Beauty & The Beast
A legend reimagined.
To celebrate my birthday (I am 29 again), I am publishing a short story which I wrote several years ago. I hope you enjoy it.
Editor’s Note: The following letter was discovered in France, in an abandoned library, inside a hidden drawer, in a broken writing desk, tucked between the pages of a book of Psalms.
My dear reader,
If you are reading this story, I am dead. Although, I doubt anyone will ever find my manuscript. The compartment where I plan to conceal it is near impossible to discover, unless perchance you are versed in the construction of secret drawers and the neuroticisms of politicians and the exorbitantly wealthy.
The old man who constructed my rather remarkable writing desk has long since passed. He once took commissions from kings and criminals, but almost all knowledge of the many mysteries he created and concealed have died with him.
I will not tell you much of my life at present. That would, no doubt, rob my tale of a great deal of interest. Suffice it to say, I have survived to compose this testament, which I pray may someday be discovered once it is safe for such knowledge to be known.
While I do not wish to mar the reputations of the living, I do hope that, after we all are gone, some future generation may read of my woes, and garner wisdom from my experiences. I cannot fathom what that wisdom might be, but I trust that God providences even the wickedness of man for the hidden purposes of His good will.
I suppose I should start my story with some background as to my education, as well as our privileged situation in the place where we lived. It was the Year of our Lord, 1339, and rumors of a strange pestilence had reached our quaint city. My mother and father, a prominent lord and lady, were confident that our peoples’ steadfast faith in God would spare us from such evils.
To my great horror, they were wrong.
It was the following spring when my father fell ill. By that time, the corpses of peasants and priests, ruffians and royalty, were being buried together in mass pits and burned outside the city walls. No social circle or class seemed immune to the pestilence. Not even men of the church were protected from its curse. It spread like a hellish rain across our land, rotting the flesh off the living, poisoning the spirit against hope. All who showed the black marks died. It came upon them quickly yet took them slowly and agonizingly.
My mother, God rest her soul, gave way to superstition and witchcraft before the end. In the early days, she relied on the church to protect our family and heal her husband, but as he languished upon the brink of death, she grew despondent and turned to dark spells and prayers to the dead.
She invited an old woman to work healing charms and incantations. Melisende was her given name, but in civilized company she was known as The Witch of Jankau. Truth be told, her origin was nebulous at best. I suspect she journeyed to our land with a caravan of gypsies, for the first time I recall hearing of her, she was already far too advanced in years to be traveling on her lonesome. But who can understand the ways of a Witch?
At the start, I was tolerant of my mother’s excesses. I allowed Melisende to encroach upon our hospitality, muttering her weird spells and burning herbs and rodents at all hours of the night. It was not until I discovered a clump of human hair hidden beneath my father’s pillow, with the bloody scalp still partly attached, that my better judgement prevailed.
I threw The Witch from our premises.
My mother begged me not to be reckless, but at sixteen years of age, I underestimated the power of the Devil. The Witch cursed our family, and indeed the entire city. Even as the guards dragged her from our house, she prattled and screeched incantations in an unknown tongue.
When she came to the outer gates, she spoke one final hex, and as the guards and a congregation of onlookers watched, she collapsed in upon herself as if burned alive by internal fire. I fear, though I do not know, that she was possessed by the very Demons of Hell, and as her possessors returned to that flame from whence they came, her body was consumed by the world beyond.
But I am no academic, nor yet a theologian that I should understand the ways of spirits or magick. What I do know is that her spell gripped our city with tenfold the tenacity of the plague. It did not merely attack flesh and blood, but the very bricks in our streets and beams of our houses.
Everywhere the eye could see, a filthy rot, a scum and a sludge, coated roads, walls, floors, and furnishings. Stained glass windows in churches and fine houses became encrusted with rust, cobwebs, and mold. Every room in every home quite quickly became what I can only describe as a rank, dank, dungeon cell; dark, cold, and smelling of stagnant waste. Hinges corroded and brick and wood crumbled as the demonic decay set in.
Then, that very night, wicked vines, thick and thorned, burst from the earth at a rapid pace, blocking off windows and doors, sealing off any exit, and entombing the healthy and sick alike inside their homes and inside our city.
No one could go in or out.
Those trapped the streets succumbed to disease or exposure. Those outside the gates perished in the same manner. For, to make matters worse, winter was upon us.
For many a month I looked out the windows through thorns and branches at the streets around our home. Of the frozen corpses all around, some reached snow-covered arms to the latch of our gate. Some curled like dogs at corners or near doorways.
My father gave up his spirit that winter. Whether disease took him, or he succumbed to the dank of our dungeon-like home, I cannot say.
My mother, who was already given to nervous complaints and maladies of the spirit, followed him soon thereafter. Being just a boy and privileged in my ignorance, I stowed their bodies in an unused cellar, which later proved to be a dreadful mistake. As their flesh decayed, a foul odor haunted the entire house. I was left alone, barely a man, the lord of a damned and desolate city.
