Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  Once again, I am ashamed. “Yes, Papa.”

  He smiles at me. “Very well.”

  We retreat from the outer courtyard, abandoning the pine tree and its captive spirit—Ariel.

  In a generous gesture, Papa determines that Caliban and I might be allowed to conduct our lessons outside his cell without supervision, so long as we do not leave the palace grounds.

  At least it is something, I think.

  And I set about the task of attempting to explain the notion of God to the witch’s son.

  NINE

  CALIBAN

  God is big.

  God is in the sky.

  God is bigger than Caliban and Master and Miranda; God is bigger than grass and trees. God is bigger than the sun and moon.

  Please, God is to pray. Thank you, God is to pray.

  What is God? God is Master’s Master. God is Miranda’s Master. God is everyone’s Master.

  Why is God? God makes everything.

  Miranda and Caliban count chickens. One … two … three … four big hens, then one … two … three.

  Now Nunzia is not. Nunzia is dead.

  We eat Nunzia. Nunzia is good. Nunzia is in the sky with God.

  We count little hens. One … two … three … four … five little hens. Elisabetta is the little hens’ mother. Claudio is a rooster. Claudio is the little hens’ father.

  Big hens make eggs. Eggs make little hens. God makes everything.

  Master is Miranda’s father.

  Umm is Caliban’s mother.

  Umm is not. Umm is dead.

  (I know.)

  Is Umm in the sky with God? No. Umm is bad. Umm makes Ariel not free in the tree. Umm does not pray to God. Umm says please and thank you to a bad name.

  What is the name?

  It is a bad name.

  Why?

  Because it is not God.

  Why is God good?

  Because God is God.

  To know a thing from yesterday and yesterday and yesterday is to remember.

  I remember yesterday.

  I remember Umm. I remember Ariel. Umm is good and bad. Ariel is good and bad.

  Bad, bad, bad.

  Master says no, Ariel is good. Master is good and bad.

  I am good. I find nuts. I find nuts and dates and olives. I find sticks for the fire and fishes to eat.

  I remember yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.

  (I find Umm. Umm is dead.)

  Miranda is good. Miranda has white thread and black thread and red thread and green thread and blue thread and yellow thread.

  Where is Miranda’s mother?

  Where is Caliban’s father?

  Miranda says, I do not know. Miranda says, what is the bad name?

  I am bad.

  I do not want to say.

  I say, I do not know.

  TEN

  MIRANDA

  Winter is long and dull and grey, and even though it never gets truly cold on the isle, there is a damp chill that never seems to go away. The kitchen with its cozy hearth is the only place to escape it. In the past, I would spend most of my waking hours there, doing such chores or lessons as Papa set me.

  This winter is different. Despite its discomforts, it is the finest one I remember. Under Papa’s tutelage, I graduate from forming the alphabet to writing entire words and then full sentences on my slate, feeling my mind stretch and grow in the process.

  But most of all, it is good, oh, so very good, not to be alone and lonely! And now I am a teacher, too.

  ’Tis true that there are days when I despair of teaching Caliban to understand the notion of God—a notion I cannot remember not knowing and struggle to explain—but he makes great progress in other things. With every week that passes, it grows easier to converse with him.

  It is strange to think that Caliban was a young child in this palace just as I was. I have known him only as a part of the isle’s very landscape, as much as the rocks and trees and sea, and never imagined it had been otherwise. Now I understand why he did not marvel at the palace when first Papa summoned him. It was already familiar to him; indeed, like as not he was born in it. He learned to crawl in its empty halls and played in its gardens while his mother Sycorax practiced her dark arts in the very sanctum that now belongs to my father, recording the results in a cypher.

  Why did he leave the palace, I wonder? Did he flee upon his mother’s death? Or was it something else that caused him to leave its shelter? If it is true that Papa and I did not always live on the isle, I wonder, I wonder … could it be that he fled in the face of our arrival?

  Where did he dwell for all that time? How did the witch Sycorax die? And how is it that Papa is so very certain that she perished years ago?

