Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

by Melissa Lemon

  The roses grow only outdoors, but Mother will cut them and place the petals in my hand and on my cheek when they are in bloom. I am grateful, because while I can see and hear in my dreams, and sometimes I even think I can smell and taste, I cannot feel anything—not the rain on my face and arms, not the comforting embrace of my parents, not the cool, gritty sand under my feet or the wind through my hair.

  As a young child (not long after falling asleep so permanently) I often dreamt of the ocean with its enormous thrashing waves, the mist swirling upward as if the water was trying to make its way back to the sky, the relentless sounds of rushing and splashing water, a gull screech now and then. But I must have grown bored of the ocean, for I began to imagine other places, places I must have learnt about or visited as a child—though I don't always remember if I did.

  One haunting dream took me deep into a thick wood, something foreign to my experience, with noises that spooked and startled, noises surely belonging to unfamiliar birds and insects. And I often saw the face of the witch who cursed me, slender and filled with rage. She was in the woods that night—though it may have been day for my sleep knows no time or boundary. It was night in my dream—the moon and its reassuring light absent. As I walked, her face appeared before me.

  Bodiless.

  Lifeless.

  Only a spirit or ghost it seemed, with gray skin, wild, course black hair, heavily wrinkled face and small, black eyes.

  Paralyzed, and shaking with fear, I stopped walking, but her floating face came toward me, closer and closer, until it passed through my body and disappeared.

  Only then did I hear her laugh.

  I understand many would have awaken at this point in a haunting dream. I, on the other hand, kept on walking through those woods, sweating fiercely, watching over my shoulder. I feared every movement or sound, expecting her to come out from behind every tree. Panting in terror, with nobody to calm and comfort me, I raced breathlessly about that dream until Stella's cool cloth dabbed my forehead. "Shhhhh, child," she had said. "All is well." I stopped dreaming of the wood after hearing her voice and fell deeper into sleep. But I still remember, and every once in a while, the dream comes back to me, unwelcome as a spider crawling in ones bed.

  I feel a yawn forming deep in my chest, and without any warning, I am walking the halls of a grand castle. At first I am delighted, thinking I must be paying a visit home, which after all these years is still my heart's first desire. Exuberance fills me up as I turn around, trying to remember which way it is to my room, or Father's study, or Mother's reading room, or the kitchen for a bite of salty ham. But I am lost. I do not know this castle. Disheartened at the realization, I amble about, opening doors to peek inside until I learn that I can actually walk through them. Still hoping to happen upon a kitchen as I long for a bite of real food (even if imaginary) I keep at it until I enter a room where a man sits in a dull, wooden chair. The fingers of his right hand drum rhythmically on a table fit for dozens as he bows his head toward a stack of unrolled parchment. I want to get a look at his face so I move closer, thinking that if I bend down I might find success, but he is too enthralled with the words before him.

  He shuffles the papers, which startles me and I am for some reason all together afraid of being caught nosing around. Mother used to get after me for that. I try to calm down, realizing I am only in a dream, unobtrusive, even invisible to him. I open my lungs to a long, deep breath and push the air out slowly. A solitary sheet of parchment on the table below me flutters slightly, as if my breath had affected it. Impossible. So I blow again, this time harder, as if I intend to blow out the nineteen candles that will be on my next birthday cake, and every loose sheet of parchment quivers under the force.

  The man slaps his hands on top of them, attempting to keep them from flying off the table. Amused, I blow again.

  Exasperated, he speaks. "What— What is going on?" And then he looks up, his face finally visible, his eyes resting exactly on mine, or so it seems. "How did you get in here?"

  I hadn't been expecting this.

  It is rare that I actually interact with someone in my dream, and in all honesty, I'm not in the mood for it right now. The people in my dreams never answer my questions correctly, and often nothing they say makes any sense. And so I just stare, studying his square jaw and strong, pleasant face. I wonder why it is that he shaves so closely, and if tunics with vests are still the fashion or if it is only because I am dreaming that he wears similar clothing to what Father's young court members used to wear.

