The Fabled Journal of Beauty

  The Rare Book Press

  Presents …

  The Fabled Journal

  of

  Beauty

  By Boyd Brent

  Author contact: boyd.brent1@gmail.com

  Copyright: Boyd Brent

  The right of Boyd Brent to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be produced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, without the prior written permission of the Author.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be circulated without the Author's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and their names are the creation of the Author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Journal entry no. 1

  I'm actually doing this. Keeping a journal. Something that’s strictly forbidden in the land of fairytales. I don't suppose the idea of doing so was even supposed to occur to me. But I heard through the grapevine that Snow White’s been keeping one. Apparently, not only has it allowed her to tell the truth about her life but also to resolve her many issues. It's common knowledge throughout the land that Snow has struggled to get to grips with her fairest of them all status. But that knowledge was never supposed to reach the real world in The Lost Diary of Snow White. Far be it from me to trump a fellow fairytale character, but if Snow imagines she has a lot to live up to being known as the fairest in the land, then she should consider what it's like being called Beauty. I think you'll agree that no matter how firmly a mother believes her baby to be the most beautiful ever born, she would never dream of naming her Beauty. All mothers assume, quite rightly, that such a name would be a lot to live up to. Imagine if your parents had called you Beauty, and you had no surname to dilute it? How awkward might you feel being introduced to strangers? I'm actually grateful that I don't have a surname, as it would undoubtedly have been Personified or Incarnate. I suppose it is easier to deal with a name like Beauty in the land of fairytales, where names that double as sweeping statements are commonplace. My hands are trembling at the thought of being caught making my first entry. I will find a hiding place for it, but I am resolved to return to it tomorrow. It's so liberating!

  Journal entry no. 2

  It is the eve of the following day, and I have felt anxious about my first journal entry and yet excited at the prospect of my second in equal measure. Okay, deep breath; in for a penny, in for a pound. What I am about to commit to paper is forbidden to even think about, let alone write down. But here goes … with a name like Beauty, I have often wondered what the title of my story might be. If you're in possession of my completed journal, then you'll be reading these words in the future when its name is commonplace. You’ll, therefore, be aware if the following ideas on the subject are correct. Earlier today, while out walking in the woods with my best friend Betty, she whispered the following suggestions: “What about, 'Beauty & The Most Charming Prince?' Or 'Beauty and the Most Gallant Charming?' Oh, I know! What about 'Beauty and the Frog Who Is Transformed into the Most Splendid of Princes?'” she pondered.

  “I suppose they’re all possibilities,” I replied, “although that last one sounds a little long-winded.” Betty has always been so positive and upbeat about things. She's a scullery maid in my father's household, and we grew up together. I have heard through the grapevine how the truth about our fairytale lives gets blurred by endless re-telling. I therefore have no idea if she'll be mentioned in my story when it reaches the real world. So, and from the horse's mouth, Betty is not only my best friend but a genuine beauty where it counts: on the inside. As we made our way back from the woods this afternoon, she placed her hands on her ample hips, scratched at the mole on her nose and said, “Perhaps your story will simply be called 'Beauty?'”

  As kindly as it was meant, I shuddered at her suggestion. “Your guess is as good as mine, Betty. Indeed, I hope your guess is a good deal better.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Just a feeling I have. A sort of dark foreboding.”

  “You never know,” smiled Betty with a chuckle, “maybe your story will be called 'Beauty and Betty?'”

  “Now that's a lovely idea!” I said, placing an arm around her shoulder.

  When we arrived home, I was informed by the footman that a family meeting was underway and that I should make my presence known in the parlour without delay.

  When I entered the parlour, the expressions that greeted me were so grim that I imagined my journal had been discovered. Father was sat at the head of the table, while my three brothers and two sisters were seated on either side of him. I headed for my seat beside my sisters, chin held high and determined to put my case for keeping a journal. I should explain that while my brothers are perfectly lovely, my sisters, as I believe is quite common in fairytales, can be somewhat jealous at times. Hardly surprising when you consider how they must endure having a sister called Beauty. And, unlike Snow White, I can see how my reflection fits a certain ideal of what is considered beautiful. Although, where this ‘ideal’ springs from, goodness only knows. But I digress; so, back to the topic of my sisters …

  The reason for the above dots is this: I had intended to write their names but drew a blank. It seems that not only must they suffer my being called Beauty, but that the original Author has declined to give them names of their own. Ditto my brothers. Only now does it make perfect sense why I have always referred to them all as 'Darling sister' or 'Brother of mine.' Cripes. It’s little wonder keeping a diary is forbidden if such things can come to light so easily.

  “Glad you could join us,” huffed one of my sisters as I sat beside her.

  “It’s about time. Where on earth have you been? Father has something important he wants to tell us,” said the other.

  “I was out walking with Betty.”

