Transformation: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast
Author's Note: I haven't touched this story for so long because of my evil school. Now, it's winter vacation and since I'm so happy and relieved, I decided to work on this. I've always loved Beauty and the Beast . . . I could go on for hours about why I love the fairytale, but I better not take up more of your time. Please read and review!!! And enjoy!
Chapter Four: The Rose's Price
The merchant slid off Old Ro, his stiffened arms flailing, with a thump as he landed in a heap in the winter snow. The rose that he had held in his grasp flew out of his blue fingers and landed at Beauty's feet. She stared at it, fascinated. It was blood red, no, redder than blood, darker than blood . . . She came to her senses, still somewhat enraptured by the rose's spell. "Allegra! Aisling! It's father!" she cried. Her two sisters flew out the door, their cheeks pulsing with the red of excitement and fever.
"Father!" gasped Allegra. They hurried into the light hail of snow to their father's aid. "Beauty!" Allegra called, "What are you staring at? Come and help us!"
Beauty could not stop gazing at the rose. Blood roses. She had dreamed of them before. One last call of her name shook her out of her trance, and she rushed to help her sisters. The rose lay forgotten in the snow, but only for a moment. As they dragged their cold-ridden father out of his demise, Beauty reached down, scooped up the precious rose, cradled it in her arm, and walked into the warmth of their house.
***
They thought he would die. He lay on his bed, blistering from the immense cold. He could not stop shivering, even though they put him in the warmest clothes, and tried to rub feeling back into his hands. After a while, the merchant regained color in his cheek and hands, only to zonk out into sleep. They still thought he would die, seeing as he slept like the dead - no snores, no heavy breathing - just suspiciously peaceful sleep.
It was a miracle when he woke up the next week. They hurried to his side, inquiring about his health, but all he could do was ask about the rose. "Do you have the rose?" Beauty nodded. "Do you like it?" She nodded once more. With her last nod, the merchant seemed to ease up, even attempted to smile. Then, it faded as weariness overtook his gaunt face. "What you asked of me was great, but what he asks in return is even greater." Beauty looked at Aisling and Allegra; they each shared the same troubled look.
"Father, maybe you should rest some more," Beauty began, but the old man cut her off.
"I've had enough of resting. I have been asleep, foolish, and I'm prepared to pay my due." He looked at each of them, who exchanged worried glances once more. "How long have I slept?"
"One week," answered Aisling.
Their father uttered a little choked cry. "One week?" Then, he muttered, more to himself than to his daughters, "I have but two days . . ."
"Father," said Allegra, "has your illness addled your brain? What is happening? Why do you have two days? Why are you prepared to pay your due? And what," she looked pointedly at Beauty, "does Beauty's rose have to do with this?"
"Ah my angels," he croaked sadly, "if only you knew my tale. If only you knew." They begged for his tale, cajoled it out of him, and in the end, he took a deep breath and began to speak.
* * *
The city had changed much since they had left it. The hopes that he had carried were cruelly dashed when he approached the waterfront to inquire about the letter and his ships. The wares that his ships carried were ruined from a tempest-tossed life at sea; a quarter of the crew had died in the storms that had beset the poor ships and half of the crew had either been killed or taken prisoner by rampaging pirates. He was turned away by people who were once his friends. They denied him shelter, recognition, friendship . . . He was all alone in a strange city plagued with superficiality. Once he had been wealthy, a part of the elite class. But now, when the aristocracy looked at him, him in his tattered breeches, matted gray hair, and dirty fingernails, they snubbed him. All they cared about was status and rank. They were devoid of feelings; their masks had become their real faces long ago, and it was too hard to welcome an old friend into their circle - too hard to regain the kindness that made them humans.