  "Are you deaf?" he asks, and I can't think why on earth he would ask such a question. There is nothing whatsoever wrong with my hearing, unless you count the fact that I am in and out of varying levels of consciousness all the time.

  His eyebrows come together above his dark hazel eyes. I assume it is a visible sign that he thinks me a puzzle to figure out.

  But why had my breath sent his papers flying? I blow again, this time to no avail. Not a trifle of disturbance among the papers on the table.

  "What on earth are you doing?" he asks.

  "I'm dreaming. What on earth are you doing?" He is the most unpleasant person I have ever dreamt of.

  "Don't be absurd. You're awake as I am. I can see plainly for myself." He stands up in front of me, placing his hands on the table before him. "How did you get in here? Who are you? What is it you want?"

  How do I answer? I begin to grow hot now, feeling the depth of his irritation, my insecurities about nosing around surfacing once more. But I am dreaming. None of it is real. Perhaps it is time for a little fun as I rarely have such an opportunity in my dreams to irritate someone.

  "I came in through the wall. Isn't that how all people enter rooms? My name is Eglantine, princess of Cray, and all I want is a little refuge from the dullness of my existence. Forgive me for thinking I could find that here with you." I begin to approach the door, excited about the prospect of leaving this man and hopefully even the memory of him behind. I wonder if finding the kitchen is still a possibility before this dream vanishes from me.

  "Wait a minute. Did you say you are a princess? From Cray?"

  "Why yes, I did. You have extremely excellent hearing for one so impossible." I take a few more steps toward the door before he speaks again.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't realize without the proper introduction. Did Duke show you in? Did your father send you?"

  "Father? Why would Father send me? I haven't seen Father in nearly fifteen years. And how is it that I can converse so easily with you?"

  I watch his face, a mystified far-off look in his eyes. He must be working it out on his own since my answers cannot satisfy him. Finally a look of recognition spreads over his brow, calming the wrinkles, settling the confusion.

  "You're the princess? Of Cray?"

  "Yes," I answer.

  "The sleeping princess?" He is pointing at me now with a finger from his right hand.

  "How did you know?"

  I stare at him a moment longer. Who is he? What is actually happening inside this dream? I don't like his eyes so intently focused on me, blazing into my own eyes it seems.

  "I used to know you when we were children," he admits.

  A bustle of bodies and commotion bursts through the door.

  "You'll have to excuse me," he says. "We have a meeting. Duke will show you down to the entry room where you may wait for me. I'd be happy to speak with you after our meeting."

  "No, wait," I protest. "Are you actually a person? Can you really see me? And hear me?"

  "Yes, of course I can. I'm not an invalid."

  The men begin taking their seats around the table. A plump, curly-haired maid pushes a cart and begins to set tea cups in front of them. Steam rises from a teapot and the clanking and filling up of cups alerts me to the fact that I do not belong here.

  "Who are you speaking with, Prince Henry?" the stout man beside him asks.

  I've been talking to a prince. He didn't act very much like a prin
ce. He holds out his hand toward me, answering the question with a nod of the head in my direction.

  The man looks over to me, near my shoulder, about my hip, finally settling his eyes to the side of me, where on the wall just behind hangs an oil painting of the sea. The green and blue do not blend well, but crash into one another. It is noisy, like the ocean. Never once did he look me straight in the eyes. I have never in my life felt more like a tiny insect than I do in this moment. I may as well be a fly on the wall, or the moth flitting about the window, or the spider spinning its web in the corner of the floor where nobody would notice. I feel swallowed up by a sense of loneliness, nothing but a dreamer, a spectator to events that don't exist, an inventor of people and places.

  "I do not see anyone in the room besides the men who entered with me, and you were having a conversation before we entered. Who was it you were talking to?"

  "It was her, I tell you," he said. I feel grateful that he is no longer irritated with me, or at least if he is, I am not the one he is yelling at.

  All of the men exchange glances now, not understanding the prince means me, who they cannot see.

