Lost in Play

Laughter fluttered in the air. A little girl was playing with a toy bear when she unintentionally wandered out onto the street. The whine of the breaks led in a grating shriek. When they had engaged, putrid smoke swirled from burnt rubber, and by the time the air-breaks hissed it was done. An old man came shuffling by as quickly as he could, practically dragging his walking cane behind him. He moved on pure adrenaline, ignoring the condition that has tormented his joints for most of his years as a senior citizen. He was screaming her name. The bus driver stepped out and threw his hands over his mouth as he heaved a lamenting chorus of guilt-ridden dread. He staggered back staring at her, eyes white and hands trembling. The old man cursed him as he went past, demanding he contact an ambulance. The driver did, stammering panicked confusion to the operator on the line. The old man fell in beside the little girl. She held out a lissome, tremulous arm, covered with bloody gashes and black grease from the radiator that had struck her down. She was pointing toward the heavens when she spoke her final words.

“Pa’pa… L…look…” She had said; her voice wan but touched by wonder. “There’s a girl, she’s beautiful….”

     Then her hand collapsed next to a rainbow colored teddy bear and before long she was asleep, never to wake again.

#

One hundred and one.

     Like a cruel joke, God had to add one more year. It was the morning of Gerald Heidrich’s birthday, and as always not a soul came to visit him, nor would he receive them with warm praise if they had. These days he found the fair extol of one’s success at escaping the ever-tricky hand of death to live yet another year upon this bleak and miserable earth a borderline insult, and he took it to mean as much. Most bothered not to disturb the wayward old man, even when he was exploring the vacant halls of the hospital with delight upon his haggard face; his grin no doubt perceived as a mere snare to offer him an ear to chastise. Leaning over his walker and dragging along with him his IV pole he went about his business, carrying a gaily rainbow teddy bear by its stuffed paw. The toy dangled from his frail grasp as he labored along his way, merrily forsaken.

     Gerald was often misunderstood as a despondent, peevish, old fellow, with little gratitude and a whole lot of temper. There were few that understood his truth. He had lived long enough to watch his wife, his daughter, and even his granddaughter pass away before his eyes. The latter of which, Macy, being the most vivid and tragic, as her death was recent and met by unforeseen means. While in his care an incompetent bus driver accidentally ran her down when she was playing in the street. He looked away only for a second before it was all over. He never forgave himself, and having been forced to mourn most of all the people he had ever loved on this earth, he has grown to loathe even his own being, believing he had somehow outlived all there was good to live for.

His final years were spent moping around the hospital with a diagnosis of some queer bone disease with a long, complicated name that he could barely pronounce. Often his condition crippled him anytime he sought to use his muscles for anything more than to punch buttons on a remote in a foraging search for the damn weather channel; though why he cared to know about the status of a hurricane brewing halfway across the globe escaped even he. He chalked it up to sheer, cold, unbiased, madness, being confined to his designated room nearly every day for three years. Recalling the astronomical fees he had once gotten after spending the night at a hospital in his younger days, he wondered how much of his social security would remain once he had finally passed; or would they just pull the plug the moment the piggy bank starts to raddle—either way, good riddance!

     It was only a few weeks past he’d had found meaning to go on in this barren wasteland the young had the gall to still call Earth. A new patient he had met by chance, working his way down a hall to scold some nurse for some distant reason he could no longer recall. She was beautiful; clad in a heavenly white gown, with the biggest, brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. The girl sat upon a cloud as a tranquil angel, looking onto him with a brilliant smile that instantly melted his heart. She had asked him why he was so angry, he had explained, and so she laughed. Her words that would follow he would carry with him until the end of his days.

     “Life is too short.” She protested, her smile never faltering. Then the elevator doors her nurse had been waiting on opened and they were gone.

     Gerald soon found her again, and had since spent countless hours talking about life and sharing stories. She was his friend; the last friend he had, and a friend he knew he would not have long with.

     When he had reached her room he knocked, and was answered by a woman in her mid-twenties with a pretty figure and an ugly scowl.

     She glared at him, crossing her arms as she answered coldly, “Mr. Heidrich.”

     Unfettered by her curt greeting he returned in a detestable tone, “Nurse, Ashley.”

     “Its Mrs. Donohue.” She corrected, seething through her teeth and rolling her eyes.

     The old man sighed, exasperated. “Yeah well, marrying the doctor doesn’t exactly qualify you as one; therefore I see no merit to share with you the same courtesy. Being that you are in fact merely a medical assistant, I thought I was being kind by hailing you as a Nurse, as apposed to what I would normally call you, which is, ‘Move-out-of-the-way-you-dumb-blond, I’m here to see Sidney.’”

     Somewhere in the room, a young voice cried out with joy, “Gerald!”

     The temperamental old man moved aside, and the fuming medical-assistant stormed out muttering words of bitterness under her breath. With she gone he was free to make his way inside where he found a little girl of five in a white gown laying upon a gurney, her blue eyes piercing and her perfect smile beaming. Her eyes were sunken and dark, as were her cheeks, the details of her skull sickeningly visible. She had no hair, nor even eyebrows. She was ailing and teetering on death; as ill as any could possibly be, yet she was so full of life. She scarcely spoke of the pain, though she often stopped in mid-sentence to cringe; waves of anguish overtaking her. The chemo bag hovered over her like a yellow demon to torment her with her own withering mortality, though it seemed not to trouble her even a little.

