Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “No, no!” My heart feels like it is beating in my throat. “It’s not your fault! It’s my fault!” I scramble to his side and tug at him, praying I can shift him enough to close the door before Papa hears, but he is too heavy for me to move. “Caliban is good! Miranda is bad.”

  “No!” He curls into a tighter ball.

  “Yes!” Desperate, I manage to roll him out of the way and shove the door closed. I sit down hard beside him and stroke his flinching skin. “Miranda is sorry,” I whisper. “I am sorry. I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

  Caliban grits his teeth against the pain and hisses, but he doesn’t howl. “Master is come?”

  I look up toward the gallery. “No.”

  He shudders. “Good.”

  It is then that I realize Caliban is trying to protect me from Papa’s anger, and I curse myself twice over for my carelessness, but there is nothing I can do save sit with him until the spasms cease, apologizing softly.

  Although it feels like an act of disloyalty, I do not tell Papa what happened.

  When I return to Caliban’s cell the next day, I am careful to keep myself between him and the door, frightened that he will make another attempt, but he is listless and obedient that day and in the days that follow, taking little interest in our lessons. It seems that having had an unexpected hope snatched away has caused him to lose all semblance of hope, and I begin to worry about him.

  Papa does, too.

  “How does our wild boy’s tally stand, child?” he asks me. “Has it been a full unbroken month of good behavior yet?”

  I shake my head. “Twenty-four days.”

  He frowns in thought. “Does it seem to you that he has a melancholic aspect of late?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Well, it seems that the lad’s applied himself assiduously to your lessons, and I’d not see him languish for lack of reward.” Papa nods to himself. “Yes, I think it meet. Do you agree?”

  I am unsure I hear him aright. “Do you mean to let him out of his cell? Truly, Papa?”

  Papa smiles at me, one of those rare smiles that breaks over his face like dawn, transforming its sternness. “I do.”

  I imagine that Caliban will react to his first taste of freedom with wild leaps and bounds of joy, but I am wrong. He is fearful and uncertain, as though he is afraid this, too, will be taken from him as unexpectedly as it was granted.

  Papa chose the cypress garden for our outing, as it is the only one with no gaps in the walls; although there is no gate at either end of it and I am quite sure Caliban could scale the rugged blocks as handily as a lizard if he wished.

  He does not, though. He hunches and shuffles along the path between the tall green cypress trees, squinting his eyes tightly against the bright sunlight. It was always dim in the bottom of his cell where the sun’s rays could not reach. I try to think how long it has been since Papa summoned him.

  A long time.

  “All is well, lad.” Papa lays a soothing hand on Caliban’s head. “There’s no cause for fear.”

  Caliban sighs as if in grave doubt.

  And yet, bit by bit, the fear begins to drain from him. His tightly hunched shoulders ease. His spine unbends. He lifts his head and begins to look about the garden, his nostrils twitching. There is a good deal to see and smell—the cypresses, the lemon and orange trees with tart fruit ripening on their branches, beds of myrtle and lavender, jasmine on the vine. Oh, and there are swallows darting overhead on swift wings in pursuit of small insects, and soft, murmuring calls from other birds roosting in the trees, and the sound of water splashing in a fountain.

  “Sun.” Caliban utters the word as though it were a prayer. There are tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Master.”

  Papa inclines his head. “You are welcome.”

  I should be glad—and yet I am not, not wholly.

  It is as though there are two Mirandas sharing the same skin. One is proud and grateful that Caliban has learned so well that he does not even attempt to flee. The other wishes that he would.

  It is a wicked thought, a disloyal, disobedient, and sinful thought; and yet it is there nonetheless.

  Papa claps Caliban’s shoulder. “Do you continue to earn my trust, lad, one day mayhap you shall be free to roam at will.”

  “Free.” Caliban echoes him, and although I have not taught him the word, he seems to find meaning in it. “Free.”

  SEVEN

  CALIBAN

  Grass, sky, birds.

  Grass is green. Sky is blue. Birds fly.

  Birds fly in the blue sky.

