Mrs. Beast

by Pamela Ditchoff

  Show me now,

  without delay

  where Prince Runyon

  is today."

  The mirror grows dark red then reveals Runyon shifting uncomfortably in a large stone chair. Beside him, sitting in a huge stone throne, is his father, King Gunther.

  Cinderella teeters up behind Beauty. "Is the fair one your husband?"

  "Yes, and the other is his father, whom I haven't seen since the wedding. He doesn't look well."

  Don't just sit there like a potted pansy, the king's voice booms from the mirror. I summoned you here for some answers. You've been married nearly nine months. Is your wife with child?

  I don't think so, Runyon mutters.

  What kind of answer is that? Is her belly round?

  She's been away for some time, visiting relatives. I sent my most trusted servant to fetch her home. When she's back, we will screw wike wabbits.

  The mirror begins to tremble in Beauty's hand, and she lays it on the vanity. Cinderella sits beside her on the vanity bench, and they both look down into the glass.

  King Gunther rubs his side and his mouth twists with pain. Before I die, I need an heir to the throne.

  Runyon jerks his head, his cornflower blue eyes incredulous. Father, you have an heir.

  Gunther pounds the arm of his throne and both the beauties jump.

  I'll dance with the devil before I leave my kingdom to a pansy like you. The only time you were a real man was when you were a beast. The king pushes a finger in Runyon's face. Fornicating, playing with paints, writing silly verses and singing lovesick songs. The king spits in the royal spittoon. I need an heir who can fight and hunt and watch over his subjects. I refuse to die until I get one! I'm a rock. If Godfather Death comes for me, he'll break his knockers trying to carry me off. King Gunther shouts, his face mottled crimson.

  A sly expression overtakes Runyon. All right, Father. Before I go, wet's drink to my first son.

  King Gunther glares at his son, then barks out a laugh. Ale! he shouts, and a servant scurries in bearing two mugs. Runyon strides across the throne room, takes the mugs, and draws a vial from his pocket. He uncorks the cap and pours three drops of poison into one mug.

  "Oh, Runyon, no," Beauty cries over the mirror.

  The king gulps his ale and belches loudly. Now, wipe off that girlish grin and get going. I need to use the piss pot.

  Beauty and Cinderella both hold their breath as Gunther staggers from the throne room. Runyon leans forward, places a hand to his ear and momentarily hears the thud of Gunther's body hitting the floor. He skips into hall where the king's body lies. Beauty and Cinderella exhale twin moans.

  Runyon nudges his father's body. Sure that he's dead, Runyon viciously kicks the king's huge stomach, and the body expels a thunderous fart. Runyon leaps through the air like Baryshnikov. He stands frozen, eyes fixed on the body, and then screws up his face and waves his arms.

  Some rock, he sputters. More wike a heap of shit. Holding his nose, he snatches the crown from his father's head and runs down the hall toward a secret side entrance. He rubs his hands together greedily and says, King Runyon with ten times the subjects, ten times the taxes, ten times my pick of wovers. He enters the stable and unhitches Vixen. What about Beauty? My subjects will want to know what's become of my queen. I know--she met with a terrible accident. But what if she weturns? Runyon's voice slithers from the mirror.

  Runyon draws the vial from his pocket, smirks evilly. Beauty lifts the mirror to her face and weakly murmurs,

  "Magic mirror,

  before I'm sick,

  remove the sight

  of this lunatic."

  "Ah, that's how it works," Cinderella squeaks. "You have to ask in rhyme."

  Beauty dabs away her tears. "I'll be leaving immediately for Glass Mountain."

  "Why would you want to go there?"

  "I thought I knew why, but . . . I've been on a quest for six months . . . and I'm so close . . . "

  Cinderella glances over at Mother, still lying inert in her cage. "Will you tell me about your quest? Perhaps I can help?"

  The fact that Cinderella is offering help at this late stage would make Beauty laugh, if the revelations during the past hour had not been so overwhelming. She's much too disoriented to set out for Glass Mountain, so she begins: "My childhood was not as gay as yours," and for the next hour relates the circumstances, places, and people that brought her to Charmed Kingdom.

  "I'm afraid it's all for naught,” Beauty sighs. “I'm afraid if Elora transforms Prince Runyon, he won't be my same beloved Beast."