Dejected and alone, the merchant began the long journey home, atop of Old Ro, carrying a small chest of money that selling the wares had made. Fortune did not smile upon him for that night as he journeyed into the woods; a band of brigands attacked him, swiping the small chest after knocking him down from his horse. Grief-stricken, he found that he had lost his way anyhow. There was nothing to do but get back on his horse and try to find shelter. He wandered for a long time without any luck. To add onto his misfortune, a storm that had been brewing for some time decided to pelt the forsaken earth. He was soaked and cold; his thread-bare coat could not keep him alive for long. The despair he felt made him want to die, but then, he thought of his daughters: laughing Allegra, dreamy Aisling, and Beauty. The thought of his daughters gave him strength, and spurred him on. When he died, he would die of old age in a warm bed, surrounded by fat grandchildren - not here, not all alone in hollow woods. An hour later, it seemed that Fortune had pitied him and decided to supply shelter. Before him was an enormous dark castle that rose out of the ground like a raging hellbeast. It's turrets seemed to be horns, and its dark windows seemed like gaping eyes and mouths, and as the wind howled harshly into his ear, he could hear the enraged cry of a hellbeast castle.
Just as suddenly as his imagination overtook him, his logic side sprang forth and calmed his worst fears. It was but a castle, all right, granted it looked ominous, but it was shelter. Shelter - where it was dry and warm, alit with hot fires . . .
The thought of a hot fire sank into his mind, and suddenly he was determined to enter the castle. He tied Old Ro to the iron gate, right under a large leafy tree. He started to open the gate, but then looked back at the horse in sympathy; she pawed at the muddy ground and whinnied in fear.
"It's alright, old girl," he murmured. "That makes two of us. You'll be quite safe here, that tree will ward off the rain." Then he turned back around, squared his shoulders, pushed the iron gate open, and shuffled up the long winding path.
***
At this, the merchant stopped. He glanced at his daughters' apprehensive faces and sighed. "This tale does not end well, and as it is, I do not know how it ends - that is beyond my reach. But, oh, the castle was marvelous . . ."
***
The castle may have been foreboding on the exterior, but when the merchant prodded the great wooden doors open, he saw wonders that he had never seen before. Vases, portraits, rugs, murals, paintings - more extravagant, and surely more costly, than anything he owned - more so than a mere castle to hold. This castle must belong to a great lord, but where was his host?
But the thought left his mind when he came upon the garden through one of the many doors of the great hall. It seemed the sky had changed its mood and now shone clear navy blue. The storm had ceased, and he cautiously picked his way around the flowers, so he would not trample their radiant beauty. They displayed an array of colors, so brilliant they near blinded him. But none so entranced him as the single stalk that grew among purple bluebells. It was red, redder than red, like the deep red of blood that joined him to his daughters, no, like the red of . . .
He stooped and carefully nipped the rose near the dirt, and as soon as the rose came free in his hand, he heard a closing roar like thunder above his head, and the earth shook unstably. He stumbled to regain his balance, and the rose fell . . . at someone's feet. No, at the paws of a cat, but at ten times the size of a normal one. Sharp claws glistened as they retracted out of the paws. The merchant closed his eyes in fear, then raised his head to stare at the enormous presence of his host.
His eyes never lifted high enough to stare his host in the eyes. They stopped at the chin; he saw the coarse brown fur of an animal, though strangely, the beast was dressed in the garb of a human . . .
The monster was roaring, and the merchant sealed his ears, shaking in his undisguisable fear. He could not remember much; he was so bewildered at the presence of a monster, a beast who spoke with the words of a human, who dressed like a human, yet who was so uncivilized that he could not possibly be human.
He nodded dumbly when the Beast named his price, but then realized what he had just agreed to.
"Never," he cried, coming alive again. His ears, his tongue, and brain loosened themselves and were now actively working. "I would not - I would never part with my daughter. True, I took the rose for her, but it is my sin. Spare her, this is not her doing."
"I won't kill her," the Beast snarled contemptuously. "But unless she comes here in nine days, I will come for you, and you won't receive any mercy from me. Begone, old man!"
The merchant gladly started to scramble away, when the Beast's hideous voice called him back. "Will you forget the rose, old man? Take it and remember its price. Nine days!" The Beast had gone, but his gloating voice stung the merchant's ears. He clutched the blood rose so hard that a nonexistent thorn tore a gash in his palm, squeezing small droplets of blood, but he was so aghast by his newfound situation that he took no heed of his wounded hand. He stood there for minutes, and then, aware that precious time was ticking fast away, he ran through the wooden garden gate, out of the castle, ran down the gravel path, and to the front iron gate. As he hurriedly untied Old Ro, he glanced back at the castle shrouded by dark ominous clouds. It was not a hellbeast castle, but a castle that contained one.
