Beauty and the Beast
Once upon a time in a far, fair country, there lived a young warrior by the name of Duncan MacLeod. Duncan was tall and strong, brave and kind, and his skill with a sword was dazzling. One would think that everyone would love such a man, and to be sure, many did. However, in his clan there were whispers of jealousy, for Duncan was as beautiful as he was brave, and to make matters worse, the lucky lad was the only son of the clan chieftain.
“Surely he must consort with The Evil One,” hissed those who envied him, “for no mortal man can be so fortunate without the use of Magic. Woe to us when the day comes that his father falls in battle and this young Lucifer must take his place as head of the clan.”
Unaware of the sly, vicious gossip, Duncan worked hard to be a leader worthy of his father’s trust. He helped the weak, fought off invaders, and sat with his father to make decisions for the good of the clan. He did his duty well, even when it pained his kind nature, but those whose hearts were hardened against him could see only imagined wrongs.
One day Duncan’s own cousin, goaded by jealousy and foolish pride, accused him of treachery. With the whole clan watching, the furious Chieftan demanded that his son defend the honor of the MacLeod name by accepting this challenge. Seeking to please his father, Duncan raised his sword and killed the friend of his youth. Afterwards, tormented by guilt, he tried to make amends by giving up the woman whom both he and his cousin had loved. Alas, her poor heart broken, the lass plunged from a cliff to her death even as Duncan strove to save her. After this double tragedy, rumors of his evil nature grew and festered among those who wished him ill.
Months later, Duncan and his father led the MacLeods in a long and difficult battle with a neighboring clan. They fought through the cold, gray morning and into the misty afternoon, and as fate would have it, Duncan was mortally wounded. Carried to the shelter of a nearby hut, the suffering young warrior soon succumbed to his wound. As his grieving father announced the death of his son to the waiting clan, a strange and wondrous thing occurred: Duncan MacLeod took a shuddering breath, opened his eyes, and arose from his deathbed whole and unscarred.
Trembling with amazement, he stepped to the doorway to tell his father of this great miracle. He called to his clansmen and waited for their words of rejoicing and astonishment and for his father’s warm embrace, but a heavy silence fell as all eyes turned to him.
“Tis the work of the demon Master below!” roared his horrified father, and the clansmen added their shocked and frightened voices to his cry.
“An enchantment! Spawn of the Devil! Kill the Beast!” they shouted, and bent to gather stones.
As the bewildered Duncan stumbled from the hut he was met with curses and twisted faces, and by a barrage of heavy stones hurled by his own clansmen. His father turned his back and refused to help him, and those who had always hated him led the mob of panicked men in the attack. Half naked and dazed, Duncan fled their fury and hid in the forest until their harsh cries and the sound of their pounding feet faded into the distance. As he lay shivering in the wet bracken he wept, for his world had been torn asunder even as his body had been made whole.
For many days and nights Duncan wandered in the wild wood, at first terrified by his own survival, and then trying desperately to survive as winter’s bitter wind brought drifting snow. He used his skills to clothe and feed himself, but he remained hidden from his clan, and from all men, for he felt that his father must be right in thinking him enchanted by evil. Gone was the proud, beautiful son of a clan chieftain; now his long hair and beard were unkempt, his handsome face altered by grief and deprivation, and his eyes were those of a hunted animal. He saw his reflection in a still loch one fresh, fine morning and was shocked by his much-changed appearance.
“Truly, I am not a man, but an evil Beast,” he mourned, “one that is not fit to live among human beings. How cruel it is that I still feel like a man, when I am so much less than human.”
The seasons came and the seasons passed, one after another, until Duncan grew so hungry for companionship that he dared approach a distant clan to offer himself as a sword-for-hire. They accepted the use of his strong sword arm gratefully, until Duncan was cut down in battle. He lay wounded and weaponless, his enchanted body healing itself under the stunned eyes of his brothers-in-arms, until they raised their blades against him and slew the Beast with a hundred thrusts. When he came to life once again, he escaped in the darkness, alone as he feared he would always be.
Over and over again the soul-sick warrior died and revived on blood-washed battlefields, surrounded by the dead and cast out by the living who feared the unnatural presence of the Beast. He endured such a life because it was the only way to assuage the longing he felt for his clan, and the only way to atone for his evil enchantment. He knew he was not really human, yet he pondered during many dark nights why a demon’s heart would carry such a heavy burden of pain and loneliness.
A few years after his rebirth into the hell-on-earth that was his present life, Duncan fell in a particularly bloody skirmish, and awoke to the sound of a cheerful voice that called him by name. A peacock of a man stood amid the carnage, offering him a hand and a smile, but Duncan shrank back, fearing to trust in someone that must be evil himself. After all, who else but a fellow demon would desire the company of a Beast?
“Do you not know that I am no man,” asked Duncan fearfully, “but an ugly Beast under an evil enchantment? Solitude has been my punishment, and this never-ending life my curse.”
The strange man did not seem to fear Duncan or to be repulsed by him, but helped him to his feet, wet a soft cloth and began to clean the dirt and blood from Duncan’s face.
“You and I have much to talk about,” the stranger told him, “and you have much to learn. For now, know just this one thing: you are neither Beast nor demon, but a special kind of man, the same kind that I am. My name is Connor MacLeod, and we are brothers.”
At these incredible words Duncan felt the sharp-edged sorrow shatter inside his breast. Unable to speak, he fell to his knees and pressed his lips to the stranger’s hand. He gazed up at his savior, his whole heart in his eyes, hoping this man who called him “brother” would understand the depth of his gratitude and loyalty.
Touched by the gentle spirit of the man, Connor knelt with Duncan on the marshy ground and gripped his arms as one warrior to another, saying, “You are not an ugly Beast, Duncan. Indeed, I see that your soul is beautiful and worthy. Trust me, and we shall be brothers forever; and for us, my friend, forever can be a long, long time.”
Thus it was that the Beast became beautiful once more, all through the touch of a kindly hand and communion with a kindred heart. For uncounted years the two men walked the wide world together through country fields and along city streets. And even though they did not always live happily ever after, the deep and loving bond between Duncan and Connor MacLeod lasted for centuries, yes, even beyond death.
Ysanne
Ysanne
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