A Beast’s Tale
I searched the earth for an answer, for something to ease the torment of a disfigured child. For half a decade I searched, scoured the earth and the seven seas for an answer, and at last, I found one. I had nearly forgotten the family, the young, merchant-borne duke who had begged for his wife’s fertility. The brave, young man who had faced a monster to defend his wife and who had promised me anything in return for the object of her desire. I had asked a boon, and in his desperation, the merchant promised whatever price I chose at the cost of the dragon-bone rose—a gift, for his childless bride.
At last, I returned to them.
The duke no longer bears resemblance to the wealthy middling class man he had been, and his entitled duchess wife no longer the poor lady she had been either. The palace has gone from an old, but carefully tended castle to a great structure of pomp and flourish. The stones are cleaned and painted, and the windows all replaced with painted glass panes. Brilliantly red curtains hang from the battlements, and people cover the entire land, in and out of the castle, along the walkways and within the windows. Incredible statues are carved and placed all around the courtyard and gardens, and great, towering fences of iron decorate the lands. Additions have been made to the fortress as well, dwarfing the original structure.
But most impressive of all the renovations are the flowers. The entire castle is surrounded by gardens of the most brilliant and colorful designs, hanging pots of color dripping along the stone wall, elegant green vines curling up the stones. Bushes and fruit-bearing trees, bubbling fountains and delicate arbors and gazebos. But best of all—the roses. Roses of every color the likes of which I have never seen. Some with small blooms and a bright pink design, the others with large, beautiful plumes of petals in soft yellow. And blue roses circling the garden, some tipped with white or lavender. There are orange and red and white roses, all of varying hues and hybrids. So amazed am I that I scarce hear the scream of a maiden when I descend upon the cobblestone courtyard to peer with wonder at the gardens all around.
I watch all of these wondrous sights under a clear sky with a big, beautiful moon of pale silver. With my own beastly eyes, I can see every color clearly, but I do wish that I had been able to visit in the brightness of a noon day when the flowers are at their most radiant. Instead, the silver light of the moon pours down on them, stroking their soft petals and nestling amongst them all with eager adoration to be loved by their beauty.
At last, a soldier’s shout draws my attention. “Black shade!” he cries. “A wraith!”
I turn my eyes to the man with a most aggravated expression and call in my gravelly voice, “I am expected.” Everyone goes horribly still, but when I press onward, the soldier bares his arms to me. I pause and look him straight in the eyes. “If you would prefer, I can spare the time to turn you into some ghastly creature of darkness before I meet with your lord.” The man pales considerably, and I am offered no further resistance as I make my way into the palace.
The hall is lit with warmth and fire everywhere, and brightly colored tapestries hang upon the stone walls. Fresh rushes are scattered upon the ground, and the entire entryway smells of lavender and honey. Flowers fill the inner halls as well, pots and vases of beautiful blossoms that fill the entire hall with color and laughter. It is such a pleasant and comforting feeling, this home, and I have no doubt that it is all from the efforts of the lovely duchess. The entire castle ebbs of fertility and matriarchy.
The servants all cower, but the merchant is within the hall, at the table with his servants and his two daughters, trembling near where they had been taking their dinner. I recognize him at once—the sun kissed skin and warm-colored hair. “Wh-What are you doing here?” cries the merchant, now old and fat and dressed in riches, but bravely moving before his daughters as he had done many years ago for his wife. Apparently more years than I remembered. And I have no doubt that his fear is not for his own life but for whatever boon I may ask of him. The man has much to lose now.
His two daughters are both as lovely as their mother, one in the cusp of adolescence and one not far from it. The elder displays her father’s light brown hair and warm honey-brown eyes. She has an air entirely of softness and delicacy to her like a beautiful lily. The younger of the two has eyes just as brown, but hair dark and rich, just as her mother’s had been. But she carries about her the air of defiance and coarseness in those eyes and gritted teeth. How very opposite they seem, the fragile older sister and the fearless younger one. Perhaps one of them will be the one I seek.
