MARY SOON LEE

MONSTROSITY

A seagull flew through Fera’s dreams all that night. Its wings

stirred the air

over her head, its cry stirred a yearning she could not name.

Fera woke with

that yearning, a wild, irrational thing that she thrust aside

impatiently. Today would be

as yesterday, and the day before, and the many years

before that. Wishing wouldn’t change

that. She stood up from her bed, her claws

clicking on the marble floor. Standing hurt her

back. After a minute, she sank

down onto four legs and padded into the bathroom.

Gold and

silver fittings winked at her in the winter sunlight. The mosaic floor

showed lilies and

yellow roses, and the amethyst of the royal insignia. Only in

the cobwebbed splinters of

the fractured mirror did Feta see ugliness. She made

herself stare at her shaggy, brutish

reflection, as she had every day but the

first — that long-ago day when she had torn

through the castle, saliva

slobbering down the matted fur of her face as she yowled in

madness.

Fera twisted the tap on with one awkward paw, and bent forward to let the water

stream over her head. The chill water braced her, but something was wrong, an

emptiness

lurking inside her. With dripping wet fur, she paced out to the

garden. Snow crusted the

lawn, iced every twig and branch, frosted the edges of

the winding paths.

At her coming, the

birds flew away, calling out warnings to each other: Alarm!

Alarm! The monster approaches!

Fera stalked across the snowy lawn, her damp clotting with frost in the piercing

cold. She

understood the bird’s speech, and every warming call bit into her,

hard though she tried to

ignore them. But there was one friend who would listen

to her without running away. She

left the garden and entered the wood where Wolf

lived.

“Wolf” called Fera, her tail wagging

in anticipation.

No answer.

“Wolf!” still no answer. Fera stopped and sniffed the wind,

scenting for Wolf.

There, to the east. But there was another smell too, a human smell, and

an iron

undercurrent flavoring the air. Blood. She raced toward the smells. Intruder:

there

was a human intruder.

She came to a glade where a silver-gray carcass by gutted on the

ground, where

an old man crouched over Wolf’s body, the warm blood coating his fingers, a

knife in his hand.

The man had not heard her approach. In a great leap Fera knocked him

over. The

knife dropped soundless into the snow. She opened her jaws over the wrinkled

folds

of the old man’s thin neck.

“Please,” croaked the old man. “Spare me.”

And Fera paused her

teeth dimpling his skin. Maybe because he didn’t struggle

underneath her, maybe because it

had been so long since a human had spoken to

her, she raised her head and let the old man

free. She covered the fallen knife

with one heavy paw. “Why? Why should I spare you?”

The

old man started as he heard her speak. He pushed himself into a sitting

position,

shivering. “I beg your forgiveness. I lost my way in the snowstorm. I

was cold, I —”

“You

trespassed on my lands and murdered my friend.” Fera looked at Wolf’s still

body. Her

throat closed up, and she could not speak.

The old man fumbled and pulled a leather bag

from under his coat. “I have money

I can give you in compensation —”

Fera growled. “I don’t

want your money. You will come to my castle. If you are

civil company, I shall let you

live. If not—” She bared her teeth.

“But my sons,” said the old man, “my sons are waiting

for me. They will think me

killed.”

“I care not what they think,” said Feta. With one claw,

she ripped the gold

chain that was all she wore from around her neck. Gently, she laid the

chain on

Wolf’s open chest. Gently, she pressed her nose against his cold nose, and for

the

last time breathed in his deep, comforting odor.

Then she turned to the old man and bared

her teeth again. “To the castle.”

At supper that night, the old man sat at the. opposite

end of the banquet table.

His eyes widened as he studied the crystal goblets, the green

jade bowls resting

on the jade plates. He didn’t ask why the goblets were empty, the plates

bare of

food.

“Supper,” said Fera. The banquet hall darkened for a moment, shadows appearing

and disappearing in a heart’s beat. When the light steadied, soup steamed in the

bowls,

roast beef waited on the plates, and raspberries and tangerines lay

heaped beside jugs full

of cream.

“That’s a useful trick,” the old man said dryly.

