It did not take long before she was chewing her nails in frustration. She’d always supposed that it would be easy to not think. It would be as simple as not moving. But her mind was full of noise and confusion. The more she tried to be still, the more her thoughts raged.
She hit the floor of her prison with her hands until they stung, cursing the beast as she did so. When she grew tired she sat back again. Her breathing slowed. She grew calm once more. She thought of nothing.
She did not notice when the shield fell.
“Temperamental creature,” remarked the horse head. “I don’t think much of all that flailing.”
A green and purple scaled head lifted. It was the snakiest of them all, smooth and beautiful and deadly. It hissed in agreement. “Humans,” it said, “know nothing of patience. It comes from that warm blood of theirs. They can’t sit still. They don’t know how to wait.”
“It makes them tasty, though,” said the dog-like head, its eyes glowing sulfurously.
The horse head snorted in laughter.
The bearded head frowned. Gently it nuzzled at the book between their paws. A large head, armored with plates and horns, watched with interest. “You will be happy to give it to her,” it said.
The bearded one startled, then relaxed. They were similar, these two, in their interest in the younger creatures of the Earth. It was true that this other cared for the humans only because they mined the ground for the gold it loved so dearly. But it would not taunt him like some of the others.
“The island must be healed,” it replied. “We all agree to that.”
Something shifted. All the heads rose as one, tasting the change. “There is another,” the snake head hissed. “Do you feel her? She slips the bonds of magic even now.”
“This should be interesting,” the armored head said.
IV.viii.
The ship rested in the harbor, held fast in the chains of a spell that kept all the souls aboard asleep and content. Dreams were spun and woven for each one. A smile caressed every face.
Every face but one. Calypso, orphaned child of a Greek mother and a Turkish father and at home in no land, slipped loose from the knots of magic and awoke.
The silence of the ship made Calypso’s skin prickle with fear. She gazed around at her slumbering comrades laid out upon the deck boards in a peaceful mock death. Rising, she moved swiftly among them, assuring herself that they were alive. She had been a sailor for two years now, could scarcely remember what it was like to sleep alone in a room of her own. The snores and grunts and mumbled phrases of the others were so familiar that she only noticed them now that they were gone. She was happy to quit their silent company and go out on deck.
The fog had lifted, but a steady grey drizzle fell. It crept under the collar of her shirt and turned her hair to wet wool. Calypso sensed that it was early morning. There was no telltale sun hovering low in the sky, but she knew the smell of daybreak.
She was thin, crafty with her hands, and she seldom spoke. Her eyes were dark and heavy lidded. People always said she looked as though she was hiding a secret. They were right. Her features were even, her skin smooth, but something about her face was neither male nor female. She was the ship’s boy.
The island before her now was a dreary land; that much Calypso could see. But it beckoned to her. Its strangeness spoke to her in a way that no land ever had before. She had left Greece when she was eleven, after she was orphaned. She had not grieved. Her parents had done their best with her, but she grew up knowing that she was an intruder, that she had upset the cheerful rhythm of their life together. The notion hadn’t bothered her. It didn’t matter that she was just a visitor in their home. Her fate was somewhere far away. With their deaths, she had run to meet it. She had made herself a boy and gone to sea.
But her ruse could not continue. She was thirteen now, and womanhood was upon her. The small magic of illusion she wore had grown thin. Her body was still lean and muscled, but there was a new softness about her face where a boy should have the early shadowings of a beard. Her body was betraying her. She had started to feel suspicious eyes following her around the ship.
The storm had saved her. They had fought against the wind and waves for three days, resting in short shifts, often not sleeping at all. No one had had a moment to stare at her, to wonder aloud to his crew mate. They had simply shouted orders and relied on her skills to help save them all. In the fury of the storm, she was their brother once again.
Well, she was not their brother. And now this strange island offered her an escape. The dismal shore before her called out to something in her blood. Calypso stared at it nervously, the long fingers of her right hand raking the dark hair that hung in ragged chunks to her shoulders. Oddly, she was struck with the memory of watching her mother brushing her hair in the sunlight. She hadn’t brushed her own hair in years. When it got too long, one of the other sailors cut it for her with his knife.
She let her hand drop and considered her options. She knew how to swim. It was rare among sailors, but she had never had a fear of the water. She’d splashed in it since she was a small child. Often she would spend the day out on the water with old Nick, one of the fishermen. He had no children of his own and was grateful for her help. “I don’t care if you’re a girl, so long as you can pull in a net,” he used to growl. She would often jump from the boat to play with the dolphins in the sea. There was one that seemed to be her friend, to seek her out on fine days. Nick said it brought them luck. Truthfully, leaving Nick had been her only sadness. He’d have trouble with his nets without her. She had used his name as her own. He’d like that, she guessed.
Now she leapt into the sea once again. She had never been one to hold back.
The water was colder then she expected and seemed to pull at her. Calypso struggled her way to the shore, thrashing against unusual currents. Finally, she pulled herself up onto a stony beach and lay down for a moment on the pebbles, staring up at the leaden sky. She let the spitting rain wash the salt from her face.