After observing them for a while, I return my attention to the host. “I have come to collect my debt,” I growl, for I cannot speak gently even when I try.
“Wh-what debt?” gasps the merchant.
I roar with thunder and power, and the palace trembles and quakes at the sound. “Do not play the fool!” I demand. “The debt you owe for the fruitfulness of your wife!” I certainly hope this man does not mean to play the fool and keep from me that which I have demanded. I would hate to curse him or his family, but I will not tolerate a double-crosser.
“My wife is dead!” cries the merchant with a sob, and I am truly sad for the news. Ah, so that is why the young bride is not among her family. It is a sad thing, to lose something so gentle and kind from this world. “I have only my daughters now!” He clutches both of his trembling children to him. “Ask anything!” he cries. “Riches, land, whatever you desire!” I do not remember the man being such a coward in his youth, but I suppose the strength in youth is replaced with wisdom in age. Unfortunately, I do not think the duke has gained as much in wisdom as he has lost in strength.
I stand in the great hall, a low rumbling in my chest as I consider the merchant and the two, trembling forms he clings to. I turn my attention first to the oldest. She is older than I would have liked, for the Darkwaters child is nearly half her age, but if she would be the one I seek, then it shall not matter in a few years. “What is your name, girl?” I try to soften my voice, but it still is a rough rumble within my chest, and she flinches.
She squeaks and stammers, “I-I-I-Isab-beth… s-sir…” She speaks just as she seems, soft and kind, respectful. She may be the one I hope for, for surely kindness is what is most needed to soothe the soul of the tormented child.
“Isabeth…after your mother, Isabella?” I ask.
“Y-Yes—sir…” she stammers. Now if only she would speak clearly and stop trembling…
I bow to her formally, although she can see nothing but the darkness beneath my hood, and it terrifies her. “Tell me, Isabeth…would you marry a beast?”
The child then nearly convulses and chokes a sob in her throat. “Oh gods! No, please! I beg you!” she wails with utmost terror, and my heart sinks. Kind she may be, but kindness alone will not help her to suffer the sight of a monstrous mate. A lily indeed, beautiful but fragile. The little creature crumples into her father and sobs there as I stand, half-bowed before them all, my blue eyes peering out from the darkness of my hood.
“Not my daughters!” pleads the merchant, shoving them back and behind him, and the two girls weep as their father draws his sword. This time we face, the blade trembles in his beefy hands, and I wonder how many years it has been since the man actually used that sword or if it is now merely a decoration for him as is everything else in this castle.
“Silence!” I shout, and again, the castle shakes at the sound, and a few servants scream, one of them fainting. I am very tired of all this noise, and finally, no one speaks a word. I turn my eyes to the younger daughter who clings to her father’s side. She is young, closer to the boy’s age, and unlike her sister, her eyes match mine, refusing to look away. She is small, but she has great courage and spirit to do what many grown men cannot. The longer I watch her, the more her eyes harden with defiance, and she frowns at me. She is no longer trembling, and instead, her brows are pinched together, and the little urchin is nearly glaring at me. “What is your name, child?” I rumble carefull
y.
“S-Sabel,” she forces out, still keeping my eyes, seeming annoyed with the tremor that will not leave her voice. No ‘sir’, no crying. She lifts her chin. Perhaps this may be the one I desire…but that look in her eyes gives me pause. Small and woman she may be, but I would not trust this girl with a dagger at my back. The world is cruel and unkind for those like the little Darkwaters child…I would not wish a cruel-spirited wife upon him to make his life all the more miserable.
“Sabel,” I repeat, as gently as I am able, and I bow to her as well. “Tell me, Sabel…would you marry a beast?”
Sabel recoils from me and gives me a look of utmost disgust and rejection. “Never!” she screams, clinging to her father. “I would not marry you for all the riches of the world! Not even if you threaten my life!” She gasps in a breath, trembling a bit still but staring me down. Not a flower at all then, but a thistle. Her father has lowered his sword, but Sabel is at his side, looking like she might lunge at me and try to claw my eyes out. The little creature actually hisses at me, and my brows go up. No, no, no, damnit…this won’t do at all…
I consider them both and give a long, tired sigh. This will not do at all. The younger daughter may have the courage to stay by the boy’s side, but I fear her presence would be quite worse than the solitude he already suffers. “Have you any other daughters?”