He jumped on Old Ro, and she ran, as if to keep the farthest distance away from the castle as possible. It was almost as if the Beast had enchanted them so that with each step Old Ro took, she covered the distance of twenty steps. He rode on through flailing branches and stout hedges, though fatigue threatened to overtake him; Old Ro did not stop until she had arrived at their little house, where the merchant collapsed from exhaustion, and the blood rose tumbled and landed at Beauty's feet.
***
Hours after her father finished telling his tale, Beauty fell asleep by the fire and dreamed. Images blurred in her mind, but still the blood rose remained clear throughout the dream. Voices mingled: Carol's plump face floated into view: "You were such a beautiful baby, so golden. Your mother, blessed woman she was, had a strange fit when she looked at your eyes. Still so perplexing each time I think about it. She yelled about some nonsense about a beast and a spell . . .", this time her father's voice resounded, "What you asked of me was great, but what he asks of me is greater . . ." - all this mingled with the sweet voices of Allegra and Aisling, and yet when she woke up, shivering in the dark, the voices and images were gone, save for the single blood rose. The fire had died out, and she got up to kindle the flames. Aisling had put the rose in a glass vase, and Beauty turned around after lighting the fire, only to be caught in the rose's spell once more. She stared at it, unseeing of everything else, and when morning came, Allegra found her there, still staring at the beautiful but ill flower, the cause of so much trouble.
"You're going?" asked Allegra gently. Beauty didn't answer; she just nodded courageously. Of all the girls, she was the most sensible, and yet here came a time when all sensibility was erased - a beast who spoke the words of a man, a castle enchanted, and a rose, a blood rose whose petals refused to fall. Words failed her, and her nod stopped midway. She had always disliked crying, but there was nothing left for her to do but cry. She sobbed on Allegra's shoulder, crying as she had never cried, murmuring her fears - of the Beast, of her unusual naming, of her leaving.
***
It had always been the three of them: Beauty, Allegra, and Aisling. They shared the same womb; they were bonded by blood, and now, she was leaving. Her two sisters did not fuss, but accept her coming departure quietly; inside, she knew there was no doubt that they all felt the same foreboding at heart. The merchant was another story. He made a big fuss when Beauty announced her decision, but he could not override her will.
"I always said you were more stubborn than Old Ro," he said, giving up. "Oh, my Beauty, there is no need to be courageous or heroic. This is a monster, a true beast - it is my mess - I'm the one who picked the rose, there is no need for you to go. I will go in your stead. I have had a long life - what is a few more years of living worth to me?
"You picked the rose, Father," Beauty began, "but I asked for it. If I had not asked, you would not have picked, and this whole thing wouldn't have started. The fault rests with me. If you do not allow me to go, I will go all the same, but I'd rather leave with your blessing and love, than without it."
She saddled up Old Ro when Aisling burst out of the door, crying. "Beauty, little sister. I can't give you much, but like Allegra, I can give you my namesake. I give you dreams to comfort you, to allow your mind to expand. Dreams and hope - hope that you will return to us safely. That way, you'll have a part of me inside you." She kissed Beauty's cheek, and stood there next to their father, looking tearful but resigned.
Allegra came out of the house, clutching a small heart pillow. "Aisling and I made it," she told Beauty. "We filled it with dried lavender petals, and sprinkled some rose perfume on it. It will soothe you in your time of deepest need. We hope you will think of us, often. I know I have given you my namesake already - laughter, happiness, joy - but you have never needed it. You have always had us under your skin, just like I have you and Aisling under mine. No matter what becomes of you, you'll always be here with us, at home."
Beauty was close to crying. There was nothing like leaving home that made the tears start to run. "I'm not going to my death, you know," she said, trying to smile. No one answered her. They stared at her solemnly and tearfully. She knew that all of them silently responded to her statement. She knew that she had spoken their deepest fear aloud, for it was her fear too, and hadn't Allegra said that they knew each other's thoughts?
Afraid that she would weep and be unable to fulfill her duty, she swung onto Old Ro, who broke into a canter, bringing Beauty farther away from their little house, farther away from Allegra, Aisling, and their father, farther into the uncertainty that lay before her. She could hear Aisling sobbing, and then she could hear no more; she and Old Ro were into the woods and her past was behind her, shrouded by the thicket.