At last she got up and began to search about, exploring her new world. She headed inland, toward the trees. Something was calling to her. She walked as though she knew where she was going. Everything was foreign, but also familiar. It felt as though she was in a place she’d once dreamed about. She couldn’t remember any such dream. But when she grabbed a branch that had snagged itself on her hair, she was sure that she’d brushed it away before, just like this, in this place.
“I know it all,” Calypso said. Then she shook her head, because she didn’t understand what her own words meant. She just felt they were true, and she followed a path she knew but didn’t know until she found what was calling her.
There was an abandoned shack in the clearing, its door open. She made straight for it, praying that its roof was intact. Something about the rain bothered her. As a sailor, she had come to know all the temperaments of weather. This drizzle reeked of magic, strong magic. She was happy to be out of it.
Calypso stood in the center of the hut, dripping water onto the dirt floor, and looked around at the humble furniture. Something was wrong here, too. She had the sense that someone had been here only recently. The covers on one of the beds were rumpled. “Probably an animal,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded harsh and grating. It seemed to violate the lonely house. Instantly she knew she was wrong. No animal would shelter here. This was an unhappy place.
And now she could see why. There was a staff lying on the bed. It was bound around the middle. She knew why. She could feel it oozing power. Her fingers prickled as she reached for it. “This is why I have come here,” Calypso whispered. It seemed to her that there was nothing in the world she wanted so much as the staff. “You are mine,” she said. But as soon as her hand touched the wood she felt a burning jolt. She pulled away at once. Whatever power it was didn’t want her. She began to shiver.
“It doesn’t like you,” said a voice.
Calypso spun around, and then stepped back furth
er in the room when she saw the fiery creature in the doorway. “Are you a demon?” she croaked. It laughed then, showing a mouth full of flickering flames. Then it seemed to steady and become iridescent, a creature of light rather than fire. “Hardly,” it said, speaking her native Greek as effortlessly as herself. “I’m a spirit of the air. I am called Ariel.”
“Calypso,” she replied. The simple act of saying her name made her laugh. For the past two years she’d called herself Nikos. The last of her disguise fell, making her suddenly awkward. She wrapped her arms around herself, for protection. I don’t remember how to be a girl, she thought. She almost tried to weave the spell again. But she didn’t.
They watched each other warily, curiously. Finally Calypso asked, “Do you live here?”
Ariel laughed. “I live nowhere and everywhere. This hut belonged to the island king, before he left us. I expect Caliban will go back to his cave.”
“Caliban?” she said, repeating the funny name.
“He has come back to the island,” Ariel explained. “He arrived yesterday, with your ship.”
Of course. The male passenger, the strange, spotted man in the hood who had called her Hermes. She had smelled the magic in him, and in the young princess too, when they had come aboard. “So, he was the reason for the storm? And for the spell on the ship? He is the king of this place?” she asked.
The spirit smiled, his purple eyes unreadable. “After a fashion,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Calypso said, irritation making her voice sharp.
“Yes,” the spirit said, “Caliban caused the storm. But he is not the king.” He sneered contemptuously.
She looked back at the bed. “And this staff, the broken one that doesn’t like me, is this his as well?”
“Not really,” the spirit replied. He looked wary. He didn’t trust her.
“Where is this Caliban?” she asked.
“He’s gone to the shore again. To wait.”
Calypso decided that she had had enough of riddles. She turned back to the staff lying on the bed and grabbed it around the cloth bandage, gasping as she lifted it upright. The power of it shot through her, making the fine hairs on her arms stand straight. She held on, tasting the magic. It seared her hand, but she ignored the pain.
The whole island was there, in the staff. She could feel its weakening pulse, followed it out to the wild wizard huddled on the shore. He, in turn, was tied to a thread of life that stretched out into the deeps of the sea, beyond the staff’s reach. The princess, gone below the waves. The island waited for her return.
The pain in Calypso’s hand made her drop the staff back onto the bed. She stood staring at it, rubbing her sore hand against her thigh as she considered what she had seen. “It is a great wound,” Ariel said, behind her.
She faced him again, holding her expression neutral, her voice steady. She had no map to follow the path to her desire. This spirit was tied to the island; and the island did not want her. But he was gazing at her hopefully. He wanted something from her. She might be able to use him.
“It is a great wound,” she agreed. She looked back at the staff. “Can it be fixed?”
“Yes,” said Ariel. “But it requires many powers, many magics, working together.”
She traced the line into the sea once more, following it with her mind until it faded again. The princess had gone in search of new power. They would use it to mend the staff. And then Calypso would be cut off from it, and from everything it offered.
She could not go back to the ship. But she didn’t want to live here as a servant, nothing but one more creature crawling across these rocks. Fate had not brought her to this place to let her rot on the shore. This island was hers. “I can help,” she said. She spoke slowly and peered at the spirit from beneath the shadow of her eyelids.
“Good,” the spirit said. Then he disappeared.
