Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

by Melissa Lemon

  "Eglantine, is everything all right? I haven't seen you for days. So much has happened. I have something I want to ask you, but I want it to be in person."

  In person? Not possible.

  "I mean, as in person as two people can be when one of them is dreaming." He sighs. "Sometimes I think I was dreaming too. And I fear you will never come back."

  His words touch me, deep in my soul. He is afraid of me not coming back, and I hear the sorrow in his voice at the prospect. Could my presence mean that much to him? And if so, why?

  "I thought I heard your voice. Are you here somewhere? Please answer if you are."

  "I want to be here," I say.

  "There, I heard you again. Where are you?" He's standing now. I hear him move in the grass. But if I can hear him in the grass, does that mean I am in the garden with him? It could still be a trick. His voice is above me now. "Where are you?"

  "I'm in a forest."

  "Which forest? I will come to you."

  I ache at the thought of what my answer must be. "Henry, it is not a real forest."

  "Oh, what's it like then?" I imagine him sitting again, on the bench this time.

  "It's dark."

  "Is it night time in your dream? It's well after daybreak here."

  "I don't know."

  "Well, is the sun up? Or the moon? Are there stars?"

  "I don't know. My eyes are closed. I'm afraid to open them."

  "Afraid? What could you have to be afraid of? You're dreaming."

  He's making fun of me, but I know it's because he doesn't understand. "Just because I'm dreaming, doesn't mean it's not real for me. It's all I know."

  "Open your eyes," he whispers.

  The prospect of seeing Henry tempts me to open my eyes. But should I do it? Will I regret it?

  "Please, Eglantine. Open your eyes."

  I draw my head away from my chest. It does seem lighter, like the night and dark of the forest are gone. I begin with the tiniest little crack, lifting my left eyelid just enough to see a blur of my immediate surroundings. I see my white nightgown, bright in the morning sun, and a hedge, blocking my view of anything else. I open both eyes now.

  The forest is gone.

  The night is over.

  I roll onto my back and turn to my other side, and there he is, sitting on the bench as I had first predicted, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his legs, and clasping his hands.

  "Isn't that better?" he asks.

  I sit up and face him. It is good to see him, but I do not smile. It would be forced today. I do not feel joyful, or happy. I feel alone, and imprisoned in a world that is not genuine, and therefore not worthwhile.

  "It's good to see you," he says. "But you look unhappy."

  I do not cry often in my sleep, but it has happened before: when I dream of Father or Mother dying; or sometimes the smell of the lilies brings a mist to my eyes; or when I dreamt of the rose garden and watering it with my tears. I know the tears are authentic when I actually feel them on my face. A tear wets my cheek now.

  "Eglantine, what's wrong?" He inspects me further, leaning toward where I sit on the grass. "Are you crying?"

  I wipe the tear.

  He slips off the bench and kneels in front of me. "Eglantine," he whispers. "I don't know why you're crying. I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I have something I'd like to ask you. Will you listen to me?"

  I nod, grateful that he will not force me to answer him, wanting to hear what he has to say rather than focus on my own pitiful state.

  "Eglantine, we are going to war. We leave this night for encampment."

  I immediately think of Father.

  "Do not worry. Cray has not become involved."

  "Well, what is it you want to ask me?"

  He bows his head, a heavy sigh escaping his mouth.

  "What is it?" I ask. "Why do you hesitate?"

  Looking up at me again, and reaching out for my hand as if he could actually grab a hold of it, he answers. "I hesitate because I do not want you to think I am weak. And I would never ask this of you under normal circumstances. But since you are sleeping . . . safely . . . and only here because of some phenomenon that neither of us can explain. Since you can't be hurt while you're here, and nobody else can see you . . ."

  I watch his hand, reaching out to me, and try to grasp it with my own. I know it is not possible, but I make the motion anyway. "What?" I ask. "What is it you would like me to do?" In all of my imagination I cannot think of what he is trying so desperately to ask me.

