Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “That couldn’t happen to you, could it, Papa?” I ask in alarm.

  “No,” he says firmly. “Because I approach the work with due reverence, and heed every precaution advised by those wise practitioners who trod this path before me. Sycorax, I fear, did not.”

  “Why?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “In truth, I cannot say. But in every walk of life, you will find there are those who think to find a shorter path to their goals, and suffer for it in the end.” Reaching across the table, Papa pats my hand. “As in all things, Miranda, patience is a virtue. I bid you cultivate it.”

  “I will,” I promise him.

  But in my thoughts, the trickster’s grin has turned sly again, and my dreams that night are restless once more.

  FIFTEEN

  CALIBAN

  Hares, hares, hares; hippity hoppity hares!

  But oh, how is Caliban to catch one? Yesterday I take the cord Master gives me and go to the place where the hares are. I lie in the long grass and do not move. I watch the hares come and go. There are trails in the long grass.

  When there are no hares, I am alone under the blue sky. Free. I do not have to do what Master says. He is not here to see. He is not here to punish me. I think, what if I do not catch a hare?

  What if I do not go back to the palace?

  My heart goes hippity hoppity like a hare when I think it, but then there are two things, one-two things, I think. One thing is a thing Miranda tells me: If I run away, Master will use his magic to make me come back. Oh, and he will be angry!

  The number two thing is: you, Miranda.

  So I do not run.

  I do not know what Master wants me to do with the cord so I tie it around my waist like the cord of my pants. I dig a hole in one of the hare trails and cover it with long grass. I watch and watch but no more hares come. I think maybe they are afraid because I am here, so I leave and go to the high place where Setebos watches the sea.

  I squat in his shadow and watch, too. Setebos makes Miranda afraid. I do not know why. No, that is a lie. It is because Master says Setebos is bad. But I do not understand why.

  Set-e-bos, Set-e-bos!

  I remember Umm’s voice singing the name, deep and strong like when Master makes his chants. I remember it in my bones like my own name. Setebos smiles at the sky above me.

  I wait and wait and go back, but there is no hare in the hole. I think Master will be angry, but he is not.

  Then I think maybe in the morning on the tomorrow day, there will be a hare in the hole, but now that day is today and there is no hare, there is only the hole and dead, dry grass that falls in the bottom.

  So, so, so.

  Maybe if I put sticks over the hole and grass over the sticks, the grass will not fall. But maybe a hare will not fall either.

  Master wants me to use the cord. I untie it from my waist and squat in the long grass and think. The knot Master ties is different than the knot in my pants. It moves up and down and makes a circle that goes bigger and smaller. When it goes smaller, the long end goes longer. I put my arm in the circle and move the knot. The circle goes small around my arm. I pull the long end and the knot moves. The circle goes so small it bites my skin.

  O-ho!

  To understand a thing all at once is like when there is a storm at night and everything is black and I cannot see anything and then lightning comes and waah! White bright lightning and I can see everything, everything in its place.

  Oh, but then it goes and there is dark again, and I cannot remember where everything is.

  If you’re cleverer than a hare, you ought to be able to find a way to make use of this to catch one, Master says. Only mind that it doesn’t something ere you’ve a chance to something it.

  I pull the long end of the cord harder and the little circle bites harder into my skin, making it wrinkly-crinkly. My thoughts make a line between Master’s something and something. I am to use the circle to catch a hare, only the circle must not be so small the hare dies before I free it.

  I wait until there is a hare. I creepity-creep through the long grass. The hare sits up and looks. I throw the circle at its head, but I do not catch it. The hare runs away, jumping, jumping on its long hind legs.

  No more hares come today.

  But Master is not angry yet. I think it is because Master can summon a hare if he wants; but he wants me to catch it.

  I say what I do with the cord and he nods his head up and down. “You’re on the right path, lad. Only think, how might you set the cord to catch a hare without your hand upon it?”

  That is all he says.

  At night I think and do not sleep. I go outside to think. Now I am alone under the night sky. There is wind and the moon is bright. I count clouds going over the moon, one, two, three, four, five.

