by Boyd Brent
“I have done my research and know who they were …”
“Well?”
“I would prefer not to say, as knowing will only cause you undue distress. But,” the Beast sighed, “since you are here, and it’s your intention to proceed further, then you have a right to know.” The Beast’s words had set the cat chasing pigeons in my mind. “These heads,” I began bravely, “did they once sit upon the shoulders of other good Samaritans? Those who have attempted to talk to the witch on your behalf?”
My words must have had the most extraordinary effect, for the Beast threw back his head, and for the first time, I heard his throaty laughter. Not being accustomed to laughter, he then had a coughing fit. I thudded him on the back and, once he had stopped, cradled my aching arm.
“I do … I do believe that you could raise the spirits of the dead,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“I take it; these are not the heads of previous good Samaritans, then?”
“It is doubtful there are this many good Samaritans in all the Land. And if I had lured them all here, knowing the fate that awaited them, I would be a beast by name and nature.” The very notion of having done such a thing gave him cause to shudder.
“So, who are these unfortunate souls, then?” I asked.
“They are the kidnapped victims of the pirates who inhabited these caves long before the witch. She doubtless leaves them to deter visitors.”
I nodded my approval of his explanation. “Shall we?” I said, indicating the path ahead. The Beast squeezed through the opening, and I followed closely in his footsteps.
Not long after we reached the cavern’s entrance, and as we stepped over its threshold, a rancid stench climbed my nostrils.
“Bats,” said the Beast, raising a hand to his nose.
“Really? I had no idea bats smelled so dreadful …”
“You misunderstand me. Bat dung. This way …” he said, stepping in the direction of a passage through the rock on our right-hand side. There was a passage on the left-hand side also. “How can you be certain that that way leads to the witch?” I asked.
“My research has been thorough.”
“But who would know such things?”
The Beast sighed. “A sailor was captured and enslaved by the witch.”
“He escaped?”
“No. But he was able to send word of his plight.”
“How?”
“The witch keeps homing pigeons. They allow her to communicate with her siblings.”
“The witch has siblings?”
“Two sisters. Both are witches.”
“Well then, that’s something the witch and I have in common.”
“Are you suggesting that your sisters are witches?”
“No. To do so would be out of character. I wasn't called Beauty for nothing,” I mused, “although, having said that, I think it very fortunate that my sisters don't possess supernatural powers.”
“Tell me about them …” said the Beast as he stepped towards the passage and beckoned me to follow.
“I know what you're doing,” I said.
“Doing?”
“You're trying to distract me, take my mind off the witch's den we have come to find.”
“Am I really so transparent to you?”
“You really are …” We were halted in our tracks by the sound of laughter. The laughter was comfortingly distant yet, at the same time, and without wishing to pass judgement on another’s way of expressing mirth, more of a deranged cackle.
“Shall we,” said the Beast, putting his best foot forward and indicating that I do the same. “We really should be buoyed by this happy evidence,” he continued, referring to the cackle.
“Oh, yes?” I replied.
“Of course. It’s an indication that we have come to the right place.”
I nodded. “And do you recognise the laughter?”
“Not as such. You see, the witch did not have much cause for laughter that night.”
“What? Not even after she placed her curse?”
“Not even then.”
“You surprise me.”
“Why do you say so?”
“I have read many stories that feature evil witches, and in all but the most exceptional of cases, it is quite common for witches to cackle with delight after cursing someone.”
“Which goes to prove two things: firstly, that this is the most exceptional of cases and, secondly, that you should not believe all you read in stories.”
“I couldn't agree more. And that is precisely why I have been keeping a journal.”
“You jest,” replied the Beast, either unwilling or unable to believe his ears. “And now,” he went on, “it is my turn to say how transparent you are to me.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You are trying to take my mind off our perilous situation just as I was.”
“How well you know me,” I said as we turned a bend in the tunnel. We were halted in our tracks by the sight of a well-lit cavern some fifty metres away. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress, cleared my throat and said, “Now those are typical of stories I've read about witches.”
“Those?” asked the Beast.
“Yes. Gigantic shadows thrown up upon a wall. In this instance, shadows cast by three witches.”
The Beast raised his torch. “I do believe that your use of the plural is correct.”
“I’m certain of it. Perhaps her sisters have come for a visit.”
“A perfect time for a family reunion,” sighed the Beast.
“It sounds as though they are squabbling amongst themselves,” I said as we marshalled our courage and stepped towards their den.
“Quite so. And now the time has come for us to stop trying to calm each other's nerves and …”
“And face up to the challenge of appealing to the goodwill of not just one but three evil witches.”
“Quite so,” swallowed the Beast.
