by Z.N. Singer
The House was blissfully happy.
But time rolled on yet farther, and things could not stay perfect. Three siblings living in a house was one thing, but three married siblings was quite another. Eventually they reluctantly realized that they would have to choose one family to live in The Cooking House, and the others would have to be satisfied with visiting, however frequently. George was the inevitable choice. He would be keeper. Legally, he was already the sole owner.
But the truth was they all owned the Cooking House. The same way it owned them.
The House missed them badly at first, but a new baby had arrived, and The House was quickly delighted with him. For the first time, Annette and George discovered that The House did indeed have a flaw: apparently, it had no concept of nutrition and the debilitating effects of sugar. They found themselves hard put to convince The House to stop providing an unending stream of sweets, cakes, and chocolates, especially when Harold began crying for them.
HE WANTS IT. HE'S CRYING.
“Yes, I know, but you see, children...oh! It's just not good for him, all right?”
HE'S CRYING. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
They coped. Overall, things were still good. Changing, and sometimes in ways sad and nostalgic, but ultimately for the best. Life was like that, after all.
But time kept rolling on. And good times eventually change to bad.
Harold grew older, and the world grew smaller. The seventies had arrived, and overseas travel had changed dramatically from when his parents were his age. George was beginning to eye the global market, or at least the American one, and toyed with the idea of expanding the business for the next generation. And so, to prepare Harold, he sent him to college in America.
Harold did very well. He had his father's gifts, and they served as well for college as they had for handling management responsibility. And he learned, oh he learned a lot. His grades were stellar, and his parents were thrilled. And he learned about America and American thinking, which also pleased them. Everything seemed to have worked out wonderfully. They were sure Harold would make an excellent heir to the company – and everything else as well.
But unfortunately, away from The Cooking House and surrounded by the intellectual elite, he'd also learned one other thing they'd never, ever wanted him to learn.
He learned not to believe in magic.
He hid it at first, because he loved his parents, and didn't want to upset them. But now he was like Bernard, only worse – rather than simply being oblivious, he deliberately refused to believe in magically conjured food and a House with a living awareness. He had excluded such things from his world, and now they couldn't get in no matter what they did. Nothing could make him believe anymore.
And now the insistence of everyone around him to believe without question ate away at his soul. He had left it behind, but somewhere inside of him was a part that knew that what he'd really done was betray: betray the benevolent being that had given him everything he had, and snuck him candy and chocolate at night. A being that loved him, then and now.
But he'd left belief and magic behind. And so, tormented by what he would not acknowledge, but unable to bring himself to break the hearts of his parents, he hid it, and hid it well, for many years, stewing all the while. Burning under acid guilt, until they finally died, unaware of the change that had occurred in their son, to the last.
But once they were gone, he couldn't stand it anymore. The House's very presence was an accusation, the meals it made a torment to his new resolutions. The House refused to abandon, acknowledge, or resent his inner estrangement: it continued to care for him as if nothing had changed. It demanded, in pure silent tones, that he remember the love he'd once had, the wonder he'd once known. That there was magic in this world, magic for him. Reminded him every day that it was all still there, if he would only open up his heart again.
And because he would not, would not let the memories return, it haunted him instead.
“Tear it down,” he told the construction company.
Time rolled on, and the bulldozers and the backhoes rolled in. The foreman thought it was a pity – it was a remarkably well preserved old house, it could have been saved. But that was life, and he saw it all the time. People just weren't willing to take the time for these outdated places. He shrugged, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Let's rock people.”
The machines rolled in...and over, and through. Timbers creaked, cracked, and gave. Roof timbers stretched and collapsed. The dining room where so many meals had occurred disappeared under the rubble. And something...something indefinable...trembled, and began to lose its hold on the place it had kept for so long.
Somewhere far away, as far as he'd been able to arrange, Harold clamped his hands over his ears. And told himself that it was impossible for him to hear it.
A part of himself that would never die, no matter how many years he tried, did not believe him. It never did. It never would. Nothing he ever did would make it go away.
Harold was indeed a haunted man.
Doug, one of the workers, was in a bad mood. He'd been up late the night before, and overslept the next morning. He'd had to skip breakfast and had only been able to slap together the barest lunch to bring with him. He was tired and he was hungry, and there was little prospect of relief from either for the day. He grumbled his way through the wreck of the kitchen, mumbling about the irony of helping to ruin a kitchen when that was exactly what he needed. Why, if he had that kitchen whole right now, he knew what he'd do with it. A nice juicy ham and cheese sandwich, dripping hot and toasted, so moist you didn't even need any condiments, because they'd have been an insult to the meat. He could see it so clearly he could almost smell it. Suddenly he stopped.
He could smell it.
He looked right. He looked left. He looked down. Slowly – still trying to figure out what was going on – he got down on his knees, and lifted a slab of rock.
A juicy ham and cheese sandwich, toasted and moist. Perfect, and pristine within several layers of saran wrap. It steamed slightly in the morning air.