  "Will you come? Please? Come with me and keep me company as I go to war?"

  Baby beads of sweat begin to take shape on his forehead. How vulnerable he has made himself; I can see it in his eyes, their longing and anticipation. He is shaking now, both his hands cupped around mine.

  "Please."

  I imagine traveling with him. How will I learn to stay at his side? What if I wake in the castle or the garden and he is nowhere to be found? Then I think of the far worse horrors that may be. What if I am forced to watch him die?

  A nervousness crawls up my stomach and clenches my throat. I try to swallow, and notice for the first time how dry my mouth is.

  "I would never ask if—"

  "I know," I say, cutting him off, not able to listen to his pleas any longer. "I know you wouldn't."

  "So will you come?"

  "Yes," I say. I barely hear it, but I feel it go through my lips and teeth, forced out by my parched tongue. And I mean it. I will go with him. I want to.

  "Yes?" he asks, as if he hadn't quite heard it either and needs the reassurance.

  "Yes," I say, louder, more firmly. "I will come. I will stay by your side as long as I am welcome and able to do so."

  "If you get lost I will come looking for you, as I did this morning. I will call your name until you come."

  "They'll think you're crazy." I am closer to smiling than I have been since I left him last.

  "They already do." He smiles easily, and I think of how grand a smile it is, especially considering the circumstances that lie before him. War. I know little of it, except what I heard Father talk of as a child, what I've seen in my dreams, or what Stella has read to me. There is, however, something in particular I remember. In most of my dreams, colors are dampened, as if everything is laid over with a thin cloth of brown, black or gray. But I've dreamt of wars where everything was black and white. Everything, except the blood, which ran in pools of both deep and bright red. It seemed hot, a steam lifting from it that never cooled, never stopped rising.

  In all my years of sleeping I have not felt what I do now: needed. A sense of pleasure fills me up, and I begin to shiver, feeling cold with excitement.

  He stares at me still, looking at my eyes, which must be faint, nearly invisible, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Thank you," he says. "Stay close." Releasing his pretend hold on my hands, he pushes up from the grass and leads me toward the castle.

  Walking through the castle doors is a different experience today. We are met with a buzz that I've never heard before, and Henry is immediately bombarded.

  "Did you have a nice reprieve in the garden, Master Henry?" Duke asks.

  "Yes, thank you."

  "Your highness, we're ready to discuss the final strategy now. All the men are waiting in the council chamber." It is the stout man, the one who always sits to Henry's right.

  "Thank you, Bern."

  Bern looks as though he hasn't slept in a week, the circles under his eyes darker than night.

  "Is Duncan there?"

  "No, your majesty."

  "Master Duncan went out this morning. Worston brought me word. He's at the prison, but should return again soon. Perhaps he'll come then."

  Henry nodded. "Perhaps. Thank you, Duke."

  "After you, your majesty." Bern gestures to the hallway before him, signaling it is time for the prince to move forward. I sense his hesitation, and think of the weight he must be carrying now. He looks to
me and I smile in encouragement before he leads the way down the halls filled with people running about. I look back to see Bern stopping for a moment. He whispers with a man about outfitting the prince and how the weaponry is being delivered to the castle.

  We climb the tower stairs. Well, they climb, I seem to be floating. We stop outside the council chamber doors where Marie and two other maids are putting the finishing touches on a serving cart.

  "Gentlemen, Marie, if you please, I would like another moment before going in."

  Bern lets out a loud, annoyed huff as he walks through the door.

  "Of course, your majesty," Duke says as he uses his hands to direct Marie and the cart inside. The other maids scurry off quickly down the tower stairs.

  Henry is taking quick breaths. He runs a hand through his hair as he turns away from me.

  "No turning back now," I say. "It's time to go in there."

