"Bear poopin prat!" Rune screams and a corncob whizzes by Beauty's ear. It pains her to hear curses coming from her daughter's lips. She pokes the fire and remembers a time Rune mimicked the songs of birds, the snickering of grey fox, the greeting calls of every wild creature so authentically they followed her home. How many injured animals had Rune brought to this cave? At least once a month, she tottered in carrying a sparrow with a broken wing or an orphaned bear cub. Diligently and steadfastly Rune nursed her charges back to health until the joyous moment she released them back into her forest.
Fourteen-year-old Rune is sullen, silent, and self-absorbed. She stays in her room for hours and hours staring at her reflection in a basin of water. She coated the walls of her hollow with clay and paints fanciful scenes upon the surfaces: sunshine on a field of wild roses, ocean waves rolling onto a white sand beach, a rainbow arcing over a towering castle, the church spires and rooftops of cities, scenes she has seen only in books. Beauty shakes her shaggy head whenever she passes Rune's room, which used to be neat as a pin and now looks as if a herd of wild boar ran amok in there.
One afternoon last month, Beauty cleaned the room while Rune was out swimming in Lake Leda. She thought Rune would be pleased upon her return. She was not; she hollered at Beauty, "Don't I have any privacy?"
Lately, it seems I can't do anything right, Beauty thinks. Just this morning, for example, Rune groused, "You put raisins in the oatmeal. I hate raisins."
"Since when?" Beauty asked, incredulous because Rune had always considered raisins a treat. Following a long and uncomfortable silence, Rune asked, "Do you have a cold, Mother?”
"I do not." Beauty replied.
"Okay, then why are you breathing like that?" Rune curled her lip and clucked her tongue.
"Why are you chewing with your mouth open?" Beauty snapped back, and Rune dashed out of the cave in snit.
"You can dish it out, daughter, but you can't take it." Beauty cried after her. "Do you think me beyond pain? You are my heart, my raison d'etre."
Now, Beauty throws a log on the fire, and Rune's water basin bounces off her back. "Hedge warty snort farty hog!" Rune bellows.
"Was I ever that crazy?" Beauty grumbles. Try as she might to conjure the spirit of young Beauty she can only recall years of evading tortures, of striving to be good enough to win affection from her sisters and her father. Rune's father . . . maybe his blood is making her crazy.
Beauty remembers fits thrown by both the Beast and the prince, though the Beast's explosive rages decreased as their relationship progressed, and Runyon's unreasonable tantrums increased after their marriage. Which one is her father?
Before realizing what she's doing Beauty sighs a wistful, fairy tale beauty sigh.
* * *
A sneer twists Elora’s blackberry lips. Croesus scrambles across the floor and jams his head under the Aubusson rug.
"Fourteen years--count 'em--fourteen, since she used that inane, breathy habit of beauties," Elora fumes, rapping her nails over the crystal ball.
"Look at her, Croesus, a ferocious, fabulous beast reduced to sighing over a hearth. Croesus? Get your round noggin up here, you cowardly dust bunny."
Croesus sneezes twice and slinks to Elora's side. He looks into the crystal ball, then slowly turns his head and rolls his eyes to the left like Jack Benny responding to a Rochester wisecrack.
"Tell me about it. What's the big sneeze over paternity anyway? It's not as if she can get them both on one of those Jerry Springer, Which man's the father of my baby-DNA expert waiting in the wings, shows. So deal with it, girl. Was I ever that crazy? she says. Beauty may not be able to remember her pre-teen puckers, but we do, don't we?"
Croesus nods his head and is rewarded with a Beggin Strip.
"Instead of stamping WELCOME on her forehead she should have been more like Rune. That kid doesn't take any crap. Just once, I'd have killed to see Beauty flatten her sisters, tell her old man to get bent, stand up to the girls who snubbed her and the boys who teased her.
Croesus paws Elora's knee. "Yeah, you're right. I love them both more than my Testa Rosa, but if I exist longer than Methuselah, I still won't understand the attraction in motherhood. Pah-lease. First, the woman's body swells up like a Macy's parade balloon. Then there's labor--eighteen hours of trying to force seven pounds of flesh out of a three-inch opening. Eee-uuu," Elora shudders.