He stared. He looked left. He looked right. He looked down.
He took the sandwich.
It was the best ham and cheese sandwich he ever tasted.
Six months passed. And somewhere in London, a wearied widow hurried home from her second job – there was a third later that night – to prepare what food she could for her children. They were such good kids, bright and never complained, but this was the best she could do these days, trying to get along without their father. There was no point marrying recklessly, so she worked all she could, and came home in time to have dinner for them whenever she could. Not that she could afford much. Poor things could have eaten far more and far better, and so could she. But they would be all right, she told herself as she opened the door to her apartment. They'd all be alright. In time. With hard work and time, things would get better. She was sure of it. She walked into the kitchen.
The table was set. The table was full. Full of all their favorite foods.
And all of it was perfect.
“....impossible....”
There have been many tales of The Cooking House.
This was one of them.
***
***
Gentle Beast
***
She first met him in the morning.
She'd been cheerfully running down the stairs at the time. She'd woken up feeling quite peppy, and since there were no appointments for the day, she had nothing more substantial on her mind than some idle wondering of what the house spells had made for breakfast.
There was a Beast in her living room.
Sarumah was a magus of the highest order, and experience with spells and summonings had given her steady nerves. Still for all of that he had a frightful appearance: hunched massive shoulders and a fang-filled muzzle with thick fur and a head that topped hers by half her height again. Finding him so suddenly in her house, she very nea
rly cast a spell out of reflex, but she managed to stop herself in time. She knew the spells of protection on her land very well – she maintained them regularly. If he was here, right in the heart of her home, then he was nothing to be afraid of. It was as simple as that. But it was hard to view his presence calmly. Her living room was a cozy place designed for comfortable reading, and his presence clashed dramatically with the rich carpet, wood paneled walls, and fireplace that characterized it.
She stayed on the stairs, and worked to control her voice. A magus was at the service of whoever might request her aid – in return, a magus was a person who could weave luxury from dirt and stones, and wielded power no king could control, though he had all the armies in the world. Both by practice and by nature, a magus could not refuse a righteous petitioner if it was within her power to help.
“Are you...” she had to stop and clear her throat. “Are you...here for yourself or for another?”
The Beast laid a paw on his chest – though actually it was not so very far from a hand. He stood very quietly, she realized, posturing in a distinctly humble, almost submissive way. In fact, from the way he was doing it, why...he was trying to calm her! She felt a smile tug on her mouth, and finally finished descending the stairs.
She had no fear of a gentleman Beast.
“And is this your natural shape?” she asked, fairly certain of her answer.
The Beast shook his head. Even when he was not consciously trying to be less threatening – he had relaxed when she had – there was a distinctly gentle air about him that did not match his appearance. The more she watched, the more sure she was of what this was about.
“Then, you wish to be returned to your rightful form? You are a man, aren't you? That's no animal in your eyes.” She had approached him properly by now, and without meaning to, she reached up to lightly touch the skin beside his right eye when she said it. She had to reach on tiptoe. But the look in the Beast's eyes – first astonishment, and then the wide soft pain of something best uncovered – told her she'd been right to do it. After a long moment, he nodded.
“Very well then. I will do all I can for you. You cannot speak?”
He nodded.
“Then we will start there first. It will be much easier to help you when you can tell me how you got this way. I have heard of magi changing cruel men to beasts as punishment but I do not think that is your story. This way – I haven't yet had breakfast, so you can take it with me. Then we'll see about restoring your voice.”
The Beast appeared uncertain.
“Oh, you won't be any inconvenience. The house spells have fed all manner of guests, they will adapt to you just fine. You will see. It may take days to help you, so you had best get used to the hospitality here.” He still seemed a bit reluctant. Feeling a bit giddy with her own daring, Sarumah took hold of a hank of hair between his shoulder and his neck and tugged him along behind her. “Come on. The doorway will accommodate you just like the others did on the way in. Just walk through.”
He came of course. Looking – if the description could be applied to such a face – rather comically bemused.
As always when she had unusual guests, Sarumah took great interest in the arrangements the house spells conceived for him. She had expected his food to be mostly meat, but to her surprise it was only the serving arrangements – and the sheer volume offered – that differed from the food she'd been served herself. A low, sturdy bench lay in front of a solid pedestal of sorts topped by a large shallow bowl near the flagstone table and padded stone bench (part of the wall) where she usually ate – apparently the Beast was most comfortable squatting low on his haunches. There was a wooden spoon, but the Beast quickly found that even though his hands were indeed capable of using one – they were in fact remarkably dextrous – his mouth was not: he simply could not serve himself through those teeth. Sarumah felt a twinge of sympathetic humiliation as he was reduced to lowering his head to eat from the bowl like a...well, like a beast.
Sarumah ate as if it was normal, and, when he was done, did her best to smile encouragingly without stepping any harder on his pride.