  "You can never go back. You can't reverse the hands of time," Cinderella says. Her voice has descended three octaves and lost all trace of youth.

  "You can refuse to face it and hide, live in memories, use potions and props, but time marches on and ravages everything in its path." Cinderella removes her gloves, lifts hands spotted with age, and unwinds her veil. "Cinderella. Don't!" Mother caws, reviving, beating her wings stiffly. Cinderella pries off her gold shoes, runs to the cage and secures the door. She takes a deep breath, then sighs with resignation, "It ends, Mother."

  The raven opens its beak. Vapor spills from its mouth and coalesces into a woman's shape, leaving a pile of white feathers on the cage bottom. The misty apparition takes on a faint wash of gold in the mass of curls, of blue in the vacant eyes, of red in the lips, moans and ascends through the ceiling.

  "She was truly your mother?" Beauty whispers.

  "Yes," Cinderella answers wearily. She hobbles back to the vanity bench and drops down next to Beauty. "She told me to keep your mirror because she thought its magic could make me beautiful and young again. Mother would fly to the four corners of Grimm Land to gather creams and potions that restore youth. None of them worked, and each time I felt I had failed her. Mother was hard to please. Everything I told you about my childhood was a lie. I wasn't born a princess either."

  She tells Beauty the honest and woeful account of her youth, up to Paul riding her off to Charming Castle. "Like you, I was hesitant to marry, and I told Mother so. I told her it was the trimmings Paul loved and not me. Didn't he carry away Sweetness and Light when he saw their feet in my gold shoe? Mother made me visit the Grimm psychologist. I told him of my reluctance to marry a man who not only didn't recognize me while I was at the hearth, but who also was fooled by my step-sisters until Mother pointed out their bloody feet. He said, Now, now, child, the prince would have seen through their deception even without the bird's help. Their bleeding in his presence demonstrated their impurity and coarseness. That the shoe fit you, and you alone, is very significant, Cinderella.

  Beauty grits her teeth and holds her tongue.

  "He also said, Paul recognized you at the hearth, he didn't want to embarrass you, and you know in your heart that he knew you knew. Otherwise, you would not have accepted him as your betrothed. You knew that he appreciated your dirty sexual aspects, willingly accepted your vagina in the form of the shoe, and approved of your desire for a penis, symbolized by your tiny foot fitting within the shoe."

  "What?!" Beauty exclaims.

  "I was young, and it meant so much to Mother that I marry a prince. We were happily married for three years. Paul was everything a woman could wish for in a husband." Cinderella smiles wistfully. "He was thrilled when I became pregnant, but his compliments ceased as I grew bigger. I'd look in the mirror each day and be horrified with the changes in my body. Mother comforted me by saying I would be my same beautiful self after the baby was born. She lied. There were silver scars on my breast, belly and thighs. My waist had grown thick. My pert bosoms grew enormous with milk, then when the boy was weaned, they drooped. It will happen to you too, Beauty."

  "Cinderella, you are a still a beautiful woman. I couldn't believe it when Paul said you were to be a grandmother."

  "You felt differently about me afterward, admit it. When you discovered I wasn't young like you, I became uninteresting and unimportant."

  "Quite
the contrary, I hoped to learn from your life experience. Then I overheard you saying that you didn't want me here."

  "You make me sad. You're filled with life, youth, and energy. Next to you, no one notices me."

  "Not when you hide behind that veil."

  "You hope to learn from my experience?" Cinderella's voice takes on a bitter edge. "I know your past; every word spoken, every action of those around you, was in reaction to your beauty. Since you were a baby in your daddy's arms, everyone has held you up as an ideal and hated you for it. Men have complimented and fussed over you, their eyes turn whenever you enter a room. Ten years from now, men will glance at you from the corner of their eyes and keep their gaze moving for the fresh face, the shiny hair, the slim waist between firm hips and bosom."

  "I welcome that day," Beauty replies frankly.

  "Do you? I once was cavalier about my appearance, as people who have plenty to eat seldom think about hunger. When I could look in a mirror with admiration, I gave my appearance little thought. Now, I always carry a mirror because I'm sure something ugly has appeared while I wasn't looking. I feel young inside. I only want to look the same way I feel."

  "You do!"