  There are so many questions.

  When Papa decides Nunzia is no longer laying well enough and must be sacrificed for our supper it grieves me, though not as deeply as the loss of my poor sweet Bianca. Papa praises me for the maturation of my sensibilities, and I use the sad occasion to speak to Caliban of death.

  It seems to me that he understands; and understands, too, when I explain to him that his Umm is dead. This does not seem to surprise him—but after I tell him that Umm is not in the sky with God, he does not wish to speak further of her. Not of his mother, not of the spirit Ariel, not of the bad name.

  If I press him, he becomes sullen. And so I press gently and with care, hoping to tease the name out of his memories without disturbing the peace of our household.

  It is so hard to know how much Caliban remembers! I find myself wondering not only what he might tell me of his past when he is better able to do so, but if there is aught he might tell me of my past.

  It is a dangerous and thrilling thought, but I dare not ask.

  So instead we speak of God and trees and hens and nuts and fish and all manner of things beneath the sun.

  Papa is patient throughout the long months of winter, content not to rush matters. I should like to think it is wholly due to kindness, but I suspect it is also true that the stars are not yet favorable for an endeavor such as freeing the spirit Ariel. Whatever the cause, Papa continues to be generous. He even grants Caliban and me permission to forage farther afield to gather firewood and fill our larder with whatever we might find when our stores begin to dwindle.

  Airy sylphs attend us on our journeys, but they do nothing to trouble us. Those are my favorite times, when I need not cudgel my wits about God and memory, and Caliban is in fine spirits.

  Outside the palace grounds, our roles are changed. Caliban knows all the best places to forage, and he is fast and deft and sure. We do not venture so far as the seashore, which Papa has forbidden, but Caliban scampers up the ridged trunks of date palms as quick as thought, throwing down handfuls of fruits, their flesh shriveled but still sweet. I laugh and fill the apron of my robe until it sags under the weight; and Caliban laughs too, eyes bright with pride. He climbs olive trees too, shaking their limbs until they discharge their overripe bounty.

  Oh, and there are fish, too! Heedless of the chill waters, Caliban wades in the swift stream that descends from the mountains and catches fish with his bare hands, tossing them to the banks where they flop halfheartedly, sluggish with cold. I pick them up and put them in a pail, their silver scales shining.

  When we bring home our spoils, Papa praises us. At night, he locks Caliban into his cell, but Caliban does not seem to mind so much. I think mayhap he is grateful for the shelter during these winter months.

  On the days when the driving rain keeps us indoors, if there are no other chores to do, I practice sewing on scraps of fabric. I gloat over the rich colors of the thread, and Caliban gloats with me.

  I wish winter would never end.

  It does, though.

  I do not know when I begin to suspect Caliban is not being wholly truthful with me. It does not come all at once, but creeps into my thoughts. As the days grow longer, he becomes restless; reluctant to return from our ventures, chafing at
being confined to his cell at night. When we are afield, I sometimes think that if he did not fear Papa’s magic, he would flee. I often find him glancing toward the rocky crags northwest of the palace, a yearning look on his features; but when at last I ask him what lies yonder, he shakes his head and does not answer.

  “Is it your home?” I press him. “Is it where you lived before Papa summoned you to the palace? Is it where you slept and took shelter?”

  He affects not to understand. “I do not know.”

  I do not wish to disbelieve him, and yet more and more, I do.

  Caliban knows more than he is saying; and if that is true of one thing, I fear it may be true of others.

  And I wish, oh, I wish that Papa would simply change his mind about freeing the spirit Ariel; that he might grant Caliban his freedom instead, and the three of us might live peacefully together as we did during the winter months.

  But no, Papa will not hear of it. I dread the day he loses patience and asks after Caliban’s progress.

  Like spring, that, too comes nonetheless.

  I do not wish to confess my suspicions to Papa, but in the end, I do. The guilt I feel at betraying Caliban is nothing to the guilt I would feel were I to deliberately deceive Papa.

