CASTLE OF THE BEAST A White Rose The red rose whispers of passion, But I send you a cream-white rosebud, John Boyle O'Reilly CHAPTER ONE Alone Forever
It was a long climb up the six thousand and one steps of the circular
staircase; the beast's velvet cloak floated like a black banner from his broad
shoulders. "Four thousand and two, four thousand and three ... " His hoarse
voice rasped like a file scraped across granite. There was a hint of a growl
in the low tone. Centuries earlier, when he was a boy, counting the steps had
been a pastime, one of the solitary games he invented for himself. The habit
persisted, though it failed to amuse him any longer. As a child, he charged
headlong up the tower stairs, always eager to see what might be appearing on
the horizon. He climbed more slowly now, and with less hope. Though his body
had too much strength ever to tire, his spirit could fail; and he was weary to
the soul. His name was Vincent, but it had been hundreds of years since he'd heard
the name spoken aloud. Year after year he awoke in silence -- ate and worked
without speaking -- slept alone. "Why am I putting myself through this again? When will I ever learn?" Imperceptibly he'd fallen into the habit of talking to himself.
Sometimes he startled himself with the sound of his own harsh voice. His
jeweled boots echoed on the triangular risers, making a hollow sound. It
matched the hollowness he felt inside. "Always alone," he said to himself. "Always, always." The toe of his boot dislodged a triangular step; it tipped and fell end
over end, smashing in the emptiness far below. He had been climbing in the
dark, for the black stone tower was nearly windowless. Now he paused long
enough to lift a lantern from one of the granite fists that protruded from the
wall. Once the fingers had moved, grasping and letting go; now they only
served as knobs. The magic was unstable; though the power had vanished forever
out of the stone hands, it still lingered around the lantern, which bloomed
into flame as soon as he lifted it. The faint yellow glow illuminated the cuff of Vincent's doublet,
encrusted with silver embroidery; and his enormous furred hand. When he raised
the lantern to see ahead, it cast odd shadows across his leonine features.
Like his hoarse voice and great clawed hand, his face was half human, half
bestial. Or at least he supposed his appearance was partially human. Sometimes it
was hard to remember. Centuries had passed since he'd seen the face of another
living man or woman. There were portraits of his mother Anya on the castle
walls; marble busts of sibyls in the library; drawings of troubadours and
damsels in his books. "But not one of them resembles me." He wondered sometime why the evil magic that had given him such a
fearsome appearance had not more deeply affected his spirit. It would have
more consistent had his soul been frightful, too, rather than gentle and full
of longings. Twenty steps farther on, a gust of cold air extinguished the feeble
flame. He had eyes that could see in the dark, though; and he kept an climbing
slowly, wary of other base steps, the useless lantern swinging from his fist. He paused on a landing and gazed out through an arrow slit that admitted
a slanting ray. The slit was narrow; he could see only colorless clouds. "It would have been simpler," he mused, resting his arm on the sill.
