The Beast Is an Animal

by Peternelle van Arsdale

  Alys had survived so much, but she would not survive that. It was her conjuring of Cian’s revulsion that finally decided her. She would leave the very next morning, early. Before anyone else rose. That evening at dinner, she laughed extra hard and long at Pawl’s jokes, and after helping Beti with the dishes, she didn’t wait for Beti to pull her into an over-enthusiastic embrace. Instead, Alys reached out for Beti, held her, and memorized her scent of lavender and lard.

  She didn’t say goodnight to Cian. She waited until he’d gone to retrieve firewood from the lean-to where they kept it dry, and she told Pawl and Beti that she was very tired. Then she fled to her tent and tied the flap good and tight. She thought this might slow her down long enough to think twice if she were even so much as tempted to go in search of Cian in the hope he might beg her to stay.

  Earlier that day, she’d filled a skin with water and put together a small stash of food—not that she could imagine eating it. Now she packed the clothes Beti had given her and Mam’s coat. She had the knife Father had made and Mother had given her. She conjured their faces, the roughness of Mother’s hands, and the sawdust that collected in the whorls of Father’s ears. She had the linen with the children of Gwenith’s names. These things would have to be enough to keep her company.

  She had no thought of where exactly she would go. But it would be far away, where no one she loved could ever find her or be hurt or disappointed by her. And maybe, to satisfy a curiosity that Ren had planted in her, she would try to see the ocean. The blue that went on forever. Whatever happened to her afterward, at least she would have seen that.

  She didn’t attempt to block the way to her tent flap that night. It hadn’t prevented her from waking up in the trees before, so it seemed pointless now. With everything at the ready, she climbed into her bed fully expecting sleep would never come.

  She lay in the dark and heard the sounds of the camp rise and fall around her. The soft voices of the Lakers, the loud voices of the Lakers. Occasionally someone breaking into song. More than once she heard Beti’s cackle. She kept an ear pricked for Cian’s low voice, but she never heard him.

  Her eyelids drooped, and she felt sleep coming, which surprised her. Then her eyes closed and she was gone.

  Alys climbed and she climbed. The air thinned and chilled her lungs and her breathing was shallow. But she climbed on, because The Beast was leading her. She saw Its furred back and Its leathery wings ahead of her. There was something It wanted her to see. Needed her to see. So she climbed.

  Then it was in front of her and it was familiar and awful. It was the hole. Big and gaping and expanding all the time. Around its edges, trees and bushes lost their grip on the land and tumbled down and down to disappear in its nothingness. The Beast turned to look at her.

  She fell into Its eyes, wet and black and knowing, and she knew all that It had lost and all that would be lost to that hole. How every soul that was taken made the wound deeper. The Beast looked down at Its own chest, which opened down the center, and where Its ribs and lungs and heart should have been, Alys saw only darkness and emptiness and pain and loss. She cried out, looked around her, as if help might come.

  The Beast shook Its head. Breathed in and out. But it wasn’t The Beast’s voice that spoke to her. It was Mother’s. “No, child, there’s none can help me now. None save for you.”

  Cian’s voice. “Alys? Alys, are you awake?”

  Alys’s eyes flew open and sun flowed through the cracks in her canvas tent. It was full morning. She’d slept in her own bed, long and deep. It wasn’t night, and she wasn’t clinging to a tree. She was in her bed, like a normal girl—a normal girl who’d overslept.

  She sat up, looked around her. Saw her pack by the tent flap. She’d lost the opportunity to leave today. She’d lost the sense of why she must leave.

  She reminded herself: Cerys. Wolf. Delwyn. Benedicta. Angelica.

  Oh yes. That. Those. But she couldn’t leave now, not with Cian calling to her and the camp awake in the bright sunshine.

  “Yes, Cian, I’m awake.”

  “Are you all right? Breakfast is ready. I have tea here for you.”

