Mrs. Beast Read online

  Beauty dons her navy blue riding cape, hefts her portmanteau, and descends the Grand Staircase. Luncheon clatters rises from the Great Hall: the clink of silver forks, the ringing of crystal goblets, and the tinkling of harpsichord. Beauty pictures Runyon’s long, delicate fingers playing the keys and her tattoo throbs. She quickly draws open the Great Doors, ready to flee, then pauses on the thresh hold to bid farewell to the statues that encase her sisters. Staring at their frozen, frightful expressions, she recalls the last time she saw them in the flesh on her wedding day.

  Beauty's family had arrived in a golden carriage Runyon commissioned to impress his future in-laws. Her father jumped from the carriage, broke into a buck and wing, and loudly proclaimed he'd known the Beast was a prince all along. Violet emerged and stumbled into Daisy, who was dumbstruck gawking at the enormous white palace and the gorgeous Prince Runyon.

  While Beauty obediently made her father welcome, Violet and Daisy raced to their sister's bedroom. Violet emptied an ink horn over the white satin wedding gown laid out on the bed. Daisy tore her fingernails through the Belgian lace veil hanging from the wardrobe. They plucked every petal from her wedding bouquet and put rotten eggs in the toes of her wedding shoes, then hurried down to the Great Hall.

  Beauty knew nothing of these dastardly deeds because Elora repaired the damage with a snap of her fingers. When Beauty descended the Grand Staircase, every inch the fairy tale, princess bride, steam shot from Violet's and Daisy's ears. A black cloud formed over their heads and followed them as they staggered with blind rage to the palace steps. There a voice spoke from the cloud:

  I know your hearts and the malice they contain. You shall become statues while retaining your ability to think beneath the stone that encompasses you. You will stand at the portal of your sister's palace because I can think of no better punishment to impose than to witness her happiness. I will allow you to return to your original shape only when you recognize your faults, but I fear that you'll remain statues forever. Pride, anger, gluttony and laziness can all be corrected, but a miracle is needed to convert a wicked and envious heart, you rotten rascals.

  "Surely, they've suffered enough," Beauty murmurs. “Perhaps Elora may be able to transform you too.” She kisses their granite cheeks and, if they could, the sisters would smirk with satisfaction as Beauty turns to take her leave of the castle, the prince, and happily ever after.

  * * *

  "What do you think, hound? Have they suffered enough?" Elora arches an ebony eyebrow. Croesus creeps out from under the bed and shakes his head decisively.

  "You're doggoned right they have not. Not nearly enough for the hundreds of pinches and slaps they gave Beauty. At least now she's ducking out for a worthy cause unlike the last time when she offered herself to the Beast to save her neurotic family. Do you remember that? Would you care to see a replay?”

  Croesus trots to her side and Elora snaps her fingers over the crystal ball.

  Beauty's father appears within, preparing for a journey to the city. Violet and Daisy are tugging at his sleeves, yattering in his ears, demanding he bring back jewels and gowns. Marcel turns to Beauty and asks what he may bring her from his journey. A rose, please, she answers.

  Elora snaps again and the crystal reveals Marcel heading home, penniless. His ships had sunk in a storm at sea, and although creditors had ravaged him, he had purchased a blue gown for Violet and a pink gown for Daisy. At the moment he remembered Beauty’s simple request of a rose, a snowstorm blew in from out of nowhere.

  "A dandy of a storm, I must admit," Elora chuckles. "Mother Nature herself couldn't have done better. Look, there's Marcel when he spied the Beast's castle, sat at the Beast's table, gobbled up the Beast's food, slept in the Beast's bed . . . and the following morning, bold as brass, picked the Beast's roses."

  Croesus raises his hackles as a buffalo-sized head thrust from the bushes with a hair-raising roar.

  "Now there's a beast and a half!" Elora hoots.

  Croesus bares his teeth and barks. Elora pats his round head, and together they watch as the Beast berates Marcel for being an ingrate and a thief, then tells him to prepare for death. Marcel pleads for his mercy, saying the rose was not for his pleasure, but one of his daughters had asked for a rose.

  "Smooth move, Judas, way to crumble," Elora snorts. Croesus huffs in empathy and is rewarded with a Pup-Peroni. Elora zooms in on the Beast's face. A string of saliva breaks off his gruesome leer. I'll spare your life on the condition that one of your daughters voluntarily takes your place. If they each refuse, I'll find you and devour you and your daughters.

  Elora and Croesus watch Marcel boo-hoo his way home, Violet and Daisy rush outside, greedy for presents, and Beauty smile with relief at his arrival. Marcel turns on the tears and holds out the branch of roses he pilfered: Beauty, take these roses; they will cost your poor father dearly.

  Elora freeze-frames the scene as Violet begins to screech and Daisy snatches the rose branch. "I fixed those two." Elora snaps her fingers and the image changes to the entrance of Castle Fleur de Coeur where Beauty's sisters stand as stone sentinels. "Hey, Violet, Daisy--stat-chew? Get it, Croesus?" The hound wheezes a doggy laugh.

  Elora snaps her fingers again and the image expands to reveal Beauty traipsing toward the royal stables. "She's on her way, Croesus. How long it will take her to find us? What obstacles lie in her path? Will she have the endurance to make it? I could find out by conjuring up the future, if I really wanted to."

  Croesus licks her face.

  "Yeah, you know I'm a liar, but I could intervene, help her just a tad."

  Croesus flops to the floor and groans.

  "Okay, I won't use magic. Beauty deserves a chance to prove herself. She is the only beauty in this neck of the woods who chose her prince instead of waiting to be chosen. I have faith in her, Croesus, but the world is not kind to beauties. And why is that so? They aren't to blame for being born beautiful any more than they're to blame for the fawners and the jealous who make them helpless, vain, paranoid, and gullible. The straight-up skinny, hound of mine? Love is not meant for beauty queens."

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Heigh-Ho

  The afternoon sun streams golden and hazy on the Royal Stable as Beauty teeters down the bridle path. Daffodil-scented wind teases her chestnut curls when she pulls open the wide double doors. Blockhead, the stable boy, lies on a pile of straw, picking his nose and wishing for a wife. His imagination is focused on Jhoron, the cook's clever daughter: her long legs outwitting a chicken in the barn yard; her wiry arms swinging an ax; her joyous singing sailing out the kitchen window, across the court yard, and into the stable where Blockhead answers with a yodel.

  Beauty carries her portmanteau inside and stands beside Blockhead, awaiting his assistance. Lost in reverie, he is oblivious. Beauty politely steps into his field of vision. His lumpish synapses impose the vision of Jhoron upon Beauty, and he lurches forward with a gummy grin on his broad jaw. Beauty drops her portmanteau and jumps back. Blockhead trips over the bag and smacks his forehead against Vixen's stall. The mare raises her silky white tail and drops three steaming road apples onto Beauty's riding boots.

  Blockhead grovels at Beauty's feet. "Beg your pardon, Princess Beauty. I thought you was somebody else. Don't tell Prince Runyon. He'll sack me sure and this is the only job I ever got, and Pa won’t take me in, he’ll kick my arse," Blockhead blubbers.

  "Please, stop blubbering and saddle Vixen."

  Blockhead scrambles to fetch the saddle. "Where you going?"

  On a quest for love, Beauty thinks. She then realizes she truly doesn't know where she's going, for she has no idea where Elora lives. She takes the mirror from her portmanteau and holds it before her face.

  "Magic mirror,

  I’m in distress.

  Show me the

  dwelling of Elora

  the Enchantress."

  Cinching the saddle, Blockhead surreptitiously peers over Vixen's ru
mp. The mirror's surface reveals a palatial structure of white stucco and soaring windows. It sits atop a mountain of glass, sleek and clear as ice. Beauty's brow furrows with perplexity and the mirror turns black. "Blockhead?"

  He ducks and hides his face in Vixen's flank.

  "Do you know the way to a glass mountain?" Beauty asks, placing the mirror back into her portmanteau.

  "Why, sure I do, Princess. Sit yourself on this stool and I'll wipe the shit off your fine boots." Blockhead buffs Beauty's boots with spit and shirtsleeve. "First you go out the stable door. . . "

  Beauty sighs impatiently and rolls her eyes to the rafters. Blockhead swipes the mirror and stuffs it into the straw. "Turn left and keep going 'till you come to the south road. Go right and stay on that road. It's a straight ride to Glass Mountain, about, oh, I'd guess . . . two hours."

  Beauty can barely contain her excitement. "Thank you, you dear boy," she gushes and kisses Blockhead's cheek, an innocent gesture of gratitude if bestowed by anyone other than a beauty. The naked mole rat in Blockhead's trousers twitches. He hustles the bag onto Vixen's back, hastily tying knots, and boosts Beauty into the saddle.

  Outside the stable door, Beauty turns and waves. "Good-bye, and thank you again."

  Blockhead doesn't wave back; his sweaty hands remain clasped over the bump in his britches.

  * * *

  By equine standards, Vixen is a fairy tale beauty. Unlike her human counterparts, she's praised for her high-strung spirit. The other mares are not jealous, and stallions don't lust after her except during estrus. She's not expected to be good, kind, modest, trusting and trustworthy. Her single loyalty is to herself. Which explains why, after traveling five miles down the south road, Vixen swings about and bolts for the barn. Beauty yanks futilely on the reins. Blockhead's hastily tied knots unravel and slingshot the portmanteau to the road where it bounces three times, scattering princess apparel fifty feet. Freed of half her burden, the scent of stable oats quivering her nostrils, Vixen kicks up her heels and sends Beauty airborne. Luckily, a bed of blue hyssop cushions her fall. Although she's scraped, no bones are broken and she doesn't bleed, not even three drops.

  Beauty bites her lip, not to hold back tears, but rather to determine her next course of action. Fairy tale beauties seldom cry. With their mothers dying in childbirth, abuse inflicted on them by siblings, formidable tasks they're expected to perform, and injuries from ever-present sharp objects, beauties are nearly cried dry by the time they reach young adulthood. When a beauty does cry, she hides and cries alone because people are intolerant of beauty tears. Why should she cry, others scorn; she has everything, she has it all.

  Beauty decides to consult the magic mirror. The mirror! She leaps to her feet, imagining glass shards on the road and herself wandering aimlessly for seven luckless years. After thirty minutes spent gathering her belongings and scouring the bushes, Beauty gives up the search. She assumes the mirror was lost at some point during the ride. It doesn't occur to her that Blockhead might have filched the mirror. Despite the years of deception and cruelty heaped upon them, fairy tale beauties remain hopefully naive. Beauty begins walking toward the palace slowly, her eyes scanning right and left for a flash of reflected sun.

  * * *

  Beauty has walked three of the five miles. Sweat trickles down her forehead and gathers between her breasts, stinging the tattoo. Her head hurts, her arms ache from the weight of the portmanteau, her legs burn with exertion, and her feet form six blisters inside her fine leather riding boots.

  “I must find the mirror,” she murmurs, “it is the most precious of my possessions, a gift from my dear Beast.” To help pass the time as she searches, Beauty recalls the morning he gave her the mirror. She had awakened on a pile of straw in the Beast’s castle after spending her first night away from her father’s home. She wandered through the enormous palace and stopped before a door marked BEAUTY’S ROOM. She turned the knob to find sunlight pouring through a large bay window, a fire dancing on the hearth, a brass bed covered in eyelet lace, roses of every hue in vases lining the window sill, and an entire wall of books shelved behind glass doors. She selected a leather-bound volume, opened the cover and read the words: YOUR WISH IS OUR COMMAND. YOU ARE QUEEN AND MISTRESS HERE.

  Now Beauty repeats the phrase she spoke upon reading those words: “I wish only to see my poor father again and to know what he is doing at this very moment.” She remembers the Beast knocked on her door at that very moment, and how she squealed and trembled at the sight of him. He held the magic mirror in his great paw, extended toward her.

  “You may see your father in this mirror, or whatever else you wish, only you must ask in rhyme,” the Beast had growled and slide the mirror across the floor to Beauty’s feet. It was heavy in her hands, exquisitely cut from rose tourmaline, its facets casing jittery rainbows on walls and ceiling. By the time she lifted her head, the Beast was already gone, lumbering down the hall, his breath chugging like bellows.

  “I simply must find the mirror,” Beauty murmurs again, “but I’m so tired and hungry.” Her stomach rumbles; she hasn’t had a bite since breakfast, which she’d chucked into the chamber pot hours earlier. Her spirit sags, she stops to rest and her resolve weakens as well. Life at the palace isn’t so bad: she imagines soaking in her claw-foot porcelain tub, Quiche Lorraine served on a silver tray brought to her feather bed, choosing a book from the shelves—books, her old friends full of gracious discourse.

  “Friends,” she sighs, because fairy tales beauties do not have friends though long for them intensely. The Beast was the one true friend she had. He always saddled her mount with special care and tightened the ropes with his canines. He would accompany her on every ride through the countryside, bending to pick her bunches of wildflowers. If the Beast were here, he would carry her in his arms five miles and more, to the ends of the Earth if she asked. Beauty springs to her feet and shouts, "I won't give up!"