I spent the following months reading books in my late father’s enormous library, feeding on what preserved meat and cheese was stowed in our immense larder, and drinking the wine once reserved for our most elegant dinner parties. Though morbid and lonely, my isolation was bearable but for the constant smell of corpses all around me. It wafted up from the cellar, and in through every window. And of course, there was my own transformation.
I believe it was around Christmastime that I first began noticing an increased growth of hair below my arms and around my chin. At first, I took it to be part of the normal progression from boyhood to manhood, but by the new year, it was clearly something more, some horrifying sign of the curse upon my flesh. My skin turned a hideous grey, nearly black about my eyes and mouth. My entire body became covered in hair as thick as a wolf’s coat. My nails, which I usually kept shortly trimmed, also turned black and grew so thick that I could no long cut or file them. They grew into claws like a bear’s or talons like that of a hawk. My teeth grew long like a wolf’s fangs, protruding between my lips in a hideous manner.
At first, I was horrified and ashamed by this change in my appearance, but seeing as my wits remained unaffected, and there was no one about to gape at my bestial form, I learned to be content. I retained my faith in God, who I read had restored the likes of Nebuchadnezzar from such a form. Perhaps, I reasoned, the sin of allowing witchcraft in our home had resulted in my strange affliction. Perhaps, after a time of humility and penance, I would be restored the body of a man.
I must admit though, despite retaining the intellect of a man, I became quite savage in my habits. My clothing no longer fit properly, but even had I been able to dress myself, I was without the means to wash or mend my garments. As my human appearance disappeared, so did my dignity and sense of decorum. I began prowling about the castle unabashedly naked, for, besides the fact that my house was devoid of another living soul, I was fully attired in fur, and saw no reason to bother with clothes.
It was also around this time that I began discovering my powers. I could move inanimate objects with my mind and call into being things that had not existed before. At first, I thought I was going insane, but eventually, I theorized, it was some strange blessing to counterbalance my curse.
If I but wished for something to eat, pots of stew, flasks of wine, or a haunch of venison would appear before me to devour. Hot baked bread, steaming baths, a broom to sweep the floor on its own; all these things required but a thought and sprang into being for my service.
If I wished to put my feet up, a foot stool scampered into the room like a dog and rested itself before me. If I wished for someone to wash up the dishes, buckets, scrubbing brushes, sponges, and soap cleaned every plate and spoon to perfection. I needed but blink for the candles in a room to burst into flame. Even the pages of my books turned on their own.
I did try, only once, to conjure up my friends and family. That though, was revealed to be a power beyond my capacity. Their flesh wriggled horrifically, and bones and sinew clicked together, but the gift of life I could not bestow. I could keep myself alive with elegant cakes, fine drink, and the choices cuts of meat, but I could not raise the dead or return my home to its former glory. I remained alone, isolated in death.
During this time, I sunk into a profound depression, even attempting to take my own life more than once. That too was beyond my power. The wounds knit closed, the poison lost its potency, and I realized that my powers were also my curse. The luxurious foods were a mockery. The sweeping brooms and scrubbing cloths were a reminder of the servants who lay dead in my courtyard.
In hopes of maintaining my wits, I frequently retreated to my library. There I read books old and new; science, philosophy, mystery, mythology, and anything else I could get my claws on. Of particular encouragement was a collection on biology, botany, and the natural world, which reminded me that there was indeed an existence beyond this rotting tomb in which I languished.
As the weather warmed, the snow melted, and leaks in the roof made themselves evident. I balanced buckets, pots, vases, and kettles atop bookcases and sideboards to protect my only companions, my precious books. The arched ceilings of my library, once painted with angels, were now moldy and warped, leaking grey sludge.
As summer approached, the hot sun dried out the vines which bound the doors and windows shut, but it also warmed the bodies in the streets and houses. As the branches imprisoning me grew brittle and weak, I managed to break my way out. The smell of corpses blasted upon me as the doors swung open. The heat of the day had accelerated the putrefaction of flesh and bone, and my animal senses were heightened to the rank stench.
Swarms of flies and foul rodents invaded every structure like armies. Long processions of ants crawled through doors, windows, and cracks in walls, feeding off the dead and whatever food they had left behind. Likewise, any remnants of gardens or orchards were devoured by maggots and worms.
I, however, being of a predatory disposition, felt no inclination for vegetable or fruit. I began to crave raw meat and fresh blood. Wishing such delicacies into existence had come to feel dull and demeaning to me. In order to retain what little dignity I had left, I hunted at night. Abandoned cattle and sheep could still be found grazing in the pastures outside the city. Wild animals like deer and rabbits could be caught in the woods or outlying fields. I became nocturnal, having developed keen eyesight even in the darkest hour.
Though a deep despondency nearly drowned out my spirits, I slowly acclimated to my new way of life. Eventually, the corpses in the town and within my home were either picked apart by scavengers or consumed by decay, and the odor of death began to dissipate.
Autumn came and went, transforming the city’s hellish visage to a gray and brown landscape of desolation. Winter passed over us, powdering skulls and bones in a crisp white snow. The sludge that coated the streets and buildings froze into sheets of slippery ice. The many homes and shops somehow became even more dilapidated. Where damned vines once clung, doors and shutters now fell ajar, clattering in the cold rakish wind.
