Beasts_and_Beauty_-_Soman_Chainani
BEASTS AND BEAUTY
DANGEROUS TALES
Soman Chainani
Illustrated by
Julia Iredale
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Copyright
4th Estate
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This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2021
First published in the United States by Harper,
an imprint of HarperCollins in 2021
Copyright © Soman Chainani 2021
Jacket art and title lettering © Julia Iredale 2021
Illustrations copyright © Julia Iredale 2021
Typography by Amy Ryan
Soman Chainani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this
work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Information on previously published material appears here.
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Source ISBN: 9780008224509
Ebook Edition © September 2021 ISBN: 9780008224516
Version: 2021-08-18
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Dedication
For Maria Tatar,
who opened the door …
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Red Riding Hood
Snow White
Sleeping Beauty
Rapunzel
Jack and the Beanstalk
Hansel and Gretel
Beauty and the Beast
Bluebeard
Cinderella
The Little Mermaid
Rumpelstiltskin
Peter Pan
Read the beginning of Soman Chainani’s bestselling series The School for
Good and Evil
About the Author
Also by Soman Chainani
About the Publisher
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ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, THE wolves eat the prettiest girl.
They warn the town which girl they want, slashing the door to her house
and urinating on the step. No one sees the wolves, just as no one sees the
dew before it sops the grass. As winter wanes, the town thinks the curse
broken, seduced by the mercy of spring. But then the marking comes.
Sometimes a few weeks before she will be eaten, sometimes a few days, for
wolves decide on a prey in their own time. But once a girl is chosen, she is
theirs. Neither child nor family can appeal. On the eve of spring, the wolves
howl for their meal and the town marshals her to the edge of the forest and
sends her in. Fail to deliver her and worse things will come than the loss of
a pretty girl, though no one knows what these worse things could be. Soon
the second howl echoes from the forest’s belly: quieter, sated, the wolves’
work done. The people disperse. The girl forgotten. A price to pay for time
unfettered.
But spring lurks.
Another year gone.
Houses shudder, despite the haze of sunset, the sweet riot of blooms. A
mother and father sit, lips cracked, nails torn, watching the girl as she
gnaws the last meat off a bone, her russet hair dipping in the juice circling
her plate. They didn’t think she’d be trouble, born with spindly limbs, a pig
nose, and peasant-brown skin, a muddy reflection of her makers. They were
sure they’d have her for life. But beauty, like wolves, takes time to settle on
its choice, a slow, cold horror seeding in a mother’s heart. The girl’s eyes
deepen to sapphires, her skin shines like honey, her neck unfurls with the
imperiousness of a swan—
Still, the mark on the door surprises her. She was ordinary too long.
Beauty came like a malady. She hangs nothing on it, like it’s paint to peel
off. To die for such a trifle …
Stupid beasts.
She doesn’t bother with fear.
Virtue is on her side.
She reaches for the knife on the table, the one her father used to cut her
meat. The steel teeth slaver as she wipes it clean, grease spotting the cape
she’s knitted for the occasion. Red as blood, bright as fire. She’s asking for
it, wearing that in a forest. But there is no hiding from wolves. Might as
well make it quick.
The knife heavies in her hand.
Where to keep it?
I need a basket for Grandmother, she announces.
Her mother says nothing.
Her father keeps eating.
Grandmother’s house is across the river, the girl says. I’ll send word once
I’m safe.
Her mother gets up, holds her breath as she collects hard rolls, soggy
fruit, acrid cheese. The father gives his wife a look. Food wasted on a futile
mission. But there’s no arguing. Not tonight. Besides, his daughter is as
stubborn as his wife’s mother, the kind of woman who expects a basket
from a guest, even one running from wolves.
The sun douses with angry flares, a flame snatched in a fist. The wolves
howl from the forest.
It is the first time the girl feels scared.
Until now, she thought she would beat them somehow. Human against
animal. Good against evil.
