Once Upon A Time (6) Belle, page 11
part #6 of Once Upon A Time Series
The path wound for about half a mile, then broadened out. The horse rounded a gentle curve, and suddenly, I could see the rise with the great stone house and its courtyard and stable sprawling across the top. The horse moved steadily up the hill until he reached the courtyard, then stopped. The house was to my left now, and the stables to the right. I looked around, but could see nowhere I could easily dismount. So I sat on the horse’s back, my palms against the bark of the Heartwood Tree, as if for good luck, and waited.
It’s your move, Beast, I thought.
I’d like to be able to say that my first sight of him was magical and supernatural, that he appeared from out of nowhere with a crash of thunder and a puff of smoke. Papa had said the Beast had seemed to come from out of thin air, from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. So expecting the extraordinary hardly seemed far-fetched.
In my case, he came from the stables, as if he were a stable boy preparing the stall for the horse. It was so prosaic, I might have laughed, but even I am not that brave. It’s hard t laugh when your heart id in your throat.
Though I suppose it could be said that he did appear magically. For, one moment, the horse and I were alone in the courtyard. And, in the next, there was a figure, a shadow within a shadow, standing in the open stable door.
I gave a jolt, and the horse beneath me shifted a step, steadied, then pawed the ground with one dark hoof, as if annoyed at my response.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But this isn’t exactly easy for me, you know.” The horse blew out a breath, and the figure in the doorway stepped forward into the light. I shivered, even as the air in the courtyard seemed to ripple with heat. My heart began to beat in hard, fast strokes, so loudly it would have been a miracle if he didn’t hear it all the way across the courtyard.
He was tall.
That was my first thought. Even from a distance, and from my vantage point on the back of a high horse, he was tall. Lean and rangy like a wolf, was my second, not particularly comforting, thought. I felt my courage start to waver.
You can do this. You have to do this, Belle, I thought.
Half a dozen steps the Beast strode toward me, the soles of his boots making not a single sound. Then he stopped. I had no idea why. The horse stretched his neck, as if testing the bit between his teeth.
“I suppose,” I heard a deep voice say. “That you are quite real.” I gasped, for I felt his voice pass through my skin, through muscle and flesh, until it came to rest in the marrow of my bones. Papa had said the Beast had the voice of a man, but this was not quite accurate, I thought.
For no human being I had ever met spoke in a voice like that, sounding heart and mind together, at once, as one. A Beast may have the ability to camouflage its skin. Men are better at hiding their hearts.
“I don’t understand you,” I somehow found a way to reply. “I am Belle Delaurier,” I said, as I had at the gate. “I am here by your order. You gave my father shelter, and he took away a gift you did not wish to bestow. I have come to bring it back and to fulfill his promise.”
The Beast took three more steps. Two more, and he would be close enough to touch.
“So you are real,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. “I have not imagined you. You are real. You have come. I see a dark gray dress on my horse’s back, strong hands on the reins, and your hair…”
he paused, and I had the sense he was studying me intently. “Your hair curls and it is brown. But your face…” His voice faltered and broke off. “Your face eludes me,” he continued after a moment. “Your features slip in and out of focus, like a star at the end of a telescope.”
“I am not a star,” I said, a sudden ache in my throat. “I’m just a girl named Annabelle.”
“Annabelle,” he echoed, and I seemed to feel the strange power of his voice in every part of me. As if it were seeking the way to make me visible. “But I thought you said…Belle?”
“Belle is my nickname,” I answered. “It’s what I’ve always been called. I think that may be your problem – with my face, I mean. It makes you think you’re supposed to look for Beauty.”
“And I can’t find what isn’t there?” the Beast said. “Is that your point?”
“It is,” I replied.
He took one more step, and then another until he was standing right beside me.
“Real and honest,” he said. “A powerful combination. You do not spare feelings, not even your own. So I will tell you a truth of my own in exchange for yours: What I can and cannot see is not determined by your face alone, Belle Delaurier. It is…part of the reason I reside in this place, so that I might learn to use my eyes.”
“I don’t understand,” I said once more.
“You will,” he answered. “Or so I hope, in time.”
He placed a hand against the horse’s flank then, not an inch from my knee. I stared down. Like the rest of him, his hand was long and lean, though broad across the knuckles.
A strong and capable hand, I thought. One that could both cradle and crush. It was covered in a fine layer of fur, copper-colored, like the coat of a fox. The tapering fingers ended in short nails, pointed at the tips. They looked sharp.
The horse turned his head and rubbed it along the Beast’s arm. The Beast lifted that hand and stroked it along the horse’s nose.
“What is your horse called?” I burst out.
The hand stilled for an instant, then continued its motion. “Corbeau.”
“Raven,” I said. The horse tossed its head, as if acknowledging its name. “It suits him, and it’s a much better name than Midnight.”
The Beast made a sudden sound, like a strange, harsh bark. I started, and the horse shied. The Beast stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” I said, when Corbeau was calm once more. I stroked a hand along the horse’s neck, on the opposite side from where the Beast stood. He made no move to step in close again, I noticed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know you didn’t,” the Beast said. “I think that’s the problem. For the record, I don’t intend to eat you. I don’t intend you any harm.”
