CHAPTER TWO
One Red Rose

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One gray morning, Vincent's wild blood got the better of him. Behind the castle, but still within the encircling wall, rough hills reared up like the backs of subterranean dragons spiked with pines. He rounded those hills in a dead run, his cloak flying behind him like a banner of war. A tumbling river split the castle; high in the air, galleries and colonnades linked it again. The river also divided the wilderness from the cultivated parks and gardens in front.

Into the river he plunged. Cutting with his reaching arms, kicking powerfully, he crossed, then re-crossed, emerging on the wild side. He climbed a gnarled oak and waited there, screaming into the empty sky, until his untamed emotions burned themselves out.

By the afternoon, he was quite himself again, neither raging nor grieving. He exchanged his damp garments for a sumptuous doublet and breeches of dark brown velvet striped with gold lace. He even finished a bowl of soup and a few slices of bread, and thanked Mary and Jacob. Feeling decidedly more cheerful, he picked up his lute, came out the entry way, and stood for a moment on the marble steps. Gargoyles jutted from the rim of the door, but these were entirely stone, and would harm no one. The parks and gardens were so extensive that even with the help of the two remaining spirits, he could not keep them in good order. Besides, the half-tame, half-wild landscape suited his temperament.

Shadowed by the towers, silver spike grass bristled in the spacious courtyard, where half a hundred carriages might have turned around ... under other circumstances. He tramped through the grass and paused to take in a breath of fragrance from one of the untrimmed rose trees that made a thorny wall around the perimeter. A wide avenue stretched from the courtyard to the distant gates. Enormous cedars shadowed the avenue, mingling their branches overhead. He enjoyed the changing patterns of checkered shade. Weeds that sprouted up from the avenue might be unsightly, but they were alive, and it was life he was starving for.

To the east, waterlilies floated on a quiet lake bordered by white hyacinths. Oak, ash, and willow trees trailed their branches in the still water, which also reflected a tumbledown keep draped with ivy. He liked to sit on a low wall lined with lion masks and sketch the changing clouds mirrored in the water. Sometimes on a quiet evening he would row out to the center and spend a night being rocked to sleep.

Shadowy corners sheltered beds of translucent lilies. Graceful irises rose above snapdragons and primroses, all colorless. Eternal mist had faded all the flowers to pale shades. Even the leaves of the trees were silvered. Mary had tended the flower beds for so long she insisted they'd always been white. To tease her, Vincent showed her books with pictures of flaming orange lilies and blazing yellow primroses. He smiled now, remembering her comment. "Pure fiction! Besides, colored flowers are common." He picked a blossom and fitted it through a buttonhole of his cloak.

A sundial stood among the flowers, though the sun never shone brightly enough to make a shadow with the pointer. The motto carved around the edge was a mournful one: 'This little light, and then the night.' He grazed the letters with his fingers, thinking, 'If only could turn it around. This little night, and then the light.'

The landscape he loved best rolled many leagues to the west. He wandered off the avenue and ambled in that direction, across broad lawns carpeted with alyssum and snowdrops. Loose groves of trees shaded a long green slope terraced by wide flagstone steps. Wildflowers bloomed in the cracks. The contrast between light and deep shade was very pleasant. He sat for a time alongside a little waterfall that dashed around boulders and splashed over bronze statues of river gods. Age had turned them all green. It wasn't a vivid garden; the mighty trees were too dark, and the straggling patches of flowers too pale. It was a place for meditation and quiet thought. Overgrown and neglected as it was, he found peace there.

Lower still, gigantic yews darkened a path blurred on both sides by clumps of feathery ferns. At the end of the yew walk, bronze mermaids sported around a fountain that had been dry for years.

"One day must clean the basin and repair the spray." He smiled suddenly. That was a chore that would occupy more than one day.

He took a roundabout route to the grape arbor, avoiding a purple boulder that thrust up from the grass. He rubbed his arm as he passed, for it made an old scar ache terribly. Beneath the boulder was buried Anya's grimoire, her personal Book of Shadows. Mary and Jacob had refused to teach Vincent any magic when he was young, knowing he had no natural powers. Once as an inquisitive child he attempted to pry open the snakeskin cover. The grimoire seized his arm and tried to pull him inside. There was a scar on his arm that would never heal. After that, it was thought safest to bury the book. It might have been wiser to bury it deeper, for the boulder that held it down hadn't always been purple. Magic from the book had leaked out and tinted the granite.

