Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey (7 page)

plagued my feet to the pile. The forks, knives, and spoons we’d always saved for

company came next, followed shortly thereafter by the everyday silver. We sold the paintings in their gilded frames off our walls, the dresses from out of our wardrobes.

None of us went out now. But nothing we relinquished quite equaled our financial

responsibilities. It was as if we were pouring our money and possessions into a dark and bottomless hole.

Finally, only the house, our horses, and a few cherished possessions remained. I

still remember that evening when Papa called us into the dining room. We still had a dining room table, though the elaborately carved sideboard and its contents of silver serving dishes, crystal, and china were gone. Papa had sold them to Henri de la

Montaigne just that morning. Then Papa and I had spent the afternoon distributing the proceeds among the families of the men aboard Dominic Boudreaux’s ship, the
April
Dawn
.

Beside me at the table, April’s eyes were teary. She claimed it was her sorrow at having to part with our belongings, but I think we all knew that it was something more.

Dominic had been a frequent visitor to our home before he sailed away on this last voyage, and, though he had paid my parents all the proper respect, the real purpose for his visits was clear enough. The fact that April returned Dominic’s affection was equally clear, though Dominic had not spoken to my father before he sailed, and April had kept her feelings to herself. naturally, this made it all the more difficult to offer her comfort.

“Girls,” my father said, “your mother and I have been talking things over…”

I think Papa would have reached out to hold Maman’s hand for comfort if he

could have, but we were sitting in our usual places: Maman and Papa at either end of the long table, Celeste, April, and I in between them.

Maman’s eyes were red. But her face looked determined and calm. The last few

months had wrought a change in my mother. After the initial shock, Maman had

weathered the sale of nearly all the fine things she’d once so treasured and the snubbing by those she’d once considered her friends. Her fortitude was nothing short of

inspirational. I think even she had been surprised to discover that, beneath all her fine satins and silks, my mother possessed a backbone of iron.

“It’s the house, isn’t it?” I asked.

My father nodded. “I’m sorry to say it,” he said, “but the house must be sold. I

had a letter from Alphonse this morning.” He let his fingers rest on an envelope in front of him. Grand-père Alphonse had been gone for at least a week, on an errand whose purpose I was just now beginning to comprehend.

“He writes that he has found us a place in the country,” my father went on. “We

will move by the end of the month.”

“Are the ships lost then, Papa?” April asked, her voice no more than a thin ribbon of sound. “Have we given up hope?”

“Of course not,” my father said at once, though the weariness and sadness were

plain in his voice. “It is never a good idea to abandon hope.”

“But hope is not the same as a ship safely returned to port, is it?” April continued softly. “Hope does not reunite your sailors with those who love them, with those they love.”

“No,” my father answered sadly, as he met April’s gaze. “It does not. But it does teach us not to despair. It gives us something to hold on to, until word comes of what has happened.

“All may yet be well. I pray for this with all my heart. But I cannot run a business on hopes and prayers, even if my bankers would allow it. I have tried to put this day off for as long as possible, but…”

“Where is the new house, Papa?” Celeste inquired.

“A day and a half’s journey inland,” my father said. “One day through the Wood,

and another half day beyond. Alphonse writes that of all the places he saw, this is the one he thinks will suit us best, and I am willing to trust his judgment.”

Papa’s gaze roamed around our spacious dining room. “It will be smaller than

what we’re used to, of course,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “But Alphonse says that the house itself is well-made and snug. The land has a stream and there is a barn for the horses and for livestock.”

“But if three is no money, how will we pay for a new place to live?” Celeste

asked.

My father cleared his throat, as if the words were stuck there and he had to force them out.

“Alphonse has sold his own house,” Papa replied. “He will see us safely settled in the country, then return to the city and live in the rooms above the office.”

“Oh, but –,” Celeste began, then stopped abruptly. The question she’d kept herself from asking still hung in the air: If Grand-père Alphonse could stay in town, why couldn’t we all stay?

“We cannot afford it,” my mother spoke up. “One person can live in the city

much less expensively than five.”

I saw her look down the length of the table to meet my father’s eyes. “Making a

clean break is the best thing, for all of us,” she continued. “And as your father says, all may yet be well.”

But in the present, things were far from well. We spent the rest of that month

packing those belongings we felt we could not live without. On the first day of February, we set out for our new home.

CHAPTER NINE

Have you ever had something so momentous and unexpected happen that it makes you

reconsider all the things you used to agonize over?

That’s what moving to the country did for me. Whether or not my name was the

true match for my face just didn’t seem so important anymore.

This is hardly to say I set off for the country with a brave heart, however. How

could I? I was leaving behind everything I’d loved, everything familiar.

But no matter what you do to postpone it, the future always shows up at your

door. The fact that our door was changing wouldn’t make one bit of difference.

We got up early on the morning of our departure. It would be a day and a half of

travel overall, according to my father. And we knew the first day’s travel would be the longest, for we must be clear of the Wood by nightfall.

I should probably explain about the Wood, shouldn’t I?

In fact, considering the importance it came to have for all of us, most especially for me, perhaps I should have mentioned it long before now. But that would have been cheating, putting the middle and the end of my story before its start. Introducing you to it now means we enter the Wood together.

The town of my birth looks out toward the sea, curving as if in one slow smile

along the coastline. But at its back, snuggled up against it like a cat seeking warmth in winter, lies a great green swath. For as long as anyone can remember, people have simply called it “the Wood.” You can traverse it in a day if you go straight through, but it take three whole days to ride around it.

