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Prologue
Spectre de la rose
Copyright © Cheryl Mandus 1988.
Used with permission.
I had only one passion, roses, and because of this passion, I never paid any attention to the rest of the world. My parents, rather rich, were more than afflicted by the strange behaviour of their only son - I had somehow managed to notice it despite my legendary distraction - but they didn't reproach me anything.
However my mother finally decided, on a sweet spring day, that it was time for me to find a wife. That was her idea; my father obviously thought that the poor 'chosen one' would be very unhappy in my company and as for me, I still hadn't realised that there were other women in the world but my mother. She was sure that a wife would knock some sense into me or, at the very least, would get me out from my obsession for roses from time to time.
Naturally, as in all self-respecting fairy tales, my parents organised a bride-finding ball. Since I had to be present - if only to please my mother - I obviously couldn't be in the gardens, caring for my roses. It didn't really bother me: I had recently bought a new book about roses and this evening was giving me a perfect occasion for studying it.
I found a comfortable armchair to settle down into, book in hand, vaguely noticing that it was rather pleasant to study with background music, making a mental note to do that more often. My mother told me the following day that a crowd of girls had come to greet me without me condescending to look up from my book. I didn't even remember having seen a shadow darkening even a little the page I was reading by the time. Until the moment an unknown hand dropped a flower on my open book...
I forgot instantly everything that wasn't this flower and I was certainly having a perfectly stupid look on my face. It was the most beautiful rose I had ever seen, surpassing even those I was so proud of, of a very dark red, almost black, or maybe was it of a black with red glints. I still hadn't succeeded in creating such a rose and I was secretly hoping to find a way very soon.
After some instants of contemplating the rose, my mind finally accepted to think again and I thought that maybe I could look up. In front of me was a girl, very beautiful undoubtedly, but for me, what was really - and only - beautiful in her was that she had given me the black rose, she had to know how to make them bloom, hadn't she? I desperately sought something nice to tell her, something that would keep her a bit longer near me and, finding nothing, I simply stood up, putting my book on the armchair I was leaving.
Strangely, far from being proud to have awakened my curiosity, the girl had a slight smile and disappeared in the crowd as by magic. I couldn't think of nothing else during the whole evening and I spent my time desperately looking for her, forgetful of my book, thinking only of the rose I was still holding in my hand.
Far later in the evening I went to bed in a state of despair close to my mother's; I hadn't succeeded in finding the girl and the only proof of her presence was the rose I had kept all along. I hardly had the time to put my head on the pillow that a voice rang out in my head without me being able to locate its provenance, asking me the reason of my sadness.
"A girl," I replied succinctly, not willing to dwell on the subject.
But the voice insisted:
"Do you love her?"
"She certainly knows the secret of the black rose," I said, shrugging.
The voice remained quiet a moment, as if shocked.
"You don't love her and you looked for her the whole evening?"
"I'm interested only in roses."
"Flowers! Ordinary flowers!"
"The most beautiful! The queen of flowers... the flower of love..."
"And all those words from a man who doesn't know how to love!"
"I give all my love to my roses!" I protested. "At least, they don't lie to me and will never desert me!"
Once again the voice remained silent and then, with a softer tone, it said:
"You will see the girl again."
And suddenly it wasn't there anymore.
The voice had spoken the truth: a few days later my mother, trembling like a girl going to her first ball, introduced a stranger in the garden I was caring for my roses. When hearing the steps on the gravel behind me I turned on my heels, furious: I hated to be disturbed in the garden. My anger melted as soon as I realised who was the visitor: it was the girl with the black rose.
I showed then a presence of mind that even surprised me: I invited her to stay for dinner with us and, naturally, I kept for me the seat on her right. Under the amazed gaze of my mother I even managed to make conversation with her, conversation not being only about roses! While younger I had received an education as complete as my parents could imagine it and my memory served me exquisitely at that dinner, bringing up all those lessons to my mind at the right moment.
Nevertheless, unable to help it, I alluded to flowers twice or thrice, only to quickly notice that my guest knew absolutely nothing about flowers, except how to dispose a bouquet. The interest I could have felt for her - had she loved roses - disappeared immediately. Wisdom was telling me to proceed slowly for not frighten her. Despite my impatience I didn't breathe a word about the black rose and, this very evening, I politely accompanied her to the door, proclaiming to be charmed and eager to see her again. She seemed to be flattered, which appeased my conscience.
I thus saw her again, for it seemed I wasn't indifferent to her. According to my mother I was far from being ugly and my parents' fortune presented me like a very interesting heir. I even showed my gardens to my guest, whose name was, by a curious irony of fate, Rose Line. During the walk I hinted at roses, hints she welcomed with a smile absolutely adorable and - from my point of view - perfectly stupid.
Waiting was irritating me prodigiously and I raced ahead: I spoke of the black rose, that I had preciously preserved - Rose Line undoubtedly thought I had kept the flower because of her - and I asked her if she knew the secret of black roses. Once again she had her adorable and ingenuous smile and answered very simply:
"No."