Fera grunted in reply. The old

man was trying so hard not to show his discomfort

with her, nor surprise at his

surroundings. He had said nothing when he first

entered the castle, but she had watched his

gnarled fingers rub at the silks and

jeweled ornaments, as if he didn’t quite believe they

were real.

Now she watched as he lifted his soup spoon and sipped at it. Lowering her own

head, she licked up the soup from her bowl. Over the rim of her bowl, she eyed

the old man.

He looked at her, looked back at his soup, looked at her again, and

then picked up his bowl

and drank from it directly.

Feta raised her head, soup dribbling down her chin. “I won’t be

offended if you

use the silverware.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d feel awkward,” said the old man.

And when he’d finished

the soup, he picked the meat and vegetables up in his fingers.

Neither

of them spoke again until the meal was over. Then the old man said

softly, “The wolf that I

killed, could it speak too?”

“Aye.” Feta stared fixedly at the white expanse of the

tablecloth.

“I am sorry,” said the old man. “I would give much to undo that slaying.”

Fera

looked up from the tablecloth and met his gaze. “I would know your name.”

“Petrov. And

yours?”

“Fera.”

“And your friend the wolf’s?”

“I called him Wolf, nothing more.” Silence fell

between them again.

The silence stretched into the second day, and the third day, and the

fourth,

broken only when Feta ordered supper, or Petrov asked a simple question — where

the towels were kept, or how he should clean his shirt.

They spent most of the time in the

library. Feta paged clumsily through book

after book. Sometimes she was distracted by

Petrov shifting in his chair, and

she would glare at him, all the more irritated if he was

too absorbed in his

reading to notice. Sometimes she stared out the tall narrow windows at

the snow,

remembering how Wolf tossed his head when he was amused, the way the coarse

hairs

of his coat had shaded from red-brown to silver-gray over the years.

On the fifth evening,

Petrov looked up from a history book and asked quietly,

“When may I go home?”

Feta growled

deep in her throat but said nothing.

Firelight played in the hearth behind Petrov. He

looked old and shrunken against

the bright flames. “May I leave here in the spring?”

“No,”

said Fera. She gazed into the flames, seeing a silver-gray carcass

spread-eagled in the

snow.

“May I leave in the summer?”

“No,” said Feta. “You killed my companion. Now you will

keep me company.”

Petrov raised his eyebrows. “Well, that makes perfect sense, seeing how

much

pleasure you’re deriving from my company.”

His tone was dry, but when he turned back to

his book something in the set of

his shoulders, in the way the lines pulled in around his

eyes made him look sad.

Feta shook her head impatiently: why should she care how the old

man felt? She

picked up her own book, but her muscles ached, and she couldn’t find a

comfortable

position in the chair.

With a growl, she set the book down. “Do you play chess?”

Petrov

nodded slowly.

“Will you play a game with me?”

Petrov nodded again. “I’d like that.”

Feta

showed him where the chess set was. Without any fuss Petrov set the pieces

up, his gnarled

hands still better suited to the task than Fera’s paws. They

played in silence, but Petrov

smiled as he laid down his king at the end. “Good

game. Do I get a return match?”

And so

they played another game, and played again the next day. A week later

they were varying

chess with backgammon and cards; a week after that they

discovered a mutual interest in

mathematical digressions. On dry days they

shared brief walks outside, Petrov cocooned in a

ridiculous abundance of scarves

and sweaters. When it snowed they wandered inside the

castle.

Petrov liked to visit the art gallery on the second floor best. Each time the

paintings

were different, save for the one at the end of the first hallway: a

portrait of a young

girl with ivory-smooth skin, red lips curved in a smile,

gold-bright hair. Petrov often

paused there, and raised his eyebrows in question

to Feta.

But the spell held Feta silent:

she knew that once she had been the girl in the

portrait, but she could not speak of it,

could not say anything of her life

before the curse was laid upon her.

In the third month of

Petrov’s stay, they were walking together in the garden.

The lawn was mostly clear of snow,

the air full of smells and growth and green.

Feta sniffed busily, and pointed out the first

crocuses, not yet in bloom.

Petrov beamed, his mouth crinkling at the corners. He sat down

on a bench, and

rubbed at his left knee. “Spring’s my second favorite season. Do you have a

favorite?”

