So why am I a servant?
I ask Miranda this.
“Oh, Caliban! Why does it matter?” Her brow goes wrinkle-crinkle again. She touches me again, puts her hand on mine. “You’re my friend. Servant is only a word. Like Master.”
I look at her hand on mine. It is little and pale. Even with dirt under them, her fingernails are like seashells. My hand is bigger and stronger and darker, and my fingernails are raggedy jaggedy. Not as much as before, but still.
Only a word.
Words fall through my thoughts like stones through water.
Servant.
Unwholesome. That is another word, a word Ariel said about me. I do not know it, and I do not like the sound of this one either; but it does not make as strong of an itch inside me, not yet. I let it fall. I will pick it up another time.
Master.
But Master is not a word in the same way as servant because it is his name, and one person’s name is not the same as a word that is a name for every one of that thing, like boy or hare or tuber.
I say this to Miranda.
Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens and closes. “Oh! It’s not … Caliban, did you think Master was Papa’s name?”
“Yes.” I feel my own brow crinkle. Could it be untrue? It is the name Master gave me to call him. “Is it not?”
She takes her hand away, puts her hands together in front of her and looks down. “No.” Her voice is soft. “No, it’s, um … I suppose you would call it a title. A term of respect.”
I echo the word. “Respect?”
Miranda looks up and her eyes ask me silently to understand. “To show thanks and loyalty, yes. Just as I call him Papa because he is my father, and just as we say that God in His heaven is the Master of us all. Remember? I taught you as much.”
I scrub dirt from a tuber and think a great many thoughts. Servant and Master; these words are knotted together. Ariel did not say the word until he says his promise, until Master frees him from the tree. Ariel knew. I did not know. It is like Master has told me a lie.
Did he?
I cannot remember all the words from when I had no words. I remember the first knowing and that is Miranda, knowing she is Miranda even if I did not have any words but her name yet; and then the second knowing that is like when lightning comes, and that is finding a thing that was lost from long, long ago when Umm was alive. Me. A word that is my name. Caliban. I am Caliban.
What did Master say? Did he say, “I am Master”? Did he say, “Call me Master”? Or did he only touch his chest and say, “Master”?
I look at Miranda. She is peeling onions now, her hands go peel, peel, peeling away the crinkly brown skin. If I ask about the word again, it will make her sad. Maybe it is true it does not matter, it is only a word. But there is magic in words.
There is magic in knowing.
And I did not know the meaning of this word, Master. Now I do. The itch grows stronger.
I am angry.
But I think … what if I am angry and bad? Master does not need me anymore. He has Ariel; Ariel with his smile like a knife, Ariel who whooshes away like the wind. Ariel who can fetch things from every corner of the island and the deepest depths of the sea around it.
Ariel who says, Well, I shall prove myself the better.
The better servant.
It is a thought that tastes bad to me, but, but, but … I look down at Miranda’s bright golden head bent over the onions. And I think about the day that she and Master came to the island, oh, so long ago, and how little she was in his arms and lying asleep on the sand, and his cold, angry voice speaking to someone across the sea. I think how Master put his lips on her while she sleeps, and I think that he loves her, but I think maybe she is not the thing he loves best of all. I think maybe Master loves his anger more. And I think about the way Master looks at her today, and speaks of things to come.
(What things, Master?)
Oh, yes, there is a worse thing Master could do than call me his servant when I do not know what it means. He could send me away.
Away from you, Miranda.
I know in my bones that Master can do this, and I know in my bones that I do not want it.
It is why I stay.
So I put my anger aside, just like Master raking the coals in the hearth and covering them with ashes.
I will be a good servant.
I will smile and say the word Master.
EIGHTEEN
MIRANDA
Now that the spirit Ariel is free from the great pine and sworn to Papa’s service, our lives are different.
