Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  I do not dare ask about Caliban for fear of rousing Papa’s anger. Instead, I ask if he might not bid the spirit Ariel to fetch wood for us.

  Papa frowns at my suggestion. “I would not set so noble a spirit to such a menial chore.” I glance at my palms, dirty from gathering branches, and scrub at them, trying not to let him see. “To be sure, ’tis a pity the gnomes have no affinity for wood or I’d have set them that chore long ago,” he muses. “But Ariel is of a higher order altogether … What are you doing, Miranda?”

  “Naught.” I hide my dirty hands beneath the table. “Forgive me, Papa.”

  “Oh, child!” Reaching across the table, he takes my hands in his. “No, ’tis I who begs your forgiveness.” His face is grave. “Doubt not that such base labor is beneath you; and yet, we do what we must to endure.”

  I do not meet his gaze. “But not Ariel?”

  Papa hesitates. “The spirit Ariel was imprisoned by Sycorax because he refused to honor such base demands,” he says. “If he is to serve willingly, I must honor his nature in turn.”

  That is a lie, I think; but is it a lie Papa believes? Does he know the truth that Ariel imparted to Caliban and me? She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman. She beseeched me to get her with child.

  Or did Ariel lie?

  There are lies and lies.

  I do not know.

  Papa squeezes my hands, then lets them go. “Never think I do not appreciate your labor, Miranda,” he says. “One day…” He shakes his head. “No, no mind. That is for another time.”

  I peer at him. “When?”

  “When you are a woman grown,” he says and his voice takes on a stern note. “Not before.”

  “When will that be, Papa?” I dare to ask. “When I am ten?”

  “Ten!” He laughs. “’Tis unlikely. Do not trouble your head about it, child. When the time comes, you’ll know.”

  It seems careless and unkind of him to answer me thusly. How? How am I to know when I am a woman grown? Will it be in four years or five years or ten? Is there some manner of sign for which I might watch? I want to howl and storm and rage like Ariel in his tree or Caliban in his cell. I think of the endless lists of properties and correspondences he bids me commit to memory when all I want to know are the most basic of truths: Who are we and where did we come from? Why are we here on this isle? And now this … how in the name of all that is good and holy will I know when I am a woman grown?

  The questions swell inside me until I think I will surely burst, and I open my mouth to let them out.

  It is at that moment that Caliban’s shadow darkens the doorway that leads to the kitchen garden.

  I swallow hard and close my mouth.

  Papa rises to his feet, a thunderous expression on his face. “Get in here, boy!”

  Caliban obeys him, his head hanging low. “I am sorry, Master.”

  “Not as sorry as you shall be, I daresay.” Papa’s hand closes around the amulet that contains Caliban’s hair. “I entrust you with your freedom, and you repay the kindness by abandoning my daughter without a word, leaving all your chores undone and left to fall to her alone?”

  Caliban flinches. “I am sorry, Master,” he says again. “I was bad.” He steals a glance at me, misery in his gaze. “I am sorry, Miranda.”

  My heart fills with pity, my own anger forgotten. “’Tis all right,” I say gently to him. “You were angry.”

  “Enough!” Papa’s hand tightens around the amulet and Caliban lets out a howl of agony, falling to the floor. His limbs draw tight to his body, his fists pressing into his belly, and his skin shudders and twitches as the muscles beneath cramp into knots. On and on it goes, Caliban writhing and groaning with pain, and I find myself standing with no memory of having risen, my own hands fisted at my sides in helpless sympathy.

  At last Papa releases the amulet. Caliban lies unmoving on the floor, his breathing hoarse and ragged.

  “I take no pleasure in punishing you, lad,” Papa says, and his breath comes hard, too. “Do not make me do so again.” Eyes closed tight, Caliban nods. “Very well.” Papa adjusts the amulets that hang about his throat and smooths his robes until every fold is in place. “When you have recovered, you may replenish the woodpile. Miranda, I would have you attend to your studies today.”

  I nod my obedience, too.

  When Papa has gone to his sanctum, I kneel beside Caliban, patting at him in a vain effort to soothe away the pain. “Oh, Caliban! I’m sorry.”

  Although he does not open his eyes, one rough-skinned hand covers both of mine and stills them. “Do not be. I was bad.”

  “You were angry,” I say again. “I was angry for you!”

  Caliban smiles a little bit, his lips curving upward. “I know.” He opens his eyes and gazes at me. “Now I will go fetch wood.”

  I shake my head. “Rest. I will go.”

  “No.” With an effort, Caliban pushes himself upright and clambers to his feet. He stands wavering and unsteady, taking a deep, long breath as though to test his ability to take air into his lungs. His dark eyes are very serious and intent. “Do your studies, Miranda. Master is angry, too. Do not make him more angry. I will go.”

  “All right,” I whisper.

  I watch him limp away. Somehow, I feel myself to blame for his pain.

  Since I do not know what else to do, I ply myself to my studies as Papa bade me, sitting at the kitchen table with my head bent over my slate and a bit of ochre chalk in my hand, copying and memorizing the properties and correspondences of jade and other stones that are green in hue, none of which I have ever seen, nor ever hope to see within my lifetime.

  “Oh, la!” a light voice says, and a light breeze brushes over me. “What art thou about?”

  It gives me a start to see Ariel in our kitchen. With his moon-pale skin, sea-changing eyes, and fluttering white garments, the spirit looks out of place in such homely surroundings. “No business of yours,” I say, rubbing my slate clean. It is an hour’s worth of labor gone, but it gives me bitter satisfaction to deny him. “What do you want of me? Why are you here?”

  Ariel’s eyes widen, as clear and blue as a summer sky. “Why, I am here to tender my profound apology, milady!” He gives me a sweeping bow. “I heartily beg thy forgiveness for having offended thee.”

  I am unmoved. “Did Papa bid you to do so?”

  The spirit’s lips purse and his eyes darken a hue. “Thou hast my promise, milady, that never again shall words unfit for the tender ears of a child escape me in thy presence. Come, now, Miranda!” His voice takes on a wheedling tone. “Shall we not be friends, thee and I?”

  “We are not friends,” I say. “Caliban is my friend, and you were wickedly cruel to him.”

  “I did but speak the truth,” Ariel says. “And betimes the truth is cruel. Ah, but that topic is forbidden to us now, milady. What other things might we discuss, I wonder?” He plucks an orange from a bowl on the table, tears away a bit of peel, and sucks at the underlying flesh, then makes a face and spits. “Pfaugh! ’Tis sour.”

  “’Tis a symbol of the sun and of gold,” I say coldly. “Its oil may be used in an incense. And Papa says that even though these were grown solely for ornament, they are healthful to eat and serve to balance phlegmatic humors.”

  “Thou art a veritable scholar among maidens and wise beyond thy years!” Ariel says in admiration. “No wonder thy father has such grand plans for thee.”

  My heart quickens. “Of what plans do you speak?”

  “Alack and alas!” Ariel raises both fair, shapely hands in dismay, one still holding the bitten orange. “That I am forbidden to say, milady. But surely thou knowest better than I, being privy to thy father’s plans.”

  “No.” I flush with a trace of my former anger. “He tells me naught.”

  “Naught!” The spirit’s eyes widen again, turning the hue of rain-washed violets. He glances around and lowers his voice. “But at the very least, surely thou must know what wonders
and horrors thy father’s laboratorium contains?”

  Realizing that Ariel is baiting me, I do not reply, but it is too late. I have already given myself away, and I cannot help but feel hurt that Papa has allowed the spirit into his very sanctum.

  Ariel shakes his head in sorrow, his mist-colored hair floating. “’Tis a pity he does not trust his own daughter.”

  It is almost as though he has voiced my own thought. “I trust Papa!” I say in a fierce voice, willing it to be true. “In all that he does, he seeks only to protect me. And he is teaching me his arts!” I gesture at my piece of slate, forgetting that I have wiped it clean. “When I am a woman grown, Papa will tell me all his plans and allow me to assist him in his sanctum.”

  “’Tis a long time to dwell in ignorance, milady,” Ariel observes.