But it is their song that stirs her—a dirge of self-pity, as if they cannot
help themselves. They are prisoners of their nature.
And goodness is no weapon against the possessed.
Even so, she enters the forest calm.
The town brings her to the brink, every last man, woman, child, and they
wait as she goes, hands clasped, as if praying for her soul. In truth, they are
there to stop her from running back.
Her slippers crackle over twigs, a tentative path opening before her, the
lane of girls sent to die. She remembers these girls, born beautiful, born
marked, skulking furtively about town, avoiding the eyes of those that
would sacrifice them. They knew, these sisters. Long before the wolves
came. They knew they were meat.
The path narrows, trees snatching at her. She’s used to paths closed off.
It’s not just the beauties who suffer. The other girls are tainted by the
wolves too. The girls who weren’t picked. Boys rake through them like
leftovers. It’s why any girl who marries one cleans up after him without
complaint. She’s lucky to be alive, they tell her in their grunts and growls.
Lucky her beauty isn’t worthy of beasts. Her mother was one of these,
plucked from the scrap heap. The girl saw it in her father’s face. All men
spend their lives yearning for the one they can’t have. The girl devoured by
wolves. Now they’re trapped with second-best. It’s why her father is never
happy. She would have married a boy much the same.
Not now though.
Whatever happens from here, her life will be different.
But a different life comes with a price.
It takes walking the path between life and death.
The knife lies hidden in the basket. A silver twinkle in her eye. Let them
come. Just like that, they prowl out of darkness like fog, clouding the path
where it ends. A tribe of formless shadows, like genies summoned to a
wish. But it is their eyes that give them away, ruthless yellow crescents as
old as time. She raises the red hood of her cape like armor, backs up—
Moonlight traps her, the forest’s torch.
They circle. Boys in breeches of black leather, their chests bared, their
forearms taut with veins. For a moment, she thinks this is all a ruse: that
there were never wolves, only boys marking a girl for themselves. A girl to
run with their rebel tribe. A princess for wayward princes … But now she
sees their lips coated with drool, the trail of hair down their bellies. She
smells the feral musk.
This is the problem with wolves. They are tricksters. Shapeshifters that
draw you close. Killing you is not enough. They want to play with you first.
Your choice, speaks one of the boys, dark-skulled and long in the tooth.
His words are wet yet plaintive somehow, an unusual plea.
Then she sees the hunger in his eyes. In all their eyes.
Now she understands.
She must choose which wolf will eat her.
That is the game.
Play along, she thinks.
Survival comes not in resistance to the game but in winning it.
She takes her time, evaluating each, while her hand slides into the basket,
feeling for the knife, her eyes roving up and down their lean, famished ribs,
as if they’ve starved the whole year for this moment. But there is one who
is different. He, the leader of the pack, hidden in the shadows, arms crossed,
chest full, the one who isn’t famished at all, who frankly looks bored. He
has pearl-white skin and dark unruly curls, like he’s Cupid himself, his
beauty so unmatched by the others that he knows he will be picked, just as
he has always been picked before. But there is no conquest in this, his eyes
say. He sees the ugly duckling inside her, beauty found instead of earned.
She won’t taste as good because of it. Pick someone else, he’s telling her.
He’s had his fill. But it is no use. For he is beauty incarnate. Which is why
he knows she will choose him.
And she does.
Go, he tells the others.
They whine but do not fight, limping into the trees.
They’ll have the scraps, he tells her.
She is alone with him now. He looks her over. The cold yellow eyes
warm to gold. His pale cheeks fleck pink. With the other boys gone, he’s
considering her anew. He stands erect. Saliva sops his mouth.
Then he sees her hand in her basket.
She squeezes the knife.
Either he hasn’t spotted it or he isn’t bothered.
Be my guest, he says. Eat your little picnic. Fatten yourself up. You’ll
only taste better.
It’s for my sister, she replies. She lives across the river. With
Grandmother.
His ears twitch.