  She untied the flap and peeked around it. He stood there, handsome and smiling at her, and handed her the steaming cup. “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s a fishing day,” he said. “I’ve just decided. Come with me?”

  Hesitation wasn’t possible when confronted with Cian’s kind, open face—his smile that knew nothing of Beasts and holes in the earth. “I’ll just get dressed,” she said.

  She closed the flap, sipped hot tea, and thought. Her heart raced and yet she also felt strangely calm. She’d only believed she was decided before. Now she really was. She would still leave. Tomorrow. But she had a new destination. She would find The Beast and the hole. And she would ask The Beast to tell her how to close it. Alys might still be a monster. In fact she felt quite sure that she was. But healing Byd—or trying to—was the least she could do for Mother. For herself. For all of them.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Alys and Cian weren’t really fishing. More pretending to fish. Then every once in a while Cian would get a look on his face that meant he’d be leaning toward her in just a moment, rocking the canoe, and touching his lips to hers, soft at first, and then exploring. He’d grasp a hunk of her hair in his hand, wrap it around his fingers. Sometimes he’d take her face in his hands, or rest one hand gently at the base of her throat, tracing the notch between her collarbones with one finger.

  She wished now that she could go back to that sweet, short time before she’d begun waking in the trees. Cian had been everything to her then. If she’d been asked before she met him what she was missing in her heart and soul, what she craved, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. Then she met Cian. And quickly—so quickly, and yet so completely—he had stepped into the yearning place inside of her. And he fit perfectly. He was what she’d craved all along—she just hadn’t known it. Hadn’t known such a match for her empty places was possible.

  But then shadow fell over her, and dread returned. It carved out all the spaces in her heart that she had so wanted to give to Cian.

  Cian looked at her thoughtfully, his head just slightly cocked. “You know, fair Alys”—Alys liked when he called her that—“you’re not fooling me.”

  Cian loved to tease her, and loved to laugh. He told her that one day he’d make her laugh, too. It hadn’t happened yet—and now, she thought with a pang, it never would. She cocked her head back at him, but said nothing.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said. “I can feel it.”

  They were so close to each other. She could smell him—she’d know his scent anywhere, a combination of salt and wet marsh grass. More powerful than his skin smell, though, was his worry. She felt it reaching out to her, trying to penetrate her skin, her heart. But she resisted. Even this physically close to him, there was an uncrossable distance between them. Her lies formed a barrier higher and stronger than any Gate. She tried to believe that he loved her. He had told her so, and Cian wasn’t a liar like she was. But he could only love what he knew of her—and he knew nothing. She hadn’t shown him the monster inside of her—hadn’t told him what the monster could do. How could she truly believe he loved her if he didn’t know what she really was, and what she’d done? She couldn’t tell him how she woke up every night, perched in the trees like something evil and predatory. She couldn’t tell him about Angelica and Benedicta and The Beast. How could she tell him these things without losing his regard for her? The terror of loss was mixed up with every bit of love she felt for him. She’d never had anyone like Cian in her life before—at least not that she could truly remember. Someone who was all hers. Who never seemed happier than when she was nearby. Who treated her as if she were something precious.

  “Alys,” Cian said, “don’t you trust me?” There was no laughter on Cian’s face now, only hurt.

  Alys felt seized by panic and embarrassmen
t—and exposure. The world around her solidified and she felt Cian tugging her into it, insisting on making her flesh and not shadow. She felt as if she were sitting in front of Cian without her clothes on. Naked. Even more than naked—just tissue and bone, stripped down to her insides with nothing to wrap around herself. In this moment of being spread out in front of him, her dark interior showing, she gave up. She felt a new and sharp craving to give it all to him and to see what he did with it. Take it, she wanted to say. Take me. And if you don’t want me anymore—after you see what I am—I won’t blame you. And then I’ll know. No more hoping and wishing for something that cannot be.

  “I’m not what you think I am,” Alys said.