Author's Note: I haven't touched this story for so long because of my evil school. Now, it's winter vacation and since I'm so happy and relieved, I decided to work on this. I've always loved Beauty and the Beast . . . I could go on for hours about why I love the fairytale, but I better not take up more of your time. Please read and review!!! And enjoy!
Chapter Four: The Rose's Price
The merchant slid off Old Ro, his stiffened arms flailing, with a thump as he landed in a heap in the winter snow. The rose that he had held in his grasp flew out of his blue fingers and landed at Beauty's feet. She stared at it, fascinated. It was blood red, no, redder than blood, darker than blood . . . She came to her senses, still somewhat enraptured by the rose's spell. "Allegra! Aisling! It's father!" she cried. Her two sisters flew out the door, their cheeks pulsing with the red of excitement and fever.
"Father!" gasped Allegra. They hurried into the light hail of snow to their father's aid. "Beauty!" Allegra called, "What are you staring at? Come and help us!"
Beauty could not stop gazing at the rose. Blood roses. She had dreamed of them before. One last call of her name shook her out of her trance, and she rushed to help her sisters. The rose lay forgotten in the snow, but only for a moment. As they dragged their cold-ridden father out of his demise, Beauty reached down, scooped up the precious rose, cradled it in her arm, and walked into the warmth of their house.
***
They thought he would die. He lay on his bed, blistering from the immense cold. He could not stop shivering, even though they put him in the warmest clothes, and tried to rub feeling back into his hands. After a while, the merchant regained color in his cheek and hands, only to zonk out into sleep. They still thought he would die, seeing as he slept like the dead - no snores, no heavy breathing - just suspiciously peaceful sleep.
It was a miracle when he woke up the next week. They hurried to his side, inquiring about his health, but all he could do was ask about the rose. "Do you have the rose?" Beauty nodded. "Do you like it?" She nodded once more. With her last nod, the merchant seemed to ease up, even attempted to smile. Then, it faded as weariness overtook his gaunt face. "What you asked of me was great, but what he asks in return is even greater." Beauty looked at Aisling and Allegra; they each shared the same troubled look.
"Father, maybe you should rest some more," Beauty began, but the old man cut her off.
"I've had enough of resting. I have been asleep, foolish, and I'm prepared to pay my due." He looked at each of them, who exchanged worried glances once more. "How long have I slept?"
"One week," answered Aisling.
Their father uttered a little choked cry. "One week?" Then, he muttered, more to himself than to his daughters, "I have but two days . . ."
"Father," said Allegra, "has your illness addled your brain? What is happening? Why do you have two days? Why are you prepared to pay your due? And what," she looked pointedly at Beauty, "does Beauty's rose have to do with this?"
"Ah my angels," he croaked sadly, "if only you knew my tale. If only you knew." They begged for his tale, cajoled it out of him, and in the end, he took a deep breath and began to speak.
* * *
The city had changed much since they had left it. The hopes that he had carried were cruelly dashed when he approached the waterfront to inquire about the letter and his ships. The wares that his ships carried were ruined from a tempest-tossed life at sea; a quarter of the crew had died in the storms that had beset the poor ships and half of the crew had either been killed or taken prisoner by rampaging pirates. He was turned away by people who were once his friends. They denied him shelter, recognition, friendship . . . He was all alone in a strange city plagued with superficiality. Once he had been wealthy, a part of the elite class. But now, when the aristocracy looked at him, him in his tattered breeches, matted gray hair, and dirty fingernails, they snubbed him. All they cared about was status and rank. They were devoid of feelings; their masks had become their real faces long ago, and it was too hard to welcome an old friend into their circle - too hard to regain the kindness that made them humans.