     Gerald offered her the gift and said in hoarse voice, “This once belonged to someone,” he paused, fighting back the old emotions. “Someone very dear to me. I’d like you to have it.”

     Her eyes lit up at the sight of it as she perked up in her bed, but she hesitated, giving him a guilty look as she said, “But… It’s your birthday, not mine. And I’m afraid I have nothing to give you.”

     “Your time is more valuable to me than any gift anyone could.” He said, smiling, his outstretched arm trembling under the weight of the bear.

     Still she was reluctant to accept, drawing from the old man a choke of laughter tainted with frustration as he insisted in a tone that was almost a plea, “Please, Sidney, just take it.”

     Excitedly, she grabbed the toy and pulled it in for a deep, long embrace.

     Gerald turned his walker so he could sit on the seat it was equipped with. Again he smiled, admiring the girl. “You know, that bear has not been held like that in many years.”

     Nearly hopping with exuberance that made Gerald exhausted even to watch, the girl held the stuffed animal against her cheek and sang, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

     “You are very welcome, my dear.”

     After a moment, she flashed him a curious look and asked, “Could you maybe, tell me another story?”

     Gerald gave her a tired glance in return, feigning irresolution.

     “Please!” she pleaded, squeezing the bear in her arms. “They make me feel… strong.”

     The old man then conceded with a weary smile, saying, “Oh alright.” Then he began, “Once, long ago…”

     Tales of his life’s triumphs, and fantasies about warriors and pirates and mermaids filled her mind with wonder. He wove her a web of imagination that expanded beyond time and the universe, and before long she was sound asleep. He left, praying he would have the chance to tell her just one more story in the morning, and yet one more still. 

#

     Hours had come; hours had gone, the days and nights quick to follow. No more than a month had passed before her condition grew worse, no more than a dream away had she been in Gerald’s life. It was only then he had learned why he came to like the sweet, gregarious little girl. After a century of breathing, seeing three women that he so adored slip from his fingers, and carrying on with a life he no longer cherished, he found a friend who reminded him how to love again. This innocent little girl found death before a man whom has lived well beyond his years could even find happiness. Through his tales, he knew, she lived ages, and through her alacrity personality he rediscovered his own worth. So young she passed, never knowing her first kiss, never worrying of taxes, or stressing over traffic, or paying bills; wanting only to be a child, and to have a friend to play with. Though Gerald wasn’t much for playing games, he was however particularly fond of telling stories, and that seemed quite enough for her. She would oooh and awe, asking how and why, always intrigued, always listening. She feared sleep, and often begged Gerald to stay up past his hour to tell her the tales of a man who had a full life to live. He never quite understood why, until it was too late… always when it was too late.  

     One morning a knock came at his door. The medical-assistant walked in and announced, “Mr. Heidrich,” she let it hang, as scornful women often did when uttering a name that which they so very much despise. “You have a visitor.”

     She helped him out of his bed and after he had found his balance upon his walker he made for the door, allowing Mrs. Donohue to lead the way.

     A young lady in a red and black dress was waiting; her flowing blond hair held back in a bun, her heavy curls hanging at either side of her scalp like spiraling Christmas tree ornaments. In her hand she was carrying the gift he had given to Sidney: the rainbow bear.

     He nodded to Mrs. Donohue, and said, “Thank you, Nurse, Ash.” The ‘ly’ of her formal maiden name, ‘Ashley,’ lost to him by his nagging contempt. “Ill take it from here.”

     “Its Mrs. Donohue…” She snapped.

     “Don’t you have a few years of collage to complete somewhere?” he fired back.

     Groaning, she stomped off down the hall, muttering her disdain as always.

     Gerald gave his visitor a contrite glance. “I’m sorry about that. How can I help you?”

     “Are you Gerald Heidrich?” She inquired, her voice like smooth silk to his ears.

     “Yes, I am.”

     “I…” She stammered, her face turning flush. “I’m Denise Wright… Sidney’s mother.”

     “Oh, I am so very deeply sorry for your loss.” He said with dolor, wondering how white his face had just gone. “She was a friend.”

     “I know.” She was looking down at the bear now, trying to contain her sorrow; it was a look that he was quite familiar with himself. “She talked about you moments before her passing. She made me promise that I return this to you.” She held up the toy. “She kept saying that Macy wants you to have it… That Macy wants you to remember that she is still with you; that they all are.”

     If it hadn’t gone white before, he was surer than not as pale as a ghost in that moment. He swallowed hard, his quivering hands reaching to accept the stuffed-animal.

     “If you don’t mind me asking,” The woman said. “Who is Macy?”

     “M…my…” His words were caught in his throat. “My grand daughter. She passed years ago.”

     Wiping the tears from her own eyes she said, “Oh, I’m sorry.” She paused, thinking. “Sidney told us how she made a friend who had so many wonderful stories. Must have come from something you shared with her.”

     His own eyes welling, he shook his head and said, “No, I never told her about Macy.”

     A chill raced down Denise’s spine as she recalled her daughter’s very last words before drifting off into listlessness.

     The memory came back to her like a haunting dream before one was ever aware that they had fallen asleep.