He came at last to his favorite spot. Goddesses of stone posed with their bows and cornucopias in niches of a curving hedge wall that supported one side of a grape arbor. The trellis overhead was heavy with white grapes. It was a cool and lovely retreat where he often liked to bring a book. Today, though, he simply felt like wandering.

Eventually he made his way back up the flagstone steps to the avenue and followed it all the way to a mighty black stone wall. Twenty feet high and four feet thick, it encircled the grounds and protected it from the forest. Clemantis vines the color of snow matted the wall and dropped tendrils over the top of massive timber gates that were the only entrance to the castle grounds. Life-sized stone lions reared up on each post, holding Anya's coat of arms. Silver spike grass rose as high as the gate hinges. There were no tracks leading in or out.

His boots left imprints in a dense mat of foam flowers that would be slow to disappear. Because his voice was too harsh for singing, he strummed a lute as he walked, plucking a tune with notes that rippled like a running stream. It was a tune that changed slightly with each passing day, yet remained ever the same, like his imprisoned existence.

The tune had variations, depending on his mood. There was a refrain he called, "Anya." It had a mysterious undertone of cold power, like the moaning of an incantation. There was a lullaby for Mary, which pleased her enormously; and a dignified counterpoint for Jacob. There were variations for the night and for the morning hours. And one more, inspired by poems of love he found in the library ... but that rhapsody he could not bring to completion, not on his own ...

A faint cheeping caught Vincent's attention, and he set the lute aside. It could not be a bird; long ago they had all flown to sunnier meadows beyond the dank forest. But, to his astonishment, it was indeed a bird. Small and brown, it peeped a faint double note and beat its wings frantically, unable to fly. Very cautiously, Vincent approached, and spied the difficulty. Around the bird's leg was tangled a length of thread from some distant nest, and this had caught in the briars. With infinite care he severed the threads, and felt the small creature's heart beating against the palm of his hand. A flutter of wings, and it was away, over the wall to freedom.

A rare smile lit his face. "Be well. Be free!" he murmured. Inspired to curiosity, he climbed an ancient beech tree that dropped its gray leaves on both sides of the black stone wall. Higher and higher he climbed, then set his boot in a cleft between two limbs and gazed outward, hoping to catch sight of the bird. Instead, he received the shock of his life. A lone traveler was stumbling toward the gates, leading a skittish horse.

Dumbfounded, Vincent caught a branch to keep himself from falling. Hardly believing what he was seeing, he parted the leaves and peered out.

The man backed up a few steps, staring at life-sized stone lions on the gate posts. The lions brandished a coat of arms that chilled him: a jagged bolt of lightning and a coiled snake spitting purple fumes. If he hadn't reached the end of his endurance, he would have turned and fled.

Instead, he said, with a whimpering gasp, "May I be permitted ... to enter?"

Vincent couldn't breathe -- couldn't speak -- all he could do was stare as inch by inch one of the massive gates was pushed open, flattening clumps of grass as it swung on rusty hinges.

Through a canopy of leaves, Vincent could see the man was having a difficult time controlling his gray horse, which reared and snorted in terror. Claw marks bloodied its flank. The forest had been created to deter travelers, and this man was the first to ever reach the gates.

He called out in fright, "I am a traveler, lost in the dreadful wood. Is there anyone here?" To show respect he pulled off his broad, felt hat, revealing ragged white hair. It was so strange hearing a voice other than his own that Vincent could hardly understand the man's words. Beyond all wonder, the wish of his heart had come true. A guest stood trembling before him; a stranger who might possibly become a friend. A friend who would refute the monstrous tales told by the villagers, and defend the beast of the castle when eventually he returned to his home. A man who might remain awhile, and return again, and bring other friends. It flashed into his mind that this white-haired fellow clutching his hat in his hands might prove to be the beginning of a new life and the end of his solitude.

To the invisible servants hovering behind him, Vincent spoke sharply. "Tend to all his needs. Make him welcome!" Jacob's ghostly hands led the plunging horse away. Mary led the visitor down the overgrown avenue; wide-spreading cedars blocked out the daylight. As soon as he was out of sight, Vincent scrambled down and charged into the castle by another way.

