The Fabled Journal of Beauty

by Boyd Brent

  “Ashcroft,” replied the Beast.

  “Thank you, Mr Ashcroft.” I fixed the Beast with my most determined gaze. “You were saying that you weren’t in the best of moods when you met my father? The fact is, you terrified him.”

  The Beast shrugged. “I can't help how I look.”

  “None of us can. But you did not have to threaten his life!”

  “Really, there is no need for melodrama.”

  “Melodrama!”

  The Beast shuffled uncomfortably in its chair. “Having received word of your father’s approach, I instructed the servants to prepare a fire and some food for him. As you are doubtless aware, he fed and warmed himself before falling asleep on a couch.”

  “You would begrudge your visitor a nap?”

  “No, I would not. But then, after all my hospitality, he saw fit to steal from me.”

  “But it was a flower.”

  “With the benefit of hindsight, I suppose I may have overreacted a little.”

  “A little? Far be it from me to contradict you, but what you did was unforgivable.”

  “Well then, maybe in time you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “And you imagine that keeping me captive is the way to go about that?”

  “Would you stay otherwise?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you have your answer. And since I am responsible for you during your 'captivity,' I suggest we eat.”

  Several silver trays floated into the dining room, and having been placed upon the table, a helping from each was transferred to our plates. “Is it Christmas?” I murmured, looking down at the slices of steaming turkey, roast potatoes, sprouts, and chestnuts. A harpsichord up on a balcony began to play a melancholy tune, and like everyone except for the Beast, its pianist was invisible. This was something I lamented as I observed its table manners. They were ravenous in the extreme and did little to enhance my own appetite. Once it had fed, it picked up a tankard of wine and managed to pour most of it down its throat.

  “That’s disgusting,” I barely murmured. The Beast wiped the wine and meat from its chin with a sleeve. It stood up and looked suddenly awkward, perhaps even a little shy. “I … I can only apologise if my table manners have displeased you.”

  “This is your palace, sir, and you may dine anyway you choose.”

  The Beast shook its head miserably. “It’s time I took my leave. You will dine with me tomorrow evening.”

  “That didn’t sound like a question,” I pointed out.

  “Indeed, it was not,” replied the beast, moving away from the table towards a spiralling staircase at the back of the room.

  “So, I am your prisoner here?” I called after it.

  The beast stopped in its tracks and, over its shoulder, growled, “A bargain is a bargain.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I murmured as I watched it disappear up the staircase.

  Journal entry no. 8

  When I returned to my room, my anxiety at being harmed (or even devoured) by the Beast had been replaced by curiosity. Notwithstanding his table manners—after all, he is a Beast—he clearly possessed empathy and, dare I think it, reason. I am, therefore, resolved to stop referring to the Beast as ‘it.’ So, where did he come from? Where are the rest of his family? Do they resemble him? And the biggest question of all: how could a creature who resides in such a grand palace not be known throughout the land? I was loathed to ask Molly these questions and compromise her further. After all, she had already told me about the curse. Something I was resolved to ask the Beast about at our next meeting. I lay my head down upon my pillow and said, “Thank you, Molly. For your words of reassurance about your master. Having met him, I no longer consider his eating me a possibility. In truth, I feel rather silly for even considering such a thing. After all, he is the master of his own palace. Not some monster roaming free in a forest.”

  The pen began to scratch out some words on a sheet of paper on the dressing table. It wafted over to me. ‘I’m so pleased!’ it read.

  “That makes two of us.”

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  “No. I’m very tired. I expect you are too. Night night, Molly.” I nuzzled my pillow, the softest I had ever placed my head upon, and fell into the most curious sleep.

  You might imagine that I had a nightmare about being pursued by a beast, but nothing could be further from the truth. I found myself in a wood, and far from being pursued, I was pursuing the young man whose portrait I had so admired when I arrived. He was some way away and staggering from side to side as though injured.

  “Wait! Please wait!” I called out. The next I knew, I was standing on one side of a brook, and the young man was observing me, wide-eyed and fiercely curious from the other. All I could think was how his portrait, so beautiful and captivating, barely did him justice. Indeed, his dark and brooding eyes possessed a sorrowful longing that stole my breath away. He was panting hard, a hand pressed against his side to relieve a stitch, and clearly nervous of something in those woods. He looked so vulnerable that when he suddenly asked, in an off-hand manner, “What are you doing here?” it caught me completely off guard. “What's the matter? Are you lost?” he added.

  “Lost? No … I imagined I was dreaming.”

  The young man looked momentarily puzzled. “Before you say anything more, you should know that a terrible witch lurks in these woods.”

  “Is that who you were running from?”

  He nodded emphatically. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I have seen you in a portrait.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Beast's palace.”

  “The Beast?” The very mention of the Beast seemed to set the cat amongst the pigeons in his mind; he stumbled but caught himself.

  “You must know him,” I said.

  The young man’s eyes opened wide. “Know him?”

  “Yes. Your portrait hangs in his palace.”

