Authors: Pamela Ditchoff
Rune and Beauty see Elora in her seven-year-old, carrot-topped, knock-kneed, front-toothless, freckled-face girl disguise. She is standing in the stream wearing hip waders under her sheepskin coat. In one hand she holds a fishing rod, bent by the weight of a catch. In the other she holds Croesus, disguised as a seven-pound, red and white speckled, buck-toothed Chihuahua, also wearing a sheepskin coat.
“My darn boot is stuck in the bottom muck, and I don’t want to let loose of the fat fish on my line or on this skinny dog in my arm.” Elora grins at Rune, “Come on—hurry up and take my dog.”
Rune hustles over to the stream and takes Croesus, who immediately sings with pleasure while licking Rune’s face. Elora flips the fish up onto the snowy shore, slips out of her waders and jumps up beside Rune. “You hungry? Wanna share my fish?” she asks.
“Do I have to listen to your story good and true? Because I need to get to Copen . . .”
“Geez Louise,” Elora says, “why would I wanna tell the story of my life to a stranger—that’s just whack.” Elora says.
“Cause everyone I’ve met in this land has done so, and asked me to do the same, not to mention telling me over and over that I must be under a spell because I’m so very ugly,” Rune says.
“I’m not from here neither, but I would never say you are ugly. You are rather magnificent. Croesus thinks so too.”
Croesus can’t contain his joy over meeting Rune at last, and he piddles on Rune’s arm. Elora arches a red eyebrow and the dog hides his muzzle in Rune’s fur. “He’s simply adorable,” Rune gushes, rubbing the dog’s head. Elora tears the fish in two and hands half to Rune.
“Thank you. My name is Rune. What’s yours?” Rune asks.
Elora looks south, the direction from which she knows Beauty is watching in her mirror. “Elora, my name is Elora,” she says, allowing the silver flecks in her eyes to shine.
“Leaping lizards!” Beauty exclaims, “It’s Elora the Enchantress.”
The parrot leans into the mirror and says, “I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved.”
“Do you think you’re under a spell?” Elora asks Rune.
Despite Rune’s hunger, she takes a delicate bite of the fish and answers. “What else can I think? When I look in a magical mirror, my true self is revealed, my reflection is that of a beautiful human girl. And before you ask, no, I’m not a witch or a troll or a fairy.”
“Geez Louise, I wasn’t going to say anything like that,” Elora says, pulling a fish bone out from between her lips. “I believe you. How about your mother? Is she a beauty?”
“My mother looks just like me, only bigger,” Rune murmurs and takes another bite of trout.
“That aint an answer to my question Do you think your mother is beautiful?” Elora asks.
Rune fidgets and struggles with finding words to voice her current dilemma. “Well, I said she looks just like me. Do you think I’m beautiful?” She asks, thrusting her face forward. “If you say yes, you are the only being besides my mother that thinks I am beautiful.”
Elora throws her skinny arms about Rune and hugs her tight. “Kid, I think you’re a peach of a beauty. Why don’t you think you are, why do you want to change?”
Rune, gracefully as possible, tries to pull free from Elora’s embrace, but finds she cannot. The girl has arms like iron bands. “I need to move on,” Rune says. “I’m cold and I must get to Copenhagen. Please let go of me.”
“I will,” Elora whispers in Rune’s ear tightened her hold on Rune. Croesus’ eyes pop like a rubber toy. “As soon as you answer my question.”
Rune thrashes from side to side. “This is ridiculous; let go of me now,” she shouts.
“Will you bite me then with your sharp beastie fangs the way you bit your mother,” Elora croons hypnotically in Rune’s ear. “Beauty is the characteristics of a person, animal, object, place or idea that provides a perceptual experience of pleasure, meaning or satisfaction. In short, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Are you beautiful? Is your mother beautiful?”
Rune grows still. “In our eyes my mother and I are beautiful to each other. In the eyes of the world we are ugly; in the eyes of Hans whom I love, I am ugly.”
“Then why not quest to change Hans back to the being that loved you as you are rather than transform yourself?”
Beauty is watching, watching Elora’s eyes in the little girl face hanging over Rune’s shoulder. She holds her breath; that was her quest, to change Prince Runyon back into her beloved Beast, but by the journey’s end . . .
“Why would he love me after I changed him back into something he loathed? Why would I remain a beast when I may be a beauty and win Han’s heart?” Rune says as Elora slowly releases her grip. “When I may live in a palace rather than a cave, when I may inspire love rather than fear . . .”