As the supplies in my larder depleted, I became accustomed to imagining my provisions into existence, despite the feeling that every time I did, The Witch was mocking me from beyond the grave. My fear of starvation and thirst abated. I grew to trust that I would always have all I could ever want, with the notable exception of love and company.
Until one deathly cold winter night, which I thought to be around Christmastime, though, truth be told, I had long lost all sense of time and was only aware of the weather and the changing of the seasons. A violent storm fell heavily upon the land. Snow descended so thickly that I could not see past the threshold of the house. All was lost in swaths of furious white, and a violent wind rattled the house until it groaned alarmingly under the beating.
I was quite afraid the whole place would collapse in upon me. In fact, the storm was so loud, I could not distinguish the knock upon the door, and in desperation, my visitor let himself in.
He was chased into my entry by a blast of snow and icy wind and collapsed upon the floor without closing the door behind him. In haste, I leapt over his body and secured the door with some difficulty, for the wind was unnaturally strong. After bolting it firmly, I turned to examine him. He smelled of horse, though I could detect no sight or sound of a horse in the courtyard. If I had, to be completely honest, I might have eaten it. Upon checking his vitals, I found him to be still breathing, seemingly merely exhausted. So, I grasped his cloak between my teeth and dragged him to the fireplace, which I ignited with a wave of my claw.
As the warmth from the flame revived him, I situated myself on the couch and crossed my legs, hoping to resemble some kind of domesticated creature so as not to frighten him out of his wits when he awoke.
At first, he sat up with his back to me. I barely dared to breathe as I watched him warm his hands at the fire. Then he began to look around. I suspect (now that I am reflecting back upon that evening) that he may have imagined the house uninhabited. But for the fire, which seemed to confound him, there was certainly no evidence that anyone had lived there for decades.
But then he saw me.
“What the bloody hell!” he exclaimed, and fell backwards, nearly landing with his backside in the fireplace. “What the bloody hell is that? How did that get in here? By the holy saints! I’ve never seen such a monster!”
He then fell silent, whether out of terror or confusion, I cannot say. Possibly, both. I was rather at a loss for how to proceed myself. He clearly thought I was a wild animal or perhaps a hallucination. He did not speak to me, only to himself about me, and after staring at me and slapping his face a few times, he seemed to conclude that I was a massive dog or domesticated bear owned by whoever resided in my home. After a few moments, he began to explore the great room with his eyes.
“Hello!” he called. “Is there anyone here?”
Echoes were his only answer.
“Thank you, for the fire!” he called expectantly.
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
His shocked gaze snapped upon me, but after looking into my eyes incredulously, he began searching the darkness behind me, tracing the shadows for a person he had missed.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!”
“It was I who spoke,” I assured him.
His face turned a pallid white and he gripped his heart with his hand. After mumbling incoherently, he dropped to the floor in another faint. I sighed but could not blame him. The sound of my voice had given myself a chill. I hadn’t spoken out loud in quite a long time, but as my outward appearance had grown fierce and wild, it was apparent that my voice too had deepened and grown raspy. In fact, my most kind and gentle intonations now sounded like brutish growls and barks. I was understandable, to be sure, but if you can imagine how a talking bear might sound, that is as nearest as I can describe my tenor. It was an articulate growl, but a growl, nonetheless.
“My name is Phillip,” I snarled to myself, practicing my new voice and adjusting my ears to the change. “Phillip is my name. Phillip. Goodness. This is extremely awkward.”
The man on the floor rolled over, and without getting up, he stared at me.
“I took you for some kind of inordinately large dog,” he said timidly. “Are you not? Did you really just speak to me?”
“I am afraid so,” I replied.
“Bloody hell,” he repeated. “Bloody, bloody hell! I’ve lost my mind.”
He remained horizontal on the floor, gazing up at me from under gray curly hair. He was an older man with piercing blue eyes and a grisly chin, with a scar under his eye and a ruddy complexion.
“I am sorry to say, for my sake, that your wits are intact,” I replied. “This city you have stumbled upon used to be bustling and busy with trade, but everyone died either by plague or by curse.”
“A plague city!” he gasped. “That explains everything! After finding several houses vacant and icy cold, I made my way here seeking warmth and shelter.”
“The plague swept through our city over a year ago now,” I confirmed. “You should be safe, for the pestilence has run its course. I would not drink the water though. I fear that the wells may be foul.”
The man sat up from the floor and considered me thoughtfully for a moment.
“Phillip, if it is not rude of me to ask,” he said timidly, “did everyone in your city resemble a … a …”
“A wild beast?” I finished for him. “No. They were all human. A Witch who was hired to cure my father cursed my person and transformed me into what you see before you now. I used to look like a regular boy. There were paintings and portraits I could show you, but the curse has decayed everything beautiful.”
He paused a while before responding.
“Well,” he said, sitting up. “That is a rum do.”
He slowly worked himself up off the floor. Situating himself in a cushioned chair, he sat as near to me as he dared.