What little strength the girl had to spare she stretched her finger out to touch her mother’s arm. Tears moistened her cheeks as she took her small, cold hand into the warmth of hers and asked, “What is it, darling?”

“Mommy…” Sidney breathed weakly, hot with fever. “Can I go play now? Macy wants to play.”

She leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, her sorrow dripping upon her daughters pink little nose. Forcing a smile she said, “Go on, Sidney. Go play.”

She imagined they were the hardest words a mother could ever say to a child. When the heart monitor screamed, and her hand went still, she knew it was true. Her mother moved in to rest her head upon her daughter’s quiet chest, crying. Her elbow knocked into the teddy bear at her side, sending it tumbling to the floor. When it had fallen, there came a faint sound on the languid air like the sigh of waves crashing on a somnolent shore. Denise perked her ears, and lifted her head. She swore she heard something over the flat-lining… something like children laughing in play. 

A snippet from Call of a Raven

Here is a small excerpt from my upcoming historic fiction/fantasy Goddess in Flames: Call of a Raven. #Otherworld
***
He pulled her close and explained, “Men are taught to loathe and fear their mother, for to submit to her is to admit her power over them; to accept their mortality—their weakness. So we blindly go about our lives denying her truth: as are we born of her power, so must we return to her in the end, when we die; when she drinks our blood, eats our flesh, and swallows our bones. Too few bear the heart to heed such wisdom, that we belong to her, and she bows to no one save for the sun and stars. That, my dear, is why it is the stars that show way to the birth of Jesus, the human incarnation of the Sun. For if the male deity can mount the world as a man than surely we in His image should rightfully inherit the Earth and therefore claim our power over her.” 

I am the winds of Change. I am driven by Oya.

Terminator (fanfiction)

Part 1

#fanfic
#Terminator
Inspired by characters created by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd

He was a soldier. He was a hero. He was a man racked with scars that told the truth of his upbringing: a child weaned on war, and a man grown before he could ever know even his first kiss; his first love. He was trembling, this man who went forth so gallantly to face an otherworldly foe to protect her. He never botched against the beast, for he was trained to know them, to destroy them. It was all he had ever known. But the gentle touch of a woman turned him once more into what he was before the world burned: a child.

 A photo was given to him long ago. The face of an angel, a prized possession of the only man he could have ever named father. A moment in time captured to forever remind him that there had been once a world before the machines; before the death. A fire stole it away. His angel purloined, cast to the flames. Despoiled, he watched as the mother of his puissant mentor, his savior, his God dissolved into oblivion as the photo retired to ashes. He lost her. He failed her. 

The sleight of a man-made demon dreamed an invention of their own design to penetrate the laws of time and rewrite history to its avail. It was a means to an end, but so too would it prove a vessel that would return Kyle to his angel. He traveled across time for her, for him... His seed, his son, his redemption. He writhed in her arms, as he sowed their fate. She raked at his back, but as her fingers found the burns that once seared his flesh her ecstasy turned to woe. She laid a kiss upon his scared lips, a tear drawing at her eye. He's only a child, she knew, but no: he was something more. He was a leal disciple to her unborn son, sent to intercede in this desperate scheme to dismantle the resistance at its source. He was given this mission, this duty long before he even knew. John knew, but he never told him this truth, for it was for him alone to discover. Having everything torn away from him at such a young age, he wanted only for the boy to find his destiny on his own. It was all a man has left once all is lost, their destiny, and john would not rob him of it. He isn't to know the truth until the time is right; the truth that he is His father. The boy grew up to love his own son as the father he never had, now the time had come for him to meet his bride. True star crossed lovers, they were: An orphan child, and a frightened woman, with the heart to bring down empires. She did not yet know her potential, perhaps it was only rousted in her after the warrior Kyle Reese shared himself with her. Perhaps his love ignited the fire in her soul. But there, staring into his forlorn eyes, she knew, she saw, a storm was coming, and only this love would be strong enough to weather it. 

A deafening blast sent her tumbling down a flight of steel stairs. She slammed hard into the grating, the wind left from her lungs upon impact. In a drunken daze stars danced before her, taunting her with her own frailty. She saw Kyle, his still eyes staring blankly at nothing. He was gone. The only man she had ever loved taken from her by a monster of inevitability. She would never forget that cold stare: blood streaming from his nostrils, jaw hanging lose, his lips parted ever so slightly, wanting only the taste of life, and love; a taste he would never have again. He sacrificed himself for her, but only to buy her the time to flee, for there was nothing in her world that could stop it. The silver creature crawled after her, cords hanging, metal spine dragging, hydraulic fluid spilling like blood. It would never stop. She crushed it in a press, it's sinister red eye faded to darkness, a sea of electricity poured from its wounds as it perished. but it would never stop. One of its fingers had punched a hole into her leg, forever leaving its mark on her. The scar would always remind her, it will never stop until she, and everything she loved was dead. 