“What do you want, then?” I asked.
“Company, for one thing,” the Beast replied. He made a gesture in my direction, and I managed to keep myself still this time. And to see what the Heartwood holds. Your gather said you might be able to show me this.”
“I hope so.”
“Will it take long?”
I hope not, I thought. For both our sakes.
“That is up to the wood itself, not to me,” I answered honestly. “Every piece of wood I’ve ever touched has shown me its secret eventually. Some take longer to reveal what they hold on the inside than others. The Heartwood has held on to its secrets for a very long time.”
“That is so,” the Beast concurred. There was a quick pause. “Thank you, Annabelle.”
“What for?” I asked. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Oh, but you have,” he countered. “You came, and you have spoken the truth twice now, even though it frightens you to do so. Another person might have given me an easier answer, one they imagined I might like to hear. You did not.” He stepped to stand beside the horse once more. “I’m sure you’d rather be a million miles away, but I am glad that you have come, Annabelle.”
“If you will call me that,” I answered, “then I will try to be glad I’m here as well.” For, in only a few minutes with this stranger, this Beast had done what I had been unable to convince my family to do in nearly ten years: He had called me Annabelle.
“And I will do my best to see, and to reveal, what the Heartwood holds,” I went on. “Though, since we’re busy appreciating the honesty, I should probably mention that I can’t promise that what I find will be what you want. My ability is to see truly, not on command.”
“If you see truly, then you reveal will be what I want,” the Beast replied. “And now, I don’t suppose I could persuade you to come down off Corbeau. I’m sure he’s ready for his stall.”
“Of course,” I said, though my lips felt stiff. It was clear he meant to help me down himself.
I handed down the bundle of my shawl, being careful not to touch him. He took it from me just as carefully, then set it beside him on the cobblestones. I settled the branch of the Heartwood in the nook of one elbow, as if it were an infant.
“Hand it to me,” the Beast said simply. “I’ll give it back when you’re on the ground.”
For the space of time it took for me to draw a breath, I was certain that I was going to say no. but, at the last instant, I changed my mind. Cradling the branch between my palms, one on either end, I leaned down. The Beast reached out and grasped the Heartwood in the middle. A tingle, so sharp it was almost pain, shot into my hands and up my arms. I think I made a sound.
The Beast froze, his great hands gripping the Heartwood so tightly that I saw his knuckles beneath the copper-colored fur, for they had turned stark white.
“Look at me, Annabelle,” he demanded in that fierce, compelling voice. “Look into my face, into my eyes for the span of time it takes to count to five. Look at me and let me see you. Look at me and free us both.”
The tingling in my arms was truly pain now. Spreading across my shoulders, burrowing into my chest, aiming straight for my heart. When it reached it, I would be transformed. Whether it would be as simple as dying, I could not tell. But of one thing I was certain: I would no longer be the Belle Delaurier I knew.
And it was because of him, this strange combination of man and beast that stood before me.
“No,” I said. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He made a dark sound, deep within his chest, and I understood that my own pain was nothing.
“Then let go of the Heartwood,” he commanded.
I set my teeth. “I’m trying.”
It was Corbeau who broke the deadlock, turning his head without warning to sink his teeth deep into the Beast’s shoulder. The Beast gave a startled exclamation, released the Heartwood, and stepped back. The second we were no longer touching the wood together, my fingers loosened of their own accord. I released the branch and it fell, landing on the bundle of my belongings.
I cradled my hands in my lap, one curved inside the other. My fingers were stiff and painful. I flexed them, rubbing them as if to bring back the circulation after too long out in the cold. Without a word, the Beast bent to retrieve my bundle and the branch of the Heartwood.
“I can get down myself,” I hurried into speech, throwing one leg over Corbeau’s neck as I did so. I slid along his flank to the ground, the impact of the cobblestones jarring every bone in my body. I leaned against the horse for a moment, waiting for my legs to steady. “And I can stable Corbeau as well, if you’ll let me. I’d like to.”
“As you wish,” the Beast said, turning away. I turned to the horse.
“All right,” I whispered against his neck. “It’s going to be all right. Come along now, Corbeau.”
The horse followed me obediently, as if I were the one who cared for him every night. Just as we reached the door of the stable, the Beast spoke once more.
“Why did you think the horse would be called Midnight?” he asked. “And why were you pleased when he was not?”
I paused, one hand on Corbeau’s neck, though I did not turn back. “Because of his color,” I answered. “And because it seemed too obvious a choice.” Again, he made that sound in his throat that had so startled me before. He’s laughing, I realized.
“I think you’ll find not much around here makes the obvious choice. Thank you for caring for my horse, Annabelle.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“I’’ wait for you inside.”
If you’re trying to make me hurry, that’s not the way to do it, I thought.
I did turn back then, to ask how in the world I would find him inside that great stone house, and discovered he’d pulled the trick I’d expected earlier.
