Beauty

by Robin McKinley

  Before him was a vast expanse of silent, unmarked snow. It was late afternoon, and the sun would soon be gone; just as he was thinking this a ray of sunlight lit up the towers standing above the trees of an orchard that stood at the center of the vast bare field he stood in. The towers were stone, and belonged to a great grey castle, but in the light of the dying sun, they were the color of blood, and the castle looked like a crouching animal. He rubbed his face with his hand and the fancy disappeared as quickly as the red light. A tiny breeze searched his face as if discovering who and what he was; it was gone again in a moment. Once again he took heart; he must be approaching human habitation.

  The brief winter twilight escorted him as far as the orchard, and as he emerged from it on the far side, near the castle, his horse started and snorted. An ornamental garden was laid out before him, with rocks, and hedges, and grass, and white marble benches, and flowers blooming everywhere: For here no snow had fallen. He was so weary he almost laughed, thinking this was some trick of fatigue, a waking dream. But the air that touched his face was warm; he threw his hood back and loosened his cloak; he breathed deeply, and found the smell of the flowers heavy and delightful. There was no sound but of the tiny brooks running through the gardens. There were lanterns everywhere, standing on black or silver carved posts, or hanging from the limbs of the small shaped trees; they cast a warm golden light of few shadows. His horse walked forwards as he stared around him, bewildered; and when they stopped again he saw they had come to one corner of a wing of the castle. There was an open door before them, and more lanterns lit the inside of what was obviously a stable.

  He hesitated a moment, then called aloud, but got no answer; by now he was expecting none. He dismounted slowly and stared around a minute longer; then he straightened his shoulders and led his horse inside, as if empty enchanted castles were a commonplace. When the first stall he came to slid its doors open at his approach, he only swallowed hard once or twice, and took the horse in. Inside there was fresh litter, and hay in a hanging net; and water that ran into a marble basin from a marble trough, and ran sweetly out through a marble drain; a steaming mash was in the manger. He said “Thank you” to the air in general, and felt suddenly that the silence was a listening one. He pulled the saddle and bridle off the horse, and outside the stall found racks to hang the harness on, which he was sure had not been there when they entered. Except for himself and his horse, the long stable was empty, although there was room enough for hundreds of horses.

  The sweet smell of the hot mash reminded him suddenly how hungry he was. He left the stable and shut the door behind him. He looked around, and across the courtyard formed by two wings of the castle, one of which was the stable he had just left, another door opened as if it had been waiting only to catch his eye. He went towards it, giving a look as he passed it to what he supposed was the main entrance: double arched doors twenty feet high and another twenty broad, bound with iron and decorated with gold. Around the rim of the doors was another arch, six feet wide, of the same dull silver metal that the front gates were made of, here worked into marvelous relief shapes that seemed to tell a story; but he did not pause to look more closely. The door that beckoned to him was of a more reasonable size. He went in with scarcely a hesitation. A large room lay before him, lit by dozens of candles in candelabra, and hundreds more candles were set in a great chandelier suspended from the ceiling. On one wall was a fireplace big enough to roast a bear; there was a fire burning in it. He warmed himself at it gratefully, for in spite of the flower garden the enchanted castle was cool, and he was chilled and wet after his long ride.

  There was a table set for one, drawn snugly near the fire. As he turned to look at it, the chair, padded with red velvet, moved away from the table a few inches, swinging towards him; and the covers slid off the dishes, and hot water descended from nowhere into a china teapot. He hesitated. He had seen no sign of his host—nor, indeed of any living thing that goes on legs, or wings: There weren’t even any birds in the garden—and surely hidden somewhere in this vast pile was the someone who was waited on so efficiently. And one never knew about enchantments; perhaps he, whoever he was, lived alone, and these invisible servants were mistaking this stranger for their master, who would be very angry when he discovered what had happened. Or perhaps there was something wrong with the food, and he would turn into a frog, or fall asleep for a hundred years…. The chair jiggled a little, impatiently, and the teapot rose up and poured a stream of the sweetest-smelling tea he had ever known into a cup of translucent china. He was very hungry; he sighed once, then sat down and ate heartily.