  I climb the wall of the garden outside Miranda’s chamber. Inside Miranda is sleeping. I think about Miranda sleeping. The wind makes my hair move. How is hair like a hare? I do not understand why it is the same word. Miranda says it is made of different letters so it is not the same.

  And Master says to use the cord to catch a hare without my hands. How-oh-how-oh-how? I am not the wind to make things move without hands. A big wind comes like it is laughing, ha-ha, no you are not, Caliban! It makes the long branches of the tree beside me move. And I think … o-ho! I pull a branch down and let it go. It jumps like a hare, hoppity-hoppity into the sky. That is how you make the cord move with no hands—pull down a branch and tie the cord to it.

  But how do I make the branch stay until a hare comes?

  I will think about it tomorrow. Now I do not have to be more clever than a hare, only a branch.

  I go inside and sleep.

  SIXTEEN

  MIRANDA

  Caliban has caught a hare.

  It was some days in the doing, but it seems he has succeeded in devising something Papa calls a snare, and Papa is ever so pleased with him. I am happy for Caliban, though I will own, I am a little bit envious of the praise that Papa heaps on him. But that is petty of me.

  The hare is understandably displeased at having been caught, and Caliban bears a number of scratches from its strong hind legs. Nonetheless, he bears it no ill will and keeps it in his cell since we have nowhere else to contain it. I rather wish that it had taken Caliban longer to catch it, or that the stars aligned for Papa’s endeavor sooner, for within a week’s time, Caliban has become passing fond of the hare. Resigned to its captivity, it hops around his cell and comes to nibble greens from his hand.

  I am quite taken with it, too; but I have not forgotten Bianca’s fate. When Caliban asks if we should name the hare, I say no.

  And then altogether too soon, the stars have aligned and Mercury’s day is upon us.

  We gather in the kitchen in the darkness before dawn. Papa carries his staff and the thurible and he wears a robe I have never seen before, striped with blue and grey in the light of the banked embers in the fireplace. I know from my studies that these are colors that Mercury favors.

  The hare is panicking. Caliban put it into the bag I sewed from scraps, but it kicks and thrashes. The bag is torn to shreds and the hare is tangled in it, which makes it struggle all the harder, scratching Caliban’s arms and chest anew as he clutches it to him. At last Papa takes pity on him and sends the hare to sleep with a touch and a word. It hangs limp in Caliban’s arms as we venture out to the courtyard and the great pine tree, and I am grateful I do not have to carry it. Papa gives me the thurible hanging from its silver chain to carry instead. I am pleased to be trusted with it, even if I do not like this undertaking.

  The pine tree stands tall and stark against the grey sky, its branches creaking a warning. The spirit inside it is silent. Holding his staff in one hand, Papa chants the music of the spheres. The air trembles in response as dawn’s rays break in the east.

  Now Papa wakes the hare with a touch. It struggles in Caliban’s arms and makes a terrible high-pitched sound.

  “Hold
it still for the knife, lad,” Papa says, pointing at the flagstones. “The quicker done the better.”

  Squatting, Caliban holds the hare in place, stretching out its neck and pressing down on its flanks. The hare’s back legs kick as it screams and screams. Caliban’s shoulders tense, but he does as he’s bidden. I think we should have found some other place to house the hare. Papa drops to one knee beside Caliban, his staff tucked under his arm. His knife flashes in the rising sun and the hare’s screaming stops; but the spirit Ariel rouses to let out a long, wailing screech.

  “Soon, gentle spirit,” Papa murmurs. “Soon.”

  I do not like this. I would that it were over and done with. No, I would that it were not done at all.

  Papa beckons for the thurible and I bring it to him. He lifts the lid and scatters incense over the coals. Fragrant smoke trickles from the thurible’s holes, and I know from my studies that it comes from a gum resin that contains elements such as oil of orange and clove and spikenard, scents that are pleasing to Mercury.

  Rising, Papa takes it from me and swings it in a graceful arc. “May God bless you, good Lord Mercury!” he calls. “You who are wise, perceptive, intelligent, and the sage and instructor of every kind of writing, computation, and the science of heaven and earth! You have concealed yourself by your subtlety so that no one can possibly know your nature or determine your effects!”

