#imaginary places

BEAST'S CASTLE, deep within the woods of France, an ancient rambling building with many staircases and dusky courtyards. Lifelike statues of men and bloodhounds decorate vast terraces, and seemingly impregnable doors form arches in the massive walls.

Though now uninhabited, the castle used to belong to an enchanted prince who had been transformed into a monstrous beast. A traveller arriving at the castle at that time would be led by invisible hands into a dark corridor, barely lit by candelabra held out by live human arms growing from the walls. A sumptuous meal would appear on a solitary table, guarded by live marble busts on both sides of a huge chimney piece.

The Beast, lord of the castle, would then appear and demand retaliation for any minor infraction committed by the traveller, such as picking a white rose. For this the trespasser would have to pay with his life unless a young girl consented to take his place. It was, in fact, the daughter of such a trespasser who restored the Beast to his former self, by weeping over his dying body and begging him to live on; the Beast answered that if it were a man it would do what she asked, but that poor beasts who wanted to prove their love could do nothing else but lie down and die. Her sorrow broke the spell and allowed him to shed his beastly form and become again the prince he had once been.

A vast fortune of jewels and precious stones lies in the castle vaults, but they are protected by the statue of an archer who will shoot whoever enters uninvited. A celebrated mirror, which allows those who look in it to see any place in the world, is said to lie unused in one of the castle's many chambers.

(Mme Marie Leprince de Beaumont, "La Belle et La Bête," in Magasin des enfants, contes moraux, Paris, 1757; La Belle et La Bête, directed by Jean Cocteau, France, 1946)

Long before the mountain cities were joined by bridges, before the lantern rails crossed the valleys, and before the cloud harbors welcomed travelers from distant horizons, there stood only seven towers upon the high ridges.

Each tower held a bell.

No two bells were alike.

One was cast from silver-bright metal that reflected the stars.

One was forged from dark iron brought from the roots of the world.

One was said to contain a fragment of a fallen comet hidden within its heart.

The oldest histories disagreed about many things, but all agreed upon this:

When the first builders arrived, the bells already stood waiting.

The people settled among the peaks and built their homes beneath the towers. They learned the weather by the voices of the bells. They learned the passing of seasons by their changing tones.

When storms approached, the bells sang low and deep.

When clear skies returned, they rang with bright voices that carried for leagues across the mountains.

Generations passed.

Cities grew.

Roads climbed impossible cliffs.

Bridges stretched above seas of cloud.

Yet the bells remained.

The people no longer understood who had made them.

Some believed ancient giants had forged them.

Others claimed they were gifts from travelers who crossed the skies before history began.

A few scholars spent entire lifetimes searching for the truth.

None returned with certainty.

On the first morning of every year, however, something remarkable still occurred.

As dawn touched the eastern peaks, all seven bells rang together.

No hand pulled their ropes.

No mechanism moved within their towers.

Yet their voices echoed across every valley.

Children paused their games to listen.

Workers set down their tools.

Even travelers unfamiliar with the tradition found themselves standing quietly beneath the sound.

The bells never rang the same melody twice.

Each year brought a different song.

Some years were joyful.

Some were solemn.

Some seemed almost like conversations carried upon the wind.

But every listener felt the same thing.

The sense that the world was older than they knew.

Wiser than they knew.

And that they belonged to a story far larger than themselves.

When the final note faded, life resumed.

Markets opened.

Workshops awakened.

Air ferries departed their docks.

The mountain cities continued their ordinary business.

Yet for the rest of the day, people walked with a little more wonder in their hearts.

And perhaps that was why the bells remained.

Not to tell the people where they had come from.

But to remind them that there were still mysteries worth seeking beyond the next horizon.

Starforge Tales — 2026.06.14

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