Post by Taija Cummingham on Jul 3, 2006 5:11:13 GMT -5
A/N: Okay, people. I know we don't know each other, but just so you know - I love posting origional works of mine. Yes, I'm proud of my work, but I also love to get feedback from outside viewers. People who don't know me, and aren't afraid to hurt my feelings. Most of the time, I feel as though my family and friends are simply amusing me. They know that writing is my life. I sleep, drink, and eat it up.
Please, just give me your honest opinion. Much appreciated. Critisizm, and Flamming more than welcome. At least I'll know when to stop when I'm ahead.
Belle's Melody
References:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Livre_parisis - France 11th Century Currency
translation.langenberg.com/ - used to help translate certain texts from English to French
Of course, this story came to be by details from both Gabrielle Susan Barbot de Gallan de Villeneuve and Madame Le Prince de Beaumont’s: “Beauty and the Beast” without whom I would have never been inspired.
It is with great haste that I write these words. The words of a Merchant‘s Daughter, who learned to love a beast...
PROLOGUE
Lovely when stuck in bud, transformed to indescribable beauty. Thus, is the power of the rose. It’s scent, unlike any other, the color of God’s Blood. It was, after all, when Lucifer had struck Him, that the rose had been created. A single drop had fell from Heaven, landing near the Tree of Knowledge. Lucifer, angered by the beauty created by His blood, had added the thorns. They were put there in efforts to keep from Human’s Touch.
It was, by this work, that forced early civilization to fear this beauty. Though created by the blood of God, it was tainted by Lucifer’s ever darkening heart. Until the day appeared one soul whom was mesmerized by the mere sight. The ancient stories had been lost by this time, and it was hard to accept that such a rare item had never been brought forth in any market. The young man’s name has never been recorded, but it is known that he had taken a single blossom to a nearby village, in effort to sell it for great profits.
A little vase protected the buds nourishment, as it’s bloom grew more radiant with each eye that settled upon it. Bidding was done without hesitation. “Such a lovely item in your home, can only offer good omens,” the young Traveler explained. “Only one of it’s kind! I shan‘t accept any bid under Two Livre Parisis and Seven Deniers.” The price was steep, but the villagers didn’t seem to mind. What luck that he would chose their humble abode to sell such a valuable item!
“Deux Livre Parisis, et Un Denier!” One Villager Cried.
The Traveler’s eyes darkened at the bid. It was well under six deniers of the original price he had so fairly (or not so fairly) agreed upon. “What little money to offer for something of priceless value, Monsieur! How dare you offend the work of-”
“Quatre Livre Parisis!” Cried another individual. The Traveler’s eyes wandered towards the voice, before he snuffed at him. It was obvious he could afford no such thing! How dare he try to trick him? The man was dressed in rags, and covered with dirt. He couldn’t possibly possess a single sous to his name, let alone sixty times the amount!
“You shame yourself, sir!” The Traveler said, somewhat snidely.
“Non, Monsieur!” The man said, “I ‘ave ze money!” He reached into his pockets, and frantically pulled Four Livre to show to the man. The town could not outbid such a high offer. Even for something as enticing as the flower before them. The Traveler’s eyes grew glossy with greed. “Please, Monsieur,” the man continued. “I must ‘ave zis!” The urgency in his voice forced the Traveler to pull the blossom away from the man’s needy grasp.
“Vingt Livre Parisis,” came a strong and commanding voice. The town had immediately hushed, as the Traveler’s eyes sparkled wildly. Twenty Livre?! His eyes had fallen to the blossom at sound of the voice, and he hesitantly brought them upwards. The entire town had split in two, offering a road to a very wealthy man on horse. The traveler felt his knee’s buckle from beneath him. There was no doubt in his mind as to who the man was. His status was apparent by his physical demeanor.
“Highness,” he said, bowing, respectfully, as the young prince approached him.
The prince reached out, and gently stroked a single petal of the blossom. “Of all God’s creations,” he muttered, tilting his head slightly, “Never had I laid my eyes upon anything more lovely.” He brought his money pouch up to eyes view, and the Traveler was locked upon the bulge. Never, in his entire being, had he seen so much money in a single place. “Your pay, Traveler,” he said, tossing the money at him. The pouch opened, spilling coins everywhere, and the Traveler quickly bent to retrieve them.
“Non, Monsieur, ve ‘ad a deal!” The poor man, growled.
“Not anything written,” the Traveler said, as he began to count his money. “The Prince has, graciously, offered a price deserved for such a magnificent find!”
The Prince’s attention was perked them “Find, you say?” He asked, his voice monotone.
The Traveler looked up, slowly. The Prince’s eyes were dark, and unfeeling. “Oui, Highness. A day’s journey back. ‘Twas found within the deepest reaches of the forest.”
The Prince’s lips twisted into a malicious smile. Deepest reaches of the forest? His forest? How was it possible the buds were never seen before? Never brought to his attention until this time? “You’ve stolen from me, Traveler,” he said, nodding towards his knights, who were quick to take hold of the man. “And even worse, tried to sell me back my own property.”
“No!” The Traveler begged. “Monsieur, Please!”
“Silence, you filthy maggot,” the Prince barked. “Punishment for such deception is death.”
“I beg of you, spare me!” The Traveler tried once more, “The blossom, ‘twas not within the boundaries of your grounds!” The Traveler paused, before trying to bargain for his life. “My life, Highness, for a life of rewards.”
