PRINCESS BEAST (2 page)

 

Chapter Two

Puppy Love

 

"Rat fracken grelp!"  Rune yells.  A pinecone smacks the back of Beauty's head, and she wonders:  What has become of my smart, exuberant, loving companion?  

Beauty fondly recalls their days spent mushroom or berry hunting, all the while Rune singing made up songs, like her Merry Picking Berries song.  Because of Rune's charming voice, they had been able to make friends with neighbors, whom they would visit on Sundays: The Griffin, Mrs. Fox, or the spider and the flea who brew beer in an eggshell.  Regardless of their activities, at the end of each day, they settled by the hearth with a book of Rune's choice. (Beauty's palace library had been duplicated, courtesy of Elora the Enchantress.)  When Rune's head drooped onto her shoulder, Beauty sent her off to bed with a beast hug and a kiss.

Tonight, Beauty can't remember the last time Rune allowed her a kiss.  Moreover, it seems Rune makes a point of avoiding her company. If she's not roaming in the wilds, she's hunkered in her room.  Whenever Beauty pokes her head into Rune's room and asks what she's doing, Rune stares blank-faced and shrugs her shoulders.  Every time Beauty suggests they do something together, Rune flatly states: "I don't feel like it."  She rarely opens a book these days, and the single question she asks is, "Can I go now?"

So desperate has Beauty become to regain her daughter's confidence, that twice she nearly told Rune the truth about her heritage.  Beauty hasn't lied exactly; she decided, when Rune was an infant, it would be in her best interest to keep the past buried along with the mirror.  If little Rune asked: Why is there no other beast like us in the forest?  Beauty answered: “We are the only two of our kind.”  As Rune grew older and witnessed the miracle of birth among the forest dwellers she asked: “Where is the female who gave birth to you?”  Beauty answered truthfully: “My mother died upon my birth”.  Last year, when Rune was old enough to comprehend insemination, through reading science books and seeing copulating critters in rut, she asked Beauty: “Who is my father, and where is he now?” 

Although Beauty knew that the Beast was actually Runyon under the influence of a spell, the two were as different as a rock and a squid.  She honestly does not know whether it was the Beast's sperm or the prince's that impregnated her.  She also does not know if Rune's appearance was inherited or a result of the spell cast on Beauty moments before Rune's birth.  Either way, until tonight, it wasn't an issue worthy of consideration.  She answered Rune by saying: “Your father was a princely beast who is no more.”

"Bear poopin prat!" Rune screams and a corncob whizzes by Beauty's ear.  It pains her to hear curses coming from her daughter's lips.  She pokes the fire and remembers a time Rune mimicked the songs of birds, the snickering of grey fox, the greeting calls of every wild creature so authentically they followed her home.  How many injured animals had Rune brought to this cave?  At least once a month, she tottered in carrying a sparrow with a broken wing or an orphaned bear cub.  Diligently and steadfastly Rune nursed her charges back to health until the joyous moment she released them back into her forest.

 Fourteen-year-old Rune is sullen, silent, and self-absorbed.  She stays in her room for hours and hours staring at her reflection in a basin of water.  She coated the walls of her hollow with clay and paints fanciful scenes upon the surfaces: sunshine on a field of wild roses, ocean waves rolling onto a white sand beach, a rainbow arcing over a towering castle, the church spires and rooftops of cities, scenes she has seen only in books. Beauty shakes her shaggy head whenever she passes Rune's room, which used to be neat as a pin and now looks as if a herd of wild boar ran amok in there. 

One afternoon last month, Beauty cleaned the room while Rune was out swimming in Lake Leda.  She thought Rune would be pleased upon her return.   She was not; she hollered at Beauty, "Don't I have any privacy?"

 Lately, it seems I can't do anything right, Beauty thinks.  Just this morning, for example, Rune groused, "You put raisins in the oatmeal.  I hate raisins." 

"Since when?"  Beauty asked, incredulous because Rune had always considered raisins a treat.  Following a long and uncomfortable silence, Rune asked, "Do you have a cold, Mother?”

"I do not." Beauty replied.

"Okay, then why are you breathing like that?" Rune curled her lip and clucked her tongue. 

