* * *
Beauty's Diary
18 June Page Fifty-two
Although spiritually I have been alone for most of my life, before now, I've not been without the company of others. I feared I would be lonely in this grotto, but quite to the contrary, I have spent these past days in sweet secluded contemplation. At first, my thoughts lingered in memories of my dear Beast. I confess to using the mirror to relive those moments, which not only made me weep with longing, but also made me long for the future. I would imagine our reunion; the gown and ear bobs I would wear, the scent to dab on my throat. I would be as beautiful as possible. Then it occurred to me that when I am alone, I am not beautiful. What a revelation! If there is no one present to judge me a beauty, then I am whatever I wish
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to be. Without the distraction of another to please or offend, my mind is free to wander in any direction I wish. I have pondered the purpose of existence, wondered if there are people living on stars, and so many other ideas I chose not to write here. No wonder Rosamond finds words tiresome.
The soothing sound of a summer evening shower makes Beauty so drowsy, she lies down on the straw mattress, covers herself with the horsehair blanket, and in a moment is fast asleep. Hours later, her eyes fly open when a clap of thunder echoes through the grotto. With a flash of lightening, Beauty sees Rosamond hovering over her in a tattered, white nightshirt, like a haunted specter, and she squeals with fright.
"Rosamond! You nearly scared the life from me," Beauty gasps.
"May I lie down,” Rosamond mews pathetically. “I'm so cold. There's an army of tiny monkey-faced men leaping out of keyholes in the castle, and it's raining cats and dogs, so I can't sleep in the field."
Moved to pity, Beauty throws back the blanket. Rosamond lies down and curls into a ball. Moments pass is silence, except for the patter of rain. Beauty can't hear Rosamond breathing and uneasiness slithers over her ribs. She's afraid to touch her, so she whispers, "Rosamond?"
"Yes?"
Beauty is not only relieved, but realizes she must think of something to say rather than, I thought you were dead. "What happened after your wedding?"
"We set out for Hyberg, Fitzgerald's father's kingdom, riding through wood and valleys, across meadows and over hills. How can you know true love when everybody who sees you loves you?"
"How?"
"When you truly love in return," Rosamond sighs. "You told me you're on a quest to restore your husband to the man he was when you came to love him. Tell me more."
Beauty relates the story of how she learned to love the Beast, why she longed to restore him, and of her adventures thus far. The rain ceases, and Rosamond stretches out her legs. She puts her mouth close to Beauty's ear and asks: "Is all this effort for the cause of true love or to prove you are more than a pretty package? What makes you believe he will love you after you change him back to what he loathed?"
Rosamond crawls out from under the blanket and skitters away, leaving Beauty with a hole in her heart as hollow and deep as the grotto.
* * *
"Rosa will finish off her harvest tomorrow and Beauty can finally get out of that disgusting cave." Elora the Enchantress sets her crystal ball aside, nudges Croesus off her bed, and zaps open the bedroom windows. "Ah, summer morning breezes and the palace gardenias are in bloom. Puts me in an España frame of mind." She snaps her fingers and Gloria Estefan's voice soars through the palace sound system. She snaps again and hueveos rancheros materialize on her plate and in the hound's bowl. A Carmen Miranda fruit headdress adorns her head.
Croesus gobbles down the eggs, then dances the samba around his bowl. "Perro," Elora rolls her R’s, "sau-ve." She plucks a papaya from her headdress and asks, "What makes the froggy lustfully sing and the doggy shake that thing? Offspring. Bricklebrit! Three rhymes in a row, bad luck." She tosses a pinch of salt over her left shoulder, and Croesus pauses his shoulder shimmy to spit three gold coins.
"A female fiddler crab sees hundreds of male fiddler crabs each waving his one huge claw like a Muscle Beach body builder. When she scuttles to the one with the biggest claw, does he think, I'm the most handsome crab on the beach? Is she thinking, What a hunk! No. That big ole claw means he's the toughest male on the beach and his genetics will be passed to her crablings."
Croesus sits up and waves a paw at Elora's headdress.