Sarah Connor awoke the way she often had, in a cold sweat, and a shutter.  Sometimes it was a phantom gun that would jar her senses to consciousness; her trigger finger squeezing until her nail dug deep into her palm. Other times she was stirred by nightmares, recollecting the plight of a foreign liquid metal that drove it's way through flesh and bone at her shoulder when the t-1000 cornered her some years ago. She sat up in bed panting. She flexed her shoulders and the webbed scar on her back where the bite of his blades had caught her tightened. They still hurt her, those wounds, but none like the memory of Kyle to max her anguish. She often wondered if it was somehow all a dream. Dr. Silberman seemed to believe so, that was until one of those dreamed delusions came to liberate her from her prison, and take her to undue Skynet's fowl work once and for all. It will never stop, she reminded herself again. 

The motel was decrepit, lost somewhere on the edge of civilization and long forgotten by even the small population that inhabited this middle-of-nowhere Texas town. A ruin to squat in, as she saw it. Sarah sought to keep a mindful distance from all major cities. She was a fugitive on the run, and the dreadful day had at last arrived that would prove all of her fears a palpable reality. But she woke to silence. Looking over to the bed across from hers, she found her son, now eighteen, fallen face-down into a listless sleep. His snoring churned so peacefully. She grimaced. Sleep was their only true escape short of death. Walking to the bathroom she found her weary reflection in the mirror. Her hair was sere straw, tousled and defiant, stained with hoary strands at her temples. Sharp lines drew her visage with age and stress, and her green eyes were heavy with dark bags clinging to the rims of her lashes. She glowered, thinking of uncle Bob, an artificial father who had protected them merely because a program told him to do so. Love had never been apart of his knowing, but nevertheless they both shared their remorse at his fall. These days the average American loved their computers, and cars, and video games just the same. But uncle Bob was different; cold by nature, but cordial in spirit. No, wait... He had no spirit... He would never stop, he can never die. 

It was only a mirror's reflection. He was different because that was how the human in them chose to see him. They saw what they wanted. For he was a machine, a killing machine, reprogrammed to do all that was in his power so to accomplish his mission: to save John Connor. Everything else was a lie. In her heart she saw strength and determination, in her reflection however, she saw only a ruined machine, beaten and battered from years of straining to save humanity. Her son... Her beautiful son... He was the answer, he was all that mattered, and he was alive. And so was Man. She put her fist into the glass, shattering it, the shards slicing open her knuckles. Her tears came. She lost herself and collapsed to her knees, her blood pooling at the bend of her knee and drawing to the floor. She covered her mouth and smothered her cries so not to wake her son. It was August 29th 1997. Judgment Day was but a dream, and they were living in a parallel universe: trapped in a mirror where monsters were Fairytales, and scientists were gods. She was just a deranged psychopath that believed machines were coming to silence the race of Man. But she knew well the truth that no one would ever dare believe, not even her... Not anymore.

The Forbidden Rose: Chapter 1

Historic fiction/fantasy

by: Jarce ArtThor

Her green garbs were turned to ribbons of torn ruin as she made haste through the needles and thorns of The King’s Garden. She heaved her way between the thick rose bushes that which she had attended for many years in the name of her Lord’s house. The bite of the thorns drew blood at her exposed flesh, yet still she ran, panting with shrieks of fear breaking between breaths.

A civil conflict had begun as a result of the Thirty Years War, sweeping the Christian kingdoms into an age of inescapable turmoil. Princes were turning against their kings, and the smallfolk were vast taking to arms to defend their own against their feudal Lords. Women were torn from their homes and burned at the stake on hasty accusations of heresy, and witchcraft. Quixotic disciples following in the theology of John Calvin clashed with the Protestants on matters of faith and content; as did the Anabaptists; as did the Mother Church of Catholicism. So came a Holy War. Their internecine disputes turning into a global epidemic that threatened to destroy nations and tear at the fabric of civilization.

Falling victim to this war of religious reformation were the good people of Rouen. A mouth of madness found them as they fell, and their young king could do little to stop it. Delusion soon overcame his family, and even he himself—drawing suspicions upon the young gardener whom has served his house since he was but a child. Solus, she lived quite a solitary life. Beyond her work in the castle walls there was scarce a soul that knew her. The girl came from a polytheism understanding, quite different from that of her masters. She had long preferred the company of plants and animals to Men and their petty quarrels, and often fled to the ever-loving embrace of nature when given the chance. The trees were her Gods and her friends. However, her queer fancy with the magic of the Oaks had inspired whispers of slander on her name. Before long The House of King Bête set forth to condemn this strange girl from the Northern Aisles as a Witch, plotting to destroy them all.

As she evaded her pursuers she prayed to the Gods that her handsome Lord King would come to her rescue. Though Clíodhna was first brought to the castle as a slave at only the age of four, she had grown to cherish the Bête family, especially the young Prince called Adam. As children they played together, climbing trees, sharing tales, toys, and even a kiss; she would never forget that kiss. They were under an apple tree near the rose garden. A snake had appeared. It startled the poor girl, for she had never seen one before. There were no snakes where she came from, and it was a ghastly thing to behold with virgin eyes. But the audacious young lad caught it with gentle hands and showed her that there was nothing to fear.

Later he would sing a beautiful song to serenade her; a song she would remember always. And then, it happened—the kiss. His lips were warm and moist, tasting of honey, and sweet cool mint. Her Prince. Her perfect gallant prince: her one true love.

His duties to his kingdom would soon separate them after his mother had succumbed to illness. Though still she would not dare dream her love could ever betray her. Surely her great King would come to her aid.

