Mrs. Beast Read online

  "Magic mirror,

  don't make me shiver.

  Show me a bridge

  across this river."

  Beauty waits for the mirror to reveal its answer, but thrashing in the weeds nearby interrupts her concentration. The source is a rock bass flopping crazily, caught in a web of fisherman's netting. She tucks the mirror back into her bodice, untangles the net and watches with pleasure as the fish loops and swirls, scales flashing.

  "Merci beaucoup, belle mademoiselle," the bass gurgles. "You done me a great service and I am obliged to do so in kind."

  "I need to cross the river, but the water's too cold. Is there a bridge?"

  "Not a one," the fish answers and turns sideways to size up Beauty with his metallic eye. "You're too large for me to ferry. However. . .no, better not risk it."

  Beauty squeezes her hands together and pleads to the fish. "Please, whatever the risk, it is not too great. I'm on a most important quest, and I won't go back from whence I've come.

  "See those turtles sunning on the fallen tree?"

  Beauty gazes over the river and finds a half-submerged tree supporting twenty bottle-green humps. "They may consent to help, but turtles can't be trusted; not one cell of evolution in two million years, and they're proud of it! With so few predators, they're hard-shelled and cocky. However, due to your kindness, I'll approach them."

  Beauty watches the fish glide through the water up to the fallen tree. Two-by-two, flat turtle heads emerge from sheaths of puckered neck skin. Scaly legs pop from twenty shells and propel the turtles into the river, plunk-plunk-plunk. They swim toward Beauty in V formation, then to her delight, straighten into a stepping stone bridge from bank to bank.

  Beauty lifts the hems of her dress and cape and steps on the first turtle's back. She wobbles for a moment, but she doesn't slip; the rough worn soles of Blockhead's shoes provide excellent traction.

  Five steps--ten steps--Beauty navigates daintily. With the fifteenth step she enters shadows cast by the great Grimm forest. She smells pine and moss; she feels a temperature drop of ten degrees. Step twenty--she's almost there when the turtle beneath her begins its teasing, slow descent. Icy water engulfs Beauty's shoes and sucks them from her feet. Her toenails turn blue and pain flashes up her shins. The bass dashes around the turtle, fanning his fins madly. The turtle snatches his tail in her horny beak and grinds with all her might. Bubbles rise and break, loosing fishy screams. Beauty swings her arms to gain balance. The cape falls from her shoulders, and the portmanteau flies from her hand and sinks like a cannonball. She lunges for the shore, lands with a "thwack," and topples face-first into decomposing muck.

  As Beauty shivers on the bank, the twentieth turtle and the fish swim to the surface. The bass sputters, "Shame, shame, shame! Have you no compassion, have you no honor, have you . . ."

  "Ah, your mudder sucks earthworms," the turtle snaps and joins the retreating mob. The bass opens his wide mouth to retort, spies a blue-tailed fly buzzing over a stand of cattails, and he's gone in a silver flash.

  Beauty's feet sting as if being punctured with a thousand needles. By grasping two low slung branches, she's able to pull herself free of the muck. She scootches higher to terra firma, swipes mucky locks off her face, and draws her muck-soaked skirt aside: six fat leeches are attached to the three broken blisters on each foot. Beauty's cherry lips quiver and her bright hazel eyes roll to the back of her skull.

  * * *

  "Don't give me that look," Elora the Enchantress snarls at Croesus. "So I used a little silver savvy dust on the mule. Obviously it wore off, just as I'd planned." She fixes the hound with a back-off glare, and he scampers out of her sight.

  "That's twice Beauty has fainted in the past two days," Elora murmurs and arches one black eyebrow. She lights a clove cigarette and stares out the casement windows. Croesus returns carrying his feeding bowl.

  "I know she's not sick, and she's never been squeamish. Perhaps she's baking a wee loaf in her oven."

  Croesus licks his chops and paws his empty bowl.

  "That's a euphemism, you dolt. Expecting the stork, pollinated, inseminated, spermatized. Pregnant." Elora smirks and poises her fingers over the bowl. "Hungry? I know the perfect dish. Turtle soup and I'll make it snappy."

  * * *

  "Those turtles been up to their nasty business again, Ojars."

  "Is she dead?"