“Don't worry. I'll soon have you changed back.”
Sarumah's spell room was a place designed for concentration, focus, and the containment and focus of power. Inscriptions in the floor, usually unnecessary but nearly always helpful, guided the energies of life in those ways peculiar to the magus' art. There were no books or jars or herbs, though there were tables – all of those were stored elsewhere, where they would not interfere when not wanted.
“Stand here – in the middle. This will only take a minute, but it may be quite uncomfortable. I'm afraid I can't promise it won't hurt.”
The Beast nodded slightly: his stance was steady and calm, his eyes set. He was ready.
Sarumah stepped back ten paces from him, then closed her eyes. Her arms raised, and the world, ever so subtly, trembled: there was a sense that where she stood, the world deepened, becoming a well of swirling, soft heavy strength. It flowed both around and through her, the currents of life, causing her clothes to billow slightly, slowly around her, and her hair to undulate down her back.
It was a sight both awesome and unspeakably beautiful. And it was only enhanced by the soft smile she wore as she opened her eyes and lowered her arms towards the Beast, spreading them to include him in the midst of their span, releasing the magic towards him in a gentle, massive wave.
Virtue is its own reward. And so is magic.
The Beast's head tilted back and a low growl, almost a rumble, came from his throat as the magical energy engulfed him and set his own hair to waving like the sorceress's own tresses. But most of all he felt the changes occurring in his throat, his mouth, flesh induced to shift and flow under his skin by the warm pressure. It did not hurt. He looked almost as pleased as Sarumah.
And then the magic ceased, as gently as it had come. The waves, the flow, the warmth, the sense of weight that had filled the room, all swiftly dissipated. The Beast almost seemed to smile despite the monstrous shape of his face, eyes alight as he opened his mouth to thank Sarumah properly.
But even as he opened his mouth, he felt the changes unraveling inside him. His eyes changed from warm and glowing to the sharp poignant brightness of desperation as he worked his mouth, trying to speak as the means fled him despite himself.
“N...n....uuurrr...” his voiced trailed off into the growls of a Beast.
Sarumah looked as shocked as he did. “The spell...it worked. I know it did. I don't understand...it undid itself?” But her expression quickly settled into determination. “A fluke,” she said firmly. “It must be, I've never heard of such a thing. I'll do it again. I'll have to do it a bit harder this time, so be prepared. This time I know it won't be comfortable.”
The Beast nodded, but there was a tension in him now that hadn't been there the first time.
This time Sarumah's expression was not half so dreamy; she frowned slightly and directed the magic with care. It showed in the magic's feel – instead of gentle engulfing waves it gathered in focused, guided turbulence in his throat and mouth: it was not painful, exactly, but his expression was similar to the sorceress's.
This time, he almost managed two words before the changes reverted entirely. “It's no...kkkk....”
Sarumah's arms dropped to her sides, her expression bewildered and lost. “I...I just don't understand. The magic...it's never failed me like this before. The spell...whatever has changed you...it's still active? It must be. It's countering the changes I make. I can't do anything to you without breaking the core magic entirely. I don't understand...I've never heard of anything like this before. Oh no Beast, please, please don't look like that.” The fear, the despair, and most of all, the disappointment that showed in his face cut at her deeply. She'd never failed anyone who'd come to her before, and she'd always loved seeing their expressions when she helped them. Now for the first time she found herself looking at the face of someone she'd failed, failed a
t something that meant everything to him, and she couldn't stand it. She walked swiftly over to him and grasped the thick fur on his arms as she turned her face up. “Listen to me Beast, please, I swear I'll help you! This isn't over yet, not even close, I haven't even tried to understand what happened to you. I swear I won't let you stay this way. I won't fail you. I promise I'll change you back. All right? Please stop. It's going to be all right.”
The Beast looked down at her face, and the despair was replaced by warmth. He believed her.
Sarumah smiled, both relieved and gratified. “Thank you. Come on, we're going to have to take this to my library.”
The library, of course, was immense – it was a multi-generation effort. Bookshelves three times her height, broad and heavy to support their own upward mass, spaced themselves from wall to wall. The true spaces between them would not have admitted even her – the broad isles that allowed her and the Beast to walk about were created entirely by the same magic that allowed the Beast to use the halls and doors. It made for a disconcerting effect, when you stood back and tried to take in the full expanse – you knew there were more than should fit in the walls, if they really were that far apart, and yet no matter how you looked, you couldn't quite find where things were going wrong. Your eyes knew they were being tricked, but it was impossible to catch the magic at it.
The Beast was suitably awed – he stared about, head back, neck craning, taking it all in as best he could. The look he gave her when he stopped was one of slightly stunned respect.
“It is very good, isn't it?” She agreed, smiling, pleased that he appreciated it. Had he been educated as a man? So few commoners were, but then, she had no reason to assume he had been one, other than sheer statistics. “Can you read, Beast?”
