Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
Sleeping Beauty
and the Beast
A NOVEL
Melissa Lemon
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Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
Copyright © Melissa Lemon
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1499788800
ISBN-13: 978-1499788808
Cover design by Cindy Canizales
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Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
To Mom & Dad
Thanks for loving me
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Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
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Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
Magnolia
Time is running out. I peer out the back window taking notice of the fierce wind, the dark sky strewn with hesitant rain clouds that release only a drop here, a drop there. They will be here soon, and I fear what they will do. My own life means little to me now; I think only of Ovinia. Even though I've seen it in vision, and know the outcome of her future, that does not stop me from trying to spare her the pain of it all.
How weary these implacable visions have become. I see too much. Know too much. And now, it is my own life that has been so cruelly impacted by them. Or did the visions come as a warning? Is it possible to evade what I have seen?
No, experience tells me they will come to pass, but I cannot accept that. Not now.
I pull the cloth snuggly around her, wanting her to be warm enough, and protected from the lashing wind. If only this act could protect her from everything else. I sling a pack of supplies around my shoulder, enough to keep us fed for a few days at least. Then I cuddle her to my breast, wrapping my cloak around her. She smiles up at me, so pure and innocent, so foreign to pain and discomfort, so ignorant of what she will have to endure if I fail now. I try to ignore the nagging in my mind that I am being foolish, that if I have seen it in vision there is nothing I can do to prevent it. Absolute foresight was the gift bestowed upon me when I chose to become a witch. I was promised that any vision I had would surely come to pass, and so far, this has been true. Still, she is my only child, and the mother in me forbids acceptance without at least trying.
A loud, forceful knocking sounds at the door, jolting me and instantly increasing the already rapid pounding of my heart.
I unlatch the large window and fling it open, sticking one leg through and crouching my head. I try to pull myself up with one arm, but it is useless. Holding Ovinia out from me—knowing she is bundled enough to protect her from harm—I drop her into the long grass, hoping they do not hear out front. A startled look forms on her face, and a pout, but she does not cry. I smile at her to let her know it is all right, and it works. She believes me. In her infant trust, she believes that all will be well, even though I know it will not. I slide out of the window and onto the grass, and then swoop her into my arms again. I begin to step away from the house, lightly at first, and then in a run. Their voices grow distant behind me.
"There she is!"
I may not be as young or as strong as they are, but I am fast, even with the baby, and at first it seems I am too far ahead for them to catch me.
One of them grows closer now, enough that I can hear his boots in the grass and his heavy breathing. I panic, for either they will take the child and kill me, or they will kill us both. No, that is not what I have seen. They will take her and . . . My heart beats furiously, but I am full of energy. I feel like I could fly, and for a moment I think I will lift off the ground and into the air, but then someone grabs my hair and jerks me to a painful stop. I slip and fall to the earth, and as Ovinia slips into an awkward dangling position, she begins to cry. I don't think she is hurt, just aware now that something is wrong; she feels my fear.
The man still holds my hair tightly in his grasp, pulling and pinching my scalp as I try to cradle her once more. "I've got her!" Six or seven men catch up to him, all breathless. I am no match for them, even with my powers. No matter what curses I utter, it will not protect her, only punish them; and her safety is my only wish. But they will take her, and then want to take me back to Fallund Square where I would be tried and hanged. I am one of the last to survive the witch hunt. For a moment, the faces of my friends who have already been put to death flash in my mind. Did one of them rat me out before being murdered? Or was it a suspicious villager who reported me?
One of the men forces Ovinia from my hands as I cling and protest from my knees, screaming and grunting until he slams the back of his hand across my cheek. I land face down in the damp grass.
"Here's the baby. Do we need to head back now? What time is the auction?"
"Her name is Ovinia." I push my hands into the cold, stiff ground, lifting myself onto my knees again.
They do not listen to me as they are still more occupied with catching their breath and deciding what their next move is.
"What do we do with this one?"
"Bind her. Take her back to the square."
A loud crack of thunder fills the sky, rumbling loudly while it travels on and on. As the rain begins to fall harder, the drops penetrate my head, cheeks and shoulders, dampening my hair and old dress. I close my eyes, reviewing in my mind all that I saw in vision: Ovinia's tragic life, my escape. I see her bringing water from a well only to be punished for losing a few drops from the bucket; her tormented eyes haunt my consciousness as she trembles fearfully in the corner of a house where she does not belong; I witness the lashes across her pudgy toddler hands, her child-sized back, her growing, changing face; I watch as she covers her ears, protecting them from screams that I will never actually hear or be able to prevent; lastly, I see the crimes she commits, the horrible beast she becomes. And even though I've seen it and know it will come to pass, I hesitate to leave her. I am her mother. My instinct tells me to take her back and run again, but I know that will be pointless. Whether I live or die, her fate remains unchanged, and so I may as well live.
It is necessary to shove Ovinia from my mind, and so I do, for only a moment I think of my own life, my own chance to get away from the punishment awaiting myself and every witch in Fallund who is caught. A growing despair begins to gnaw at me as I accept that no matter what I wish for Ovinia, it is hopeless now. And the pain of it, seeping into my heart, is cankering and unbearable. There is only one thing left I am able to do.
