The Servants and the Beast

by R. A. Gates

  I had lost track of the years at this point, time turning around its cosmic dance bringing the snow, the rain, the sun, then snow again, all the sunrises and sunsets through the windows of the castle that had blurred into this unchanging now. Perhaps it had been almost eighty years we had lived this half-life; I was not sure.

  Always the Beast, pacing the halls, always the servants, keeping the castle as clean as they could, what with the ever-increasing glitter that accumulated in the corners. Our routine had rubbed trails in the polished floorboards. His paws, my wooden legs, as I followed him around.

  “This is hopeless,” the Beast lamented, collapsing onto my threadbare cushions. I remembered when the fabric of this armchair was bright and bold, a floral design in deep crimson and sunny yellow. But the years of wear and layers of fur had left my transformed hide a dingy brown.

  But still I hoped I brought the Beast comfort.

  “It is not hopeless as long as we have the means to feel hope,” I attempted.

  If there was anything these years had taught me, it was to no longer fear the wrath of the Beast. There was nothing he could do to us now, that the curse of that wretched fairy hadn’t done worse.

  At least, as the decades turned our struggle to capitulation, the Beast’s anger had finally cooled.

  “Quite a daring statement from a piece of furniture,” he sighed, smoothing down the fur of his cheek. “But do we still feel hope? Do you?”

  “Yes,” I said immediately, as he leaned onto my other arm and crossed his legs.

  His tail rapped against my side. “I wouldn’t feel like this if I knew when another girl would wander my way… it’s maddening, having no control! Being trapped!”

  As I was formulating a rebuttal, Archambault stumbled in. His hat and fur coat, a bit worse for wear, were still draped from the upper hooks of his coat rack form.

  “There’s someone running up the lane!”

  The Beast stood so swiftly that I skidded back across the wooden floorboards until toppling onto my back. I was so stunned, I almost missed the next exchange.

  “Is this someone a girl?”

  The coat rack audibly shuddered with a clacking of wood. “No, a young man—”

  A roar escaped the Beast as what was surely a great surge of elation crashed into disappointment. “Turn him away.”

  “But, sir—”

  “What?” the Beast challenged, facing him with hackles raised, his golden-brown hair sticking out enough to make his already-formidable form even larger.

  Archambault’s hat wobbled. “Sir, he’s hurt.”

  “How does that concern me?”

  My feet scraped the floor as I stood. “Because helping him would be the kind thing to do?”

  The Beast growled, but did not turn to me. “We can’t do that. I’ll turn him away myself.”

  And off he stormed, Archambault and I scrambling after. I was just in time to hear the echo of the knocker, to see him throw open the large double doors. Flurries of snow and a blast of cold air wafted into the foyer, along with a hunched, snow-covered form that collapsed through the doors.

  The Beast rolled him over roughly enough to suggest he planned to immediately throw him back into the cold. But then he paused, and his shoulders, and tail, lowered.

  Archambault leaned over the Beast’s shoulder. “My goodness. Are you truly going to turn him away?”

  The Beast shook his head. “No, no. This is terrible. I can’t send him back out like this. I shouldn’t. We will help him.”

  I craned to see what state the man was in, but the Beast blocked my view. Above us came the sound of servants rustling on the upper floor of the foyer, most likely also trying to see.

  The Beast’s horned head twisted their way. “Don’t just stand there, servants, I said help! Go prepare the first bedroom of the West Wing.”

  “But your highness, shouldn’t he not see us—”

  “The damn curse doesn’t matter. With a wound like this he could die. He needs help. Now.”

  “I’ll get cloth and warm water from the cooks,” Darwin said, stomping off.

  The Beast regarded the coat rack. “Archambault, get him a blanket.”

  And off he went.

  Then the Beast turned toward me. “Theodore, come to me.”

