CW: death.
I used to have this illustrated version of Beauty and the Beast when I was little, which more often than not I used to retrace the drawings than reread the story, but I do remember it was my favourite version of the tale because it reserved several beautiful pages for the scene with the rose theft. The roses curled like vines around the snow-strewn garden of the decrepit castle, and somehow all that decaying beauty filled me with a sense of peace, as if saying, imagine how quiet that must be! It seemed to be the kind of quiet that could only exist in between stories, there to be disrupted, to be mourned. But someone must keep the roses growing even when there are no princes in the castle, so you could say that was my gift to Sam Lillow. She gets to see the garden in every act of the story, but also watch it reborn from the ashes every time.
curses take root from root to root
is what they said
when they came for the tree
the tree that had shaded her since she was a baby
running around after her mama’s mud-stained slacks
watching her cut rose from rose, splice shoot from shoot
root to root
split, split, crack through time
half of all that’s in a tree is time
it all caves beneath a blade
Sam watched her days trickle out
like sap
watched her days seep into the wooden handle
of the axe
watched the tilting tree and thought of mama
at least the handle is one of us
the garden sang
trickle, trickle, trickle
how the roots do wither
as my true love waited
as all my days abated
(the curse sputtered down watch it sputter down watch it bubble black and blue out of the old ash tree watch the curse sizzle on the ground watch it simmer in the ground watch it stick to a dozen feet watch it seep into their feet watch it reach their shoots watch it eat their roots)
trickle, trickle, trickle
how the roots do wither
as my whole life waited
as all your love abated
split, split, crack through time
half of all a garden grows is time
it all blooms beneath a spade
Sam felt the roots crumble down
like ash
felt them spread like mould beneath the garden
of the castle
felt the echo of decay lower down the valley
the handle too was one of us
the garden wept
curses take root from root to root
is what Sam said
when they came to the fire
the fire that was her only light and warmth by evening
as she gathered seeds from decaying corpses
as she replanted rose after rose, nursed shoot after shoot
root to root