“So,” he began cautiously. “If I may ask – and, please do stop me if I come off as rude – are there any behavioral side effects to your transformation? You don’t eat people or drink blood or anything like that I suppose?”
“Oh no,” I reassured him. “Well, blood isn’t half bad, but my main hobbies are reading books, particularly on the topic of botany, and I also enjoy hunting.”
“Ah!” he said, sounding unsettled. “And what do you hunt for?”
“For sport, mostly,” I admitted. “While there is plenty of good hunting outside the gates, anything I wish to eat I can conjure on a whim.”
By way of demonstration, I wished him a bowl of chicken soup, and it appeared, savory and steaming, on the table beside him.
“Incredible!” he exclaimed. “But what I meant was, what sort of animals do you hunt for?”
“Oh!” I replied. “Sheep, mostly. Although, I have eaten bears, dogs, cats, wolves, rabbits, cows, goats, chickens, ducks, and rodents. I am extremely partial to sheep though. It is curious. I do not recall eating sheep as a human.”
“Indeed!” said the man, relaxing a little. “Veal is a thing of course, but that’s lamb if I’m not mistaken. Or is it calf? It is rather a dish I cannot afford.”
“My father used to love a good lamb stew on cold winter evenings,” I recalled, “but I never liked it as a child.”
The man looked at me curiously.
“My dear boy,” he said. “How long has it been since your family died? How long have you been alone in this … unnatural state?”
“If I’m not mistaken,” I said, “three months ago would have been my seventeenth birthday. Though, after all that I have been through, I feel very old indeed.”
“I daresay,” he said, astounded.
Suddenly, I became aware of how refreshing it was to talk to another person, and how lonely I had been. The depth of my sorrow and the profundity of my isolation struck me with the force of a thunderclap.
“Well,” continued the man, “My name is Jean Rousseau. I am an inventor of sorts, designing many fanciful oddities and practical mechanisms to facilitate daily life both in the farm and the city. That is, you see, the introduction I have developed for tradesmen and merchants. My latest construction is a pestle that grinds wheat into flour automatically rather than manually. I was returning home from premiering it at a fair not too many miles up the road when this blinding storm struck, and I was lost in the snow.”
“I wish I could see your invention,” I replied. “How does it work?”
“I’m afraid I sold every last one at the fair, but I did bring my schematics, if you’d like to examine them.”
He pulled some folded papers out of his inner breast pocket and spread upon the table a sort of map of parts and mechanisms and thingumajigs. From what I could deduce, it used energy from a pendulum to generate movement in a pestle, crushing a gradual stream of grain which poured from a spout. I could not understand it entirely, but for fear of him thinking me a stupid beast, I resisted the urge to ask questions and nodded knowingly instead.
“This is a very well-conceived invention, sir,” I remarked, crossing my legs again in a vain attempt to appear dignified. “It is well that you are equipping farmers with such time saving mechanics. Here though, I have no need of such things. Whatever I desire springs to life at my whim.”
Then, with a wave of my claw, the poker elevated from the fire pit stand and prodded the logs as if held by an invisible hand.
“Inconceivable!” gasped Messier Rousseau. “How is this accomplished? What is your power source? Is it science or magick?”
“I do not know,” I admitted. “Could not magick merely be science which we do not yet understand?”
“Possibly,” Rousseau agreed dubiously. “But my boy, there is no science in this world that could transform you into the appearance of a beast yet retain your intellect and reason. What is at work in this house, I fear, is something else entirely. Magick or demonic powers seem to me to be all that can account for it!”
“That is true,” I sighed, though my sigh sounded more like a snarl. “Sometimes I find myself employing reason and logic to disprove the very predicament I can clearly see before my eyes. But I am remiss, sir. My name is Phillip Bourgeoise, son of Lord Lois Bourgeoise and his wife, Lady Catherine Bourgeoise. I am their only son and heir. They both lie dead in the cellar; God rest their souls. I hid them there shortly after they died, for I was trapped within the house, and to this day I fear descending and seeing their bones.”
At first, Rousseau looked shocked, but then his expression softened to pity.
“I have heard strange tales of the fall of the Bourgeoise family. I remember, long ago, hearing of a mysterious blight that had cursed an entire city and would not suffer the outside world to enter. But my boy, that was many years past. It is practically a legend I do believe. Are you sure it’s only been a year since your city’s unfortunate demise?”
I felt disconcerted by this, and after some thought, asked, “Sir, what year is it?”
“1423,” he replied.
I sat still as stone in silent shock.
“But,” I said in a trembling rasp, “that means I’ve been here for nearly a century!”
Rousseau’s eyes grew wide.
“Surely, not!” he gasped.
“I do not know!” I exclaimed, feeling a tightening in my chest as dread set in. “What if this curse I am under causes time to move differently here than in the outside? What if – while I can only recall the one summer between two winters, eighty-three years have passed all around me?”
“Well,” Rousseau said, shrugging, “you haven’t lost your gasp of math.”
Just then, a knock came at the door. The wind had died down a bit, and while we were absorbed in conversation, the snow had nearly ceased.
“Messier Rousseau,” I said anxiously, “Would you be so kind as to answer the door? If indeed a second human has wandered accidentally to my doorstep, I would rather not kill them of fright.”