The glow of the torches grew incandescent over the bushes, as the curses and vehement shouts of the heated rabble drew nearer. They were calling her, ‘Treacherous Fairy,’ and ‘Witch,’ dreadful names of all sorts. They, to whom she once served—once called family, they suddenly saw her as a spawn of this foreign beast hailed in their common tongue as Satan: A tricksy, cunning, malevolent monster, sore with a traitor’s ambition to reek havoc upon the race of men, as so she could best understand the tale. The ones that claim their work be done in the name of a Sun King known as Jesus, were often tricksy enough without. Thus planting her seeds of mistrust for their kind. But so like the plants that which she had long tended to over the years, those seeds have rooted, sprouted, and blossomed into a hatred that has targeted her awkward qualities as a sign of evil.

When she stumbled upon the garden maze she paused. Pallid with terror Clíodhna looked back to the campaniles and soaring towers of her home, and cried. Fear clutched at her heart as she took to the maze, running blindly through the quandary of twists and turns. The myriad of walled bushes brought her to countless dead-ends with smiling flowers to mock her and her search for refuge. Not long after, the mob had cornered her, yowling and pleading for mercy in the best she could manage of what little she knew of the common tongue. Her masters showed her no remorse as they pulled savagely at her long hair and supple limbs. After a number of harsh blows that near crippled her they carried her off to the stake.

Clíodhna was soon stripped of her garbs and fettered by heavy iron chains to the steadfast wooden stake, stretching high over the pyre. Many poured into the courtyard to witness the spectacle. How damaged a people truly are to take such joy in something so very harrowing and cruel. Her king mounted a great white Palfrey, his gorgeous blue eyes watching without mercy. His strong jaw set taut, he looked to his bishop and nodded. Then the prayer began as his knights set kindle to the pyre with long torches glowing furiously with hungry flame.

“Please…” Clíodhna cried out—it was the only word she knew for ‘mercy.’ “Please!” She said again to her king, her tears turning her eyes heavy with gloom. “Please!” she said again, and again, as the fire fed upon the mountain of wood at her feet.

Her king, her brave and handsome prince turned away, putting his back to her as he urged his horse to carry him off toward the keep.

She shuttered with woe. The chains around her naked body were growing hot, but she paid no mind. Blisters formed at the callouse of her feet, but she cared not. She was heartbroken, and that proved the greatest of agonies she had ever endured.

Dolor in her eyes she set a glower upon her king as she sang a song; the words of the common tongue never so clear from her lips as they came in the sad melody of that song.

“A king is made of the fields he would sow. A kingdom is born of the crops he would grow. But a people cannot be without the love he would show, and a king cannot love without a woman to know—A woman to hold, a woman to show the beauty of a love, the beauty of a rose. The beauty of a flower is the kingdom I would grow…”

The king paused, knowing the song well. His mother used to sing it to him, and he in turn had taught it to Clíodhna: the only girl he had ever truly loved. She was not highborn, however. His feelings toward her were forbidden. Now his own people saw her a threat, and to spare the life of a condemned woman was a threat to his crown. There was nothing more he could do. He held his head high and swallowed his woe. The taste was bitter, but so was law. He left the hounds to their prey, and so the fire climbed.

As the bishop carried on with the prayer Clíodhna sang a prayer of her own: it was a curse.

In her mother tongue, she breathed her imprecation, “May your house become of the walls. May they burn when your kingdom falls. May you bray with beastly jaws! May you suffer until you know a love that will love you not at all.”

She never did utter a scream even after the flames consumed every inch of her and swallowed her everything in burning light.

That night the king tossed and turned in his sleep. His head glistened with sweat, and the color was drained from his face. He dreamt that the walls of his castle had come alive. Wooden beams exploded from the rafters, and forming like monstrous talons they came down from above and grabbed his maids, cousins, and soldiers. Statues stepped down from marble pillars and took heads from necks. Blood showered upon the Great Hall as the slaughter continued, but the thirsty carpets drank away every last drop of it.

He awoke screaming for his servants, but none came. Pain racked his body as he searched his castle. It was deserted. He was alone. Fear took him as he ran about the dark halls in a panic. The candles were dry, the torches too. There was nothing.

Suddenly he dropped to his knees. Something was moving under his skin—something that felt like hate. He did not understand. His flesh ripped open and black tentacles poured out from his wounds like slithering worms. He roared in agony and rage. His teeth transformed into knifes, dripping with spittle. Then claws grew from his fingers, and with them he tore at his perfect face until it was no more.

#

     “Members of the high council,” A man greeted, his voice sonorous with reverb. The Town Hall was silent as he spoke. “Father Bähr of the Society of Jesus has asked to present a matter to your attention that he believes is of grave concern for the good Christian peoples of Rouen.” The young priest said, standing with the solid posture of a disciplined veteran.

     A German man near in his early forties then appeared by his side with sharp eyes and black hair. He was clean-shaven and had deep-set dark eyes. He carried with him a mass of paperwork that he so sought to share with the council, but at the call of his name they groaned with galling discontent. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the dais, yet he presented his case nevertheless.