River’s past our territory. Don’t know the girls who live out there, he
admits. Nothing but skin and bones, I bet.
Not true, the girl sighs. My sister’s more beautiful than I.
The dots of pink in his cheeks expand. Younger or older?
Younger.
Across the river? Where?
She chuckles. As if I’d tell you that!
He lunges, snatches her by the throat. Your grandmother’s house. Where
is it. Blood rims his eyes, foam flying off his lip. Tell me.
Or what? You’ll eat me? says the girl. You’re already going to do that.
He lifts her off the ground, over his dripping jaws as if he’ll swallow her
in one gulp. But it’s not she that he’s dripping for.
Tell me and I’ll let you free.
She considers this. And your friends?
They’ll follow me the moment I go. You run back home and kiss
Mommy Daddy. Now tell me before I change my mind.
She pauses. Wolves lie.
So do girls too big for their britches, he snarls, his claws cutting into her
neck. Could be making this all up so I free you.
Blood trickles down her throat. It doesn’t stop him. Nothing will stop
him. He will make her tell him, no matter what tortures he has to invent.
Follow the river around its east banks, she says. Her voice a crushed
whisper. There’s a willow grove. Cross to the other side and you’ll see a
cottage in the glen.
He drops her hard to the ground, then kneels over her on all fours, his
face and chest turning hairier, hairier, his voice a hot-mouthed hiss. If she
isn’t there, I’ll find you and rip out your bones. Mommy Daddy too.
He slashes his claws across her cheek to mark her.
Then he starts to run.
Soon, she hears the scamper of wolves caught unawares, loping after
their leader.
Relief.
So much relief as she hustles away. Not because she’s free. Relief
because she isn’t beautiful anymore, her cheek carved up, the sign of a girl
who strayed from the path. She can imagine her mother’s and father’s faces
upon her return, first joy, then pity, for who would want such a girl—the
town’s offering, sent in sacrifice, sent in submission, but too willful to play
the part. Bad Girl, they’ll whisper. Broke the rules. Other girls might get
ideas. No, no, no. Better to be eaten by wolves. Even her mother and father
would agree. Only it’s not her mother and father she’s going to see.
Grandmother’s house is a short distance to the west. Wolves run quicker,
of course, but she’s sent them east, around the river, which even at the
fastest pace will take a fair bit of time. She pries between trees, tangled in
darkness, but the fear is gone. She takes time to marvel at the forest: the
jackknife of branches, the kiss of the underbrush, the blinking jewels of
eyes in the dark. Red, hooded serpents rear their heads at the blood-colored
girl slithering past. It is not enough for the wolves to rule this kingdom into
which they are born, she thinks. They want more. A suffering of innocents.
A thrill of entitlement. A plunder of something they’re not meant to have.
Careful, she reminds herself, sensing she’s slowed. A ravenous male
moves faster than a girl thinks. Soon she hears the burbling of water. The
river batters her gently as she fords the shallows, fish catching in the tail of
her hood before she lets them free. Through the hickory grove and past the
fern field lies the red-leafed clearing and the old wood cottage, its two small
windows moonlit like glowing eyes, the eaves coated in gray moss like fur.
She’s only been to Grandmother’s house a few times and the last long ago,
but still she remembers the way, like a cat that knows the way home.
Knock, knock.
She does it quietly, in case the wolves have spies.
Knock, knock.
The door opens.
Grandmother’s there, her face a shriveled prune, her bee-colored hair
hacked short. She has a fat scar under her eye, her mouth twisted in a scowl.
She takes one look at her granddaughter, sniffs at the wounds on her cheek.
Come inside, she says.
Follow the trail of spittle through the willow grove.
A ring of wolves surround the house, backs arched, teeth gnashed,
starving for the scraps their leader promised. They are tired, resentful of a
fine meal given up. They would revolt if they had the spine.
The leader bides his time, rising onto two feet, shaking off dirt as his fur
recedes, combing his Cupid-curl hair as he approaches the door, the perfect
gentleman caller.