  Cinderella shakes her head. "Potions and powders, light and shadows, tricks and lies." She lifts a bottle of oil and smoothes it over her face with a lamb's wool puff. She wipes away her creamy complexion and the youthful blush on her cheeks and lips. Beneath the make up lies skin that reminds Beauty of aged silk, its color unevenly faded and its surface creased, but lovely nonetheless. She loosens the hair combs that encircle her scalp and hold up her bouncy blonde curls. Once the wig is removed, her eyebrows slip downward, pulling furrows into her forehead; her cheeks slide forward forming grooves around her mouth and pouches beneath her jaw; her short, grey hair steals the gleam from her blue eyes. She stands and unbuttons the front of her high-necked, long-sleeved gown. "Beauty, will you help me? Mother used to untie my corsets."

  Beauty stares mortified at the contraption. Whalebone stays sewn into layers of thick cotton press and push Cinderella's flesh into an hourglass shape. No wonder she squeaks, Beauty thinks as she unties the bottom lace. A small pillow, which gave Cinderella her high, round rump, falls to the floor. She unties the final lace and the corset springs through the air like a champagne cork.

  "I told you what's in store. Are you ready to see it?" Cinderella pivots dramatically and presents her naked body to Beauty. Her arms are thin with muscle gone soft and loose; her thighs are dimpled and her calves mapped with varicose veins.

  "One last thing," Cinderella says and removes her teeth. Her pouty lips sink into the cavity of her mouth. Five months ago, Beauty would have averted her gaze, out of modesty, but she's learned that many fairy tale beauty rules are false, including modesty.

  "You need not hide your revulsion, Beauty, nor the words on the tip of your tongue: hag, crone, old witch."

  Beauty holds Cinderella’s eye and speaks evenly. "You misjudge me. After hearing of my love for the Beast, how can you think I care a whit for outward appearance?"

  "You liken me to a beast?"

  "You're twisting my words, Cinderella."

  "Oh, what will I do without Mother?" Cinderella weeps into her hands. "I wish I would have died when I was still young and beautiful. I am ready to die, but not to be ugly for the rest of my life."

  "You don't mean that. Why, you're trembling, let me get you a wrap." Beauty opens the nearest armoire and selects a pink satin robe.

  "I do mean it!" Cinderella cries snatching the robe from Beauty. She dons the robe and shouts, "I do!" stomping her foot for emphasis.

  "Ow-ow," she wails and collapses on the vanity bench. Beauty looks at Cinderella's feet, and she is appalled. Her big toes are distorted by bunions the size of walnuts; the second toes resemble miniature hammers; her little toe nails are ingrown and bleeding; corns and calluses define the shape of her precious gold shoes.

  "I have some salve in my satchel," Beauty says, her voice tight with emotion.

  Cinderella props her feet on a footstool. "I won't allow Paul to see me like this," she frowns and stares at her feet as if they're responsible. "He hasn't seen me unclothed since our son was conceived." She lifts her gaze to meet Beauty's perplexed countenance.

  "I would not be pregnant again! Oftentimes at night, after I'd snuffed the candles, he visited my bed and we would cuddle. But after I reached forty, I couldn't bear the differences between us. We were the same age, yet Paul grew more handsome and strong while I withered like an old rose. It's just not fair. He has gained power and respect in the community. His fortune has accumulate and his virility grown. He is judged by what he does, not how he looks. I'm afraid that if he sees me unadorned, he will abandon me for a young and beautiful girl."

  "Has he given you reason to be afraid?" Beauty twists a lock of hair between her fingers.

  "He's never been unfaithful. Mother would have known. But I was, almost." Cinderella pauses and deepens the creases in her brow. "One summer day when I was forty-one, I wandered into one of the barns. It was empty but for a stable boy, handsome, eighteen years old, and I will simply say he swept me off my feet with flattery and passionate kisses. Oh, it had been so long since I felt desired that I drank in his seduction like a desert in a rainstorm. We peeled the clothes from our bodies, and I suggested we move to the loft for privacy sake. After you, my lady, he bowed and waved his arm to the ladder. I climbed to the top, but the boy had not followed. I looked down and saw him stepping into his pants. When I asked him what was the matter, he said, What I saw from here made my lily wilt. How old are you, anyway? After that day, I began wearing the veils."