Opening my eyes, and careful they do not see, I raise one knee in preparation. Waiting for my next chance to move without being noticed, I lean forward. The time is now. The men have been reviewing a map and deciding whether to take the baby and me straightaway or whether to make another capture first. Currently they are hunkered underneath their jackets and the branches of a tree. Falling incessantly now, the rain has given me my chance. My heart pounding, my mind swirling with agonizing thoughts and misgivings, I glance to my babe once more, whose tender infant cry is almost drowned out by an angry clap of thunder. Turning from her, I burst into a run.
Faster and faster I go, the wind and direction of the rain seemingly helping my speed, for which I'm grateful because my heart is like solid metal, heavy and preventing. Whether they begin to chase me or not, I do not know. I only feel the pain of losing my baby, the constant yanking at my heavy heart, pleading me to go back and save her. And because I cannot answer these demands, it threatens to rip open. I begin to cry, the tears cold and wet on my skin. And then I am sobbing and gasping, but I do not stop running. My grief is too great, and the wind too loud for me to hear whether I'm being pursued, but I have seen it. I know that I escape. And so I run.
Finally, when I am confident I am alone, I slow down gradually until I have stopped. Falling into the grass, I lie on my back and look up at the sky, drenched an
d completely breathless. The wind shakes the soggy grass all around me, but the rain has slowed once more. I am panting and wheezing when it hits me all at once, the pain again. It fills me like a poison—the excruciating agony—and I cannot help but cry out for how much it hurts. I close my eyes, the tears flowing freely, the sobs escaping my lips. Watching my friends being captured one by one, and now being driven from my own home, none of it compares to losing my sweet baby girl.
Even more tormenting are the images from the vision. They are fresh in my mind now. She will be sold in Fallund Square. I picture him in the crowd, the man that will buy her, along with his wife and another kinsman. I already despise them because of the visions I've seen. But a hatred so real and so thick swells up in my breast as I think of them now, these people I've never met. It has an intensity that I have never known before. I think of how unjust it is, that I should be wanted for dead, when they will all take part in abusing and degrading my daughter. I want to kill them, and for another moment I consider going back to do it.
Then I remember the visions. I know no matter what I try to do, they will come to pass. It is hard to restrain myself, to keep from going back and trying to save her, but somehow I stay there in the grass and attempt to push the images from my mind.
As the rain comes to a complete stop, I realize who it is I am most angry with, who is most to blame for the tragedy that will be my daughter's life, and the nothingness that will be my own: the king of Fallund. He is the one who ordered the witch hunts. He is the one whose paranoia caused contention where there was once a passive relationship.
Knowing I can never go back to my home, I rise once more, running and running until I reach the border of Fallund and Cray. It is difficult to cross the line into another country. It is saying the goodbye I could never be prepared to say. I hold one foot over the river that divides the land, still hesitant, a part of me still wanting to go back and get her. I consider this idea. If I take her at night perhaps I could get away without being caught.
I shake the thought from my mind. I have seen it. Nothing I do will change what I have seen in the vision. I wonder how often I will have to remind myself of this fact over the years, how many times I will have to convince myself that rescuing her is not possible. She will have to endure it all. I will have to move on without her.
I step into the icy water. It runs over my foot, cruel and unfeeling, unsympathetic to my troubles. Instantly, a stiffening numbness consumes me, body and soul. Splashing across the river as I lift the hem of my dress, I begin to cry again. I hate them. I hate them all. As the freezing water penetrates my very bones, a fire ignites in my heart, a craving for justice, followed by an idea. I will punish the king of Fallund!
I run across the open grassy field and into the neighboring country. I know this is my home now, no matter how much it feels strange and unwanted.
Her smile comes to my mind, and those bright eyes that I know will grow so dim over time, so hateful. And yet another thought comes to mind, the source of which I cannot tell. Perhaps my heart is reaching down deep for a hope that my head cannot fathom. Even after all I've seen, I am suddenly optimistic that I will see her again. It is only an inkling, but a promising one, and heartening too. Then it flees away, and I am met again with the bitter sorrow of a mother who has lost her only daughter. That is soon replaced once more with a fiery anger and a pledge to avenge.
The clouds part in time for me to glimpse the setting sun, and with every step it grows darker, until I find myself in the darkest wood I have ever seen, a wood so dark I know it will be the birth place of my nightmares.
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Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
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Beauty
It is high tide, or at least, I believe it is; I hear the constant rushing of the ocean waves. Whoosh, SLAP, fizzle, sigh. Whoosh, SLAP, fizzle, sigh. I breath to its rhythm. The water pushes in and I take a breath. Away it recedes as I release the air from my heavy lungs. The damp, salty sea air is thick with the scent of mint leaves and lavender.
Stella mumbles as she smoothes something creamy and sticky over my lips; beeswax, I guess. I vaguely hear something about the roses blossoming soon. I feel a damp mint leaf being placed over my lips—her way of keeping them moist.