  Birds are free. Free is sun and sky and grass every day. Free is no walls. Yes, please. Yes, thank you.

  Caliban is good.

  Trees, flowers, bees. Bees buzz-bizz-buzz-bizz. Bees are free. Trees have leaves. Flowers have leaves.

  Lizards.

  Lizzzzzards.

  Caliban counts trees. Miranda and Caliban count trees. Miranda and Caliban count trees and birds and bees.

  One-two-three-four-five-six-seven …

  Many, yes.

  Many-many-many.

  Miranda is glad.

  Master is glad. Glad Master is good.

  I am good. Caliban is good. I am Caliban. I am good every day. I am good on the green grass. I am good in the blue sky. I am good under the trees.

  One-two-three-four-five-six-seven …

  Caliban counts days.

  EIGHT

  MIRANDA

  As the weeks pass, Caliban’s disposition improves on the daily doses of freedom that Papa allots him.

  Our lessons grow increasingly productive now that there is more of the world to explore. Under Papa’s watchful eye, Caliban and I occupy ourselves gainfully, gathering nuts and firewood against the coming winter’s chill.

  And Caliban is good almost every day; good and obedient and helpful. He learns words such as what and where and how and why, and begins to ask questions. Papa encourages him in it, except for when he is tired and impatient, and does not wish to be plagued with questions, some of which have no sensible answers.

  I think surely that Papa will relent any day and grant Caliban a greater measure of trust and allow him his freedom, but no. Every night, Caliban is locked in his cell, until I begin to wonder what further sign of obedience Papa is waiting for.

  One morning, Papa tells me.

  He commences by announcing that on this day, I have reached seven years of age, and marks the occasion with a gift—a silver casket containing sewing implements: needles and a pair of shears and precious hanks of colorful thread. “It is time you began learning arts suited to a young lady,” he says to me.

  It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Overwhelmed, I clutch it to my chest. “Papa! Wherever did it come from?”

  He smiles indulgently at me. “Oh, I’ve had it in my possession all along, child. I was merely waiting for the right time.”

  “I don’t know how to use it,” I say humbly.

  “You’ll learn,” he says. “You know how to tie a knot, and I daresay I can manage to show you a simple stitch.”

  I beam at him. “Thank you, Papa!”

  Papa inclines his head. “You are welcome.” His tone grows serious. “There is another matter I wish to discuss with you, Miranda.”

  I set the casket aside and pay him close heed. “Yes, Papa?”

  He hesitates. “The spirit in the pine tree … I believe it was confined therein by Caliban’s mother.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “Caliban’s mother?”

  Papa strokes his beard. “It is a difficult matter to discuss with one of your tender years and sensibilities, but if I am right, yes. Some dozen years past, I recall hearing tales of the witch Sycorax, who was banished from Algiers for practicing sorcery of the darkest nature. Sailors armed with the strongest of talismans against her charms brought her to a deserted isle and there abandoned her.” He pauses. “It is said that she was with child at the time.”

 
“Caliban?” I whisper. “But what happened to his mother, then? And who was his father?”

  Papa hesitates again, then shakes his head. “If it was indeed she, and let us postulate that it is so, the witch Sycorax perished years ago, leaving her young son, our wild lad, to fend for himself. Hence, his reversion to a savage state. As to the latter, I will not sully your ears with crude and idle speculation.” Seeing a question forming on my lips, he holds up one finger for silence. “She kept a journal of her workings written in a cypher. I have spent countless hours unlocking its secrets, including the means by which she bound the spirit Ariel.”

  “Ariel,” I murmur to myself. So the spirit in the pine tree has a name. It is a pleasant-sounding name for a being whose wails and moans make my skin creep with fear.

  “Unfortunately, there is a piece of the puzzle lacking,” Papa continues. His mouth draws into a frown. “The witch Sycorax served a demonic and unholy master, and it is in his name that she bound the noble spirit. And that name, I fear, she dared not set down in writing, not even in cypher.”

  I follow his thoughts. “Do you think Caliban knows it, Papa?”