     The newcomer thanked the young man for his introduction and then focused a solemn eye upon the men before him. He set his papers down on the flat surface of the bench for all to see. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows around him, setting a heavenly glow upon his stark cassock as he took the floor. He unrolled a hand-drawn map; an old castle that resided south of Rouen along the banks of the La Seine River, flanked with vegetation on all sides of the bailey.

     “Ladies and gentlemen of the City Council,” He began, taking a moment to scan the curious faces of his audience. Returning a heedful eye to the men at the dais he greeted with a curt bowl, “My Lord Councilmen.” They returned a nod, their pretentious powdered wigs clinging to their bald scalps in vain. And so he went on, “It has been one hundred years to the day since The House of Bête had fallen curiously dormant.” The groans came once more. “Here I have gathered a mound of testimonies from sailors and traveling merchants who claim of queer happenings near the La Seine River where the ruins of their castle remain unmanned.” He began sorting through the pages. “A stowaway taken prisoner for murder swore to his death the forest had come alive and slew his Lord’s crewmen.” He picked up another document. “A trader from Portsmouth claims to have heard a sickening cackle echoing from the castle—like children’s laughter…”

     “Enough!” Boomed a councilman seated at the center of the dais. “You have presented these concerns to us once before, Father Bähr. What is it that you wish of us?”

     “From you?” Bähr asked in return, a hint of frustration in his tone. “Nothing.”

The councilman was taken aback. “Then pray tell, my Lord Jesuit, why are we here?”

“I seek only your blessing,” he answered with austere delivery as always. “as I wish to employ an investigative team of my own choosing to search the castle for corruption.”

“And what sort of corruption is it that you so hope to find there.” The councilman inquired mockingly.

“I Hope,” he said with derision. “to find there nothing. However, were I to discover any of the corruption of the sort I fear may dwell within, I shall hope to chase this evil force back to whatever Hell it had spawned from.”

The councilmen took a moment to whisper mordant jests with one another. After a trade of suppressed whickers they turned their gaunt, wrinkled, stern faces back his way. Father Bähr went flush with anger, for he knew their answer long before they had even spoke it.

“Father Bähr, the people of France should forever remain in the debt of your Society of Jesus. Without your clever work the threat of Protestantism and Calvinism would still be at a rise in these parts…”

Offended the priest seethed, “I had very little to play in that role…”

“How-ever!” The head councilman interjected, steeling back the attention of the court. “Your queer ways and suspicions leave me with a doubt on your true intentions.”

“Harken these words, my Lord Councilman.” Bähr said, scowling. “There is a great evil at work in that castle. If it is to roam free you should all suffer the consequences.”

“Perhaps better to take our chances with a haunting, than to surrender a walled fortress to a foreign cult with militant intent.” The Councilman said, incredulous. And that was the end of it. The court adjourned.

“Thank you my Lords.” Bähr forced himself to say, as he hurriedly collected his documents to take his leave, fuming.

#

     “Ding, Dong!” A girl of seventeen called, snickering. “Ding, Dong! Ding, Dong! Where are you Bell?” She stalked the narrow alleys, searching—hunting. Her long blond hair was tied back in a bun, and her flowery blue gown fell down to her soiled ankles, tarnished and threadbare.

     The alleyways were always dreary and damp. The brick-walls climbed high, and the shadows hid them as they played and slept there. Not long ago they lived a life of royalty in a luxurious mansion, wearing nothing but the finest silks and linen. They were once rich—very rich. Their father was a merchant, living by way of trade through the La Seine River, and for many years his business flourished. A great tempest would soon put an end to it all. In one fell swoop—the gales destroyed all of his ships, leaving his enterprise undone and his wealth no more. They were soon forced from their home, taking refuge in the quiet alleyways of the city, where knowing neighbors donated to them what goods they could spare. But the summer days were growing hot, and the rainy nights were cold. With nowhere left to run they endured, as their father searched for what little work he could find: slaving as a scullion for the rich, and maintaining his employers’ livestock and horses.

     “Bellasandra?” Another girl, cried out. She was eighteen. “Where is that wretched girl?” She said frustrated. Her’s was a red gown with a bodice fastened tight around her chest and waist, baring her considerable cleavage noticeably at the drawstrings. She too had blond hair, as did her sister, only her’s was a strawberry-blond with a bounce to it that always caught the boys’ eyes—were that be true if they could ever escape the enchantment of her other blossoming lady parts.

     “Up here!” A jovial voice called down to them.

     The girls met at the center of the alley and looked up. There on top of the building that flanked the alley sat a girl no more than fifteen. She kicked her feet exultantly in her tattered yellow dress, the brown curls of her long thick hair swinging at her shoulders as she did so. She chuckled and teased, “Catch me if you can, whores!”

     The rosy blond scowled. “Get down from there, before you break your neck, you silly twit!”

     “Quite! We wouldn’t want the road to have all of the fun in that, now would we.” The yellow haired one added with chuckle.

     They both laughed together, it was a vigorous, yet scornfully distasteful sound that so sickened Bell. She then scooped a handful of muck from the gutter that which she sat on, and sent it tumbling down.

     Their laughter came to a sudden halt when the moist, brown filth splattered all over their hair and dress. They screamed in horror, and it was Bell’s turn to laugh.

     Mortified, the golden haired girl glared up at her and shouted, “Bell! How could you? This is my favorite dress!”

