Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

by Melissa Lemon

  The memories, and the sorrow for all the happy times I've missed with them, bring a tear or two of my own. They converse amongst themselves for a time, as if I am not present. Mother complains about how pale and thin I look. Father comforts her as Stella explains how it is difficult to get me to drink my juice.

  "Are you still reading to her?" Father asks.

  "Yes," Stella answers.

  "Every day?"

  "Yes, your majesty."

  I do enjoy Stella's reading, even though the words never quite seem to connect in a way that holds meaning for my lethargic mind.

  It seems they just arrived, but I can sense they're preparing to go. I think it is too painful for them to see me. They must feel so helpless. Still, I wish they would stay longer. I've never seen my father cry, but though his hot tears do not fall on my face as Mother's do, he's always sniffing as he leans over me to kiss me farewell. "Goodbye, my Eggshell," he whispers. His kiss is both firm and gentle. 'Don't go,' I want to say, but my tongue is as bound as my eyes are sealed.

  I hear Mother speaking softly to Stella—giving instructions, saying goodbye, or something else entirely.

  "Don't cry, Redelia. For all we know, you could be carrying a child right now," Aunt Cornelia says. I imagine her comforting Mother and am grateful for an aunt to do what I cannot. Mother is not only sad for me; her barrenness disheartens her, for that prevents the spell from being broken.

  My thoughts turn from them; it is too painful.

  It is easier to rest, to succumb to the overpowering exhaustion, to escape to a place where I imagine there is no curse, where I may wake and run and see the earth around me.

  I am only awake in my dreams.

  1

  Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

  2

  Beast

  Sneaking out of the castle never proved easy, but if Prince Duncan woke precisely when the first glint of sunshine lit the sky, it was at least possible without being reprimanded. Opening his expansive chestnut wardrobe, he slid to the back and pulled down the old, slivered wooden box from the shelf. After unlocking it, he removed the tattered clothing he always wore when trying to disguise his royal identity. He slipped on the baggy white linen shirt, his right arm exposed through a large rip. Next he pulled up the shin-length wool trousers—frayed at the bottom and smelling much like perspiration and stale, dusty earth. Washing them after today would be necessary, no matter how careful he'd have to be breaking into the laundry quarters by candlelight long after it shut down for the day.

  As he sauntered down the back steps, the smell of baking bread invaded his nostrils. His stomach rolled, leaving behind hunger pains and reminding him to pass by the kitchen on his way out. Looking over his shoulder, Duncan moved his bare feet across the stone floor and through an archway. He veered right, slipped down a few more steps and slowly peeked around a corner, listening for the clanging of pots and pans or Elizabeth's quick feet tapping across the floor. He crept down the remaining stairs to the entrance way of the kitchen, peering around the final corner just in time for her to come out from one of the many pantries.

  Prince Duncan watched as the castle's head cook bent over her workspace (as much as a woman of her size could bend) and studied a recipe. Baskets of fruits and vegetables covered shelves that lined the walls across from her, and on the servant dining table lay seven fresh loaves of butter-topped bread, a large glass bowl filled with hard-boiled eggs, and several jars of varied fruit preserves. When Elizabeth turned and disappeared into one of the pantries, Duncan rushed forward, pulling off an end of a loaf of hot bread, ignoring the burn in his fingertips. Glancing toward her, he grabbed an egg and slipped it into his pocket, followed by an orange before he ducked out of the kitchen.

  Looking both ways, he crossed a courtyard before zig-zagging through the east garden in a crouched position. Upon reaching the garden exit—an opening in the hedges where the changing guards distracted each other with talks of hunting and their families—Duncan checked back to the castle, where the tower guards walked in a large circle all hours of the day and night. When both guards had their backs to him, and the two garden guards seemed oblivious to the rest of the world outside of their trite conversation, Duncan ran for it, not catching so much as a glance from any of the guards as far as he could tell.