In spite of this difference, most travelers take the long way around. You can

probably guess why. There are tales about what happens beneath the boughs of the Wood

– as many as there are trees in the Wood itself. Growing up, my sisters and I heard many of them. Tales of the Wood were our second-favorite bedtime stories, just after the ones we had once made up ourselves about Monsieur LeGrand.

There was the tale of a stand of trees with bark as pale as pearls and leaves of

such a color that, when they fell from the branches in autumn, it was like watching a shower of the finest gold. The nursemaid who told us this claimed if you found these trees and stood beneath them as the wind blew, you would come away with your pockets filled with golden coins.

We heard of places in the Wood where the snow fell all year long, sweet as sugar

on the tongue, and places where winter never came at all. Places filled with the voices of birds too numerous to count and places where it was so quiet that you could hear the sap run and the trees themselves grow taller.

And finally there were the tales of the Wood’s dark places, tales that kept us up at night, tales that could only be told in a whisper, for to speak them any louder might invite the dark into the room with you. It goes without saying that my sisters and I loved these tales the best.

And the one we loved the very most, which kept us from falling asleep the

longest, was the tale of a monster dwelling in the most secret heart of the Wood.

It was no ordinary monster, of course. This monster could command the elements.

Bend time so as to never grow old. Shape light and dark, becoming visible or invisible at will. The only thing the monster could not do was no doubt the thing it wanted most: It could not leave the Wood.

This last part was all that kept Celeste, April, and me from complete and utter

terror. As it was, the first time we heard the tale of the monster in the Wood, we lay awake for three nights running. On the fourth day, Maman dismissed the nursemaid

who’d seen fit to tell us the story in the first place. It was Papa who tucked us into bed that night, and as he did so, he soothed away our fears.

It’s not so much that what they say is truthful, Papa assured us in his quiet, steady voice, but that certain kinds of stories have the ability to teach us truths about ourselves.

There was no real monster living in the heart of the Wood. Rather, the story was a way to think about the monster that might dwell in our own hearts.
That
was the monster we should fear the most, or so my father said.

Papa’s explanation made it easier to fall asleep at night, but I wasn’t altogether sure I accepted it.

Any child can tell you that monsters are as real as you an I are. So why shouldn’t the tales be true? Why shouldn’t there be a monster dwelling in the Wood’s most secret heart? Such a hidden place seemed as fine as any for a being bound by rules of

enchantment, but not those that fettered the rest of us, to call his home.

And now you know as much about the Wood as I did when I first set foot beneath

its boughs.

On the first day of our journey, we set off long before the sun was up. It felt a strange, unnatural time to be leaving, as if we were beginning our new life before the old one was truly over. But it had been both of my parents’ choice. Neither of them wished to attract a crowd. I think, even of well-wishers, and certainly not those who pitied us or would gloat over our misfortune. It was better to slip away quietly, though not so quickly as to seem like we were running away.

Winding our way through the city streets, the jangle of harnesses and the steady

clop of our horses’ hooves on the cobblestone were the only sounds. After a time, we reached the stone wall that wraps around the town like outstretched arms. There are gates set into the wall at regular intervals so that no one from outside can sneak up on the city.

Neither my sisters nor I had ever left the protection of the city walls. We did so now, in single file. Just as my horse stepped through the gate, the sun came up. I pulled back on the reins in surprise.

For instead of the blue of the ocean to which I was accustomed, I found myself

looking out into a waving sea of green, flecked with rose and gold. And so it was that I saw the Wood for the very first time, while it looked to hold the greatest promise: at dawn.

Unexpectedly, I felt my heart lift.
Perhaps Papa is right
, I thought.
Perhaps all
may yet be well after all
.

Then I put my heels to my horse and followed my family toward whatever lay in

store.

“Where is the heart of the Wood, Grand-père Alphonse?” I asked several hours later. “Do you know?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I though I saw him smile.

The two of us were now riding at the head of the party, instead of bringing up the rear in single file as we had been before. Beyond the city gate, the narrow streets of the city opened out into a great causeway that ran the length of the wall, making it easier for the large wagons of trade caravans to navigate. Something about all that space just plain went to my head, as far as I can tell.

Having spurred my horse on once, I had done so again, moving forward to the

front of the line. Hardly my usual position, but why shouldn’t I go first? We were beginning a new life. Surely, the old order of things need not apply.

It was exciting to feel the wind in my face and to know my eyes were the first to gaze upon whatever was to come. After a few moments, Grand-père Alphonse joined me, for even once we entered the Wood, the path stayed broad enough for the two of us to travel side by side. Besides that, it made good sense for Grand-père Alphonse to take the lead. He was the only one who actually knew where we were going.

Not that any of us could have gotten lost. The path ran as straight as that of an arrow. The trees grew so close along the roadway that I could have reached out and brushed them with my fingertips. I inhaled deeply, tasting the sharp scent of pine at the back of my throat.

“You are thinking of the story,” Grand-père Alphonse said.

“I suppose I am,” I answered with a smile. “Perhaps I’m simply being childish.

We’ve heard dozens of stories over the years, but I never thought I’d actually set foot inside the Wood itself. That makes the tales feel…different, somehow.”

“I know just what you mean,” Grand-père Alphonse said with a nod. “I felt the

same way myself, the first time I came here, as if all the tales were going to come to life around me.”

“Well, if they’re going to do that.” Celeste piped up behind us, “why not look for the grove that rains down golden coins? If we gathered some of those, we could go back home where we belong.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to find the heart of the Wood,” I said into the charged

silence that followed my sister’s words. There was no home to go back to, even if we could. After all that happened, who was to say where we belonged?

“I only asked Grand-père Alphonse if he knew where it was.”