     The strawberry-blond then chimed in with a guttural rage bubbling in her voice, “I am going to KILL YOU!”

     She went for a drainpipe, the same Bell had used to scale the building, but her sister stopped her. “Ariana, are you mad?” She derided. “You cannot climb in that gown. Let us just wait for her to come down. Then we will have her.”

     Ariana then looked to Bell and taunted, “You hear what Grace said? Don’t you dare come down from there, or we will be sure to have our revenge!”

     “What’s the matter?” Bell teased. “Can’t you stand a little dirt? I have long fancied you to be quite fond of the stuff; it is after all what you’re made of.”

     Ariana snarled like an angry dog. “One more jest… Just one more, and ill climb up there and have your hide.”

     “Careful not to break a nail.” Bell fired back, sticking out her tongue like a tempered young urchin.

     Ariana then pushed Grace away and went for the pipe once again.

     “Girls!” A man hooted with joy. “My sweets! I have good news!” An old man came running into the alley from the busy street just as a horse and buggy went trotting on by behind him. “Come to me my dears!” He said breathlessly, slowing his pace as he entered into the shadows of the damp alley.

     Curious, his daughters gathered—all but for Bell who continued to watch from above, equally intrigued.

     “What is it, father?” Grace said, wiping the mud clear from her eyes.

     The old man winked at her, puzzled by the grime that covered her face. Then his kind eyes smiled once more. He was balding at the scalp, the hairs that remained thin and white, flanking his temples. His grey beard fell at his chin from a mass of stubble that now covered his jawline. Wrinkles stretched at all corners of his countenance as he grinned. He was quite old, but very much full of alacrity, and never so as he was in that moment.

     “I have just received a letter!” He announced, holding up the document in question. “One of my ships has returned, its inventory still intact. It would appear as though the great storm has spared us only one, and at last it has been salvaged and brought home to us!”

     Ariana—still dripping with muck—looked to her father with tremendous joy in her eyes. “Does this mean—?”

     “Yes, my dears.” He said smiling. “By God’s good mercy, some wealth has returned to us.”

     Ever exuberant his daughters cheered as they came rushing in to hug their father. Holding him in their embrace they bounced excitedly, singing gleeful praises as he tried to maintain his balance. All the while Bellasandra gave them a curious look, making her way down the drainpipe at last.

     “Alright, alright!” He laughed. “Let us not get too far ahead of ourselves. There is still much to do. First, I must make way to port to claim what is ours…” He stopped so suddenly, searching the alley. “Where is Bell?”

They stepped back to give him some space, and to set pouty grins upon him. Then, the whining began. First came the dolorous gripe of Grace who said, “The wicked thing! She has soiled my favorite dress. Just look at it! Ruined!” It was then followed by a querulous wine from Ariana, “All she does is climb and get herself into trouble. She squabbles with us day long, when all we wish is to make her a lady.”

“I shall have a talk with her then.” Their father said heedlessly. “In the meantime, however, where is she?”

“Here I am, Father!” A blithely voice cried out. He then saw her clambering down from the drainpipe. He answered her with a smile: quite relieved. She hurried toward them, meeting contemptuous glares from her sisters, to which she paid little mind. “I was only having some fine. I meant no harm.” She said.

Their father sighed, exhausted. “My darlings, we are family, and we must look after one another. I will have no more of this teasing and plotting ill schemes on your sisters, do I make myself clear.”

Bell lowered her eyes, furtive. “Yes father.”

Her sisters shared a gloating grin. He took note, and so onto them he warned, “That goes for all of you as well. Do not take me for a fool. I have seen the both of you teasing and scheming just the same. No more. Is that understood?”

Guilt-ridden, they too looked away as they answered in unison, “Yes, Father.”

Again he was smiling, opening his arms to invite them all in for a family hug. They happily obliged.

“Tonight, I say we collect our things and find ourselves a warm Inn to lodge.” Excited, the girls sung together with joy, attacking their father, Maurice Fidèle, with hugs and kisses.

Early the next morning he used what little coin he had left to reserve his daughters one more night at the cozy Inn, and to rent a horse and caravan. Before long he was off on a ponderous trail to make way for the harbor along the La Seine River. His daughter’s farewell wishes came with requests for lavish gifts such as jewels and dresses, but when he asked what Bellasandra would like upon his return, she asked only for the finest rose he could find. She knew well the tales of The Bête Castle, and often dreamed of the wild roses that were said to have claimed the great walls of the fortress. Bell wanted only to claim one; a rose from the legendary garden, believed to have been cursed by a wicked woodland fairy, or so the stories go. She was a silly creature, her father new, often rapt on queer fantasies and fairytales. But if it were a rose she so desired, a rose he would be sure to deliver. Nothing made old Maurice Fidèle happier than to see that joyous smile of hers, and he meant to see it again soon.

The smell of pine was sharp in the cool air as he progressed through the thicket of the forest. He’d traveled for hours before he came to the realization that he no longer knew the path he was on. The sun was setting and the darkness drew near when he sparked his lamp to search the map with panic in his eyes. Somewhere an owl hooted along with other strange sounds that seemed to be closing in all around as the sun’s light faded. Every sound startled both he and his horse, but he pressed on all the same. Though he wanted nothing more than to turn back and retreat the way he had come, he knew he couldn’t. The time to retrace his steps back home had long past, and now he needed to find shelter before the cold of the coming night should take him.

