Beauty (10 page)

They grew so fast those last few days that I found myself watching them out of the corners of my eyes as if I would catch them at something: hastily unrolling a leaf, threading a new runner up the vines that were joyously climbing the sides of the house, shop, and barn. The seedlings nearest the forest did the best, as if there were some radiated strength emanating from their place of origin. On the fifth day there were tiny buds beginning; on the sixth day the buds swelled till touches of colour, red or pink, could

be seen at their tips. Father and I would ride away the morning of the next day.

Like the night following the telling of Father’s fantastic story, again on my last night at home I found myself unable to sleep. After supper I had gone outside again, oppressed by the unspoken tension indoors, and walked around the meadow. The stream’s voice was almost articulate, but I couldn’t quite catch the words; and I fete that I was being taunted for my dullness. The pebbles on the banks of the stream watched me knowingly, I went to the stable, although I knew everything was in military order there, the appropriate tack cleaned ruthlessly and laid out for tomorrow’s journey. I had groomed Greatheart till he gleamed like polished marble, and combed his long mane and tail over and over again till he must have wondered what was wrong with me. He had been a little uneasy the last few days, as uneasy as a great placid horse can be, sensing some change in the air. At least he knew where I was when I was shining him; he put his head over the door and pointed his eats at me with a little anxious quiver of his nostrils when I blew die lantern out and left him at last. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you’re coming too,” and closed the barn door as he watched me. The moon was three -quarters full, and there were just a few little, dancing clouds in the sky. The forest was quiet, except for the sounds that trees make.

I went up to bed immediately, pausing downstairs only long enough to nod to everyone, sitting around the fire in the front room with their hands busy, although it was past the usual hour that we all went to bed, and to hang the lantern on its hook by the door. “You’re all ready?” Ger asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said. “Good night.”

I paused on the second floor at die foot of the ladder to my loft. The forest looked different he re. I was used to looking at it from my attic, or from ground level. The difference intrigued me, and I leaned out the window, teasing myself that there was an important difference, philosophical or moral, instead of

just the fact of a few extra feet up or down, a change of physical perspective. There was a murmur of voices from downstairs. Suddenly I heard clearly, without wanting to.

“Poor Ferdy,” said Ger. “I told him he needn’t come till afternoon tomorrow.” Ger’s wish to hire die boy full rime, so that he could teach him the smith’s trade, was about to be fulfilled: Ferdy would work here daily, dividing his time between the shop and wood-cutting. He’d be invited to live here, once I was gone, probably in Ger’s old attic room, since Hope had said loudly, when we had discussed his staying here, “Of course we’ll leave Beauty’s room alone.”

Like the rest of the townspeople, Ferdy had been told three weeks ago that I was leaving. Ger had told him in the shop while I was there too, holding another fractious horse while it was shod, Ferdy had listened in silence, and had remained silent for several minutes after Ger was finished. Then he said: “I wish you good luck, Beauty,” and little else, either that day or in the weeks following. He avoided me with much more purpose than I had ever expended in avoiding him, and he no longer ate dinner with us.

“Poor Ferdy,” agreed Hope.

The roses had clambered all around the window; there was an especially fat bud resting on the sill, its tip showing maroon. I took my boots off and climbed the ladder silently.

But I couldn’t sleep. What little packing I had to do—my books, a few clothes—was done; the saddle-bag sat on the floor waiting to be carried downstairs at first light and tied on Greatheart’s back. I wrapped myself in a blanket and curled up at the head of my bed, where I could lean against the wall and

stare out the window. I hadn’t worn the griffin ring since the first night, but I had begun carrying it in a pocket. I found that I didn’t like leaving it in my room, that I kept thinking about it; I was comforted in some obscure fashion when I carried it with me: It was a token of my future; I read it as a good omen. I felt for it now, pulled it out, and put it on.