  He faces me. "Do you think I've made a big mistake?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Never mind," he says, shaking his head. "You're right. It's time to go in." Before he pushes the door open, he pauses, facing me once more. "Eglantine, thank you again. I can't tell you how much it means to have you here."

  I nod, first at him, and then toward the door, encouraging him to go through it.

  At first, I barely recognize it. The table has been pushed up against the far wall and is covered with stacks of parchment. Behind it, a map of the region is pinned to the wall. Chairs which once circled the table now line the side of the room closest to the door, and a few of them are filled with men talking in loud, gruff voices. The sea painting hangs above them, the one thing in the room that hasn't been moved. Marie and her cart are against the wall opposite, and a few men grab some small bites of cake to nibble as they pass on their way to the table.

  “I’m not ready for this,” Henry whispers as he leans in close. “They’re all expecting me to lead them, and I’d rather run away.”

  “Shhh,” I say back. “You don’t want them to know that.”

  “Right.” He adjusts his shirt, tugging down on the front of it and smoothing it out. Then, taking two steps forward, a newfound confidence emanates from him as he opens his mouth and speaks so all can hear. “What have we come up with so far?”

  One of the men at the table turns toward Henry. “Your highness, we think we have a plan.”

  “Show me then," Henry replies.

  He points to the map behind the table, and I recognize it from my childhood. Father used to show it to me as he pointed out various important places in the region. To the north, on top of them all, stands my country, Cray, well over half its perimeter sea-bordered. In the center, nearly landlocked, lies Fallund. And to the south and west, a country I know little about. Tern.

  Picking up a quill, the man dipped it in ink and then took it to the map, drawing a line partway across the Southern border of Fallund. “This is the land believed to be inhabited by the barbarians. This is where we believe Tern will attack. Straight on.”

  “So what’s our plan?”

  “Well, at first, we thought to stand back, allowing them to slaughter the barbarians at will, and only acting in self defense if things came far enough into our country.”

  “And now?” Prince Henry asks. I watch him, his eyes fierce and determined as he listens to them.

  “Sire,” Bern says. “We seek his majesty’s approval for any plan we decide on. If you do not like this plan, we want you to let us know.”

  “What is it?” Henry asks.

  “Our plan…” began the first man. His long, scrawny, hosen covered legs stand out to me. I’d only ever noticed his nose before, when his legs had been tucked under the table. He looks to Bern momentarily, as if seeking approval before letting the prince in on their strategy. “Our plan is to come to this point.” His finger falls on a speck of land very near their southern border.

  “But that’s nearly into Tern,” Henry says. “What purpose will that serve?”

  “We mean to communicate with the barbarians, seek an alliance with them—of sorts—and ensure that Tern stays within its border. If it’s a war they want, a war we will give them.”

  Henry looks to me, but what can I do except shrug my ignorant shoulders, which I do.

  “What are the risks?” Henry asks. I think it is a wise question.

  Bern answers him. “Tern's army is much larger than ours. Even with the barbarians fighting on our side, we may lose. Once this war is over, they may seek further battles, out of revenge. It could go on for ages.”

  “Are there any other risks?”

  Bern looks away, and I think he must not be ready to accept all the risks yet. The tall, thin man answers instead. “The barbarians may turn on us. It is unclear whether they know a war is coming or not. We know little about their communication abilities as it is. If we frighten them, we may start a war on our own, without any help from Tern. After that, they will come anyway, and the casualties on our side will be catastrophic.”

  I watch Henry’s eyes twitch, and imagine he wants to cover them, or rub his forehead, or run his fingers through his hair, but he stands firm, his hands clasped behind his back. “Are there any advantages?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” Bern says. “We keep the war farther away from our people. We teach Tern a lesson about attempting to threaten us into war, and it is possible we form an alliance with a people that frankly, we’ve needed to deal with for a long time, even before the death of the king and queen.”

  I am nervous for Henry at the mention of his parents, thinking he may not want to think about that right now, but it does not seem to affect him. “When will the army be ready?”

