Beauty (16 page)

forgotten, then turned and went through the door.

This single room of the library was as large as our whole house in the city had been, and I could see more book-filled rooms through open doors in all directions, including a balcony overhead, all built from floor to high ceiling with bookshelves. “Oh
my”
I said. “How do you reach the top shelves?”

A miniature staircase, complete with a banister on one side, rolled up to me; I had the feeling that it would have cleared its throat respectfully if it had had a throat to clear. “You remind me of our butler in the city,” I said to it. “He stood at attention just the way you’re doing now. Do you clean silver as well as he did?” It moved in a half circle backwards, and I thought it was probably eyeing me in confusion.

“Don’t distress it,” said the Beast mildly. “It will try to clean silver to please you, and it isn’t built for it.”

I laughed. “Pardon me, sir,” I said to the waiting staircase. “I do
not
wish you to clean silver.” It settled down on its wheels with the faintest sigh of condensing springs. “Do you ever get yourself in messes by wishing inappropriate things?” I said to the Beast.

“No,” he replied. “My orders are obeyed, not my wishes.”

I turned my head away unhappily, but the rows of books tugged un repentantly at the edges of my sight. I walked like one bewitched to the nearest shelf. “I didn’t know there were so many books in the
world,”
I said caressingly, and the Beast’s answer was heard only in my ear and did not register in my brain: “Well, in fact, there aren’t,” he said.

I pulled a volume down at random, and opened it to the title page.
“The Complete Poems of
Robert Browning,”
I read aloud, puzzled. “I’ve never even heard of him.” Pride before a fall, I thought.

So much for my scholarship. The Beast said nothing; when I looked up at him he was watching me with a curious, intent expression. I put Browning back, and picked out another book. This one was called
The
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
The next one was
The Screwtape Letters.
Then
Kim.
“Rudyard Kipling,” I said in despair. “This is a name? I’ve never heard of
any
of these people. And the paper is funny, and the shape of the letters. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” said the Beast; he sounded pleased, which I didn’t like, assuming that he was amused at my discomfiture. “This library is—well—” He paused. “Most of these books haven’t been written yet.” I looked at him stupidly,
Kim
still in my hand. “But don’t worry, they will be,” he said. There was a pause. “You might try the Browning,” he suggested gently. “It shouldn’t be too confusing. I’m very fond of his poetry myself.”

I should have long been past being shocked by anything in this castle, but I now discovered that I wasn’t. My dazed brain grasped at something more easily sensible. “You—you do read then,” I said, and added before I thought: “You can turn pages?”

The earthquaking rumble that served the Beast for a chuckle washed over me briefly, lifting the hair on the back of my neck. “Yes, after a fashion. You’ll find that some of my favorite books are somewhat battered about the corners.” I looked at him, slowly collecting my wits. “Look,” he said. He held one arm out, shook the lace back from his wrist, stretched the fingers of the hand. Their tips glittered. “They’re sort of semi-retractable; not nearly so well-designed as a cat’s,” he said. The fingers quivered and about six inches of shining curved claw suddenly appeared. The daggers that served as index finger and thumb curved and met. “The temptation is always to rip things up a bit when my clumsiness prevents me from turning a page neatly.” The claws clicked lightly together. He sounded almost merry; he rarely spoke of himself, and then his tone was usually grim and sad.

I was not frightened, but I was ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I said.

The claws retreated, and his arm dropped. “Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you.” He looked at me. “But perhaps you mind being told.”

“No,” I said automatically; and then my slow thoughts caught up with me and told me that this was true. “No, I don’t mind.” We looked at each other for a moment. The sun shone through a window, then made its delicate, fawn-footed way across the broad inlaid floor, and found the Beast’s blue velvet shoulders to set on fire. “The sun,” I said abruptly. “Look, it’s stopped raining.” I went over to the window; the Beast joined me. The garden gleamed; the towers of the ancient castle looked young again, baptized by young rain. “I can take Greatheart out after all.”

“Yes,” said the Beast. “I am sure he is looking for you.” The light-heartedness was gone. “I will say farewell to you now,” he continued. “I will see you this evening,” He turned away.