  When he was done, a couch he hadn’t noticed before had been made up into a bed. He undressed and lay down, and fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.

  No more than the usual eight hours seemed to have passed when he awoke. The day was new; the sun had not yet risen above the tops of the tall, white-crowned forest trees, and a grey but gentle light slipped through the tall leaded windows and splashed on the floor. His clothes had been cleaned, and were folded neatly over the back of the red velvet chair; and for his coarse shirt, a fine linen one had been substituted. His boots and breeches looked new, and his cloak was mysteriously healed of its travel tears and stains. There were tea and toast and an elegantly poached egg on the little table, and a rustcolored chrysanthemum floating in a crystal bowl.

  There was still no sign of his host, and he grew anxious. He wanted to be on his way, but he did not wish to leave without expressing his gratitude to someone—and furthermore he still had no idea where he was, and would have liked to ask directions. He went outside, and then into the stable, where he found his horse relaxed and comfortable, pulling at wisps of hay. The tack outside the stall had been cleaned and mended, and the bits and buckles were polished till they sparkled. He went outside again, and looked around; went round the corner of the castle and stared across more gardens, and grassy fields beyond. The snow had disappeared entirely, and the green was the green of early summer. Far across the fields he saw the black border of the wood, and as he strained his eyes something shiny winked at him, something that might be another gate. “Very well,” he said aloud. “I will go that way.”

  He went back into the stable, and saddled the horse, who looked at him reproachfully. He took a last look around the courtyard before riding out, and in a moment of whimsey stood up in his stirrups and bowed to the great front doors. “Thank you very much,” he said. “After a night’s rest here—at least I’m assuming it was only a night—I feel better than I have in years. Thank you.” There was no answer.

  He jogged slowly through the gardens. The horse was as fresh and frisky as a youngster, and suited his own light-hearted mood. The thought of the forest held no terror for him; he was certain he would easily find a way out of it; and perhaps tonight he would be with his family again. He was distracted from his pleasant musings by a walled garden opening off the path to his right; the wall was waist-high, and covered with the largest and most beautiful climbing roses that he had ever seen. The garden was full of them; inside the rose-covered wall were rows of bushes: white roses, red roses, yellow, pink, flame-color, maroon; and a red so dark it was almost black.

  This arbour of roses seemed somehow different from the great gardens that lay all around the castle, but different in some fashion he could not define. The castle and its gardens were everywhere silent and beautifully kept; but there was a self-containment, even almost a self awareness here, that was reflected in the petals of each and every rose, and drew his eyes from the path.

  He dismounted, and walked in through a gap in the wall, the reins in his hand; the smell of these flowers was wilder and sweeter than that of poppies. The ground was carpeted with petals, and yet none of the flowers were dead or dying; they ranged from buds to the fullest bloom, but all were fresh and lovely. The petals he and the horse trampled underfoot took no bruise.

  “I hadn’t managed to get you any rose seeds in the city, Beauty,” Father c
ontinued. “I bought peonies, marigolds, tulips; but the only roses to be had were cuttings or bushes. I even thought of bringing a bush in a saddlebag, like a kidnapped baby.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Father,” I said.

  His failure to find rose seeds for his youngest daughter was recalled to his mind as he gazed at the gorgeous riot before him, and he thought: I must be within a day’s journey of home. Surely I could pick a bud—just one flower—and if I carried it very carefully, it would survive a few hours’ journey. These are so beautiful: They’re finer than any we had in our city garden—finer than any I’ve ever seen. So he stooped and plucked a bud of a rich red hue.

  There was a roar like that of a wild animal, for certainly nothing human could make a noise like that; and the horse reared and plunged in panic.

  “Who are you, that you steal my roses, that I value above all things? Is it not enough that I have fed and sheltered you, that you reward me with injustice? But your crime shall not go unpunished.”