  Shuffling closer, I finally got a glimpse of the young man who was now in the Beast’s possession. The Beast had removed his damp cloak, and the man leaned on the Beast’s arm, pale and trembling. He would have been quite handsome, blonde hair sweeping his forehead, and a fine stature, if it weren’t for the source of alarm: a deep, bleeding gash from above his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, and down his right cheek. The gash and the side of his face were caked in dirt and blood, as though perhaps he had fallen during his travels through the woods.

  “Bring him upstairs to his room,” the Beast told me, propping the man up in my chair, and then he pounded off toward the kitchens.

  I stepped toward the grand staircase, trying valiantly to keep my traveler stable between my fabric arms; every jostle caused a groan to escape from him. Finally, I made it. By the time I squeezed through the door frame, the Beast had returned with Darwin, who had an armful of cloths and a pitcher of water. He took the man from my cushions and laid him in the bed, and to my surprise, the Beast—with his wide, furred shoulders, poufy mane, large upsweeping horns, his muzzle shaped in a snarl—picked up a dampened cloth and gently tended the man’s wounds.

  Then I realized, in the excitement, practically every servant in the house who could move had arrived to watch. And, of course, whisper.

  “Who is he?”

  “The Beast is actually helping him!”

  “Perhaps the Beast has learned kindness?”

  “But why this man?”

  “Well, it’s been so very long since our last visitor—”

  “He’s wasting his time. We need to be ready for a girl to come break the curse!”

  And on they went, while the Beast tenderly worked, cleaning the blood and dirt from the man’s face.

  “He has a fever,” the Beast whispered, and soon one of the servants put a damp cloth on his cleaned forehead.

  “He needs ointment for the wound…” the Beast said next, and Archambault scampered off down the hall, returning swiftly with a bottle clasped between two wooden prongs. The Beast took it from him and readied a cloth.

  Then he steeled himself and poured the ointment into the gash on the man’s face.

  For the first time since arriving, the man moved—his eyes flew open and he screamed. The servants recoiled, but the Beast ignored the sound and pressed the cloth into the gash, his other hand pushing firmly on the man’s chest to keep him in place.

  When the man’s cries stopped, the Beast sat back. The alarm was inescapable on the man’s face, and who could blame him? He was surrounded by nightmares—a terrific demon and furniture with eyes. But he had stopped shouting, and instead stared at us all in turn, with pale green eyes that shone with fascination and horror. Finally, his gaze landed on the Beast. He breathed deeply as he scanned the Beast’s formidable stature.

  “I am dead then,” the man rasped. “For you are the devil, here to punish me for my sins.”

  The Beast shook his head. “You are not dead.”

  The man blinked, scanning the servants around him. “Then what magic is this?”

  “A horrible curse from an even more horrible fairy.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a Beast, now,” the Beast said, sitting up with back straight, towering over the bed. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Beau,” the man said, then his eyes fluttered and he groaned.

  “You will rest here tonight,” the Beast said.

  But the man was already asleep.

  The Beast let out a heaving sigh. “Leave us, all of you. Please.”

  And as we obeyed, the whispers started back up again. What had we just witnessed? And what would it mean for the
Beast, and the curse?

  Several days passed before our visitor was strong enough to leave his bed, and during much of that time the Beast had been there, tending to him. Keeping his wound cleaned and medicated, bringing him food and drink. And in the later days, they talked. Many of us listened in from the hallway, surprised not only at our continued visitor but in the demeanor of both him and the Beast.

  But there were things neither of them wanted to talk about – whenever the Beast asked Beau how he got hurt, he would turn his head and gaze out the window. And whenever Beau would ask who the Beast was before the curse, the Beast would growl and sulk.

  And so it went, until our visitor became strong enough to stand. Then the Beast decided to show him around the castle, and all of us frenzied to clean the place as well we could, what with the eddies of sparkles that had collected since we all had become transfixed with Beau.