  Papa listens without comment until I have finished. “I fear that I have been too lenient,” he muses. “I’ve given the lad too loose a rein, trusting that his fledgling sense of reason would prevail in this matter, but it seems a greater incentive is required.” He lowers both hands onto the kitchen table with a decisive thump, and the weathered wood rattles. “Well and so. ’Tis time to tighten the reins.”

  My stomach clenches. “What do you mean to do, Papa?”

  He gives me a grim smile. “You shall hear it on the morrow.”

  And so I do.

  No matter what his mood the previous night, Caliban leaps up eagerly every morning when his cell is unlocked, ready to embrace the day’s measure of sunlight and freedom. Today is no different; not at first, not until Papa extends one hand palm outward in a forbidding gesture.

  “No,” Papa says. His voice is far colder than winter’s worst chill. Caliban halts and cocks his head in confusion, glancing at me. I look away. “You’ve been dishonest with us, lad. You do know the name I seek, do you not?”

  When Caliban does not answer, I steal a glance at him and see a familiar sullen look settle over his features.

  Papa will have none of it. “Enough with your sulks and grumbles!” He raises his voice to a roar, and Caliban flinches in fear. “Did I not bring you into our home? Have I not bathed and clothed you, fed and sheltered you? Have my daughter and I not taught you the rudiments of language? Have we not transformed you from a filthy, savage beast crawling on all fours to something that bears the semblance of a man, walking upright and capable of rational thought?”

  “Please, Master!” Caliban cowers on the floor of his cell, hunkered low with arms wrapped around his head, understanding one word in ten. “Caliban is sorry!” he pleads. “Caliban is good!”

  “I have no interest in cringing obsequiousness,” Papa says coldly. “You have abused my generosity. You have abused the patience and tender heart of my daughter Miranda, who has shown you nothing but kindness. Is this how you reward her for it? With lies and deception?”

  He awaits an answer, but none is forthcoming. Caliban rocks on his haunches and keens in fear, and my heart shrinks in my chest to see all his progress undone. “Caliban,” I whisper. “Listen to Master! Please, listen.”

  Papa gives me a sharp glance. “I’ll handle this, lass.” He turns his attention back to Caliban. “You have three days to think on the matter.” He holds up three fingers. “Three days in your cell. You shall have water, but no food. At the end of three days, I will ask you to tell me the name of the dark deity that your mother Umm worshipped. Do you understand?”

  For a long moment, Caliban remains silent.

  I am fairly quivering with the desire to put the question to him in simpler words, words I know he will understand, but Papa lays a firm hand on my shoulder and stills me.

  At last, Caliban unwinds his arms from his head and nods without raising his gaze. “Master wants the bad name.”

  “Ah, so our wild lad does understand!” There is a note of grim satisfaction in Papa’s tone. “You have three days.” With that, Papa steers me out of Caliban’s cell. He locks the door behind us and pockets the key. “You are to have no communication with him during this time, Miranda,” he says sternly. “None. His cell and the gallery above it are forbidden to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa,” I murmur.

  “Good lass.” He pats my head. “I know it seems harsh, but I promise you, it is a kindness. If this tendency toward surliness and deceit were to go unchecked, it would fester in him. Speech alone does not serve to make us civilized, nor clothing, nor courtesies; nay, not even reason. It is a matter of virtues—the virtues of honesty, of loyalty, of integrity, of obedience to a higher order. These are the qualities I yet hope to instill in Caliban, although I fear that hope dwindles.”

  It is a long three days.

  I think about what Papa said. In truth, I am angry at Caliban. I am angry at him for lying to me. Did he think I would not suspect, when I have come to know him so well? Did he think of me at all?

  Mayhap it is asking too much to wonder such a thing, for I doubt Caliban understands the nature of lying. It is not a thing we have discussed, and it is unfair to blame him for not knowing things that no one has taught him.

  Still, I cannot help it. I am angry.