  “I think it is possible,” he says. “If I guess rightly, he would have had some four years of age when she passed. He knew his own name; I suspect he was possessed of language ere it was lost to him. And it is likely that his mother would have raised him to worship the same foul deity.”

  I shudder, but I am already thinking. “It will not be an easy question to pose him.”

  “Yes.” Papa gives me a brief nod of approval. “It is a more complex notion than our wild boy can yet parse. But it is toward that end that I wish you to begin working. Therefore, today we will visit the great pine, and I will put the question to Caliban.”

  My brows knit in distress. “Forgive me, Papa, but I fear he will not understand it. Not yet.”

  “Did I just not say that very thing?” Papa’s tone takes on an edge of impatience. “Pay heed, child. Your duty is to shape Caliban’s lessons in such a way that he does come to understand the question; and understands, too, that the price of his freedom is the answer I seek. Do you understand?”

  Lowering my gaze, I study the rough-hewn wood of the kitchen table. Who built it, I wonder? The long-ago Moors? The witch Sycorax? Or did Papa build it himself?

  “Miranda.”

  An unexpected jolt of pain seizes my limbs. I draw in a sharp breath, blink back tears, and lift my gaze to meet Papa’s. His hand is closed around the amulet that bears a lock of my hair. “Yes, Papa?”

  His grip eases. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.” I take a longer, slower breath. “I do, and I will do my best to make Caliban understand, too. Only … only why is it so important to free this spirit?” I shiver. “It frightens me.”

  “Ah.” Papa’s expression softens. “Be not afraid, lass. The spirit does but inveigh against its confinement, much as our wild lad did in the early days of his tenure here. But it is of a higher order of beings, as far above the humble elementals as the thrones and dominions are above the angels. Although it rebelled against Sycorax’s base demands, I believe it will serve a godly master with grace and goodwill.” He rises from the table. “Enough. Let us be about the business at hand.”

  I stow the sewing casket in my chamber. My joy at the unexpected gift is tempered by uneasiness. I thought Papa meant to reward Caliban with his freedom if he continued to behave gently, and I have all but promised him as much. What if Caliban doesn’t know the answer?

  It seems unfair, and I still do not understand why freeing this spirit, this Ariel, is so important. To serve Papa, yes; but to what end?

  There is so much Papa does not tell me.

  I remind myself that he wants only to protect me, and that it is churlish and disloyal to question him.

  After all, what if Papa were to perish, leaving me to fend for myself? The mere thought of it makes my mouth go dry with fear. At least I would not be wholly alone, as poor Caliban was—oh, the thought of it makes my heart ache!—but what would the two of us do without Papa? I do not even know how to tend the fire in the hearth, and if it were to go out, I would not know how to ignite it anew. All the elemental spirits would desert us; no more gnomes to till the gardens, no more sylphs to drive eddies of dust from the palace floors, no more cavorting undines to fill our wells with cool, clear water and make the sparkling fountains flow.

  It would not be long, I think, before I was well nigh as savage as Caliban, covered in filth and gnawing on raw fish.

  Thinking such things, I am ashamed of myself and filled with gratitude for Papa and all that he does.

  The great pine’s bark is shaggy and rough, and its long needles are dark green. Massive branches reach out from its trunk. The flagstones surrounding the square of bare soil at its base are cracked and tilted at odd angles, lifted by the force of its roots—or mayhap by the spirit’s struggle. There are fallen needles and pinecones scattered over the flagstones. Caliban has no more liking for this pine tree and its captive than I do, and we have not dared venture beneath the shadow of its limbs on our foraging forays. Whenever we have cause to pass through the gates into the front courtyard, we give it a wide berth, and Papa has never objected.

  Today, though, he leads us straight to it.

  The needles rustle at our approach and the spirit lets out a low moan. Caliban whines in response, hanging back. Papa gives him a stern look.

  “All is well,” I say in an encouraging tone, marching up to the verge of the tree’s shadow. “See?”

  “Caliban.” Papa beckons to him. “Tell me, do you know this spirit?” He gestures to the tree. “This Ariel?”