“Summer.” Feta growled softly, remembering warm nights spent in the woods,

rolling

over in the long sweet-scented grass.

“Summer’s too hot and proud,” said Petrov. “I liked

it best when I was a child.

Then when I was a young man, I switched to preferring winter,

just because no

one else liked it. My wife …” He stopped, and for a moment he looked

frail and

lost. “My wife liked autumn most, and now I do too, from harvest through to

first

snow. Crisp apples, the colors of the leaves, bonfire days. I remember her

best in autumn.”

Feta scowled, her insides knotting up. Petrov was unhappy and she, she felt

guilty. But she

shouldn’t — he was the trespasser, the murderer. She thought of

Wolf and tried to summon

anger, but it twisted into grief. “I’ll be back soon.”

She left Petrov alone, and ran for

the cover of the trees. There in the shadowy

gloom, where the snow still lay on the ground,

she paced back and forth. She’d

take Petrov to the gallery again this afternoon. He’d put

this mood behind him

soon enough. She turned it over and over in her mind, but it was

useless. Guilt

still ate at her.

Finally, furious with herself, she galloped back to Petrov.

“Go,” she growled. A

burning, prickling sensation tore at her insides. “You’re free to

leave. Take

what you need from the castle — boots, food.”

“My thanks.” Petrov stood up. His

face was stiff, unreadable. He laid one hand

on her shaggy back. “I’ll go home to my sons.”

“Aye,” said Feta. “Do that.”

Petrov’s hand tightened on her fur. “I’ll miss you.”

Feta

stared at him, but none of what she wanted to say would emerge. In the end,

she just

muttered, “Go.”

“I’ll come back,” said Petrov.

“There’s no need.” Feta turned and walked

away.

In the weeks after Petrov departed, Fera stayed in the woods. She ate grubs and

squirrels,

mice and rabbits, taking fierce pleasure in their squeals as she

caught them, savoring the

blood-scent as she trapped small creatures in her

claws.

She did not speak. She tried not to

think in words. Words were sharp-edged, the

broken halves of conversations. At night she

slept in the glade with Wolf’s

body, by now a cage of bones open to the rain and wind, the

two of them silent.

Gradually she lost track of time. It might have been a month later, it

might

have been two when she heard a distant clattering, the faint boom of the bell at

the

gate to her grounds.

Petrov. Fera raced for the gates, muscles pumping the long mile till

she reached

the iron gates.

Outside stood a young, exquisitely handsome man. His full lips

curled in disgust

as he looked at Feta, then altered to a forced smile. He held out one

smooth

white hand in greeting. “Good day, milady. My name is Omegon, son of Petrov.” He

pulled

his hand back after barely brushing Fera’s extended paw.

“Petrov’s son,” said Feta, trying

to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“Come in.”

“Why, thank you. I was passing by,

and, since my father has told me so much

about you, I thought I should pass on his good

wishes.” Omegon gestured behind

him at a black horse and two saddlebags. “If you would see

that my belongings

are taken care of.”

Feta stepped toward the horse, and watched it skitter

backward. “Maybe Petrov

forgot to mention that most animals are scared of me. You will have

to take the

horse to the stables yourself.”

“Very well,” said Omegon, but two spots of high

color stood out beneath his

elegant cheekbones, and Feta didn’t like his peevish tone.

Indeed, apart from

his appearance, she wasn’t sure that she liked this young man at all.

But she

thought of his father and tried to stay civil.

“The stables are over there,” she

said. “I’ll be waiting for you at the main

entrance to the castle.”

Ten minutes later,

Omegon joined her at the castle doors. His mouth opened to a

red “0” as he took in the

marble hallway rising to the wide curve of the

mahogany stairs. He swiveled his head to

study the ornate ceilings, the details

picked out in gold and silver, the sculptures and

paintings, and the

fifteen-foot tall crystal windows.

His delicate pink tongue licked his

lips once. “I see my father did not

exaggerate the beauty of your castle.” After a moment’s

hesitation, he added,

“Or of your gracious ladyship, of course.”

Fera snorted before she

could control herself. Petrov would never have described

her as beautiful: sturdy, maybe,

or muscular. Recovering some of her manners,

she asked, “Have you journeyed far? Are you

hungry?”

