In the past few weeks I have come to fear that I imagined it. I am a man without hope, yet . . . Do you think you could . . . My dearest girl, could you love one who was once a beast? I know you believe your station is too low for marriage to a prince, but please believe me when I say it does not matter to me, or to my people. They will love you because I love you.”

  Karyna thought she understood what the fledgling dawn had felt when the sun burst over the horizon for the very first time and bathed the world in its warm light. All shadows vanished from her heart as her most longed-for secret wish was suddenly placed in her hands. She raised her face, and her answering smile was glorious in its brilliance.

  The fear in Barend’s eyes dissolved into purest joy. Gently taking her face in his hands, he leaned forward to kiss her. The sweet smell of roses hovered about them, filling their senses. When they finally broke apart, Karyna leaned her head against his shoulder. Her heart overflowed with more emotion than she had words to express, but there was one thing she felt she had to say:

  “Dearest Barend,” she whispered, her voice bursting with love. “You are many things. But you were never a beast.”

  JENELLE SCHMIDT grew up in the northern-midwest. She now resides with her husband and their three adorable children in North Carolina where the summers are too hot and there is never enough snow. Jenelle fell in love with reading at a young age during family storytimes. To this day she enjoys creating exciting adventure tales filled with poignant themes and compelling characters in the fantasy and sci-fi genres.

  To learn more about Jenlle and her work, visit: www.JenelleSchmidt.com

  For Bonnie and Dwain:

  Grandmother and hero,

  Brother and best friend,

  Always in my heart, until we meet again.

  Chapter 1

  THE KNIFE IN my hand flies in an arc, felling the unfortunate vines and foliage blocking my escape. Quick and quiet, my strokes cut through the thick underbrush of the jungle, but I worry that using the stone knife will lead a path straight to me. That’s the last thing I want to do.

  I stop for a moment, crouch down low to the ground, and attempt to keep my breathing silent. I need to hear how closely I’m being followed. The sound of another knife hacking through the jungle tells me that my pursuer, though less careful than I, is not far off.

  I have to make a choice. If I continue to cut a path, I can move much more quickly through the dense undergrowth, but I will no doubt be followed. The jungle is too thick for me to crawl through quickly, though I’m small enough that I can probably make it through the tangled vines and saplings without giving away my location. It would be a very slow escape. Or . . . I can climb.

  I look around for a suitable tree and sigh in frustration when I spot one close by. A young wimba tree is making its way toward the top of the canopy, and according to the legends of our tribe, it is cursed and filled with evil spirits. The sound of my pursuer closing in behind gives me the impetus to ignore my fear and scurry my way through the ferns and liana vines.

  In a few moments I reach the base of the tree. Its smooth bark and straight trunk would normally be difficult to climb, but I am in luck—this tree is being slowly suffocated by a strangler fig. Thick vines have wound their way down to the earth, enveloping the tree in a deathly embrace.

  I waste no time. The bark tears at my skin as I climb the tree as silently as possible. I watch out for howler monkeys, fearing my climb may set them off and their alarm would enable whoever is following to catch me all the sooner. Luckily, I seem to be alone. I secure a spot in the tree that will hide most of me and pray that my pursuer does not look up.

  A few minutes later the steady whack-whack of the knife comes to a stop not far from where I stopped cutting vines myself. Whoever it is was closer than I thought or faster than I had anticipated. The jungle is as silent as I’ve ever heard it. The animals of the forest must be as frightened as I am, for they seem to be holding their breath too.

  I know I should not look, should keep my face hidden in the shadows of the tree, but curiosity maddens me for a moment, and I feel my body shift forward to get a look at the person following me. I see him and stiffen.

  Maor.

  The strongest man of the village is standing just under the wimba tree. He is also the cruelest. And he is looking right at me. Or so I think until his gaze shifts and he peers into the tree next to mine and frowns. Now that I know who is following me, I want to shrink back into the shadows of my hiding pla
ce, but I’m afraid that movement will draw attention to myself. So I wait.

  Before long he alters his course and is gone. I take a moment to thank the spirits for hiding me. I had intended to offer prayers at the river this evening. Alone. The men of the village should be still accompanying my father, the chieftain, on a hunt while the moon is bright and nearly full. The extra light gives them an advantage in the hunt for peccaries, deer, and other wild game, allowing them to see into the dense foliage. They must have returned early.