  Once out of their sight, Duncan shoved a corner of the bread into his mouth, the salty butter greasing his lips and pleasing his taste. Elizabeth made the softest bread in all of Fallund, probably beyond. He nearly swallowed the egg whole, and then began peeling the orange as he leaned against the wall of a tailor's shop. Enough light filled the earth for shop owners along the Eastern Rows to prepare for a day of work.

  Just as Duncan cut his teeth into a wedge of the sweet citrus fruit, a howl split through the quiet morning. Trying to cipher whether the sound had come from man or beast, Duncan took his dusty feet toward the cry. It was shaping up to be an adventurous day already. Howling turned to moaning, and moaning turned to screaming as Duncan neared the end of Eastern Corridor.

  "Be quiet you!" ordered a man's harsh, deep voice, followed by a loud slap and whimper.

  As Duncan approached, a roar of commotion ensued. Prince Duncan quickened his shuffle, but hesitated to come around the corner boldly, so only peeked into the alley from the edge of a shop's brick wall.

  Three men stood around a heap of . . . well, Duncan wasn't sure whether it was man or beast quite yet. One of them held a whip that crashed repeatedly against the pile on the ground, and the other two kicked at will. Duncan squinted, trying to recognize the form on the receiving end of all their blows. He soon determined that what looked like animal skin was actually clothing, or rags at least, much more tattered than even his current apparel. The shape turned, revealing a head of ratted hair that would cause a lion to envy.

  Upon further inspection of the scene, the prince noticed one of the man's arms had a chunk the size of a good bite of bread taken out of it. Blood dripped to the ground from the wound and Duncan wondered why the idiot was beating someone rather than giving his own tear hasty medical attention.

  Just then the figure on the ground leaped up onto one of the men and began biting his face.

  "Pull her down," one of the men said.

  Her? Could all of this fuss really be over one woman? Duncan scoffed at the idea. He rounded the corner, having finished his orange and tossed the peel. After watching the men try unsuccessfully to pry this woman off her prey, he cleared his throat in an attempt to make his presence known. When that didn't work, he finally spoke. "Gentlemen, may I be of assistance?"

  "Sure, grab her there. Secure her arm," a stout, hairy man said.

  "Oh, I have no intention of laying a finger on that creature. But, I am able to offer some advice. Perhaps if you stopped beating her she would prove more cooperative? Just a suggestion."

  "Get out of here then, if you aren't going to help," shouted the skinny man the woman hung from as his hands forced her face away from his.

  "No, really," Duncan stated. "Stop fighting her. Let her go. By order of Prince Duncan."

  Two of the men paused briefly to inspect him, the other still busy with preventing facial damage.

  "It is I, Prince Duncan. And I order you to let her go." He took a step forward to let them know he would intervene if they did not follow his orders.

  "Your majesty, she is to be imprisoned for an awful crime. We only beat her because of her resistance."

  "What crime?"

  "Murder, sir."

  The tall, skinny man cried out in agony as the woman sunk her teeth deep into his cheek.

  "Let's grab her," Duncan said, leading the men in a final attempt to keep her from causing any one of them further harm. He tried pulling her down by one arm, and with one hand still free she slapped his eye. It stung, but that did not deter him from trying to restrain her. They each grabbed a limb after that, and with her kicking and screaming the whole way, hefted her to the prison. She forced one arm
free just before entering, and held on to the iron cell door. The stout prison guard whipped her hard one last time. She let out an echoing yelp before going limp. Prince Duncan and the guards placed her on the ground and rolled her into the cell, quickly escaping any outburst or physical danger by running out and slamming the door, the key clanging in the lock soon after.

  For the first time in ages, Prince Duncan noticed sweat beads forming on his forehead and arms. He marveled as he watched her. Four of them. It had taken four of them to contain her. Four of them to beat her. Four of them to calm her down with force. And he hated himself for it. For treating her that way. An overwhelming surge of pity engulfed him, but he was fascinated more than anything. Where did she come from? What was her history that she would behave in such a way?

