Beast

Now in mass-market paperback--"[the] elegantly sensual retelling of "Beauty and the Beast," told from the Beast's point of view."--"School Library Journal," starred review.

Donna Jo Napoli is the acclaimed author of many notable novels, including Zel, Stones in the Water, and most recently,Crazy Jack, in the addition to the Angelwings series. She lives in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, where she is the head of the linguistics department at Swarthmore College.

From Part I: The Curse The lion-ape lunges from the treea moment too late;Bahram Chubina's arrow has alreadysealed his fate. I gasp roughly. Beast and warrior glow white, burning, against the gold ground. The sun glints off the illuminated pages as it glints off the metalmar --snake -- that twists around and around from my wrist to my elbow. My fists clench; I am aghast at dying, aghast at killing."Orasmyn?"I turn, startled.Mother comes in, her face unveiled -- she has not yet left the palace this morning. The pleasure of seeing the dark sliver moons under her eyes, her full cheeks, pulls me at once from the violence on the page to the sweet calm of our lives.Father, the Shah of all Persia, has promised to find me a suitable wife soon. I will be the first adult male outside the young woman's family to ever set eyes on her bare face, to ever know her mysteries. Warmth threads up my throat to my cheeks. I stroke my short beard and smile broad to hide my thoughts.Mother smiles in return. "You're reading theShahnamehyet again?" She comes to my reading platform and bends over me. Her hair hangs wavy, freed from the braids that hold it tight at night and that she will rebraid before going outside today. It brushes my arm. With a fingertip she traces the spine of the lion-ape. "His eyes speak anguish."Her words touch me with their femininity. Women speak through their eyes from behind thechador --the veil -- that shrouds all else. They are accustomed to listening to the eyes of others, even those whose full faces show."Shall I read to you?""Battle stories." Mother wrinkles her nose. "I prefer Islamic verse.""Islamic verse is in Arabic. These are stories in our own strong Persian. And they're not all battle. Let me read to you of Malika falling in love with Shahpour." Already I am thumbing back through the earlier pages.Mother squats and catches my hand between hers. "Orasmyn, I've got a present for you. In my room. A book by Saadi."The prospect intrigues me, for this great mystic, this Sufi, is known for mixing the spirit of Islam with the culture of Persia. But Mother's tone irritates. I pull my hand away. "I don't need help in choosing my reading.""We all need help, Orasmyn.""A prince doesn't."Mother presses her lips together in a thin line. Then her face softens again. "I see you've done your prayers." Her finger now runs the part in the middle of my hair that I made during my cleaning ritual, thewudhu,before the prayers that precede sunrise. "Why didn't you come eat with us?" she asks. "Your father and I will be busy with festival duties most of the day. We had hoped to see you this morning, at least."Today is the Feast of Sacrifices. Every royal family in every town across Persia has invited the poor to partake of the meat from the animal they will sacrifice this noon. Here in Tabriz there will be a double offering, for my family will add a sacrifice of our own to that of the local royal family. "I don't plan to eat on this festival," I say."Is that so?" Mother looks at me with curiosity. "You're dressed as ahajji --a pilgrim." Fondly, she brushes the folds of cloth on my back.I draped this white cloth around me as the sun rose. It is almost a year since I returned from my pilgrimage to Mecca. These days, when I go out, I wear my ordinary tunic under royal robes, though of course I carry prayer beads and wear a white hat always. But today I will stand in white cloth with the other hajjiha, a cloud of purity. "I'm assisting at the sacrifice.""Ah." Mother nods. "Then I understand your fasting. But, son, my gentle prince, not everyhajjimust take part."I hear the question under her words. As a child I ran from the sacrifices, from the spilling of blood. As an adult, I take no part in the hunts. Mother says I am like the flowers that grow in my treasured gardens,