“Two days’ ride, and I confess I am a little hungry.”

Feta led him to the dining

hall. Her feet left muddy tracks on the floor, and

she was acutely aware that she must

smell like a barnyard. She noticed Omegon’s

nose wrinkle once or twice, but when he was

seated at the far end of the banquet

table, he seemed to relax. Indeed his eyes positively

sparkled after Feta had

said “Dinner” and the dishes had filled with food. He took out a

thin leather

book from his pocket and flicked through the pages.

“What is that?” asked Feta.

He flushed. “Nothing, just a hobby of mine. I, ah, study the lore of

enchantments.”

“I’ve

studied the.history of enchantments, too, though I have been unable to

find any texts that

contain much more than hearsay.” Fera leaned forward in her

eagerness, a chunk of meat

dangling forgotten from her claw. She caught a

glimpse of the cover — illustrated with

something that looked like a frog —

before Omegon thrust the book away.

“I’m sure my humble

book wouldn’t interest you, milady.” His knuckles whitened

on his silverware, and he sliced

one neat portion of meat. He lifted the meat on

his fork, and elegantly swallowed it.

Taking a sip of wine, he added, “Has

anyone ever told your ladyship how eloquent your eyes

are?”

Fera snorted. “I wouldn’t have guessed that Petrov would teach his sons to be

flatterers.

Or did you come by it naturally?”

Omegon had the grace to look discomfited. “It’s not, that

is, I do realize your

ladyship’s appearance is unusual. But there can be much beauty in the

unexpected.”

Feta blinked. In the long-ago, men had whispered to her such sweet things as

this young man did. But now, now either he had too much wine, or he was

shortsighted, or he

was a liar. She found herself hoping it was one of the first

two. Even if only for one

evening, she would like to be able to pretend that she

was beautiful again.

Omegon stood up,

and rested his arms on the back of his chair. Smiling at her,

he started to sing. “A flower

in a garden, a jewel in a crown, ten thousand look

for beauty where they know it will be

found.”

His voice was pure and rich, taking the simple tune and giving it depth. Feta

closed

her eyes and listened.

“A princess in a palace, a rainbow in the sky, let thousands look

for beauty

where they know it will be found. But I would see the cactus bloom, and I would

see you smile, and know your love I’d found.”

Warm, sweet breath wafted over her face. Fera

opened her eyes just in time to

see Omegon lower his lips to hers, and she believed, yes,

she believed that he

loved her, as youth must surely sometimes love, wildly and without

rational

cause.

For one moment his mouth pressed against hers, and then he stepped backward,

his

expression darkening. “You look just the same!”

Feta touched her lips with the edge of

one paw, probing the spot where he had

touched her. There was a huskiness to her voice that

she didn’t recognize. “How

else would I look?”

The young man sank into a chair, and buried

his face in his hands. “Beautiful,

like a princess. My father was right. I’m nothing but a

fool.”

The thin book slipped onto the table, and Feta saw the title “On Enchantments to

Recover

Ensorceled Princesses. From Frog Princesses to Beasts.”

She laughed, because anything else

would have been too painful, and because she

had been as much of a fool as this young man.

More so, since she was old enough

to know better. Not every curse can be lifted, even by a

young man’s kiss. “At

least,” said Feta finally, “you sing well.”

Face still hidden in his

hands, Omegon muttered, “I am sorry, Feta, for lying to

you. I, I think I’d like to leave

now.”

And he ran from the hall without another word.

Fera waited for him at the main gate,

the book clutched tight in one paw. “I

believe you forgot this.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated.

“That song, my father made it up when he came home.

He thinks you found him too old and too

boring. He thinks that’s why you sent

him away, but he never stops talking about you, on

and on and on.” The peevish

note had returned to Omegon’s voice, but Feta barely noticed.

Something stirred in her, wildly and without rational cause. “Tell him I miss

him. Tell him

I would like it if he came to visit.”

And on a day in early summer, not so many weeks

later, Petrov came riding to the

castle. His hair was gray and his skin was wrinkled, and

his knuckles were

swollen with arthritis. But Feta found him beautiful enough. And if, in

the

darkness of some night, they held each other close for comfort, it is none of

our

concern.

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