"A female bower bird watches a male bower bird diligently decorate a love nest with yellow flowers and colored stones. Does she think, That's the most beautiful place to lay my eggs? Pfff, her progenitive bird brain is saying, That boy will flap his wings ragged to bring my babies plenty of bugs. One male will dance and strut, another fight with tooth and tusk, but either way, he's driven to find a reproductively fit female and plant his seed. Unlike the princes of Grimm Land, he doesn't care if she's fat or lean, young or old, finely feathered or dropping hunks of fur, smart or dumb as dirt." Elora snaps her fingers and disposes of the breakfast dishes and fruit headdress. Croesus lays his chin in her lap.
"You want to know what happened with Rosa and her prince? Boredom, and I emphasize dom. Even if you've got a mind like Einstein's, if you sleep for a century, you’ll wake up stupid."
Croesus cocks his ears curiously.
"I know. Rosa said she loved Fitzgerald, and he loved her for a while. With her face, figure, and the Wise Women's gifts, she was the perfect prince's wife. Wore off in a New York minute when her child-like wonder became a bore. That's when the eighth gift of fortitude drove Rosamond to hit the books until bloody sacks formed under her violet eyes. Care to guess who was summoned?"
Croesus drops his ears and groans.
"Yep, the Grimm psychologist, and the ass-wipe dosed her with opium."
* * *
On her final evening in the grotto, Beauty is contemplating the colors of a mosaic mermaid when Rosamond dances in. Her naked body is painted, head to heel, in bold, primitive slashes. She opens a velvet pouch tied around her neck.
"Dusk. The magical time when Nyx and her son Hypnos ramble about the countryside, followed by a flock of dreams, dropping poppy juice in the eyes of sleepy mortals. If the body is beautiful," Rosamond says, swallowing an opium ball, "the soul is reluctant to desert it. The harvest is complete. You can leave in the morning."
Rosamond slowly rubs her body against the grotto walls like an animal marking its territory.
"I have known restlessness until it made me nearly mad." Rosamond sinks to her haunches. "In Hyberg I lost the power of sleeping altogether . . . there was so much to learn . . . my heart and brain palpitating, imprisoned in my body, beating and fluttering to get out . . . then Herr Doktor brought me opium." Rosamond strokes the velvet pouch as if it were a pet.
"Each time I took that wonderful potion, I felt I could deduce the mystery of the unobtainable, the procession of the equinoxes, the acceleration of gravity. I was no longer tongue-tied in the presence of my husband. I could unravel abstruse cryptograms, indulge in recondite investigations, and delve creditable in the mysteries of the alchemists." Rosamond grasps her ankles, curves her spine over her knees and somersaults across the grotto floor.
She pulls herself into the table seat, cuts a glance at Beauty, and rubs her nose. "I thought Fitzgerald's family would be proud of me, but the sisters excluded me from social engagements. I heard Kathleen warn Shaleen not to mention the date and location of her coming out party to Rosamond. Shaleen said she liked Rosamond. Kathleen said, How can you stand her? Men find her sweet and beautiful to look upon. Do you know how plain you look beside her?"
Beauty winces, familiar with the particular pain of exclusion by family members of her gender.
"Fitzgerald grew impatient with me. No matter how hard I tried to explain a point, he claimed I made no sense. He took away my opium. Distortion, profuse sweats, and nightmares of mutilation followed. No amount of coughing could dislodge the thousand ants in my throat. Each cough brought a squirt into my bloomers. Sounds echoed in my head."<
br />
Rosamond rises and moves in swirling, liquid steps. "It was as if . . . I had danced to exquisite music . . . and then was asked . . . to dance with no music at all . . . the musicians refused to play . . . I was no longer the belle of the ball."
Rosamond twirls toward the passageway and Beauty hurries to her feet. "Rosamond, please wait. What happened next?"
"Like Nyx, I gathered poppy seeds in a jar and came home to sow them. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home." Rosamond tiptoes down the passageway.
"No one was home. The castle was empty." Rosamond enters the field as if wading in water. "The members of court gone to live with great grandchildren their own age . . . the king's subjects dead and gone, he died of impotence . . . my mother’s husband dead and her only child gone, she died of neglect."