Diary entry no. 24
When we entered their den, the witches were so engrossed in a conversation about the ingredients of their caldron they didn’t notice they had visitors. This provided us an opportunity to take in their cavernous home. It was spacious enough to contain several cottages and yet, with its many burning torches, also warm and cosy. But its décor left much to be desired. The rib cages of several large sea mammals had been converted into sofas. The cushions upon them had been made from dead animals stuffed with leaves that protruded from every orifice. Indeed, if their den had a theme, it would be dead animals of the forest. Piled high against the walls were hundreds of pitiable creatures waiting to be used for those activities usually associated with witches: sacrifices, potions, poisons, and the telling of fortunes. On the right-hand side of their den was a blood-stained altar illuminated by hundreds of candles. The candles burned so brightly that they left stars in my eyes. I looked back to where the witches, having settled on the correct ingredient, now ladled it into their caldron from a bucket suspended above it. As we drew nearer, one of the witches raised her nose and sniffed at the air. “What is that stench?” she asked her two companions. In response, they sniffed at the air in a similarly deranged manner. “It's disgusting!” spat one.
“Quite revolting! The despicable stench of …”
“A beast,” sighed the Beast.
“Of innocence!” barked the centre witch.
“Worse … of kindness,” exclaimed the third, wrinkling her nose in disgust, “and of … beauty,” she continued as all three turned slowly, almost disbelievingly, to face us.
“What have we here, sisters?” said the centre witch, her voice raspy and cutting.
The witch to her right rung her hands as though the sight of us boded well for their pot. “Guests!” she hissed.
“And aren’t they a sight for sore eyes!” The sisters were identical twins: beak-like noses, large moles on their chins and foreheads, and dark, murderous eyes that never once blinked. The Beast stepped in front of me and, extending an
arm to prevent my passing, said, “We mean you no harm and have come only to talk.”
“Talk?” chirped the centre witch as though unfamiliar with the word.
“Yes. And to one of you in particular,” I said, stepping around the Beast and standing by his side.
The witch on the left drew a filthy rag from her belt and placed it over her nose. “And who might you be?” she asked with a grimace.
“My name is Beauty. And this is my friend the Beast.”
Her dead eyes widened. “Beauty and the Beast?”
“That’s us,” I said, glancing up at him.
The witches went into a huddle and whispered furiously to one another.
“And … and your names are?” I asked, raising my voice.
They stopped whispering, just long enough to glance in my direction, as though to check that I was indeed there, and then recommenced their whispering with greater fury.
I cleared my throat and, marshalling greater courage still, said, “When visitors introduce themselves, it’s customary to do the same in return.” The witches broke their huddle, and what had looked like an enormous black raven split suddenly into three smaller crows. The witch on the left cocked her head at me “My name is Martha.”
“Maude,” rasped the centre witch.
“Marris,” joined the third.
The Beast took a step towards them. “I have met one of you before now,” he said, scrutinising them.
“Indeed, you have …” said Maude.
“But which is the witch you met?” asked Martha.
“And what is your business with her?” hissed Marris. All three stood with their heads cocked to the right like inquisitive statues in a house of horrors.
“It is impossible to tell which I met …” said the Beast.
“But your other question is easy to answer,” I said, taking a step towards them. “One of you came upon the Beast’s palace and cursed its inhabitants.”
Martha, Maude, and Marris nodded in unison.
“Your curse made the servants invisible and dumb and …”
“And?” asked Maude, cocking her head further still.
“And it banished the Beast’s brother, imprisoning him somewhere beyond the reach and tenderness of others.”
Marris narrowed her eyes at the Beast. “His Brother?”
The Beast stepped forwards urgently and said, “I must insist that you allow me to speak with you in private.”
“You are not in your palace now!” barked Martha.
“And it would, therefore, be foolish to insist on anything!” said Maude.
The Beast clasped his hands together. “Then I implore you, speak with me in private, beyond the ears of Beauty.”
“But why?” I asked.
“My dear,” said Marris, “it seems your friend has been keeping secrets from you.”
“Secrets regarding the true nature of the curse,” said Maude, glancing left and right at her sisters.
“Is this true?” I asked the Beast.
He turned to face me and nodded gravely. “I ask that you trust me. For if we have even a flicker of a chance of breaking this curse, then …” The Beast looked at me so imploringly that I could do little else but nod.
“The flicker of a chance,” cackled Maude.
“Indeed,” said Marris. “Looking at the monstrous creature that stands before us now, it is rather less than a flicker!”
The Beast turned his troubled gaze upon the witches. “Even though it may be one chance in a billion, please … just let me discuss it with you in private.”
The witches glanced at one another, and then extended their arms towards me with such venom that, fearing I was about to breathe my last, I closed my eyes. I opened them a moment later to find myself standing in the cove where our boat was moored. Feeling a mixture of injustice, curiosity and fear, not only for myself but the Beast, I sprinted along the sand, climbed the rocky stairs, and flew along the passage past the skulls.
