PRINCESS BEAST

by Ditchoff, Pamela

  “She must be, because she is so very ugly. You should bend to her you rotten old tree. We are going to look right into God’s heaven!” And they did, while lightning streaked through the sky. Rune recalls the lesson her mother had taught her regarding lightning. The riskiest place to be caught in a storm is open terrain and the second riskiest, under a single tree as they are conductors. She swipes a second handful of buckwheat and trots into the forest to wait out the storm. As she watches the blue white bolts crackle through the dark grey sky, she wonders if the Bog King’s daughter is among those bolts. And as adolescent girls will do, she burst into tears at the thought of Helga, a beautiful princess transformed to a bolt of light without a home. It is inconceivable to her that she could meet the same fate.

  The storm stops as suddenly as it began, and Rune leaves the forest. The sun is shining and the oats, barley and flowers raise their heads, but the buckwheat has been singed black and lies flat. She approaches the willow to find it weeping tears. “Why are you crying?” she asks.

  “I am weeping for the buckwheat whose pride and presumption brought them this punishment. Let this be a lesson to you—punishment always follows presumption,” the willow answers. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m crying for Princess Helga, who swallowed her pride for the love of God and the love of a godly man and she was turned into a stupid bolt of light!” Rune blubbers.

  “Didn’t she die and go straight to heaven?” the willow asks.

  “No she did not!” Rune shouts. “She is still trying to earn her way in and it’s been over a century. Creechy, imagine spending a century as a bolt of light. How are you supposed to do good deeds when people run from you, when you can flatten and fry a field? It isn’t fair,” she howls.

  The willow wraps its’ long soft limbs around Rune. “She must have been very evil when she was alive, very proud and presumptuous.”

  Rune is about to shout, She was not, but realizes Helga was quite evil, so she simply rips away from the trees’ embrace, taking three limbs with her as she stalks away, head held high.

  “You’ll end up in the gutter,” the tree calls after her. Rune doesn’t bother responding for her attention is captured by a huge pair of white wings spread like an eagle over a rabbit-kill in the oat field. This time her curiosity gets the better of her and she approaches the winged creature. She has not quite reached the field when the wings fold and a figure rises, holding a young boy in his arms. The boy is as limp as a dead rabbit.

  “Hey--what are you doing with that boy?” Rune hollers, the fur on her back in bristles.

  “I am an angel come down from heaven to take this dead child to visit all the places he has loved. We will pick armfuls of flowers and bring them to God. In heaven, the flowers will bloom even more beautifully than they have on earth. God presses all the flowers to his heart, but one that is dearest to him he gives a kiss and then that flower will sing with the hosanna.”

  Rune has not seen an angel, except in pictures in her mother’s books. This one is very beautiful by earthly standards, thinks Rune, but he doesn’t have a golden aura. The boy’s hand twitches and Rune points to his hand. “I don’t think he’s dead,” she says.

  “Yes he is,” the angel quickly replies.

  “I’m not dead,” the boy whimpers.

  The angel turns his back to Rune. “Which of these plants shall we chose, young dead lad? Here is a tall rosebush whose stem some evil hand as broken,” the angel shouts then whispers, “Yes you are.”

  “He’s not!” shouts Rune.

  “Are you fourteen yet? Have you been confirmed?” the angel asks Rune. “You aren’t wearing a cross and you don’t look well; have you ill a long, long time?”

  “I’m feeling better,” the boy whimpers and the angel kisses the boy, a long, lingering, smothering kiss. The boy returns to dead rabbit limpness, but Rune can hear him say, “Oh, the poor bush! Take it along that it may flower again up with God.”

  The Andersen Land philosopher alights on the rose bush. “Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearances,” the parrot squawks. Elora jumps from behind the willow tree in her toothless, red babushka-headed, bent-with-arthritis, bow-legged, sack-of-sticks-on-back, crone disguise. The parrot takes wing, but the angel stands firm. She waves a stick in the air and snarls, “Bricklebrit, beat it you blasted vulture.”

