Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey (11 page)

But it was clear that he was not.

The man who had ridden out to the city four weeks ago had been in high spirits.

He’d had a glimmer in his eyes. The man sitting now at the kitchen table was bowed down, as if by some hidden weight almost too great to bear. I’d never seen my father look like this. Not even in the days before we’d moved to the country, when each morning brought word of some new loss.

My mother sat beside Papa, an arm around his waist as if to shore him up.

“Drink your tea, Roger,” she urged in a soft, firm voice. “You got caught in that rain squall this morning, didn’t you? The tea will warm you up.”

My father took a sip, obediently, like a child.

“I’m sorry to be such trouble,” he said.

“Papa,” I said, shocked. “How can you talk so? We love you. How can anything

we do for you trouble us?”

The mug of tea slipped from my father’s fingers, then bounced off the tabletop

and smashed on the floor. Hot liquid and broken crockery shot every which way. None of us moved or made a sound.

Our attention was riveted on my father’s face, on the tortured expression in his

eyes as they stared into mine.

“Belle,” my father said hoarsely, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise at his tone. “
Ma petite Belle
. I wonder if you will say that when you know what I have done.”

“I stayed in the city too long. It’s as plain as that,” my father said some time later. At Maman’s urging, we had deferred any explanation of Papa’s strange and dire remark until we’d all eaten lunch. If we were about to face some new crisis, she declared, we would need our strength, and no one could be strong on an empty stomach.

Much to my surprise, the food helped – as did the simple act of sitting down and

eating together, a family once more. Gradually, the lines in my father’s face seemed to ease a little, and his shoulders straightened, though his eyes were still full of worry when he gazed at me from time to time. At last, the meal over, April brewed a fresh pot of tea while Celeste brought out the pie. Then, once more at Maman’s urging, Papa began to tell his tale.

“Let me share the good news first,” he said,” for there is much that is good to tell.

The
April
Dawn
’s safe arrival was just the first, Dominic. By the time I reached the city, two more of our ships had arrived at port. This went a fair way toward settling our remaining debts, enough so that my credit is good in the city again and we can begin repairs. Although,” my father went on with the ghost of a smile, “I have decided that we will no longer bank with Henri de la Montaigne.”

“Good for you, Papa,” Celeste said.

Papa drew a deep breath, then let it out. “I stayed in the city longer than I should have,” he said again. “But there was so much to accomplish, so much I wanted to see and do. I wanted to visit as many of the men as I could. And then there were the ships to inspect, trying to decide what repairs must be made, when the ships could be ready to sail once more.

“Perhaps I have grown too cautious in my old age,” me father went on. “Perhaps I

was too anxious to make sure everything would turn out well, that no harm would come to my sailors, or dishonor to us, again.”

“But surely no man can truly do that,” said my mother.

“You’re absolutely right, my dear,” my father replied. “At any rate, I realized I’d been gone for nearly four weeks, and, even worse, I’d sent you no word of what was going on. By that time, even Alphonse was urging me to return. I’d been away from all of you quite long enough, he said, and he could manage what still remained to be done.”

My father paused to take a sip of tea, as if to fortify himself before continuing.

“So first I stayed too long in the city, and then I left later in the day than I should have. I knew it at the time. But, once I had decided to leave, I felt so eager to be home that even another night away from you seemed too much. And the journey itself was so simple and straightforward. All I had to do was keep to the road. I had been through the Wood twice now. I did not think it held any danger for me.

“But I did not count on the storm.”

“What storm, sir?” Dominic asked in the startled silence that followed my father’s words. “With the exception of that bit of rain we had this morning, the weather had been fine here the whole time you’ve been gone.”

“You set my mind at ease,” my father answered, “strange as that may sound. For

the storm I encountered on that night was like none I have ever experienced. It was almost as if it had a will, a mind of its own. As if it sought me out.

“I’d not been in the Wood more than half an hour when it struck. After that, I

could not keep track of the time.”

