This story is (c) me. All rights reserved.

La Belle et le Bete

By

DragonLady of Avalon

There are a few given truths in this world, things that can neither be altered not changed. Man is better than animal. Woman is to love, honor, and obey her husband. Lebete is dangerous, never to be associated with, under fear of being killed.

These are the truths of my world. They are what keep us alive. They are what keeps order in our settlements. They are not questioned or challenged. They are constant, never changing. Everybody believes them.

I am man. I am called “Indre”. I am the son of the dominant man in my troop. I will lead them some day, but today I am a scout. A scout keeps eyes out for game, ears out for Lebete.

I have my spear laid across one knee, my ears out for Lebete and my eyes out for food. Dere, bor, bare, anything with meat. Lebete has been moving close to our territories, hunting our women and children. We have to move farther and farther away to find more game and to protect our women and children.

Why Lebete takes our women and children are not known. We think they are food, slaughtered for their heathen scarifies. Others, older ones, say they are contaminated and kept captive.

Lebete is as big as a man. Sometimes Lebete looks like a woman with short hair, always growing down the spine. Hair can be reddish, golden, black, white, striped, or spotted. Always grows down the spine. Sometimes Lebete looks like beast, fur covers the body, gray, golden, striped, or spotted. Muzzle is black, teeth are sharp.

Scouts are the troop’s eyes and ears in the forest. We listen and watch for Lebete, but they cannot be seen if they do not wish it. They can be heard, though, whooping noises, cackles, howls, growls, and laughs. Lebete can also mimic other animals.

I hold my spear across my knee, watching the small herd of dere graze in the clearing. Spear is a good weapon for throwing and stabbing over long distances. Spear is a weapon of choice for scouts, next to bow and arrows, which I have also.

Quietly, I take out my bow and knock it, aiming carefully, holding my breath. When I let go, I automatically blink and the sounds of running hooves fill my ears, like thunder. When I open my eyes again, a buck dere is lying on his side, struggling to get up, coughing red blood up.

I creep slowly out of the woods, glancing around for bloodthirsty Lebete. Seeing none, but the back of my neck prickling anyway because they are not always seen, I approach my kill and poke it with the top of my boot to see if it has died yet. When the buck flinches and resumes its struggle, I slip out my bone knife and drive it into the animal’s throat, ending its useless fight.

The dere is heavy and its rack is sharp, but the other hunters spread out days ago, to cover more ground. Lebete hunting parties were sighted not far from our eastern cousins and we have not heard from them since then. As far as we run, Lebete follow closely on our heels. They keep driving us further and further north.

The beast is heavy, but I manage to make it buy our camp, which is surrounded by temporary, wooden walks with pieces of sharp bone, thorns edged in poison, and anything nasty we could find to lay into the leather that covers the wall. Lebete will be able to break through, but they will slice their paws open to do so. By that time, the men should have weapons ready.

There is always a sentry guarding the gates. Those with hair color similar to Lebete have to be checked by lifting up the back of the shirt and letting the sentry feel along the spine. Lebete manes grow down the back, even when they look like women, but they might try to shave the hairs free, so the sentry feels for new growth where it shouldn’t be on a man.

My hair is red. It is always a requirement for me to be checked before entering the village. When the sentry sees me, he motions for me to turn around and bear my back to him, so I drop my catch and turn around, lifting up the back of my shirt. His hands are cold where they touch my skin and I flinch, but he finds no unnatural hair growths and I am allowed to pass.

The hunting party was sent out for a very special reason. There is a wedding planned for this evening and a feast is needed. One of the other troops wants to merge with ours, and the way to do this is by wedding the children of the troop leaders.

I haven’t met the daughter of the Western Tribe. I hope she’s pretty. A pretty wife is worth more than an ugly one, yes? I hope she cooks well, too, and knows how to sew, and can bear sons.

I leave the kill with the butcher and then return to my father’s tent. I have to get ready for my wedding.

…

A day later, I am seated on a hilltop, wearing clean, white clothes, freshly made by my mother, and seated on a blanket, made by my mother with thread spun by my bride’s mother, next to my bride, looking at her. The village is dressed up in garlands of green leaves and white flowers, the scent permeated the village, mingling sweetly with the smell of roasting meat, boiling stew, and wine.

I am pleased. She is pretty, obedient, and can sew and weave. Her hips are wide, her breasts are full, and her hair is silky, as yellow as the sun, too pale to be Lebete. She blanched at first at my red hair, but after a stern warning from her father, consented. She is everything a well-trained girl should be.

And she is mine.

I lean close to her, feeling the texture of her hair, watching the fireworks exploding in the sky and the celebration and dancing going on below. Our families are dancing and singing, getting drunk now before they have to erect new shelters for the new families joining our group.

There are no thoughts of Lebete, no worries about whether we will have enough food next week. There is only this celebration, this feast, me, and my bride.

She’s shy, blushing, and not looking directly at me. She smoothes her skirt with her delicate hands, looking down at her lap and wringing her hands nervously. She is a slender, well-formed girl with skin as white as snow because she behaves herself, staying inside to do her chores. A good match, just like my father said she’d be.

I stroke her cheek, the rough calluses scratching the smooth, milky flesh. Her skin is firm and soft, her hair is as silky and fluid as a river. She smells of flowers and springtime. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds when she dares to look in my direction.

Gently, I guide her cheek to me, pulling her closely with a soft caress. Any harder and I might break this little porcelain doll. I lean closer to her, our lips drawing closer and closer together, my eyes clothing so that I can enjoy her scent, her touch, her taste…

A shriek rips through the air. We jerk apart, staring numbly in the direction it came from, our eyes focusing on a bone-chilling site. An immense, dark Lebete has a sentry by the neck, his unconscious (or worse), head lolling to one side. It roars, sending the troops scattering, the women for cover, the men for weapons.

My heart pounds in my chest. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Lebete! In the village! Somehow they must have gotten over the fence…but how?

I look up again, not having realize that I looked down. Branches hang into the village from trees growing outside—trees we used for fresh fruit and safety. No one knew Lebete could clime, and there they are, pouring by droves into the village.

I look at my new bride, clinging to me and shaking. I am torn between going to help my father and hers, and taking her to a shelter my father told me about. There isn’t much time to think, Lebete are rounding up women and children by the dozens, knocking them unconscious and binding them tight, to be carried into the trees by another Lebete and taken to certain death.

My new bride is crying, shaking and trembling against my chest. She won’t last long if I keep her here. She’s like a little child, trapped by the fear of monsters and the fear of being left alone.

My decision made, I climb to my feet and lift her up, holding her in my grasp and pulling her away from the hill, toward the back of the fence and a secret exit put there by my father. My feet barely seem to touch the ground as I run, half-carrying my wife, pulling her forward and telling her to quiet her sobbing before Lebete hears.

I can barely breathe. I can hear their whoops and yolwings behind us, my fingers wrapped tightly around my wife’s hand, so strongly that I worry about breaking them. We pause as I glance around, trying so hard to remember where my father put the shelter. Was it north to the broken tree, then west to the river? Or north to the river and west to the broken tree? South, maybe?

I swallow hard, pick a direction, and run, urging to wife onward, pulling her hard. I smile suddenly, seeing the lightening-split tree that marks the entrance, the gateway to the shelter. It’s so close I can feel it, the rough bark giving away in my hands to the false trunk beneath! I can see it, just an arm’s length away.

A tawny-colored Lebete swings out of the tree. It was waiting for us.