Beastkeeper

by Cat Hellisen

  Nanna bent to push open the door to the hovel with her elbow. “This way, girl,” she muttered as she looked back, catching Sarah with a wicked gleam of her eye. Reluctantly, Sarah followed her into the darkness. The floor of the shack was thick clay mud, and it sucked at Sarah’s shoes, like hands unwilling to release a captive. The stink was stronger inside. As Sarah’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could finally see where the stench was coming from. Most of the shack was taken up with a simple iron cage. The metal was black and wet-looking under the thin moonlight that slanted through the broken roof.

  Inside the cage was a beast. At first Sarah thought it was a bear, with its head lowered between great hunched shoulders, but then it moved and it was clear that this was no creature she’d ever seen in any book, or on television or at the zoo. There was the essence of bear, yes, but also of wolf, of lion. It was a king beast, great and gray, with coarse fur like matted wires, teeth long as her fingers, eyes like lost planets.

  The beast turned in its cage as Nanna set the pot down and fished out a small, ornate key on a slender chain around her neck. The key seemed a ridiculous thing, pale as fingernail parings, but as Nanna held it she whispered, and the key grew larger, sharper, wicked-looking.

  Sarah rubbed at her eyes, and then firmly decided to put it down to a trick of the light.

  Nanna bowed down to unlock the small door, shoved the pot in, then slammed the door shut as quickly as she could. All through the shack the sound crashed, making the walls shiver, and the wet timbers dropped flakes of gunky dirt down on their heads.

  The beast raised one huge clawed paw—more like a hand—and batted at the pot, spilling the meat and bones into the mildewed straw that covered the floor of its cage.

  From the cage came the most awful sounds. A crunching, splintering cacophony. A gnawing and grinding and sucking. Sarah hugged herself tightly and breathed out through her nose, too scared now to move. It’s not real. None of this is real. Wake up. Wake up. She pinched her arm through the thick knit of her sweater, twisting hard enough to know that she’d be bruised in the morning, but nothing about the scene changed.

  Nanna said nothing while the beast fed. When it was done, she hooked the pot out and locked the cage again. Another whisper, and the key shrank in her hands till it was no bigger than the first joint of Sarah’s smallest finger. She tucked it into her dress again. “There,” she said to Sarah. “Now you’ve met him, the one who carries the curse and passed it on to my son. The man who has tied me to this place, and tied your father, and now you in your turn.”

  Sarah’s arms felt limp, the bones turned to custard. They fell to her side with all the strength sucked out of them. Her legs felt just as useless. She needed to get out of there. With an immense deep breath and a force of will she wasn’t sure how she was able to muster, Sarah staggered backward, away from the thing in the cage. Away from the woman who kept him there.

  Was this what her mother and father had meant when they’d whispered about curses? It had to be. It couldn’t be. This was what her mother had run away from, and it was in Sarah’s family, in their blood. The curse. The curse that hadn’t touched her, or so her father had said.

  She turned and scrabbled at the door, flinging it open so she could run out into the cold air, with the cackle of Nanna’s laughter and the echoing raven caws following her.

  7

  IN CAPTIVITY

  MORNING CAME filtering into Sarah’s room, creeping in on fog-feet. She woke into a silence that was thick and muffled, as if the whole castle was enveloped in cloud. Even the light was hazy. She stretched, working out the cramps in her legs and back.

  Last night she’d run back here because there was nowhere else to go. It all seemed distant and broken, like the last traces of a nightmare already slipping away. Sarah was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt she’d changed into before dinner. She had both arms wrapped around her stuffed animals, and their faces were sodden with her tears.

  She looked down. Her muddy sneakers were laced on her feet, and she’d left smears of red mud all over the blanket.

  “Ugh,” Sarah said, shoving her companions to one side. Her eyes were puffy and tight. Not surprising, since she’d sobbed herself to sleep. “You are making an awful habit of bursting into tears over everything,” she told herself sternly, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She made herself uncurl and hobble over to the bowl of icy water. The candles had burned out in the night, leaving smears of greasy dark wax in the hollows of the glass lanterns. Someone had come and left a bundle of fresh white candles on her desk. They were tied together with rough brown cord. Nanna.

  There were no servants, her grandmother had told her. And that could only mean that her grandmother had been in here last night while Sarah slept. A shudder traveled down her body. Just the thought that the creepy old woman had been sneaking through her room while she was dreaming was horrifying enough, but there was that … thing.

  That thing—the beast—in the cage. It couldn’t really be her grandfather. There was no curse, no magic. In the light of day, such a thing seemed impossible. The raven was trained to talk. Or there were speakers and microphones set up all around the castle. Even here in her room.

  The realization was dizzying. She was completely alone with a madwoman. And her father was the one who had left her there. Sarah cupped water in her palms and splashed it on her face. The cold made her gasp, but it was a good, fierce kind of shock, like being slapped back to reality.

  If there were microphones and speakers in the room, there could be cameras too. There would be electricity—despite the candle lanterns. It was like she was on a deranged film set. And whatever Nanna said about how she had no servants, it was a lie. There were people helping her grandmother—people who set all this up, made the food. Someone had to have designed the beast costume and worn it. Or maybe it was some kind of robotics …

  Why would anyone do all this just to terrify her? Sarah rubbed her hands over her face. How is this not more insane than believing in magic?

  There were two truths, but they couldn’t both be true at the same time.

  “I don’t know what I believe,” Sarah said fiercely into her hands. I don’t know what’s real.

  She lowered her hands and held on to the desk, almost as if it was the only thing that could stop her spinning off the face of the earth. They’re both impossible. Or improbable.

  Not for the first time in her life, Sarah wished that her parents had agreed to buy her a cell phone. It had always felt to her like she was the only one in her class who didn’t have one, but her parents had been adamant that they hadn’t needed cell phones when they were children and she would survive just fine without one. Hah. So much for that.

  Sarah looked around the room. Okay. No phone. And nowhere to charge it even if I did have one. And probably no reception anyway. How had people gotten hold of each other in the dark ages of her parents’ childhood—letters?

  Sarah brightened a little. They couldn’t be completely cut off here. Someone had to make deliveries—there was a road, after all. She would find a way to get help. Quickly, she stripped down and washed herself with cold water and changed into clean clothes. Today she would explore what she could, and find out what was real and what wasn’t. She didn’t care too much about the castle; that was her grandmother’s realm, and there was no escaping it. No, there were other paths to follow.

  There are ways to get free, Sarah thought. There have to be. And I’ll find them no matter what. But first, I think Nanna owes me some answers.

  She dressed warmly against the constant chill and, almost as an afterthought, slipped the little silver teddy pendant over her head. It wasn’t because her mother had given it to her, she told herself, but just that it was something real, and it came from a time when things had been mostly normal. It settled under her T-shirt, cold against her skin, then quickly warmed. Sarah cupped her hand over it and breathed deeply.

  Out here, far away from any citi
es, everything smelled more strongly. It was like scent had become as solid and undeniable as sight. Sarah could smell bacon, the greasy sulfur of eggs, the cold tang of the mud below, the green, dark spice of the forest. She could smell the clouds, the rainy potential of them waiting to break open. Sarah closed her eyes. She could even smell the stones, their flint and the weight of their years. Weird.

  Maybe it was because there was nothing else to distract her from really concentrating. She dropped her hand away from the little hidden bear and went down to the kitchen, ready to face the woman who called herself her grandmother, and demand to know exactly what was going on.

  Sarah raced down the echoing stairs, glanced into the hall where she’d eaten last night, and saw no one. The table had been cleared. She paused. Faintly, from below, came the clanking of pots and dishes.