Not within the boundaries of his grounds? The Traveler was desperate, wasn’t he? All of France belonged to him! He was the God of French. “You’ve nothing of any value to offer, Traveler.” The prince replied, nonchalantly. He reached for his pouch, and tore it from the Traveler’s grasp. Placing it around his neck, he turned his attention to the blossom. The red of the blossom seemed to have deepened to a shade of wine. The Prince squinted his eyes, before reaching to grab the vase.
In a split second, the blossom’s stems grew, wrapping itself around the Prince’s arm. A horrid cry escaped him, as the two knights, who were imprisoning the Traveler, let go. The thorns of the flower were piercing the skin of the Princes arm, releasing fountains of blood. Taking their weapons from their sheathes, the knights tried slicing through the blossom’s stem. However, their efforts were in vain. The stem could not be pierced, and the only result offered were their weapons becoming only half as threatening.
The Villagers had scattered in numerous area’s as the scene had occurred. The Traveler had crouched down on the ground, covering his head with his hands. They had angered God. This was their punishment. He knew this, and was willing to accept anything fit to clean his soul.
A bright light emerged from the blossom’s center, causing all (even the Prince) to shield their eyes. The light was gone almost as quickly as it had occurred. The Prince, strength drained from loss of blood, fell to his knee’s, and looked up upon what replaced the light.
A woman. No, she was too beautiful, too radiant to be anything mortal. An Angel?
She was dressed in pale blue, almost white. Her hair was the color of wheat on a warm Autumn day. A mind-numbing light was escaping her entire being. Eyes as blue as the ocean was fixed upon the Prince with such agony.
Who dared remove this blessed object from it’s sanctuary?
Her lips did not move, but her voice came out in a deafening roar. Her attention went to the Traveler.
Was it you? Your blackening soul screams the torture in your heart.
The Traveler fell to his knee’s, and bowed, not daring to speak. She turned her attention back to the Prince, and her lips fixed into a warm smile.
Yet your heart is deeper than any coal upon this mortal realm. It has been seen, by Rose herself, that you hold no mercy or love in your being. Be this so, you still dared to touch that which was created by the Blood of God?!
The Prince’s sight began to grow blurry. The blood pouring more slowly. His life draining. This couldn’t be the end. It couldn’t! He tried to speak, but the words were stuck in his parched throat.
Death would be merciful.
The Prince collapsed onto the ground, arm still in the air, having been grabbed by Rose.
Hell would be reward.
His breath wouldn’t come! It wouldn’t come! He couldn’t die, not like this. How dare He call Himself a merciful God? Throwing His child into such torture?!
You don’t deserve such forgiveness. You’ve not earned it.
The words were that of anger, yet her tone had softened. Almost pitying him.
Until the day you can love, and be loved, for the beast you are, Prince. So shall you live in the physical form of your evil. So shall your village, servants, and personal surroundings, suffer the burden of your ebony heart. Forever.
A flash of light was that of her disappearance. The village was blanketed in darkness, as an angry roar; unlike that of any creature on Earth, filled the empty land.
---
FOUR HUNDRED YEARS LATER
My name is Isabella. I was so named after my mother, whom (as Papa says) no one could outdo her beauty. I must digress. I am far from the “Belle” all claim me to be. I’m tall, and hunch unnaturally due to my unladylike physic. My hair is mousy brown, with eyes to match. My bones are giant like, and my hips are wide. My waist is slim, but far from slender, as my chest puff’s in a vagrant manner.
Chantal and Marie; now they are the true beauties. Eyes of pine tree’s, with hair that dares to compete with the brilliance of the sun. They are slender, without an awkward bone in their body. Petite, in so many ways. Gentle, and charming. It surprises me that I was the first to marry. Perhaps it was merely the luck of the cards, that I was able to earn the love of my beloved Jacque Delacroix.
Jacque did his duty as a fisherman. His pay was sliced, then cut, offering nothing for his hard efforts. Though he seemed exhausted, he never complained. Home he would come, and I would have dinner prepared for all in my family. He would eat, kiss me goodnight, and prepare for the new day.
Papa would go out to sell his objects, crops from our land, finds from the forest, anything he could get his pudgy little hands on. It is quite surprising what people from the village will buy, should the history seem to hold enough excitement. He once got away with selling a silly little rock he found for two francs! Papa had claimed it to be found upon the lands of the Traveler’s Bloom.
Traveler’s Bloom. It is said the lands are cursed, though none knows where they are located. A greedy prince, from medieval times, had stolen a rose from a beautiful sorceress. Once the Sorceress had discovered of the Prince’s actions, she had cursed him, and those whom he loved, to live a life of solitude. They were transformed into the physical form of their hearts. It is said, to this day, that any who happen to fall upon the lands of Traveler’s Bloom are doomed to perish. Death is the only mercy granted for such tainted lands.
Such a silly little children's tale. One of which guaranteed weariness for those who were gullible enough to believe in them.
I was working in the fields, when I noticed Papa running down the road towards our home. It had been the first time, in months, that I had seen joy in his eyes. I dropped my shovel, and ran after him, calling his name. My throat might as well have been mute to him, as he did not respond to me. Within minutes, he was inside the house, never bothering to shut the door behind him.
I was out of breath by the time I reached the door. Papa had Chantal and Marie seated in the dinning area, and Jacque had a look of deep concern across his brow. Papa was speaking wildly, his words twisted and incoherent. “One hundred forty two Francs!” Was all we could understand.