  “Again?” tutted a sister. “That girl is as low born as she is simple.”

  “Indeed, our sister’s time would be better spent conversing with a cabbage.”

  “Come now, Darling Sisters, there's no need to be unpleasant,” I said.

  Father smiled at me. “Dear Beauty, you have always had a place in your heart for waifs and strays.”

  “Betty's hardly a waif or a stray, Father.”

  “No. Indeed, she's a fine and upstanding member our household,” said one of my brothers, to which the other two concurred with a well-intentioned “Here, here!”

  One of my sisters folded her arms. “I presume you haven't called this family meeting to discuss Betty, Father?”

  “No. Indeed, I have not. But wish I had, for the news is not good,” he said miserably.

  “Please tell us you're not going to restrict our allowance again this month?” pleaded a sister.

  “He simply can't,” said the other, “it's going to be a struggle buying new gowns for the coming season as it is.”

  Father took off his glasses, placed them on the table and wiped a tear from his eye.

  “Whatever is the matter? I asked, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand.

  “There is no easy way to soften the blow, so I will just come out and say it … there has been an accident at sea, a terrible loss of life.”

  “Anyone we know?” said one of my sisters as though she couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

  “No, no one we know, but that's hardly a comfort,” said Father, taking a h
anky from his pocket and blowing his nose.

  One of my sisters stood abruptly. “Well, if that's all, Papa, I have an appointment with my manicurist.”

  “No. That is not all,” sighed Father.

  My sister lowered herself back onto her chair.

  “My fortune …” he began.

  “What of it?” asked one of my sisters impatiently.

  “It has sunk to the bottom of the sea with those poor sailors. Our wealth is gone. We are poor.”

  “Poor? Then what's to become of us?” asked an ashen faced sister.

  “Take heart, my children. It's not all bad news,” said Father, putting a brave face on things, “for once we've sold everything we own, and I have paid off my debtors, we will have enough to buy a small cottage in the country. Once there, we can live happy yet frugal lives.”

  “Frugal!” exclaimed one of my sisters as though it were a terminal disease.

  Father brushed some lint from the table and nodded.

  As my sisters wept into their hands, I stood up and placed my arms around his shoulders. “It will be all right,” I said, “after all, we still have each other, and the fresh air will do us good.”

  One of my sisters looked up from her tear-sodden palms. “Do us GOOD!” she bellowed. “What good can possibly come from living like peasants!”

  “It will doubtless be difficult at first,” said Father, “but in time, I'm sure we'll all grow accustomed to it.”

  It was at this point that my sisters said some words that have no place in this journal. So, I have found no place for them.

  Journal entry no. 3

  A horse and cart arrived today to convey my sisters’ belongings to auction. They are to be sold off, as is all the furniture in this grand house. Father will use the proceeds to buy our cottage. I sat at my bedroom window, chin on palm, and watched three men take over an hour to convey my sisters’ dresses from the house to their cart. As for myself, I have never been one to covert possessions and own very little. So, it’s probably a good thing that I am rumoured to be a main character and have what is best described as my main character's outfit—a lovely blue and white dress that's as figure hugging as it is self-cleaning. As for accessories, I have a simple silver bracelet with matching necklace. Even so, not wishing to be singled out for any favouritism, and eager to do my bit to help Father, I went into town today with the intention of selling them both. Our town is typical of those found in fairytales: Tudor style shops and houses with thick wooden beams, thatched roofs, and window boxes where flowers are always in bloom. There are fountains, maypoles, and townsfolk always amiable going about their business. I made my way down the main thoroughfare, and it wasn't long before Philip made himself known. The poor boy has had a crush on me for as long as I can remember. He’s a nice young man, tall, dark and loyal, who could have his pick of girls. But I’ve never had any romantic feelings for him. Betty once suggested that I kiss him. “You never know, he might transform into someone who makes me go weak at the knees,” she said. Unfortunately, when I planted an unexpected kiss on his cheek, it was Philip who grew weak and staggered sideways. But back to today …

  “Beauty!” said Philip, whipping out a bunch of flowers. “These are for you.”

  “Thank you, Philip. They're beautiful,” I replied, taking and sniffing them.

  “A mere trifle. Indeed, their beauty pales in comparison with your own.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. Although they are more fragrant.”

  “You jest,” said Philip, twirling the ends of his moustache.

  I shook my head. “They’re roses, Philip.”

  “I know. The lady in the shop was at great pains to point that out. So,” he went on, inhaling heartily and offering me his arm, “where are you off to on this fine morning?”

  “To the pawn shop to sell my necklace,” I said, feeling for its familiar presence with the tips of my fingers.

  “But why?” he asked as we began walking.

  “The news is not good; poor Father’s fortunes have taken a turn for the worse. I am intent on doing my bit to help him.”