He nodded, but replied, “Just to be clear, to your knowledge, there are no other beasts like yourself about, and this Witch of whom you speak, is gone?”
“I am the only person here,” I confirmed. “The Witch was burned to ash.”
Rousseau acquiesced, and, rising from his seat, made his way to the door which he cautiously cracked open.
“Belle?” he gasped, then flung wide the door in consternation.
A beautiful young girl, not fifteen, clasped him in her arms.
“Papa!” she cried, as tears streamed down her face. “You’re alive! I cannot believe it’s really you!”
“But my beautiful daughter!” he said, holding her back at arm’s length. “How you have changed! When I left you, your hair was shorter, and you were but a small lanky slip of a thing.”
“What do you mean, papa?” the girl asked him. “Father, you have been missing for nearly a year. I’ve been staying with the Martins all this time. They gave you up for dead the first week you disappeared, and have engaged me to their eldest son, even though I do not love him. Last night, I slipped out through the back door while everyone was sleeping. I hoped to find you, to somehow discover what had happened to you. I never dreamed I would find you alive! Why did you never return?”
“Oh, my dear,” Rousseau said, beginning to weep. “I am more sorrowful at this news than words can ever convey. In this place we are in, it would seem, time works differently. From my perspective, I arrived last night, but from yours, many months have passed. And for our poor friend here, he is conscious of the passage of only a year, but to our world outside, nearly a century has gone by!”
“Our poor friend?” she asked, looking about the room. Her eyes lighted on me and she startled, but after deeming me a domesticated brute, she continued searching the room for a human companion.
For my part, I dared not speak.
“My dear,” Rousseau continued in an apologetic tone. “This creature before you, he is a man who only appears as a beast. He is our host.”
Belle glanced back at her father anxiously.
“Papa, are you unwell?” she asked, pressing her hand against his forehead.
“I am perfectly well, my dear,” he said. “This is Lord Phillip Bourgeoise.”
I sat silently, watching their conversation with no little anxiety.
“Lord Phillip Bourgeoise,” she repeated, with a strange tension mounting in her voice. “Lord Bourgeoise is an oversized dog?”
And then she began to laugh.
But it was not a happy or mirthful laugh. There was something strained beneath it which concerned me and it quickly turned to sobbing.
“Papa, you can’t do this to me!” she screamed, pounding his chest with her fist. “I thought myself an orphan but ten minutes ago. You abandoned me to live with strangers who only wanted me for our money, and now, after wandering for miles and miles through freezing darkness and ice, I find you insane in an old, dilapidated castle talking to a dog!”
“He is not insane!” I barked, but immediately regretted doing so.
Belle gaped at me, horrified, shrinking back in fear.
“He is not insane,” I repeated. “I am cursed, it is true. I look like a dog, or perhaps even a bear, but I retain the mind of a man and I can speak like a man … well … sort of.”
Belle stood as still as a statue. Her large brown eyes were wide with fright. Her rose-pink lips parted in surprise. The color drained from her cheeks, revealing flawless porcelain skin contrasting her soft black hair.
She looked from me to her father.
“Your madness is contagious,” she gasped.
“No!” he cried, taking her by the hand. “Belle, my daughter, you are not mad. What he says is true. The city we are in was ravaged by plague and cursed by a Witch, leaving every inhabitant dead, all save one, and he has been transformed into the creature you see before you.”
Her eyes flitted from me, to him, and back again.
“Say something again, dog,” she said, rising anger in her voice.
“Belle!” her father interjected. “He may look like an animal, but he is as clever as any person. He is Lord Phillip Bourgeoise, I promise you.”
“Speak!” she screamed at me.
At this treatment, I must admit, I was rather irritated. I had expected her to react in fear, but for reasons I cannot explain, the dehumanization of the experience caught me entirely off guard. I decided that I needed to impress upon this young woman that I was civilized. I must prove to her that I was not some dumb beast or inferior being. I regained my composure.
“Welcome to my abode,” I said uncertainly, recrossing my legs the other way about. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”
And with a wave of my claw, a tea tray whooshed into the room like a sterling flying carpet. Astride it was an elegant teapot and set of China cups. The teapot levitated as if lifted by an invisible hand and poured a fragrant brew into one of the teacups. The lid of a matching sugar bowl lifted, and a hovering spoon shoveled a heaping dose before stirring the steaming liquid. The cup then presented itself to her, as the tea tray and its occupants flew back into the kitchen.
She took the cup, deftly, and as if driven by impulse rather than wits, and sipped a dainty sip. She then looked at the cup in her hand in amazement.
“It is real,” she said. “It really is real. You’re … some kind of sorcerer?”
“No,” I replied. “I was just a regular boy. Then the plague came, and then the curse, and I slowly transformed into what you see before you, but I retained my wits. My intellect is intact. I apologize for startling you, my lady.”
She regarded me distrustfully, and then turned to her father.
“Papa,” she said, “we need to get out of here. If you were gone for a single night, and I have missed you for nearly a year, then I have been gone for months at least! The Martins will likely have given up finding me by now, and the world outside is passing us by.”