  "Did you get much sleep last night?" One of the men asks. His greatest feature is his large, pointed nose. "There is no one in the room but those of us sitting at this table and your maid."

  "Oh, how can you be so impossible?" the prince asks. "Now is not the time for playing pranks."

  "Ask your maid then," the stout man says. "She will have no reason to prank you, and her job would be on the line if she did."

  "Oh, fine. Marie, do you see a young woman standing before the sea painting?"

  She looks in my direction, her eyes closer to the mark than any of them, but I know instantly that she too cannot see me.

  "No, your majesty." She immediately continues her work, setting places for others they must be expecting.

  "But you can see me?" I ask, a strange, hopeful sort of nervousness arousing inside of me, as well as a longing to stay here. If only he can really see me, I want nothing more than to stay. He does not answer, but he does not need to. His dark hazel eyes stare directly into mine. After clearing his throat and looking away from me, he sits down.

  "Let's get started, shall we?" he says.

  "Oughtn't we to wait for Prince Duncan?" I do not know who said it exactly, someone to my right. I cannot take my eyes off of him—Prince Henry if that is his name. I do not ever want to take my eyes off of him. He can see me!

  "Can you hear me as well?" I ask.

  He pauses for a moment, halting the pen in his hand which had previously been scratching something on the parchment in front of him. He keeps from glancing up at me, but I know he heard.

  "Is something wrong, Prince Henry?" Again, I don't know who said it. I keep my eyes locked on his nut-brown hair, lying straight on top of his head, cut short, spreading in two directions from an off-centered part. The door opens. The maid steps out, taking the noise of the cart with her.

  "Henry?" another asks.

  "We do not need to wait for Duncan," he replies.

  I don't mind that he chose not to answer my question. I know my dream could end at any moment, so I persist, walking around the table and to the side of Henry. Prince or not, he can see me. I know he can. And if he thinks to ignore me, I plan to make that difficult for him, maybe even impossible. Now that I think of it, I should have just walked through the table and sat down on top of all the parchment. I'll try being tactful first.

  "Okay, let's get started," the stout man says.

  "What is your meeting about?" I ask the prince, leaning in close to him from behind.

  He jumps back.

  I must have startled him.

  "Is something the matter?" one of the men asks. There are only three of them besides the prince: the stout one next to him, pointed nose closest to the door, and a man with nearly perfect posture across from Henry. It appears there is actually a stick in his back keeping any curving over at bay. He is the one who had spoken.

  "No, of course not," Henry said.

  "Are you sure?" I ask, plopping in the chair on his free side.

  He grits his teeth. Impressed with how still and collected he seems, I watch his face redden. His eyes meet mine, and they hold a warning of sorts.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "Is there something you would like to say to me?"

  "Get. Out." It comes softly, but clearly.

  "Out of what?" I ask. "The chair? Oh, sorry."

  "Prince Henry, are you sure everything is satisfactory? Shall I call the maid for more tea?" the man with the pointed nose inquires.

  "No," the prince says. "Charles, please continue." Prince Henry rubs his forehead and I almost feel poorly for behaving so cruelly. Almost, but not quite.

  "Shall I call the maid for hotter tea? Is it hotter tea you need?" I ask him. "Or a doctor perhaps? Are you feeling unwell?"

  "That's it," he says, slamming his quill onto the table and rising to his feet. He stomps to the door and exits the room. Naturally, I follow.

  "What on earth are you trying to do? Make a fool of me?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then why are you acting that way?"

  "Because I've never met anyone who could see me before."

  He stands there facing me, and for a moment I think I can feel his hot breath on my face. Perhaps I am mistaken, but there is no mistaking that he can hear me or see me, which gives me an idea. I reach out my hand toward him, all my fingers pointing at his chest. Wondering if I will be able to feel it beneath my fingertips in only a moment, I breath in deep, a distant crashing of waves sounding beyond the two of us.

  And Stella's voice. I can hear Stella. I force my hand to close the remaining distance but it is no use.

  I cannot feel him.

  "What are you doing?" he asks.