Beauty watches from the grotto threshold; in the moonlight hundreds of fireflies collectively rise from cool, dense thickets and wing luminescent abdomens into a glowing helix around Rosamond as she chants: All flown, all flown away like dreams that die at the dawn of day.
* * *
As Beauty steps into the forest and onto the path, her emotional state is euphoric. I have crossed the Deep Icy River, safely maneuvered the Maimed Animal Zone, encountered a wizard, a giant, passed through the foggy woods, and survived the Kingdom of Dreams. I can do anything!
She draws the mirror from her satchel, holds it before her face and speaks:
"Magic mirror, I implore,
reveal the Lake
of Longing's shore.
Show the distance,
from where I stand,
all the way to Charmed
Kingdom land."
A telescopic view three miles through the forest to the Lake of Longing's shining waters ripples within the mirror. On the lake's northern shore, on the highest hill, is a magnificent castle. Beyond the castle is the end of her journey, the repository of her dreams, Glass Mountain! Beauty opens her cherry pink lips to speak again, then hesitates. "No, I won't call forth the image of Runyon. With the object of my quest so near, it matters not what I may see within the mirror."
* * *
"Reality check." Elora smirks over her crystal ball, "What say we have a boo for her?"
Instead of showing his usual interest, Croesus bares his teeth and dives at his tail.
"Fleas!" Elora shouts. "Not in my palace." She zaps Croesus with an Orkin ray. "Must have picked them up this morning in Bremen Bog."
Croesus heaves a relieved doggy sigh.
Elora snaps her fingers and music emanates from the crystal ball. Runyon sits on his throne, strumming a lute and warbling a ballad. The Great Hall is again packed with court members and subjects. Dukes, Earls, and Counts nod and doze in French Provincial chairs while their wives fan their flushed, enamored faces.
"For my final sahwection, I will pway, Wandering Runyon, the tenth mewody based on my book. After the performance, sheet music may be purchased from Bwockhead.
The ladies drop their fans, applaud and squeal. A Countess swoons. A Duchess removes her bloomers and throws them at the throne. Runyon strums the lute, rounds his lips, and sings:
Ah, she was a gwimmering girl with roses in her hair whose silken voice cawd and faded through the misty air. Though I am weak with wandering o'er woods and peaks I will find where she has gone, and kiss her wips and feet . . .
Croesus jabs a paw in his mouth and gags. The throne-room crowd jumps to its feet; the women are weeping. Runyon sets his lute aside and accepts the praise with an air of resigned melancholy.
"What a cheap actor," Elora snipes.
Runyon summons Blockhead to his side. "They idowize me, but they keep asking, Is the story true? Are you the real Prince Beast? Is Beauty your wife? Where is Beauty? " Runyon's face pinches with indignation. "You must find Beauty. Get rid of these people; tell them I'm heartsick. They'll wove me even more. Then meet me in my private chamber."
Elora and Croesus watch Runyon scurry through the castle corridors to his private room. The prince impatiently rummages through stacks of parchment piled high on his Louis XIV desk. "Where is that wonderful wetter I wrote for Beauty wast month? I know I transcribed it from canvas to paper--Aha!"
Runyon holds up the letter, seats himself, and dips pen in inkwell. Elora zooms in on his addendum.
P. S. If you don't come back, I will divorce you. No, I will declare you dead, and I will marry someone else. And I will have your stupid father beheaded.
"That should do the trick," Runyon gloats and blows on the ink. Blockhead shuffles in. Runyon rolls up the parchment, seals it with wax, and shoves the scroll into Blockhead's hands.
Elora slyly arches an eyebrow. "I believe a word in the ear of our resident expert on intercepting communiqués is in order."
Croesus curls the tips of his ears to resemble a pair of horns.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Among The Ashes
The Lake of Longing is perfectly round, a half mile in diameter, and five hundred feet deep. Though the sun occasionally shines on its waters, the rays cannot penetrate to its bottom. Because there is no vegetation, there are neither bugs nor fish nor waterfowl. The forest animals do not drink here; only the ferryman's oar disturbs the lake's still surface.