  The horse stood still, sweating with fear, and he turned to face the owner of the deep harsh voice: He was confronted by a dreadful Beast who stood beyond the far wall of the rose garden.

  Father replied in a shaking voice: “Indeed, sir, I am deeply grateful for your hospitality, and I humbly beg your pardon. Your courtesy has been so great that I never imagined that you would be offended by my taking so small a souvenir as a rose.”

  “Fine words,” roared the Beast, and strode over the wall as if it were not there. He walked like a man, and was dressed like one, which made him the more horrible, as did an articulate voice proceeding from such a countenance. He wore blue velvet, with lace at the wrists and throat; his boots were black. The horse strained at its bridle but did not quite bolt. “But your flattery will not save you from the death you deserve.”

  “Alas,” said Father, and fell to his knees. “Let me beg for mercy; indeed, much misfortune has come to me already.”

  “Your misfortunes seem to have robbed you of your sense of honour, as you would rob me of my roses,” rumbled the Beast, but he seemed disposed to listen; and Father, in his despair, told him of the troubles he had had. He finished: “It seemed such a cruel blow not even to be able to take my daughter Beauty the little packet of rose seeds she had asked for; and when I saw your magnificent garden, I thought that I might at least take her a rose from it. I humbly beg your forgiveness, noble sir, for you must see that I meant no harm.”

  The Beast thought for a moment and then said: “I will spare your miserable life on one condition: that you will give me one of your daughters.”

  “Ah!” cried Father. “I cannot do that. You may think me lacking in honour, but I am not such a cruel father that I would buy my own life with the life of one of my daughters.”

  The Beast chuckled grimly. “Almost I think better of you, merchant. Since you declare yourself so bravely I will tell you this for your comfort: Your daughter would take no harm from me, nor from anything that lives in my lands,” and he threw out an arm that swept in all the wide fields and the castle at their center. “But if she comes, she must come here of her own free will, because she loves you enough to want to save your life—and is courageous enough to accept the price of being separated from you, and from everything she knows. On no other condition will I have her.”

  He paused; there was no sound but the horse’s panting breath. Father stared at the Beast, not able to look away; and the Beast turned from his contemplation of the green meadow, and looked back at him. “I give you a month. At the end of that time you must come back here, with or without your daughter. You will find my castle easily: You need only get lost in the woods around it—and it will find you. And do not imagine that you can hide from your doom, for if you do not return in a month, I will come and fetch you!”

  Father could think of nothing else to say; he had a month in which to say good-bye to everything that was dear to him. He mounted with difficulty, for with the Beast standing so near, the horse was nervous and would not stand still.

  As he gathered up the reins, the Beast was suddenly beside him. “Take the rose to Beauty, and farewell for a time. Your way lies there,” and he pointed towards the winking silver gate. Father had forgotten all about the rose; he took it in his hand, shrinking, from the Beast; and as he took it the Beast said, “Don’t forget your promise!” and he slapped Father’s mount on the rump. The horse leaped forwards with a scream of terror, and they galloped across the fields as if running for their lives. The gates swung open as they approached, and they plunged through and into the forest, floundering in the snow until he could pull the poor animal back to a more collected pace.

  “I don’t remember the rest of that journey very well,” said Father. “It started to snow again. I held the reins in one hand, and the red rose in the other. I don’t remember stopping until the poor horse stumbled out of the edge of the trees and I recognized our house in the clearing.”

  Father stopped speaking, and as though he could not look at us, returned his gaze to the fire. The shadows from the restless flames twisted around the scarlet rose, and it seemed to nod its heavy head at the truth of Father’s tale. We all sat stunned, not comprehending anything but the fact that disaster had struck us—again; it was like the first shock of business ruin in the city. It had been impossible to imagine just what losing our money, our home, might mean; but it was numbing, dreadful. This was worse, and we had yet only begun to feel it, because it was Father’s life.