“No—wait,” I said, and put a hand out, but did not quite touch the velvet arm. He paused and looked back at me. “Wait,” I repeated. “Greatheart likes whomever I like. Come with us.”

The Beast shook his head. “Thank you for the kindness of your offer, but no. It is not necessary, and I assure you it would not work. I will see you this evening.”

“Please,” I said.

“Beauty,” he said, “I can deny you nothing. Do not ask this. Greatheart loves you. Do not break his trust in you for no reason.”

“Please,” I said. “I am asking.”

There was a pause, but at last he said, as if the words were dragged from him like a blessing from a black magician, “Very well. I am sorry for this.”

“Come then,” I said. I went out through the door we had come in, and turned down the hall, away from the paintings. The Beast followed. In the usual fashion, I found my room around the next corner, and from there I could easily find the way down the great staircase to the front doors. I paused there and

waited for the Beast. When he did not speak his mere presence could be oppressive; I felt as if I were waiting for a storm cloud to catch me up.

We went out into the courtyard together. The air was cool and damp against my cheek. “Not in the stable,” said the Beast. “Give the poor brute room, I will wait for you here.” He walked away from the stable wing to a bench at the edge of the garden on the opposite side, just inside the courtyard, and sat down. I went to fetch my horse.

He was glad to see me, and eager to go outside. I found that now that I had committed myself to this venture, I was frightened, and unhappily inclined to believe the Beast’s predictions. Greatheart had too much sense to walk into the dragon’s mouth merely because I asked him to. But it was too late now.

After a moment’s reflection, I put on his saddle and bridle. I had no chance at all of arguing with him from

the ground with nothing but a halter and rope for persuasion; mounted, at least I could stay with him—probably—until he could be reasoned with. Oh dear. Why did the Beast have to sound so forlorn just at the wrong moment?

Greatheart was a bit puzzled at being saddled at this hour, but he was willing enough. He was snorting with enthusiasm and pulling at the reins as the stable door opened for us.

I saw the change at once, and mounted hastily at the threshold. As soon as his head emerged, he flared his nostrils and blew, and swung his head towards the bench where the Beast sat. I could feel him turn to iron under my hand, and there was a glimpse of white around his eye. The door closed noiselessly

behind us; the last little breath of warm hay-scented air stirred my hair. Great-heart hadn’t taken his eyes

off the Beast; he was blowing unhappily, and spume began to form on his lips. I tightened the girths.

Well,

here we go, I thought, and gathered up the reins.

It took us fifteen minutes to cross a courtyard two hundred feet wide. The horse’s shoulders and flanks were soon dark with sweat; but he went in the direction I insisted on. I whispered to him as he walked, and for the first time in his life he did not cock an ear back at me to listen. He would obey me—but only just; his entire concentration rested on the dark figure sitting on a white marble bench, its arms stretched out across the seat’s back.

Fifty feet from Nemesis Greatheart stopped and would go no farther; we stood like stone in a silent battle of wills. My knees were pressed into the horse’s sides till my legs ached, and my hands on the reins urged him forwards; but his mouth was frozen on the bits, and I could feel a tiny quiver of panic, deep inside him. “Don’t move,” I said, panting, to the Beast, “This is harder than I was expecting.”

“I won’t,” said the Beast, “I did not believe you would come so far.”

At the sound of the Beast’s voice, Greatheart’s nerve broke. He reared up so wildly I threw myself forwards, fearing that he would go over backwards, and his neigh was a scream, sharp as shipwreck.

Still on his hind legs, he whirled, nearly unseating me, and in two bounds he was back on the far side of the courtyard it had taken us so long to cross. I found myself yelling, “No, you great ox, stop it, listen to me, rot you, listen to me!” and when I untangled my hands from his mane and pulled again on the reins, his ears flickered and he stopped, shuddering and heaving as if he were at his strength’s end after a long gallop. He turned as he stopped, to look back in terror at the enemy, threw up his head, and took several

unhappy steps sideways. The Beast had stood up, presumably when Greatheart had bolted. Now that it seemed that I was more or less in control again, he slowly resumed his seat.