Every few steps the man hesitated and had to be urged on with tugs on his coarse brown cloak, which he wore over a long buttoned jacket and knee-length breeches. Hand-knitted stockings drooped over the tops of his shapeless shoes. All his garments were torn and blood-stained. Between straggling rose trees and across the weed-choked courtyard Mary guided him. On the marble steps he stopped short, gaping up at the nine and ninety towers -- pillars, steeples, domes and turrets, all linked by airy bridges.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh I don't know about this." Mary opened the knobbed iron door, bidding him enter without words.

The man swallowed hard and twisted his hat in his hands. He understood the message, but it took courage to step over the threshold, for the door was eighteen feet high and rimmed with hideous gargoyles. All his life he'd heard tales of this castle and the beast within. Now he was here, and with all his soul he wished he were elsewhere.

When the door slammed behind him with a slash of iron hinges, he trembled like a leaf. He was afraid to look around, but could not help himself. The torch-lit hall was lined with antlers of animals that could never have lived in the world he knew. There were black skulls, tusked and snarling; and yellow skulls that bristled with rough spikes. Mounted over the lintel, two bony heads stared at each other with hollow eye sockets, their horns locked in eternal combat. They resembled the gargoyles outside, which, indeed, they were. Every time the magic faltered, some of them fell down and escaped into the woods.

His voice shook as he spoke to the empty air. "Gracious sir, I mean you no harm, and hope you intend none to me. I am a merchant, I dwell in the village beyond this forest, and I am called Charles." Mary could not answer in any way that he could hear, but she threw open another door that led into the great hall. Hesitantly Charles obeyed the summons. A little color returned to his white face when he peered in and saw that a table had been set for one, and that a log burned brightly in the fireplace.

Licking dry lips, he said, "If this hospitality is intended for me, I thank you, great sir. My liege. Your highness. Or whatever you may be. I am indeed perishing with hunger and thirst." He wiped his forehead with his broadcloth sleeve and cautiously seated himself at the octagonal table. The lord of this castle did seem to understand what a human man could eat. Indeed, the food was nicely set out. A silver bowl held pale fruits decorated with sprigs of flowers. Jars of conserves like jewels of ruby and topaz stood around a platter of oaten bread. Charles put one hand to his throat as he timidly tasted one slice.

The bread was good, and he spoke again to his unknown benefactor. "It was foolish indeed to ride into the wildwood, but I was anxious to reach my home, and thought it might prove a shorter way. But with the wilderness and the mist and the dusk became hopelessly lost. And there are magical traps set to impede travelers. I believed that my daughters would never see their father again."

A little confidence returned to him as he ate, and he gazed around the great hall. There were thirty tables like his own. The paneled walls were painted with a frieze of heraldic lions. Hands of stone held back heavy curtains that draped the arched windows, and gave Charles a glimpse of sullen twilight. His eyes widened when his goblet was filled with wine.

Bravely he lifted the goblet in a toast to the lord of the castle. "My thanks to you, noble lord." Vincent could not see the gesture, for he stood in an adjoining chamber, but he could hear the man's words. He was so hungry for companionship that even to listen was fascinating. The toast touched him deeply, and made him long to speak openly to Charles, to ask him about the world beyond the forest, about his life as a merchant. About his home and family.

With a struggle that tore him inwardly, he contained his eagerness. It would be better to postpone the meeting a fortnight or so, until Charles learned to trust him.

The wine went to Charles' head a little and warmed his kindly, foolish face. He chatted on about his family as he munched another piece of fruit.

"My dear ones will rejoice to see me safely home again. My youngest daughter cannot hear or speak, poor girl, but with her hands she tells us more than everything. My fingers are slower to answer, but she understands her poor old father anyway. To me, she seems very pretty, with her dark eyes and dark curling hair. Everyone in the village loves her, though few have taken the time to learn the motions of her language."

Listening intently, Vincent felt a pang of pity for the girl, and wondered if she judged by sight alone, or whether her affliction had taught her to see deeper than appearances. To himself he said, "If Charles should bring you to visit the castle, I would be willing to learn your hand-speech."