His breath turning to mist, he breathed commands to his craven steed and prayed he could hold out the night. It was just then he noticed a wall with battlement beyond the brushes on the horizon. The Bête Castle! he knew. Sparing not a second more to consider, he made haste for the abandoned fortress, though his horse seemed to fight against his reigns in protest.

Struggling to keep control of the troubled beast, he spat with frustration in his tone, “Calm yourself, you old nag! There is nothing to fear. It is but an empty castle.”

Still the horse whined and danced on confused hooves that wanted to go any which way but south where the castle resided. At his wit’s-end, he finally climbed down from the caravan and hitched the garron’s bridle to a strong tree along the trail. After feeding the horse an apple to calm his nerves, he collected his things and walked the rest of the way, alone in the dark. By the Lord in heaven he had stumbled upon this fortuitous discovery. And so he prayed that there he would find shelter, and that the haunting songs said of this place were nothing more.

He found the portcullis raised high, inviting him in. He thought it a curious thing, however, for he had been told all of his life how the gates slammed shut the night the castle had mysteriously fallen, never to be opened again by mortal hands. He drew a nervous breath as he continued forth through the opening at the centuries-old curtain wall. When he was far from the gate a leafy vine snaked up the wall and coiled around one of the bars. Like a heaving arm it pulled the portcullis down, slowly, and silently.

Mesmerized, he gazed up at the gaunt structure before him; a squared fortress with high watchtowers at either corner, crowned with battlement. Vines and tendrils climbed the spires as though the weeds had indeed taken it for their own. As his daughter had fancied there were brambles of roses everywhere. He never saw such a sight.

Maurice made his way inside, the heavy door screamed as he hurled it open, heaving with all of his strength. They arched high above, as though they had been built for Gods to enter. Inside, the Great Hall was dark and vacant, save for the spiders that seemed to have claimed every corner of the inner sanctum. Serpentine stairs spiraled on either side of the hall, where they met at The King’s Floor, drawing his eyes to a massive chandelier that hung at its center like stalactites of sparkling crystal; it was breathtaking.

He gaped at it a moment, but then a flash of curious light caught his eye. To his left he saw something pulsating in the darkness. Light fell like embers; like snow upon a flower that hovered weightlessly over an altar of a sort. The light stirred around it, as if incased by it: a black rose protected by magic.

Nonplussed, he could only stare; breathless; thoughtless. He went for it, but suddenly the giant door slammed, and a deep blackness fell all around him. He screamed in terror when he turned. Alone in the shadows he trembled.

A flash of steel came into the light of the rose, and a longsword suddenly pierced the marble floor, sending a thunderous roar through the hall. Maurice, so afraid, collapsed to his knees as if his legs had gone from him. He saw at the hilt of the blade not the hand of a man, but scaly flesh, and black claws—sharp as daggers. Then he saw eyes like that of a cat, glowing the color of blood and beaming. The shadows were merciful enough not to bear his sights anymore of this monster that stood before him, but there were queer sounds coming from all around it, hissing like snakes and bending air like whips.

Then came a voice from Hell that growled, “Who are you?”

“I… I-I-I…” he could not manage any other word, he was so very frightened. His smallclothes were suddenly wet with urine, but he could not find the mind to care—his wits gone with his legs.

The eyes grew brighter. “WHO ARE YOU?” The voice demanded once more.

Maurice then answered, “A mere merchant. I… I mean no harm.”

A flash of white showed in the light, it was a glimpse of razor-sharp teeth. Spittle flew as the beast said, “You dare entertain a thought to harm me?”

“N-n-n-no! I would never…” He said in a pleading voice. “I-I-I mean, I could never. Forgive me. I was only seeking shelter….”

The red eyes looked toward the black rose. “And…”

The house suddenly began to groan all around, and wispy sounds came on the wind like chattering voices that chanted in hushed tones, “Thief!” and “Intruder!”

Panicked, Maurice looked around him, searching for the accusers, but there was no one—only the house. The chandelier chimed above, as a queer wind blew through the hanging crystals.

The creature closed its eyes. Its hands disappeared from the hilt of the sword, as if to close them around his ears, tormented by the sound.

He heard it too, Maurice observed curiously.

Those red eyes were on him once again. “To steel from me?” he inquired.

This time he came back defiantly. “No! I am a good man.” He insisted.

For a moment he thought the beast withdrew from him a step, but then a great talon poured into the light, smashing into the floor with a thud that shook the earth. The beastly hand returned around the hilt of the sword and yanked it free from the veiny marble, as the voice returned, “Only a trial can prove that.”

Then the strange whispers answered, “Kill him! Burn him! Destroy him! Punish him!”

The castle trembled. Maurice was afraid again. The beast screamed in protest. A heavy thudding followed him as he charged for the old man with his longsword at hand.

“NO! PLEASE! NOOOOOO!” The old man’s voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, and the castle, and the forest, and the night. The sailors that worked along the La Seine River heard it as well, but they would never dare investigate… nobody ever went running, searching for ghosts. Not in these parts—not ever.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Inspired by

Beauty and the Beast

by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont