Rough Magic

by Caryl Cude Mullin

  He ran out into the falling rain when his task was done.

  II.ii.

  Caliban had been alone for many years. His language was all but gone. “Fire,” he would say, holding his hands up to the heat. “Fish. Water. Cave. Setebos.” He would turn his words over in his mind, like stones in a stream, polishing them, keeping them bright and alive.

  And now he could share them again. He watched, shaking with fear and hope, with wanting, as a man pulled a small boat onto the shore and then, amazingly, lifted out a sleeping child.

  The man stumbled. He was tired, he needed help. Caliban crept from his cover of the trees. He approached slowly, his hands empty, to keep the man from fearing him the way the wild creatures often did.

  Even so the man stepped back, alarmed. He was tall, his graying beard long, his hair too. His dark robes were weathered, and his face was newly reddened and peeling from exposure to the sun. Caliban guessed he’d been adrift at sea for several days.

  The child in his arms stirred and whimpered. The man spoke to it, his words quick and lilting, none of them familiar to Caliban. They made him feel suddenly ashamed, those slippery, lightning words, as though he were only a beast and not the son of a god.

  Then the child lifted its head, and Caliban gasped in wonder. It had golden hair that spilled over its shoulders, gleaming in the sunlight. It must be a god-child too, this beautiful creature. The man spoke again, to him this time, his voice rich and deep. Now Caliban could sense his power. Perhaps he was a god. Perhaps he was even Setebos, come again in the form of a man.

  Caliban fell to his knees. He tried to speak, to tell the god that he would serve him, help him, here on the island. But the words strangled in his throat and only a guttural croak came out. He blushed with humiliation, hanging his head lower. This was not how he meant to greet his father.

  But then the god put a hand on his shoulder, and the words that he spoke were gentle. Caliban felt such a sudden rush of relief and happiness that he laughed and leapt eagerly to his feet. “Home,” he said, gesturing toward the cave. “Home,” he repeated, seeing the man’s confusion. Strange that Setebos did not understand his mother’s language any longer, but perhaps he was not saying the words properly anymore. Instead, he pretended to be eating. That, the man understood.

  Carefully, still carrying the golden child, he followed Caliban. He stumbled even more as he carried her over the rocks. It must be hard to walk like a man when he was used to living in the sky, Caliban thought. Caliban walked slowly, so that the god could be sure of his footing.

  The child did not want to go into the cave. It clung to the god’s robes and cried, burying its face in his chest. Caliban stirred the stew cooking in the kettle, its rich, savory smell filling the cave. That made the child lift its head. It must be hungry after being at sea.

  They ate almost everything in the kettle, the two of them. Caliban kept back only a small portion for himself, just enough to ease the rumblings in his belly. When they’d finished eating the child began to explore the cave, until the god called her back with a few sharp words. He did not look comfortable here, in the smoky darkness. Caliban remembered the homes that his mother described, great structures built of wood and stone that sheltered her from the weather and still let in the light. The god must be used to homes like that when he came to be in flesh. Caliban would build him one here, on the island. He even knew where he would do it.

  For Caliban the next few days flew by in a flurry of wonder. He began to build the house and saw that the god was pleased. He taught Caliban his god-words for things, pointing to everything and speaking slowly, waiting for Caliban to repeat it. The child, a girl-child named Miranda, began to teach him too. She soon lost her fear of him and followed him about, pointing to things and then laughing when he tried to imitate her speech. He did not like the laughing. He stopped saying the words to her. The god noticed this and spoke to her sharply again. She became kinder, telling him the words and not laughing anymore.

  He worked hard, building the house as the god instructed him. Within a week the roof was on and he’d made beds for each of them. They brought their blankets from the boat and seemed pleased with their new home. Caliban slept on the floor. He liked to be ready to serve the god and his child. He made their fires and brought them food. He carved the girl small animals out of wood. He made her a dolphin and a rabbit. “Make me a dolly,” she said. But he didn’t know what that meant. “A little child,” she explained. “Like me.” She pointed to herself, and he understood. She loved the dolly he made her. She was happy.

  But the god would walk the shore at times, his face as stormy as the sea. He felt the magic of the island and could not harness it. Caliban knew this, could feel the frustration of his power. He worried about it, shuffling his fear and concern with the desire to please. Finally, he decided that a god, such as the man surely was, would not be tainted by the power.

  He went into his cave while the god and the child were sleeping in their new house. Outside it was sunny and warm, and the quiet day had lulled them. But the cave was as cool as ever. It felt odd at first. Something was wrong. Perhaps the cave was cross with him for leaving it. “I have to look after the god,” he explained. There was no answer. Well, the cave never talked. Not really. Only the corner. He felt himself shiver. He should make a fire here. That would make the cave happy again. But no, he had come for another reason. Resolutely, he walked to the back corner and knelt by the mound of earth. Its voice was thin, but it could sense him nearby. It guessed his purpose.

  “Take me up, I’m yours, I’m yours,” it insisted.

  It grew more excited as he began to dig. But he would not listen to it. He did not want it, but perhaps the god did. And the god would know what to do with it.

  And so he brought Prospero the staff.

  II.iii.

  Caliban liked the way Miranda always tried to follow him everywhere. He called birds from the sky for her. She clapped her hands and had to stifle yelps of excitement when he did that. Sometimes he folded a leaf into a small boat for her to send down the fishstream, which they then chased together along the bank. Once he carved each of them a whistle from a green bough, and they tried to play music.

  But her father did not like her to wander off with him. Whatever they were doing together was interrupted by his stern voice calling, “Miranda! Time to attend to your studies!” Then she turned quiet and went back to the hut. Caliban returned to cutting firewood, or mending clothes, or fishing for supper, or cooking, or some other necessary task. But he felt lonely after Miranda and her laughter had left him. He wished they could play more often.

  The spirits of the island had started to tease him now. Prospero had freed his mother’s servant, Ariel, from the pine tree where she had trapped him. Ariel never seemed to pass up an opportunity to make Caliban miserable. “Look at the island king!” he would jeer as Caliban struggled with a load of wood. Then Ariel would fly down and tug on his ears and pull his hair. Caliban would have to drop the logs to swat him away. Sometimes he did that, and they mashed his toes painfully. Most of the time he just endured the torment, gritting his teeth. “Mudman,” Ariel would snarl, and then wisp away to tell Prospero that Caliban was napping in the woods.

  Prospero always believed the spirit’s lies.

  Caliban shifted uncomfortably, frowning. He now knew Prospero was not a god. A god would not be so blind. A god would not fart and snore and belch like Prospero did, when he thought no one could hear him. A god would know that Caliban was a god’s son, and should not always be the one to hunt for mushrooms and dig the latrine and fetch heavy wooden pails full of water for the washing.

  Prospero had wanted a wizard’s cape for himself, a cape made from cormorant feathers. Caliban had caught the birds and skinned them. Then he cured the skins so they stayed soft and supple, and finally he sewed the cape. When it was done Prospero had taken it from Caliban and thrown it around his shoulders. “Good work, Caliban,” he had said.

&
nbsp; But those words didn’t warm Caliban the way they used to. Prospero had refused to eat the meat, saying it was unclean. That had horrified Caliban. He had tried to eat it all himself, but he could not do it. Some of the meat went bad. Caliban put it out for the crows to finish.

  A god would not be so wasteful.

  Caliban pulled the fish trap from the small pool. There were three fat trout inside it. He thanked each of them for being his meal, then he struck them quickly against a rock. It was the same rock he always used for the quick death. He called it the “mercy stone.” A small red smear appeared on it, as it had countless times. The rain would wash it away.

  But now Caliban stared at the stain. How many creatures had he killed for Prospero? The three fish lay in his lap, cradled. They would have been plenty for himself, but he needed to catch at least three more to feed Prospero and Miranda as well. Caliban and the island gave Prospero everything he needed, and none of it was ever enough.

  Caliban had heard him talking to Miranda. He said the island was a land fit for savages. He said the fine hut that Caliban had built in worship was a hovel. He swore that he would choke to death on fish stew.

  Swiftly Caliban stood. His vision blurred with hot, angry tears. He clutched the dead fish to his chest. “I thank you for your meat,” he said, again and again. He walked without planning his direction, but when he finally came to the cave he knew this was the destination he intended.

  The boughs that covered the entrance were dead and dry. He pushed them aside and crept in.

  The damp, warm darkness wrapped around him. He stood there for a minute, letting the feeling of home comfort him. Then his memory moved him to the old fire pit. In an instant he was kneeling beside it. There was some kindling, ready and waiting for him. He pulled the flint and steel from his pocket and struck it. The spark flashed and caught. Caliban had a gift with fire.

  The wood he’d left in here was well-aged and burned brightly. In no time Caliban’s fish were sizzling over the flames. He ate them off the roasting stick, letting the oil smear across his chin. He had no one to impress here, in his own home.

  Afterwards, he lay down on the old bough bed and fell asleep. His dreams were odd and unsettling. He found himself wandering through a large, empty stone palace, like the kind his mother used to describe. He wasn’t looking for her, though. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew he had to find it. Everything shifted around. He walked from the corridor through a door to a room, then found himself back in the corridor. He couldn’t reach the stairs he saw at the end of the passageway, no matter how determinedly he walked toward them. And the ceiling kept getting lower, until his hair brushed against it even when he stooped.

  He woke up. A compulsion dragged him out of the cave, even though he balked. He did not want to leave, but he had no choice.

  It was Prospero’s doing. The wizard had summoned him, the way he called his spirit servants. Caliban champed and raged and pulled against his own steps, but he could not stop.

  Prospero looked thunderous when Caliban arrived at the hut. “Where have you been?” he bellowed. “It’s long past supper! Where are the fish you were sent to catch?”

  “I ate them,” Caliban growled in response. His heart felt as though it were a smoldering coal in his chest. “If you’re hungry, make yourself some food.”

  Prospero was speechless, but only for an instant. “Insolent wretch!” he screamed. “I have trained you in speech and raised you from beasthood. Is this how you answer me?”

  “This is my island!” Caliban yelled back. Spit flew from his lips, but he did not care. “This is my home! Why should I serve you?” Prospero lowered the staff toward him. “You will do as I say, Caliban.”

  Pain coursed through his body. He fell to the ground, thrashing like a landed fish as the teeth of agony bit into every nerve of his body. All thoughts fled his mind, except for the one shining hope that the pain would end. It did.

  “You will do as I tell you, Caliban. This is my island.”

  And so Caliban went from servant to slave.

  II.iv.

  His back had been crippled with pain for the last three days. Prospero promised it would not improve for another four. Caliban didn’t care. His prank had been worth it.

  He’d put toadstools in their stew. Not the deadly kind. If Miranda didn’t share her father’s food he would have used those. But she did, so he just taught them both a lesson. They were too stupid to notice. They didn’t know anything, for all their fine words and books. They’d lived on his island for ten years now, and they still didn’t know what was good to eat.

  He remembered their writhing and retching and laughed, even though it made him wince with pain. “You’ll suffer too,” he vowed to the empty air. And he meant it.

  Slowly, breathing carefully after each wrenching step, he made his way to the beach by his cave. There he stripped off his clothes, which caused him to weep and shudder. But he did not stop. Soon he was naked, and he crawled into the sea.

  The water was cold, but he didn’t care. He pushed himself further from the shore, and each stroke eased the pain. The water loosened the bonds of Prospero’s spell. Caliban flipped onto his back and floated, blissfully free of torment. He stared up at the white clouds drifting in their own airy sea. “I’m as free as a cloud,” he said. “I can just waft away.”

  “Or you could come with me,” a sly, hissing voice said beside him. He startled, spluttering on a mouthful of brine. Then he saw who had spoken and he grinned. “Hello, Pisces,” he said to the mermaid, dredging up his old childhood name for her. “Do you want to drag me to your seabed?”

  Peisinoe smiled back at him, her green eyes full of wicked light. She had always been the one he liked best. She used to come to the shore and tell him stories when he was a child and lived here alone. He had spoken to her in jest, but suddenly, here in the waves, he found himself afraid of her. Her hair was slicked against her skull. When it was dry it looked emerald in the sunlight, but now it was nearly black. From this close distance her yellow-green skin looked sickly. “I might take you, Caliban, such a man you’ve become.” She stroked his face with her wet webbed fingers. He could feel the thin frill on her tail fin tickling his feet, then his calves, then knees. A strange heat coursed through him. His ears rang a distant chime and his mind blurred. “Stop that,” he said. He pushed away from her and treaded water.

  She laughed at him. “Oh, you are a new man indeed, Caliban. You’d better leave the sea and not come back, or I will take you down to lie with me beneath the waves.”

  Confusion choked him. He turned and swam back to the shore. Prospero’s prison of agony wracked his spine as he pulled himself up on the stony beach. He looked back at the mermaid. Peisinoe met his gaze, then dove under, giving the surface of the water a warning slap with her tail before she disappeared.

  Caliban hugged his knees to his chest. Tears of miserable rage poured over his face. He wanted to retreat to his cave, but Prospero wouldn’t let him go there anymore.

  Soon he would have to gather firewood and pull up the fish trap. Prospero never let him rest. “We must all do what God intended us to do,” he would say. “Some of us must labor in muscle, and others of us in the mind.” And then he would send Caliban away to sweat and toil, while he sat and brooded over the same dusty pages.

  “That windbag doesn’t know anything about work,” Caliban muttered now. He kicked at the stones by his toes. His back twisted into a new spasm, making him gasp. “I hate him,” he whispered.

  “Here you are, bad broody,” said Miranda. She picked her way gingerly across the stones, as though she was not accustomed to walking on them. In her hands she carried the wooden cup he’d made for her. Caliban’s glower increased.

  “What do you want?” he growled. He wanted to be alone with his hatred. Miranda was too kind. She would spoil his anger.

  She smiled at him. “I’ve come to make peace,” she said. She handed him the cup. “Drink this. It
will make you feel better.”

  He sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled like sunshine and sage. He hesitated.

  “It isn’t poisonous,” she said. “I’ve convinced my father to forgive you for the toadstools. He agrees that he has been harsh with you lately. You’ve been punished enough. We’re sure you’ve learned your lesson.” She smiled encouragingly, so pleased with her speech.

  He drank the potion in one long swallow. The pains in his spine fell away. He felt new vigor and health and strength.

  And rage.

  “I’m going to build a boat and sail away from here,” he said. “You can come with me if you want, but I’m leaving the old man to rot here on his own.”

  Miranda stepped back from him, appalled. “How can you say such a thing, Caliban? And after my father brewed this potion for you, too!”

  “To heal me from the pain he gave me!” Caliban yelled.

  Miranda flushed red. “You made us ill, Caliban. You might have killed us!” Her eyes opened wide with horror at the thought.

  “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” he snarled. “I just wanted to teach both of you a lesson.”

  “Teach us a lesson; I like that!” Her cheeks flamed redder. “What lesson could you possibly teach us, Caliban? You’re a brute. That’s what father says, and he’s right!” She snatched up the cup and turned on her heel.

  Searing white rage flooded him. He leapt forward and grabbed her arms, flinging her back around to face him. She stared up at him, outraged and terrified.

  It was the mermaid who had put the thought in his head, he told himself afterward. And that was true, though it was no excuse. Prospero came over the ridge to find him pushing Miranda to the ground, covering her with his own weight. A bolt of sizzling magic struck him, and he lost consciousness.

  When Caliban woke he found himself bound to a rock by chains.