I must have dozed at last, because I found myself in the castle again, walking through dozens of handsome, magnificently furnished rooms, looking for something. I had a stronger sense of sorrow and of

urgency this time; and also a sense of some other—presence; I could describe it no more clearly. I found myself crying as I walked, flinging doors open and looking inside eagerly, then hurrying on as they were each empty of what I sought. I woke abruptly; the sun was rising. The first thing I saw was three roses, opening in the faint light: Two were the dark red of the rose on the mantelpiece, one was white, delicately

veined with peach colour. I hadn’t realized the vines had reached so high. Two of the roses nodded gently, visible only barely above the window sill, but the third had wound up the si de and hung at eye level, as I stood looking out, bowing on its stem as if it were looking in the window at me. I opened the window and leaned out, and to my exquisite delight found that the whole side of the house was covered with roses in full bloom; and I could see bright flowers leaning against the shop and stable walls. “Thank you,” I whispered to no one.

I closed the window again and hurried into my clothes; today I left the griffin ring on my finger. The wooden box that had held the rose seeds was packed away in the saddle-bag. I made my bed neatly, or as neatly as I was capable of, smoothing the blankets with greater care than I ever used; and I hesitated, looking around, before I climbed down the ladder for the last time. The old wooden trunk was pushed into one corner; the bed stood along the long wall, under die eaves. My few books were gone from the opposite wall, where they had lain heaped on the floor near the little window. The big red rose was tapping softly against the window with a sound of velvet rubbing against glass. On an impulse I went across and opened the window again, and broke the stem; die rose fell graciously into my hand. I closed the window then and went downstairs without looking back, die saddlebag over my shoulder and die rose held respectfully in one hand.

I met Grace in die garden, returning to the house with her apron full of eggs. She gave me as much of a smile as she could summon, and said, “There’s a bit of butter to fry these in.” Butter we used only on special occasions.

By the time I had saddled Greatheart and Father’s horse the sunlight was winning a way through the light frost on the ground. I tucked the rose I had plucked under the crownpiece on Greatheart’s bridle and went in to breakfast. I came in silently through the front door so that I could stand in the parlour alone for a few minutes and look around me. The rose on the mantelpiece was dying at last: The petals were turning brown and many had dropped off; the stem was withered. The one golden petal glinted through the dry brown ashes. I could hear the rest of the family in the kitchen.

Breakfast was a silent meal. As soon as I could I escaped to the stable. I paused with my hand on the kitchen door and said to Grace, “The eggs were delicious.” She gave me a stricken look, then said,

“Thank you,” to the pile of dirty dishes she was holding.

Greatheart was anxious to get to whatever it was that was ruining my peace and therefore his. He came out of his stall with a rush, pulling me with him and nearly wrenching my shoulder out of its socket.

He tossed his head, making die rose on his headstall bounce, and pranced a few steps, no mean feat for a horse of his bulk, Odysseus, Father’s horse, was tamer, I looped his reins over one arm while I wrestled with Greatheart. The stupid animal actually tried to rear, and lifted me several inches off the ground; he recollected himself before he went too high, and returned to earth, looking sheepish. The rest

of the family was collected by the kitchen door. Grace and Hope stood at the threshold, each with a baby in her arms. Father and Ger stood a step lower, on the little patch of bare ground between the door

and the gate in the fence around the garden. The roses were a blaze of vivid colour, lighting up the dun-coloured house, the plain clothes, and the white faces.

Ger came to where we stood and took Greatheart’s bridle. The big horse arched his neck and quivered, but he stood still. “I’ll hold him for a bit while you—” he said, and stopped. I nodded. Father took Odysseus’s reins, and I walked slowly to where my sisters were standing. “Well,” I said, and kissed them and the babies in turn. Mercy and Richard didn’t know what was going on, but eve ryone looked solemn and rather terrible, so they looked solemn too. Mercy stuffed most of one fist in her mouth, and Richard was inclined to cry; he was whimpering, and Hope rocked him gently. “Good-bye,” I said. My sisters said nothing. I turned and walked back towards the horses; Father was already mounted.

Great-heart was watching me, and as I turned towards him gave a great bound forwards, and I saw the blacksmith’s muscles on Ger’s arms stand out as he tried to hold him. Greatheart subsided, sinking back on his hocks, and chewing on his bits till the white foam splashed to the ground.