Dejected and alone, the merchant began the long journey home, atop of Old Ro, carrying a small chest of money that selling the wares had made. Fortune did not smile upon him for that night as he journeyed into the woods; a band of brigands attacked him, swiping the small chest after knocking him down from his horse. Grief-stricken, he found that he had lost his way anyhow. There was nothing to do but get back on his horse and try to find shelter. He wandered for a long time without any luck. To add onto his misfortune, a storm that had been brewing for some time decided to pelt the forsaken earth. He was soaked and cold; his thread-bare coat could not keep him alive for long. The despair he felt made him want to die, but then, he thought of his daughters: laughing Allegra, dreamy Aisling, and Beauty. The thought of his daughters gave him strength, and spurred him on. When he died, he would die of old age in a warm bed, surrounded by fat grandchildren - not here, not all alone in hollow woods. An hour later, it seemed that Fortune had pitied him and decided to supply shelter. Before him was an enormous dark castle that rose out of the ground like a raging hellbeast. It's turrets seemed to be horns, and its dark windows seemed like gaping eyes and mouths, and as the wind howled harshly into his ear, he could hear the enraged cry of a hellbeast castle.
Just as suddenly as his imagination overtook him, his logic side sprang forth and calmed his worst fears. It was but a castle, all right, granted it looked ominous, but it was shelter. Shelter - where it was dry and warm, alit with hot fires . . .
The thought of a hot fire sank into his mind, and suddenly he was determined to enter the castle. He tied Old Ro to the iron gate, right under a large leafy tree. He started to open the gate, but then looked back at the horse in sympathy; she pawed at the muddy ground and whinnied in fear.
"It's alright, old girl," he murmured. "That makes two of us. You'll be quite safe here, that tree will ward off the rain." Then he turned back around, squared his shoulders, pushed the iron gate open, and shuffled up the long winding path.
***
At this, the merchant stopped. He glanced at his daughters' apprehensive faces and sighed. "This tale does not end well, and as it is, I do not know how it ends - that is beyond my reach. But, oh, the castle was marvelous . . ."
***
The castle may have been foreboding on the exterior, but when the merchant prodded the great wooden doors open, he saw wonders that he had never seen before. Vases, portraits, rugs, murals, paintings - more extravagant, and surely more costly, than anything he owned - more so than a mere castle to hold. This castle must belong to a great lord, but where was his host?
But the thought left his mind when he came upon the garden through one of the many doors of the great hall. It seemed the sky had changed its mood and now shone clear navy blue. The storm had ceased, and he cautiously picked his way around the flowers, so he would not trample their radiant beauty. They displayed an array of colors, so brilliant they near blinded him. But none so entranced him as the single stalk that grew among purple bluebells. It was red, redder than red, like the deep red of blood that joined him to his daughters, no, like the red of . . .
He stooped and carefully nipped the rose near the dirt, and as soon as the rose came free in his hand, he heard a closing roar like thunder above his head, and the earth shook unstably. He stumbled to regain his balance, and the rose fell . . . at someone's feet. No, at the paws of a cat, but at ten times the size of a normal one. Sharp claws glistened as they retracted out of the paws. The merchant closed his eyes in fear, then raised his head to stare at the enormous presence of his host.
His eyes never lifted high enough to stare his host in the eyes. They stopped at the chin; he saw the coarse brown fur of an animal, though strangely, the beast was dressed in the garb of a human . . .
The monster was roaring, and the merchant sealed his ears, shaking in his undisguisable fear. He could not remember much; he was so bewildered at the presence of a monster, a beast who spoke with the words of a human, who dressed like a human, yet who was so uncivilized that he could not possibly be human.
He nodded dumbly when the Beast named his price, but then realized what he had just agreed to.
"Never," he cried, coming alive again. His ears, his tongue, and brain loosened themselves and were now actively working. "I would not - I would never part with my daughter. True, I took the rose for her, but it is my sin. Spare her, this is not her doing."
"I won't kill her," the Beast snarled contemptuously. "But unless she comes here in nine days, I will come for you, and you won't receive any mercy from me. Begone, old man!"
The merchant gladly started to scramble away, when the Beast's hideous voice called him back. "Will you forget the rose, old man? Take it and remember its price. Nine days!" The Beast had gone, but his gloating voice stung the merchant's ears. He clutched the blood rose so hard that a nonexistent thorn tore a gash in his palm, squeezing small droplets of blood, but he was so aghast by his newfound situation that he took no heed of his wounded hand. He stood there for minutes, and then, aware that precious time was ticking fast away, he ran through the wooden garden gate, out of the castle, ran down the gravel path, and to the front iron gate. As he hurriedly untied Old Ro, he glanced back at the castle shrouded by dark ominous clouds. It was not a hellbeast castle, but a castle that contained one.