He’d vanished into thin air, for he was nowhere in sight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I stabled Corbeau, taking off the saddle and harness, finding the place to stow them where they belonged, then caring for him as carefully as if her were my own horse. I brushed him so long and well I could almost see myself reflected in his glossy dark coat, and he, himself, was stamping in impatience, eager for the meal that was still to come.
At long last, more reluctantly than I like to admit, I put the brush and currycomb away and fed Corbeau. I stayed beside him, leaning my head against his smooth, warm flank, listening to his strong teeth make fast work of his evening meal of oats.
“You like him, don’t you?” I murmured. “And he likes you.” The stable was as immaculate as Corbeau himself. “That’s good news, isn’t it? That he’s capable of affection?”
Because you’re hoping what, precisely, Belle? I thought. That he’ll like you, too?
Be satisfied with not being eaten and be done with it.
Corbeau blew out a great snuffling breath, as clear a request to be left in peace as if he’d spoken. Which, come to think of it, I suppose he had.
“All right,” I said. “I’m stalling. I admit it. There’s no need to get all huffy.” Corbeau turned his head then, regarding me with one dark eye. “I’m going to go inside the house now,” I said. “I am, honestly. Just as soon as I remember how to breather.”
For, abruptly, I felt dizzy and light-headed. My heart pounded, as if I’d been running.
I stamped my foot in frustration, and Corbeau showed his teeth. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “And it’s going to stop right now. What was the use of coming this far if I won’t go any farther? I’m going inside that house. I’m going right now.” On impulse, I leaned over and gave Corbeau’s neck a kiss. Then I turned and walked from the stable, wishing I didn’t feel like I was leaving behind my one and only friend.
The doors to the great stone house were shut, and though I did not give myself permission to take this as a sign to turn around and run in the opposite direction, I did put off going inside for one moment more. For the doors gave me a surprise. They were made of wood and elaborately carved. And, like the gates I’d passed through to enter the Beast’s domain, they showed a man and a woman, reaching toward each other.
It was easy to see that the couple was nobly born. For the carving was so intricate and detailed I could see the lace the man wore at collar and cuffs, and the long string of pearls the woman wore at her throat.
Who are you? I wondered.
Once again, with the doors shut fast, the couple’s hands were joined. I hesitated a moment longer, reluctant to break that clasp, for it seemed to me that these were two who should never be parted for long.
Nor will they be, I chastised myself. Only for the amount of time it takes the doors to open and close. Stop putting off going inside, Belle. You can’t stand on the front step forever.
I sighed. Then I walked up the last two steps, setting my hands against the place where the couple’s hands met. That was all it took to get the doors to open. As the gates had, the great wooden doors of the house swept back silently. The arms of the figures on the doors swung wide, in a gesture that looked like a grand welcome.
I stepped across the threshold.
The entry hall was a dazzle of colors as the light streamed in from stained glass windows high above. It both obscured and illuminated the images on the tiles beneath my feet. For, just as Papa had described, the entry hall of the house was covered in a mosaic, many parts working together to form a whole.
Everything here tells a story, I realized. Whether it was the same one, over and over again, or some fresh tale each and every time, I couldn’t yet tell. Perhaps with enough time, I thought, then caught myself short.
I was here to discover what lay hidden within the Heartwood branch. That, and nothing more. The sooner I did so, the sooner I could keep my promise to Celeste, and to myself: the sooner I could return home. I had no business getting sidetracked by whatever stories might lie hidden in this place, no matter how artfully told.
“There you are,” I heard the Beast say, interrupting my thoughts. He materialized at the back of the entry hall, perhaps from the study where my father had sheltered. He strode forward into the light until we were both illuminated by the colors streaming down from the windows above. I, in a pool of yellow; he, in a patch just a shade lighter than indigo. I looked up and saw that the color came from the sunlight passing through the image of a woman dressed in a dark blue gown.
Look how he manages to find the shadows even when the sun is shining on him, I thought.
“I wondered if perhaps you meant to stay in the stables with Corbeau,” the Beast went on.
So there was to be no reference to the strange and uncomfortable moment in the courtyard, when he had all but begged me to look into his face, to gaze into his eyes. That was perfectly fine with me.
“I considered it,” I answered lightly. I did my best to seem as if I was really looking at him, casting a quick glance upward in the general vicinity of his face, before letting my gaze settle on a place slightly over his left shoulder, at about the height on his earlobe – if I’d actually been able to find his earlobe beneath all that hair. For now, as I did my best not to look at him, I seemed to see a hundred things that I had not before.
He had a man’s hair upon his head, just a shade darker than the copper fur that covered the backs of his hands. It curled in wild profusion, long enough to brush down to his impossibly broad shoulders. It was almost as if the very form of him could not quite make up its mind. Was he a man, or was he a beast? I wondered, abruptly and uncomfortably, whether this might be the true definition of a monster: a being that was neither one thing nor another.
“Let me show you to your room,” the Beast – for by now I was incapable of thinking of him by any other name – said, precisely as if her were an innkeeper and I, a guest to be welcomed and made comfortable. “Perhaps that will make you feel better about coming indoors.”