  And I am lonely, all the more so for having known companionship these many months. Papa spends the days in his sanctum as always, immersed in his studies. I go about my chores, though I do not forage afield. Without Caliban’s guidance, I do not know where to find the spring mushrooms that are beginning to sprout. I cannot climb trees. I cannot catch fish. I milk listless Oriana and gather eggs from the cote and greens from the garden.

  Caliban in his cell is silent.

  By the second day, my anger has given way to sympathy. He must be hungry, but he neither pleads nor complains nor rages.

  I wonder what he is thinking.

  And then I begin to wonder what Papa will do if Caliban refuses to tell him the name at the end of three days, and I begin to fear, because I am quite sure I know: Papa will work a deeper spell of binding on him.

  At supper on the evening of the third day, Papa confirms it. “If it comes to it, mayhap it is for the best, child,” he says gently to me. “I know you’re fond of the lad, and he’s made great strides under your tutelage, but I fear there may be a limit to how far he might progress. It is a surety that there is a limit to the amount of time I can wait on his willing obedience. The day is fast approaching when the stars will be favorable to make an attempt to free the spirit Ariel. Caliban would still be a useful servant,” he adds. “There is no reason that should change.”

  I think of Oriana. “He would not be the same, though.”

  “No.”

  It seems cruel when I have worked so hard, and made progress that even Papa praises, to return to the very place we began. “But you won’t do it if Caliban is good, will you?” I ask. “If Caliban tells you the name, you’ll grant him his freedom?” Papa hesitates, and tears prick my eyes. “You promised!”

  Papa’s expression turns stern. “No, lass. The offer was made in the assumption that Caliban would obey gladly once he understood, not engage in deception and sullen evasion.”

  “I took it to be a promise,” I whisper.

  “Ah, Miranda!” All at once, Papa’s expression softens into something more complicated, filled with sorrow and regret. “Sweet child, you are the very angel of my better nature, descended straight from the Empyrean. You should not have to plead for the companionship of this poor rough brute of a boy. You should have maids of your—” He halts and shakes his head. “No mind. What’s done is done, and the time to remedy it lies far i
n the offing. Very well. If Caliban obeys on the morrow and divulges the name, I shall grant him his freedom.” He raises one finger. “However, if he fails to obey, I shall be left with no choice.”

  “I understand, Papa.” I dash at my tears. “Must it … must it ever be thus? Shall he forever be ruled by this threat?”

  “I doubt that the threat of losing his reason is one our wild lad understands,” Papa says dryly. “’Tis your tender heart begs an answer.” I look down at the table and say nothing, feeling the weight of Papa’s gaze upon me. “Does it truly mean so much to you, child?”

  “It is only that I am weary of being fearful.” I dare a swift upward glance. “And I have worked so very hard.”

  “Very well.” Papa nods. “I shall make you this promise, Miranda. If tomorrow’s proceedings result in my freeing the spirit Ariel at such a time when the heavens are propitious, I give you my word that Caliban’s will—poor surly, grudging thing that it may be—shall henceforth remain his own.”

  A sense of gratitude fills me like sunlight. “Do you mean it?”

  “I have said it, have I not?” Papa says, but his voice is mild. “I pray you do not doubt my word when I give it. Mind you, it does not mean that bad behavior will not be punished.”

  “No,” I agree. “Of course not.”

  He lifts one finger again. “And it is contingent on the spirit Ariel gaining its freedom. Do I make my meaning clear?”

  “Yes, Papa.” I hate that wailing spirit in the pine tree. I wish Papa cared half as much for me as he does for this Ariel. “As clear as day.”

  As if to spite me, the spirit Ariel keeps up a terrible din that night. I lie awake with my hands pressed over my ears in an effort to shut it out. I think of Caliban alone in his cell, his belly gripped with hunger. I think about all that is at stake on the morrow.

  Outside the moon climbs high overhead and bright moonlight spills into my chamber, inching across the tiled floor. Hour by hour, I watch it.

  And even though I am a little angry still at Caliban, I cannot bear the thought of seeing him like Oriana. I cannot bear the thought of losing his companionship, I cannot bear the thought of being alone again. I cannot bear the thought of Papa’s promise being squandered.