“Papa,” I said, my voice deep with concern. “Please, calm yourself.”
Papa gave me a look of pure surprise, before he allowed himself to finally breathe. I bowed by head, as I took my place at Jacque’s side. Leaning my head onto Jacque’s shoulder, I nodded at Papa, urging him to continue.
“Michel has offered One Hundred-Forty-two francs to any who can guarantee his cargo to be delivered safely.” It sounded simple, didn‘t it? Simply ride across the land, without a care in the world? After all, all Michel was asking for was to guarantee none of his goods were to be stolen.. All the other, useless, words he had spoken must have been in attempts to make things sound grander than they were. Papa had always had a way with storytelling.
I saw Chantal and Marie physically straighten at the mere thought of such an amount of money. However, I couldn’t help but frown. Papa was a man nearly 50 years of age. There was no possible way he could guarantee such a challenging subject be done. The job itself was useless. Their destination was more than a weeks journey from where we lived, and the road leading there was paved with bandits, gypsies, and murderer’s.
“Non, Papa!” I said sternly, as I quickly moved away from Jacque. “It’s impossible! It can’t be done. You tell Michel you refuse the offer.” It wasn’t my place to speak such things. I was the daughter of that merchant. By no rights did I speak as lady of the house. I just can’t help my outbursts. I have been that way since I was quite young; always unafraid to speak my mind.
“I can not undo what has been done, Isabella.” I forced my eyes to the ground. Though Papa’s words were soft, and not tinted with any anger, he had used my name in full. His mind had been made up. “I will be leaving at sunrise. Be a good daughter, and get your father a dollop of water.”
I bit my lips, as I went outdoors. Digging the ladle into the barrel of water, I retrieved the liquid, and returned indoors. I dared not look at Papa directly, as he retrieved the sthingy, and drank hungrily. “Papa, how could you?” I asked, still standing in front of him. “What are we to do, should something happen to you? Chantal and Marie?”
Papa coughed on his water, and I leapt backwards. Unknowingly, my eyes went to Jacque, who was concentrating hard on Papa. “You needn’t worry, Belle.” Jacque spoke, smiling over at me, “I’ll be sure of his safe departure, and arrival.”
If it were possible, my heart would have sank even deeper. Now, not only the man that I respected with every ounce of my being throwing himself in harms way; Jacque, l'amour de ma vie, was as well? I began to feel faint. This was too much for me to bare. How could I possible cope with the possibility that the two of them were probably riding to their deaths? How could they throw this upon me? How could they be so selfish?
Jacque spoke again, and confidently, “We leave at sunrise.” Papa nodded in agreement, as I went to prepare supper, unable to speak.
---
We had ate our dinner in silence, none dared to remove their eyes from their plates. Chantal and Marie took care of the dishes, as Papa set off to bed. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Jacque, as I, too, left to our bedroom, and changed into my nightwear. Jacque was quick to follow, as I climbed into bed.
He wrapped his arm around my waist, and forced me to turn to him. His brilliant blue eyes were visible even in such darkness. I couldn’t help but smile, as he brought his lips to mine. My duties as a wife were brought forth, then, as we joined together as one.
---
As planned, Papa and Jacque left at first sunlight. The mules were packed, and awaiting their command to depart to Michel’s home, where their job would truly begin. My heart could barely withstand the fear of the scenario's which played themselves in my head, over, and over again. Their blood shed seemed to block my vision, as my hands shook uncontrollably. “Isabella, as I said last night,” Jacque said, as he placed his fingers under my chin, and forced me to look up at him. My tears fell freely from my eyes. “I guarantee your fathers safe return. Worry not, mon petite belle.”
I forced a smile, though my heart felt nothing towards it. I cared not about the money, we were doing fine with what we had. I only wished for them to turn their paths, and remain home. Let Michel find some other fool to run his impossible errands. I watched, as Jacque and Papa took seat upon the mules, before Chantal ran up to them. “Oh, won’t you bring us home something pretty?” She asked, boldly, eyes sparkling with delight, “S’il vous plaît?”
Papa laughed, a laugh full of heart. I could only smile as he ruffled up my younger sister’s hair. “Of course, darling daughter. Anything your heart desires shall be yours.” Chantal’s eyes lit, as she began to immediately fancy her gifts of jewels and fabrics. I bowed my head, as Marie began to wish for the same things. “And for you?” Papa’s voice rang out, forcing me to gaze upon him. “What shall Belle wish for?”
I shook my head, as I took a fearful step backwards. I could want nothing from them. “Only your safe return, Papa. It is all I could possibly ask for. I want your word.”
Papa bowed his head, as if contemplating my request, “You’ve always had my word, daughter. I shall return to you, unharmed. Now, there must be something you wish to possess?”
I took in a heavy breath, as I smiled, “If I must answer, I request a rose, Papa.” Yes, a rose. Simple, and inexpensive. “When Mama was alive, she loved them so.”
---
TRAVELER’S BLOOM
It had been three weeks. No word from Jacques or Papa. I sensed death, and though I wouldn’t admit such feelings to Chantal or Marie, I was frightened. My mind replayed the scenarios of how they died. Death by robbery. Lost in their travels. Worse, even. It was hard for me to concentrate on my tasks. It was a day of the dawning of week four, that I saw Papa riding home, alone, on horseback. He was going slowly, and looked quite weary. His face had a great many more lines across it. His eyes were tired, and almost blank of any emotion.
