Miranda and Caliban
Page 3
On his pallet, the wild boy stirs and draws in his limbs a little, then lies still, splayed on his back like a dead frog. I hope he does not awaken while we are gone, finding himself alone and fearful in a strange place. I know I should not like it.
In the kitchen garden, I draw a pail from the well and drink straight from the dipper. I do this three times before my thirst is slaked. There is an egg in the nest that was Bianca’s this morning. I slip it carefully under Elisabetta, who is acting broody over a clutch of her own, which I leave undisturbed.
The smell of journey-cakes cooking over the fire makes my mouth water as I gather greens and milk Oriana. When everything is done, we eat journey-cakes and boiled greens with a dollop of tangy white cheese.
“How long will the wild boy sleep, Papa?” I ask.
“Some hours, I should think,” he says. “I shall allow him to awaken as nature dictates.”
I push boiled greens around my trencher, trying to scoop them up with a crumbling bit of journey-cake. Papa is in good spirits, so I dare a bigger question. “Where did he come from? Did the Moors leave him behind?”
“The Moors?” Papa’s brows rise. “No, no. They abandoned this isle long before he was whelped.” He hesitates, frowning. “’Tis true, I have my suspicions, child, but I should never have spoken of them in your presence. It is not speculation fit for one of your tender years, and they may yet prove unfounded. It is as likely that the boy is a simple peasant cast adrift by superstitious kin for his lack of wits and foul mien, washed up on this isle and finding a primordial penchant for survival.”
“Then what has he to do with the spirit in the pine tree?” The question slips out before I have a chance to weigh the merits of asking it.
The look on Papa’s face is like a door closing. “Enough,” he says firmly. “Do not plague me with questions the true nature of which you cannot possibly understand.” He fetches the slate and a lump of ochre and sets them before me. “I want to see a fair copy of the alphabet in your best hand ere I finish readying the hen for plucking.”
I bow my head to the task. It is difficult to write out the alphabet without smudging.
While I make my letters, Papa fetches Bianca from the larder. He has left the cooking-pot hanging from the spit to boil. He throws Bianca’s head into the pail for the midden, stretches out her wings and examines her tail-feathers, plucking out several for ink-quills before grasping her legs and plunging her headless body into the boiling water. Her scaly feet stick over the edge of the pot, clawed nails curling.
I concentrate.
L, M, O … no, L, M, N, O …
I keep going. The heel of my hand smudges T. I wipe the slate carefully with the edge of my sleeve.
Papa hoists Bianca’s body dripping from the pot by the feet. He shakes the hot water from her feathers and lays her limp, bedraggled form on the shelf.
X, Y, and Z.
I put down my ochre. Papa inspects my work and pronounces it good, then bids me to make tidy the kitchen and complete my chores. Today, that includes plucking Bianca. Since I do not wish to do it, I save it for last.
I should not be ungracious. There are a good many chores that Papa or I should have to do were there no household spirits at his command. Each serves in accordance with their element. The airy sylphs sweep away the ever-present dust and breathe life into embers burning low when Papa tends the fire. The watery undines make the fountains flow and fill the wells. The gnomish earth elementals empty chamber-pots and till the gardens with ordure to render them fertile.
But they cannot make journey-cakes of acorn meal. They cannot mash tubers or cook greens or fry fish in a pan. And they cannot pluck a hen.
It is a long chore. I sit on a three-legged stool beside the midden and pretend I am petting Bianca one last time.
When it is done, I return her body to the larder. In the midden-pail, her discarded head gazes at me, bright black eyes turned filmy. Since I cannot bear it, I take Bianca’s head into the garden, where I dig a hole and bury it deep beneath a fig tree where she loved to scratch the dirt and peck at insects.
I have just finished when I hear the howling begin. For a moment, I think it is the spirit in the pine, but no. This sound is different. It is mortal and scared and angry, and I think it can only mean one thing.
The wild boy is awake and he is very, very unhappy.
FOUR
I hurry through the palace, back to the gallery above the wild boy’s cell. Papa is already there, his hands resting on the balustrade as he frowns at the spectacle below.