Croesus sticks out his tongue and sounds a raspberry.
"And when Mom's labor is over, after no sleep for two days, and her uterus oozing and throbbing like a bad tooth, the baby clamps its ridged gums down on her nipple and sucks til the cows come home."
Croesus drops to the floor and covers his ears.
Elora wags her finger at the Pac Man table relegated to a corner alcove. "Babies are like that game. They come into your life and gobble up everything they need: your food, your time, and your sleep, leaving baby squeezings behind them. What does a mother get in return? Sore breasts, fatigue, hair loss, stretch marks, constipation, and roids."
Croesus belly crawls towards the door.
"Don't even try to sneak off while I'm talking."
The dog freezes in mid-crawl.
"So, a mother manages to keep the kid alive through childhood, and the little nipper is even sometimes entertaining. Then just as Mom begins to relax, figures she's got the motherhood thing down, puberty hits and for the next four years, Sibyl's in the house. If it was me . . ." Elora swirls her index finger and Croesus dives under a pinball machine. "I'd change the kid into a gecko at age twelve, keep it in a cage and feed it flies until it was old enough to leave. Uh-oh. What's this?"
Elora leans in close to the crystal ball. "Is she . . .? Bricklebrit!"
Croesus coughs; three gold coins fly and drop plink-plank- plunk into the game room's Lost Child of Brussels Fountain.
* * *
"I'm a failure as a mother," Beauty laments. Her eyes burn, her nose prickles, her throat tightens, and she breaks into sobs. Oh, hers are terrible, earth shaking sobs because she is a beast and because she has not cried for fourteen years. Her wails are so deafening she doesn't hear the rapid patter of beastie feet.
"I'm sorry, Mommy!" Rune bawls and throws herself across Beauty's knees. She twitches her purple cauliflower nose and begins the glottal clicking she used to make whenever she was a scared little girl.
Beauty closes her eyes, rests her cheek on the top of Rune's head and rocks slowly. She understands it's a self-indulgent satisfaction; the pleasure she feels from Rune's needy embrace. What's a mother supposed to do when her crying, clinging child apologizes? If any other creature had dared bite her, it would be missing a limb at the very least. Is not forgiveness expected from mothers? Do not selflessness and motherhood go hand and hand? What are the alternatives? Give hurt for hurt and bite her back with fangs or with accusations?
Beauty knows, from experience that words can injure more than blows when delivered by a loved one. She opens her eyes and notices the bloodstained bundle near the hearth. She slides a foot forward, slips her great toe talon under the knot and releases the cloth. The rich, heavy satin unfolds on its own accord into a gown trimmed with seed pearls and lace; a gold crown and a spiny pelt lie at the bloody center. Beauty's mouth turns dry as cotton and her head grows light with fear.
"Rune, you must tell me the truth about what happened tonight, in case a hunting party . . . if we have to leave now," Beauty stammers.
Rune lifts her face, and Beauty's heart wants to break in half. "Oh, Mommy, it's Hans. I loved him, and I thought he loved me too, but tonight . . ." Rune blubbers and burrows into Beauty's chest.
Beauty doesn't know much about Hans other than the fact that he's a hedgehog from waist up and a human from waist down. For this reason alone, assuming he's under a curse, she has forbidden Rune to go near him.
Rune sniffles and says, "I should have been a good daughter and not disobeyed you. I didn't know it was Hans' playing the wonderful bagpipe music that first dr
ew me into Vagary Vale."
Beauty holds Rune closer, swallows the terror lodged in her throat and asks, "Did you take a life tonight?"
"No, but I wish I was dead," Rune bawls.
"The blood--it's not yours?"
"I barely scratched him. Don't worry. No one will hunt for us. Hans never wants to lay eyes on me again. He's gone off to marry his pah-pah-princess!" Rune wails.
Beauty rocks her anew and exhales with relief. Her heartbeat slows, moisture returns to her mouth, and she nuzzles Rune's ear. Eventually, Rune's sobs diminish to hiccups.