"Maybe I wouldn't mind the loneliness if I had something other than a human
heart. But then, how do I know it's human? What do I knew about human beings
beyond the poems I read? Their lives are brief, and yet when they love one
another they move out of the realm of time and into the realm of eternity." For Vincent, eternity was growing longer with each passing day. Moments
and hours -- days and weeks -- months and years pressed in on him, feeling
like a tombstone an his chest. Keeping up his courage took all the strength he
had. The dim ray of light faded behind him as he continued to ascend. It
seemed an endless climb, circling around and around. Whenever he reached a
landing he paused and looked out an arrow slit. There was nothing to be seen
but the ever-present fog. "Gray, gray, gray." In his early youth he surveyed the horizon every day. Now he only
climbed the steps to the lookout tower when his loneliness became
insupportable. After the previous night, his solitude was so heavy he almost
could have wept. Remembering made him shudder even now. It had been the hour before dawn, when darkness still reigned. Groaning
and thrashing, ripping the black silk sheets with his clawed hands, he battled
a nightmare of utter desolation. In his dream, a rocky desert stretched to the
horizon. He was imprisoned in a cage covered with blowing dust. He was dying
of hunger and there was no one to open the lock. Howling, he shook the bare,
then sank to his knees as weakness overcame him. Sand blew in, dry and gritty,
sifting over him, choking him. He knew the truth, then. Even if he did gasp
out a last cry for help, no one would come. No one would even hear it. No one
existed apart from himself. No one at all. He would suffer a little longer and
then die completely alone. The sand would cover the cage, and no one would
ever know. "No one at all." His hands knotted until the pointed nails stung his
palms; his sharp teeth clenched, too. In the past few months that same dream,
or a variation of it, had more than once robbed him of a night's sleep and
driven him to the lookout tower. Higher and higher still the spiral staircase rose. The stones were slick
with dampness; the air he breathed was stale, smelling of ancient mould. "Five thousand and ninety six, five thousand and ninety seven." With the palm of his hand he examined a flat, splintery timber roof and
the outline of a square trapdoor. A rusty iron ring hung down. He pushed at
the trapdoor, but dampness had swollen the wood. He climbed two more steps,
bent double, and set his broad shoulder against the hatch. A mighty shove and
it flew open, crashing backwards. He swung himself out and stood in a world of
fog and mist. "Now I will know whether or not I've made a fool of myself by coming up
here again. And why is hope more painful than despair?" Vincent had no answer
to his own question. The timber roof was slick with moisture. A crenellated parapet ringed
the circular tower like square black teeth. With caution he neared the parapet. The roof was slippery and he wasn't
sure the rampart was still intact. The stones might have been loosened the
last time the magic faltered. It seemed secure, so he leaned over the
waist-high wall, trying to pierce the mist with his far-seeing gaze. One hand
gripped the black, slick stones; the other shielded his deep-set eyes, which
were blue, with an eternal shadow of sadness. Turning his gaze upward, he
found only changing clouds. Mist thickened and swirled; shifting colors of the
overcast sky melted from slate to ash to smoke. As a child he had watched the
clouds far hours, inventing playfellows there, as he had no others. The days
of his childhood, though, were far in the past; and the knights and fair
ladies he discovered in the clouds no longer brought him consolation, any more
than the heroes and maidens in his books of ballads. Usually he bore his solitary destiny with good grace. He was a little
ashamed of himself for succumbing to self-pity, even for a short while. "Maybe
I should give up poetry. I dream of quests and rescues, but not even in my
wildest fantasies can I make myself believe that a maiden would run to me far
protection. I know what heroes are like; I know the creatures they slay. And
it is clear which one I resemble."
'They are merely legends to me,' he admitted in his thoughts. 'As I am a
legend to them.' Little by little he had come to think of himself as did the
villagers beyond the wood -- as the beast of the castle. If there were any
villagers beyond the wood. His books that described thatched cottages, maypole
dances, skies of blue, and living men and women might have been fictional, for
all he knew. He even had a book that recounted legends about himself, and
those stories were certainly fictional. The book contained an illustration of
an old grandmother wrapped in shawls against the winter cold, quavering a tale
of horror to frightened children huddled near her stool. The words under the
illustration were burned into his mind. 'The creature is half-man, for he walks upright and speaks a human
language. And yet his true nature is that of a lion! His teeth are sharp to
devour travelers -- the bones of those who have ventured into the forest now
litter his table! The evil sorceress Anya created the demon and sealed his
realm with a magical barrier to divide his world from our own! Keep your
distance from the forest or it will pull you inside!' The old woman was not altogether wrong. The fog-haunted forest was a
ghastly place. As for the beast himself … Vincent thought, 'I know what I am, and yet how strange it is to be
feared and hated by men and women who have never seen my face. If we could
meet, I wonder how they would perceive me -- how I would appear to them in
truth. As an unnatural monster? A terrible demon?' Was there one among them with the insight to perceive that he was
actually not so terrible, but only sad. He needed only one -- one friend --
someone to speak his name aloud; to be glad to see him, and sorry when he went
away. With an effort, he shook off the fantasy. He had indeed been reading too
many poems. Such dreams were not for him. He ought to know by now they only
deepened his pain. He drew a long, melancholy breath, inhaling the moist scent
of fog. At that height, the air was very still. Though he leaned over the
parapet and listened, no sound from the spectral forest far below could reach
the ninety and nine turrets that rose in knobbed pillars and twisted steeples
until they disappeared into the mist. Rank upon rank, higher and higher still
the towers soared: peaks of gold and pillars of tracery, conjured up to
display Anya's prowess to the Dark Gods she both worshipped and fought.