The wild boy is flinging himself around the cell in a fury. He claws at the stone blocks sealing the door to the garden, but they are too heavy for him to move and he howls in despair. He claws at the planks of the door and yanks in vain on the handle. He leaps high, higher than I would have thought possible, clinging to the tiled wall with ragged, filthy nails and seeking to reach the windows, but he cannot get enough purchase to climb and falls to the floor with another howl. He has overturned the water basin and trampled the food that Papa left for him.
It frightens me, yet I feel sympathy for him, too. I think mayhap the wild boy is more frightened than I am. He does not seem aware of our presence. I should like to call out to him, but I dare not.
“He is more savage than I reckoned,” Papa murmurs.
“Can you not do something to soothe his fears, Papa?” I whisper.
Papa continues to frown. “Yes, of course, but there is much to be learned in observation. I had hoped to discern in him the faculty of reason. Thus far, I am not encouraged.”
The wild boy pauses in his efforts. His attention turns to the cloth knotted around his waist. He tugs at it with a whine, then claws frantically at it, spinning in a circle as the breech-cloth shifts around his waist.
Papa sighs. “No, not encouraged at all.”
I say nothing.
The wild boy sees us and lets out a hoarse bark. Behind the hair that hangs over his broad brow, his eyes are stretched wide enough to show the whites all around.
“I shall go to him,” Papa says.
I watch from the gallery as Papa descends to the lower level of the palace. There is a moment when it is just the two of us watching each other; the wild boy below and me above. Squatting on his haunches and looking up at me, he pauses in his efforts and cocks his head.
I cock mine in reply. It seems to me that there is a glimmer of understanding in him; but then Papa turns the key in the lock and enters his cell. The wild boy leaps backward, his narrow shoulders hunching uncertainly.
“Peace,” Papa says in a deep, calm voice, holding out one hand in a soothing gesture. “Be at ease, lad.”
The wild boy hesitates, then bares his teeth and swats at Papa’s outreached hand. It is not much of a blow, but it is enough to invoke the binding spell that Papa has laid upon him. Straightaway the wild boy falls writhing to the floor, howling in pain. I see the muscles twitch and jump beneath his skin of their own accord as they cramp in knots. The wild boy curls into a tight ball. Only his hands move of their own volition, fists beating against his thighs.
Papa shakes his head. “Ah, lad! Even a singed cur learns to fear the flame. I pray you may prove at least as wise.”
I think that Papa will likely make the wild boy sleep again, but he doesn’t. He simply leaves him there, and bids me descend from the gallery. The wild boy’s howling fades to a low keening sound that follows us through the empty halls and colonnades of the palace.
That evening Papa and I dine on chicken stewed with tubers from the garden. Although it is rich and good, my portion is seasoned with tears.
In the days that follow, at first I am hopeful. Never again does the wild boy raise his hand against Papa when he enters his cell, but cringes warily, wrapping his arms around his head. When no torments are forthcoming, bit by bit, he eases from his defensive crouch and lowers his arms. Now Papa shows him nothing but kindness. He seeks to teach the wild boy by example, speaking all t
he while in a calm and soothing manner. He cups his hand and drinks water from the basin, saying the words drink and water over and over. He picks bits of journey-cake from the tray and mimes eating, saying the words eat and food. After a time, the wild boy learns to mimic Papa’s actions; although when he eats, he shoves whole journey-cakes in his mouth and gobbles them down in great gulps, crumbs of meal spraying. And when he drinks, he shoves his face into the basin and laps at the water like a beast.
But alas, there his progress halts.
No matter how much Papa plies him with words, no matter how gently he coaxes, the wild boy does not repeat them, only barks or grunts.
And when left alone, he continues to howl and rage against his confinement.
The wild boy’s fingers and toes grow bloody, his ragged nails ripped from their beds in his vain efforts to scale the tiled walls. His breech-cloth hangs from his waist in bloodstained shreds, and if he could undo the tight knot, he would doubtless discard it altogether. Disdaining the unfamiliar chamber-pot, he makes waste in the corners of his cell. Sometimes in his fury, he smears the walls with his own ordure.
