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
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