  "Nah, her chest is moving."

  "Oh, man, look at the leeches on her feet. Got any salt?"

  "I think so. Yeah, in my pocket."

  "Well dose the little bastards with it now!"

  "I'm dosing. I'm dosing."

  "Stomp 'em. Get those blood suckers, Gunnard."

  Beauty opens her right eye a slit and sees two dwarfs dressed in lederhosen and hobnailed boots. They're a few yards away, yelping and jumping on the sluggish, blood-heavy leeches. Miniature picks, drills, and hammers jangle from their tool belts. Their yellow hair, cut in the shape of inverted bowls, circles pale, hairless faces and dove-grey eyes. Their bodies are coated in yellow down and each jump produces a puff of gold dust.

  "We got 'em all, Gunnard. Better see if the girl's come around."

  Beauty squeezes her eyes shut and tries to relax her body, which is extremely difficult because her skin itches from the dried muck and her feet burn with pain.

  "Hey, Ojars, Deja vu, huh?"

  "Don't be cute; this is serious. Check her mouth for poisoned apple."

  "I'm not sticking my finger in there. What if she bites? For all we know, she's not even a girl; might be a hobgoblin in disguise."

  "Pussy."

  "Takes one to know one."

  "Okay, you hold her jaws and I'll clear her mouth."

  A nubby finger, thick as a sausage, pries open Beauty's jaws and swabs her mouth.

  "Nothing. What's next?

  "Poison comb or laces too tight."

  "Right you are, Ojars. You check her hair and I'll check her dress."

  Eight fat fingers probe her muddy curls. Eight more frisk her ribs and stop abruptly when they touch the mirror's handle.

  "Her scalp's clean. Is she bound too tight, Gunnard?"

  "No laces, but there's something hard as rock inside there."

  "Take it out."

  "That's private territory, you knob. I wish Helga was here."

  "Well she isn't, and it'd take us half an hour to get home and another to bring one of the girls back here. She could be dead by then. Are those letters on her breast?

  R U N."

  "Whoa! Not a good omen. Let's beat it."

  "We can't do that."

  "I know, we'll both close our eyes and I'll pull it out. On the count of three. One--two--three!"

  A small, callused hand plunges into Beauty's bodice and yanks the mirror free of the cloth along with her left bosom.

  "Gad zooks! It's a magic mirror. We gotta hide it, bury it. What if the queen gets her hands on it?"

  "You smell smoke? Me neither, so relax, she's not around here."

  Beauty groans, she can't help herself; the mirror has been snatched again.

  "She's coming to. Cripes, Gunnard, you pulled out one of her ta-ta's. Put that puppy back in before she wakes up and figures we're perverts."

  "I got the mirror; you put it back."

  Beauty discreetly tucks the escaped breast into her bodice, sits up, and faces the dwarfs. They stand with hands clasped behind their backs. "Hey, lady. Are you okay?"

  "My feet hurt," Beauty moans.

  "Those are some vile-looking sores. We got salve back at the commune. I'm Gunnard and this is my brother, Ojars."

  "Pleased to meet you. My name is Beauty. Do you know if Glass Mountain is near?"

  "Nope. I know where Gold Mountain is. We work there with our five brothers: Max, Wolfgang, Lars, Pieter, and Herman," Gunnard answers. "Maybe one of the wives knows. Anywho, those feet need looking after. We'll take you home with us."

  Ojars removes a reed whistle from his shirt pock
et and tweedles a tune. A dragonfly the size of a Fokker tri-plane zips through the sky and lands on a rise above the river. They progress five short steps up the river bank then Ojars stops, thrust his ample nostrils into the air and sniffs deeply. "I smell smoke. It's Queen Vanita!"

  "We gotta skedaddle!" Gunnard yaps, and the brothers lift Beauty, Gunnard taking her shoulders, Ojars her ankles. They gallop to the dragonfly, hoist Beauty aboard, and soar upward.

  Beauty looks down to see a tall, gaunt woman whirling along the river's edge in a danse macabre. Her face and hands are streaked with soot; the hair is burnt from her head and a gold crown jiggles upon her scalp. She raises her feet waist-high like a lizard in the desert at high noon, her iron shoes glowing red hot.