  “Is it?” I cannot help asking. “How long? How shall I know when I am a woman grown?”

  Ariel gives a careless, graceful shrug. “As to that, I cannot say.”

  I should like to scream. “You do but seek to plague me as surely as you plagued poor Caliban!”

  “No, milady.” Ariel’s eyes darken ominously once more, black and roiling like the sea at night. “Forgive me. I do but chafe at the bonds of servitude that bind me. Upon my honor, I mean you no harm. But mayhap in the wisdom of thine innocence, thou art wise indeed to pay me no heed.” He opens one hand and lets the orange fall to the floor, where it rolls under the table. “Still, were I thou, I should not sleep soundly without knowing what manner of dreams and nightmares thy beloved father concocts in his laboratorium,” he adds in a thoughtful tone. “No, not at all.”

  With that, he is gone.

  Trickster or not, the spirit has planted a seed inside me that grows at an unnatural pace throughout the day. I would that Ariel had kept his silence, but it is too late. Dreams and nightmares, indeed. Whatever does it mean?

  That night my dreams are crowded with shapeless terrors, things that swarm out of the darkness. I awaken with screams caught in my throat, choked whimpers like a hare caught in one of Caliban’s snares, only to find shadows pooling around my pallet, rising like dark waves, formless things in the depths reaching for me with open mouths filled with teeth; and then I scream and wake again with a whimpering jolt, knowing the first awakening to have been false.

  Over and over, this happens.

  And when I am awake, truly awake, lying alone and afraid in the darkness, I wonder. What does Papa’s sanctum contain?

  I know only that I cannot bear any more of this not-knowing.

  When Papa’s chant greets the first rays of dawn, I slip from beneath the linens. The tiles are cool beneath my bare feet, all the Moorish patterns on the walls faint in the dim grey light.

  Clutching my robe about me, I climb the stairs to the upper story. There is no lock on the doors to Papa’s sanctum, only a pair of heavy iron handles. Trusting to my obedience, Papa has never needed a lock.

  I tell myself I will steal only the merest glance. One glance, just to confirm that there is nothing to fear, that Ariel does but seek to bait me as he baited Caliban. And then I will tell Papa what Ariel said to me, and he will bid the spirit to hold his tongue. Papa need never know I doubted him.

  I turn one handle and the door creaks open a few inches. Outside, Papa chants the songs of the spheres.

  Beyond the door, it is still. A waft of air emerges, carrying the scents I have smelled on Papa’s robes; scents of herbs and oils, acrid scents of chymicals and heated metal that catch in my nose.

  I push the door open.

  Dreams, oh! Papa’s sanctum contains such things as I never knew existed; fantastical instruments of gleaming metal with bits that spin and turn and fit together in intriguing ways. There are shelves and shelves; an entire shelf filled with books, shelves filled with animal skulls and seashells and coral, horns and hooves, rocks and feathers. There are jars of herbs and unguents, and strangely shaped glass vessels with tubes protruding from them. There are cases and cases of drawers, some labeled in Papa’s neat hand, others labeled in unfamiliar hands and unfamiliar letters. The very walls are covered with strange drawings and symbols I cannot begin to decipher.

  I stare, gaping.

  There on a long counter, there is a brazier glowing brightly, so brightly the bars of the metal grate are red-hot. It makes a faint crackling sound. And I know, I know, I should close the door and go, but I do not.

  I need to know what it is that burns so brightly within it.

  My feet move soundlessly across the smooth tiles. Inside the brazier, there is a nest of fire; inside the nest, a salamander lies curled, and although I have never seen a fire elemental, I know it as such. It uncurls itself at my approach, lifting its head from its tail and stretching out its legs, unfurling its claws and opening eyes that blaze like I imagine rubies must do, its gaze on a level with mine.

  “Oh!” I whisper in awe, for it is so very beautiful in the heart of the fire, all red and gold and shining.

  The salamander’s eyes blink. “You mussst be the child,” it says in a voice that crackles and hisses like embers.

  I take a step backward. “You speak?”

  A tongue like a tiny forked flame darts forth from its lipless mouth and retreats. “Yesss.”

