Beast (14 page)

But he's here now. A man. In my home.

I don't want him to leave.

The bowl of fruit is still half full. The smell holds no attraction for me; meat is my only food. And the stench of the vinegary wine makes me sneeze. But the man can't hear me, just as I can't hear him. The fire lures me. I stretch out in its cradling warmth.

Then I remember the roebuck. It's buried in snow; it'll stay undisturbed until the morning.

I remember the rose garden. But by now the snow has already done its damage.

I sleep.

And dream of voices, human voices, his—with mine.

S
unlight fills the room. A man descends the stairs. The man! The window I would leap from is on the far corner of the room — I'd have to cross the man's line of vision. How could I have let myself sleep so late? I run to the larder. But, no, that's the first place hell go. I run to the chapel. Stupid me, of course hell make morning prayers. I peek through the crack between the open chapel door and the wall. The man's kneeling by the fire, rebuilding it. I'm stuck in the chapel.

The man goes to the window and exclaims, “Spring!” He puts on the rest of his clothes and goes outside, leaving the door open.

I strain to see out through the door from where I hide in the chapel, and the sight baffles me. The snow has melted away entirely, and the sunshine is bright.
Yet the mans voice held no surprise, only happiness. This must be how spring behaves in this strange country.

The man is nowhere in sight.

I could bolt out the door, out the window—but he might be right around the corner, right in front of me. Besides, I don't really want to run away.

I want to know this man.

What an absurd thought. He would kill me.

But maybe not. He is a man who loves books. That much I saw in his behavior last night. Maybe he has a gentle soul.

I pace, crazy with indecision.

The man comes back in, leaving the door open behind him. He empties his pockets onto the table. A mound of old, dried acorns. Now he goes into the larder and comes out with a mortar and pestle and a goatskin bottle. He grinds the acorns and pours them into the bowl with the winey fruits from last night. He squeezes the goatskin. A glistening stream covers the mess in the bowl. The smell of rancid olive oil makes my nose wrinkle. The man eats every last morsel and scrapes the bottom of the bowl with his spoon.

He stands and comes to the chapel door.

I hide on the other side of the door, mouth closed to hold in my lion breath, my lion pants.

He enters and goes to the center of the small room.
He touches his forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—making the sign of the cross in the way I have seen Christians do. He kneels.

If he were to turn his head right now, he'd see me.

He bows his head and intones,
“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Gaudeamus in nomine Dei.”

I understand the Latin. The Lamb of God —I remember now, that's how Christians call Jesus. He has asked Jesus for pity, and asked further that he be allowed to rejoice in the name of the Merciful One. The man speaks of himself as “we,” almost as though he's royal. But he travels alone in ordinary merchant's clothes, and he hasn't the manner of royalty. Perhaps this is the habit of Christians, to call themselves “we” before the Merciful One. Or perhaps he's praying not just for himself, but for everyone.

I like that possibility.

I like this man. If only we could talk to one another.

He stands.

He will turn now and discover me.

I can't think what to do. My body loses all feeling.

He backs out of the room.

I am half relieved, half disappointed.

The man goes outside now. I hurry into the main room and watch him from the window. He leads the mare up and down in front of the castle. She looks
no worse for wear. Now they go around to the side.

“Mon Dieu!”
—my God!

I look out the side window.

The man kneels over the roebuck I killed last night. He's inspecting its ragged throat. He looks every which way, jerking his head.

The mare nibbles on the grasses. The snow must have washed away my scent. She's calm.

But the man is now frantic. He grabs the mares lead, puts on her bridle and bit, and takes off the halter. He mounts and circles the castle, looking for a road. Brambles meet him at every turn, until he comes back to the path the mare trampled last night, the path that the roebuck lies in.

He looks around slowly now.

Gradually he seems to calm down. He talks to himself, but I cannot hear his words. The flowers catch his attention—the flowers that have come open since yesterday. So many of them.

He dismounts and goes to my rose garden, to the very spot where I pray, my own
belaq.
He puts out his hands, as though caressing the air around the blossoms.

This man understands a
gule sourkh
—a rose.

He breaks off a whole branch.

I leap from the window without thought.

The man screams, clasping the roses to his chest. He runs toward the castle door, then seems to think
better of it — for a lion has just emerged from the window of that castle. He runs along the outer wall.

I corner him. We must talk. I must make him understand.

He faces me, his cheeks as dark as the roses, his eyes huge and empty.

I take my wide paw and scratch awkwardly in the damp earth. He watches intently. I write,
“Mes roses”
—my roses. What else can I say?

The man looks at the words, tilting his head to read them. He stares at me. “My lord,” he says at last.

He has recognized my spirit. I was right to take the chance. I'm so grateful, I pant.

He holds the roses high to cover his face. “Don't kill me,” he cries out, “please, don't kill me.”

Kill him? O Merciful One, where has your mercy gone?

“My lord,” he says again, trembling, peering out through the roses. His eyes dart back to the horse, and I'm sure his pistol is tucked in that saddlebag.

I scratch out French words in the dirt with my paw: “Talk with me?”

The man stares at the words. He looks across to where the roebuck lies. “We can talk of the hunt. You are clearly a great hunter. My lord.” His voice is light, but it cannot hide his terror.

I cringe at the false flattery. “Call me Beast.” I
stand by the words I've scratched in the dirt. I add, “Rose-thief,” and watch his face. Will he catch the irony? Will he realize that no true beast tends a rose garden? Will he rush to apologize?

He drops the roses and shakes his head. “Beast,” he says haltingly, “I didn't mean to offend you by gathering these roses. My daughter asked me for one. A little gift for her, that's all. These things happen when a man has children.”

This man is thickheaded, after all. Thickheaded, yet blessed with a family. Children. I remember the cubs in the cave. I write, “How many?”