  Chapter Three

  Who's The Fairest of Us All

  Miles and miles of dense, foggy forest whiz beneath Beauty in the blur and whirl of giant dragonfly wings. Muck dries like plaster of Paris on her skin. The itching makes her want to scream, but she won't release her grip on Gunnard's belt in order to scratch. After what seems an eternity, the dragonfly slows and descends into a clearing. Grey shafts of light illuminate a sprawling structure of eight distinctive houses, attached one to the other and built between a small whitewashed cottage at one end and a larger cottage with a single tower at the other end.

  Running and laughing through the yard are at least a dozen dwarf children. Scrubbing clothes, sweeping doorways, and feeding chickens while chatting over fences, are seven dwarf women. And standing on a ladder, washing second story windows, is a woman with hair as black as ebony wood and skin as white as snow.

  As the kiddies shuffle their bare baby feet to investigate the stranger, Gunnard warns, "You bitsy yard apes watch your step. This lady's feet are sore."

  The children form a circle around Beauty. She's captivated by their bright eyes and apple cheeks. She'd like to embrace each one, but she won't because she's filthy with dried muck and because she has learned a lesson about mothers. One morning last month, she was picking roses from the castle garden when a peasant woman and her daughter passed by. The child turned to smile at Beauty, and Beauty offered a pink rose from her basket. The girl skipped to Beauty's side; her mother plodded close behind with her face scrunched like an irritated brown bat. Holding the rose to her sweet little nose, the girl stared up at Beauty and said, You're so beautiful. I wish you were my mother. The peasant woman yanked her daughter's braid so sharply the child dropped the rose and ran like a flushed quail.

  "Hello, mate, and who’s brought you home from the mines at midday?" A woman steps forward and Ojars plants a kiss on her cheek.

  "Me and Gunnard went down to the river to eat lunch, and we found this lady lying in the muck with leeches on her feet. Then Herself came dancing her smoky arse up the river bank, so we lit outta there."

  "Yeah, and Beauty had a mir . . ."

  Gunnard jabs Ojars in the ribs. The dwarf woman takes Beauty by the hand and guides her toward the small white cottage. "Beauty is your name?"

  Beauty nods her head and her chestnut locks clack together.

  "That dried mud must itch dreadfully. I'm Helga. Come inside and we'll make you comfortable."

  Beauty glances up the ladder at the woman washing windows. "That's Snow White," says Helga. "She's a bit shy."

  * * *

  Wrapped in a quilt beside the hearth, Beauty is content. Gerda had filled a bathing tub with warmed rosewater, and Beauty soaked until her skin was pink. Eva dressed her feet with herb poultices. Sigrid scrubbed the mud from her yellow gown and hung it out to dry. Freya gave her a white blouse and a blue pinafore that fit perfectly. Brunhilde had combed the tangles from Beauty's hair while Ingrid prepared a crock of barley soup and spread strawberry jam on thick slices of salt risen bread.

  Throughout their gracious attentions, Beauty related her story, the abridged version, from her motherless childhood to her father's misfortune, meeting the Beast, his transformation, and her decision to change him back by finding Elora the Enchantress who dwelt atop Glass Mountain. The women knew nothing of either Elora or Glass Mountain.

  Beauty was hesitant to ask about the mirror. How could she phrase her words without accusing Gunnard and Ojars of stealing? Would she have to explain the manner in which they procured the mirror? Would their wives' eyes narrow and their lips tighten as all wives do when their husbands pay attention to Beauty? Without the mirror, she couldn't find Elora, and without Elora she would never see her beloved Beast again, or live happily ever. She screwed up her courage and said, "I had a magic mirror. I need it to continue my quest. Perhaps it was lost when I fainted."

  "Most likely, Gunnard has buried it," Eva said.

  "You'll notice there's not a mirror in this cottage," Freya said.

  "Nor in the whole of our village," Ingrid added.

  "Don't fret," Eva said. "Your mirror will be returned when you're well enough to travel."

  Beauty watches the women lounging on the floor, eating lunch from tiny plates and miniature spoons. She has not experienced such generosity of spirit since those first blissful days with the Beast, and she's never been treated so kindly by women.

  Is it because of their kindness I find them exquisitely beautiful? Naturally, Beauty doesn't stare, knowing how uncomfortable it feels to be gawked at. She turns her head about nonchalantly and sneaks glances while sipping her tea. These women are not slaves to fashion. Eva's cotton caftan hugs her bosom and drapes over her pregnant belly. Sigrid's herringbone jacket and trousers are tailored to perfection. Ingrid wears a red felt cap and a green felt jumper. Helga wears a three-piece knitted pantsuit. Brunhilde's auburn hair dangles to her waist in Botticelli waves. Freya's black hair brushes her jaw line on the right side and is shaved to stubble on the left; her baby runs his chubby hand back and forth over the stubble. Gerda's left nostril is pierced with a gold ring and her front teeth are gold-plated.

  "We are an eclectic lot," Gerda says, flashing her gold teeth in a wry smile. Beauty blushes at being caught.

  "Style is one form of expression," Sigrid adds and lights a meerschaum pipe. This is true, yet Beauty believes it's easy to be outlandish when you're surrounded by friends and isolated from the world.

  "Here's Snow White," Helga announces.

  Beauty turns, wearing her pleased-to-meet-you face: half-smile, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes wide open and earnest. The woman is a beauty. Her hair is black as coal, her skin is white as Edelweiss, her eyes are ice blue, and her lips are redder than the reddest rose in the Beast's garden. Snow White strides across the floor and halts before Beauty. She gives her a slow, head-to-toe once-over, and then yanks back the quilt and shouts. "Those are my clothes!"

  Freya's baby twitches and lets loose a wail. Sigrid places herself firmly between Beauty and Snow White and speaks evenly. "Her dress was soiled so we washed it. You left that outfit here in the trunk."

  Snow White reaches over Sigrid's head, puts one white finger on Beauty's collar, and when Beauty looks down, the finger snaps her nose.

  "Make sure it goes back there, and wash it first!" Snow White turns on her heels and struts out the door.

  * * *

  "Mee-ow!" Elora vocalizes over her crystal ball. "Somebody slap a bell around her snow white neck. Uncle Walt was way off on this girl."

  Croesus cocks his head.

  "Disney, you dufus. His Snow White was first released in 1937 and re-released every decade since. The last time we watched it you left when Snow started warbling into the well."

  Croesus throws up his chin and releases a modulating howl. Elora grabs his jowls and squints one silver-flecked eye. "Disney was a dangerous dude. It's not that I object so much to his portrayal of Grimm Land as a Technicolor playground for preciously cute and helpful animals, and making Snow a saucer-eyed simp who treats the dwarfs like toddlers while pining, Someday my prince will come; pulled the same crap with Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty a few years later. But his versions have led countless little girls down the
primrose path."

  Croesus whimpers and Elora releases his jowls. "Sorry, pup. It makes my ass twitch. Go to any beauty salon and you'll find women reading romance novels under the dryers, hoping to be transformed into a beauty who can get the prince and the castle, or at least a CPA and a house in the burbs. Disnified damsels in distress, grown up girls who sat in darkened theaters, tasted the carrot of romance dangled before their wide eyes, and from that moment decided to hold out for Prince Charming. Hell, half the world's women think Disney wrote Snow White. Can't blame Uncle Walt for the tres PC, '90's version of Beauty's tale where she's a feisty little bookworm, but dainty and full of song as Disney's Snow, and the Beast comes off as a cuddly Quasimodo, hammier than bacon . . ."

  Croesus interrupts by poking Elora with his nose and pawing the crystal ball where Beauty has turned her chair toward the fire, hiding her tears from the dwarf women.

  Elora shakes her head. "Isn't it odd that a beauty will withstand a shit storm of abuse from relatives, but if another beauty ranks on her, she comes undone? Beauty assumes Snow will empathize with her, but Beauty doesn't know Snow's history, nor does Snow know Beauty's. Will they open those keyed-up mouths and recognize what they share? Will they unlock the twin doors of guilt and shame?”

  * * *

  In response to Beauty’s insistence on helping with dinner preparations, Eva has set her up in the yard with a peck of peas. Beauty is happily running her thumb through the pods, popping green peas into a basket, when she hears the parting of branches, the tramp of boots, and masculine banter. Next she hears splashing and Hoo-hoos, and Hah-hah’s, glubs and gurgles from behind the house.