  The angel spreads his wings and flies upward. Rune watches him disappear into the clouds, cradling the boy with a beatific smile. She turns to face the crone, who vanishes in a puff of clove-scented smoke, leaving a sign where she stood that reads: TWENTY MILES TO ODENSE AND SVEN THE SHOEMAKER—HIT THE ROAD KID AND STAY ON IT.

  * * *

  Back at the Deco Palace Elora is greeted by Croesus. He sits beside the crystal ball, three gold coins at his feet. He whines and paws the ball vigorously.

  “Listen, Buster, that was an emergency, but Beauty does not need my help,” Elora says. “Once again Beauty needs to make her own decision, her fate and Rune’s are tied together in a Gordian knot. Can she untangle the knot by her own devices? Alexander the Great isn’t handy with his sword, but Holger has Curtana.”

  * * *

  Beauty sits beside a campfire, staring into the flames Holger has kept burning for the past week. Her arms are tied behind her back and her feet are bound together. She cannot remember ever feeling so weary, though she has hardly moved a muscle these past seven days. Holger had cut her down from the branch when she began to cry and she said, “Sir, I am Beauty, an enchanted princess from Grimm Land. I have come to Andersen Land to save my daughter, Rune. Please, won’t you help me?”

  He carried her to his fire, sat her upon the ground, thumped his fist on his chest and said, “I am Holger the Dane, son of King Gudfred, who was son of King Harald Bluetooth, who was son of Gorm the Old, first king of Denmark. I should be in Valhalla with the other Viking warriors who died in battle, but I live in stone in Kronborg Castle to awaken only when this land is in danger. You woke me.”

  He squatted beside Beauty, his blue eyes glacial as he spoke. “I have fought in many battles. Not since I slew the Saracen giant, Brehus, have I had such a worthy opponent. Because you have earned my respect, I may spare you, if you tell me the good and true story of your life.”

  “I don’t have time for that,” Beauty exploded.” “My daughter . . .”

  Seeing that Holger whipped out his sword, Beauty softened her tone and pleaded for the use of her mirror.

  “Witchcraft,” was Holger’s reply. “Every good and true story has a good and true beginning. Begin with the day of your birth.”

  On the first day, Beauty told Holger about her mother dying upon Beauty’s birth, about her widowed father and her two sisters, Violet and Daisy, how cruel they were to her as children and how alone she felt. Holger killed a wild boar and roasted it over the fire.

  On the second day, she told him about her father losing his fortune, stopping at the Beasts’ castle and coming home with a rose for beauty and the news that she must go to live with the Beast or else they would all die.

  On the third day she told him of going to live with the Beast and how he, with kindness and love, won her devotion. And when she at last pronounced her love, she broke a spell and the Beast became Prince Runyon. Holger killed eight rabbits, roasted them over the fire and gave the skins to Beauty for a cushion.

  On the fourth day Beauty told Holger about life at Palace Fleur de Coeur. She told him how unhappy the prince made her feel, and how she wished with all her heart to reverse the spell and have her beloved Beast back. She tells him of embarking on a quest to find Elora the Enchantress and convince her to reverse the spell.

  On the fifth day, she revealed all she learned from Snow White and the seven dwarves, and from Rapunzel and her two children. Holger killed eight pheasants and roasted them over the fire. Beauty asked him to please pick her some appl
es.

  On the sixth day, she revealed all she learned from Sleeping Beauty and from Cinderella. She talked late into the evening, her voice a hoarse whisper from strain. Beauty told Holger about ending her quest at Glass Mountain and going into labor. She explained that in her last moments of labor, she made her decision regarding the spell: that the spell should be cast upon her, that being a beauty was beastly, regardless of whether Runyon or the Beast had fathered her child.

  “And your babe?” Holger asked.

  “Just like me; we are the only two of our kind.”

  Today, Beauty has told Holger about moving to Cozy Cave and how wonderful their lives had been. “When Rune reached fourteen years of age, she fell in love with Hans the Hedgehog, who in reality was an enchanted prince. After a princess broke his spell, Rune . . .” Beauty bites her lip to hold back her tears. She misses her daughter so much it feels as if her heart has been ripped from her chest. “She found my magic mirror and ran away from home. The next morning, I found the mirror at Lake Leda, and learned that not only had Rune come here on the back of a swan, but she had seen her true face within the mirror, the face of a fairy tale beauty. She believes she will be able to transform into a princess here in Andersen Land. She wants to transform, return home, and win the heart of Hans.”