  When I was a child, my father allowed me to accompany him on the week-long trek through the forest, but once I reached womanhood it was no longer appropriate. In fact, if a man is found alone with me now he can claim me as his wife, and I will be bound to him. Whether I like it or not.

  Not even my father can break the traditions of our tribe.

  This reason alone is exactly why my father forbade me to leave the village and enter the jungle by myself even when the men were supposed to be far away. I want to obey my father, but life in the village is so dull and monotonous. Each day I must help the other women tend to the gardens, weeding away saplings and vines from a jungle attempting to claim back the small plot of land that makes up our home. I try to help with the women’s work, but the jungle calls to me, beckoning me to leave the village behind.

  Today I needed time to listen to the sound of the river under the great canopy of life and to offer my prayers up to the karawara, the spirits of the jungle. Maybe they would give me peace and help to soothe my restless spirit. Such had been my intention as I forayed into the jungle, but my plans quickly changed when I noticed I was being followed.

  I shift my body into a more comfortable position and wait. I do not wish to leave the tree too early and chance running into Maor. Neither do I want to wait too long and run into him as I return to the village. I’m not sure what action to take.

  Maor’s face passes through my mind, and I shudder. Only my father, as chief, has more standing in the village. Maor already has two wives. I see them in the village sometimes, tending to their children, helping with the garden, and cleaning the kills that the men bring back from their hunts. I also see where their skin is bruised, their limbs battered due to Maor’s short temper and quick use of his club to beat them into obedient submission.

  I have no desire to become Maor’s third wife.

  As chief, only my father has permission to have so many wives. If Maor claims me it would be a direct challenge to my father for control of the village. I know Maor is cruel, but I didn’t know he was also so devious. Claiming me would not only be a challenge to my father, but would be a personal insult. I vow to never allow myself to be claimed by him.

  Time passes and my stomach rumbles. I have been hiding long enough, I think. I poke my head out slowly from behind the trunk. A green-haired sloth hangs upside down from a branch of a neighboring tree and winks a sleepy eye at me as a pair of brightly colored macaws take flight, startled by my movement. The sound of a twig snapping on the ground below freezes me to my spot, but it is only a lone anteater that waddles out from the underbrush and over the thick maze of roots littering the jungle floor. I exhale in relief and begin a search for fruit-bearing trees.

  Pushing back a cluster of hanging flowers as brightly colored as a parrot, I am rewarded with a jaboticaba tree nearby. It is just within arm’s reach of the branch above me, its plump, purple fruit ripened to perfection, growing directly on the trunk of the tree. I climb higher up into the wimba tree and wonder if I will tell my father of the lack of evil spirits when I return to the village. This tree has so far provided me with shelter and access to food; it seems lucky instead of cursed.

  I reach out and pluck the jaboticaba fruit, taking enough to fill my hands, then I crawl carefully back to the sturdy trunk of the wimba tree. My teeth break through the crisp skin, and a rush of sweetness fills my mouth. I take a second bite, and that’s when I see it.

  A jaguar. Sitting in the branch just above me and looking right at me

  My eyes travel the length of its immense body. Easily as large as any man in my village, it is the most enormous animal I have ever seen. My stomach knots as I realize that I have been hiding right under this creature and never knew it. His paw dangles off the branch where he perches lazily, looking as if he is ready to put his head down for a nap. I am unconvinced. The tightness of his hindquarters and a twitch of his ear indicate that he is just as alert as I am. Perhaps more so.

  I have no weapon other than the short stone knife. I hope it will be enough if he decides to pounce. I try to calm my quickened heartbeat, telling myself that jaguars rarely attack humans, and if I seem to pose no threat to it I will probably be safe. My heart doesn’t agree and continues to drum at a maddening pace.

  The tip of his tail flicks back and forth, and his nostrils flare as he sniffs at the air. Does he scent my fear? Undoubtedly, he does. I try to relax my muscles, to appear unthreatening, but I cannot quite will my eyes to tear away from the beast. If I am to die in the next few moments, I want to know that it’s coming.

  His ears fold back, and his thick, powerful legs lift his body up into a crouch. My body stiffens, and I sit farther back into the cursed tree, pushing as far from the beast as I possibly can.