I was working in the fields when I saw his tiny figure, and my heart almost stopped beating in my chest. Where was Jacques? Where was my husband?
I dropped my rake, and ran to him, blindly. Once reaching the man and horse, I noticed that my presence had spooked the beast, as it gave a stand on its hind legs. I was struck in the shoulder by one of it’s hooves, and my eyes flashed from the pain. Papa’s voice rang, dimly, in my ears. “Belle? Belle!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. As far as I could tell, nothing had been broken. The bones were sprained, however. “Non, Papa. I’m alright,” I answered. I couldn’t look up at him, embarrassed of my actions. He didn’t say anything else, and I heard the horse bypass me, approaching our small home.
I simply stood where I was, dazed. That was quite unlike my father, to simply ignore any pain put upon his daughter. I turned slowly, and watched, as the horse and man continued up the road. I bowed my head, thanking God that my father had returned alive, yet unable to push my uneasy feelings of Jacques welfare out of my mind.
The sharp pain continued to shoot up my arm, but I did my best to ignore it. Now was not the time to worry about silly mishaps. I wasn’t bleeding, and the pain wasn’t doing anything to block my vision. I gave a quick glance at the fields before I silently followed Papa to our home.
---
Chantal had grabbed some water for Papa, and Marie his blanket. We had sat him upon his favorite chair, and left him in silence. So many questions shot through my sister’s eyes, yet they remained respectful. We knew Papa would speak when he was ready.
I sent the twins out to finish their chores before supper. Though they groaned in protest, they obeyed my instructions. I watched as they disappeared behind the hill, before I returned indoors. Papa was finally sleeping, and the peaceful man that left this house a month before had returned. My eyes began to wield tears, and I quickly brushed them away, as I retreated to the kitchen.
Papa slept through supper, and the rest of the night. It wasn’t until I sent Marie into town to buy some supply did he wake. I had never heard a more tortured cry in my life. For a few moments, I was afraid to move. Chantal had latched herself upon me, and gave a frightful look over towards Papa’s room. I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and instructed that she fetch some fresh water from the well. At first she began to argue against me, before I gave her a stern look, and she obeyed. Once she was finally out of sight, I walked into Papa’s room.
The man on the bed wasn’t my father. His hair had grown ghostly white, and his eyes were as big as a river’s boulder. His entire body was shaking, and at the sight of me, he leapt from his bed, and huddled in a corner. He whimpered like a coward, and my heart swelled with overwhelming sadness. I didn’t dare enter his room. “Papa?” I made sure my voice was soft and gentle. He looked up at me, eyes taking a moment to register my presence. For a second I saw his eyes disagree with the sight, before he bowed his head and cried.
I pursed my lips together, unsure of what to do next. Carefully, I stepped deeper into his room, and took a seat on the corner of his bed. What, in God’s Name, had happened to him? My stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. What happened to Jacques? “Papa, you’re safe now.” Why did it seem as though those were the wrong words to speak? They seemed so weak, so useless! I fumbled with my fingers, staring down at my knees.
“Belle? Daughter...”
I looked over at Papa, who was reaching a weary hand my direction. I fought back the tears once more, as I kneeled down on the floor, and took his hand in my own. “Yes, Papa. It’s me, Isabella.” I caressed my face with his hand. Proving to him that I was no figment of his imagination. His eyes turned red, as free tears rolled down his aging face. I gave a gentle smile, as he pulled me to him and held me in a tight embrace.
Later that night, after the twins were sound asleep, Papa told me of his terrifying, yet amazing, adventure.
---
“You must forgive me, my darling Isabella,” Papa said, as his breaths grew uneven. He didn’t look at me, and I stood to grab a cool cloth to put upon his forehead. His hand squeezed my wrist, and I retreated my glances towards our small window. His grasp tightened, and a small gasp escaped me. I tried to retrieve my hand, but his grip was too strong. My arm grew cold, as an unknown pain shot through me. I could feel my bones rubbing against each other, my vision went white for a second. Then the snap came. That horrid snap which escaped from my wrist.
I screamed, and his grip loosened. My wrist was broken, at least, that‘s how it seemed. Tears blurred my already blackening vision. My heart pounded so hard that I could hear nothing else in my ears. I collapsed to the floor, landing roughly on my knees. My eyes quickly traced over towards the girls bedroom. Forcing myself to calm, I listened. As far as I could tell, they didn’t stir.
I looked back over at Papa, cradling my dangling wrist with my free arm. The bones didn’t break the skin. Thank God for small miracles. The man was crying again, and though I had every reason to be angry with him, my heart and soul could feel nothing but sorrow.
I ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a few rags to wrap around my wrist. With a shallow breath, I did what needed to be done: I popped my bones back into their proper places. The pain which came now seemed to be worse than the pain I had before. Mon Dieu! He hadn’t splintered the bones as well, had he? How could he crack the colossal bones which lie under my skin? How could that amount of strength escape from someone who looked so fragile?
Gingerly, I traced my wrist. As far as I could tell, the earlier assumptions of my bones being broken were wrong. He had simply popped them out of place. I inhaled deeply, as I wrapped the rag around my wrist. It didn’t need to be done, I know, but the fragile material gave me a sense of security. When I returned to Papa, he was still crying, though it seemed that he had run out of tears. Dry heave’s were escaping him, and I quickly rushed to his aid. It took almost an hour to calm him.
A/N: I know, this chapter is cut straight in the middle. You don't get to hear Papa's story just yet. If you're interested, I'll write more tonight and share it with you. If not... I guess you'll have to always wonder what happened next. What happened to Jacques, and why Papa was so tramatized.