Outlined against the clouds, the castle was a forest in the sky that rivaled
the forest below. The lookout tower was not the highest by any means, but it faced north.
If any traveler ever did venture into the haunted wood, he would ride from
that direction. Or so the books claimed. Of course, the histories in his
library were long out of date. Some war or plague or conquest could have
devastated the world beyond, for all Vincent knew. He might actually be the
only person left alive, just as his dream envisioned. "If that is the case, I don't want to know it. That would be a nightmare
indeed." He moved along the curved rampart and gazed eastward. Far, far below, a
river divided the castle; three and thirty of the towers rose from the other
side. Through the mist, they appeared so delicate and lefty as to seem almost
insubstantial. Ancient spells supported airy arches -- rainbows of black
stones that connected the cloud-capped spires. He finished the circle, though all he could see to the south and west
were more towers whose peaks were lost in fog. No traveler was approaching
from any direction. "Why am I here?" Disconsolate, he turned away. Perhaps it was time he
gave up hoping altogether. Despair might even be less painful than this fading
expectation -- in the same way death was said to be less agonizing than a long
dying. Sweeping the train of his black cape behind him, Vincent lowered himself
down through the trapdoor. He reached up, gripped the rusty ring, and pulled
the hatch closed with a squeal of grating hinges. The sudden darkness smelled
of dampness and raw stones. One hand lightly brushed the wall as he began to descend; the other was
clenched around his belt. His hands were usually clenched, these days. There
was wild blood in him and he fought continually to hold it in mastery. The spiraling steps seemed to go on forever. He was in no haste, though;
time meant nothing to him, now that he had scanned the horizon and resigned
himself once again to solitude. His heavy brow was furrowed; he was a little
angry at himself for being affected by the nightmare and for continuing to
hope that this one time he would spy a horse and rider galloping through the
forest. He should have learned better sense after all these years. There never
had been a guest in the castle; there never would be. "No more poetry," he decided. "No more climbing the lookout tower. This
is the last time. If I find myself succumbing to temptation, I'll spike the
trap door shut and seal the entrance at the base. And no more dreams by day or
night." The first resolution and the second he could manage, if he put his mind
to it. The last would be more difficult. He'd built fortifications inside
himself; high walls and stout ramparts to keep dreams away from his vulnerable
heart. Sometimes, though, a dream still broke through, and broke him. As he neared the base, he passed doors set into the curved wall. The
first was streaked with runes; rough angled lines scrawled in blood that had
faded to rusty brown. The runes spelled out an incantation, certainly; but
which one he could not guess, for he knew nothing of spellcasting. Magic had
built this castle and domed the forest, but the sorcery was not his. If such
powers had been his, he would have discovered long ago whether villages and
human beings actually did exist beyond the haunted wood. It was the sorceress
Anya who had scrawled those runes before going out to battle against
Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Whose blood it was that smeared the door, it was
better not to know. It might even be his own. He'd been seven days old when
Anya went out to face the Dark Gods in battle. In that brief span of time, she
conjured up the castle and bespelled the forest. For his sake? Vincent doubted
it. He descended to the next landing. The portal was splintered, as if it
had been kicked from within. That floor he no longer entered; in fact he had
barred the door with iron, securing it with huge bolts an either side. Furious hissing noises and violent scrapings confirmed his suspicion
that a gargoyle from the entry way had gotten itself lacked inside. If so, it
could stay there forever among the spinning wheels and looms. Maybe over the
coming centuries it would teach itself to weave cloth -- but he seriously
doubted that. Knotholes pitted the third door, which leaked smoke. It was white smoke,
though, not purple, so he didn't worry. Anya's poisonous concoctions were
usually purple. White smoke merely indicated a fire somewhere an that floor.