  I don't understand. Why is it that he can see me and hear me when the others can't? Why does he seem so real? I study my hand, disappointed that it was unable to do what I wanted. Ashamed, I cannot look at him. Stella's voice grows louder. The ocean calls me back home.

  1

  Sleeping Beauty and the Beast

  4

  Beast

  Duncan jolted awake, breathless and drenched in sweat. A sense of peril still gripped him, a fear for his life, and he wanted to run—run so far away that she could never haunt his dreams again. He attempted to get some visual in the darkness, groping for anything familiar. Disoriented, he searched his thoughts. Had he fallen asleep in his own bed or one of the many extra bedrooms throughout the castle? Which part of the grounds would be outside the window? The statue of his mother and father? The hedge rows that created geometrical shapes if you looked down at them from the second or third floor? Feeling the linen sheets beneath him that covered a soft, down feather mattress, and the wool blanket surrounding his legs and chest, he eased only slightly, finally becoming aware of an angry thirst brought on by a parched mouth and lips so void of moisture they burned. He reached blindly for the goblet resting on his bedside table and brought it to his lips, tilting it up over his mouth, waiting for the relief that wouldn't come. Not even a single drop remained. After attempting to place the goblet back in its spot only to drop it onto the floor, Duncan pulled on the string that would ring for a servant.

  She'd been haunting his dreams for days now, the old woman he'd seen outside the prison's open stone entrance, the woman looking at him expectantly, as if she'd been waiting for him. Though they hadn't spoken, Duncan felt as if she had entered his thoughts, searched his soul, begged his help, and condemned him all in one solitary encounter, all with one piercing stare. Now her face was all he could see.

  A creak sounded and the prince looked for his servant.

  "What is it, Master Duncan?"

  "Water. Karl, will you please bring me a drink of water?"

  Throwing his head back onto the pillows, Duncan waited until he returned. He must have fallen asleep, because he jolted as he heard the sound of a new goblet bein
g set on the bedside table.

  "Thank you, Karl."

  The servant left, dragging his tired feet as Duncan seized the goblet and practically threw the water down his throat, spilling onto his face, shirt and bedding.

  Taking deep breaths, Duncan tried to force the memory of the old woman's face from his head. He thought of the summer meadows in the Westlands, the wildflowers showing their brilliant purples, blues and yellows, the sun burning down on his head, his brother running along side him with their father lagging behind and their mother yelling "don't be too long!" It had been their yearly excursion to escape the pressures of palace life, and Duncan cherished the memories, acting as a bright, warm light whenever things seemed cold and dark.

  Though the hold she'd seemed to have on him during the dream had faded, there, behind her withering image, was the prison girl—neither human nor beast in entirety, but a combination of the two. Duncan began thinking of her there in the cold dark corner. Did she even know how to speak? All of the yelling guards in the world would have made no difference if she had no understanding of language. Then a word came to mind—one he'd thought of over and over the last few days, circling around and around like an endless whirlpool. Murder.

  This growing obsession would not rest, this fascination for someone he did not know, someone he wasn't even sure he wanted to know—a peasant in peasant clothing, a beast in human skin.

  If he did nothing, the restlessness would surely drive him crazy. Duncan threw off his covers and pulled the servant bell again. Following a warm bath and an hour or so of preparation before the sun crept into view (waking everyone else in the castle) Duncan would locate Henry—the brother he'd spoken to so little since the king and queen had died, the twin who surely hated him for neglecting every responsibility, dodging every council and avoiding any conversation. Worried he'd left his brother feeling abandoned, and not comfortable with the prospects or ramifications of that, Duncan felt increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. But it couldn't be helped. Duncan hated it—all of it—the nobility, the stuffiness of royal ways, the countless hours making decisions that didn't seem to make any difference, the expectations, and while it consoled him that he at least felt sick about it at times, he would not be forcing himself to do things he hated. Life as a prince had deprived him of so many other freedoms, this one he would not give up. Their father had always intended for Henry to rule and Duncan to smile and shake hands. And whenever he came in contact with anyone, whether in the castle or out, that is exactly what he did.