Sunday, April 5, 2015

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