“How many daughters? Is that what you mean? Three daughters, all of whom depend on me.” His voice rings with hope. He still believes that I would kill him; he wants this pronouncement to wake my sense of mercy.

Wretched man, who doesn't realize that a true beast has no sense of mercy. Wretched and lucky man, who has three daughters.

He rubs his hands together nervously. “This daughter,” he says, “this one who asked for the rose, she's a little goose. She doesn't understand anything.” He wrings his hands. “I don't want to die. Oh, Beast, I don't want to die.”

He's the goose, the daughter isn't. He understands nothing. But she wanted a rose.

The blood beats in my forehead. I am dizzy for a moment, as the significance of the situation gradually seeps through. This man has a daughter who wanted a rose—who loves roses.

“How old?” I write.

He blinks at the words in the dirt, as though trying to comprehend them. “She's my youngest,” he says at last. “A mere child. She didn't know what she asked for. She didn't mean anything by it. I didn't mean anything by it. Please believe me, Beast. I don't want to die. Please, please, don't kill me.” He falls to his knees. His eyes are dull behind the tears. “Whatever demonic powers you possess, have pity on me, a mere mortal. I meant no harm, no harm.”

Explaining to this man would be pointless; he would never understand. My spirit, which rose so high with optimism just a moment ago, flags once more.

But then I realize I don't have to explain. No. The man has already given me license—for he believes I have powers beyond a mortal. Let that belief be strong. I scratch in the dirt as fast as I can, “Won't die.”

His eyes come alive.

I add for effect, “Family won't die.”

His eyes bulge. He had not thought of his family dying before.

“If,” I write in large, deep letters, “you bring her.”

He shakes his head, mouth open. He looks as though he would protest.

I won't give him that chance. I want the daughter who wanted the rose. I write, “I demand.”

The man goes white, immobile as pottery. If I pushed him over, his head would shatter. He emits a little scream. His head shakes again. Spittle flies onto his cheek. His terror moves me.

But I cannot afford to know his fears. I have my own needs. Something brought this man to my castle; something offers me a chance — and I've waited so long for this chance. I roar.

He flattens himself on the ground, hands over his ears. Now he's mumbling, “I swear, I swear, I swear.” He rises to his knees again and crosses himself, like in the chapel this morning.

I scratch in the dirt, “In 3 weeks.”

“Oui,”
he breathes, “I swear.”

I sit on my haunches and watch him.

It slowly dawns on him that our exchange is complete. He mounts and spurs the horse through the crushed brambles, and is gone.

T
he man must not come this way often, for he knew nothing of this haunted castle. He probably lives many days' journey from here—probably in the Paris that I hear in his voice. Still, he might travel quickly. I should have told him an exact day to bring the child back here, rather than saying it must be within three weeks. What if she shows up too soon?

What if she doesn't show up at all?

But she will. The man was convinced his whole family would die if she didn't. It was cruel of me to leave him with that thought. But anything less might not have been effective. She will show up.

A human child.

I should have pressed for her exact age. What if she's so small, she cries for her mother at night?

A girl child.

But, oh, a girl child certainly won't know how to read. How will we talk to one another?

If I go on like this, 111 drive myself mad. She's a Christian child. Christians love cats for pets. Ill be the best pet cat she ever imagined. Shell stroke my fur. Shell come to love me. Not in the way the
pari
meant, of course. But with time, that love could mature.

For now it will be enough that she's here. This girl child will stroke my fur.

But not at first. I can't expect too much at first. Ill have to win her trust.

I look around and try to see through a child's eyes. Cold, dirty emptiness. Dismay settles over me. No one would find this castle magical, least of all a child. But I don't know what she'd like. Or how to get it, even if I did know. Still, I can stock the larder for her. I can feed this little girl.

My little girl.

I perform the
wudhu
and pray extra long. Then I eat the roebuck almost completely, leaving a small pile of hooves, bones, teeth. I groom myself and roll onto my back, all four paws in the air. There's no point thinking about food for my child now, for I can do nothing outside these grounds during daylight.

I choose a room for her and clean it thoroughly, first with my paws, then with my tongue.

I nap.

At dusk, I crawl under the brambles and out to the world beyond. My first target is the house with the young men, the louts who were drinking from jugs that time the lovers came to the castle.

Across the meadow, through the woods. There it is. The house stands quiet. I trot along behind the trees at the edge of the field. Yes, five people work together, stopping to talk now and then. Two young men drive plows, pushing them through the dirt with nothing but their own brute strength. A third young man, an older man, and a woman follow with shovels and a pick, breaking the overturned clumps. They are like the man who woke in my castle this morning and declared that spring had come. I hope they're right. I want the earth all alive and growing, warm under the feet of my little girl when she comes.

I run back to the house and enter through an open window. The larder first, naturally. A large barrel sits on the floor. I knock off the lid. A few scoopfuls of mixed dried beans lie in the bottom. A wooden box next to it holds a scattering of dried fruits. Another box is a quarter full of ground wheat. This family needed an early spring or they'd have gone hungry. No wonder they're working into the evening like this.

I won't take their food, even if I could figure out a way to carry it off. Anyhow, who eats dried beans in spring and summer? It's time for fresh foods.

Someone's coming.

I leap from the window and away into the trees.

The woman goes into the house. She runs back outside and looks around. She circles the house. Then she goes inside again.

I wait until the men have gone inside, as well. Then I walk over to the shed. The plows, shovels, and pick lean against a wall. Bags of seed are stacked on top of each other. Wheat. These people grow wheat.

All the way home, I'm planning.

I drop a pebble on the front doorstep. Every day I will drop a single pebble here. That way I can know for sure when three weeks have passed.