Disclaimer: I do not own anything Disney.
Hazy Day
The sun beat down harshly on the little village. It was the height of summer, and though it might have been a more pleasant day otherwise, the humidity and lack of wind kept the atmosphere still and uncomfortable. It hadn't rained for some time, and the local farmers were eager for the impending storm to revive the slight wilt that was beginning to plague their crops. The children of the town were also anticipating the weather; heavy rain meant that the hard and cracked dirt would quickly turn to mud—an essential ingredient for the preparation of mud pies—as well as provide deep puddles to splash about in, in those precious seconds before mothers were able to reach their sons and daughters, pulling them inside from the messy outdoors. But, at least one nearby resident of township was not happy about the climate.
Belle had taken note of the darkening horizon when she first stepped outside after the completion of her household chores that did not involve leaving the house. But, she had not thought of the effect the storm would have on areas it had not yet touched. She only knew that rain would be bound to show up some time that day.
After feeding the animals, Belle wandered back to the front of the house, not keen to remain near the muggy heat surrounding the animals, with whom she would have been glad to spend more time with on a more agreeable afternoon. Finding herself both unoccupied and suddenly bored, the girl lowered her head in thought as she explored her selections for entertainment. She could stray down to the cellar, where her father was busy tinkering with one of his various inventions. She always liked watching him work on his inventions. They would have interesting conversations together, and occasionally her father would allow her to help him with one of the machines, (one that he was confident would not malfunction causing harm to his daughter). She was so proud to have a father as ingenious and enthusiastic about his hobby-turned-work as her father was. She was probably most proud when one of his inventions that he might have had a particularly difficult time with actually worked, and in the first few moments where they would both stare open-mouthed, her lips would part, revealing a set of lustrous teeth. With jumps for joy reminiscent of her increased heart rate, she would congratulate her father with a hug, and proceed to continue her victory bouncing, which she felt was her prerogative to do, especially if she had turned tight a screw or two. As she pondered this option, she could hear a metallic clanking that abruptly grew in volume and regularity, along with a string of indecipherable grumbles. Her papa firmly believed that if an appliance didn't work properly, a good pounding was the prerequisite to actual "repair".
She would have joined her father down in the cellar had the heat not once again driven her from a pastime she usually enjoyed. The cellar did not have good circulation.
It was only when she spotted the "Bent Tree" as she called it, that she made a decision. It was not really a "bent" tree, but the tree right by the stone porch had a slanted appearance that the six-year old could only describe as "bent". When she had first come to the house, a curious girl accustomed to the straight and well-maintained trees that lined the streets of her urban environs, she fidgeted excitedly when she first laid eyes on the tree, seeing the opportunity for a rugged climb. She had only understood trees to be for shade before, things for the wealthy to use to hide from the sun. What else could be done with the thin, vertical plants? It had taken time and more than a few raw palms for her to get the hang of climbing, but her efforts were rewarded with a skill that could be applied to more than just the misnamed "bent" tree. Belle considered herself an expert climber.
Racing up the steps, two at a time, the girl had hardly reached the landing before she had both shoes off and hiked up her light cotton dress, revealing her white underskirt in an unladylike manner, to better climb the short wall of the terrace. Though it was far easier to climb the tree from the actual base, which was quite accessible from the bottom of the wall, Belle relished the excitement of jumping off the wall to a nearby branch, which held her weight with little swing.
Belle pulled a ribbon from an inconspicuous pocket in back of her dress, and with a practiced hand, drew her auburn hair back into a low ponytail. Eyes on target, she then took a hasty breath, swung her arms forward and leapt from the wall, landing with poise on the branch. Keeping her balance by holding firmly onto the branch directly above, she walked one cautious foot in front of the other along the gnarled branch, grabbing onto other supports until she reached the desired destination, where she sat down, and steadied herself. With her legs stretched out before her, she used her bare feet to maintain her seat without the use of her hands, which were unavailable while smoothing the tangled ends of her ponytail.
Normally, she would have had a braid stretching down her nape, but after the death of her mother two years ago, Belle had no one to arrange her hair in such a fashion. She had learned to utilize the blue ribbon, soft from years of use, to pull her hair back for both practical and sentimental uses. She preferred having her hair out of her face more because her mother always had always worn her hair back, as opposed to the realistic benefits of being able to see without a veil of hair in front of her eyes.
Belle had taken her mother's death fairly well, and though she experienced typical depression at the loss of a parent, it neither lasted exceedingly long, nor diminished her spirit through grieving. Privately, her father had perceived that although Belle knew her mother was gone, she seemed expectant to see her again, which Maurice attributed to the tête-à-tête he had with Belle, about her mother going to heaven. Perhaps, that was also why Belle was such a well-behaved child. He was glad that Belle seemed comforted with that knowledge, that she would see her dear mother again. This had been especially valuable when they first moved to their current residence, after some financial difficulties had required them to leave their splendid house in the city.
Belle closed her eyes, thankful for the shade the tree's foliage provided, both as relief from the sun's heat, and it's harmful rays. She had always had pale skin, and found that if she stayed in direct sunlight too long, she would inevitably burn, and then have to deal with the painful repercussions for at least a day after, with skin no browner, but certainly crimson.
As she rested, she thought of the book that she and her father had recently begun.
Every night, after Belle had readied herself for bed, her father would sit in the wooden chair by the fireplace, and read aloud a chapter from the latest novel they had picked out together. Nestled in his lap, with her head laid gently on his chest, she would examine the pictures, if there were any, or follow along as best she could when she recognized words on the page. In their current story, she had asked her father to show her which word was the name of the land in which the protagonist found himself. Now, if she got lost in the sentences, she would wait for "Lilliput". It was simple to identify.
The tiny Lilliputians made her think of the village. She found that she didn't like the villagers much. Or their children. She had had difficulty making friends. In school, she soon realized that she alone seemed to have a penchant for learning subjects that did not have to do with rural life. Not that she wasn't interested in those areas as well; it was just that most of the children's lives revolved solely around a trade, or in many girls' case, housewifery and gossip. At first, Belle had enjoyed listening to the other girls' talk of sewing, and finding good husbands, but when the conversation never seem to lead anywhere else, she grew uninterested. When she first voiced this revelation, the girls had said it was because she read too much, and that she should probably resign herself to becoming an old maid, since she had no mother to properly teach her anything a woman should know.
Belle resigned herself to just sitting alone at recess, and being content with that.
She tried to tell herself that she was perfectly happy; she didn't need gossipy friends, whose only goal in life was to marry well. Why, she had her adventures that she got from her stories—companions that were heroes passionate and valiant, maidens beautiful and benevolent, and magicians powerful and mysterious! But, of course, these friends were in reality, imaginary and invisible. And the only true companion she had was her papa, not that she could ever be unhappy with him. But even he couldn't completely rid her feeling of loneliness.
A deafening crack of thunder jolted Belle from her contemplation, as well as her seat.
So suddenly startled, she had released her grip on the branch and lost her balance. With a gasp, she plummeted to the ground.
In the little time she had to react, she managed to get her feet under her body, and land heavily on her right heel. Then with a thud, fell back on her derriere. She was in a perfectly pitiful position when the rain came plunging out of the sky. She let tears fall for her injured foot, and soon rainwater had soaked through the little girl's dress. Mud spattered on her from the torrential drops, flecking brown on blue fabric. Whimpering, she pushed herself, and began to hobble through the mud. After slowly climbing the stone steps, she reached for her shoes to bring them in from the rain. Glancing towards the cellar, she saw that the door was closed. The smell of a cooked meal was another signal that her father was already inside.
The door opened just as she laid her hand on the handle.
"Belle, what are you still doing out there? You're soaking wet!" Maurice exclaimed, ushering her in.
At seeing her distress, he became concerned.
"Belle, what's wrong?" he asked, already fetching a blanket to warm her.
As he wrapped the blanket around her, he listened to her recount her fall, rubbing her back to soothe her as she hiccupped through. He then sat her down in a chair and checked to see that her foot was not seriously hurt. Concluding that it was only bruised, he helped her upstairs to get her into dry clothing. She opted to change into her nightgown, since it was practically night.
When Belle seemed composed, they sat down to dinner, but each time the thunder sounded, she would drop her fork with a clatter, and slap her hands to her ears. When she stopped picking the fork back up, keeping her hands glued to her ears, Maurice determined that she had had enough, and took her plate away. When he returned from the kitchen, she was huddled in his wooden chair, ears still covered, and eyes staring unblinkingly at the window, waiting for lightning to signal the pending thunder.
With a grin, Maurice walked to the shelf that held their small, but rich library. Belle's eyes sparkled, and she jumped out of the chair as he approached. He sat down and waited for her to climb up. Belle furrowed her brow as she realized that she would need to use her hands to reach her place. With a peek at the window, she unclamped her ears and dashed, plugging her ears again as soon as she was safe in Maurice's lap.
Her father smiled as he opened the book and began to read from the point where they had left off. Belle occasionally buried her face in his shirt whenever there was a particularly bright flash, but as the storm began to pass, she timidly let her hands down.
Maurice laid the sleeping girl tenderly in her bed, and began to tuck her in, as she rolled on her side. Her eyelids flitted half-open as he smoothed the top of the blanket over her shoulder. Her small hand poked out from under the blanket and reached for his own hand. He lovingly rested it back on the mattress, and kissed her forehead, his mustache brushing her skin.
"Goodnight Papa." she muttered sleepily.
"Goodnight Belle." he replied, blowing out her bedside candle, then walking quietly out the door.