Aren't I just the meanest little writer?
On that note, if you'd like to see other pieces of my work, you can simply click here.
Please, just give me your honest opinion. Much appreciated. Critisizm, and Flamming more than welcome. At least I'll know when to stop when I'm ahead.
Belle's Melody
References:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Livre_parisis - France 11th Century Currency
translation.langenberg.com/ - used to help translate certain texts from English to French
Of course, this story came to be by details from both Gabrielle Susan Barbot de Gallan de Villeneuve and Madame Le Prince de Beaumont’s: “Beauty and the Beast” without whom I would have never been inspired.
It is with great haste that I write these words. The words of a Merchant‘s Daughter, who learned to love a beast...
PROLOGUE
Lovely when stuck in bud, transformed to indescribable beauty. Thus, is the power of the rose. It’s scent, unlike any other, the color of God’s Blood. It was, after all, when Lucifer had struck Him, that the rose had been created. A single drop had fell from Heaven, landing near the Tree of Knowledge. Lucifer, angered by the beauty created by His blood, had added the thorns. They were put there in efforts to keep from Human’s Touch.
It was, by this work, that forced early civilization to fear this beauty. Though created by the blood of God, it was tainted by Lucifer’s ever darkening heart. Until the day appeared one soul whom was mesmerized by the mere sight. The ancient stories had been lost by this time, and it was hard to accept that such a rare item had never been brought forth in any market. The young man’s name has never been recorded, but it is known that he had taken a single blossom to a nearby village, in effort to sell it for great profits.
A little vase protected the buds nourishment, as it’s bloom grew more radiant with each eye that settled upon it. Bidding was done without hesitation. “Such a lovely item in your home, can only offer good omens,” the young Traveler explained. “Only one of it’s kind! I shan‘t accept any bid under Two Livre Parisis and Seven Deniers.” The price was steep, but the villagers didn’t seem to mind. What luck that he would chose their humble abode to sell such a valuable item!
“Deux Livre Parisis, et Un Denier!” One Villager Cried.
The Traveler’s eyes darkened at the bid. It was well under six deniers of the original price he had so fairly (or not so fairly) agreed upon. “What little money to offer for something of priceless value, Monsieur! How dare you offend the work of-”
“Quatre Livre Parisis!” Cried another individual. The Traveler’s eyes wandered towards the voice, before he snuffed at him. It was obvious he could afford no such thing! How dare he try to trick him? The man was dressed in rags, and covered with dirt. He couldn’t possibly possess a single sous to his name, let alone sixty times the amount!
“You shame yourself, sir!” The Traveler said, somewhat snidely.
“Non, Monsieur!” The man said, “I ‘ave ze money!” He reached into his pockets, and frantically pulled Four Livre to show to the man. The town could not outbid such a high offer. Even for something as enticing as the flower before them. The Traveler’s eyes grew glossy with greed. “Please, Monsieur,” the man continued. “I must ‘ave zis!” The urgency in his voice forced the Traveler to pull the blossom away from the man’s needy grasp.
“Vingt Livre Parisis,” came a strong and commanding voice. The town had immediately hushed, as the Traveler’s eyes sparkled wildly. Twenty Livre?! His eyes had fallen to the blossom at sound of the voice, and he hesitantly brought them upwards. The entire town had split in two, offering a road to a very wealthy man on horse. The traveler felt his knee’s buckle from beneath him. There was no doubt in his mind as to who the man was. His status was apparent by his physical demeanor.
“Highness,” he said, bowing, respectfully, as the young prince approached him.
The prince reached out, and gently stroked a single petal of the blossom. “Of all God’s creations,” he muttered, tilting his head slightly, “Never had I laid my eyes upon anything more lovely.” He brought his money pouch up to eyes view, and the Traveler was locked upon the bulge. Never, in his entire being, had he seen so much money in a single place. “Your pay, Traveler,” he said, tossing the money at him. The pouch opened, spilling coins everywhere, and the Traveler quickly bent to retrieve them.
“Non, Monsieur, ve ‘ad a deal!” The poor man, growled.
“Not anything written,” the Traveler said, as he began to count his money. “The Prince has, graciously, offered a price deserved for such a magnificent find!”
The Prince’s attention was perked them “Find, you say?” He asked, his voice monotone.
The Traveler looked up, slowly. The Prince’s eyes were dark, and unfeeling. “Oui, Highness. A day’s journey back. ‘Twas found within the deepest reaches of the forest.”
The Prince’s lips twisted into a malicious smile. Deepest reaches of the forest? His forest? How was it possible the buds were never seen before? Never brought to his attention until this time? “You’ve stolen from me, Traveler,” he said, nodding towards his knights, who were quick to take hold of the man. “And even worse, tried to sell me back my own property.”
“No!” The Traveler begged. “Monsieur, Please!”
“Silence, you filthy maggot,” the Prince barked. “Punishment for such deception is death.”
“I beg of you, spare me!” The Traveler tried once more, “The blossom, ‘twas not within the boundaries of your grounds!” The Traveler paused, before trying to bargain for his life. “My life, Highness, for a life of rewards.”
Not within the boundaries of his grounds? The Traveler was desperate, wasn’t he? All of France belonged to him! He was the God of French. “You’ve nothing of any value to offer, Traveler.” The prince replied, nonchalantly. He reached for his pouch, and tore it from the Traveler’s grasp. Placing it around his neck, he turned his attention to the blossom. The red of the blossom seemed to have deepened to a shade of wine. The Prince squinted his eyes, before reaching to grab the vase.