  In the tree, Ariel groans.

  Papa’s face is gilded and bright with the dawn as he chants the invocation, his eyes keen and sure.

  I glance at Caliban and find him looking at me. His chest is scored and streaked with blood and his expression is unhappy.

  I wonder what he is thinking. This is how it began for us all those months ago; with Papa’s magic at dawn.

  I wonder if he is sorry.

  I hope not.

  I think … I think if Papa succeeds in freeing Ariel, everything will change, though I do not know how or why. But at least Papa has promised not to threaten to take Caliban’s will away and leave me friendless.

  “Hermes, Hotarit, Haruz, Tyr, Meda!” Papa calls, swinging the thurible in a circle around him. “I call upon you by all your names! I conjure you above all by the high Lord God who is the lord of the firmament and of the realm of the exalted and great! Good Lord Mercury, receive my petition, and pour out the powers of your spirit upon me!”

  Three times the invocation is repeated, and each time, Papa’s voice grows stronger and more resonant. At last he rises a final time and hands the thurible to me, holding his staff aloft.

  The air feels like it does before lightning strikes.

  The great pine shivers and creaks.

  Papa says a word I do not know, so softly it is almost a whisper, except that there is power in it that rumbles like thunder. He stamps the heel of his staff against the flagstones and the crystal atop it flares; and then there is a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, sudden and ear-shattering. It startles me, and I cry out without meaning to.

  “Shh!” Caliban is beside me, attempting to shield me from the splinters of bark and wood that rain down upon us. When it stops, he pats my shoulders in a clumsy effort to comfort me, his dark eyes worried. “It is only Master’s magic.”

  I shudder and lean against him. “I know.”

  The top of the pine has been split asunder, the two halves of its trunk gaping. A glowing red mist, like a cloud of sun-struck blood, fills the gap. The sight of it makes my skin prickle and puts an unpleasant taste in my mouth. It seems the spirit Ariel is not yet free, for it lets out a plaintive wail and then sighs, forming words for the first time in my memory. “Free me! Oh, free me!”

  “That I will do gladly,” Papa says. “In exchange for thy service.”

  The spirit groans in anguish. “Thou bidst me exchange my prison for fetters,” it says bitterly. “Is Ariel never to be free? I cry thee mercy, good magus!”

  I feel a twinge of pity for the spirit Ariel, and beside me, Caliban lets out his breath in a huff.

  Papa is unmoved. “I am a godly Christian man,” he says. “Unlike the foul witch Sycorax who bound you in this knotty prison, I shall demand no deed of you that is offensive in the eyes of the Lord God most high. Gentle spirit, if you serve me loyally and without complaint, I shall grant thee thy freedom.”

  The spirit is silent for a moment. “What term of service dost thou demand, good magus?”

  Papa frowns and glances at me. Why, I cannot begin to guess. “In good faith, I cannot set a number to it,” he says. “Events will fall out as heaven ordains them, and I can glimpse the future but dimly at this juncture. I will make you no false promises. But I think no more than thrice three years, mayhap less. ’Tis less time than you’ve been imprisoned in this rude bark, howling your agony to the skies,” he adds, his voice taking on a hint of impatience. “What sayest thou, gentle Ariel? Will you swear fealty to me and become my trusted servant?”

  The spirit’s words come grudgingly. “I will.”

  “Then do so in the name of the Lord God,” Papa says in a stern tone, his staff planted firmly.

  A gust of wind sighs through the branches of the sundered pine, making its needles tremble and quake. “In the name of the Lord God most high, I, Ariel, do swear my fealty to thee.”

  “So mote it be.” Papa raises his staff aloft. The crystal flashes as more words of power spill from his tongue. The nameless hare’s limp corpse lies at his feet, slow blood seeping from its slit throat and pooling on the flagstones. The sundered pine tree sways and shivers. “By the cursed name of Setebos, I release thee!” Papa cries, slamming his staff down once more.