  “And you will stop her,” Holger says.

  “I wish to protect her from harm; I want to hold her close and tell her that I love her, that whatever she decides I will always stand by her,” Beauty breaks down now, weeping as she has never wept before. And then, she feels her hands and feet free as Holger cuts the ropes that bind her. He places the mirror on her lap and says, “I could not save my son from death, but I revenged his murder. We will go now; I will help you find your daughter.”

  Beauty feels blood rush to her hands and feet and to her heart and head. She takes the mirror and whispers:

  "Magic mirror, please right away

  Show me where my daughter is today."

  Beauty releases a yelp of joy at the sight of Rune dressed in a violet gown, enter a city with her head held high.

  “That is Odense, Odin’s Shrine,” Holger says. “I know the rune stones at the city’s entrance.

  As a gesture of thanks and trust, Beauty asks, “Would you care to see my true appearance within the mirror?”

  “No, you are here beside me. I can see you. We will go now and find your daughter,” Holger answers, takes up his sword and shield.

  * * *

  Rune reaches the city of Odense at dusk. She stands at the city entrance, hugging a giant rune stone, for she is awe-struck. The sun has just set, leaving red thin clouds stretched over rooftops. The city seems to glow in the subdued golden light of hundreds of lanterns and street lamps. The city is four times the size of Middlefart. And the sounds, oh the wondrous sounds; Rune twists her ears this way and that to catch them all: carriage wheels and horses hooves, a bubbling fountain, street vendors selling fish and flowers and vegetables, and human voices in conversation—hundreds of them.

  However, it is the smells of Odense that finally snap Rune from her awe. Since leaving home she has eaten what she could forage from autumn’s bounty: ripe apples, elderberries, hazelnuts and chestnuts, rose hips, grain and leaves. The scents of baking pastries and breads cause a string of drool to gather in her bright blue gums and drip from her hairy chin.

  She passes through the city gates, her wooden shoes resounding on the cobblestones. She ducks behind the first shop and tries to slip out of the noisy shoes. Her feet have swollen and the shoes are stuck fast. Sitting on the ground, Rune manages, with beastly effort, to pry off the wooden shoes. Immediately her feet swell twice their normal size; all of her pads are bloody.

  A bell rings on the shop door, and as footsteps near, she flattens her body against the building. The footsteps are light, musical, thinks Rune. The laughter of three young ladies peals the air and Rune watches them walk past. Their shoes shine in the light of the lamps, the leather soft and supple, deep brown with bright shiny buckles. Rune wants a pair of those shoes to the bottom of her soul; in those shoes she could walk to Copenhagen. She needs proper shoes in order to be confirmed and she needs to be confirmed in order to transform. Her violet gown deserves a pair of those shoes—she deserves a pair of those shoes, and by Odin, I’ll have them.

  Rune peaks around the shop and sees that off the main street run dozens of lanes. How will she find Sven the Shoemaker in this maze of humanity? Within the north woods of Grimm Land, Rune knows every pathway, every hill and hollow, and she can travel from Cozy Cave to Vagary Vale blindfolded. The sign said to stay on the road, but how can she take time to look in each shop window and not draw attention? There are people moving up and down the streets . . . “pumpkin pie!”

  Rune’s purple cauliflower nose twitches, leads her to the back of the next shop where the door stands ajar. Inside, are two large ovens, from which a baker removes pies with a wooden paddle. As he sets the last of six pies onto the cooling table, Rune’s stomach growls, sounding like a trapped animal. The baker is tall and thin with a face like the cranes’ in the bog. He raises the paddle above his head, knees trembling.