Despite the efforts of the earth elementals, whom he regards incuriously, the cell begins to stink.
When the wild boy has exhausted himself, he crouches on the floor of his cell and rocks back and forth on his haunches, keening softly and biting at the knuckles of his hands. After the first day, he does not look in my direction when Papa allows me to observe from the gallery.
Torn between pity and disgust, I do not know what to feel.
“I fear that my endeavor has failed, Miranda,” Papa says gravely to me over supper. Some twenty days have passed since he summoned the wild boy. “Either the lad is so far sunk into savagery that he is beyond the reach of civilization’s influence, or there is naught of humanity in him to be reached.”
I look up from my trencher. “Will you set him free, then?”
Papa hesitates. “’Tis that, or bind him tighter. It means relinquishing the hope that the lad might hold a key to a particular mystery, but he may yet be of service to us on a smaller scale. Although I must give the matter further study, I do believe that there are ways it may be done. It would deprive the lad of will and reason, but since the latter appears nonexistent, mayhap the former would be no loss worth mourning.” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Should it prove a success, mayhap I’ll work a similar charm on that troublesome goat of yours.”
Outside, a hot summer wind has sprung up. It sighs through the archways of the palace and skirls about the kitchen. The embers in the fireplace stir and glow. In the courtyard, the spirit in the great pine tree gives a long, plaintive wail that sounds like Ahhhhhhh! The wild boy in his cell barks in angry response.
I gaze at Papa.
Why?
It is the question I want to ask him, a question that breaches the pent-up dam of a hundred other questions. Why, why, why? Why not grant the wild boy the freedom he craves? Why do I dream of a time before the isle? Where is the house with stone walls that I half-remember? Who were the ladies who put slippers on my feet in the morning and kissed my cheek and sang me to sleep in the evening? Where did we come from and why are we here? Where did the wild boy come from? Who do you suspect were his mother and father? Who was my mother? What is the spirit in the pine, and what has the wild boy to do with it?
Why do they matter to you, Papa? Do I matter to you? What is it you seek and why do you seek it?
Why do you tell me so very, very little?
I say none of this, because I do not wish to grieve him. I know that I am only a foolish child, and if Papa keeps things from me, it is for the best. Still, it is hard when the questions crash like waves inside my head.
The next morning, Papa does not give me a lesson after we break our fast, but goes straightaway to his sanctum, warning me not to disturb him.
I do not, of course; and yet, and yet. I am restless, plagued by a spirit of willfulness. Mayhap it is born of the many unanswered questions I have swallowed. When the midday’s heat is at its worst, I climb the stairs to the upper story of the palace and venture into the gallery even though I do not have Papa’s permission to do so.
Below me, the wild boy sleeps on his pallet. He lies on his side, knees drawn tight to his chest, hands fisted under his chin. He twitches and shivers in his sleep as though stung by biting flies.
I watch him.
I think about how he leaned his head against Papa’s hand on the day he was summoned, as though there was a deep yearning for kindness and companionship in him. I think about how he glanced at me that first day, a glance like a shared secret. I wonder if mayhap we might yet understand one another, the wild boy and I. If we might yet be friends.
If Papa bespells him a second time, I shall never know.
My bare feet carry me down the stairs, along the colonnade that leads to the wild boy’s cell. I gaze at the stout wooden door, the haft of the iron key protruding from the lock. It would be wrong for me to enter the wild boy’s cell alone; and yet, Papa has never forbidden it, has he?
No, he has not. He has told me not to enter the gallery without permission, but he said naught of the cell itself. Like as not, it is because Papa never imagined I would dare such folly. But the wild boy cannot harm me. Papa’s magic has made certain of it. And if I am swift, Papa will never know.
Reaching up, I grasp the haft of the key and turn it in its lock. There are clicking sounds, after which the wooden door gapes open a crack.
My heart thuds in my chest.
I push the door.
It opens with a creak and I slip inside, closing it behind me. The sound awakens the wild boy. He leaps from his pallet and lands in a crouch. Behind his thatch of coarse black hair, his eyes widen in surprise.