  There is a long, drawn-out shriek; whether from the spirit or the tree, I cannot say. The bloody mist roils and the flagstones in the courtyard heave and shudder underfoot. I stumble and nearly drop the thurible. Caliban reaches out a hand to steady me, and I am grateful for it.

  Bright rays of sun pierce the red mist, turning it golden, then silver, then dissipating it altogether.

  Papa smiles in quiet triumph.

  A wind springs up from the very heart of the riven pine; springs up and takes shape, descending to touch lightly on the flagstones in front of Papa. The hare’s blood is smeared beneath its bare, delicate feet.

  Ariel.

  The spirit is more substantial in appearance than the airy sylphs or the transparent undines, but less so than the earthy gnomes, and altogether more singular. It is fair to look upon, bearing the semblance of a slender youth with skin as white as the churning crests of waves, drifting hair as pale as fog, and eyes as changeable as the sea; one moment lucid and clear, the next dark and stormy with hidden depths. A filmy garment that appears to be woven of gossamer spider-thread and jasmine petals hangs from its shoulders and clings to its limbs, quivering in the breeze. I cannot help but stare at the spirit, for it is wondrous and lovely to behold.

  It bows to Papa. “Well met, Master.”

  Papa inclines his head. “Well met, my servant Ariel.”

  Ariel’s gaze shifts to me and Caliban. He—for I suppose it is a he after all—smiles faintly. It is a beautiful smile, but there is something cold and cutting in it. Caliban lets out a harsh barking cough and moves away from me, and the spirit’s smile deepens, its lips curling. “Ah!” he says. “This pretty little lass must be thine own daughter, Master. And I see thou hast found the witch’s unwholesome whelp. Dost think it wise to keep him so close?”

  “Do not bait the lad, gentle spirit,” Papa says in a mild tone. “I could not have freed you without his aid. Caliban’s parentage is no fault of his own, and he has proved himself a good and loyal servant this day.”

  “Is it so?” The spirit Ariel’s voice is light, but his eyes are dark and brooding. His pale hair stirs in the breeze, floating about his head like wisps of fog. “Well, I shall prove myself the better.”

  Papa smiles again. “Nothing would please me more.”

  SEVENTEEN

  CALIBAN

  Servant.


  I do not know this word, and I do not like its sound in Ariel’s mouth. I am happy when Master says for Ariel to find him this thing and that thing, herbs and flowers and stones, and Ariel goes, whooshity-whoosh, away like the wind.

  Oh, I remember that Ariel, how he smiles like a knife and comes and goes like the wind.

  I carry the dead hare by its hind legs. It is long and skinny and I am sad that it is dead. Fleas creepity-hop in its soft hair.

  Hare hair.

  Master says to hang it from a tree in the kitchen garden so its blood can come out. Before he goes to his big room to be alone, Master says to dig tubers and onions in the garden and we will have stew for supper. No studies for Miranda today, Master has too many things to do. Master is oh, so very, very happy today.

  I am not.

  Miranda is not.

  But we dig onions to peel and tubers that we wash in water from the well and I ask Miranda, what is a servant?

  Miranda thinks, and the skin on her little brow goes wrinkle-crinkle, then it goes smooth. “Why, it is someone who is good and helpful, isn’t it?” She touches my arm with wet dirty fingers and smiles at me. There are no knives in Miranda’s smile, only sunlight. “Like you, Caliban.”

  But, but, but … if that is true, why does it itch so? Oh, it is not an itch, not really, but it is a feeling I do not have a name for—an angry not-knowing feeling, a feeling that if I did understand the thing I do not understand, I would be angry. And that is a feeling like an itch.

  Twisty words for twisty thoughts. I do not want to think them, but the itch makes me. Miranda says a servant is someone who is good and helpful, but I do not think that is what Master means.

  Master means it is someone who does what Master says, what Master wants. And Ariel did not want to be a servant; Ariel wanted to be free.

  Like me.

  But I was not trapped in a tree. I was free before Master made me come to him. And I did not make a promise to the Lord God in the sky to do what Master says for years and years and years.