  That had to be from the other people in the castle. The ones who were helping her grandmother in this ridiculous deception. The bird had been a good trick, though—it had seemed so real. Last night, tired and scared, she’d truly believed in curses and magic and all kinds of childish nonsense.

  “Raven?” Sarah called out, but the large room stayed quiet. She shook her head. The bird was just a well-trained pet. Maybe it was microchipped so that her grandmother could trace it wherever it went, or—

  Stop it, Sarah thought. Assume nothing. Trust nothing. She stepped away from the open door. If all of this was a huge setup, if none of it was really real, then the first thing she wanted to do was go see the beast. Whatever it was—living creature or a mess of wires and metal and fur. All the truth would be revealed if she could just see for herself.

  * * *

  The air outside was clammy with the promise of rain. If anyone had noticed Sarah slipping out the wide castle door, they weren’t doing anything about it. It was easy enough to see the path she’d taken last night. The mud had dried a little in ridges and waves, but the footprints she and Nanna had left were clear enough. The path was worn deep through the grass—it had been there a long time. She picked her way along the track, and the dew-heavy grasses wiped their tears against her jeans, soaking the cuffs and her sneakers, until each step sounded with a soggy squelch. Tiny spiderwebs hung with diamonds glittered in the pale sunshine, looking like fairy castles tucked away in the tanglehead grass.

  She followed the track around to the back of the castle, and as she did, a faint mist slithered out from the forest and began to follow her. It grew thicker with every step she took, curling around her feet and blanketing away the spider-castles. Above, the sun grew dimmer, peering through a lacework of dark clouds.

  Now the path was swallowed up, and hulking dark shapes loomed out of the fog. Sarah approached them with trepidation, only to find they were merely the rusting remains of ancient farm machinery. She hadn’t seen these last night; it had been too dark, the only light coming from her grandmother’s lamp. She slowed down, peering at each abandoned husk.

  There was something that had once been a car, but any hope that it would ever run was quickly flattened as she drew nearer. It rested on its axles, and it was nothing more than scrap. One door hung half off its hinges, and inside the seats were covered with straw; small weeds grew through the rusted floor. Sarah stuck her head in an open window. A pair of sleepy hens clucked at her from the back, their amber eyes conveying annoyed boredom.

  “Sorry,” Sarah said, and pulled back from the car door. The rust left wet red smears on her palms. This wasn’t why she was here—looking for hens and cars that would never run. She peered over the roof, and there it was: the small shed.

  It looked bigger in the daylight, the mist dragging at its walls, moisture sliding down from the straw eaves to plop steadily in the mud. The top of the straw roof was black, and a few pale stems jutted out from underneath. Sarah stepped under the eaves and tugged at one straw. It pulled out easily, like a loose tooth. Sarah dropped the piece of straw into the mud at her feet and, with a deep breath, examined the door.

  It was a stable door with both halves held closed by old iron bolts. Like everything else here, the metal was rough and etched with rust. Stains from the eroding metal wept redly down the scarred paint. Someone had once painted the door a bright and cheery blue, the color of a new summer sky, but now the paint was cracked, and long strips had peeled away to reveal wood that was slowly blackening. It looked pulpy and rotten. If there really was a beast kept in here, the door would do nothing to stop it from breaking free, if ever her grandmother forgot to lock the cage.

  There’s no beast …

  Sarah glanced behind her to where the ivy-covered castle walls poked up through the low fog, but the castle windows were too narrow for her to see anything. Certainly, it didn’t look like anyone was watching her. She shook her head and tiptoed to the door. The bolts were stiff, and she wrestled a little with them before they scraped back.

  Okay, the moment of truth. She pulled.

  The reek slapped her—meaty, musky, wild. The stink of wet dog multiplied a thousand times; cat urine and the too-sweet smell of rotting things. In the daylight it seemed slightly more bearable. Even so, it was a rank and ugly smell.