“N-No!” he says quickly, the speed of which gives me pause.
And alas, almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, there is a soft sound, a gentle coo. “Papa?” I turn, and there in the hall, stands a little girl. The whole hall turns to watch her, and all sound fades away. The simpering of the older girls, the furious heartbeat of their father. All sounds die away as the little heiress pads quietly into the great hall.
She surely is no older than five or six, her hair like black silk falling down to her narrow hips, hidden beneath a silken nightgown of indigo. She rubs her eyes and yawns, looking up at me in my hooded cloak with curiosity but not so much alarm. Her eyes go a bit wide, as if beginning to think she should be afraid, and those wide eyes are unlike any that I have ever seen. Green. A brilliant green, like sunlight on a calm meadow grass, but with a burst of blue around the pupil. She is so small, standing there with her fair skin and her dark eyes. She begins to tremble a little bit, but she says not a word.
The whole of the hall is thrown into silence at her presence. The child is young and small. She must be young to have already been in bed so early, for the hour is not late enough to sleep. Not a soul goes to her. No servant nor family runs to her side to save her from the monster. They all leave her there, standing in the middle of the hall, tiny and alone and looking up at me with those incredible two-toned eyes. And yet, she does not scream. Nor does she cry. She merely watches me, wondering what one such as I should be doing in her home.
I turn towards the little goddess standing there…
Chapter Seven
It was soft…why was it so soft? Keturah couldn’t remember ever feeling so comfortable and heavy and sleepy before. She shifted on the bed and everything felt so wonderful…with the exception of something against her face. She shifted, stirring slowly into the waking world. Part of her grappled at that heavy sleep, refusing to forsake it, but her attention was focused on whatever was against her face, and it would not let her settle back with any form of comfort.
Finally, she pushed her eyes open and slid them over to the right only to be met with the sight of tiny, pink digits in front of her eyes. Jacob, the fitful sleeper, had somehow wound up at an angle, one arm dangling off the bed with his head leaned back and one foot shoved in his mother’s face.
Vaguely, she remembered joining Jacob in his room after waking every hour or so for fear. She was not used to sleeping without him by her side. She worried leaving him alone in that place.
Keturah groaned and considered tickling his foot except she wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t jerk and break her nose. So, she pushed the offending member away and yawned, rolling onto her side. It was then that she realized that the room was still very, very dark even though her internal clock was telling her that it had to be at least mid-day. She groaned and sat up, feeling very sore but less pained, wearing the silk nightdress she’d dragged on the first of many times she’d gone to check on Jacob in the night.
She looked around the room and realized that the source of darkness was the heavy, dark-blue velvet curtains. “Oh, gods above,” Keturah groaned. “Don’t you know what sunshine is? What is your obsession with such heavy curtains?” She got up with a grumble to go open the curtains, but as she did so, they shimmied and fluttered, turning into a translucent, sheer blue instead, and Keturah was struck with a face full of sunlight.
She groaned and turned away, rubbing her eyes and swearing in every language she knew—which was quite a few—as Jacob sat up with a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Once Keturah’s eyes had adjusted, she turned back to the balcony window and pushed it open. The morning was still cool, and Keturah wrapped her arms around herself, but it was bright and sunny at the least. She gave a wide yawn and turned around, pulling the doors with her and giving a final shiver. Jacob scrambled out of bed to go and find a chamber pot, and almost as soon as everyone was off the bed, it began to right itself.