In a split second, the blossom’s stems grew, wrapping itself around the Prince’s arm. A horrid cry escaped him, as the two knights, who were imprisoning the Traveler, let go. The thorns of the flower were piercing the skin of the Princes arm, releasing fountains of blood. Taking their weapons from their sheathes, the knights tried slicing through the blossom’s stem. However, their efforts were in vain. The stem could not be pierced, and the only result offered were their weapons becoming only half as threatening.
The Villagers had scattered in numerous area’s as the scene had occurred. The Traveler had crouched down on the ground, covering his head with his hands. They had angered God. This was their punishment. He knew this, and was willing to accept anything fit to clean his soul.
A bright light emerged from the blossom’s center, causing all (even the Prince) to shield their eyes. The light was gone almost as quickly as it had occurred. The Prince, strength drained from loss of blood, fell to his knee’s, and looked up upon what replaced the light.
A woman. No, she was too beautiful, too radiant to be anything mortal. An Angel?
She was dressed in pale blue, almost white. Her hair was the color of wheat on a warm Autumn day. A mind-numbing light was escaping her entire being. Eyes as blue as the ocean was fixed upon the Prince with such agony.
Who dared remove this blessed object from it’s sanctuary?
Her lips did not move, but her voice came out in a deafening roar. Her attention went to the Traveler.
Was it you? Your blackening soul screams the torture in your heart.
The Traveler fell to his knee’s, and bowed, not daring to speak. She turned her attention back to the Prince, and her lips fixed into a warm smile.
Yet your heart is deeper than any coal upon this mortal realm. It has been seen, by Rose herself, that you hold no mercy or love in your being. Be this so, you still dared to touch that which was created by the Blood of God?!
The Prince’s sight began to grow blurry. The blood pouring more slowly. His life draining. This couldn’t be the end. It couldn’t! He tried to speak, but the words were stuck in his parched throat.
Death would be merciful.
The Prince collapsed onto the ground, arm still in the air, having been grabbed by Rose.
Hell would be reward.
His breath wouldn’t come! It wouldn’t come! He couldn’t die, not like this. How dare He call Himself a merciful God? Throwing His child into such torture?!
You don’t deserve such forgiveness. You’ve not earned it.
The words were that of anger, yet her tone had softened. Almost pitying him.
Until the day you can love, and be loved, for the beast you are, Prince. So shall you live in the physical form of your evil. So shall your village, servants, and personal surroundings, suffer the burden of your ebony heart. Forever.
A flash of light was that of her disappearance. The village was blanketed in darkness, as an angry roar; unlike that of any creature on Earth, filled the empty land.
---
FOUR HUNDRED YEARS LATER
My name is Isabella. I was so named after my mother, whom (as Papa says) no one could outdo her beauty. I must digress. I am far from the “Belle” all claim me to be. I’m tall, and hunch unnaturally due to my unladylike physic. My hair is mousy brown, with eyes to match. My bones are giant like, and my hips are wide. My waist is slim, but far from slender, as my chest puff’s in a vagrant manner.
Chantal and Marie; now they are the true beauties. Eyes of pine tree’s, with hair that dares to compete with the brilliance of the sun. They are slender, without an awkward bone in their body. Petite, in so many ways. Gentle, and charming. It surprises me that I was the first to marry. Perhaps it was merely the luck of the cards, that I was able to earn the love of my beloved Jacque Delacroix.
Jacque did his duty as a fisherman. His pay was sliced, then cut, offering nothing for his hard efforts. Though he seemed exhausted, he never complained. Home he would come, and I would have dinner prepared for all in my family. He would eat, kiss me goodnight, and prepare for the new day.
Papa would go out to sell his objects, crops from our land, finds from the forest, anything he could get his pudgy little hands on. It is quite surprising what people from the village will buy, should the history seem to hold enough excitement. He once got away with selling a silly little rock he found for two francs! Papa had claimed it to be found upon the lands of the Traveler’s Bloom.
Traveler’s Bloom. It is said the lands are cursed, though none knows where they are located. A greedy prince, from medieval times, had stolen a rose from a beautiful sorceress. Once the Sorceress had discovered of the Prince’s actions, she had cursed him, and those whom he loved, to live a life of solitude. They were transformed into the physical form of their hearts. It is said, to this day, that any who happen to fall upon the lands of Traveler’s Bloom are doomed to perish. Death is the only mercy granted for such tainted lands.
Such a silly little children's tale. One of which guaranteed weariness for those who were gullible enough to believe in them.
I was working in the fields, when I noticed Papa running down the road towards our home. It had been the first time, in months, that I had seen joy in his eyes. I dropped my shovel, and ran after him, calling his name. My throat might as well have been mute to him, as he did not respond to me. Within minutes, he was inside the house, never bothering to shut the door behind him.
I was out of breath by the time I reached the door. Papa had Chantal and Marie seated in the dinning area, and Jacque had a look of deep concern across his brow. Papa was speaking wildly, his words twisted and incoherent. “One hundred forty two Francs!” Was all we could understand.
“Papa,” I said, my voice deep with concern. “Please, calm yourself.”
Papa gave me a look of pure surprise, before he allowed himself to finally breathe. I bowed by head, as I took my place at Jacque’s side. Leaning my head onto Jacque’s shoulder, I nodded at Papa, urging him to continue.