  "Will you leave me to watch her for a while?" Duncan asked.

  "Whatever you like, Prince Duncan," one of the men said. "I'll take the others for treatment if you don't mind."

  "Not at all," Duncan agreed. "What is your name?"

  The stout man, still holding a whip, held out his hand. "Name's Thomas. I'm head guard here. This is Phillip and Ben. Please don't be angry, Prince Duncan. We did what we had to."

  The three men scurried up the steps and out onto the street. Duncan crouched down in front of the cell, gripping a cold bar in each of his hands and peering down at the figure before him. She lay about three arms lengths away, partly on her side, but both hands palm down on the dirty stone floor. Instead of a face, he saw a pile of hair that looked more like a bird's nest that had been torn apart by a predator.

  Not knowing what to say, Duncan stared. An apology seemed too obvious, a question too risky. So he stayed low, watching over her in silence. He thought about her prospects had she truly murdered someone. She would be put to death by merely two statements from eye witnesses. Most murderers would hang, but some preferred to be stoned to death, which was beyond Duncan's ability to understand. He wondered which she would choose if found guilty.

  She pressed on her hands and began to rise. Duncan pricked up, ready to back away if she tried to attack him through the bars. On her hands and knees now, she turned to look at him, eyes calm. Where had the woman gone from moments before, the one that would scream and bite savage chunks out of human flesh? She crawled over to the corner, slow like a wounded animal, and curled up in a ball. Only two sources of light existed in this prison, the open door and a small barred window almost directly above her. Anybody walking through the prison might not even see her in the dimness.

  Suddenly feeling brave, or perhaps more curious than he could manage, Duncan spoke. "Are you all right? Is there anything that I can get for you?"

  Still as the garden statues scattered about the castle grounds, seemingly breathless, she did not answer.

  "Do you have a name? Do you have some family you would like me to contact?" What was he thinking? Offering such services to a peasant. No, worse than a peasant. A criminal. A murderer. Everyone he knew would scoff at such an idea. Duncan escaped the castle because of the pressures there, the decisions he didn't feel qualified to make. Ever since the king and queen had died, too many things had fallen on his shoulders, been placed in his lap, or been dragged from his head. He had had enough. But truth be told—the dirty, disgusting truth—peasants made him horribly uncomfortable, more so than those who worked in all the alleys and corridors surrounding the castle, more than he cared to admit. Those streams of business acted as a barrier, a mote keeping the rich and lush life of royalty as far as possible from the outskirts. Parents who left their children because they could not feed them, savages who fed on the raw meat of beasts if they were lucky enough to catch one, those incapable of making a living and forced to steal only to suffer a fate more cruel than hunger, all of these and more lived well beyond the comfortable world he'd known his whole life. It didn't seem fair, and a wonder swelled inside him. Why should he live a life of relative ease, constantly complaining because there were meetings to attend, wars to consider, and others struggle each day of their lives just to survive?

  "Have you ever seen a court jester?" Duncan asked, feeling that if he did not find something amusing to think about soon, his heart would burst. When she didn't respond, Duncan sat down with his side against the bars, pulling his knees toward his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "I didn't think so. Well, there is this one jester, who often tries to get work inside the castle, but the only reason he ever gains admittance is because one of the maids thinks he's charming." Duncan spoke softer now, hoping to soothe, perhaps even gain her trust, and at the same time marveling that he was taking such an interest in her. "One night, before the king and queen died, a few of us in the castle let him in, telling him that this certain maid was waiting for him in the kitchen, hoping to receive a kiss from him." Duncan laughed a little, remembering well the night he and his brother had played this prank while their parents slept. "Well, we took him back to the kitchen and asked him to close his eyes. We insisted, telling him that was what she wanted. While cook was out getting some more firewood, we brought him in and toward the table, telling him to bend down low because she was short. He puckered up his lips and we guided him all the way down, where when he opened his eyes, he found the snout of a pink pig cook had just prepared for roasting the next day." Duncan couldn't control the shivers in his sides now, as he jerked about in an attempt to keep his laughter silent. Wiping the jolly tears from his eyes, he looked back to take in the sight of her, obviously unaffected, and definitely not amused, which helped him pull back his own gaiety.