  "Because of one stupid stable boy?"

  "You still don't understand? An aging beauty must put away her bows and bangles, they're only proper for girls. She must pin up or cut off her long hair. She must give up her pretty frocks. When Spring arrives and an old beauty feels giddy, she must contain herself, because if she ran through a field of daffodils, white hair flopping on her dowager's hump, breasts and arms flapping like sheets in the wind, she'd be locked up as an embarrassment to the populace. Everyone shrinks from aging female flesh; old women are repulsive."

  "I do not find you repulsive, nor your friend, Maisee, who still jumps rope with her grandchildren."

  "She's no friend of mine," Cinderella snaps. She, Dorothy, Florence and I did play together, but once our jump ropes were cast aside and we grew into our womanly faces and figures, theirs plain and sturdy, mine beautiful and delicate, those three banded together and wouldn't speak a word to me. They said plenty of words about me, lies to sully my character. I rose above it.

  Cinderella's chin quivers. She purses her lips, then laughs derisively. "I was the one who was suppose to live happily ever after. Maisee, Dorothy, and Florence married three brothers, raised a dozen children, and lived well. Now they're old and believe age levels the playing field. I'm no longer a beauty, so they will accept me. Of course they glow with happiness!" Cinderella sputters. "They had nothing to lose; they were always plain, and they always had each other. When they have shed the buckets of tears I shed when they snubbed me, have spent the years of hours alone among the cinders as I did because of others' nasty words and deeds, then I would walk onto that porch and ask, How does it feel, girls, now that the shoe's on the other foot?"

  Beauty closes her eyes in anguish remembered from her childhood, from the terror remembered in the face of Snow White, from the contempt for Rapunzel in the faces of the Stromberg women, from Rosamond's self-imposed opium exile.

  Cinderella sighs, "My feet once were tiny and perfect. Paul never grew weary of caressing them."

  Beauty's tempted to tell her all she needs is larger shoes, but instead, she slips next door and grabs her satchel. She returns and gently smoothes the salve over Cinderella's festering feet.

  "Eew, it tickles," Cinderella says. "Beauty look!" she gasps.

  As the salve penetrates the corns and calluses disappe
ar, the ingrown nails heal, and Cinderella's feet become as tiny and pink as the day she was wed.

  "Oh, happy day!" Cinderella vaults from the vanity bench and twirls on her toes. "I wonder if it will work on my face." She rubs the salve over her face and rushes to the mirror. "It's not tickling," she says nervously.

  Beauty screws the lid on the jar and notices lettering that had not been there before: Magic Foot Cream. "This is not the salve the dwarf women gave me."

  * * *

  "So I pulled a switcheroo," Elora grumps at Croesus. "I didn't do it for Cinderella's sake. I cleared the path for Beauty to get a move on. The girl is ready to burst. And you know the shrubbery at the base of Glass Mountain is lousy with baby-snatching elves."

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rune

  It has taken Beauty four hours to walk the two miles between Charmed Kingdom and the south face of Glass Mountain. The baby's head has slipped into the birth canal, and her pelvic bones ache. She pauses to remember the day she began her quest, six months ago on a golden, hazy afternoon, the air scented with daffodils and spring green grass, dressed in her yellow gown and navy riding cloak, her face aglow with unconditional love for the Beast.

  Now the road is dusty from late summer heat. The grass is brown-tipped brittle and the only plants in bloom are ragged stalks of goldenrod. Beauty's once bright caftan is faded and frayed, her face puffy from pregnancy and blotchy from exertion. Her dusty chestnut braid swings like a pendulum as she waddles toward the mountain's base.

  Under a sheltering shrub, she sinks to the ground, opens her satchel and removes her mirror.

  "Magic mirror,

  I'm tired and worn.

  Please, before this babe

  is born,

  show me if I need

  to fear.

  Is Prince Runyon

  far or near?"

  The mirror's surface darkly reflects the Great Hall of Castle Fleur de Coeur. The Hall is draped in black mourning cloth and empty of mirrors, paintings, and furniture. By the subdued light of a dozen candelabras, more than a hundred subjects crowd the room, weeping into black handkerchiefs. Runyon, dressed in black from his riding boots to his velvet and fur trimmed robe, stands before a dais.