“Michel has offered One Hundred-Forty-two francs to any who can guarantee his cargo to be delivered safely.” It sounded simple, didn‘t it? Simply ride across the land, without a care in the world? After all, all Michel was asking for was to guarantee none of his goods were to be stolen.. All the other, useless, words he had spoken must have been in attempts to make things sound grander than they were. Papa had always had a way with storytelling.
I saw Chantal and Marie physically straighten at the mere thought of such an amount of money. However, I couldn’t help but frown. Papa was a man nearly 50 years of age. There was no possible way he could guarantee such a challenging subject be done. The job itself was useless. Their destination was more than a weeks journey from where we lived, and the road leading there was paved with bandits, gypsies, and murderer’s.
“Non, Papa!” I said sternly, as I quickly moved away from Jacque. “It’s impossible! It can’t be done. You tell Michel you refuse the offer.” It wasn’t my place to speak such things. I was the daughter of that merchant. By no rights did I speak as lady of the house. I just can’t help my outbursts. I have been that way since I was quite young; always unafraid to speak my mind.
“I can not undo what has been done, Isabella.” I forced my eyes to the ground. Though Papa’s words were soft, and not tinted with any anger, he had used my name in full. His mind had been made up. “I will be leaving at sunrise. Be a good daughter, and get your father a dollop of water.”
I bit my lips, as I went outdoors. Digging the ladle into the barrel of water, I retrieved the liquid, and returned indoors. I dared not look at Papa directly, as he retrieved the sthingy, and drank hungrily. “Papa, how could you?” I asked, still standing in front of him. “What are we to do, should something happen to you? Chantal and Marie?”
Papa coughed on his water, and I leapt backwards. Unknowingly, my eyes went to Jacque, who was concentrating hard on Papa. “You needn’t worry, Belle.” Jacque spoke, smiling over at me, “I’ll be sure of his safe departure, and arrival.”
If it were possible, my heart would have sank even deeper. Now, not only the man that I respected with every ounce of my being throwing himself in harms way; Jacque, l'amour de ma vie, was as well? I began to feel faint. This was too much for me to bare. How could I possible cope with the possibility that the two of them were probably riding to their deaths? How could they throw this upon me? How could they be so selfish?
Jacque spoke again, and confidently, “We leave at sunrise.” Papa nodded in agreement, as I went to prepare supper, unable to speak.
---
We had ate our dinner in silence, none dared to remove their eyes from their plates. Chantal and Marie took care of the dishes, as Papa set off to bed. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Jacque, as I, too, left to our bedroom, and changed into my nightwear. Jacque was quick to follow, as I climbed into bed.
He wrapped his arm around my waist, and forced me to turn to him. His brilliant blue eyes were visible even in such darkness. I couldn’t help but smile, as he brought his lips to mine. My duties as a wife were brought forth, then, as we joined together as one.
---
As planned, Papa and Jacque left at first sunlight. The mules were packed, and awaiting their command to depart to Michel’s home, where their job would truly begin. My heart could barely withstand the fear of the scenario's which played themselves in my head, over, and over again. Their blood shed seemed to block my vision, as my hands shook uncontrollably. “Isabella, as I said last night,” Jacque said, as he placed his fingers under my chin, and forced me to look up at him. My tears fell freely from my eyes. “I guarantee your fathers safe return. Worry not, mon petite belle.”
I forced a smile, though my heart felt nothing towards it. I cared not about the money, we were doing fine with what we had. I only wished for them to turn their paths, and remain home. Let Michel find some other fool to run his impossible errands. I watched, as Jacque and Papa took seat upon the mules, before Chantal ran up to them. “Oh, won’t you bring us home something pretty?” She asked, boldly, eyes sparkling with delight, “S’il vous plaît?”
Papa laughed, a laugh full of heart. I could only smile as he ruffled up my younger sister’s hair. “Of course, darling daughter. Anything your heart desires shall be yours.” Chantal’s eyes lit, as she began to immediately fancy her gifts of jewels and fabrics. I bowed my head, as Marie began to wish for the same things. “And for you?” Papa’s voice rang out, forcing me to gaze upon him. “What shall Belle wish for?”
I shook my head, as I took a fearful step backwards. I could want nothing from them. “Only your safe return, Papa. It is all I could possibly ask for. I want your word.”
Papa bowed his head, as if contemplating my request, “You’ve always had my word, daughter. I shall return to you, unharmed. Now, there must be something you wish to possess?”
I took in a heavy breath, as I smiled, “If I must answer, I request a rose, Papa.” Yes, a rose. Simple, and inexpensive. “When Mama was alive, she loved them so.”
---
TRAVELER’S BLOOM
It had been three weeks. No word from Jacques or Papa. I sensed death, and though I wouldn’t admit such feelings to Chantal or Marie, I was frightened. My mind replayed the scenarios of how they died. Death by robbery. Lost in their travels. Worse, even. It was hard for me to concentrate on my tasks. It was a day of the dawning of week four, that I saw Papa riding home, alone, on horseback. He was going slowly, and looked quite weary. His face had a great many more lines across it. His eyes were tired, and almost blank of any emotion.
I was working in the fields when I saw his tiny figure, and my heart almost stopped beating in my chest. Where was Jacques? Where was my husband?