  He yawns, shakes his head, and breaks our eye contact for a brief moment. I hope that he has grown bored of me and will leave. Instead, he fixes his gaze on me once again. Whiskers flick. He opens his mouth, baring his teeth.

  And then he speaks.

  Chapter 2

  “I COULD FINISH you in three small bites, little bird,” he says. “Hardly worth the trouble.”

  I sit slack-jawed, unable to comprehend what I am hearing. The largest jungle cat I’ve ever seen is speaking to me. And I think he has just insulted me.

  “Calm yourself,” he says. “I can practically hear your hummingbird heart beating its way out of your chest. I have no plans to harm you. I’m not even the slightest bit hungry.”

  A rush of air escapes my lips. I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding my breath. Somehow I find my voice. “Forgive me, jungle king, if I find it hard to relax. I’m not used to meeting a jaguar who can . . .”

  “Speak?” he asks.

  “Eat me in three small bites,” I answer.

  His lips curl back and his mouth forms what I can only guess to be a smile. With his long yellow fangs exposed, it is the most horrifying smile I have ever seen. Fear makes me giddy and I begin to laugh.

  “Do you find me amusing?” he asks, pushing himself up with his massive front paws and stretching his lithe body out to its full extent. My hysterical giggles die away as he sits across from me. Likely he can bound from his branch onto mine with a single leap. The thought is sobering.

  “Forgive me, jungle king. I am just nervous. I am not laughing at you.”

  “Are you hiding from the man I smelled earlier?” he asks as he begins to groom himself, licking one of his massive paws. Despite his assurance that he has no reason to harm me, I find that I cannot take my eyes off of his powerful jaws.

  “Yes,” I answer truthfully. “His name is Maor.”

  “And what is your name, little bird?”

  “Why do you call me that?” I ask and then shrink back into myself, hoping I do not sound insolent. Obviously he is more than a mere jaguar, and I wonder if he might be one of the evil spirits of the wimba tree, or perhaps a karawara. I hope for the latter. Though I have never met a forest spirit myself, I have been warned that they are sometimes mischievous and often capricious. But I would rather deal with a mischievous spirit than a malicious one.

  He pauses his cleansing ritual and looks directly at me. “Because you flew up the tree like one when the man came close. And you’re quite small.”

  “I see.” I’m not sure what to make of the big cat. His voice is terribly deep, and though it seems that he is teasing me, he does not seem to be unkind. “My name is Rosara, daughter of Rapau, chieftain of the jungle dwellers.” />
  “Indeed?” His golden eyes seem to widen. “Well, Rosara, I am honored to meet you,” he says and dips his head in a small bow. Tension fills me again, and another small giggle escapes my lips. The jaguar smiles his fang-filled grin.

  “Are you a forest spirit?” I ask. “Have you heard my prayers?”

  A deep rumble explodes through the jaguar’s mouth, and his jaws open wide. I’m terrified until I realize he is laughing. At me.

  “No, little bird . . . Rosara. I am not a spirit of the forest. Right now, I am merely a big cat. Please do not pray to me. But be careful of praying to the spirits of the jungle. Sometimes an answered prayer can be a dangerous thing.”

  I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I nod as if I agree. It seems unwise to disagree with the huge beast and take the chance of angering him.

  “What does the man, this Maor, want with you? Why was he hunting you?” he asks.

  “Hunting me?”

  “I know a predator pursuing its prey when I see it,” he answers. “You were most definitely the prey. Why?”

  I duck my head and begin a thorough study of the calluses on my hands. I don’t know why I feel ashamed, but I do. The thought of Maor taking me as his wife makes me feel humiliated and dirty. I choke on the words as they leave my mouth: “He wants to claim me. To take me as his third wife.”

  “Ahhh . . . I see. I thought that might be the reason. Males in pursuit of females have a distinct odor. His was quite distasteful.”

  I look up and see the jaguar smiling at me. I shudder a little. “I cannot be the wife of such a man,” I say. “I’d rather die.”

  “If that man has his way, then death might be your lot. You should be careful.”

  I nod, not knowing what to say next until I realize there is something I want to ask the jaguar. “Do you have a name, jungle king?”

  “Of course,” he replies. “My name is Tupa.”