  The spirit lets out a shriek, and I flinch. Near the top of the tree, high overhead, a knotty seam mars the trunk, as though its wooden flesh was split asunder and scarred as it knitted.

  “Ar-i-el.” Caliban’s upper lip curls. “Ar-i-el. Ariel. Yes, Master.”

  “Good.” Papa nods. “Very good. Caliban … do you remember your mother?” He pauses. “Sycorax?” Caliban gazes at him without understanding, and he tries several other words. “Mitera? Mana? Manoula?”

  Caliban responds to none of them.

  “Curious.” Papa frowns in thought. “The witch’s cypher was based on Greek, which leads me to suspect that was her native tongue, but the lad recognizes none of the terms for mother. Still, if she was practicing her dark arts in Algiers for many years … perhaps the script in which she kept her journal was the only written language known to her. Perhaps it is not the tongue she was accustomed to speaking.” He tries another word. “Umm?”

  I do not know the word; but this time it seems Caliban does. He blinks rapidly several times, his mouth opening and closing. “Umm.” He croons the word, then shivers and shakes himself. “Umm.”

  “It is the Moorish word for mother,” Papa murmurs to me. “’Tis a pity I know little of their tongue, for I suspect I have guessed rightly.”

  I think so, too.

  “Caliban.” Papa stoops before him, going to one knee so that their gazes might be on a level. “Umm imprisoned Ariel in the tree. I wish to free him.” He touches his chest. “Master free Ariel.”

  “No, Master.” Caliban’s expression has turned stubborn. “No!”

  “I believe there is a word locked in your memory, lad.” Papa touches Caliban’s brow with one finger. “It is the name of the unholy deity that Umm worshipped and taught you to worship in turn. It is the name with which she bound the spirit Ariel into captivity. You have but to recollect the name and tell me, and you shall have your freedom.” Straightening, he smiles and holds out his arms. “When Ariel is free, Caliban is free!”

  The last part, Caliban understands. “Why?” he spits, glowering. “Why, Master? Ariel is bad.”

  The spirit groans.

  I think about the sewing casket Papa gave me this morning. It seems to me that I remember the ladies with the soft hands and soft cheeks sewing in the chambers of the st
one house where pictures hung on the walls, silver needles darting and flashing, intricate patterns of embroidery growing slowly in their wake. Papa said he could show me a simple stitch; mayhap he is right, and I could teach myself more. If he would permit me to study one of his robes with fine embroidery at the hem, mayhap I might determine how it was done.

  Although that is a foolish dream; ’twould be better were I to learn how to use whatever fabric remains to us to cut and sew simple garments. I know only that I should like to have been given a day, one day, to enjoy my unexpected gift; to examine the hanks of colorful thread one by one, to test the edges of the shears and the sharpness of the needles.

  It would have made a fine new lesson for Caliban, too. Instead, he is being set a task that may be impossible to accomplish.

  “… must learn to trust Master,” Papa is saying sternly to him. Caliban wears a sullen look.

  “Papa,” I say when he has finished. “Is it not possible that the name you seek might be found in one of your books?” Although I have only caught an accidental glimpse, I know Papa has a great many books in his sanctum. One day when I am grown, he says I may be allowed to handle some of them.

  “Do you imagine I have not scoured their pages, child?” Papa says, but his voice is mild. “Do you suppose I have not tried invoking the names of demonic spirits known to the magi of yore in my attempts to free the spirit?”

  “No,” I murmur.

  “The witch guarded her secrets closely, most especially the name of whatever foul deity she served.” Papa raps his knuckles lightly on Caliban’s head, and there is a measure of affection in the gesture. “If it is to be found anywhere, it is within the confines of her son’s thick skull.”

  Caliban grunts.

  I sigh, thinking what a difficult chore it will be to make him understand what is being asked of him.

  “Miranda.” Papa’s gaze is at once stern and bright, like the sun’s rays breaking through clouds far out to sea. “Your assistance in this matter is vital. There is a reason for everything I do, and one day when you are older, I promise, I will reveal the full scope of all that my plans encompass. Today I merely ask that you have a measure of the faith in yourself that I have in you.”