"Why are you chewing with your mouth open?" Beauty snapped back, and Rune dashed out of the cave in snit. 

"You can dish it out, daughter, but you can't take it."  Beauty cried after her. "Do you think me beyond pain?  You are my heart, my raison d'etre."

Now, Beauty throws a log on the fire, and Rune's water basin bounces off her back.  "Hedge warty snort farty hog!" Rune bellows. 

"Was I ever that crazy?" Beauty grumbles. Try as she might to conjure the spirit of young Beauty she can only recall years of evading tortures, of striving to be good enough to win affection from her sisters and her father. 
Rune's father . . . maybe his blood is making her crazy.

Beauty remembers fits thrown by both the Beast and the prince, though the Beast's explosive rages decreased as their relationship progressed, and Runyon's unreasonable tantrums increased after their marriage. Which one is her father? 

Before realizing what she's doing Beauty sighs a wistful, fairy tale beauty sigh.

 

* * *

 

A sneer twists Elora’s blackberry lips.  Croesus scrambles across the floor and jams his head under the Aubusson rug. 

"Fourteen years--count 'em--fourteen, since she used that inane, breathy habit of beauties," Elora fumes, rapping her nails over the crystal ball. 

"Look at her, Croesus, a ferocious, fabulous beast reduced to sighing over a hearth.  Croesus?  Get your round noggin up here, you cowardly dust bunny." 

Croesus sneezes twice and slinks to Elora's side.  He looks into the crystal ball, then slowly turns his head and rolls his eyes to the left like Jack Benny responding to a Rochester wisecrack. 

"Tell me about it.  What's the big sneeze over paternity anyway?  It's not as if she can get them both on one of those Jerry Springer, Which man's the father of my baby-DNA expert waiting in the wings, shows.  So deal with it, girl.  Was I ever that crazy? she says.  Beauty may not be able to remember her pre-teen puckers, but we do, don't we?"

 Croesus nods his head and is rewarded with a Beggin Strip.

"Instead of stamping WELCOME on her forehead she should have been more like Rune.  That kid doesn't take any crap.  Just once, I'd have killed to see Beauty flatten her sisters, tell her old man to get bent, stand up to the girls who snubbed her and the boys who teased her.

Croesus paws Elora's knee.  "Yeah, you're right.  I love them both more than my Testa Rosa, but if I exist longer than Methuselah, I still won't understand the attraction in motherhood.  Pah-lease. First, the woman's body swells up like a Macy's parade balloon.  Then there's labor--eighteen hours of trying to force seven pounds of flesh out of a three-inch opening.  Eee-uuu," Elora shudders.

Croesus sticks out his tongue and sounds a raspberry.

"And when Mom's labor is over, after no sleep for two days, and her uterus oozing and throbbing like a bad tooth, the baby clamps its ridged gums down on her nipple and sucks til the cows come home."

Croesus drops to the floor and covers his ears.

Elora wags her finger at the Pac Man table relegated to a corner alcove.  "Babies are like that game.  They come into your life and gobble up everything they need:  your food, your time, and your sleep, leaving baby squeezings behind them.  What does a mother get in return?  Sore breasts, fatigue, hair loss, stretch marks, constipation, and roids."

Croesus belly crawls towards the door. 

"Don't even try to sneak off while I'm talking."

The dog freezes in mid-crawl.

"So, a mother manages to keep the kid alive through childhood, and the little nipper is even sometimes entertaining.  Then just as Mom begins to relax, figures she's got the motherhood thing down, puberty hits and for the next four years, Sibyl's in the house.  If it was me . . ."  Elora swirls her index finger and Croesus dives under a pinball machine.  "I'd change the kid into a gecko at age twelve, keep it in a cage and feed it flies until it was old enough to leave.  Uh-oh.  What's this?"

Elora leans in close to the crystal ball.  "Is she . . .?  Bricklebrit!"

Croesus coughs; three gold coins fly and drop plink-plank- plunk into the game room's Lost Child of Brussels Fountain.

 

* * *

 

"I'm a failure as a mother," Beauty laments.  Her eyes burn, her nose prickles, her throat tightens, and she breaks into sobs.  Oh, hers are terrible, earth shaking sobs because she is a beast and because she has not cried for fourteen years.  Her wails are so deafening she doesn't hear the rapid patter of beastie feet.