The castle was stone throughout, and would not easily burn. He continued his
journey toward the base of the tower. The fourth door was fitted with a cat's eye that opened and closed
continually. Who was looking through that eye and what it might be seeing,
Vincent could net guess. It had only appeared a year or so earlier, when the
magic momentarily faltered. The enchantments that supported the castle and
domed over the forest were gradually fading -- Anya had been dead too long.
Even her incredible powers were not infinite. The spells collapsed in strange
ways. The escaped gargoyle and the cat's eye were only two. On the ground floor he pushed open the last door, which vibrated to
unheard music, and walked out into a hallway hung with faded tapestry. Stones
hands held up the iron rods. He didn't bother to look at the woven patterns of
hunting scenes, unicorns, or water nymphs. He had passed by them for
centuries, and knew every stitch. He turned into the great hall, which was faintly illuminated by wheels
of candles hanging from the rafters. A frieze of heraldic lions decorated the
dark paneled walls. They posed in a snarling row past the massive fireplace,
and an half a league to the end of the hail. An octagonal table with two
chairs was pulled near the cold fireplace, and places were laid for two: two
sets of plates, goblets, porringers, and cutlery. There had never been a guest
to occupy that second chair. No one had ever eaten bread and fruit from the
gold plate or sipped wine from the other goblet. Each night the unused place
setting was taken away to be wiped, and arranged again the next day, on
Vincent's orders. He draped his cloak over the second chair. It gave an illusion of
company. He hoped the spirits who served him had not discovered the meaning of
the gesture, but he suspected they had. He told himself that even if they did
discern the truth, it didn't matter; his fantasies were his own. In his mind he improvised a conversation with his charming guest. The
pearls that looped her hair were no whiter than her shoulders, glimpsed
through a cloud of silver lace. In his imagination, he raised his goblet in a toast to her beauty and
warmth. 'Tell me of your day, my dear.' Her eyes had a look of asking and giving -- both at once. No one really
knew her -- people saw only her loveliness -- no one knew her heart but
himself. And she knew his -- all the longings and wishings he had never spoken
to another living soul. She knew them without a word. Knew him ... the
affection and tenderness he longed to pour out; the joy so overpowering it was
almost ferocious when she clasped his hand. Her voice was the soft rippling music of a lute. 'Such a bustle,
preparing for the dance! The musicians are rehearsing, and the feast is
prepared. Soon hundreds of friends will be hurrying up the steps. Tell me --
shall I wear my white gown or the rose pink?' 'You make any gown lovely, my dear, but I would say ... the rose pink. I
trust you will save a dance far me?' Truthfulness shone in her eyes. 'Every dance, Vincent. No other arms but
yours will ever reach round me. In the world beyond, I've seen splendid
noblemen and brave knights and gallant gentlemen, but not one to match you.' Reaching out for the salt cellar, he pretended to take her hand. 'You
actually do love me ... just as I am.' The corners of her rose-petal lips deepened in a smile. 'Oh, Vincent!
It's so easy!' His imaginary conversations often progressed to the dance itself, and
sometimes ended with a kiss. Tonight, though, it seemed so obvious the other
chair was empty that he could not lose himself in the fantasy. The food was savory -- the two spirits always did their best -- but the
hunger that twisted him inwardly was not for fruit or bread. He pushed aside
the gold plate, the ornate goblet, and the cutlery set with gems, and pushed
himself impatiently back from the table. He leaned his arms against the fireplace and stirred the dragon andirons
with the toe of his boot. Tomorrow he would have to chop wood. It might be
interesting to venture outside the castle walls and bring back some logs from
the forest, and see with what colors and odors they burned. If the smokes or
sparks were purple, he would douse the logs and throw them back into the
forest. That was a task for tomorrow, but what about tonight? He could begin writing a journal again -- that would fill a few hours if
he could think of anything to write. Each day that passed resembled so closely
the day before and the days to come that it was difficult to fill a page. The
sky was always a featureless gray, the flowers were always pale, and no one
had yet arrived to occupy that second chair. If he didn't care to do any writing, he could re-map the lower regions
of the castle, where the rooms were constantly shifting positions. That was a
perilous task, however, Anya'e sanctum was down there, as well as vaults he
had never dared to explore. Vigilance was needed in order to emerge alive.