  “Forgive me. My memory; it plays tricks on me … you must ask the Beast … ask him if he knows me.”

  “I shall.”

  “She’s close … I … I must find cover and hide …” he stammered, stepping backwards away from me.

  “But … how will I find you again?”

  “Look for me in your dreams!” he shouted with such urgency that I woke with a start. I threw off my covers and climbed out of bed. A candle burned in a silver holder on my dressing table. I picked it up and, stealing my courage, opened my bedroom door and ventured out into the corridor. I hurried as fast as the light from the candle permitted, my bare feet padding on the carpet, my nightdress billowing around me. A minute later, I was descending the main staircase; my destination—the young man's portrait that hung above the fireplace.

  I held up my candle, and its flickering light fell onto the face of the young man I had just spoken to. “It was you …” I murmured.

  Five minutes later, I was wandering through room after room of the palace, in search of someone or something that might explain my dream. I didn’t come upon a soul, at least not a visible one, until I pushed open a heavy door and found myself on the upstairs landing of a library. It was the most magnificent library I had ever seen! And the sight of so many volumes stole my breath away. Having stepped forwards and grabbed a handrail, I looked down to behold the Beast. He was sitting in an armchair before a roaring fire, utterly engrossed in a book. The sight of such a large and awkward creature attempting, ever so gently, to turn a page with his claws and not damage it touched my heart. Indeed, such was his interest that he had no idea he was being watched. Even though I had so many burning questions about the young man, the Beast looked so content that I felt loathed to disturb him. I backed slowly from the library and retraced my steps back to my room, intent on asking the Beast all my questions at dinner that evening.

  Journal entry no. 9

  I returned to my bed and slept surprisingly well. When I awoke, I glanced at m
y bedside table where, had I been at home, the book I was reading would have been waiting. The disappointment at seeing no book was quickly replaced by my recollection of the library. I swept away my bed sheets, jumped out of bed, changed from my nightclothes into my dress and hurried to the door. As soon as I opened it, the aroma of freshly cooked food climbed my nostrils. I looked down to where a silver breakfast tray had been left outside. Upon the tray was a loaf of freshly baked bread, a plate of scrambled eggs, and a glass of orange juice. My stomach rumbled as I stooped to pick up the tray. “Thank you!” I said just in case an invisible servant was close by. My breakfast went down surprisingly well, and as I dabbed at my mouth with a white napkin, a sense of adventure rose in my breast. The prospect of exploring that marvellous library and later quizzing the beast about the young man in my dreams who, for all intents and purposes, felt as though he was the man of my dreams filled me with wonder.

  My sense of direction must be better than I imagined, for I retraced my steps through that labyrinth of rooms and found myself on the same upstairs balcony in the library. The fire had burned down to its embers, and the armchair where the Beast had sat reading was empty. I hurried down a spiral staircase to my right and, having reached the ground floor, darted into the centre of the library where I spun round to take it all in. I stopped suddenly and placed a hand on the back of the Beast’s chair. “Could so many books even be read by one person in a single lifetime?” I sighed and, glancing down, noticed that the Beast had left his book on the chair. I picked it up and read the title, The Golden Ass by Apuleius. In the sleeve, it was described as ‘The story of the overcoming of the impossible obstacles that stood between the love of Psyche and Cupid.’ My heart sank at the notion that a beast, as terrifying and ugly as he, might possess a romantic soul. I must admit that at that moment, and even though I was his captive, I felt a pang of pity for him. I was distracted by movement in the corner of my eye. I glanced to my left where a feather duster was cleaning the shelves. I placed the book back down on the chair and made my way over to it.

  “Hello,” I said to the duster. I cast my gaze about for something the servant might communicate with. I spotted a row of writing desks along the wall to my left. “One moment …” I said, walking over and retrieving a pad and pencil from one.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I told the duster now hovering at waist height. “That you’re not supposed to talk to me. That only Mr Hobbs is afforded that ‘privilege.’” I rolled my eyes, lowered my voice and said, “The truth is, and without naming any names, that I’ve already made one friend since I arrived here. His or her secret is safe with me as yours will be when you write your name on this pad,” I said, thrusting the pencil and pad towards the feather duster. Much to my relief, it flew away towards the writing desks as though tossed there in an attitude of wild abandon. It landed beside another pad and pencil, and the following words were scratched out upon it. ‘Molly is my best friend, and she has already confided her secret to me! My name is Daphne.’

  “It’s nice to meet you, Daphne. Do you have to dust all these books?”

  ‘Yes. It takes a week to get through them all.’

  “It’s a fine pastime. I think books are the most magical things. And this collection is surely without equal.”

  ‘The master has told me as much many times.’

  “Does he come here and read often?”

  ‘This is where he has passed his nights ever since …’

  “Since?”

  The pencil waggled itself as if to say she could or must not say.

  Not wanting to put Daphne in a more awkward position than she already found herself, I changed the subject. “Doesn’t your master ever sleep?”

  ‘Only by day.’