"The first warm morning last June, I climbed to the top of Hesitation Hill to pick wild violets," she says. "You know the sunny spot where a giant blue spruce fell?"
Beauty nods.
"In the beam of sunlight, dew sparkled like diamonds on everything: leaves, rocks, grass, spider webs, violets. I imagined I was in a fairy grotto. I never felt so . . . so aware. Then I heard music; oh, it filled up my chest, my ears, my head with . . . I don't know . . . longing? I followed the sound to a black oak beside the stream flowing through Vagary Vale. The music stopped and a voice called: Hello down there. Can you sing? Well, you know me, Mom. I broke right into my Walking Through The Woods song."
Beauty strokes Rune's back. "One of my favorites."
"Hans liked it, too. I mean he liked my voice. He jumped from the tree, and I knew he must be Hans the Hedgehog, that I should leave at once because you said to stay away from him. Mom, he wasn't scary. His tiny black eyes twinkled. His short spines bristled, and his pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth while he danced from one human leg to the other in red leather shoes. He sounded funny and cute, as if his voice came straight out of his pointed little nose. He said: “Wow, you're the foice I'fe been waiting for. What clarity, what pitch, what folume!" Rune resonates through her ample nasal passages, and Beauty stifles a laugh.
"He dug into his breeches and brought out a bunch of paper. He said, “I'fe fritten scores and endured the frustration of nefer joining melodies with lyrics. I can play the pipes and imagine the words or I can sing the words and imagine the music mut nefer hear a whole composition. Always half of one, half of fanother. Have you ever heard such an intense metaphor?" Rune gravely asks.
By now, Beauty's chest is heaving with silent guffaws.
"I know," Rune pats Beauty's back. "It's so moving."
Beauty dabs her eyes and says, "Go on, dear, and tell me more."
"Well, Hans said: “Forgive me, I was overcome my the meauty of your foice sufficient to forget my manners. I'm Hans the Hedgehog.” The morning flew by under the black oak with Hans playing his pipes and me singing his songs. He asked if I'd come again the next day, and I said I would. And because I was forbidden to go, it seemed all the more exciting. I'm sorry, Mom, but that's the truth."
Beauty knits her brow. "I want you to be honest with me, but I do wish you could have been truthful sooner."
"Creechy, I was too confused. I didn't know who I was or what I thought. I wondered about my place in the universe; what is my destiny? During those weeks Hans and I met, I was happy one minute and sad the next. I was shy and bold, nervous and calm, sleepless and tired."
Rune clasps her hands over her heart. "His songs were amazing. All the mixed up feelings I couldn't express, he had already written, like: Lonely Only Me; Wind In My Ears And Snow In My Soul; Hedgehog Fog; These Spines Are Fine; Curl Up In A Ball And The World Can't Hurt You. Finally, I had a friend, someone who really understood me; someone my own age to talk to."
She has developed a flair for the dramatic, Beauty thinks. The niggling suspicion that Runyon's personality traits are emerging worries her, but she quickly dismisses the thought. No child of the cowardly Runyon would bite a beast and bloody a prince. "Has Hans told you that he loves you?" Beauty asks.
"Not in those words, but in many ways," Rune whines. "We were a duet. Hans said I was smart as a whip and cute as a button, that my smile was beguiling and my voice angelic. He kissed my forehead and cheek many times. He said one day we’d tour Grimm Land and perform for peasants and royals alike. I was so excited imagining the wondrous places beyond this cave I would finally see for myself as Han’s wife. Would he say those things if he didn't love me?"
"There are degrees of love," Beauty replies.
"A month ago, Hans went to three kingdoms to see if any were in need of musicians. I missed him so much that I couldn't even sing. I felt as if I'd fallen from a tree and knocked the wind out of my lungs." Rune heaves a sigh and hangs her head.
"When Hans came back, he didn't want me around as much. He said I was a distraction from his work on new songs and that he'd pin a red flag on the oak when he was ready to practice. Every morning, I'd wake and think, Today is the day I'll see a red flag on the black oak. Each day, my hopes were dashed. The first week, I stayed well back from the tree. The second week I went closer and crept up below the branches to see if he was writing in the treetop; he wasn't. Two days ago, I decided to stay until nightfall; I just needed to see him, but he didn't come home. The same thing happened last night. Then tonight . . .” Rune's voice cracks and tears well around her hazel orbs.