Keturah raised a brow at the sight and muttered to herself before looking over at (what she had sworn a moment ago was an empty) breakfast table that was now covered in a plate of choice fruits and cheese and cold cuts. Keturah shut her mouth and looked back up, and there on the neatly made bed was a fine little cream colored doublet and breeches. She marveled and looked over at it, running her hand across the fine material. But then, she scoffed. “You cannot be serious,” she complained to the air. “He’s five years old! What are you doing dressing him in something like this? He’ll ruin it in five minutes!” She could feel the press of magic around her, its discontent with her displeasure and its willingness to please her. She looked back down, and the doublet was now satin instead of silk.
Keturah sighed and rubbed her temples. “Cotton,” she said, “Cotton. Just a cotton shirt, a wool vest, and a pair of warm breeches.” She cracked an eye open, and there they were. She gave an approving nod. “Hmph. Maybe magic isn’t so bad after all.” She stuck her tongue out at the air and watched a sleepy Jacob come trotting over to her.
“Are those for me?” he asked curiously, just the cotton clothes making his eyes wide. No patches. No stains. No worn parts. He had never seen such clothes.
Keturah laughed. “Yes. Get dressed and eat. I’m going to go dress and head down to the gardens. Don’t take too long.” Most of the day was gone, and really she should probably be resting, but she had been stuffed inside the carriage for days and frankly, she was ready to be moving around again, even if it was doing work. Back in her own room, the heavy red curtains had been changed to a glittering sheer that let the golden sunlight pour into the room.
She sighed and walked around her neatly made bed and found her clothing choice on the bed. She squeaked. “You must be mad!” she cried at the room. There on the bed was a beautifully elegant cream and sage colored dress. She was almost afraid to touch the delicate silk which glittered with small gemstones. She just stared at the stiff bodice, the billowing sleeves, and the piles and piles of skirts. Keturah put her hands on her hips. “No. No. What am I supposed to do in this? Cotton. Cotton. Wool. Something warm, useful, and functional.” She could nearly hear the room complaining at her, like an old biddy fussing away unhappily. But soon, there was a cotton dress with long sleeves close to the arms and a wool bodice and linen apron. Keturah put her palm to her head.
“How is a dress functional? I’m going to be in a garden! Breeches would be nice.” She stared at the dress, but it did not change. No breeches appeared. Keturah huffed and swore. “You irritating—” She went off grumbling and muttering to herself, pulling off her nightdress. She yanked the cotton chemise over her head, then the heavier cotton dress, the wool bodice, and t
hen the apron. There were no petticoats or anything, and Keturah gave a mocking look at the corset and left it on the bed. So thankfully, the dress was functional…or at least as functional as a dress could be.
“Is that a dress?” Jacob asked, coming into the room all dressed and looking well-fed.
Keturah blushed angrily and glared at him. “Yes, it’s a dress! How am I supposed to convince this damn thing to put me in pants! Everyone thinks I am a boy!”
Jacob snorted. “I don’t think if the Guardian thought you were a boy that he would give you a dress.”
Keturah opened her mouth and then shut it, looking around the room as if there was someone there. She made an uneasy sound and then sighed. “Fine. See if you can find any shoes for me any—” She had just turned to head to the breakfast table and eat, a tray of hot tea waiting as well, when she nearly tripped over a pair of tall boots, suitable for gardening thankfully. Keturah grumbled at nearly falling over the shoes but pulled on stockings and then her boots and laced them up before eating a full meal.
When she was finished, she sighed and looked down at her cup of tea nervously. “I…suppose it’s time to go…”
“Are you frightened, mother?” asked the child.
She gave him a sour look. “Mother is not frightened of anything.” Jacob did not look convinced, but Keturah huffed and set her cup down, perhaps a bit too roughly from the angry little chink! sound it made. She glanced at it apologetically before heading out of her room. “Come on, Jacob. You’re going to help me in the garden.”
“Really?” he asked excitedly and scurried after her. She stopped at the double doors, and although they had swung in towards the room the night before when they arrived, this time they swung out into the hall. Keturah gave them both a curious glance. Magic made her uneasy…She was used to doing everything herself completely autonomous and unaided by any sort of magical thing. But here, everything changed at will and opened before she arrived and…it was very odd. She wished that she had a pair of eyes to glare into rather than just ominously moving furniture.
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