  I helped the Beast pick out one of the more vibrant red robes that had been modified to fit his new form, gold-flecked trim bringing out the rich brown hues of his fur. As we went to fetch Beau, we passed Robert. He was pushing mounds of sparkles toward the East Wing, now filled to its limit, the sparkles in heaps that nearly blocked the door from view.

  When the Beast and Beau exited the West Wing, they could see across the foyer to Robert as he worked.

  “So that’s why you’re full of glitter,” Beau laughed at the Beast.

  “It doesn’t come off,” the Beast growled.

  “Give me a coarse brush and some powder and I’ll get you cleaned up,” Beau announced.

  The Beast blinked, his chest rising with a deep breath.

  Beau smiled. “It is the least I could do for your kindness.”

  And perhaps I was imagining a lightness in the Beast’s steps, as they continued their slow tour through the castle. Beau had to stop frequently to rest, and soon the Beast had me follow him around, ready to give him a seat when he needed.

  “I am so sorry to sit on you,” he said, every time.

  “No need to apologize to someone who is doing their job,” I replied.

  In the grand foyer, Beau gazed up at the curtains, torn down by that selfish girl and carefully hung again, and Queen Marie’s unfinished painting, salvaged and rehung despite the new gash it had across the Beast’s princely face, from falling down the stairs.

  “What happened here?” he asked softly.

  “Not everyone appreciates when sentimentality overrides aesthetics,” the Beast carefully explained. “Someone I care about greatly picked out those curtains and painted that painting. I want to keep them on display.”

  “That you should. The fabric is lovely. It’s a shame about the rip in the painting, though.”

  The Beast shrugged. “I don’t think it detracts from being able to admire the piece.”

  Beau brought a hand up to the dark scabs on his own face, and smiled. Soon, they moved on.

  Everywhere the Beast and Beau went, they spoke gently, the Beast introducing each servant and telling him of them before the curse had befallen. At first I had been amazed the Beast had paid so much attention before the curse, until I realized, no, he had listened to us after. In the years of our solitude, he had listened to the stories we had told, all we had left of ourselves, and he had remembered.

  Soon, our visitor gained enough strength to walk about the castle with ease. But somehow the topic of him leaving never came up. It perplexed many servants, and whispers of despair had started. One evening, many of us happened to cross paths in the hall foyer.

  The inevitable topic of the Beast and Beau came up.

  “He no longer cares to end the curse,” Lady Jayne cried, her books fluttering on their shelves.

  “Where are they now?” Darwin asked, his armor creaking, and then of course they turned to me.

  “They’re in the master’s study by the fire,” I said.

  “What are they doing?” Robert demanded, hopping on his mop-head.

  “Talking, last time I checked.”

  “But why, why is he wasting his time?” Robert asked, leaning against Lady Jayne with a sigh.

  “I don’t know,” I told others, but truth be told, deep inside me, I did know.

  I just didn’t know what it would mean, if I were right.

  As Beau’s wound healed to a thick pink line that bisected his face, he and the Beast began to spend much time in the library. I was with them, as they happened past the modern history books, and Beau took out a tome. He leaned against a bookshelf and began to read aloud, but when the name of the kingdom and the Beast’s family passed his lips, the Beast roared and smacked the book from his hands.

  Beau stood stunned, fear lining his wide eyes, as the Beast snarled at the discarded book. Isadora had cautiously swung over to see what was happening, Hugo leaned precariously out of his frame, and time hung frozen for several moments as we waited to see what would happen next.

  “What did I do wrong?” Beau said, his voice light.

  The Beast turned to him, his teeth still bared and his hackles still raised, snorting roughly through his nose. I trembled on my little wooden legs, inwardly begging the Beast to stay good and kind and, most of all, forgiving.

  Finally, slowly, the Beast’s snorting calmed, and Beau’s eyes relaxed.

  “You . . . you did nothing wrong.” The Beast sighed, his tail twitching slowly, as he picked up the tome, and turned a few pages.

  “Is that book about your family?” Beau asked, taking a step toward the Beast.