“Oh,” I said, turning back to my sisters. “All the stuff in Father’s saddle-bags: I hope you’ll use it. It’s not—I mean, I wish you would,” I ended lamely. They both nodded. Grace gave me a ghost of a smile; Hope blinked, and a big tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto Richard’s face. He broke into a thin cry. I still hesitated. “Use all that fine silver on my birthday,” I said at last, not having thought of what

I wished to say, or how to say it; and turned away hastily.

Greatheart was throwing his head up and down, but he was otherwise quiet. Ger embraced me with his free arm and kissed my forehead. “I’ll toss you up,” he said. The horse stood as still as a stone fo r this operation, and heaved a great sigh as I settled in the saddle. I reached forwards to fix the rose a little more firmly. “Okay?” I said to my father. He nodded. Ger stepped back.

I turned Greatheart towards the forest edge, and he paced forwards deliberately, quiet now, and Odysseus followed. Just before I reached the trees I turned in the saddle to wave; Ger raised a hand in reply. I nudged the horse into a trot, and we broke into the first line of trees. The last thing I heard as the

forest closed around Father and me was Richard’s small forlorn wailing. I urged Greatheart into a canter, and the noise of the horses crashing through the underbrush drowned everything else.

When I pulled him up at last the edge of the forest was no longer visible; I could see nothing but tall trees in every direction. Few of them were small enough for me to have reached all the way around diem

and touched fingertips to fingertips. The scrub at the beginning of the forest had thinned out; there was moss underfoot now, and I saw a few violets, a few tardy snowdrops, and some tiny yellow flowers I didn’t recognize. It was cool here without being cold; sunlight dripped a little way among the leaves, but without warmth. Most of the tree trunks were straight and smooth to a height above our heads, where the

broad branches began. I heard water running somewhere; except for that, and the noises of our passage—harness jingling and squeaking and occasional patches of cobweb ice that shattered underfoot—the woods were perfectly still. Father was a little way behind me, I looked up and could see little bits of blue sky, like stars against the variegated green and black and brown. I breathed deeply and for the first time for several days I felt my heart lift out of my boots and take its proper place in my breast. As Father jogged up beside me I said, “This is a good forest.” He smiled and said, “You don’t lack courage, child.”

“No, I mean it,” I said.

“Then I’m glad. I find it a bit oppressive, myself,” he said, looking around him. We went on a few more minutes, and then he said, “Look.” I could see something pale among the trees. In another minute I

recognized it: It was the road leading to the heart of the forest, and the castle.

I was eager to make as much speed as possible; I knew that Father was on the brink of begging me to turn back and let him go on | to the castle alone. I would not leave him, whatever he said now, but I was uncertain just how far beyond this essential determination my thin courage could bear me. I knew I would go on, but I wanted to do it with dignity; if Father said anything it was likely that I would cry, and then the journey would be a great deal more miserable than it was at present, with nothing more dreadful

between us than the grim and thoughtful silence that we shared, I kept hearing Richard’s tiny crying in my

mind, and seeing the gorgeous roses framing Grace and Hope and Ger as they faced the forest. I tried to feel encouraged by my sense that the forest was welcoming, not hostile, but that shallow cheerfulness seemed to ebb away as we walked onto the white road, I prodded Greatheart into a trot, and Father fell a little behind again; for a little while I didn’t have to worry about the expression on my face. I could feel that it wasn’t one I wanted him to see.

We stopped once to rest the horses; neither of us was hungry, although there was food in our saddle-bags. It was a little after noon when we saw the dense dark hedge and the huge silver gate looming up before us. The gates shimmered like a mirage in sea-fog. Odysseus, who had been well-behaved until now, shivered and shied, and did not want to go near those tall silent gates. At last Father dismounted and led the unhappy horse to die gates, but when he put out his hand to touch them,

Odysseus reared and broke away. He stopped again only a few feet from Father’s out-stretched hand, looking back over his shoulder, ashamed of himself but still afraid. Greatheart stood still and watched.

“Father,” I said, as he stroked his horse’s nose and tried to calm him, “you needn’t come any farther with me. These are the gates to the castle. If you leave at once you will be home by suppertime.” My voice cracked only a very little. I was glad I could sit quietly on Greatheart, that I did not have to dismount and make my legs carry me, and that I could hide my shaking hands in the thick white mane that