Tonight he felt too listless to attempt it. He tried to think of some other task that would occupy the long hours
that had to pass before he could reasonably go to bed. Marble statues in the
library had crashed to the floor the last time the magic wavered -- they
needed to be replaced en their pedestals. He really shouldn't keep stepping
over them. A thought came to him -- a shelf of folios had collapsed as well.
He could repair the shelf and begin rearranging all the books in the library.
By title rather than by subject this time. Somehow, though, that notion didn't
sound very intriguing. He might consider that idea but only after he exhausted
every other possibility. He nudged the andirons again, trying to think. He could dust off his
philosophy books or begin the study of another language. There had to be one
he didn't know. "Maybe tomorrow." So he had three tasks saved up: chopping wood, steadying the busts on
their pedestals, and repairing the shelf. That might possibly fill tomorrow
morning. If he could think of another chore far the afternoon, the day would
not be a waste. Pears. That was it. The pear trees in the orchard were heavy with fruit.
With a basket and ladder he could occupy the afternoon. Now that was a good
plan. Chopping wood and straightening the library; the orchard after that. He
repeated the chores over to himself and felt a little more cheerful. Leaving his cloak behind, he wandered upstairs. A faint glow drew him
into his own gloomy bedchamber, where a log burned in a cavernous fireplace.
The sputtering of the red sparks was a comfort, somehow, after the emptiness
of the great hall. He pulled a high-backed chair near the hearth and chose a gold-stamped
volume from a nearby cabinet. As he read, the wavering firelight illuminated
his tangled mane and grave, noble face. His slanted eyebrows were drawn
together in a grimace of pain; his mouth with its grooved upper hp and glint
of white teeth was set in a straight line. A dusting of fur glinted on his
cat-like nose and shadowed his strong jaw. He glanced up once to a portrait that hung over the carved mantle. It
depicted a woman with arms upraised, exalting in a lightning storm that
crackled around her head and ignited her wild hair, which was the color of the
lightning bolts. In the slanted eyebrows and determined jaw, there was a faint
resemblance to Vincent. The woman was his mother, the sorceress Anya. Not for the first time, he wondered if she had been right or wrong to
spare his life when he was born. Usually he managed to reconcile himself to
his solitary fate, but just lately… He rubbed his forehead with his fingers as he tried to concentrate on
his book. The verses in the old leather volume were his favorites, but perhaps
his mood was wrong for poems of love. Sonnets of tender passion and gallantry
that once sparked his imagination now only made him morose. In any case, the
twilight was fading to black. Another day of silence and solitude was coming
to a close. It would be acceptable new to let it end. He put the book aside,
remembering that he had sworn off poetry; and rose to pull heavy draperies
across the mullioned windows. Like the windows, the canopied bed was swathed in maroon velvet. He sat
down on the edge of the bed and pulled off soft cuffed boots and loose
stockings trimmed with lace that fell over the tops. He unfastened a broad
collar of lace at his throat and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned a
plum-colored doublet of uncut velvet and a white and silver shirt. Hooks and
rings inside the doublet fastened his calf-length breeches; quickly he
unhooked them and tore off his remaining clothing. The rich fur that covered
his powerful body glinted with all the hues of the firelight: amber, copper,
and gold. He drew the bed curtains closed and pulled over himself a quilt of
black silk. Faint scraping noises let him knew that invisible hands were
hanging up his garments and polishing his boots. In the beginning, when he was
a boy, the servants had been men and women; tutors and nurses, cooks and
stablehands. Within a single generation, though, they had all aged and died.