  “Yes. Here is the castle where we are now, before the woods and curse began to swallow it whole.” He then turned another page. “And here are my mother and father.”

  Beau looked on, and reached out a hand to touch the Beast’s shoulder. There was a flinch and a snarl, but then their eyes met again and the Beast calmed, released a breath, and returned his attention to the book.

  “What happened?” Beau asked cautiously. In the air hung an unspoken understanding that he meant the curse, the Beast’s form, that moment when everything changed.

  “I cannot tell you yet.”

  “Can you yet tell me your name?” Beau asked, the heaviness of his regard enough for the Beast to pause at great length.

  I realized then that as the years had gone on, we had almost forgotten the Prince that was, consumed by the image and disposition of the Beast instead. What he had been before the curse led to that singular moment of irreverence and pride, but then the resulting Beastliness became all-encompassing. As I watched the two men, I could hardly recall the Beast’s given name myself.

  Finally, the Beast spoke. “My name is Estienne.”

  And when Beau smiled at him, it took my breath away. It was only later, recalling that moment, I realized that what had truly squeezed my heart . . . was hope.

  My hopeful sentiment was not shared amongst the others. Isadora and Hugo had shared their versions of the Beast and Beau’s exchange with Quillsby, and thanks to him, rumors literally flew rampant through the castle.

  “I heard the Beast tell that man how much he loves being a beast,” Quillsby proclaimed, floating about the study around Maximus, while Rebecca and Charles looked on.

  “He couldn’t possibly, how monstrous,” Rebecca fretted, as Maximus played a discordant tune. His voice had all but left him as of late.

  “It would be like one of us saying we love these bodies,” Charles said, echoing with frustration within his wooden form.

  “Impossible,” Rebecca remarked, as a purple-hued illustration of a flower-filled valley bathed in moonlight spread across her canvas. Maximus agreed with Charles’ sentiment with well-timed strong chords, but due to the years and the sparkles, there were gaps in his tune.

  “I remain desperate to turn back,” Quillsby muttered.

  “It’s been so long; will we know what to do with ourselves as humans again?” I asked, and the instruments and easel turned to me. We rarely talked pointedly about the time that had passed, especially as the years had become
decades. We had spent an entire human lifetime like this. I wasn’t sure I could remember the taste of food. Or even how to walk with two legs.

  “Well, . . . of course we will,” Rebecca replied, but the hesitance and softness of her voice, and the way her canvas turned a muddled gray, only helped to prove my point.

  Quillsby flipped around in the air. “We have to help the Beast end this curse. Before we are all lost.”

  “Before the sparkles from the curse take over,” Charles said.

  I took notice then of the heaps of sparkles glittering in the corners of the study. We hadn’t been as diligent with cleaning them since our visitor had arrived. Or were they possibly accumulating more quickly? It was an unsettling feeling, to have what had brought me so much hope, plunge into fear instead.

  The others continued to theorize about the Beast no longer caring for his future or the future of his servants, as though the act of him befriending someone somehow meant he would always remain a beast.

  And I creaked in place, no longer sure what to believe.

  One early morning, the Beast built a fire in the study as rain began to fall. It was the first sign of spring we had witnessed, an apparent warming of the winds to bring rain instead of snow.

  The Beast reclined on my upholstery now, gazing out the study’s window as Beau sat on a chair beside him, tea in hand.

  “Does spring ever make you sad?” Beau asked, and the Beast tilted his head at him, the gesture even more grand thanks to his horns.

  “Why would it do that? With the new growth and flowers and warm air?”

  “Exactly that,” Beau lamented, sipping his tea and letting out a sigh. “Spring brings with it such expectations, of fair-weather parties and trite conversations and all the burdens of socializing in a world that doesn’t feel right.”

  “I was not the man who would have noticed those things,” the Beast admitted. “Not before this.” He gestured at his body.

  Beau sat straighter in his chair. “What would you have noticed?”