Elora snaps her fingers, plucks Croesus from Runes arm, and vanishes in a whirlwind of snow.
* * *
Beauty sets the mirror upon the snow and sobs silently into her hands, so not to wake Holger, the parrot bobbing up and down on her shoulder like a bobble head on a dashboard. “It seems essential,” the parrot says, “in relationships and all tasks, that we concentrate only on what is most significant and important.”
Beauty removes her hands from her face, holds them mid-air, palms up. “The future—Rune’s, mine, and Holger’s, is in my hands. Rune’s happiness is the most important and most significant thing in my life, for her to enjoy her life. Of that I have no doubt.”
The parrot lifts one white foot, and tucks it beneath his feathers. “Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth—look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.”
Beauty lifts the philosopher from her shoulder and cradles him in her furry warm arms. “I enjoyed one year of glorious life with my beloved Beast, and fourteen years with my beloved Rune.”
“Love is all, it gives all, and takes all,” the parrot’s muffled voice croaks.
“What will become of Rune, of me, of Holger if I decide . . .”
“I see it all perfectly,” the parrot interrupts. “There are two possible situations—one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it—you will regret both.” And with that said, the Andersen Land philosopher flies down to the city to find shelter from the storm.
The bell in the tower of Von Frue Kirke, the Church of Our Lady, tolls eleven times. Holger wakes and grabs his sword, sensing imminent danger. Beauty goes to him, a finger held to her lips, and together they begin walking down the snowy trail that ends in Copenhagen.
Rune hears the bell toll eleven times and she breaks into a trot, anticipating noon mass and her confirmation, her transformation in a matter of minutes.
Elora the Enchantress hears the bell toll eleven times, and she dons her white fur coat and white fur hat. She exits the Deco Palace and walks to the Deco Stables, where the doors fly open and a huge white sleigh sides out pulled by four white horses formed of snow. Elora enters the sleigh, clicks her tongue and the horses leap into the sky, riding the storm.
As the bell of Von Frue Kirke tolls eleven times, the citizens of Copenhagen fret and grumble and pray. No one, other than old Lars the Laplander, has seen such a snowstorm. Snow is deep in the streets, against house doors, on rooftops, and the storm shows no signs of stopping. Men stand by windows, shovels in hand, watching the snow fall; women worry that they will not be able to attend mass, and even if they can, they will need to wear boots rather than their good church shoes. Old ladies kiss their African violets and watch for Death’s ragged form to come knocking. The undertakers are hunched over ledgers, rubbing their hands together adding up the profit the snowstorm is sure to bring. Fishermen along the harbor batten down the hatches. The bishop of Von Frue Kirke is dressed in his long wool robe, frantically brushing snow from the church steps with a straw broom. Children are in their beds, covers pulled over their heads, silent as church mice, because old Lars the Laplander said the last storm such as this was conjured by the Snow Queen when she rode into the city to kidnap children. They continue to fret, and grumble and pray until they see a figure trotting into the city from the north.
* * *
Rune can’t believe her good luck. The streets of Copenhagen are empty of people, filled rather with pure white snow,
like a bridal path
, she thinks. Her fur is covered with snow,
my confirmation dress
, she also thinks. And there is the church! And on the steps is a bishop—the very forces of nature are joining in my transformation, Rune decides and twirls in celebration of at last, after her long journey, reaching her destination, and she hurries toward the church.She has not gone unnoticed. The men watching out windows now step outside with their shovels. The women pull on their boots and shout at their children to stay put. Fishermen gather their herring nets and take up gaffing hooks. Old ladies cross themselves and tremble.
Rune has exceptional peripheral vision due to her bulging eyes, and she sees in that vision dozens of people. She turns her head left and right and sees dozens and dozens of people carrying shovels, pitchforks, hooks, and the women carry rocks clutched in their mittened fists. So she picks up her pace and begins to sing, “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, friendly old girl of a town.” However, the storm picks up as well, courtesy of Elora the Enchantress, who is watching from the cliff recently vacated by Beauty and Holger, and Rune’s enchanting song cannot fall gently on the ears of Copenhagen’s citizens.
Old Lars the Laplander finally makes it from the window to the door, opens the latch with his knobby, arthritic hands, setting loose his three Great Danes, and hollers with quavering voice, “The Snow Queen!” His cry moves nearly faster than the dogs from one furiously fearful citizen to the next; the words tumble through the streets like a snowball, gathering speed and size until they are a mob bent on murder.