  I cast my gaze towards the books that Daphne had just finished dusting. “Do you think he’d mind if I borrowed one? If I promise to return it?”

  The pen hovered over the pad and scratched out: ‘All your needs are to be catered for, just as though you were the mistress of this palace. So help yourself.’

  “Your Master told you that?”

  ‘Yes. He visited us in the servant’s quarters at dawn, just before he retired to his chamber.’

  “A mistress who is also a prisoner? What do you know of the whereabouts of the young man in the portrait over the fireplace in the entrance hall?” I asked, sliding a book from a shelf.

  'You should only ask such questions of the master.'

  “I intend to do just that. I must confess, Daphne, the hours that must pass between now and then cannot pass quickly enough,” I said, hugging the book close.

  Journal entry no. 10

  As she had done the previous evening, Molly helped me change into my gown for dinner. Her fears at breaking the rule that only Hobbs could communicate with me seemed a distant memory, as she scratched her dainty writing across a great many sheets of paper. She told me how she’d confided in Daphne, and how excited all the staff were at the prospect of my asking their master about the curse and about the fate of the young man in the portrait. When I told Molly that I’d spoken to him in a dream, it increased her excitement manifold and left her chomping at the bit to share the news with the rest of the household.

  When I entered the dining room this evening, the Beast was seated in his chair at the head of the table. Once again, he stood as I approached, and I detected a slight bow of his head. My imagination may have been working overtime, but once I’d reached the table and accepted his gesture to sit, he looked rather nervous. Ever conscious of his bulk, the Beast lowered himself carefully into his seat. “Your room is to your liking? You slept well?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you. My room is … well, it’s a most luxurious prison cell.”

  The Beast cast his gaze down upon the table. “I am sorry you feel that way.”

  His apology was so heartfelt that I felt compelled to pay him a compliment or, at the very least, say something positive. “I discovered your library this morning …” I said quietly.

  “My library? Was it to your liking?”

  “Very much so. How could someone with a love of books such as mine not think it the most extraordinary place? How did you come to own such a collection?”

  “The books were collected by many generations of my …”

  “Your family?”

  The Beast nodded.

  I placed my arms on the rests of the chair and, leaning forwards in my seat, said, “I hope you don't think my observation rude, but there are a great many portraits in your palace and, well, none of the sitters bear any resemblance to you.”

  “Just as well,” he sighed.

  “Why do you say so?”

  The Beast looked at me as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “If the sitters resembled me, this would be a house of horrors.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as to say that but …”

  “Speak your mind.”

  “It's just that … all the servants are invisible and dumb, and their master …”

  “Is a hideous beast?”

  “I was about to say is so melancholy.” I placed my arms upon the table and interlinked my fingers. “I have come here tonight intent on asking you the two burning questions …”

  In a mirror image of my own pose, the Beast placed his great arms upon the table and interlinked his claws. He gazed down at them for a moment and then, having raised his sad eyes to meet my own, said, “This has been a palace of secrets for far too long. You have my word that I will answer you anything I can.”

  “Well then … what has happened here to bring about such sorrow?”

  “We have been cursed,” sighed the Beast, lowering his shoulders as though sharing this burden had relieved them of considerable weight.

  “Cursed?” I replied, seemingly surprised by this revelation. “By who?”

  “A witch. Of the type known to bestow curses throughout this land.”

  “And when did this unfortunate event occur?”

&nb
sp; “Long ago …”

  “And why did she curse you all?”

  “Why is something I shall never forget. Not a day has passed between then and now that I have not regretted my actions that night.”

  I braced myself for the dreaded tale, my imagination conjuring all manner of terrible deeds perpetrated by the Beast upon the witch.

  “Believe it or not,” sighed the beast, “this palace was once a place of fun and optimism. The parties thrown here were famed throughout the land. So much laughter and dancing …”

  “I have heard no such tales. In fact, I had no idea this palace even existed before Father told me about it. And he only came upon it by accident. So, how long ago are you talking about?”

  “We have been in this wretched state, unknown to the world beyond our gates, for many generations.”

  “But why unknown? Was that part of the curse?”

  The Beast nodded. “The night the witch darkened our door, a great storm raged. We have not known its like before or since.”

  “And did she arrive during one of your parties?”

  The Beast shook his head, and I detected the semblance of a smile behind his lion-like features. “The night before had been one of great celebration. Sometimes, when I sit here, I fancy that I can still hear the laughter from that night. The clinking of glasses making toasts to happy futures, the melody played by the fifty-piece orchestra …” said the Beast, closing his eyes and tapping on the table with his claws.

  “It sounds like a wonderful party,” I said quietly.

  The Beast stopped tapping and opened his eyes. “But like all parties, it came to an end. The following morning, as the lightning and thunder raged outside, and the servants were engaged in cleaning, a banging was heard at the front door. Hobbs opened the door and beheld the most wretched of crones, her hair rancid and matted—so long that it hung about her ankles. The creature’s back was bent, and she clung to a staff for dear life; its top carved into the shape of a human skull.”