  Rarely is a fourteen-year-old girl graceful, tactful, or courteous when she has her eye on a prize. She rushes into the bakery and with a swooping together of her arms gathers up all six pies. The baker means to whack Rune on the head with his paddle, but his hands are shaking and the paddle thumps Rune between her shoulder blades. She turns, bears her yellow jagged teeth, and the baker pisses his pants as he faints to the floor.

  Rune bites into a pie while hustling into a hedgerow behind the shops.

  She eats the first two in three bites, and as her hunger subsides, she savors the flavor along with memories of baking pumpkin pies with her mother in Cozy Cave.

  Her chin quivers as she chews through the remaining pies. Mother’s pies are better, where is she now? In Cozy Cave crying, waiting for me to come home?

  The tolling of dozens of bells interrupts Rune’s thoughts. Shop doors slam and footfalls scurry on the streets. The front door of the bakery opens and a woman’s voice scolds, “You are not taking that paddle to Vespers, Hans. Now hurry up or we’ll be late and be shamed.”

  Hans . . . his name is Hans . . . and his pies fed me . . . and I ate them in a hedgerow . . . Rune’s romantic fourteen-year-old brain, hormones bouncing like lottery balls, knows in her heart that this is a message from Hans, to keep strong, keep going. The fates are lining up on her side, and once the bells stop ringing, Rune wriggles from the hedgerow and steps onto the now empty street.

  She pauses briefly in front of each shop window: the butcher shop, sausages and hams hanging from twine, the dry goods store with sacks of flour and sugar, barrels of molasses and pickles, the candle maker’s shop, the tailor shop, the barber shop, and then Sven the shoemaker.

  The door is closed and the shop is dark but for the glow of a coal stove. She walks around the corner, hoping to enter though the back of the shop. Across the street is a theater, a flower shop, and the most grand shop front she has yet seen, the coffin makers shop. Imagine life in a city! Imagine not foraging for food, or bartering with neighbors, having gowns and hats and shoes made to fit your body, going to watch plays and musicians.

  Rune finds the rear door unlocked and she enters the shop. She spies a candle and matches on the shelf beside the door and lights the candle. Beside the coal stove stands a table and two chairs. The shoemaker’s tools hang from a wall rack and shoe soles drape over rope lines like lapping tongues. On the table, the body of a shoe lies sideways, leather lacing still attached to a huge needle.

  Rune tiptoes to the front of the shop and squeals with delight. Four shelves line both walls and all eight shelves hold shoes, ladies’ on the right, men’s on the left. Beneath the shelves are bolts of fabric and stacks of leather hides. She carries the candle close to the right rack, her eyes feasting on the soft leathers, colored silk, and velvet shoes: rounded toes, pointe
d toes, square toes with ribbons and embroidery, squat heels and high heels, and every one less than half the size of Rune’s feet.

  She sighs, bends her head and tears fall from her bulbous eyes, drip drop drip onto a bolt of fabric. Rune sniffs—the fabric is gleaming, a pearly pale violet. She lifts a corner of the fabric and holds it against her gown. The match is perfect; and when Rune hears someone open the back door, she grabs the bolt, turns the front door lock, and runs into the street, around the corner and up the first hill she spies.

  She comes to an old crumbling wall and sits, leaning against the stones. A harvest moon shines brightly, enough light to work with her stolen fabric. Using her index talon, she cuts the violet satin into two large squares and two long thin strips. She bites all her toe talons close to the quick, wraps the squares around her feet, tying the fabric securely at the ankles in large pretty bows. With both her hunger for food and for princess finery satisfied, Rune succumbs to a deep and soundless sleep.

  * * *

  “A thief, my daughter has never stolen a thing in her fourteen years, and now twice in one evening,” Beauty says, her voice wet with sadness. She sets the mirror on the ground and vigorously shakes the water of the Little Belt from her fur. While wringing out his beard, Holger says, “I understand the pies. I would guess you understand the cloth.”

  Beauty lifts her gaze to meet Holger’s, amazed at the simplicity and rare intelligence in his answer. Then she laughs, for the first time since that awful morning of Rune’s flight, she laughs. Holger laughs as well as they set off running toward Odense. And in the Art Deco Palace high atop Glass Mountain, Elora’s laughter rings throughout Grimm Land.