Calypso stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he’d return. Then she went to the doorway and looked around. Even on the dead ground, she could see the traces of an ancient fire pit. That would be welcome. Her clothes clung to her and the chill seemed to have become permanently lodged in her bones. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were thick, unmoving. There would be no fire. She went back into the cabin, stripped off her wet clothes and sat on the other bed, wrapping herself in the ancient blanket. She was hungry, but that could wait. Even if the rain did not stop, she supposed this Caliban would bring something to eat when he came back.
Because he would come back for the staff.
She sat and stared at it. It seemed to whisper promises to her. “You will wield my power,” the staff said. “You will be queen of the island, ruler over all the small lives.”
She would be safe here. The angry sailors could not harm her. The memory of their faces blurred with those of the people of her village. They had thrown rocks at her and called her “witch-brat.” They wouldn’t dare throw anything if she had the staff. They’d be sorry for all the cruel things they’d done to her. They’d have to bow to her.
Calypso shook her head. Her hunger was making her confused. The people of her village would never see her. She didn’t want to go back there. The island was enough for her. She didn’t need anyone else.
Of course, there was this Caliban to contend with. Ariel suggested that he would be staying on the island, in “his cave.” But that didn’t seem likely. He and the princess were too fine to stay here. Probably they wanted to take the power with them to Spain, to help them rule.
Calypso shrugged her shoulders deeper under the thin blanket. Maybe the island didn’t want her now, but it would learn to be grateful to her. She would keep the power here. She would take care of everything.
Calypso chewed at her lips. The others would insist on working the spell together. Well, she would find a way to help. And in the helping, she would bind the staff to herself.
She knew how to do such things. She was a witch-brat, after all.
IV.ix.
The rain still hissed and slivered down the sky, but Caliban was protected now by the cormorant cape. He had shaken off the sense of borrowed glory. The cape was simply practical. It would shelter him when he sat on the rocks. Ariel would not keep him away.
He had traveled quickly in the light of day. Walking and the warmth of the cape made him limber. He found some wild mushrooms on his way to the shore and ate them eagerly. He had missed the taste of island food. Soon he was back on the spit of land, once more hunched against the cold. The sea was quiet. Small waves softly undulated, merely licking at the land before they retreated. It looked and moved like liquid lead. He could not believe he had let Chiara go down into it. No one could survive under there. Not even his mother would have done it. He had stood by while Ariel spelled his girl into her grave.
“One crow sorrow,” mocked a voice on his left.
He turned his head and glared at the spirit. Ariel smirked, his airy form unaffected by the weather he had brought down.
“They’re cormorant feathers, not crow. As you know perfectly well,” Caliban answered.
The spirit shrugged. “Small difference,” he said. “You’re still the picture of grief. Have you given up, then? The time is nearly past.”
“But it is not, not yet.” His words were hollow to his own ears. He had given up. But it did not matter anymore. He would die with the island. He would die with Chiara.
He felt suddenly peaceful. Staring into the alien eyes of Ariel he said, simply, “I am not my mother.”
There was a pause. Ariel seemed to flicker. “I am not a rock,” he said at last.
Caliban flapped his hand dismissively, a gesture learned from Prospero. “You know what I mean,” he said.
“Do I?” Ariel replied.
“I never trapped you in the pine, Ariel. I had no power to stop my mother, nor any way to save you.”
Ariel seemed to flame brighter. “Liar. Coward. After Sycorax died, you could have taken the staff. You would have been ma
ster. It would have been a simple matter to cleave the tree and free me. Instead, you gave the power to Prospero. You enslaved us all to his will, and then stood by as he broke the land and left it bleeding.”
“So you keep saying,” Caliban answered wearily. “But I remember, Ariel, how all those years you served Prospero willingly, even gratefully. And all that time, and even now, you never once thought to ask me why I did not use the staff.”
“Because you are base born and stupid,” Ariel snapped, “an earth-fool, made to serve.”
The words were designed to wound. Once they would have sent him into a frothing rage, screaming that Setebos, his divine father, would strike and burn the spirit.
Now they just made him tired.
“I did not want to die the way my mother had died,” he said, softly. “I hated the power she held. I hated what the staff made her become. I didn’t want any of it. And I was a child when Prospero came to the island. He seemed like a god to me, then. I thought he would be wise, and kind, as king. And so he was,” Caliban added, “in his own way. In the manner of other earthly kings.”
Silence stretched out. Ariel flickered uncertainly. At last his light strengthened. “Well, it is past,” he said, almost gruffly. For a moment he seemed almost mortal and contrite. “And it is not the reason I came to speak with you. We can do the healing now.”
Caliban stared at him. “But the wizard’s power? Chiara? You mean she didn’t have to go beneath—” Anger made him choke. He rose, searching his mind for a way to injure the spirit.
Ariel flew higher, beyond him. “I didn’t know, at the time. She was asleep. I couldn’t sense her. She was caught in the spell.”
“Who? Chiara? Chiara was with me the whole time, she was never—”
“Not the Prospero-girl,” Ariel interrupted. “The other wizard girl, one who is familiar with her power. She is awake, and she has been to the hut, has held the staff. She says she will help us. Now.”
Rough Magic Page 13