Beauty steps out of the wood onto a shore coated with woman's head moss, soft and resilient as the Vatican's velvet prayer kneelers. A few yards away, at the lake's edge, a woman on her knees stares into the water. Her dress is of plain cloth and cut, and her blond braids are wound in a knot above each ear. A rowboat floats unmoving beside the woman, and a rope leads from the boat up the shore to a man lying on his back. "Good day," Beauty calls. She walks a few steps closer and repeats, "Good day."
The man does not stir and the woman does not break her concentration. Curiosity goading her, Beauty approaches the woman and leans over to see what is so captivating. She sees nothing unusual at first. The woman is entranced with her own countenance. However, in her reflection, the woman's hair is not braided, but a mass of golden ringlets, and her dress is not plain, but a confection of satin and lace. Interesting, Beauty thinks, but her main concern is crossing the lake.
"Pardon me," she says loudly. "Is this your boat?"
"Lean Lisa, is that you?" the woman cries at Beauty's reflection next to hers. "Heart alive! That’s best face you've ever longed for." The woman twists her head and squawks like a hoofed hen.
"Trina, my turtle dove!" The man, wakened from his snooze, rushes to her side. "What is the matter?"
"Do stop fussing, Harry. This woman surprised me."
Harry nods to Beauty, then catching sight of the women's reflections, he whistles long and low. "If that don't beat all. No wonder you were spooked, my darling. In all my years as ferryman, I have never seen a woman's reflection appear in the Lake of Longing as she truly looks. That's how the lake got its name; it reflects people as they long to be. Isn't it a marvel, Trina, a woman content with her appearance?"
Trina smiles weakly.
"I'm Harry the ferryman, and this is Trina, my intended." Harry kisses Trina's hand wetly. "She's the finest, fastest, most respected spinner in Grimm Land. Notice her lovely broad, flat foot, earned from treading the wheel. This dear broad thumb, she earned from twisting the thread." Harry, still holding Trina's hand, proudly displays Trina's right hand thumb, as flat and round as a buttermilk pancake. "That lower lip hanging down over her chin, she earned from licking the thread. Can't understand why she bothers looking in the lake for a different self. I would have no other." Harry slips his arms around Trina's waist and squeezes her hip.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Beauty. I wish to cross the lake to Charmed Kingdom."
"It will be my privilege to ferry you across," Harry says and heads for the boat. Trina grabs his arm.
"We can't go until tomorrow," Trina insists. To Beauty she says, "Tonight is Midsummer Eve, and Harry and I will leap over the fire together, as sweethearts do, and we'll never be par
ted."
"Trina, my sugar plum, it takes only an hour to cross the lake. I wouldn't miss jumping the Midsummer fire with you for all the gold in Charmed Kingdom."
Watching Harry hustle to the boat, Beauty says, in admiration of his good character, "A fine man."
"He's mine!" Trina caws, her expression a mix of fear and ire. "Why are you here? Where are you from? What do you want? A husband to jump the fire?"
“I have a husband, Miss Trina." Beauty runs her hands over her bulging belly. "I come from the Kingdom of Fleur de Coeur where my husband, Prince Runyon, reigns. I need to cross the lake on his behalf."
Trina's long lip quivers like a bowl of raspberry gelatin. Beauty has never used royal clout to cower a commoner, and she dislikes having been forced to do so.
Harry hustles back, rope in tow. He places one foot on the boat and extends his hand to Trina. "Remember, left foot first, Lambkin, keep the big one on the ground."
"Harry, can't you see Princess Beauty is in the family way," Trina chides and takes the satchel from Beauty's hand.
"Thunder and lightening!" Harry snatches his hat from his head and bows. He thrusts the rope at Trina, sweeps Beauty into his well-muscled arms, and lifts her into the boat. He hauls in the anchor, leaving Trina to step in unassisted wearing an expression that would have been tight-lipped if not anatomically impossible.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Fleur de Coeur, Jhoron sobs at her cottage door as Blockhead rides away on Hermes the mule, mumbling as he goes, "Rotten rats, wild goose chase, gonna miss my little bride." Neither of them knows he will be back within the hour.
Upon reaching the juncture where the south road crosses the west road, Hermes brays and locks his knees. The mule's nostrils snap closed and his eyes roll wildly. Blockhead dismounts and scratches his head.
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