Rune is running, arms and legs pumping, and when she reaches the church, she stumbles and falls at the feet of the bishop. “I’m here for my confirmation,” Rune huffs. The bishop holds up the hem of his robe and dances away from Rune like an old woman who has spied a mouse in her pantry.
Before Rune can struggle to her feet, she feels the weight of six herring nets on her back. As they are drawn tightly together, she feels the whacks of shovels on her back, Great Dane’s nipping her heels, and a flurry of stones sting her legs and arms. She wrestles to turn over, and she sees the tines of seven pitchforks poised above her body. At this moment, Rune does not think about her confirmation or her transformation, she doesn’t think about Prince Hans or her grand wedding; she succumbs to her nature and cries, “Mom, Mom, Mommy, help me!”
Elora watches with special pleasure as Beauty cuts a swath through the mob. Bodies fly and fall, accompanied by squeals of fear, yelps of astonishment and painful groans. And then Beauty is beside her daughter, weeping and roaring, flashing her fangs.
“Curtana!” Holger shouts, holding his sword high, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea before Moses.
“Holger—by Got, it’s Holger the Dane,” murmurs from the mob. “Holger will slay the two beasts . . . Holger will save . . .”
The murmurs cease abruptly as Holger’s sword slices through the herring nets as if they were butter. Beauty falls on her knees, and Rune throws her arms around her mother’s neck.
As the mob begins to close in once again to view the kills, Elora and sleigh thunder down the cliff riding an avalanche of snow. She tosses gusts of wind, her fingertips shoot icicles, and the citizens of Copenhagen dive into snow banks for cover. In mere yards before the church, the snow beneath her magically melts, and halts her sleigh alongside Rune, Beauty and Holger.
“Beauty, we meet again,” she says with a snap of her fingers and the four become enclosed in a giant glass globe. “And once again, I will ask what words do you have to say?”
Rune has not lifted her face from her mother’s chest, and she does not stop glottal clicking until Beauty rocks her in her arms and whispers in her ear. Beauty raises her head. “Just one word,” she replies, and turns to face Holger, “Bricklebrit.”
Holger drops his sword, bends on one knee before Beauty, and exclaims, “I love you Beauty. Will you be my wife?”
And Beauty answers yes.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
Transformed
Sunlight shines on the grove atop Hesitation Hill this June morning, the same grove Rune stood in one year ago when she first heard the marvelous music of Hans the Hedgehog’s bagpipes. As it was a year ago, so it is today: dew sparkles like diamonds on leaves, rocks, grass, spider webs, and wild violets. Rather than the sound of bagpipes rending the air, golden resonant tones of a harp play as wedding guests gather in the grove to celebrate the wedding of Rune and Prince Hans.
The groom’s mother is mortified; the flush has not left her plump neck since Hans broke his engagement to Princess Greta. Greta would have been the perfect daughter-in-law, in the queen’s opinion, a girl who possessed all the virtues a princess should possess: beauty, sweetness, modesty, faithfulness, meekness, prudence, charity, charm, obedience, and riches. Oh, this Rune has beauty and charm in abundance, but not a shred of modesty, meekness, or obedience, and not a penny to her name. The queen’s rash began on the day Han’s presented Rune to his parents and the king pulled a ligament jumping from the throne to kiss the hand of the most beautiful fifteen-year old maiden in all of Grimm Land. The rash spread up her arms when Hans told her that Rune would not marry in the palace chapel, but on top of Hesitation Hill, and they would not be married by a man of the church, but by a Justice of the Peace, guests would be limited to family members and there would be no flowers. At least the girl agreed to a wedding ball in the palace after the ceremony; four carriages wait at the base of Hesitation Hill to carry bride and groom, king and queen, the royal siblings, and Rune’s mother to the ball. The queen’s gown of periwinkle blue, layers of satin fashioned for her son’s wedding, has grown to small during her weeks of worry and over eating. She turns, her whalebone corset gouging across her rash, as the mother of the bride arrives.
Beauty is celebrating her daughter’s joy; she chooses not to consider that the marriage may not last, for what, in this life does last? There was no change in her love for her daughter with Rune’s transformation from beast to beauty that snowy day in Copenhagen. Rune was speechless as she stood and looked at her small feet, her legs and hips, her belly and breasts and arms; as she ran her hands through her long honey colored hair. Beauty remembers offering Rune the magic mirror, but Rune had stopped her hand. She touched Beauty’s cheek and said, “Thank you, Mother. I need no mirror, I can see myself truly in your face.”