“Oh! Please do not go!” I begged, a stab of panic in my gut. “Please, I cannot go out into the world appearing as I do, but I do not think the curse would even let me if I tried. If you leave, I must stay, and I’ll be alone for another hundred years.”
She looked disdainfully at me.
“But a hundred years out there is merely a year to you. What is a year alone compared with us missing our lives and all our friends? My father has a business and a prestigious career as an inventor. His fame is known throughout the county. If he returns now, he may pick up his mantel, continue his work, and regain the status he held not so long ago.”
“Belle,” her father whispered, in a whisper no human should have heard from where I sat. “Be gentle. He’s just a boy, not yet twenty, but he is also a beast. I myself do not wish to linger here. It smells of death and I fear a terrible curse is upon it. Perhaps if we promise to return and visit, he will let us go, but you must be wise in your manners.”
At this, my heart plummeted. I had thought Rousseau to be a good man. I had been so desperate for company that I never questioned his intentions or considered his perspective. However, upon comprehending the nature of the curse laid upon me, and the strange effect of time in that place, he sought to deceive and manipulate rather than honestly tell me his inclinations and thoughts. I felt stupid for hoping I could possibly have a friend. He was afraid of me, despite our affable conversation and my hospitality. My horrifying visage would always be of more import to others than my character. I slumped rather suddenly into the depths of despair.
“Just go,” I growled despondently. “I can hear every word that you say. I do not require your deception. I do not desire you to make pretend at liking me, and even less at pitying me. Despite all that I have endured in this cursed place, I can barely tolerate genuine pity. False pity, I fear, would destroy me. Be gone, and do not return to my home again.”
Rousseau moved cautiously toward the door, but Belle stood as still as a statue, observing me.
“You really are not a beast,” she said. “You are truly kind and intelligent.”
My eyes met hers, but I found that I was far more distrustful than she. What a strange turning of the tables, for a creature as fearsome and wild as I to distrust a girl I could have easily torn to pieces.
“I fear that I am,” I replied, turning my gaze back toward the fire. “I wish I were stupid. I wish that, along with my bones and flesh, my mind had grown bestial and my tongue mute. Like Nebuchadnezzar I could graze carelessly in the fields, incapable of worries beyond the scope of a cow. As it is, I sit in my library reading my books, studying philosophy, learning of sciences I shall never have the chance to dabble in. And so, I will continue reading poetry and myth, studying music and art, and imagining a world beyond that is quickly passing me by. Tonight, I learned that every book I’ve ever read, every science, every treatise, every brilliant epiphany, is out of date by over eighty years and quite possibly irrelevant. I am a learned man in bygone thought. I shall die in irrelevance behind this cursed curtain of isolation.”
I glanced back at her and was surprised to see tears. Her eyes welled up as if she sympathized with my plight. Her fear melted away and her disgust dissipated.
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am,” she said in a broken voice, “but we must go. If we stay, perchance, the curse will light on us too. We could end up like you; trapped and deformed, beyond hope of continuing our lives in the outside world.”
I nodded, sadly, tears forming in my own brown eyes.
“But before we go,” she said, “let me kiss you, goodbye. Some fairytales say that a kiss can lift a curse, and in the very least, you’ll have been kissed.”
She approached me and bent over. Her fragrant black hair tumbled over my shoulders, and her soft pink lips kissed my coarse brown ones.
Nothing happened.
“I am sorry,” she said.
And she turned, and they left.
After sitting by myself, weeping for a few moments, I walked to the near window and looked outside, but they had already passed beyond visibility in the snow. With a deep inhale of breath, I resigned myself to another long year, and perhaps a lifetime, in horrid seclusion.
I feared I would run mad, but for my books. Indeed, they were my constant companions, my source of reassurance that I was not alone in this wild and depraved universe; that I had not run mad and imagined the reality of humanity, nor my own boyish human figure; that this curse I was under was but a hellish mirage, a trick, an evil incantation, and a lie about who I was. My books, though they were nearly a century old, and no doubt brimming with outdated information, kept me grounded in the reality of what should have been my existence.
Quietly, I turned from the window, and made my way to the stairs which lead to my library. Suddenly, I stopped. There was a sound outside. At first, I mistook it for a flock of cackling crows, but as it grew in volume and apparent nearness my ear distinguished a rhythmic pattern, and then individual words.
A crowd was approaching. Nay, a raging mob. From the steps on which I stood I could catch a glimpse out the great window which overlooked the courtyard. As they drew closer, I could make out pitchforks, shovels, swords, and clubs. They were chanting, “Kill the Witch-Dog! Kill the Witch-Dog!”
My mind raced in the strange clarity of decisive terror, and I flicked my eyes toward every piece of heavy furnishing in the room. Sofas, bookcases, sideboards, and chests, dragged noisily along the floor and flung themselves against the door, barricading their master inside. I knew it would only hold for a short time against the rage and violence of the people, but I resolved that this would give me just enough time to retreat to my library, pray to God, and reconcile myself to death.