The door is open for him.
He enters lightly. His pale, hairy feet scrape along the floorboards. He
isn’t used to working for his supper. He isn’t used to being upright. But
there is thrill in it. Pretending to be tame.
A fire casts a watchful glow over the room, spitting sparks at him, snap,
snap, snap. The house is old and stale, nothing worth noticing. A thick old
broomstick. A bluebird clock out of rhythm. A blanket over a lump on a
rocking chair. An empty basket on a table. Some crumbs of cheese.
But it is the bed in the corner that is fresh and full, a figure shrouded in
milk-white veils.
Who’s there? she says.
Your prince, says he.
Come closer.
He obeys, his mouth silvery wet.
My … what wrinkled skin you have, he says.
A witch’s spell. Better to hide my youth and beauty. Come closer.
But what cloudy eyes you have, he says.
Better to see into a prince’s soul. Come closer.
But what shriveled lips you have, he says.
Better to kiss my prince with and break the spell.
The veil of the bed falls.
The boy kisses old Grandmother’s lips, thirsty for his reward.
Yet no spell is broken.
Instead, old bones crack. She cackles in his face. Laughs and laughs and
laughs. She sees what he really is. An impotent beast.
His eyes go jagged. He bares his teeth.
The mask of a boy shamed.
She knows what that means. He’ll kill and kill until he’s drunk. Until he
forgets what he’s done. One leap and he’s on the bed, skin become fur, boy
become wolf—
Should have checked that rocking chair!
The knife impales his heart, and he spins in shock, faced with a girl in a
hood red as his blood, more beautiful than he remembered.
His cry sends the other wolves running in, but they are too starved to
fight. Grandmother bashes them with her broom, snap, snap, snap.
Together, they fall, these wicked changelings, howling to their death.
But triumph and disaster often ring the same.
Far away, villagers leave the forest, trusting their sacrifice complete.
Each year, a new girl is marked. Her door slashed with warning.
On the first day of spring, she hears the wolves call. The villagers
marshal her to the forest. She kisses Mother and Father goodbye.
Quavering, she goes into the dark. Follows the path like she’s told.
But at the end of the path there are no wolves.
Instead, she finds a house filled with girls just like her.
Beauties who’ve left beauty behind.
An old woman brings her to the table.
Girls gather round. Join hands like a pack.
The old woman smiles beneath her red hood.
She was a girl too, once.
Together, they raise heads and howl.
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A GIRL MARRIES A WEAK MAN.
He says the right things at the right time, a prince who promises her
happily ever after. So many see only her skin, how different she is from the
fair maidens of this land. They treat her like a lump of coal, like black is a
sin. But this prince makes her feel beautiful, something she’s never felt
before. When he rides her to his castle, he carries her over the threshold, to
a bedroom pure and white.
The people are suspicious though. So is the prince’s father. His son
marrying a girl like her, when there are so many other girls to be had? But
everyone keeps their resentments to themselves. It is the polite thing to do.
Until the king dies.
Now the prince is king, his princess the queen. And the people don’t
want her to be queen. They can only hold their tongues for so long. The
young king feels their venom. The queen does too, but the king takes it
personally. Love is his privilege. He’s not used to fighting for it. So he
doesn’t. Instead, he keeps little company with his queen and strays about
the kingdom with women fairer than she.
This reassures the people.
Midwinter brews, harsh and lonely. In her room, the queen sits by the
window, sewing and watching white snow fall in imperious, suffocating
little sheets. A crow settles near her, and the snow attacks, whiting out its
feathers until it’s a dove. The queen shudders. Her needle pricks her finger,
spilling blood onto the bird.
If only I had a child, she thinks. A child that’s mine to love. White as
snow. Red as blood. Black as a crow.
And she kisses the bird to seal her wish.
Soon afterward, she gives birth to a girl with crow-black skin, blood-red
lips, eyes with whites as bright as snow.