Beauty sighs, a sigh of resignation rather than sadness as she recalls that Holger began returning to stone the moment she and Rune transformed. There would be no wedding for Beauty and Holger. With Denmark no longer in danger, he was irrevocably drawn to Helsingor Castle, to return to his throne of stone, as he knew he must, as she knew he must, as surely as she knew she would return to Cozy Cave in the northernmost corner of the Grimm Forest.
Rune had moved into the palace immediately following Hans’s proposal, and Beauty is more than a bit proud of her daughter that she did not press Beauty to join her there. Nor did she bother Beauty about a proper dress for the mother of the bride. She wears a soft, spring green muslin dress, its simplicity emphasizing her natural beauty, and a crown of violets Rune wove together adorns her head.
Beauty turns her gaze to the vine covered branches of the wedding bower where Prince Hans stands waiting for his bride. He does not look at his parents or siblings; his eyes are fastened on the path leading into the grove where at any moment Rune will appear. She knows he believes that he loves her daughter with an intensity no man has ever known, at this moment it may even be true.
And here is the bride. There sounds a collective intake of breath, from birds perched in trees, from badgers and bunnies, from deer and fox, from families of field mice, from the king and queen and royal siblings, and from Beauty at the sight of Rune in her red bridal gown. It is the glowing, liquid red of ripe currants, translucent red with a hint of sunshine, a hue so alive it seems about to give birth, as if it is giving birth to Princess Rune. She wears a ruby tiara with no bridal veil, her hair far lovelier than the finest Chantilly lace. She walks to the bower in glittering ruby studded shoes so gracefully it seems she is walking on air, and her expression is more radiant than any girl saint’s at the moment of rapture.
Vows are exchanged, and Rune and Hans share their first kiss as husband and wife. So intent is the wedding party on the matrimonial kiss, they do not notice the entrance of a tall, striking woman with raven wing hair, black eyes flecked with silver, wearing a silver gown spun by silkworms, a regal Ibizan hound at her side. Elora the Enchantress waves her arm in an arc and everything freezes: the birds in the trees, the badgers and bunnies, the deer and fox, and field mice; the Justice of the Peace freezes in a gesture of goodwill, the harpist freezes in mid-pluck, the queen freezes in mid-faint, the king freezes reaching for the queen, and the royal siblings freeze, their small sweaty fists closed around gold coins they will toss when the ceremony ends. Only Beauty and Rune remain alert and aware.
Elora beckons Beauty and Rune to her side. “I’ve brought a gift for the bride,” she says. Elora cups hers hands together forming a ball, she closes her eyes and her hands glow with brilliant light.
“Two beauties, two beasts, two fairy tale princesses, the only two in Grimm Land that did not wait for a prince to come, rather you set out on quests to win your hearts desires.” Elora murmurs and now she opens her eyes.
“You, Beauty, loved the soul and mind of a Beast and your quest was to restore them to the body that allowed that soul and that mind to shine. Instead you changed your body into that same form. Your daughter is not so different than her mother. Rune, you loved the soul and mind of a hedgehog prince, and your quest was to win his love back, regardless of the body they inhabited. Hold out your hands.”
Rune places her hands outward in reception, as a supplicant before the altar, and Elora drops into them a large golden cocoon. “You have turned and twisted, run from your home, run through forests and cities, believing happiness lies outside of you. If you are wise, like your mother, you will one day turn inward and discover the source of happiness is not to be found in a gown, or a jeweled tiara, or glittering shoes, in a castle, a prince, or a face and form men find irresistible, but that source of happiness lies within you.”
The golden cocoon vibrates and cracks, and the shell falls away to reveal a large Luna moth. Its pale green wings, edged in red, unfurl to display its white, fur covered body and the dual white spots, ringed in yellow and maroon, one on each wing.
Rune lightly strokes the moth’s white furry body, and it takes flight. Elora waves her arm in an arc and the wedding party stirs. The birds sing, the badger and bunnies, deer, fox and field mice dart into the woods, the Justice of the Peace removes his spectacles, the harpist plucks the strings, the king catches the queen, and the royal siblings throw gold coins into the air.
Elora the Enchantress glimmers and fades, as does Croesus the hound, her laughter ringing through Vagary Vale, as she bids farewell. “Mother and daughter, two wings that give flight to one heart; the ancient rhythm no transformation may ever after alter.”
* * *