Two loyal spirits served him still, but more vaguely and feebly with every
passing year. Once, they had been able to speak, and even make themselves
visible, but no longer. A time was coming when the spirits named Jacob and
Mary would fade away completely, and he would be entirely alone. After a moment, the faint noises ceased, and all was still. He buried
his face in a black silk pillow and closed his eyes, counting his own breaths
to lull himself to sleep. "Six hundred and one ... six hundred and two ... six hundred and ... "
Wrapped in comforting darkness, he drifted into a dream. ... there was a garden that blazed with a riot of colors ... blossoms
burning crimson and orange. Flowering trees scattered petals like gold coins across emerald grass.
Overcome by the colors, he knelt to bury his face in a handful of fragrant
blooms; then felt a slight pressure on his shoulder. Someone knelt beside him
on the grass. Someone beautiful, who delighted in the garden just as he did.
He turned his face away, unable to bear her searching gaze. A gentle hand
touched his cheek. Before be could cry out in disbelief, warm lips pressed his own. "I love
you, Vincent, she whispered. "My heart's desire." Oh ... her petal mouth, her
silken skin… Awakened by a scream that might have been his own cry, he sat up in a
pile of tangled black silk. His body was soaked in icy sweat. "Fool!." His voice sounded rough and harsh, even to himself. But then he
heard it again -- a sound outside the chamber, almost like a call. Hurriedly
he crossed the polished floor, knelt on a carved bench, and concealed himself
in a fold of maroon velvet as he leaned out a narrow arched window. One hand
went to his chest to quiet his heart's mad beating as he scanned the castle
grounds. Someone was calling, he was sure of it. A voice meant a visitor.
Perhaps his charming guest was even now hesitating shyly at the door. He
realized that he was praying. "Oh, let it be true." His chamber was on the third floor; leaning far out the window he could
see the weed-choked courtyard and a circle of untrimmed rose trees that edged
it. But of a traveler there was no sign. Frantically he whispered, "Where are you?" There was only one thing to
do: creep downstairs and see. He pulled on a quilted robe and knotted the sash
with unsteady hands. The hallway was utterly dark and quiet. A life-sized
marble pegasus reared up on either side of his door: in a superstitious
gesture that went back to his childhood, he patted the nose of one of the
winged horses, for luck. Barefooted he hurried down stairs. The entry way door was eighteen feet high. Wall-torches illuminated
great iron knobs that bulged like fists from the planks. Massive hinges curled
across the wall and the timbers of the door. He couldn't make his hands grip the latch, and he leaned against the
sill for a moment. "Whoever you are, don't be afraid. You don't realize how
overjoyed I am to see you." Bracing himself, he pulled one of the great doors
inward. The hinges creaked like a lost soul. There was no one on the marble steps outside. He wouldn't give up hope,
though. "I heard it," he said through his teeth. "Someone is here." He was
wearing nothing under the quilted robe, but it wasn't the chill of the night
air that made him tremble. Down the steps he ventured, feeling the cold of the marble under his
bare feet. He was sure he hadn't imagined the sound. Then he found it -- the
source of the noise. A hedgegate that led into an enclosed garden was swinging
idly in the cold wind. Dead leaves rattled along the ground. Harshly Vincent berated himself. "I was dreaming again. There will be no
peace for me until I realize that no one will ever come. I am alone forever."
He had been disappointed so often -- why did he keep hoping? Sinking down on the steps, he leaned his arms on the doorsill, hiding
his face. His shoulders began to shake. Raw, harsh sounds tore his chest. He
battled his own weakness, but couldn't choke back the racking sobs that burned
his throat. "Forever." The word broke the last of his self-command. He let himself
cry out his loneliness in howls and screams that echoed across the courtyard.
After all ... there was no one to hear.
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
With a flush on the petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
Once more he scanned the sky. He knew it was dusk, and yet it might have
been evening or morning; clouds covered his realm like a silver bowl. Never
had he seen a sky of blue or even a night sky brilliant with stars. Though he
had read about such wonders, and studied drawings of a blazing sun, a radiant
moon, a starry sky, he hardly believed in their existence any longer. The
possibility of knights and fair ladies was becoming less likely, too.