“But surely nothing dangerous could happen,” Maman said. “As long as you did

what you said and stayed on the road.”

“That’s precisely what I did,” my father replied. “But on that day, in that storm, the road led to a place it had not before. I think, perhaps, that this destination was always there, waiting for the right set of circumstances and the right person to come along.”

Silence filled the kitchen, but in it was the question that resonated in every mind.

“Where did the road take you, Papa?” I finally asked.

“To the heart of the Wood,” my father replied.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I think it was the wind that did it,” my father continued. “The wind made it so hard to see where I was going. For it drove the rain straight into my face, forcing me to bow my head down. And the sound…”

He broke off and shook his head, as if to dispel the memory.

“Not filled with rage, as high winds so often are. But if true loneliness ever had a voice, it would cry out with the sound of that wind. Even as it pushed against me, it seemed to pull me forward.

“I have no idea how long I traveled,” my father said. “I rode until I was soaked

clear through to the skin, and my horse began to stumble. Finally, I got down and led him, fearful that I’d take a fall and injure myself. But also so that I could feel the road beneath my feet and know that I still traveled on it.”

“But you said you never left the road,” Celeste countered.

“Nor did I,” replied my father. “Remember how we marveled at how smooth and

even the surface of the roadway was? The longer I went on, the more it seemed the road began to change beneath my feet, even as I walked along it. It became rough and uneven as if, instead of being well kept up, it had been abandoned, forgotten. It was all I could do to keep my balance.

“In the end, I didn’t. my foot turned on a loose stone and I pitched forward, letting go of the horse’s reins so that I wouldn’t pull him down on top of me. I expected to land flat on my face. Instead, when I reached out to brace myself, my hands found cold, wet metal, and I held on tight.

“I had come to a pair of iron gates.”

“You should have turned right around and gone back the other way,” my mother

announced.

“Maybe,” said my father. “But the solution to my situation did not seem so simple at the time. I was wet and I was tired. And, though I don’t like to admit it, I was as afraid as I’ve been in a good long while. Beyond the gates might lie rescue or shelter. Outside them, I knew that there was none.

“So I pushed on the gates. They did not budge. Three times I pushed with all my

might, and on the third try, they opened.”

“Three,” I murmured. “Just like in one of Grandpère Alphonse’s stories.”

“Even so,” my father said with a nod, “for as hard as they’d been to open, those

gates swung back without a sound. I gathered the horse’s reins and my courage, then walked forward. As we passed through the gates, the storm died down. For the first time in what seemed like hours, I did not have the sound of that terrible wind in my ears.

“I turned back. Through the open gates and beyond them, I could see that the

storm still raged. But where I stood, all was still and calm. The path was solid again beneath my feet, and I could see that it was made of stones so smooth and white they looked like polished ivory.

“As I stood hesitating, suddenly unable to decide what I feared more – going

forward or turning back – the gates swung closed behind me as silently as they’d opened.

“’That settles that,’ I thought. Forward I went, and I did not look back again. I was half convinced the world was unraveling behind me.”

“I think you were very brave, Papa,” I said.

“Thank you, Belle,” my father answered with a tired smile. But when he looked at

me, I noticed the sadness still remained in his eyes. There was something he hadn’t told yet, the part of the tale that gave him pain.

“Since going forward was my only real choice, I continued to do that,” my father

went on. “It seemed to me I must have been on the grounds of some great estate. On one side of the road was an orchard of fruit trees, on the other, a garden filled with roses. I could not see their colors in the fading light, but their scent was all around me.

“I’m not sure how long I walked, for I had reached that strange stage of weariness where time seems to fold back upon itself.

“At long last, I came to a short rise, and saw before me a great house made of

stone. It seemed to fling itself across the hilltop, as if longing to break free of the constraints of its own construction. To its left sat a row of buildings I thought must be stables. I approached, and found that this was so.