I arrived back in the den to see the Beast conferring with the witches. Upon my approach, the conspirators nodded in agreement, and the Beast backed away from them. I went to his side and said, “I object in the strongest possible terms to being … to being banished in such a way.”
“Well then, imagine how my brother must have felt all these years,” sighed the Beast. I am pleased to say that his words had quite the sobering effect upon me. “Yes, yes, of course. Please forgive me. So, you have made your bargain then?”
“We have made a bargain of sorts,” said the Beast miserably, “but believe me when I tell you it is no more than was promised by one of the sisters on that fateful night.”
Maude stepped forwards. “Agreed our bargain? Not quite.”
“But you just agreed,” growled the Beast.
“We shall agree to it but only if Beauty can choose which one us was refused sanctuary.”
“Yes!” hissed Marris gleefully, “which one of us placed the curse? Choose correctly, and we will fulfil our agreement and give the Beast its one in a billion chance of breaking the curse.”
“But choose poorly, and the agreement will be void, and even that one in a billion chance will be no more.”
“What is the meaning of this?” asked an increasingly flustered Beast.
“Come now, Beast, you would not deprive we three sisters a little fun, surely?” said Maude.
“I would when so much is at stake.”
I stepped forwards, and casting a glance over the three witches, top to toe, I said, “I accept the challenge gladly, and I hereby choose …”
“Beauty!” cried the Beast, “how can you be so reckless?”
“I do not believe I am … I choose Marris,” I said, darting a glance at her.
Marris balled her hands into fists and, having placed them irritably on her hips, said, “Are there four witches here?”
“So, Beauty has chosen correctly,” said the Beast.
Maude fixed her gaze on me. “She has, but how? And with such certainty?”
“I’m no witch. I just remembered something the Beast said in passing about your feet,” I said, glancing down at them.
The Beast swallowed hard. “In my agitated state, even I had overlooked that detail.”
“Well then, it’s time!” said Marris.
“Time for what?” I asked.
“For you to embark upon the impossible challenge that the Beast has arranged for you. So, come closer, Beauty …” said Maude, beckoning me with a crooked finger.
I glanced up at the Beast.
“It's okay. Go to her. She has something she must give you.”
I took three strides and stood before the witches.
“Take this,” hissed Maude, extending her arms. Laid across her hands was a silver chain, about a metre in length, with fist-sized hoops at either end.
“What's it for?” I asked, lifting it.
“You are to be transported to the Tower of Solitude,” said the Beast quietly from behind me.
“Where?” I asked, examining the silver chain more closely.
The Beast cleared his throat. “It is the place where you last visited the Prince.”
“The Tower of Solitude? The name is an apt one …” I murmured.
“Once there,” said Marris, “you must place one of the hoops around the Prince’s right wrist, and the other around your left …”
“Tethering you to the Prince,” said the Beast.
“But why?” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.
Martha lifted a rag to her nose to mask my stench. She leaned in close and said spitefully, “To break my sister's curse, you must remain tethered to the Prince until you have crossed the River of Lost Souls. If you’re able to accomplish this feat, then the curse will be lifted.”
“Then we shall remain tethered,” I said defiantly. “But how will I get through the door into his cell?”
“You will find the door open,” said the Beast. I turned and, looking up at him, saw
that he was trembling. “There is no need to be quite so nervous. I intend to stay tethered to your brother if it's the last thing I do.” Strangely, the Beast looked at me as though he did not doubt it. I say strangely because it was as though he feared that I would stay true to my word.
I stepped towards him. “I have no idea what concerns you, of the secret pact you have made with the sisters, but you must trust me,” I said.
“I will if …”
“If?”
“If you'll trust your heart. If you do not, I fear this may be the last time I gaze upon your face …”
“I will trust it.”
“Come what may?” asked the Beast.
“Come what may,” I repeated.
“Enough of this loathsome talk!” screeched Maude, and all went dark.
Journal entry no. 25
Seconds later, light filled my vision, a cascade of jumbled colours that formed a whole picture … and there, through the open door to his cell, sat the Prince. He looked up at me as though unable to believe his eyes and then, having resolved to discover if I was real, scrambled to his feet. We came together in the middle of his cell, and whatever he was about to say was replaced by “Why are you tethering us together?”
I looked up into his eyes, so imploring, so beautiful, and once I had managed to draw breath, I said, “Do you trust me?”
The Prince almost shrugged but, seeing the determination on my face, nodded.
“Good,” I swallowed. “Then believe me when I tell you that to break the curse that has banished you to a lifetime of loneliness, we need only stay tethered until we have crossed the River of Lost Souls.”
The Prince gazed through the open door. “Then, I'm free to leave? The witch will not find and return me?”