I let the reins fall on
the
horse’s neck, and leaned forwards to run my hands through his silky mane and down his wet shoulders; and stiffly, as if he had almost forgotten how. he arched his neck and slowly

bowed his head. I talked to him, telling him he was a great stupid creature and very silly, and that I knew best; be quiet, relax, have no fear, have no fear, have no fear. His ears flickered back and forth, and he swung a restless head towards the Beast; then at last he stood still, his ears back to listen to me, and I felt

him slowly return from cold iron to warm flesh. “Okay,” I said at last. “We’ll try again.” And I gathered up the reins and turned him towards the Beast.

He walked slowly this time too, but only as if he were very, very tired, and his head hung low. He paused once again about fifty feet away from the edge of the courtyard and raised his head a few inches;

but when I nudged him forwards he went without demur. “It’s all right now,” I said to the Beast. “He’s ashamed of himself, and he’ll do as I say.”

The last step brought us to the bench; and with a gesture half of resignation and half of despair, Greatheart dropped his head till his muzzle touched the Beast’s knee. “Merciful God,” murmured the Beast. Great-heart’s ears shot forwards at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t move.

I dismounted, and Greatheart turned his head to press it against my breast, leaving streaks of grey foam on my shirt, and I rubbed behind his ears. “You see?” I said to either or both of them, as if I had been sure all along of the outcome. “That wasn’t so bad,”

“I was fond of horses, once,” said the Beast; and his words had a distant sound, as if they echoed down a cold corridor of centuries. I looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing. He replied in answer to what I did not say: “Yes; I have not always been as you see me now.” Not Cerberus, then, I thought absently, still petting my horse; but I did not pursue the question any further. For my own limited peace of

mind I preferred to admire the small victory I had just won, and leave the castle’s immense secrets to themselves.

The Beast left us shortly after this; I was a little disappointed, but I made no move to stop him. I ate my lunch alone, and went out early to take Greatheart for his afternoon ride. We took it very easy that day, and when I put him away, the horse was anxious to be petted and soothed at great length. After he had been groomed hair for hair several times over, I sat between his forelegs and told him silly stories, as

if to a child at bedtime, while he investigated my face and hair with his nose. At last he was calm and happy again, and I could leave him. The Beast was waiting for me outside, silhouetted against an amber-and-primrose-coloured sky. “Greatheart and I have been having a long conversation,” I explained, and the Beast nodded without comment.

That night as the whistling breeze unrolled my bedclothes to tuck snugly under ray chin I heard the voices I’d heard before on that dreadful first night in the castle. Several times over the last weeks I had thought I heard them, but always just at the edge of sleep, and usually only a few words: “Good night, child, and sweet dreams,” and once, “For heaven’s sake leave the child alone,” whereupon the quilt had abruptly left off tucking in its corners.

“Well,” I heard. “Are you satisfied yet? No, I shouldn’t ask that. Do you begin to have hope? Are you comforted? You see how well it’s going.”

There was a melancholy sigh. “Oh, yes, already it’s going better than I dared hope, and yet you know it’s not enough. It’s too much, really it is, too much to ask, how can such a little thing understand?

How can she possibly guess? There’s nothing to guide her; it’s not allowed.”

“You fidget yourself too much,” said the practical voice, but with sympathy.

“I can’t help it. You know it’s impossible.”

“It was made to be impossible,” the first voice said grimly. “But you needn’t give up on that account,”

“Oh dear, oh dear, if only we could help, even a little,” the melancholy voice went on.

“But we can’t,” said the first voice patiently. “In the first place, she can’t hear us; and even if she could, we are bound to silence.” Fuzzy with sleep, I thought: I know who she reminds me of —my first governess, Miss Dixon, who taught me my alphabet, and to recognize countries on the globe before I could read the printed names; and who was the first of many to fail to teach me to sew a straight seam.

Now this voice and its invisible owner brought her back to me with sudden clarity: dear, kind, and above all practical Miss Dixon, who disliked fairy tales and disapproved of witches, who believed that magicians invariably exaggerated their abilities; and once, exasperated at my favourite game of playing dragons, which involved much jumping out of trees, told me rather sharply that a creature as big and heavy as a dragon probably spent most of its life on the ground, wings or no wings. Hers was not a personality I would have expected to find in an enchanted castle.