Even through my closed eyelids I know a cloud covers us. I don't hear any rain, but I don't feel a single ray of warmth coming through either. A breeze dances across my face. Stella must have the door open, and I enjoy the fresh air, but at times it feels as though I will never be warm. If only I could ask Stella to lay on an extra blanket. I try to form the words, but I stutter and stop, forbidden by the lack of consciousness.
"They're coming today," Stella whispers close to my face.
I'm not exactly sure how often they come—every full moon perhaps. Sometimes I think I can feel the moonlight shining above me. It always happens just after I've had a visit from my parents, the king and queen of Cray. Aunt Cornelia is always with them, along with the tonic she administers to keep me from having fits in my sleep. Often I am not able to swallow it and it runs down the side of my mouth, all the way to my chin and neck before Stella catches it with her soft cloth.
I must have mumbled something, for Stella is now murmuring, "Shhh, child. They'll be here soon. Several of the guards have already left to escort them from the boat." At least, that's what I think she said.
I wish I could see the ocean!
I remember standing on a chair in my bedroom tower and watching the thrashing waves out my window. I imagine my reflection, my baby face framed with dark golden locks, my eager expression. I can almost feel the cold stones beneath my hands as I think of it. I would lean in, pressing my face against the foggy, glazed glass, wishing I could go outside the castle more often, or that I could go on a voyage with Father as I watched his ship sail away. The memories are so fuzzy in my sleep, but some things I remember.
"There, there, Eglantine," Mother would say. "He'll return soon enough."
But it never was soon enough. I missed him every moment he was gone. Now I never see him, even when he visits. How must I look to him? Always lying still on this bed. I've done most of my growing up in my sleep. Will they even know me when I wake up? If I wake up.
I see her face in my mind now as the only images I recall from my fifth birthday flicker in my memory: the soft, satin silver of my dress; Aunt Cornelia's birthday gift of perfume; scores of delighted guests whose faces have grown dim over time; the giant stack of gifts I never got to open; and the witch who cursed me just after Father's toast in my honor. Two last things stand out in particular from that day all those years ago, perhaps because of how starkly they contrast one another. I can still conjure the feelings of elation that encompassed me that day, the pleasure in being the center of so much attention and celebration. And equally remembered, ringing as loud as a hundred cathedral bells in my ears, are the words of her curse. "She shall sleep forever, unless her brother frees a terrible beast."
And then, darkness. Did I fall asleep instantly? Did I sink out of my chair and onto the floor? Or was it more gradual? Did my head dip into my plate of food as I became drowsy? If only I could remember. For weeks, darkness engulfed me. And though Father moved me to the glasshouse, where fresh air and sunlight would be plentiful, most of the time I am still cumbered in darkness. I imagine I will be here always, until I grow old and pass into another world, for I have never even had a brother, and it seems I never will.
It begins to rain. I hear it pattering against the glass walls and roof of my garden dome. The rain brings an added chill, even though I am dry and covered with blankets.
"How is Eglantine today?" It's my mother's voice! I hear the shaking of parasols, but no matter how hard I try my eyes will not be pried open. I have to imagine them all. Is Mother wearing a grand dress? Or did she choose a simple one for the short sea voyage? Is her golden hair up or down? I always liked it down so that I could run my fingers through the large, soft curls. A sore ache pierces my
heart whenever I think of her for the simple reason that I do not recall the color of her dainty eyes.
"Hello, Stella." And there is my father! The image of his slender, bearded face comes to my mind. Regal with his dark hair and eyes, yet skin fair as moonlight in my memory.
Before my aunt even speaks, I know she is there, and automatically picture her auburn hair and large, deep brown eyes as she whispers in my ear. "How are you my little dumpling?" That's what she used to call me—my round, baby cheeks had reminded her of dumplings, and even as I grew and slimmed, her pet name for me lingered. I try to stir. "Lie still," she says. She sprays something into the air and the miniscule droplets of mist fall onto my face. I jerk, but do not wake. The scent is familiar. "I brought a new bottle."
She brings a new one every now and then. It is the fragrance she gave me on my fifth birthday. I used to beg her to share it with me whenever I witnessed her putting it on. It smells of dried wild roses and orange blossom. I am grateful.
Mother's lips press into my cheekbone. Her hot tears drop onto my face and run down to my ear. Perhaps she does not notice, or does not know how it tickles, even in my sleep.
"Hello, darling," she whispers.
Father kisses me also; his prickly face stirs me more than anything. He sits beside me and begins to talk, his weight rolling me toward him slightly. I think he must be reading a book, but I am becoming less aware of them all. Sleep pulls at my endlessly tired eyes, and my father's soft, deep voice only lulls me further into unconsciousness. He may as well be singing, or playing his harp for how well it sedates me.
I used to love listening to him play. Or more, loved climbing onto his lap and taking over. He would guide my arms and hands, showing me the shape and angle of my elbows, and how hard to pull at the strings. That was so long ago, another life it seems.
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