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.