Charles rambled on, leaning back in his high-backed chair. The gilded feet were carved like a lion's paws, and a snarling muzzle protruded over his head. "My second daughter has curls like threads of the sun. She is betrothed to a young fellow in the village. He's a lucky man, for she can turn her hand to any task; dipping a candle, shoeing a horse, or milking a cow. She has a spirit as bright as one of her own striped candles, now that she has found the man she loves."

A sigh escaped Vincent, and to the bright maiden he said, "Marry your true love, and may all joys be yours. Unknown to you, unknown to your friends and family who will rejoice for you, there is one more who wishes you well."

Charles lifted his goblet again, and smiled as he saw it refilled. "A father should not have a favorite, you might say. But my eldest daughter is so beautiful, so courageous and true it's a wonder to me she hasn't wed. Her hair is the soft brown of a bird's wing, and her eyes change color from blue to green like a wave of the sea. No man with a heart in his body could keep from loving her, and yet she refuses all the young men who seek her hand. To her most persistent suitor she keeps saying, 'Gunther, your life has been too easy. A man who has never suffered hasn't learned the heights and depths of living. It requires a soul to love truly, and a soul is forged in solitude and pain.' She has a wise heart, my beloved child." His voice trailed away and he nodded in his chair.

Overcome, Vincent leaned his forehead against the wall. When he found his voice, he spoke to his ethereal servants. "Mary -- Jacob -- lead him to the gold bedchamber and see to his slightest wish. Show him every consideration, and tomorrow I will risk it all, and speak to him face to face. If you ever cared for me when I was a child and the two of you were my mother's disciples, for the love of mercy, help me now." Tugs on his garments led Charles out of the great hall and up a flight of stairs. He was asleep on his feet, and fell into the gold-draped bed like a log. The spirit called Mary wiped his face with an herb-scented cloth while Jacob pulled off his shoes and loosened his rough garments, which his ordeal in the forest had left blood-stained and torn.

Said Mary, "Anya's protective spells sometimes work too well. Every other stranger has been trapped by the magical wards and lost forever."

Charles snored loudly, with little mumbling noises. His mouth gaped open.

Jacob sniffed. "I cannot understand how the fellow survived. He does not seem a man of great wisdom."

There was amusement in Mary's tone. She had known Jacob a very long time, and was used to his pedantic manner. "Perhaps it's fate."

"Women have no rational philosophy," he answered, placing another log on the andirons.

She retorted, "It's been too long since you were a living man, Jacob. There are some things that are beyond your philosophy."

They pulled up a coverlet of cloth-of-gold, and left him to sleep off the wine.

The next few hours Vincent spent pacing the confines of his own chamber. Every single dream he'd pushed aside exploded in him at once, crumbling the defenses he had built up carefully over so many lonely years. He was impelled by an uncontrollable yearning to be near someone ... someone fair and dear, with a kind of valiant brightness and joy in living, who would look at him directly, and take his hand, and talk to him, and listen. A friend with whom he felt at ease, someone lighthearted, who would mock him when he fell into melancholy, and laugh at him when he said something foolish ... a friend like his charming guest. After this he would always imagine the woman of his fantasies with soft brown hair and eyes of sea-green. But unlike the vision with whom he talked and danced, this visitor would be real. When she spoke to him, he wouldn't just be talking to himself.

He knew he wasn't being rational, but he didn't care. Back and forth he paced, trying to think how he might persuade Charles to visit the castle again, and bring his family with him. He could write a letter, to show he intended no harm.

Seating himself, he dipped a quill pen into a silver flask of ink. "Dearly esteemed friends," he began. "Though I am unknown to you … no, that is ridiculous."

He crumpled the parchment, dipped his pen, and tried once more. "To the merchant Charles and his household, greetings. No, no, no, absolutely not." Angry at his own ineptitude, he tossed the parchment into the fireplace. In any case, a letter to three young women to whom he had never been introduced would be an unforgivable imposition. Over and over he'd studied the manuals of courtly love and they all said the same thing -- a maiden is a gentle and timid angel who must be treated with the greatest courtesy. Coarse speech, rough manners, and hasty advances send gently-bred damsels running back to their mothers. He'd read those warnings so often he even knew the page number: one hundred and thirty-two.