She calls her Snow White and laughs.
And oh how she loves the child, made exactly like she’s wished, even
though the king treats the girl badly, for there is nothing in her that reminds
him of himself. So, too, do the people of the kingdom, who look upon the
girl like a curse. The queen keeps her close, warding the child like a jewel,
for only in her keeping can she teach her how to be loved.
But then illness comes for the queen, the way snow came for the crow,
and by winter’s end, she is no more.
A year later, the king marries anew. She has milk-white cheeks, a brown
tumble of hair, and eyes as sharp as a bear trap. This new queen has no love
for Snow White, a stain on the family, and puts her stepdaughter to work
cleaning the castle. Not that the queen wants a child of her own. A child
might take the sheen off her own rose. Instead, she bears a magic mirror on
the wall in her vast, echoing chamber, and every morning she asks:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who’s the fairest one of all?
The mirror always replies:
You, O Queen, are the fairest of all.
Her eyes soften, her skin gains color, relief swells at her breast, a feeling
she calls happiness, because for a moment, what she wants to be true and
the truth are one and the same.
Snow White keeps growing though, and so does her beauty, even if it’s
stowed away in toilets and kitchens, even beneath a white coat of flour and
dust. Her stepmother has forgotten about her entirely, the girl put in her
place, until one day, the queen asks her mirror:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who’s the fairest one of all?
The mirror replies:
My queen, you may think yourself the fairest,
But Snow White is a thousand times more fair.
At first, the queen scoffs. A girl like Snow White … fair? But then she
remembers the mirror had named the queen the fair one all these years, and
if she trusted the mirror then, she must trust the mirror now. No one else in
the kingdom would consider the idea, of course. That Snow White is more
beautiful than her. Beauty in this world has rules. But what if Snow White
breaks these rules? What if other people start to see what the mirror does?
From that moment on, she hates Snow White even more, doubling her
chores, making her sleep in a closet, berating her husband if he gives the
girl a second glance. But it isn’t enough. The more she keeps Snow White
down, the more envy and jealousy snake inside her, as if her heart knows
something she doesn’t, as if she willfully denies a higher law than her own.
The girl is the blind spot in her reflection. Day or night, the queen doesn’t
have a moment’s peace.
Summer swelters the palace like a greenhouse. In heat, the queen’s hatred
blooms wilder and grows teeth. It is not enough to keep the girl slaved and
out of sight; now the queen kicks and mocks her, baiting her to rebel, like a
fly to a trap. The girl holds her tongue. She knows a nemesis when she sees
one. A nemesis uses any excuse to kill you. Your life drains theirs of power.
There is no escape now. Fate has bonded them: the stronger the one, the
weaker the other. And Snow White grows stronger every day.
The mirror confirms it.
Snow White is a thousand times more fair.
Again, again, again.
Now the queen knows. The girl can’t be beaten.
So she must die.
A huntsman is called.
Take the girl into the forest, the queen says. Bring me her lungs and liver
after you’ve killed her.
The huntsman doesn’t argue. He has a wife and two sons to feed, and the
queen pays well.
But when he takes Snow White into the woods, she doesn’t flee. Nor
does she cry when he pulls the knife from his belt and raises it at her chest.
Instead, she stares him in the eye and says: For what?
No one has ever asked him such a thing. Most about to die run for their
lives as if they are guilty.
The huntsman lowers the knife.
Hurry off and never come back, he grunts.
Into the tangled wood she goes, and the huntsman sighs. The animals will
kill her by dawn, but at least it won’t be his doing. He waits until a boar
comes close and he stabs it mercilessly, extracting lungs and liver before
taking them to the queen. All things under the skin look the same. The
queen sniffs them, hunger licking at her heart. She orders the cook to boil
the gifts in brine and she devours them, thinking she’s drunk the girl’s body
into her own.
A privileged child cannot survive in the forest. The vines and brambles
would reach out and strangle them. The animals would eat them, sup, sup,