“ . . . I was hiding behind a mulberry bush when Hans rode in on a spotted mare. I wanted to run to him, but I waited, thinking that any minute he'd pin a red flag to the tree. The minutes turned into an hour with Hans watching the south road and me watching Hans. It was awful. If I didn't talk to him, I'd die. So, I took a deep breath and was about to step out when I heard the clatter of wheels. A carriage drawn by four white horses appeared on the south road and came to a stop alongside the oak. Hans hurried to the carriage door, opened it, and a princess stepped out."
Rune snuffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Mama, I felt so strange when I saw her. I've never seen a real human girl, just pictures in books. It seemed that I knew her, and that she knew me. I wanted to call to her or sing. I felt she would recognize my voice and answer. For a moment, I didn't know which one I wanted to run to more, Hans or the princess. That doesn't make sense, does it?"
Beauty's skin prickles with apprehension and she shakes her head.
"Creechy, Hans held onto her white hand like it was a baby dove, and he said: Darling Princess Greta, I knew you would come. She smiled, a forced smile, Mom. She could barely contain her disgust; she fairly shook with it. Then Hans said: For your obedience to your father and because of your pure heart, I can now shed this beastly exterior, this form I loath, and become Prince Hans once more." Rune moans and sounds three glottal clicks.
Beauty's mind reels, remembering the very moment, many years ago, when she was the maiden facing a beast. She hugs Rune tight. "Tell me the rest."
"Oh, Mommy,” Rune whispers, her pupils contracting to pin points. "He grabbed his hedgehog skin at the waist, pulled it over his head, and dropped it to the ground. I thought I was going to vomit. Underneath, his top half was as human as his bottom half. He grew about three feet, and his chest and arms filled with muscles. The hair on his head was black as a crow and his eyes were blue as Lake Leda. Princess Greta sure changed in a hurry. She curled around him like Celia the Snake on a May pole, and she said: Dearest Hans, let us leave at once for my father's palace. The bans will be announced, and we can marry on Christmas day and live happily ever after in your kingdom. Then Hans kissed her." Rune sniffles and clicks.
"I should have known that at your age . . .” Beauty trails off. Why didn't I foresee this? I pushed it to the back of my brain, that's why! Not wanting to think about what would happen when my daughter grew old enough to feel the stirrings of desire; that one day she may want to become a mother and with all the complications involving the beast spell . . . "What happened next?"
"I dashed out from behind the bush and confronted Hans. I was really mad! I picked up his skin and told him to put it back on, to get his bagpipes and let's hit the road. He looked at me as if I was something smelly he'd stepped in. Then he just turned, took Greta’s arm in his a
nd started walking toward the carriage.
"I couldn't stand it. I hated Princess Greta. I snatched the gold crown off her head and tore the satin gown from her body."
Rune's voice carries a vindictiveness that makes Beauty wince. She can well imagine how bewildered and frightened Greta must have been, and she is ashamed of Rune's behavior.
"Greta fainted on the spot," Rune grumbles. "The coachman leapt from his seat and covered her with his cloak. As he was putting her inside the carriage, Hans screwed up his face and snarled at me: Go away, Rune. Because I have cared deeply for you, I'll forgive you, but I never want to lay eyes on you again."
Beauty hears Rune's fangs grinding together.
"I wasn't about to leave without giving him something to remember me by. I slapped him across that stupid false face. Not any harder than when I play tag with Bobby the Badger. Human skin is really fragile. He bled a lot. I felt bad, so I picked up the dress and held it to his face. He pushed me and flung the dress in my face. Then he grabbed the crown and his hedgehog skin and threw those at me too! I grabbed them and ran away shrieking mad. Oh, Mommy, I'm so stupid. I still love him. Somewhere inside is my Hans. Maybe if I changed too, he'd love me again. But how can I change into a human princess?” Rune sputters and collapses into a crying jag.
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