He jumped on Old Ro, and she ran, as if to keep the farthest distance away from the castle as possible. It was almost as if the Beast had enchanted them so that with each step Old Ro took, she covered the distance of twenty steps. He rode on through flailing branches and stout hedges, though fatigue threatened to overtake him; Old Ro did not stop until she had arrived at their little house, where the merchant collapsed from exhaustion, and the blood rose tumbled and landed at Beauty's feet.
***
Hours after her father finished telling his tale, Beauty fell asleep by the fire and dreamed. Images blurred in her mind, but still the blood rose remained clear throughout the dream. Voices mingled: Carol's plump face floated into view: "You were such a beautiful baby, so golden. Your mother, blessed woman she was, had a strange fit when she looked at your eyes. Still so perplexing each time I think about it. She yelled about some nonsense about a beast and a spell . . .", this time her father's voice resounded, "What you asked of me was great, but what he asks of me is greater . . ." - all this mingled with the sweet voices of Allegra and Aisling, and yet when she woke up, shivering in the dark, the voices and images were gone, save for the single blood rose. The fire had died out, and she got up to kindle the flames. Aisling had put the rose in a glass vase, and Beauty turned around after lighting the fire, only to be caught in the rose's spell once more. She stared at it, unseeing of everything else, and when morning came, Allegra found her there, still staring at the beautiful but ill flower, the cause of so much trouble.
"You're going?" asked Allegra gently. Beauty didn't answer; she just nodded courageously. Of all the girls, she was the most sensible, and yet here came a time when all sensibility was erased - a beast who spoke the words of a man, a castle enchanted, and a rose, a blood rose whose petals refused to fall. Words failed her, and her nod stopped midway. She had always disliked crying, but there was nothing left for her to do but cry. She sobbed on Allegra's shoulder, crying as she had never cried, murmuring her fears - of the Beast, of her unusual naming, of her leaving.
***
It had always been the three of them: Beauty, Allegra, and Aisling. They shared the same womb; they were bonded by blood, and now, she was leaving. Her two sisters did not fuss, but accept her coming departure quietly; inside, she knew there was no doubt that they all felt the same foreboding at heart. The merchant was another story. He made a big fuss when Beauty announced her decision, but he could not override her will.
"I always said you were more stubborn than Old Ro," he said, giving up. "Oh, my Beauty, there is no need to be courageous or heroic. This is a monster, a true beast - it is my mess - I'm the one who picked the rose, there is no need for you to go. I will go in your stead. I have had a long life - what is a few more years of living worth to me?
"You picked the rose, Father," Beauty began, "but I asked for it. If I had not asked, you would not have picked, and this whole thing wouldn't have started. The fault rests with me. If you do not allow me to go, I will go all the same, but I'd rather leave with your blessing and love, than without it."
She saddled up Old Ro when Aisling burst out of the door, crying. "Beauty, little sister. I can't give you much, but like Allegra, I can give you my namesake. I give you dreams to comfort you, to allow your mind to expand. Dreams and hope - hope that you will return to us safely. That way, you'll have a part of me inside you." She kissed Beauty's cheek, and stood there next to their father, looking tearful but resigned.
Allegra came out of the house, clutching a small heart pillow. "Aisling and I made it," she told Beauty. "We filled it with dried lavender petals, and sprinkled some rose perfume on it. It will soothe you in your time of deepest need. We hope you will think of us, often. I know I have given you my namesake already - laughter, happiness, joy - but you have never needed it. You have always had us under your skin, just like I have you and Aisling under mine. No matter what becomes of you, you'll always be here with us, at home."
Beauty was close to crying. There was nothing like leaving home that made the tears start to run. "I'm not going to my death, you know," she said, trying to smile. No one answered her. They stared at her solemnly and tearfully. She knew that all of them silently responded to her statement. She knew that she had spoken their deepest fear aloud, for it was her fear too, and hadn't Allegra said that they knew each other's thoughts?
Afraid that she would weep and be unable to fulfill her duty, she swung onto Old Ro, who broke into a canter, bringing Beauty farther away from their little house, farther away from Allegra, Aisling, and their father, farther into the uncertainty that lay before her. She could hear Aisling sobbing, and then she could hear no more; she and Old Ro were into the woods and her past was behind her, shrouded by the thicket.