  Philip's broadening smile seemed at odds with my news. I was about to inquire what had amused him so when he said, “You need only agree to marry me, and you can keep your necklace.”

  His proposal caught me unawares, and I began to cough. “It’s … it’s kind of you to offer, Philip, but … I really don’t think that’s how my story is supposed to end.”

  “End?” he said, throwing his arms wide. “It would be just the beginning!”

  “Yes, of the end …” I murmured under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Philip raised his chin. “Whatever the pawn merchant offers you, I'll double it.”

  “You like my necklace and bracelet that much?”

  “I do.”

  “But they would neither fit nor suit you, Philip,” I pointed out.

  “No, I …”

  “I'm joking.”

  “I knew that. They’ll make fine additions to my collection of Beauty things.”

  Okay. Not at all creepy. “What Beauty things?” I asked and regretted doing so instantly.

  “Well, there's the hair that I removed from your sleeve when …”

  “Really? You kept that?”

  “Of course, I kept it,” he said, inflating his chest. “Then there's the tissue you discarded when you had that dreadful cold …”

  “You went back for it?”

  Philip nodded. “Does this dedication not prove the length and breadth of my love?”

  “It proves something, Philip. Look,” I told him for the umpteenth time, “you really must seek a wife elsewhere. And not waste a moment more on me.”

  “I know you don't mean that,” he said with the usual dulled twinkle in his eye. It's not Philip's fault he can't see sense when it comes to me. It's just the way he was written. “I can assure that I do mean it. And here is the pawn shop.”

  “My offer still stands. I will double whatever he offers you.”

  “Save your money for things you need, Philip. Things of use,” I said, disappearing through the door into the shop.

  When I returned home and gave Father the money from the sale, he wept miserably. “I cannot accept this! You must return to the shop this instant and buy them back.”

  “Don't be silly, Father. At a time like this, your need is greater than mine.”

  “But they were your only things of worth.”

  “Nonsense. I have the love of a kindly father, which is priceless.”

  “As ever, you make me so proud, and I promise to make it up to you,” he sighed.

  “Make it up to her?” came the disgruntled voice of one of my sisters as they entered the room.

  “You would lament Beauty’s pitiful sacrifice? When your other daughters have been forced to give up so much,” said the other.

  “It is because Beauty had so little that her sacrifice is so great,” Father pointed out.

  “Oh, that's right; take her side. You always do.” An awkward silence followed, broken by a servant who entered the room and presented Father with a letter upon a silver tray. Doubtless expecting more bad news, Father observed the letter under his nose as though it smelled rotten. He shrugged, picked it up and ripped it open.

  “What is it now?” said one of my sisters, rolling her eyes. “Are we to give up the very clothes on our backs?”

  Father smiled. “No. It’s nothing of the sort … in fact, it's good news!”

  “Good news? Really? Has a rich relative died and left us a fortune?” asked one of my sisters, crossing her fingers.

  “No, they have not,” replied Father testily over the top of the letter.

  “Then what is it?” I asked.

  “Apparently, not all of my ships were lost in that storm after all. Indeed, one has made it back to port laden with riches!” Father jumped to his feet. “It seems I must leave immediately to claim its cargo.”


  “God's speed, Father!” said one of my sisters, opening the door for him.

  “Allow me to fetch your coat,” said the other, darting into the hall.

  Father and I followed my sisters into the hallway.

  “I shall be gone for several days,” said Father, pulling on his coat, “what gifts would you like me to bring you back?”

  Having glanced at one another, my sisters plunged their hands into their pockets. “It just so happens that we have already made lists.”

  “Already?” said Father, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes. They’re intended for our future suitors. Why wait to make them?”

  “Why indeed,” sighed Father, taking the lists. He placed his hat on his head and looked at me. “What would you like your papa to bring back for you, Beauty?”

  “Oh, you know me, Father. What do I always ask you for whenever you go away?”

  “A single rose?”

  I nodded. “A single rose.”

  Journal entry no. 4

  Father has been away for three days and nights now. Not a great deal has happened since he left. The house has been so quiet. My sisters have spent their days in town, spreading the news of our good fortune. As for my brothers, shortly after packing their own frugal possessions onto a cart for sale, they went off to find work in the country. We have sent word of our change in fortune but don't yet know if they have received it. As for me, my days have passed in contemplation about what the future might hold and engaging in my favourite pastime of reading. I have only left the house to borrow and return books to the library. I adore books and can't imagine a better way to pass the time than by travelling to far-flung places and losing myself in the trials and tribulations of others. Today, after visiting the library, I met Betty for a beverage in the Ye Old Storyteller’s Tea Shop. As soon as she saw me stumble through the door of that establishment laden with several thick volumes, she rushed over and unburdened me of a good many. “Oh, thank you, Betty!”