  * * *

  "Atta girl," Elora hoots over her crystal ball. She flicks her wrist and a swelling symphony of the Boston Philharmonic playing Tara's Theme resounds through the Deco Palace. Croesus stands on his hind legs and dances a dramatic polonaise across the marble floor.

  "Dang me, if Beauty didn't heft that portmanteau with the inspired strength of Scarlett O'Hara heaving the dead Yankee into the scuppernong arbor," Elora drawls.

  "She's headed back to the stables where she'll discover that Blockhead filched the mirror . . . she'll require a different mount, one with more sense than a turnip . . ."

  Elora snaps her fingers and the stable interior appears within the crystal ball. "Hmm, there's a likely candidate." She forms a fist over the ball, opens her hand and silver dust drifts into the crystal, settling on the long ears of Hermes the mule. Her magic complete, Elora grasps a rose between her teeth and joins Croesus in the dance.

  * * *

  Twilight descends lilac and gauzy on the Royal Stable as Beauty limps up the bridal path. Even from this distance, she can hear the raucous party inside the palace, and she's certain Runyon hasn't noticed her absence. She slips inside the stable and sees Vixen chewing contentedly from her feed bag. Blockhead sits on his straw pile, eating sliced apples and fromage, mumbling into the mirror. Beauty observes secretly as his mumbles diminish to dreamy babble: "Jhoron. Hor-on. Vor-on. Cor-on," and he drops off in a snore.

  Rather than feeling miffed, Beauty is thinking, How sweet, he loves Jhoron enough to steal the mirror, rack his brain for a rhyme, when she's nudged from behind. She turns to behold the bemused face of Hermes the mule, a beast of burden, as dependable as the soil he tills. She scratches the flat span between his dark eyes and the mules give her a knowing wink.

  "Do you know the way to Glass Mountain?" she asks. Hermes nods his head.

  Beauty eases off her boots and replaces them with a pair of Blockhead's sturdy work shoes. They fit her feet with room to spare and don't chafe the blisters. She crawls across the stable floor to where Blockhead dozes, and stu
ffs her pockets with apple and cheese. Carefully she extracts the mirror from Blockhead's limp hand, tucks it into her bodice, and crawls back to Hermes. She climbs onto his back, clicks her tongue, and Hermes plods for the door. Blockhead tosses and moans, "Mor-on."

  As she rides, Beauty hums Claire de Lune between bites of Gruyere and apple. While the south road had been curved, narrow, and overgrown with vegetation, the west road is broad, flat, and clear. Spring meadows stretch as far as the eye can see, but Beauty can't discern their vivid color because the sun has set, leaving a deep purple nimbus on the horizon. Without the looming shadows of trees, night songs of birds, and the scurry of nocturnal feeders, Beauty and Hermes bob like a bottle in a dark, calm sea.

  Clip-clop-clip-clop, Hermes' rolling gait cradles Beauty. She's weary, sore, bone-tired; her eyelids droop and she rests her head on Hermes' neck.

  An hour later, the mule bends to graze on succulent grass alongside the Deep Icy River, and Beauty sits upright rubbing her eyes, wondering how long she's slept. The night is moonless and starless, but Beauty can hear the river dancing over rocks, the chirp and burp of frogs, possum, muskrat, and beaver. She dismounts and asks Hermes, "Is Glass Mountain near?"

  Hermes points his ears across the river. "In the morning," Beauty yawns. "We'll cross over in the morning." She unties her portmanteau, wraps her riding cloak around her and beds down for the night. Hermes continues to graze: rip, chew, snort, rip, chew, snort.

  * * *

  When the sun washes the river's east bank in pale yellow light, Beauty awakes to find Hermes has gone. Abandonment is the greatest fear of childhood, and a matter of course for fairy tale beauties. She should have tethered him for the night, but that had seemed untrusting and unkind, albeit hopefully naive.

  Beauty stands and is seized by light-headedness. She dips a handkerchief in the river and washes her face and hands. She eats the last two slices of apple and stares across the river. Beauty's a good swimmer; with Violet and Daisy as sisters, she learned to swim or sink early on. However, the water is frigid, and Beauty has a cloak, heavy work shoes, and portmanteau to carry. She withdraws the mirror from her bodice.