  Still gazing on her, he spoke again. "The king and queen were my parents. It hurts to think of them still. The pain is fresh, like a wedge of lemon sitting on the table, daring you to take a great big suck, even though it won't be very pleasant. Has anything like that ever happened to you? Anything bad?"

  In the dank, dim prison, little more than a hole dug out of the ground, Duncan watched her, a mere lump in the corner, unable to see if she was even breathing. "I sure hope not. It's a terrible thing to suffer. For anyone."

  Thomas returned, glaring uneasily at the girl through the bars.

  Duncan couldn't bear the sight of it, the disdain this man had for her, no matter what she'd done.

  Standing, Duncan faced the man as he sat down on the chair by the door. "I want you to listen to me carefully. I know that two of your men have been wounded, but given the way she was being treated, it seems to me as if it was in her own defense. Under no circumstances, are you to hurt her again. I want you to treat her the way you would any other prisoner, providing food and water, and clothing if she will take it. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Prince Duncan," he mumbled.

  "Good. I also want you to inform me of any changes in her, whether good or bad."

  "As you wish, Prince Duncan."

  "Any guard who does not abide by these rules will have to answer to me, so I expect you will inform the others as soon as possible."

  "Yes, Prince Duncan."

  "Good." After staring him down a moment longer, Duncan returned his gaze to the woman. Crouching down once more, he spoke softly, hoping the man behind him was not listening too intently, mostly for the fact that what he was about to say seemed too personal for anyone else to hear.

  "I'm going to come back. I'd like to visit you from time to time if that is all right with you. I may even come every day. Would that suit?" He hadn't been hoping for a response; he simply wanted to keep her informed. That didn't keep him from interpreting her silence to mean that she didn't protest the idea. "Good," he said. "I'm glad you don't mind."

  "And one more thing. If any of the guards try to hurt you in any way again, you have my permission to defend yourself." Duncan glanced back at the guard. "Without any ramifications."

  Taking one last look at her, allowing the pity to sink deep into his heart, Duncan vowed to himself that he would not allow this woman to suffer the fate of a murderer without trying to help her.

  Fina
lly ascending the stairs and exiting the prison, Duncan squinted under the blazing morning sun. From across the alley, a woman caught his eye, tall with dark hair. Wearing a black cloak over a floral patterned dress and hunching over slightly, she looked a bit like a witch, the kind his father had worked so hard to rid the kingdom of long ago. Her wild eyes met his, and Duncan shuffled backward, a childlike fear forcing him to abandon reason. With slow steps, she approached him, and Duncan thought it best to run away from her, but she turned, walking past him and down Northeast Alley. Paranoid, and breathing rapidly, he stared after her, not sure why she had affected him so, and although she eventually disappeared, an inexplicable panic lingered in his heart.

  1

  Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

  3

  Beauty

  In my dreams, I discover places and come across people. Places I have never been and people I have never met, which leaves me wondering if I created them in my head or if it is possible they are real. I suppose they are real enough to me. Most of the time, they are all I am actually aware of, for even this glasshouse in which I sleep is something I barely remember. Stella tells me it is round, though not a perfect circle, with corners and sides much like a dome I suppose, with a raised roof and vines growing all the way up it on both the inside and out. Mother and Father used it as a hot house long ago, to grow flowers in the colder months, and while space was cleared for a bed, I imagine the plants grow unhindered for I can smell them constantly. Lavender, orange blossom, and lilies so potent at times they force a sneeze from my lips, which sadly does not cause me to wake. I wonder if they grow so close to my head that Stella is constantly cutting them back, or if they surround me at a distance. Nonetheless, I feel they watch over me, as does Stella and the guards outside.