Beast (18 page)

The thrill of her speaking to me again after more than two months scrambles my thoughts. I let out a small, rolling growl.

Chou Chou comes cascading down the stairs. He
circles us both, then walks under me, positioning himself between my forelegs.

I sit on my haunches and look at Belle. Chou Chou mimics me. He wags his tail tentatively against my belly.

Belle lays the piece of charcoal on the table and folds her hands in her lap. But her actions are not demure. Her eyes are hard. Her jaw is set.

This is a showdown.

Her audacity interests me. The book must be important. I nudge it with my muzzle.

Belle places her hands, one on top of the other, on the cover of the book. Her cheeks darken. “Will you take this, too?” Anger roughens her voice.

This is a Belle I have not seen before. All my senses sharpen; my breath and heartbeat quicken.

She shakes her head. Her eyes shine. “This is all that's left of me.”

All that's left of her, on the pages of a book.

I jump to my paws and race upstairs. From the corner of my bedroom I take
Gulistan
and leap down the stairs as fast as I can.

Belle sits at the table, unmoving. I drop the book in her lap.

Belle looks from the book to me and back again. Finally, she opens it gingerly, turns the pages slowly. She lets her fingers touch the letters, as though
reading them with her skin. She lingers over the illustrations. Then she looks at me quickly. “Is this your land?” Her words come fast and stabbing.

I am uncertain as to whether I should answer. But I feel no tremble, no warning from the Merciful One. I nod.

“What brought you here?”

This I know I cannot answer.

She sits taller, her body rigid. She plucks the soft cloth of her sleeve. “What happened to the woman who wore this frock?”

I shake my head.

“You don't know? Or you won't tell? Which is it?” Her questions are a demand.

Their import suddenly dawns on me. What torturous fears rattle in this woman's chest. I knock the charcoal off the table with a swipe. Then I push it under the pad of my forepaw to form words on the stone floor: “Never met.”

Belle's eyelids soften and lower just the slightest. I am overcome by the expressiveness of those eyes. I was right—they are the eyes of a lioness.

She pages through
Gulistan,
studying the pictures, all the way to the end. She closes the book and sets it on the table. “There are no beasts in your book.”

I write, “People.”

“People.” She stares at the words on the floor. “People,” she whispers. “You care about people?”

I rest my cheek on the cover of
Gulistan.
Then I roll my head until my forehead presses on the cover. I keep rolling my head until my other cheek presses there.

Now I hold my head over the cover of the Chinese book.

Belle watches me.

We both know I can take the book if I want to.

I step back.

Belle's mouth is open. Her face is sad. She extends her hand toward me.

I back up farther.

She leaves her hand in the air for a moment, then picks up the Chinese book. She pauses, seemingly confused. Her eyelids flutter. “This is mine. Whatever else you understand or don't understand, you know that.” She rises and carries her book upstairs to her room.

My head swirls. I can't think. I walk to the wolf carcass, rip off a hindquarter, and run to the brambles. I press myself under them and feed, then nap.

When I wake, the weak sunlight filtering through the brambles announces early evening. Crickets sing. I turn my ears until I hear Belle and Chou Chou. Belle is cleaning the wolf skin in the moat, describing every detail of her work to Chou Chou, who makes little snuffles. I hear him digging, probably wracking havoc in the perennial garden nearby.

I wander lazily over to the moat.

Belle has already stretched out the wolf pelt to dry. She walks past me into the kitchen, avoiding looking directly at me.

I perform the
wudhu
and pray. Then I wander slowly through the rose garden. It is now in full perfume. The pungency gives a headiness that makes me almost lose my balance.

When I turn to go inside, Belle's standing in the doorway. Chou Chou bounds out from behind her and jumps into my face. He licks my muzzle and wags his tail stupidly.

“You offered me your book to read,” says Belle evenly. “It is wrong to spurn such a generous offer.” She holds out
Gulistan.
“Thank you, but I do not know this script. I cannot read this book.”

Her words bring a sudden idea that titillates. I walk to the library and look over my shoulder.

Belle lights an oil lamp and follows me.