  Cian wrinkled his brow. “And what’s that?”

  “You think I’m just a girl, like any other girl. But I’m not.”

  “Alys, I do not think you are just a girl like any other girl.”

  Alys felt herself redden. “Well, maybe not. But you don’t know how . . . unnatural I am.” She was unable to look at him. She reached her hand into the soft marsh water next to her and stroked it. It felt alive.

  Cian reached a finger out, tipped her chin toward him so that she was forced to look at him. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me your worst.”

  Alys wondered what the worst might be, what would horrify Cian the most. There was too much. So she decided to tell him where it all began. Her badness. Her wrongness. Her guilt. “I saw the soul eaters, Cian. The night my parents died, I was out and awake and I saw them. They let me live, and I watched them go. I didn’t even scream. I did nothing. I just watched them float away.”

  Cian shook his head. “Alys, I know all about that night. Pawl must have told me a hundred times.”

  Alys was so shocked she stammered. “But . . . he wasn’t supposed to . . . he told me not to tell anyone, not ever.”

  “Oh Alys, you’ve seen Pawl around the campfire. There’s nothing he’s heard or seen that doesn’t come spilling out of him after he’s taken a dozen or so swigs. And your story is the best of the lot.”

  Well, Alys thought. So Cian knew about that. But he didn’t know about the rest. He sat there in front of her looking so calm and placid about the whole thing, so amused, that she found herself wanting to frighten him. To show him how little reason there was to smile. To make him tremble and withdraw from her the way he should—if he only knew. She thought of Gaenor and how she used to squeal in fright when Alys sang to her.

  The Beast It is a creepsome sort

  It slips among your dreams

  Whispers in your ear at night

  And all the while It schemes

  You think you’re safe in your snug bed

  On you It will not feast

  Is that your Mam just kissed your cheek?

  Oh no, my dear . . . The Beast!

  “It’s not funny, Cian.” Alys felt herself grow angry, and it smelled like meat charred black. “I’ll tell you what I am if you must know, but you may want to paddle us back to shore right now, because I promise you won’t want to be alone in this canoe with me one second longer once you find out.”

  Cian crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back as if to nap. “I’m not worried.”

  “Fine,” Alys said. “You joke. But know this: I’m no girl. I’m a soul eater.” There. She’d said it.

  Cian looked at her for one long beat. Then he laughed. Laughed so hard he slapped the water with his hand.

  Shame sizzled from Alys’s forehead to her gut. It was one thing to be thought evil, and quite another to be thought ridiculous. “This isn’t something to laugh at, Cian. You of all people should know that. I’m like those creatures who killed your parents. And I could hurt you, too. Not because I wanted to, mind you. But because I couldn’t help myself.”

  Cian’s face changed then, and Alys felt new shame. The shame of taking his smile away. His voice came out gentle, and Alys felt his sadness wrap around them. “And how exactly would you steal my soul, fair Alys?”

  “Well, I’d . . .” Alys thought for a moment. She thought back to Ffordd and Cerys. The wolf. What had she felt? With Ffordd and Cerys it was hatred, simple as that. With the wolf it was fear. Alys sighed, looked up at Cian. His brown eyes were so open and willing to listen. And again she wondered what she was keeping from him—this deep, dark secret of hers. This vile truth about herself. That she was nasty. That she was foul. That she’d caused Mam’s and Dad’s deaths, and therefore no one else could—or should—love her. That she then brought suffering and death on Mother and Father. That she invited Angelica to touch her face, to examine her heart.

  She was wrong inside and out, and to such a degree that there was no seeing her way toward right. How could she ever find her way to right? A girl like her—damaged and damaging.