  “They are moving as we speak, forming a straight line across the countryside where they will begin their march toward the southern border at our command. If we want them to be on the move by tonight, we need to alert them within the next three hours.”

  Behind us, the door opens and Duke pops his head in momentarily. “Master Henry, the smithy is here to measure you for armor.”

  At this, the tall man looks shocked. “Prince Henry, what does he mean?”

  “He means it is time for me to be fitted into my armor. Bern and I will deliver the message to the army. I accept your plan. We are going to war.”

  “But why go yourself, sire? Do you mean to fight in the war?”

  “I cannot ask my people to fight if I am not willing to fight with them.” I smile at him admiringly. For a moment, although they look nothing alike, he reminds me of Father.

  “Your highness, I am strongly against it.”

  “Your opinion is noted. Bern already tried to talk me out of it to no avail.”

  “ But what if you perish? What will happen to the kingdom?” I cringe at the thought, hoping I will not have to witness such a thing.

  “In that case, Duncan will be made king. It’s not that complicated,” Henry says, no emotion in his voice, no hint that it would matter to him either way. I wonder about this Duncan, whom I keep hearing about but whom I have yet to meet. Suddenly I am aware of the deep silence all around me, and most of the men have their heads pointed toward the ground. Are they silent because they worry for their leader? Or is it because they fear if this leader is lost, there is no hope in the next?

  “Please finalize all the details. I will report back here in promptly one hour. Please have a written war plan for me to sign and take with me to the commanders of the army.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the tall man says. Bern nods at Henry.

  He turns to leave and I follow, caught up in thoughts of how I ever came to be here. Had I never been cursed, would Prince Henry and I ever have met? Would the old alliance between our two countries have been enough reason to form any sort of friendship, or even acquaintance? He says he remembers me from childhood, but I have no recollection. For a moment, I am grateful for my curse, for my permanent state of slumber, for my frequent envelopment in strange dreams, and for the simple fa
ct it all led me here—with him.

  We walk outside the council chamber and around a corner before he drops the strong façade. Placing his head against the stone wall he lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  “You did it well,” I say. “I knew you would.”

  1

  Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

  10

  Beast

  Morning light, bright and undaunted, shone down on the corridors and alleys surrounding the castle, warming Duncan's back and arms. He stepped lightly, feeling carefree himself, the events of his previous visit to the prison girl lingering in his mind. The thought of her hair beneath his hands in particular rested on his consciousness, imprinted and permanent. Winning her trust, even in that small measure, had been more satisfying than any other feat, even beating Henry at horseback racing or fencing as he had once or twice in their growing years.

  "Morning, Thomas." The man waited outside, resting against the prison wall, soaking up the rarity of unhindered sunshine.

  "Good morning to you, Prince Duncan," he said.

  "How is she today?"

  "Why don't you see for yourself?" He smiled as if he carried some great secret, a good secret, and Duncan rushed inside only to find . . .

  "Marie?" The castle maid stood inside the prison cell with the girl, beaming as she looked toward the prince. "Marie, what are you doing here?"

  Only then did Duncan catch sight of her, and it took several seconds of staring and thinking, thinking and staring, until he realized it truly was her.

  The rags, ripped and torn, had vanished, replaced by a long dress, light brown with petite sleeves, and tied with a dark blue sash. An empty basin also stood inside the bars, and guessing by the luster of her hair and skin, as well as the fragrance of jasmine, she had bathed.

  "Marie, what have you done?"

  Thomas came and opened the cell door, allowing Marie to exit. As she passed through, she handed the hairbrush to Duncan and said, "Your turn. I've been brushing since dawn." A wide smile formed on her lips. When the prince gave no response, she tried to explain. "I thought a bath may entice her, when I heard of how much she loved you brushing her hair. My daughter Marguerite chose the dress." She looked to the girl, examining her work, glowing with pride. "There may be hope for her yet, as far as taming her goes."