"My speech is not coarse, though my voice has a grating note. My manners are polite, as far as I can tell; I would never, never be rough. But sending a letter is definitely too hasty an advance." With a sigh he discarded that possibility. Sending the two phantom servants to speak for him was another notion that caught his mind. They could convey an invitation that might intrigue the maidens. On second thought, though, they probably could not pass the barrier at the edge of the forest. And even if they did get through, messages carried by ghosts might prove to be more alarming than intriguing.

Thinking hard, he paced the chamber. It would be a simple matter to load the saddlebags with rich gifts. Rings for the youngest, gems that would flash as her swift fingers spoke. Pearls for the bride, an emblem of pure affection. But what gift could be beautiful enough for a maiden with a thoughtful heart?

Rubbing his forehead, he tried to think. It was essential that he not make a mistake. Mary and Jacob had known him since infancy -- they were accustomed to his leonine features. He didn't know how his appearance might affect a stranger -- Charles was the first who had ever reached the castle. If the man were offended or frightened, he would ride away forever and take with him Vincent's one hope that he would not live and die utterly alone.

Perhaps he should speak to Charles first through the wall, and let him hear his voice. Help him to understand that the legends of a bone-crunching demon were not true. That seemed the safest plan at the moment. During the next few days he would instruct Mary and Jacob to show Charles the wonders of the castle. And during mealtimes, when the man was seated at the octagonal table, he would speak in a friendly way through the wall.

He halted his restless circling and looked up at the portrait. "Mother, you may have intended to protect me by imprisoning me here, but I am perishing of loneliness. If Charles rides away and does not return, I may risk it all and venture beyond the forest edge, and seek him out. Only once, to see the face of a woman who believes that a soul is forged in solitude and pain -- it's worth dying for, Mother. Just let me see her eyes looking at me without fear, and then let the villagers slay me. That one moment of glory would be worth all the empty years that lie ahead." Vincent knew he was talking only to himself -- Anya was long gone. He resumed his pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. "This solitude is destroying me. I'm not behaving in a rational way. But for one touch of a kind hand I would give anything ... suffer anything … risk anything." He gripped the front of his doublet, holding himself in. The gloomy chamber was suffocating him. He grabbed up a cloak, strode through a maze of passageways, and walked out into the grounds.

For hours he wandered along the bank of a river that wound between beech trees encrusted with ivy. The old wooden bridge was also ivy-entwined. He stood on the bridge for a long time, looking down into the water, seeing his own wavering reflection there. The planes of his face were distorted by the water, elongating his jaw, bulging his brow. There were no mirrors in the castle. For years at a time he forgot just how fearsome he looked.

He mused, "To see a soul in that dreadful face, she would have to be wise indeed in ways of the heart. What is her name, I wonder?"

Pale dawn was fading the night to gray. Deep in thought, he walked back toward the courtyard, passing a series of enclosed gardens divided from each other by overgrown hedges. Within were hidden a rose bower, a lily pool garden, a white garden, and a maze. It had been years since he had been inside any of them. If the three maidens took an interest, the secret gardens could soon be put in order with rakes and clippers. He could imagine it clearly: he would kneel in a flowerbed with a trowel and garden fork, while two of the young women, so much like flowers themselves, gave him orders. And the third knelt beside him to help.

He stepped around a corner of a hedgewall and collided with Charles' dappled horse. The horse rose up like a tower, screaming and slashing the air with thunder hooves. Vincent threw up one arm to defend himself and leaped aside. Charles fell backward with the saddle in his arms and landed hard in a tangle of rosetrees. Stunned and winded, he staggered to his feet, and then saw Vincent.

"Gracious God!" he screamed, dropping to his knees. "Is this to be my death -- to be devoured by a hell-spawned monster? Have mercy -- don't let it eat me!" Mad with panic, he scrabbled away on his hands and knees, cowering against a tree in mortal terror.

A red fire burned behind Vincent's eyes. He gripped the collar of Charles' jacket and lifted him from the ground. The merchant sagged in his grip, choking with the fear of death.

Vincent's voice was a feral growl. "I offer you sanctuary and this is how you repay me." Charles closed his eyes and waited for the end -- nothing could save him now. Somehow in his mad scramble to escape he had pulled a red rose from one of the trees -- the only red rose that had ever bloomed in that pallid garden. The sight of the flower clutched in the man's shaking hand enraged Vincent.