With difficulty, I knock the
Aeneid
from its shelf.

Belle picks it up. She puts the lamp on the desk and opens the book.

I sit on my haunches, ready. Chou Chou sits beside me.

Belle reads silently.

I give a humph.

Belle glances at me. Chou Chou cocks his head. Belle goes back to her reading.

I hiss.

Belle looks up quickly. Chou Chou whines. Belle waits a moment, then reads again.

I snarl.

Chou Chou throws himself against my neck and licks my ear.

“What is it?” Belle blinks. “Ah.” A slow look of realization crosses Belle's face. She reads again, but now out loud.

I lower my front half and lie with my chin on my paws, ears high.

Belle reads quickly, so much more quickly than I can with my lion eyes. She finishes the entire first book of the epic and closes the covers gently. “Good night, Mon Ami.” She stoops and kisses Chou Chou on the top of the head before going into the chapel for her night prayers. Then she climbs the stairs quietly.

Chou Chou looks at me. Belle retiring to her room is our cue to go to our bedroom. But despite the heavy meal in my gut, I'm restless. I've been pacing since Belle closed the book.

Belle read the Latin words with feeling. The tones of her voice were like music. They play again in my head. I stop for a moment and let myself listen to the memory of them over and over.

The little fox presses his nose against my chest. He's sleepy.

I lie down. Chou Chou curls up in the arc of my forepaws and chest. The quiet regularity of his quick breath soothes me until, at last, I, too, close my eyes.

The next day, I stay close, trying not to act like Chou Chou, but unable to let Belle out of my sight. All day long I wonder what the night will bring. My throat is thick with hope. When Belle finally cleans up from her evening meal, lights the oil lamp, and heads for the library, I run past her and wait by the book, as eager as a cub.

Belle reads aloud the second book of the
Aeneid.
She reads of the great battles at the end of the Trojan War, of the death of Achilles, of the madness of Ajax, who turns on his own people and slaughters the flocks and herds of the Greeks, thinking they are soldiers, and then kills himself when he realizes his error. She reads of the huge wooden horse within which the Greeks hide and from which they burst after the Trojans are tricked into pulling it within the city walls. The poem tells a tale of nobility, honor, loyalty, glory. My soul sours.

Belle snaps the book shut and stands. She stamps her foot.

I am jarred out of my reverie. I stare at her.

“Where is the glory in a war that leaves a ruined town, wretched widows, dead babies?” She marches up the stairs to her room and closes the door.

Chou Chou follows her, confused. He yips in the hall.

I feel just as stupid. I pace the upstairs corridor. Chou Chou keeps yipping. Finally, I take him by the scruff of the neck into our bedroom. I lick him until he falls asleep.

For the second night in a row, I lie awake for hours. Mother didn't like the
Shahnameh
because of all the violent scenes.

Belle didn't even go to the chapel for her evening prayers, she was so angry.

This young woman holds more complexity than I had guessed.

The next night I go into the library while Belle's eating and take out a volume of Ovid's poems. When I hear her cleaning up from her meal, I carry the book in my mouth and go to stand behind her.

She turns to me, wiping her hands dry on her skirts. “I won't read it.”

I come a step closer and drop the book at her feet.

Belle picks it up, examines the cover. She opens it. Then she lights a lamp and goes into the library. She reads deep into the night, her voice filling the room with melodies.

It takes only four nights to finish Ovid's poems. The morning after we have finished, I carry the
Aeneid
out to the garden, where Belle is working. I scratch in
the dirt, “Skip war.” It is essential that Belle agree — for the third book of the
Aeneid,
the crucial book, still lies ahead.

Belle looks at the words, hesitates, then laughs. That night she reads from the
Aeneid
again.

She reads about the Trojan warrior Aeneas, who with the cunning help of his mother, escapes after the fall of the city with his father and son, though he loses his wife. He gathers some men, builds a fleet, and sets sail, to Thrace, then Crete, then Sicily. Along the way pestilence and storms beset the fleet. The Harpies attack, frightful stench-ridden creatures with wings and claws and hooked beaks. The terrible volcano of Mount Aetna threatens, as do a hundred cannibal Cyclops, the worst of whom is the great Polyphemus, blinded by Odysseus. In the end Juno, the vengeful queen of the gods, sends a storm so great, it tosses them south, all the way to Africa. Aeneus wanders homeless, bewildered and aching.