Before I set foot in that sanctuary, I heard the blast of fists, clubs, cudgels, and hilts, beat against the door. I knew those blows would soon fall upon my body, and I prayed to God, I’d fall faster than my doors. I prayed my death would be quick, that He would ease my pain, and that – like Jesus Christ our Lord – He would accept my spirit into His hands before my bones were broken.
There was a profound crash and a clatter, followed by a deathly silence. It would seem that as soon as the mob broke through the threshold, they stood in stunned silence for a time. I imagined them creeping through the halls and dining room, peering under tables and in closets, searching for a feral animal, a dumb brute, a mad bear. I imagined them tiptoeing up the stairs toward my library, poking their heads into sitting rooms and bedrooms, expecting at any moment to hear the growl of a rabid beast.
There was a click and a whoosh behind me, but I sat down calmly in my comfortable chair, caressing a leather book binding between my claws.
“Phillip!” came a gentle whisper. I had been expecting the stab of a sword in my back, or perhaps the blow of a club on my head. I was stunned to hear my name and turned to see … her!
“Phillip!” she repeated. “We must sneak out some backway. Is there another way out of this room?”
“Belle,” I said, dumbfounded. “You came back? No. Why are you here?”
“Phillip, I was a fool,” she confessed. “I had hopes of saving you; of breaking the curse upon you. After a few weeks of contemplation, I confided to a priest in our town. I thought him to be a wise man of God, but he is a frightened old fool and has set the whole town against you. He has convinced them that you are The Witch, that your spell went awry, transforming you into a witless monster. He warned them that you slaughtered all the people in your city, from the oldest man to the smallest infant. He has said, God will not suffer any evil in his presence, and that if we do not rid the land of your existence, God will cause the plague to return and punish us.”
“Why would he think such things?” I asked.
“Does anyone need a reason to be irrational?” she replied, throwing her hands in the air in a gesture of frustration.
I sighed, but even in my peaceful, relinquished sorrow, my sigh resembled more of a snarl.
“It is just as well, my dear Belle,” I said. “This evil is not your doing, and perhaps it is not evil at all. I have often prayed that God would use my plight in some mysterious way to bring about good. Perhaps, with my death, he will do so. I do not relish the thought of enduring a lifetime in this vile form in this horrid isolation. Perhaps dying today, even by violence, would be a greater blessing than any I could have hoped for.”
“Do not speak this way!” cried Belle, angry tears welling in her eyes. “There must be a way to break this curse and return you to your human state. The priest I spoke to is a liar and a fool, but there must me a way; holy water, intercessions, blessings, spells, or saints who could intercede.”
I smiled at her, and while I am dubious as to how becoming my smile looked, she seemed to understand, and smiled back.
Then suddenly, behind her, a fearful looking man poked his head through the door. He looked wide-eyed about the room, but when his gaze fell upon me, it hardened into a hateful grimace.
“I have found the Witch-Dog!” he cried. “Quick! Back me up!”
Then, rushing at me, he swung his sword. As his blade fell, I bowed my head over the book in my hand, which was a collection of Psalms, praying that his blow would be swift and final, but it never came. I looked about, and to my horror, Belle was crumpled upon the floor beside my chair, drenched in her own red blood.
“What have you done?” I roared, with the rage of a bear and the terribleness of a lion. I leapt out of my chair and knelt over Belle, who was still alive, though grievously injured.
“You will recover,” I told her, examining the wound which had sliced through her shoulder and down to her collar bone. “Did you throw yourself in front of him? Why? Why would you not let me die?”
She looked up at me, and smiled, though her eyes spoke of great pain.
“Because,” she said, “you deserve to be protected. You deserve to be loved, and to not to be alone.”
A tear rolled down the fur on my face. As I kissed her forehead, angry men began flooding into the room. A few hesitated upon seeing the bloody girl in my arms, but the man who had stabbed her said, “She’s a witch too! She threw herself before my blade to protect this abomination. She is as guilty as he!”
“You are no beast,” she said to me, wrapping her good arm around my neck. “You are beauty. The true beasts – the dangerous predators – are the cowardly men all around us.”
And with that they set upon us, beating, stabbing, hacking, and pummeling. I sheltered Belle beneath my body, and we cried together as we died. My blood fell upon her as rain, and I remember seeing her eyes close. After a short time, I felt the breath leave her body, freed by another stab of the sword.
Mercifully, thereafter, my own death came quickly. It was a feeling like slipping out of uncomfortable shoes, or setting down a heavy burden, or breaking the surface of the water after staying under for too long. My soul slipped out of my body, my pain melted away, and a sensation of pure comfort, safety, freedom, and peace, swept over me like spring air.
The next thing I recall, is the ceiling of my library. It was clean and repaired, trimmed with gold, and painted here and there with angels and fruited boughs. Splashes of color illuminated the walls. I sat up, and looking about, beheld clean and beautiful stained-glass windows. I smelled the air, and instead of the usual smell of musty rot and death, there was a fragrance of flowers and freshly tilled earth.
Then I turned to see the stunned faces of strangers. There, on the floor beside me, was Belle. To my relief, she was no longer bloody or broken. As she opened her eyes, her gaze met mine.
