And intoxicated by madness I screamed furiously: "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!"
Though such capricious endeavors are not without peril, and one must often pay dearly for them, what does an eternity of damnation compare with an infinity of pleasure in a single second?
— Baudelaire
Over a void, the Beast's massive paw was wrapped around Gaston's thick neck, dangling him. Slowly, the monster drew the frightened hunter back to the security of the roof, and pushed him to the tiles. Gaston sank with a heartbreaking sob.
He always was a crybaby, wasn't he? His weakness, his softness – it didn't matter how he tried to obliterate it, how he tried to overcome it, it was always a part of him. He was born a dainty thing, the kind of comely lad that the village boys loved to brutalize when young; the kind that the townsfolk loved to intimidate when a youth. Gaston could see it. Soft. Weak. Fragile. He deserved to be pounded bloody all those times. Deserved to suffer, because that's all a pretty, prissy, beautiful boy was good for.
Then, ever as before, it took about twenty seconds for the outrage to really overtake him, and to provoke his responsive action.
The fact that Belle now appeared on the rooftop didn't even strike Gaston. He didn't care anymore. He needed to avenge an absolute wrong that was done to him — the kind of wrong that forces you to eat dozens of eggs every day for the rest of your life. Maybe it wasn't committed by anyone here tonight, but someone had to pay for it.
And she — she who had the power to so easily mend his broken heart, she alone who knew the pain — she had to be made to see.
Gaston wiped at his crooked nose, smashed so long back by a schoolyard bully; with the other hand he took up his trusty hunting knife.
Gaston crawled up behind the Beast and, wordlessly, without ado, plunged his blade into the creature's lower back. It was an utter delight, how the meat resisted, how the organs swam aside, how the bit of blood swam up from the fur and cloth. He enjoyed the howls and growls of pain it produced from the monster.
Clinging to the edge of the rain-slickened balcony, the Beast flailed beside him. Gaston drew back his knife with the intent to stab the brute a second time.
Somehow it didn't work.
A perplexed Gaston did not win his fight, did not win his love, did not prove himself. The world fell down, and he was only let to kiss his shadow in the brook.
…
A rosy dawn had sprung quite suddenly, when before the world had been all downpour and gloom. The air still fresh and fragrant with rain, and the ground damp and sparkling.
A terribly ugly figure emerged from the woods, small and huddled, one eye bulging from her withered face. She wore a dark green cloak, green as the forest leaves.
She had come to investigate the results of a curse she had placed long ago, and which had reached its crisis point this very dawn. It was an elaborate but effective scheme to scare the royal family into correcting their selfish ways. Either her spell was now broken, and the young Prince she had enchanted all those years back was now restored to human form; or, he had failed to learn love, and would remain a Beast forever.
Some would say — indeed, some had said to her — that she was too wicked for cursing a ten year old boy and his entire household, who were only the fruit of his family's problems, rather than being the instigators; and that he would have learned the lesson more effectively had she let him socialize in a normal way with good people, rather than by putting him under a curse that kept him humiliated, isolated, ignorant and distressed. She challenged them to offer up how that could have been any option —
Good people? How many of those were to be found in this brutal world?
In any case, what was done was done; and it appeared that her plan had flourished nicely. The castle that had formerly been hexed into a dark and rotting edifice was now glowing and sparkling, with flowers blooming all around it. The curse was clearly broken. She supposed that she would have to go in, and congratulate the boy on his success.
As the Enchantress headed along the bank of the little lake that made the castle's moat, she noticed a lonely spirit floating near the shore.
In looks, it was insignificant. Any spirit would have looked much the same — which was to say, having very little to look upon. It was just a ball of energy, invisible, but real as the grip of a magnet or the heat of the sun.
The Enchantress drew near. Like all spirits, this one had no true power of speech; but to those who knew how to listen, it could convey its messages. The words, thoughts, pictures would play in one's mind, like a memory.
She perceived that the spirit was male, or conceived himself to be so; large, strong, with a big personality. He was extremely upset. He'd had an accident, and was confused — he wasn't sure what had happened to him. He had separated from his body, and he still hoped there was a way to get it back.
As he babbled in confusion, she grew dismayed. She recognized that he was an innocent who had unintentionally become caught up in her curse upon the Prince, and had lost his life in the chaos. The Enchantress felt genuinely bad about it — that had never been any intention of hers, to negatively impact the commoners.
She hesitated, concentrating so she might learn just what had happened to him. He conveyed some images of a fall into the water from a great height. She could sense that his body was destroyed beyond repair, shattered, broken and torn apart; and what was left had sunk into the bottom of the lake, where it was already being fed upon by the aquatic life.
She informed him: he was dead.
If the little spirit had a heart, she could feel it break. The energy swirled in on itself. Had he eyes, they would be issuing a deluge. He hadn't been ready to die. He'd wanted to live, to love, to have a family, maybe even grow old. There was none of that ahead anymore. He would never have his children, never be married, never pass cheerful nights in the arms of a lover, never even know what it was like to be kissed. How had he missed out on so much — things that were considered so basic and commonplace to everyone else?
It really was quite piteous. Feeling sorry for him, she bade him to attach himself to her. "Come with me. I certainly owe you a boon."
A boon? he asked. Can you bring me back to life?
"Not in the same form you were, but, we can find an arrangement you'll be happy with, I'm certain."
Some other body? he cried in horror. But I worked so hard on the one I had!
"There are so many different things to be," said the Enchantress, with a shake of her head. "Human isn't even the best of them, believe you me."
Gaston didn't like the idea of being something else. It turned all his lifelong efforts at achieving manliness and physical perfection into a waste.
"Not everyone is made to do regular things, Gaston," the Enchantress said reassuringly. "You were extraordinary."
Can I still be?
"If you like. Stay with me and we can find something for you. But I have another errand, first."
She felt the trivial but very real weight of Gaston's spirit melt across her shoulder. It was like carrying a small, crying child in an attempt to comfort him. She held him thus as she walked up the dirt hillside to the castle.
Slowly Gaston recognized where they were going. He became distressed, and the Enchantress marked how the spirit blasted and rattled in what could nearly be called a tantrum — yet it was not anger or spoiledness that drove the outburst, but fear.
"You needn't worry. You can't be harmed now," she said as they approached.
But that's where it happened — I was killed there — I don't want to go inside that place —
"Then wait here, till I come out."
Gaston needed no more encouragement. He detached from the Enchantress. She proceeded into the castle to conduct the business she had within. Gaston was free to enter if he liked, but he hadn't the slightest desire to. It was all a terrifying memory that mortified his spirit.
Belle — and that monster — they were in there. Together. He couldn't bear the thought of it.
The spirit began to circle the castle grounds, half obsessing over the frightening recollections and what had happened to him in their consequence. The other half sought comfort, sought to forget what he knew. There were no more hunts to occupy him. There were no more beers in the tavern with friends. No more taxidermy, no more workouts, no more mirrors, no more singing. None of those things would ever be for him again.
He collapsed onto the ground and exploded in grief. What was there for him?
— Why are you sad? asked a nearby entity. Gaston tried to feel it out, tried to discern what it was. Something alive that, like the Enchantress, was capable of sensing him.
I've died, he lamented. It was an interesting entity he addressed. It had something appealing about it, he couldn't figure out quite what. A scent, maybe? The fragrance, if it was that, drew him over.
— But that happens every time it gets cold, it replied to him. — You see the weather is warm again, and we'll all be in bloom very soon. The entity then introduced itself in companionship. It didn't have a name, exactly, though Gaston thought it seemed like a Constance.
He started to become aware that there were several others like Constance around. He slowly began to understand that he was in a garden. These were the live plants, yawning awake after another cold snap had put them into hibernation. The end of the Beast's curse had put them very suddenly into the bloom of spring.
Gaston was starting to perceive his surroundings better. Yes, it was a garden. An exceptionally beautiful one. The plants thrived, well cared for, even after their hibernation. They were all very beautiful, even the old ones — some were fuller or brighter than others, but they all were gorgeous in their way. The careful arrangement of the plants prevented them from choking one another out, or competing for necessities like sunlight and water. They needed so little to be happy. Food fell down on them from the sky.
What do you do to entertain yourselves? asked Gaston, intrigued.
— We follow the sunlight, or sprout leaves, or blossoms, said Constance.
Practically every creature derived pleasure from the things that helped it to survive, it seemed. Do you mate? asked Gaston. He tried to discern whether Constance was male or female, and couldn't quite make up his mind.
— Yes, that's why we bloom, said Constance in reply. — We rely on the flies, the bees, the butterflies, the birds, the humans, the winds. It feels wonderful to bloom, and to have a bee or a butterfly come and take some of the pollen. Then it goes where it may. If someone's pollen falls upon you, you'll grow a fruit. If it takes in the ground, it will be a new plant.
Gaston was astonished. What if someone wants to hurt you? How do you defend yourself then?
— We have thorns.
But you can't move.
— We can move, a little. We twist about to take the light, and stretch our branches where we like. But most creatures, with us, simply walk into their own agony. The thorns are defensive only. It's true that we can get into trouble; sometimes an insect comes to eat us, or to suck away our sap, and that does hurt. Sometimes a fungus might attack. Yet we in this garden are fortunate, for we reside in a place where there are caretakers, who chase away the insects and sprinkle us with powders and oils to kill the fungus; and in my years I've never known another flower to grow so sick that its roots could not spring back anew.
Gaston began to glow with a happy energy at the thought. A garden. What a wonderful spot to live in.
When the Enchantress returned at last, he asked her: Can I be in this garden?
"I don't see anything wrong with that," replied the Enchantress. She directed Gaston to a particular spot, and she pulled a wand from out of her green cloak.
From then on, Gaston perceived things differently. He felt settled. He could sense Constance nearby, as well as a few others who were of his own species. Other life forms were to be found about, too; though he was aware that they were something else, something not the same as him. Animals.
As a plant, he didn't have a big brain that was suited for remembering a lot of information; but he could recall some things. Occasionally he would wonder if his horse Tencendur was being fed, or if LeFou had taken over the house, or if Monsieur d'Arque was still alive. But he had a whole new set of concerns now: he wanted to chase his sunlight and water, slowly turning his leaves to soak them up as they came in with the weather. He had a friendly competition going with Constance to make the biggest, most fragrant flowers that would attract the most bees. In season, the insects came in droves to both of them. With their help, he made many seed pods — well more than six or seven. He even discovered he could self-pollinate, if the bees cooperated.
Then one day she came out to the garden. Belle.
He hadn't seen her since that fateful night. Indeed, even now he sensed her more than he saw her. But she was unmistakable.
Looking back, he felt bad about what he'd done. Forcing her to be with him was no better than the dirty tricks folks used to pull on him — ah, but what else could he have done, being what he was? Humans wanted mates as bad as flowers, and they couldn't wait for the bees to bring them together.
Belle roamed in the garden with her husband, whom Gaston thought he recognized as the Beast he had stabbed so long ago, and whom he had died trying to stab a second time.
"Look at this one!" exclaimed the Prince, drawn to one of Gaston's enormous crimson blooms. He reached out to pluck it — and suddenly yelped in dismay as sharp thorns sliced his fingers.
Gaston felt good about that. Protecting himself.
Then Belle came for the same blossom. Gaston was amazed. He tried to be gentle, to not stick her with his thorns. He was almost frightened, as she pulled his bloom from the branch.
"You just need to be gentle," she admonished her husband. "The flower doesn't mean to hurt you. See?"
She lifted the flower to her face to smell its sweet perfume. It was such a lovely rose. The soft red petals brushed her lips, as if she were giving them a kiss.
Gaston could already feel his blossom dying in her warm grasp, separated from the vegetal body it needed to live. But it was no big loss; flowers were never meant to live for long.
And no one bloomed like the beautiful Gaston.
END.