  Cian was looking at her still. Eyes so soft and ready. So she told him. She told him everything. About touching people and animals, and looking inside of them—being inside of them. About The Beast in the fforest. About Benedicta and Angelica, and her terror of being like them—of belonging with them. And then she told him about Cerys and Ffordd. And the wolf. About the hole in the mountain, and how she felt—knew—that it would swallow them all bit by bit. Then she told him about waking up in the trees every night, about meeting Angelica again, about food tasting like ash again, about that other hunger that curled in her belly.

  He flinched.

  That was it. The look she’d been expecting. The look of disgust—the moment when she was naked and he found her repellent. The moment he realized that she truly was like those creatures who killed his parents. She put her face in her hands. “I’m horrible,” she said.

  “Oh no, no Alys. Please don’t cry.” He was leaning forward, as much as he could without tipping them over in the canoe, pulling her hands away from her face, taking them into his own.

  Still she couldn’t bear to look at him, so she stared off into the trees instead. The way they stood over the water, roots exposed, branches hunched like shoulders, they looked like monsters themselves. “You think I’m hideous, and I don’t blame you. I think I’m hideous, too.”

  “The only thing I’m thinking is it’s no wonder you look so sad all the time. How could you look anything but sad when you’ve been holding all that inside, and feeling so wrong about yourself?”

  “Well,” Alys said. Shrugged. “It’s true. I am wrong inside.”

  Cian drew her eyes to his, wouldn’t let go. “First of all, if you can step inside of people then I call that a gift, not a curse. And what souls have you taken? You stopped yourself before you did anything truly bad to Cerys or Ffordd. And that wolf would have killed you had you not killed it first.”

  Alys shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m not here anymore, Cian. I want to be here, but I’m drifting away. I can feel it. I’m losing myself.”

  “I won’t let you drift away. You belong here. With me.” He reached out and again tilted her face toward him. “Don’t you see, Alys? What’s wrong is how you’ve been treated. It’s wrong your parents are dead. And you were just seven when the soul eaters took them. What were you supposed to do? Grown men in all the villages hide behind their big wooden Gates at night, and you think there was something you should have done, or could have done? And the mother and father who raised you in Defaid—they loved you, Alys. That’s why they did for you. And you loved them back. It’s not your fault they’re dead. It’s your loss. Don’t you see that?”

  Alys looked back at him, her mouth dropping open as if to fully take in what he’d just said, to eat it up, chew it, fill her belly with it. She had told him every bit of truth about herself, every ugliness she’d ever seen within herself. Yet there he sat, holding that truth in his hands like a present, and pulling it close to him. Pulling her to him. Maybe he could keep her here. Keep her tethered. Throw a blanket over her bad parts. And then maybe the light inside of her would flicker on again.

  She willed herself not to argue anymore. Shushed the voice
inside of her that said, Not so easy, girl, not so fast, the monster won’t be quieted. There was only one thing that would shut up the voice, at least for a moment. She stood up from her seat, wrapped her arms around Cian’s neck, and kissed him.

  Then all was wet, and cold, and shock, and Cian was laughing and holding onto her, and they were in the water, the canoe capsized, and her heart felt almost warm.

  They walked back to camp hand in hand and dripping marsh water.

  They were just climbing up the last rise that divided the wet land from the dry when Alys heard a hubbub of voices talking at once. The Lakers seemed to be all gathered together in a big bunch. Then someone turned and saw Alys and Cian approaching, and the wall of bodies parted in front of them, and there they were—the children of Gwenith.

  Alys saw Madog and Enid first, each holding a baby, and the moment Enid caught sight of Alys she handed the baby she held to Beti and ran to Alys.

  Holding Enid, being held by her, Alys felt such a burden of dread lift from her that she thought she might rise off the ground with it.

  “I’m getting you all wet,” Alys said.

  Enid pulled away from her, smiled and petted Alys’s cheek with her rough, familiar hand.

  “You made it,” Alys said. “You found us.”

  “Alys, love, we’d never stop searching till we found you.” She looked up at Cian. “We owe you thanks. Pawl told us how you saved our Alys.”