“Who are you?” she asked.
So confused was I that I did not answer.
“That looks like Phillip Bourgeoise,” stammered one of the men. “His painting hangs at my master’s house, not twenty miles hence. He is the son of Lord Louis and Lady Catherine Bourgeoise, who died in the plague which afflicted this land some eighty years ago. But surely, that cannot be?”
Stunned, I looked at my hands. They were a man’s hands. Trembling, I scrambled up from the floor, and ran to the mirror that hung above the mantel. There, in the reflection, I saw my face; the face of a young man around eighteen years of age, with clear blue eyes, smooth pale skin, and an unruly mop of straw-gold hair. I was cured! The curse was broken! I laughed, and – oh! Music to my ears! – my laugh sounded clear, radiant, and human.
The men who, just moments before, had brazenly murdered that which they feared, fled at the sight of our health and life. Every last one flew from my home with the haste of startled pigeons.
Belle and I were left alone in the library. Not even a drop of blood could be seen on the clean, embroidered carpet.
“What has happened?” she asked me.
“I do not know,” I admitted, “but it is wonderful!”
She looked at me cautiously, and said, “Is it really you, Phillip?”
“Yes,” I laughed, kneeling down on the floor beside her. “I cannot believe it. I did not think my curse could ever be broken, but somehow, something has done it!”
“If it was my kiss,” she smiled wryly, “your recovery is certainly delayed.”
I laughed again, and then I could not stop laughing. I had never felt such joy before and have never felt such since. It was the greatest day of my life, and I do not think, save by the day I finally enter Heaven, it can ever be eclipsed.
“Perhaps …” I began, tempering my laughter and euphoric delight. “Perhaps … well … do you love me, Belle?”
She considered me quizzically but shook her head.
“Phillip,” she said, “I do care for you, but if you’re thinking that true love – at least, the kind of love a wife feels for her husband – broke the curse, I do not think that can be possible. I do not wish to hurt you, but I desire to be honest and right by you, so I must admit that I hardly know you. I have concern for you, and I desire to be your friend, and perhaps in time I could love you that way, but not yet.”
“No,” I said, still breathless in my joy. “Nor I you, to speak truthfully. You are beautiful, and for seeking to help me and for returning to protect me, I am still quite dumbfounded and eternally in your debt. But I do not know you well enough to say that I love you. Whereupon I must conclude that some other thing broke the curse.”
Her eyes turned to the book of Psalms, now lying on the floor beside my chair.
“What if,” she said, “it was love, but not the kind of love we are thinking of?”
“Perhaps,” I said, not sure I was following her train of thought.
“Phillip,” she continued, “what if sacrificial love – the laying down of our lives for one another – produced so great a prominence of goodness, that no evil or witchcraft could endure in its presence?”
“Yes,” I agreed, understanding dawning on me.
“Phillip, love did break the curse,” she said, “but it was a purer love than most mortals may ever know. A kind of love that requires nothing in return. A quality of love that sacrifices all, not for the glory of self or of man, but for the glory of God.”
And here, my dear reader, my story draws to a close. I am many years older now. After we left the castle, we found the city to be in good repair, albeit vacant and eerily quiet. Whatever time displacement had once existed evaporated with the rest of The Witch’s spell. I was dropped unceremoniously into the mid 1400’s.
By God’s providence, a seminary in the village where Belle and her father resided employed a small circle of theologians and philosophers. I found that, while my education was antiquated for the most part, I could still find employment as a historian. I must confess, due to the renewed splendor of my palace and recovery of my estate, I was in no want for money, but the kinship and interaction my new profession afforded were invaluable to me after my lengthy confinement.
Belle and I never did fall in love, though our love for one another will endure for eternity. She went on to marry an industrious man from town who is an innkeeper and a blacksmith. They have four beautiful children who take handsomely after their mother. On occasion we meet and talk of old times, and I have lent her a plethora of books. Her husband is a good man; thoughtful, successful, and a faithful church attendant. I am very happy for both of them.
I suspect my letter is not ending quite the way you expected. To be sure, my life did not happen in any way that I expected. But I am content. I have more than I need. I have lost much but gained more. I have had faith in hardship and had my faith confirmed through it. I have stood against evil and fallen by the sword, yet I endured and prevailed by some power, of which nature I do not know, yet which only can have come from God.
If you find my story, please, publish it far and wide. Share it freely with your fellow man in case some wisdom may be gleaned from it. I have no doubt that gossip, and fanciful rumors will develop over the years, distorting the truth and twisting history into myth. I will let that be.
I could tell my story now in the public square or while lecturing in my classroom, but what would that afford? There are good men here abouts whose reputations would be damaged, and whose pride would never recover were the truth currently known. Even the man who struck the first blow, wounding Belle, is a common herdsman with a family who – save for under the duress of extraordinary circumstances – wouldn’t drown a mouse.
No, my friends. My strange story must remain a mystery, lost to rumor and the whims of gossips, until such time as you may find it.
I am eternally yours,
Lord Phillip Bourgeoise
The lost city of Pâques, France