  “Hello?” Sarah said into the interior of the hut. The windows let in no light, and Sarah guessed that they’d been boarded up, or were too filthy to do any good. The only light came from the doorway, and she was blocking most of it. She stood on the threshold, not really wanting to set foot inside that room even if it would solve one mystery.

  Nothing answered her.

  Animatronics. It had to have been. Or some kind of puppet. She cleared her throat and spoke louder. “If there’s anyone in here—”

  Something shifted in the gloom, and the darkness that filled the cottage moved.

  “You can come out now…” Sarah’s voice faltered.

  “Girl.” The voice was gruff, and so thick that Sarah almost wasn’t sure it had actually said a word, or if her overactive imagination had just turned some animal growl into one.

  “Oh dear,” Sarah said, and fervently wished that she had stayed back in her room and pretended to be a good granddaughter and hadn’t even had the slightest thought of exploring or trying to solve any mysteries. She should have sat in her room and read her books, or played make-believe with Steg and Hedge, even if that seemed silly and childish and not real at all.

  Right now silly and childish and not real sounded very appealing. “Um.” Sarah edged back, ready to slam the stable door shut and bolt it up again.

  “Wait,” said the darkness. It moved again, and Sarah could see the outlines of the iron cage, and the hulking shape trapped inside it. “Come closer.”

  “Um,” said Sarah again. “I can hear you perfectly well from here, actually, if that’s all right.”

  “You—” The voice coughed, growled, then it sounded like whoever was talking spat a thick wad of something onto the ground, where it landed with a raw splat.

  Sarah closed her eyes and grimaced.

  “You were here last night,” the beast tried again. “With Inga.”

  “Nanna,” Sarah whispered in answer. “With Nanna.”

  “Ah,” said the beast. “So you’re truly our grandchild, then.”

  Not a beast. A man in a costume. A prank. A stupid game to scare me. Sarah mustered up her courage with a deep breath and stepped farther into the crumbling shed. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “I’ve worked it all out. It’s tricks and stuff.”

  “What is?”

  “This. You.” Sarah waved in the direction of the iron bars and the vast furry shape behind them. “I don’t know why, and it’s not funny, but I know that none of this is real.” I know.

  “Inga brought you to me last night, that you would see and understand.” Two lights like lamps shone suddenly in the gloom, and Sarah realized that until now the beast’s head had been turned away from her. “If I am just a trick, then step closer.”

  “Look, I’m not totally stupid,” Sarah said. “I don’t need to get any
closer to you, really.”

  “But how then can I make you believe?” The beast moved again, turning to face her completely. It was easier to see him now—scarily easy. “Closer.”

  Sarah shifted forward despite her fear, and something cracked under her foot. She looked down. In the filthy scattered straw she could make out other pale shapes: long thin bones and tiny skulls. Her breathing hitched.

  This was a lot of effort to go to just to get the atmosphere right.

  Sarah’s face grew numb and cold, and her breathing went ragged. No. Please, no. But she kept walking.

  Finally, she was close enough to the iron bars to be able to reach a hand through to touch the hunched thing inside it, if she’d wanted to. Which she didn’t. Except she did, just a little bit. Curiosity killed the cat.

  “Look at me.”

  Sarah raised her head and stared into the huge amber eyes of the beast. They were round and golden, flecked with starry silver points and motes of drifting darkness. The slitted pupils seemed to throb wider in the center of this golden haze of sun rays. Not fake eyes. Not glass. His breath, meaty and stinking, puffed against her face.

  Now she saw his ears trembling, the fine hairs tufting dark. Behind them, bursting from the matted coat, were two coiled ram’s horns.

  He smiled, pulling back his ragged lips to show long yellow teeth, curving to dull points. He could crush her head in his mouth. Saliva gathered in frothy loops from those soft, rippled black gums, and dripped to the floor.

  “No,” said Sarah. She felt rooted in place, unable to step away from the thing before her, but still not wanting to believe it.