In some ways, that is no bad thing. Ariel knows every nook and cranny, every crag and crevasse, every meadow and wood of the isle, and he can traverse it in a trice, as swift and blithe as the wind itself. Every herb and flowering plant that Papa bids him fetch that can be found, he brings. The little gnomes till the earth and tend the plantings industriously, and soon our kitchen garden doubles, then trebles in size. Papa sets me to memorizing the qualities and the correspondences of each new planting.
At Ariel’s behest, the gnomes delve into the earth and bring forth metal-flecked ore and stones sparkling with quartz, and the undines plunge into the depths of the ocean and bring forth oysters with shimmering pearls nestled on their beds of soft briny flesh.
Save for the oysters, which are roasted and eaten, these things vanish into Papa’s sanctum.
It is not only the natural bounty of the isle that Ariel provides. When he has accomplished all the tasks that Papa has given him, Ariel reveals knowledge of a hidden trove of pirates’ treasure buried in a small cove along the shore.
“You scoundrel of a sprite!” Papa says, but he is too gladdened by the news to be truly grieved. “Did you not think to tell me sooner?”
Ariel gazes at him with blue-green eyes as clear and innocent as a calm sea. “Why, didst say naught of treasure, Master! Does it please thee?”
Papa smiles at him like dawn breaking. “Indeed, it does.”
And so there is treasure, trunks of it brought forth from its resting place buried deep beneath the sands. There is jewelry set with precious stones, a round mirror in a gilded frame, a checkered game-board accompanied by cunning little figures wrought in silver and gold, a set of chased silver dishes, and an entire trunk filled with once-fine gowns and other garments encrusted with gold and silver embroidery and seed pearls, wrapped in coarse oiled sailcloth to protect them. Papa supposes that it was plundered from a ship bearing a noblewoman’s dowry some years ago; after the Moors abandoned the isle, but before Caliban’s mother Sycorax laid claim to it.
Some of the more delicate fabric has rotted beyond the point of salvage, but some of the sturdier stuff is merely spotted with mold and mildew. I yearn to see what I might make of it with my sewing casket, but it is not to be.
“Such garments are meant for a woman grown, Miranda,” Papa says to me. “One day, such things and finer shall be yours, but not for many years yet.”
Instead, he gives me the remnants of a handful of garments made for a babe or a small child on which to ply my fledgling skills. The rest of the fine attire, along with the jewelry, the game-board, and the mirror—an item which seems to please Papa more than all the rest, and makes me feel not a little guilty for failing to tell him about the mirror Caliban gave me—vanish into his sanctum.
Not the dishes, though. The silver dishes etched around the edges with scenes of what Papa says is a hunting party, complete with wondrous images of a hart crowned with antlers, replace our worn wooden trenchers.
I feel like a very fine young lady indeed dining on silver.
Those are the ways in which Ariel’s presence in our midst has changed our lives for the better.
There are ways in which our lives have changed for the worse, too.
I do not trust Ariel.
Oh, he conducts himself well enough while Papa has him busy combing the isle, but once he is idle and Papa is immersed in his sanctum, it is another matte
r. I know that Ariel had no fondness for Caliban, but one pleasant afternoon, while Caliban and I are picking sour oranges in the walled orchard, I learn how deeply his hatred runs.
A gust of wind announces Ariel’s presence.
“See how he climbs, agile as a monkey!” he exclaims as Caliban hangs from the branches and tosses oranges down to me. “Mayhap there is a measure of truth in the rumors. What thinkest thou, fair Miranda?”
“I know naught of rumors,” I say, gathering oranges in the skirt of my robe; but it is a mistake even to reply.
“Naught of rumors!” Ariel sits cross-legged in midair on a cushion wrought of nothing save clouds, his filmy garments fluttering about him. “Why, I speak of the boy’s father, of course. Hast thou not thought to wonder?” I say nothing and Caliban does not even glance at the spirit, but Ariel is undeterred. “The sailors who brought thy cursed witch of a mother to this isle, bound in chains and gravid with child, did gossip amongst themselves,” he says conversationally to Caliban. “Some did claim that thy father was an imp from the pits of hell, and some did claim that he was the fiercest of Barbary pirates, black of hide and heart. But others … ah!” Ariel drops his voice to a whisper. “Others claimed that thy mother mated with a great ape, a dumb, hairy beast from the deepest, darkest jungles.”