  I have no idea how long the silence lasted. I was staring at the rose, silent and serene on the mantelpiece, and I heard my own voice say, “When the month is up, Father, I will return with you.”

  “Oh, no,” from Hope. “No one will go,” said Grace. Ger frowned down at his hands. Father remained staring at the fire, and after a tiny pause, he said: “I’m afraid someone must go, Grace. But I am going alone.”

  “You are not,” I said.

  “Beauty—” Hope wailed.

  “Father,” I said, “he won’t harm me. He said so.”

  “We can’t spare you, child,” said Father.

  “Mmph,” I said. “We can’t spare you.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “You would soon have to spare me anyway. You are young, child. I thank you for your offer, but I will go alone.”

  “I am not offering,” I said. “I am going.”

  “Beauty!” Grace said sharply. “Stop it. Father, why must anyone go? He will not truly come to take you away. You are safe here. Surely you are safe once you are away from his gates.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Hope. “Ger, tell them. Perhaps they’ll listen to you.”

  Ger sighed. “I’m sorry, Hope my dearest, but I agree with your father and with Beauty. There is no escaping this doom.”

  Hope sucked in her breath with a gasp, then broke out crying. She buried her face in Ger’s shoulder and he stroked her bright hair with his hand.

  “If it weren’t for the rose, I might not believe it…. I blame myself for this; I should have warned you better,” Ger said very low. “There have been stories about the evil in that wood for generations; I should not have ignored them.”

  “You didn’t,” I said. “You told us to stay out of it, that it was old and dangerous, and there were—funny stories about it.”

  “There was nothing you could have done, lad,” said Father. “Don’t worry yourself about it. It was my own fault for taking a foolish risk in bad weather. My own fault, none other’s; and none other shall pay for it.”

  Grace said: “Funny stories. Hope and I heard stories about a monster who lived in the forest, a creature that lived in the forest and ate everything that walked or flew, which is why there is no game in it. And how it likes to lure travelers to their deaths … and it’s very, very old, as old as the hills, as old as the trees in its forest. We never mentioned it to the rest of you because we thought you’d laugh; Molly told us about it. To warn us to stay out of the wood.” I looked over at Ger. The
stories he’d told me two years ago had never been mentioned again.

  Hope had stopped crying. “Yes, we thought it was all foolishness; and we needed no urging to stay out of that awful wood,” she said. The tears began to run down her cheeks again; but she sat up and leaned against Ger, who put his arm around her. “Oh, Father, surely you can stay here.”

  Father shook his head; and Ger said abruptly: “What’s in your saddle-bags?”

  “Nothing very grand. A little money, though; I thought we might buy a cow, instead of having to bring milk from town for the babies, and—well, there’s probably not enough.”

  Ger stood up, still holding Hope’s hand, then knelt by the leather bags, still piled in their corner. Grace and Hope, usually the most conscientious of housekeepers, had for some reason let them lie untouched. “I noticed when Beauty and I brought them in yesterday that they were very heavy.”

  “They were? They aren’t—I mean, they can’t be. I didn’t have all that much.” Father knelt beside Ger and unbuckled the top of one and threw back the flap. Dazed, he lifted out two dozen fine wax candles, a linen tablecloth with a delicate lace edge, several bottles of very old wine and a bottle of even older brandy, and a silver corkscrew with the head of a griffin, with red jewels for eyes that looked very much like rubies; and wrapped in a soft leather pouch was a carving knife with an ivory handle cut in the shape of a leaping deer, with its horns laid along its straining back. At the bottom of the bag, piled wrist deep, were coins: gold, silver, copper, brass. Buried among the coins were three small wooden boxes, and inlaid on each of their polished lids was an initial in mother-of-pearl: G, H, and B. “Grace, Hope, and Beauty,” said Father, and handed them to us. In my sisters’ boxes were golden necklaces, and ropes of pearls, diamonds, emeralds; topaz and garnet earrings; sapphires in bracelets, opals in rings. They made a shining incongruous pile in laps of homespun.