My heart continues to beat hard and fast. The wild boy’s cell is hot and it stinks like a chamber-pot left to stand unemptied for days on end. Not a single whisper of air stirs in it.
“Hello,” I say. My voice sounds high and strange to my ears and my chest feels tight. I draw a deeper breath of hot, stinking air and make another attempt. “Hello!” The wild boy stares uncomprehending at me. I cock my head at him, but he does not cock his in reply this time. Daring greatly, I take a step forward. The wild boy retreats a step, his knuckles brushing the tiled floor. I hold out my hands in a pleading gesture. “Don’t be afraid! I won’t harm you. No one will harm you. I only want to be your friend.”
The wild boy’s gaze darts uncertainly around the room. I think about the unlocked door behind me and fear takes root in me, my skin prickling. If the wild boy escapes, Papa will be in a fury.
But no, the wild boy makes no move toward the door. I think he must not know what a lock is.
“Friends,” I say softly, clasping my hands together in an effort to show him the meaning of the word. “Can we not be friends, you and I? Surely you must be lonely.” My voice trembles a little. “I am. I know you cannot understand the words I speak, but can you not try to understand? Because I should very much like to be your friend, and I do not know how else to ask.”
The wild boy hunches his shoulders and lets out a hoarse bark.
And all at once, a wave of despair washes over me. It is too much, all of it. The blanketing heat, the enduring stench, the wild boy’s unteachable savagery, Papa’s endless absences, and my own unbearable loneliness.
Hot tears scald my eyes and I find myself sitting down hard on the floor. “I hate you!” I shout at the wild boy. “It’s not fair! All I wanted was a friend! I hate that Bianca was killed to summon you! I hate you!”
The wild boy whines.
Burying my face in my hands, I cry harder. There is a release in giving in to tears; not the quiet and decorous tears I shed for Bianca’s death, but great sobs of self-pity that wrack my whole body. Absorbed in my grief, I do not hear the wild boy’s stealthy, creeping approach.
I know nothing of it until I feel his hand touch my foot.
I look up.
He is trying to comfort me.
I stare at him in wonder, self-pity forgotten. He croons encouragingly at me. There is understanding in him. “Miranda,” I whisper. Tapping my chest, I say my name again, as slowly and carefully as I can. “Mir-an-da.”
The wild boy squats back on his haunches. The filthy remnants of his breech-cloth hang between his thighs. His throat works and his mouth opens and closes. I think mayhap he is trying to speak.
I shift to kneel on the floor, sitting on my heels. If he stood upright, he would be taller than me, but sitting thusly we are at a height. “Miranda.” I touch my chest again, then point to him.
The wild boy’s brow furrows and his right hand twitches as he raises it and scrabbles at his own chest. I nod. His mouth opens again, his red tongue touching his teeth as though searching for something. His breath comes in short huffs and his nostrils flare, his tongue questing.
I remain very still, at once scared and excited.
“Cal—” It is a word, or a portion of a word. For all the howling and barking he has done, his voice sounds rusty with disuse. His lips move in an exaggerated manner as he struggles to make human sounds. “Cal … Cal…” He gives his head a sideways shake, bares his teeth, and tries again. “Cal-i-ban.”
“Cal-i-ban.” I echo him softly. “Caliban. Is that you? Is that your name? Caliban?” I can see by his frown that the name, if that’s truly what it is, is the only word he recognizes. Leaning forward, I dare myself to touch his arm with one fingertip. “Caliban?”
“Caliban.” This time the word emerges in a sigh of agreement, then is repeated more surely with a tone of rising excitement. “Caliban!”
It is at this moment that Papa emerges unexpectedly from his sanctum on the upper story and enters the gallery. We catch sight of him at the same time, the wild boy and I. I scramble to my feet, dumbstruck with fear. Oh, Papa will be sorely grieved! The wild boy gives one of his great startled leaps, landing in a crouch and covering his head with his arms. Papa’s hands grip the railing hard enough to whiten his knuckles and he scowls down at us, thunder written on his brow.