"You call me a demon and steal my roses!" Charles went limp; his head drooped as if those terrible claws and teeth had already torn his body apart. Gagging, he improvised an excuse. "Forgive ... me. It was a ... gift. For my daughter."

Vincent threw him aside like an armload of rags. Face down on the grass, Charles cowered, hardly daring to breathe.

Wild blood awoke in Vincent and had the mastery. His voice shook with rage he could barely control. "Take it to her, then, and tell her what that red rose has cost you. Seven days. I give you seven days to say your farewells. Then you will ride back through those gates and they will close behind you forever, unless one of your daughters should choose to take your place. One week, or my sorcery will reach you in your own bed, and fasten itself on your heart and unravel the strings of it."

The idea of the beast taking sorcerous revenge on his daughters roused Charles to courage. He raised himself up a little and spoke in quavering defiance. "I am old -- if one must die to appease your wrath, let it be me." Vincent pointed toward the gray horse, which was trotting in circles, whinnying in fright. Sobbing, Charles crawled through the weeds and grabbed the reins. He threw the saddle over the horse's back, tightened the cinch, and hauled himself up. He didn't need to spur his mount -- it galloped away madly down the avenue and out the open gates. Into the haze-haunted weed disappeared the horse and rider.

Vincent was alone -- more alone than ever, and he was hurt beyond belief. Sinking back against a tree trunk, he hid his face in his hands. He didn't weep -- his anger and pain were too raw for the relief of tears.

"So that is how I appear."

His one hope for human companionship was shattered, and he was shattered, as well. With his arms wrapped around himself, he made his way back around the secret gardens to the river. Above him stretched galleries and colonnades that linked the two parts of the castle. Walking slowly along the bank, he passed under the walkways and found himself once again on the ivy-covered bridge. He leaned over the railing, staring down at his distorted reflection. He closed his eyes to blot out the sight.

His whole future seemed to be unrolled before him, and passing down its endless emptiness he saw the dwindling figure of a man to whom nothing was ever going to happen.

He would never see any of them again, not even Charles. To seek revenge on the merchant by magic was an empty threat made in the heat of rage. He had no such powers. Once safely beyond the barrier, Charles would never return. His tale of a hellish monster would soon spread, however; and prevent any other traveler from attempting the journey. One single guest had come to the castle and departed; there would not be another.

He dropped a twig of ivy into the river and watched it float away, and with it all his hopes. He would never sit across the table from Charles and hear stories of his travels. The dark-eyed girl would never teach him her language. The striped candles of the bright-haired maiden would flicker only in her husband's home. The two younger sisters would never sit in the wooden swing at the center of the maze, their skirts flaring and closing like bellflowers.

His fist came down on the railing. It was such a cruel trick of chance that he had collided with the panic-stricken horse.

"If I had only been able to wait and speak to Charles through the wall, the two younger sisters might have paid a visit to the castle. And sampled grapes from the arbor while I strummed my lute. Or accepted flower wreaths from my hands; lily of the valley for the sunny-haired maiden, violets for the dark. They might have allowed me to row them both around the lake, while they trailed their hands in the water. I might have been able to sit with them in the alcove, reading while they crocheted lace by candlelight."

Even as he let those images go, he knew that speaking through the wall would have been a useless gesture. Because Charles was right, in a way. He was a hell-spawned monster -- it was Anya's hellish magic that had created him. And the merchant's reaction told him the truth; he would never inspire any emotion other than fear.

His thoughts went back to the eldest daughter, with the mermaid-green eyes and thoughtful demeanor. There were other dreams more precious than rowing around a lake ...

Just for a few hours, he had cherished a secret hope: that somewhere in the world there existed a woman who was keeping her heart in reserve for a being like himself; perhaps without even knowing it. Someone fair and dear, to whom he could confide the deepest secrets of his soul, and be understood. Someone brave and true, who might accept him just as he was.

He let that reverie float away, as well. To the woman he would never see, he sent a blessing. "The image of your beauty and warmth awakened a dream in a heart that has been forced to survive without dreams. The fancy that you might look at me and take my hand was so sweet that I will cherish it always. Thank you, wise and dearest one." His face twisted. The twig of ivy had floated out of sight. He turned away from the river to begin his slow and solitary walk back to the castle.

Illustrations have been modified from pictures lifted from the net. -Lynn