"I'm sorry, Mommy!" Rune bawls and throws herself across Beauty's knees.   She twitches her purple cauliflower nose and begins the glottal clicking she used to make whenever she was a scared little girl. 

Beauty closes her eyes, rests her cheek on the top of Rune's head and rocks slowly.  She understands it's a self-indulgent satisfaction; the pleasure she feels from Rune's needy embrace.  What's a mother supposed to do when her crying, clinging child apologizes?   If any other creature had dared bite her, it would be missing a limb at the very least.  Is not forgiveness expected from mothers?  Do not selflessness and motherhood go hand and hand?  What are the alternatives?  Give hurt for hurt and bite her back with fangs or with accusations? 

Beauty knows, from experience that words can injure more than blows when delivered by a loved one.  She opens her eyes and notices the bloodstained bundle near the hearth.  She slides a foot forward, slips her great toe talon under the knot and releases the cloth.  The rich, heavy satin unfolds on its own accord into a gown trimmed with seed pearls and lace; a gold crown and a spiny pelt lie at the bloody center.  Beauty's mouth turns dry as cotton and her head grows light with fear.

"Rune, you must tell me the truth about what happened tonight, in case a hunting party . . . if we have to leave now," Beauty stammers.

Rune lifts her face, and Beauty's heart wants to break in half.  "Oh, Mommy, it's Hans.  I loved him, and I thought he loved me too, but tonight . . ." Rune blubbers and burrows into Beauty's chest. 

Beauty doesn't know much about Hans other than the fact that he's a hedgehog from waist up and a human from waist down.  For this reason alone, assuming he's under a curse, she has forbidden Rune to go near him. 

Rune sniffles and says, "I should have been a good daughter and not disobeyed you.  I didn't know it was Hans' playing the wonderful bagpipe music that first drew me into Vagary Vale."

Beauty holds Rune closer, swallows the terror lodged in her throat and asks, "Did you take a life tonight?"

"No, but I wish I was dead," Rune bawls.

"The blood--it's not yours?"

"I barely scratched him.  Don't worry.  No one will hunt for us.  Hans never wants to lay eyes on me again.  He's gone off to marry his pah-pah-princess!"  Rune wails. 

Beauty rocks her anew and exhales with relief.  Her heartbeat slows, moisture returns to her mouth, and she nuzzles Rune's ear.  Eventually, Rune's sobs diminish to hiccups.

"The first warm morning last June, I climbed to the top of Hesitation Hill to pick wild violets," she says.  "You know the sunny spot where a giant blue spruce fell?"

Beauty nods.

"In the beam of sunlight, dew sparkled like diamonds on everything: leaves, rocks, grass, spider webs, violets.  I imagined I was in a fairy grotto.  I never felt  so . . . so aware.  Then I heard music; oh, it filled up my chest, my ears, my head with . . . I don't know . . . longing?  I followed the sound to a black oak beside the stream flowing through Vagary Vale.  The music stopped and a voice called:
Hello down there.  Can you sing?
  Well, you know me, Mom.  I broke right into my Walking Through The Woods song."

Beauty strokes Rune's back. "One of my favorites."

"Hans liked it, too.  I mean he liked my voice.  He jumped from the tree, and I knew he must be Hans the Hedgehog, that I should leave at once because you said to stay away from him.  Mom, he wasn't scary.  His tiny black eyes twinkled.  His short spines bristled, and his pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth while he danced from one human leg to the other in red leather shoes.  He sounded funny and cute, as if his voice came straight out of his pointed little nose.  He said: “Wow, you're the foice I'fe been waiting for. What clarity, what pitch, what folume!"  Rune resonates through her ample nasal passages, and Beauty stifles a laugh.

"He dug into his breeches and brought out a bunch of paper. He said,  “I'fe fritten scores and endured the frustration of nefer joining melodies with lyrics. I can play the pipes and imagine the words or I can sing the words and imagine the music mut nefer hear a whole composition.  Always half of one, half of fanother.  Have you ever heard such an intense metaphor?" Rune gravely asks.

By now, Beauty's chest is heaving with silent guffaws.