With a hoarse bark, Caliban drops from the branches, landing on his haunches. There is banked fury in his expression.
“Why must you be so cruel?” I ask Ariel indignantly. “Caliban has done nothing to you!”
“Has he not?” Ariel’s eyes turn cold and wintry. “And yet it is because of him that Sycorax imprisoned me.” He turns his pale gaze on Caliban. “Dost thou know what thy mother demanded of me? Dost thou know what demand I refused to earn such a punishment?”
Caliban’s shoulders hunch. “No.”
“She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman,” Ariel says, and there is disgust and loathing in his voice. “Dost thou know what that betokens? She beseeched me to get her with child. A child of light to replace the spawn of darkness that condemned her to exile from the presence of all decent, God-fearing folk. Thou.”
Caliban snarls and hurls an orange at him. “You lie!”
Ariel’s form dissolves in a flurry of mist and tendrils of fog, and the orange passes through the mist to land harmlessly on the grass; and then Ariel is there once more, hovering above the earth and smiling his cutting smile. “Do I?”
With an effort, Caliban turns his back on him.
“Go away!” I shout at the spirit, my hands fisting in the folds of my robe, heavy with the weight of gathered oranges. “Leave him alone! Leave us alone!”
“Us.” Ariel echoes the word and laughs. “So I shall, for now!”
And then he is gone.
Without a word, Caliban walks away, his shoulders still hunched and tight. “Wait!” I call after him, and he breaks into a loping run. “Caliban, don’t go! Don’t listen to him!” I give chase, the oranges spilling from the apron of my robe, but Caliban is too swift for me. Within minutes, he has scrambled over the wall and is out of sight.
And I am left alone to wonder.
There is so very much I do not understand.
By suppertime, Caliban has not returned and Papa is wroth with him. “If he thinks to shirk his duties without punishment, he shall find himself sorely mistaken on the morrow,” he says in a grim tone. “He has gathered no kindling and the woodpile is all but empty.”
I push a bit of fish around my silver platter; fish that Caliban caught for us that very morning. “Do not be too angry with him, Papa,” I murmur. “Ariel goaded him cruelly today.”
Papa makes a dismissive gesture. “’Tis a poor excuse. The spirit has a mercurial nature.”
“He spoke of Caliban’s father.” I hesitate. “He said … he said mayhap his father was an ape, a great hairy beast.”
Papa frowns. “That is no fit topic for a lass of your tender years. I shall have words with Ariel.”
“But it’s not true, is it?” I ask.
“No.” Papa’s voice is firm. “Such a thing is impossible, Miranda. What else did he say?”
Ariel’s words come into my mind unbidden. She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman. I do not know what this means, only that the words, and the manner in which Ariel spoke them, make me feel uncertain and unclean, and I do not want to repeat them for fear that Papa will chide me for listening to them. “Ariel said that the sailors who brought Sycorax to the isle gossiped,” I say instead. “Some said Caliban’s father was an ape, some said he was a fearsome pirate, and some said he was an imp from the pits of hell.”
Papa is silent for a moment. “Such rumors should never have reached your ears,” he says gently. “Yet I will say that while whatever deviltry Sycorax practiced may have affected Caliban ere his birth, having examined the lad at length, I am quite certain that his father was a mere mortal and human.” His frown returns. “What manner of human, I cannot say; and indeed, we may never know. No one wholesome of character, of that you may be sure.”
“But it is cruel and wrong of Ariel to goad him, is it not, Papa? And is it not right that Caliban is hurt and angered by it?” I ask, daring greatly. “I think … I think Ariel blames Caliban for what his mother did. And it’s not fair!” I wish he would say, No; no, of course it is not. I will make an end to it. I wish I could make him understand the sheer malice and hatefulness of Ariel’s taunting.