"Where did you find the rose then?" I asked, amazed.
"My godmother gave it to me, telling me how to draw your attention."
I knew immediately what was going to be said and I hid a smile coming in spite of me: she was going to speak of fairies. And I wasn't mistaken.
"My godmother is a fairy. The fairy of roses," said Rose Line.
I held back a sigh of exasperation. For a long time I didn't believe in fairies anymore: they were only tales for children, but Rose Line did seem to still believe in them.
"And she was right, naturally," said Rose Line, not noticing my incredulity. "I definitely drew your attention," she concluded with a small shy smile.
Obstinate I questioned her on her godmother, persuaded it was only a woman trying to make the credulous Rose Line believe that she was a fairy. But she couldn't tell me anything and I understood that I wouldn't get any information from her.
Naturally, after this discovery, the conversation ended quite quickly and yet I managed to contain myself, remained the perfect gentleman till the end. The following week though, I turned down all her invitations with a cold and stiff politeness, often replying I wasn't there. I was back to my dear roses.
Rose Line, in spite of her innocence, understood very well that I didn't want to see her again and she probably spoke about that to her godmother - I hated people who couldn't solve their problems by themselves! I thus discovered that I was wrong - and I hated to be wrong - for fairies definitely existed. I was leaning on a bush of roses, which pretended to die on me - inconceivable! - when I suddenly felt that I wasn't alone any longer; I looked up and saw Rose Line in the company of a tall unknown woman.
"I am the Rose Fairy," declared the stranger.
"Absolutely delighted to meet you," I answered, not believing her for a second.
"You scorned my goddaughter even though she gave you what your heart yearns for: a black rose. For this affront, for a dryness of your heart, you deserve an exemplary punishment."
I straightened up slowly and stared at the so-called fairy.
"Madam," I said with a cold tone, "I didn't ask anything to anybody, neither you nor your goddaughter. When a gift is offered, you have to be able to bear the consequences. Asking a ignorant girl to offer a unique rose to a specialist can only lead to the dismissal of the girl."
The Rose Fairy didn't answer: she brandished what was probably supposed to be a magic wand and pointed it in my direction. There was a flash, then everything became normal again and I allowed myself a slight smile: nothing had changed. Without caring anymore for my unwanted guests I leaned again over my roses; I froze when seeing huge paws with long claws instead of my hands.
I understood quickly what had happened and I didn't even need to look at myself to get a confirmation. The garden itself wasn't looking the way I was used to. I had been transformed into a gigantic beast, probably hideous for all I knew - but I rarely had heard about people bewitched under a pleasant form. I stared at the fairy.
"What is my punishment?" I asked with a voice sounding surprisingly calm given the circumstances.
A slight hope rose in me: my voice didn't sound that different as it was before, maybe all this was just an illusion!
"I want you to learn what it is to worry for somebody, to seek her esteem, her friendship... her love. You will be devoured by a desire you won't know how to appease, a desire that your beloved roses will never fill, until the moment you will at least be able to love a woman. And if she returns your love before this clock indicates noon, then you will become yourself again."
A big clock appeared in front of me, showing eleven o'clock. At first I panicked: I had one hour to fall in love and find a woman who would love me in return while I was only a beast? But my mind analysed the situation clinically and noticed that the hands weren't moving, not even the hand of seconds.
"With the end of each season," said the fairy, "the seconds' hand will move of five seconds."
And she disappeared, taking Rose Line with her.
Rather than sinking into despair - which would be of no use, as my mind was telling me - I took the clock and brought it inside the castle, noticing for the first time it wasn't my parents'. A creature half-dog half-man was waiting for me inside and, despite the fact it was uttering more growls than understandable words, I recognised the voice: it was Raynal, my cousin and right-hand man, even though he didn't know anything about flowers.
When I began to answer him I noticed my pronunciation was hardly better than his and I forced myself to articulate carefully. It appeared, according to Raynal, that some servants had refused to leave me in spite of my transformation and that, under the spell, they had been transformed too. Some could become human again when going outside the castle, for the fairy had taken care not to let me rot alone in my castle: she had transformed me into a landlord and beyond the high walls surrounding my property, I could see fields and even a small town.
For me, who never cared for anything else than my roses, which were hardly demanding, being a landlord seemed terrible. My first concern, however, was to carry the clock in my room. I didn't know what fate was in store for my servants if ever the hands indicated noon before I could meet the conditions and I preferred to hide the due date from them.
I remained a long time staring at the dial and then I sighed - meaning that I uttered a noise that would have been a sigh for a human and which was transformed into a growl by my throat. I went back to Raynal and I told him what I intended to do. For his ears only I repeated the clauses of the curse. Raynal worried immediately and I surprised myself trying to decipher how a dog's brow could express such a feeling. My cousin knew perfectly well that I wasn't attracted at all in women, so he had a faint idea of how hard the task would be. But he approved my plan that we began without delay.
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Text © Azrael 2000.
Spectre de la rose. Copyright © Cheryl Mandus 1988. Used with permission.
Set Hour Time, from Moyra/Mystic PC.
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