“I stabled my horse, caring for him well and tenderly, for he had been brave that day. Though there were no other horses in the stables, there was food for him in

abundance. This reminded me that I was hungry as well. I then approached the house with some trepidation, for I had no idea what I would find inside.”

“Oh, but surely you had to know,” Celeste interrupted. “The heart of the Wood.

That’s what you said. So you must have seen the very house of the monster.”

“Celeste!” April cried.

“What?” Celeste snapped back, and suddenly the tension in the room ratcheted up

sharply. “We’re all thinking it. We have been ever since Papa told us that he thought he traveled to the heart of the Wood. Don’t get mad at me just because I had the guts to say it out loud.”

“Since when do monster live in houses?” I asked, trying to defuse the situation.

“It’s a
monster
,” Celeste replied. “Surely that means it can live wherever it wants.

Who’s going to tell it no? You?”

“Girls,” my mother said. “That’s enough.”

“What
was
inside the house, Papa” April asked.

“No one,” my father replied. “That is to say, no living soul that I encountered. But the front doors parted at my touch as easily as the gates had, and closed behind me just as silently once I had crossed the threshold. Inside, I found myself in a great entry hall. The floor was a mosaic of images beneath my feet, but I did not take the time to study the story they might tell.

“I called out, for I did not wish to give offense. There was no reply. Then, as if by way of answer, a door at the hall’s far end swung open, and through it, I could see a glow. I called again, and still there was no answer. So, hearing no sound but my own loud breathing and footsteps, I walked the length of the hall until I stood in the open door.

“Before me was what I took to be a small study, for bookcases lined the walls.

Directly across from me burned a cheerful fire. This was the glow I had seen from the hall. In front of the fire was a low table set with meat, bread, cheese, and a flagon of wine. A chair was alongside the table, positioned so that its occupant might eat and be warm at the same time.

“I stood in that doorway for I can’t tell you how long, till I’d dripped a great

puddle of water on the floor and heard my stomach growl. At last, I finally went in, took a seat in the chair, and ate as hearty and delicious a meal as I’d had in my life. Afterward, I slowly drank a glass of wine, the best I’d ever tasted. Before I knew it, the food and wine, combined with my weariness, got the better of me, and I fell asleep before the fire.”

“I’d never have been able to do that,” April said. “I’d have felt too afraid.”

“Did you not feel afraid, sir?” Dominic inquired.

My father was quiet for a few moments. “No, I did not,” he answered finally. “It’s difficult to explain, but it’s almost as if the house felt welcoming. As if it was made peaceful, even joyful, by my presence, and wished to do me good rather than harm.”

Papa gazed at is as we sat around the table, holding each of our eyes in turn. “You all know that I am not a fanciful man,” my father said. “I have never really believed the old tales of the Wood. To me, they seemed best suited to what they have become:

bedtime stories. But I swear to you that I felt something in that house, as if the very stones of which it was made were, themselves, alive. And I felt it welcome me as surely as I felt you welcome me here today.

“But, beneath the welcome, there was something else.”

“What was it, Papa?” I asked.

“Loneliness,” my father answered. “The silence of that house spoke with the same

voice that the windstorm had, with one fierce and endless cry against being alone.

“So, no,” my father said once more, turning his gaze again to Dominic. “I did not feel afraid. If anything, I felt my own good fortune.

“I had been rescued. I was being offered shelter. But in the morning, I would ride away. I could return to my home and those I loved. But the spirit that haunted that place would have no such reprieve. It had to stay behind. I’m not certain how I knew this, but I did. I seemed to feel it in my bones.

“I slept through the night,” my father continued. “And awoke refreshed the next

morning. My clothes were dry. They bore no trace of having come through a storm, no trace of having been slept in. nor, for that matter, did i. I wasn’t stiff or sore from sleeping in a chair all night. The table beside me had been reset for breakfast. There was fruit and cheese, and a steaming pot of coffee. I breakfasted as well and heartily as I had dined the night before.