I love this tale, this
Aeneid.
I remember how I had thought it was inferior to the
Shahnameh
when I first began to read it. But now it enthralls me. As Belle reads, I relive the nights I spent hiding from man and beast before I finally found this castle. Nights of loss and desperation. Does Belle have any sense of that? She reads with true inflection, her voice aching over the pain, shaking with the fears. Something inside her
responds to the tale. But does she have any idea that the
Aeneid
is the only way I can allow myself to tell her my tale, for no one knows the agony of Aeneas better than I do?

When Belle goes upstairs to her room, Chou Chou and I go to ours, and we sleep well.

As morning comes, I go into the library and look ahead in the
Aeneid.
Before Belle came to this castle, I read the first three books on my own—the books that Belle has now reread to me. But that's as far as I got. There are twelve books in all. I'm wary, though. A spot check suggests the last six books deal heavily with war. Belle may refuse to read. But I can always finish on my own, if I want, even though the absence of her mellow voice will greatly diminish the pleasure.

I go outside, perform the
wudhu,
and pray. Then I prowl. But no hapless creature crosses my path during what must be at least an hour. So I go to the pond. A fat duck would be a nice change.

Several duck families are already in the water. A crow spies me and screeches as he takes to the air. The ducks swim madly, leading their ducklings to the center of the lake. To reach them, I'll have to get thoroughly soaked. And I'm not a fast swimmer — I might never catch anything but the smallest ducklings.

I don't want to think about Belle's reaction to my bringing home a passel of dead ducklings.

I pad along the edge of the pond, grumpy, when I almost step on a late nest full of eggs. I lower my ear to them. There's a quiet inside these eggs; they may be newly laid. The nest is larger than my mouth, so I can't take the whole thing. I rest my chin on the edge of the nest and press down hard. With my right paw, I nudge an egg little by little into my open jaw. Then the second and third and fourth and fifth. There's no room for the sixth. I should have eaten one first. But it's too late now; I won't take the chance of emptying my mouth and possibly cracking an egg.

I trot home. Belle is not downstairs. I go upstairs. Her door is closed, and Chou Chou lies outside, eyes wide and alert. When he sees me, he jumps at my muzzle in greeting.

I sit on my haunches. Chou Chou leaps at my back, tumbling across me, wondering why I won't play with him. I sit here stupid with a mouthful of eggs, waiting for Belle.

Finally, she opens the door. She looks at us with surprise.

I open my jaws wide.

Belle's breath catches. Then she laughs and, oh sad truth, I think I detect relief in that laughter, though I cannot see her face well with my eyes scrunched up from my open jaw.

My jaw wants to close. She's taking her time. Assessing the risk, perhaps?

“Duck eggs. Magnificent.” Belle makes a scoop of her skirt and fills it with the eggs from my mouth. She walks down the stairs carefully and puts them on the table.

Then she picks up Chou Chou and nuzzles her face in his neck fur.

Jealousy stings. I look away briefly.

Belle has still never touched me. Just now, as she took the eggs from my mouth, her hand didn't even knock against a tooth.

She cracks an egg into a bowl and puts it on the floor in front of greedy Chou Chou. She pulls teasingly on his tail as he licks at the dark yolk.

She cracks a second egg into a bowl on the table and turns to me, to her other pet—the gigantic, untame one. I am supposed to lap like Chou Chou. Lap before her human eyes.

I back away. Then I turn and run.

I'm in the woods in minutes. I race. And I know this is absurd. I ran away from Belle once before, only to return. This is my life. I cannot escape it. Yet I run. I run full out and wild.

At length I stop and stand, my head hanging. I shut my eyes and work to remember. I search every crevice of my mind. My nursemaid Ava's voice comes to me, with all the rules of my Persian heritage passed from generation to generation: