pony hair. The merchant pulled it
off her—she paused to say good-morning, shoving at his breast with her nose—and
laid it in front of the fire, thinking sadly that their ghostly presence here
did not extend quite far enough after all, and hoping that perhaps he might be
able to brush the worst of the mud and hair off when the blanket was dry.
But he was growing accustomed; when he turned back to his
side of the fire, he was not surprised to discover that his bed had
disappeared, and the largo table replaced with a smaller one, again with a
place setting for only one, but enough breakfast for six hungry old merchants.
“They are adjusting,” he murmured to himself. There was also a single red rose
in a silver vase.
When he looked up from his breakfast, his eye was caught by
a small door in the wall opposite him, standing a little open. He obediently
crossed the room to investigate; within was a bathroom, gloriously appointed
and the bath full of steaming hot water; beyond that was a water-closet. When
he had climbed at length from the delightful bath, he found a new suit of
clothes waiting for him; when he returned to the main room, the blanket he had
laid before the fire was not merely dry but clean, and the pony herself was
clean and brushed and saddled with tack as fresh and supple as if it had been
oiled every night since the day it was made. The pony’s thatch of a forelock
had been braided and tucked under the browband, and she looked very pleased
with herself.
“Thank you,” he said helplessly, standing in the middle of
the floor. “Thank you, thank you. You saved our lives.” There was no answer. He
turned towards the door and then paused, looking back at the breakfast table.
The remains of his breakfast were still there, as was the rose in the silver
vase. He remembered Beauty’s sad, half-joking wish, and plucked the rose out of
the vase, and put it into the breast of his coat. Then he took up the pony’s
rein and went through the archway, down the long crimson-carpeted corridor
towards the door, open now on a bright spring day.
But the silence of the palace was shattered by roars as of
some enormous wild beast; his quiet pony reared and shrieked and .jerked the
rein out of his hands. He was knocked winded to the floor; when he struggled to
stand up, the bright doorway was blocked by a Beast who stood there.
The merchant’s heart almost stopped beating in the first moments
of dumb terror. The Beast seemed not merely to blot out the sunlight but to
absorb it and grow even larger by its strength. The outside edge of his
silhouette was fuzzy and shimmering, as confusing to the eye as the merchant’s
view of the grey-white palace with its glinting white driveway had been the day
before. When the Beast stirred, rays of dazzling light shot in at the merchant
like messages from a lost world, but as he moved again, and they were effaced,
it was as if the Beast deliberately struck them away from the merchant, as a
cruel gaoler might strike at the outstretched hands of his prisoner’s
beseeching friends.
The merchant’s first fumbling thought was that this Beast
was rearing on his hind legs, but then he saw that his shape was not unlike a
man’s—only hugely, grotesquely, bigger than any man—and that he dressed like a
man. Grasping at his reason, the merchant hoped it was only fear, and the
dazzling, narrow bursts of light, which made the Beast so difficult to see. He lifted
his eyes, trying to find this man-shaped Beast’s face, to look into his eyes,
the belter to plead with him, for would not a man-shaped Beast respond to the direct
look of a man? His gaze travelled up the vast throat, found the great heavy
chin, the jaw of a carnivore, the too-wide mouth, thin lips curled back in a
snarl, the deadly gleam of teeth—He could raise his eyes no farther; his mind
was disintegrating with terror.
Before he lost himself to madness, he dropped his gaze to
look at the Beast’s garments, forced himself
off her—she paused to say good-morning, shoving at his breast with her nose—and
laid it in front of the fire, thinking sadly that their ghostly presence here
did not extend quite far enough after all, and hoping that perhaps he might be
able to brush the worst of the mud and hair off when the blanket was dry.
But he was growing accustomed; when he turned back to his
side of the fire, he was not surprised to discover that his bed had
disappeared, and the largo table replaced with a smaller one, again with a
place setting for only one, but enough breakfast for six hungry old merchants.
“They are adjusting,” he murmured to himself. There was also a single red rose
in a silver vase.
When he looked up from his breakfast, his eye was caught by
a small door in the wall opposite him, standing a little open. He obediently
crossed the room to investigate; within was a bathroom, gloriously appointed
and the bath full of steaming hot water; beyond that was a water-closet. When
he had climbed at length from the delightful bath, he found a new suit of
clothes waiting for him; when he returned to the main room, the blanket he had
laid before the fire was not merely dry but clean, and the pony herself was
clean and brushed and saddled with tack as fresh and supple as if it had been
oiled every night since the day it was made. The pony’s thatch of a forelock
had been braided and tucked under the browband, and she looked very pleased
with herself.
“Thank you,” he said helplessly, standing in the middle of
the floor. “Thank you, thank you. You saved our lives.” There was no answer. He
turned towards the door and then paused, looking back at the breakfast table.
The remains of his breakfast were still there, as was the rose in the silver
vase. He remembered Beauty’s sad, half-joking wish, and plucked the rose out of
the vase, and put it into the breast of his coat. Then he took up the pony’s
rein and went through the archway, down the long crimson-carpeted corridor
towards the door, open now on a bright spring day.
But the silence of the palace was shattered by roars as of
some enormous wild beast; his quiet pony reared and shrieked and .jerked the
rein out of his hands. He was knocked winded to the floor; when he struggled to
stand up, the bright doorway was blocked by a Beast who stood there.
The merchant’s heart almost stopped beating in the first moments
of dumb terror. The Beast seemed not merely to blot out the sunlight but to
absorb it and grow even larger by its strength. The outside edge of his
silhouette was fuzzy and shimmering, as confusing to the eye as the merchant’s
view of the grey-white palace with its glinting white driveway had been the day
before. When the Beast stirred, rays of dazzling light shot in at the merchant
like messages from a lost world, but as he moved again, and they were effaced,
it was as if the Beast deliberately struck them away from the merchant, as a
cruel gaoler might strike at the outstretched hands of his prisoner’s
beseeching friends.
The merchant’s first fumbling thought was that this Beast
was rearing on his hind legs, but then he saw that his shape was not unlike a
man’s—only hugely, grotesquely, bigger than any man—and that he dressed like a
man. Grasping at his reason, the merchant hoped it was only fear, and the
dazzling, narrow bursts of light, which made the Beast so difficult to see. He lifted
his eyes, trying to find this man-shaped Beast’s face, to look into his eyes,
the belter to plead with him, for would not a man-shaped Beast respond to the direct
look of a man? His gaze travelled up the vast throat, found the great heavy
chin, the jaw of a carnivore, the too-wide mouth, thin lips curled back in a
snarl, the deadly gleam of teeth—He could raise his eyes no farther; his mind
was disintegrating with terror.
Before he lost himself to madness, he dropped his gaze to
look at the Beast’s garments, forced himself
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