Instead Papa fixes me with a hard gaze. “As always, your tender heart is to your credit, but Caliban is responsible for his own actions,” he says curtly. “I will deal with him on the morrow.”
And so I am dismissed to my bed-chamber.
NINETEEN
CALIBAN
I watch the sun set over the sea. Behind me, Setebos laughs his soundless laugh at the sky, his shadow long and black on the rocks.
My heart is hot and angry.
Master will be angry, too. If he does not summon me, I will go back in the morning; for you, Miranda. Always for you. I will say, oh, oh, I was bad, Master, I am sorry, Master.
But not yet.
The sky is gold. Drop by drop, my anger falls away, like drip-dropping blood falling from the hare’s throat.
I do not hear Miranda come until she calls my name. “Caliban!”
My mouth falls open and I jump up quick as a hare. I look at her standing in the falling light of the sun, her little face scared. I am scared, too. “Oh, Miranda! You should not be here. It is late!”
And then she changes and she is not Miranda, no; it is Umm standing there with gold light on her face, her back bent from many hours working over her books. She opens her arms. “Caliban, my son! Come to me!”
Oh, it has been so very, very long since I did see her! And I remember the hits and the bad words, but I remember she would put her arms around me, too, and put her lips on my face.
My feet move even though I do not tell them to, as though it was Master summoning me.
And then Umm laughs, and it is a sound like something breaking, and there is a whoosh of wind that goes in a circle, and Umm changes—and it is not Umm, no, or Miranda there atop the high place with me. It is Ariel, oh-so-pretty, sparkling like sea-foam and smiling like knives. “Ah, thou poor, sorry, unwholesome creature!” he says, laughing. “Thou pitiable monster! Didst truly think thy mother had returned from the dead? Didst truly think she yearned to embrace thee?”
All my anger comes back, hot and hurting. Water comes to my eyes like Miranda’s when she is sad, and I am sad, but I am angry and hurting, too. I am hot and cold and shaking. I have a feeling I cannot name, a feeling of having been bad even though I have not, and it makes me more angry, because it is not right. I make my hands into fists. “Why?”
It is a word that comes out like a child’s cry, all alone and lost and scared. I do not want it to but it does.
Ariel stops laughing. “I am here at our master’s bidding.” His voice is cold, but the kniv
es have gone out of his smile. “He would fain have thee know that there is nowhere on this isle thou might hide where I cannot find thee, and nowhere from whence he cannot summon thee.” He looks at me, and his face is like there is a bad smell in the air. “And yet with night a-falling, I see that thou art but a frightened little boy longing for his mother.”
There is truth in his words and it hurts me. “I am old enough to wish Setebos would strike you dead!” I say, hoping my words will hurt him, too.
The knives did not go far. “Ah, Setebos!” Ariel says, smiling. “I rejoice to say that his reign o’er this fair isle, and that of thy foul witch of a mother, has come to an end.” He bends at the waist and moves his arms to his sides, and bits of clouds dance around him, and the knives grow sharper, though I think they are not only meant for me this time. “Why, it has been replaced by that of the good Lord God and the master thou and I serve alike.”
I say nothing.
The only promise I did make to serve Master, I did make to myself. I made it to me, Caliban.
For Miranda.
Ariel puts his head to one side and looks at me, his eyes dark and churning like storm-clouds. “A child, and harmless … for the nonce,” he says. “But blood will out in time. Thou shouldst abjure the girl ere you harm her.”
I show him my teeth. “I will not!”
There is only a little red sunlight on the far edge of the sea and the gold is going away from the sky, turning to violet.
Ariel sighs. “No,” he says. “I suppose not.”
TWENTY
MIRANDA
In the morning, Caliban is still missing.
I imagine that Papa will summon him as soon as he finishes chanting the music of the spheres at dawn, but I am mistaken. Instead we break our fast in the usual manner, though it is a good deal more work to gather firewood for the hearth without Caliban’s aid. I manage to find enough fallen branches in the kitchen garden to cook our morning meal, but I shall have to venture alone into the forest if Caliban doesn’t return soon.
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