I dropped my rake, and ran to him, blindly. Once reaching the man and horse, I noticed that my presence had spooked the beast, as it gave a stand on its hind legs. I was struck in the shoulder by one of it’s hooves, and my eyes flashed from the pain. Papa’s voice rang, dimly, in my ears. “Belle? Belle!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. As far as I could tell, nothing had been broken. The bones were sprained, however. “Non, Papa. I’m alright,” I answered. I couldn’t look up at him, embarrassed of my actions. He didn’t say anything else, and I heard the horse bypass me, approaching our small home.
I simply stood where I was, dazed. That was quite unlike my father, to simply ignore any pain put upon his daughter. I turned slowly, and watched, as the horse and man continued up the road. I bowed my head, thanking God that my father had returned alive, yet unable to push my uneasy feelings of Jacques welfare out of my mind.
The sharp pain continued to shoot up my arm, but I did my best to ignore it. Now was not the time to worry about silly mishaps. I wasn’t bleeding, and the pain wasn’t doing anything to block my vision. I gave a quick glance at the fields before I silently followed Papa to our home.
---
Chantal had grabbed some water for Papa, and Marie his blanket. We had sat him upon his favorite chair, and left him in silence. So many questions shot through my sister’s eyes, yet they remained respectful. We knew Papa would speak when he was ready.
I sent the twins out to finish their chores before supper. Though they groaned in protest, they obeyed my instructions. I watched as they disappeared behind the hill, before I returned indoors. Papa was finally sleeping, and the peaceful man that left this house a month before had returned. My eyes began to wield tears, and I quickly brushed them away, as I retreated to the kitchen.
Papa slept through supper, and the rest of the night. It wasn’t until I sent Marie into town to buy some supply did he wake. I had never heard a more tortured cry in my life. For a few moments, I was afraid to move. Chantal had latched herself upon me, and gave a frightful look over towards Papa’s room. I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and instructed that she fetch some fresh water from the well. At first she began to argue against me, before I gave her a stern look, and she obeyed. Once she was finally out of sight, I walked into Papa’s room.
The man on the bed wasn’t my father. His hair had grown ghostly white, and his eyes were as big as a river’s boulder. His entire body was shaking, and at the sight of me, he leapt from his bed, and huddled in a corner. He whimpered like a coward, and my heart swelled with overwhelming sadness. I didn’t dare enter his room. “Papa?” I made sure my voice was soft and gentle. He looked up at me, eyes taking a moment to register my presence. For a second I saw his eyes disagree with the sight, before he bowed his head and cried.
I pursed my lips together, unsure of what to do next. Carefully, I stepped deeper into his room, and took a seat on the corner of his bed. What, in God’s Name, had happened to him? My stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. What happened to Jacques? “Papa, you’re safe now.” Why did it seem as though those were the wrong words to speak? They seemed so weak, so useless! I fumbled with my fingers, staring down at my knees.
“Belle? Daughter...”
I looked over at Papa, who was reaching a weary hand my direction. I fought back the tears once more, as I kneeled down on the floor, and took his hand in my own. “Yes, Papa. It’s me, Isabella.” I caressed my face with his hand. Proving to him that I was no figment of his imagination. His eyes turned red, as free tears rolled down his aging face. I gave a gentle smile, as he pulled me to him and held me in a tight embrace.
Later that night, after the twins were sound asleep, Papa told me of his terrifying, yet amazing, adventure.
---
“You must forgive me, my darling Isabella,” Papa said, as his breaths grew uneven. He didn’t look at me, and I stood to grab a cool cloth to put upon his forehead. His hand squeezed my wrist, and I retreated my glances towards our small window. His grasp tightened, and a small gasp escaped me. I tried to retrieve my hand, but his grip was too strong. My arm grew cold, as an unknown pain shot through me. I could feel my bones rubbing against each other, my vision went white for a second. Then the snap came. That horrid snap which escaped from my wrist.
I screamed, and his grip loosened. My wrist was broken, at least, that‘s how it seemed. Tears blurred my already blackening vision. My heart pounded so hard that I could hear nothing else in my ears. I collapsed to the floor, landing roughly on my knees. My eyes quickly traced over towards the girls bedroom. Forcing myself to calm, I listened. As far as I could tell, they didn’t stir.
I looked back over at Papa, cradling my dangling wrist with my free arm. The bones didn’t break the skin. Thank God for small miracles. The man was crying again, and though I had every reason to be angry with him, my heart and soul could feel nothing but sorrow.
I ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a few rags to wrap around my wrist. With a shallow breath, I did what needed to be done: I popped my bones back into their proper places. The pain which came now seemed to be worse than the pain I had before. Mon Dieu! He hadn’t splintered the bones as well, had he? How could he crack the colossal bones which lie under my skin? How could that amount of strength escape from someone who looked so fragile?
Gingerly, I traced my wrist. As far as I could tell, the earlier assumptions of my bones being broken were wrong. He had simply popped them out of place. I inhaled deeply, as I wrapped the rag around my wrist. It didn’t need to be done, I know, but the fragile material gave me a sense of security. When I returned to Papa, he was still crying, though it seemed that he had run out of tears. Dry heave’s were escaping him, and I quickly rushed to his aid. It took almost an hour to calm him.
A/N: I know, this chapter is cut straight in the middle. You don't get to hear Papa's story just yet. If you're interested, I'll write more tonight and share it with you. If not... I guess you'll have to always wonder what happened next. What happened to Jacques, and why Papa was so tramatized.
Aren't I just the meanest little writer?
On that note, if you'd like to see other pieces of my work, you can simply click here.
