The Coming Dawn

Short Story

The raven's little heart drummed as he cut through the blackest sky and dove for a tall window, open to the winds and the spying branches of the Oak — silent watcher, witness to living things, yet unmoving and unfeeling, or so it seemed, the knotty tree reminded the raven and the others that actually, if they looked from just the right angle, they had been lucky.

Cold gusts fought his descent, no doubt sent from Eria, the Demon of the North. This was not an attempt to hinder him. No, it was just the Demon's idea of fun: tricking and tripping, further pruning what little time they had left to win their lives back.

His left wing grazed the brick wall and after a painful bump against the side of the window, the raven finally landed in the firelit chamber, his frozen wings unable to fold all the way back. His eyes darted round the room and stopped on the brown armchair by the hearth, where a grand mass of fur rose and fell. The fur had a face, a hand, an open book on its lap.

The raven's heart tightened, the injustice unbearable. His poor, poor Master; he'd never given up, always fighting the curse that made ink dance and hide the meaning of words from him, from any of us. To no result, of course. There was only one way of breaking free.

And that thought reminded the raven of why he came flying here in such a hurry. The foulest play, the cruelest slight. They hadn't been stopped from beating the curse, as that was forbidden, but a childlike prank at the right time could do just as fine. It seemed that every single person in the castle had fallen in a deep slumber. When it happened, the raven had been in the Rose chamber; he'd woken up to find that the last petal was about to fall off.

The raven let out a panicked cry and jumped up. His torso lengthened, his heart grew in size, his beak transformed into soft lips. His nude skin shivered, his legs still frozen to the marrow.

"Master!" croaked the raven-turned-boy. He shook the Beast. A crack in the lids. "Master, you must wake!" Dark eyes opened wide and centered on the boy. "We've lost many days . . . It's almost time, Master."

The Beast shut the book and stood up, body tense with urgency. "Where is she?"

"Not in her rooms. They're searching for her."

The Beast roared his anger, toppling the old armchair, and stormed out, followed closely by the boy in the form of a black hound. The long pictured corridors were all empty, as were the halls they passed on their way. The eerie silence of the castle was broken as the Beast thundered down hallway after hallway, jumped up and down stairs, slammed open doors, unhinged them when locked, tore away drapes and curtains and shutters and shelves, causing dust to billow; books fell and crumpled, as did their hope. She was gone.

And then a whisper reached them. The garden.

Down they went, quickly, silently. They left behind the majestic stone stairs that adorned the high-walled foyer, ran through the huge main doors, which stood gaping, solitary. The servants were all there; they stood by the bushes and among the trees, heads down; they merged with the shadows that haunted the castle. Everyone stared in the same direction.

Something lay by the far end of the wall, in a grassy patch underneath hundreds of flowers of any kind and colour hanging sadly from a beautiful high stone balcony.

Her balcony.

The hound turned back into a boy, watched his Master's back and took in the nearing scene. The Beast stopped. Walked a few steps. Slowed. The boy matched his pace.

"She fell," some servant whispered.

"No," someone else answered, "she jumped herself. I saw her." The boy felt his anger rising. How could she?

The Girl lay in a fading circle of dried blood, chestnut hair stained dark, scared eyes fixed on the sky, legs crooked and wrong. A deep moan escaped his Master's throat and he collapsed on his knees next to her body, brought his clawed hand to her head, stroked her hair, her cheek. His shoulder shook and the boy's own eyes filled with bitter tears.

The wind bent the blooming trees and blew through their leafage, a loud wicked laugh that seeped to the boy's bones. The Beast fell silent. Rose. He watched the trees, listened to the laughing wind. "We were so close . . . But, in the end, Eria wins."

He spoke quietly, but in the dead silence his voice carried to all the servants and let loose a buzzing murmur of goodbyes and gentle words. The boy had always imagined that in the end, if they were to lose to the curse, everyone's eyes would be full of dread and sadness and regret and anger. But they were not. He could only see love.

His Master was right. They'd been a step away from breaking the curse, just one small step. But the Demon could not let us win, so he made the Beast fall in love with the Girl and made her think he'd killed her family so she'd despise him, and then he'd made them all fall asleep when, against all expectations, she had started to show some affection for him. He'd cheated and now they were all going to die. And he would go unpunished.

The boy looked at the horizon, on the faraway bluish light that was slowly starting to color the sky. Dawn was coming.

Around the Master came all the servants, holding hands, packed closely together.

"Why did she do it?" asked the boy, looking at the unseeing Girl on the ground. "We gave her everything. She was . . . She was our only hope."

"She couldn't love me, after all," answered the Beast, eyes sad. "The thought of seeing this, knowing she could have saved us . . . She chose death." He turned away from the Girl and faced an approaching figure.

Among the soft sobs of the servants, a rising chant could be heard, the sound sweet and lovely. The stranger was almost upon them, her long dress the color of life and hope and the start of a new day. It wasn't a chant at all, realized the boy, seeing the tears flowing down the woman's cheeks.

She was crying. For them.

Dawn smiled benevolently and opened her arms, just as the first sun rays reached them and they all, one after the other, turned to dust.

When it was the boy's turn, he let go of all resentment and smiled back at her; and the warmth of the sun on his brow was the last thing he felt.