  “Oh,” I say again, feeling foolish.

  The salamander regards me with red eyes faceted like jewels. “Have you come to sssee it?”

  “It?” I echo.

  “Her.” The salamander amends its choice of words, its jeweled gaze slewing sideways. “Her.”

  I follow its gaze.

  There is a glass jar atop the counter. It sits some foot and a half away from the brazier. It is filled with clear liquid, and there is a … thing … floating in it. A dead thing, I think at first; a skinned hare or some such thing that Papa has preserved here.

  But it is not a hare.

  And it is not dead.

  The thing floating in the jar is a tiny misshapen person. Its skin is as white and sickly as the gills of a mushroom. Its features are unformed blobs, but as I stare in sick fascination, its lids open to reveal pale, milky blue eyes. Its mouth opens and closes, and its limbs stir.

  “What—” My voice cracks. “What is it?”

  The salamander laughs, a sound like a shower of sparks rising. “Look clossser,” it says. “Look closer.”

  I do not want to look closer. I want to run away, I want to turn back the sun and unmake this morning until I am safe in my chamber, all thoughts of disobedience abandoned and forgotten. I do not want to have seen this thing in Papa’s sanctum, and I do not want to know what it is. And yet I find myself moving forward nonetheless, rising on tiptoes and putting my hands on the jar, inching it across the counter to draw it toward me for a better look.

  It bobs as the liquid sloshes a bit. There is a thin braid of hair tied around one ankle like a tether, golden hair a shade darker than mine, the stray ends of strands floating in the liquid.

  My throat feels thick, and my heart is thumping and thumping, faster than a hare’s inside my breast.

  Its milky gaze holds mine. Can it see, I wonder? I am not sure, but it seems so. Somehow there is sorrow in those sightless-looking eyes. Its pale bud of a mouth opens and closes, and I think it is trying to form words. The fingers of its tiny hands open like the petals of a flower, splaying to touch the glass.

  “What?” I whisper. “Oh, what is it? What do you seek to tell me? What are you? Who are you?”

  “Miranda!”

  Papa’s voice crashes over me like a wave. I jerk away, but I am scared and careless, and … oh, I can hardly bear it.

  The jar topples over the edge of the counter and falls.

  It smashes to bits on the tile floor, liquid splashing everywhere. And the thing … the thing …

  It lies amid the shards, a pale, naked, misshapen thing, its mouth opening and closing, gasping like a fish. Bubbles rise from its lips. Its soft, narrow chest rises and falls; quickly at first, and then
slower and slower.

  I am shaking, shaking.

  “Oh, you foolish child.” Papa’s voice is soft and deadly, filled with more fury than I have ever heard. He holds his staff in one hand, and the other rises to grasp one of the amulets strung about his neck; not Caliban’s, but the one that contains a lock of my own hair. “You foolish, careless, treacherous child! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Unable to speak, I back away, shaking my head in wordless denial, willing him to understand, to forgive.

  Papa does neither. “You’ve killed your mother all over again, Miranda,” he says in that soft, terrible voice, and his fist tightens on the amulet.

  There is no time for understanding before the pain comes, a great tearing shriek of pain, tying my entrails in knots and pounding within the confines of my skull. Like Caliban, I fall writhing to the ground, but I cannot even draw breath to cry out. My lungs heave in vain as surely as the poor misshapen thing in the broken jar dying on the floor beside me, sorrow fading from its milky eyes. The pain is too vast, encompassing the whole of my existence. I see only red and think my eyes must be filled with blood. I think my body will tear itself apart, and my skull split asunder.

  I think I must be dying, too.

  Somewhere Papa is still speaking words laced with anger and venom, but I cannot hear him above the pain.

  Oh, merciful God! I would listen if I could; I would beg Papa’s forgiveness if I could. But I can do nothing save endure his wrath.

  Oh, merciful God, it hurts, it hurts! Something inside me is breaking.

  And then …

  … nothingness.

  TWENTY-ONE

  CALIBAN

  Miranda has done a bad thing, but I do not know what it is.

  I think … I think she goes into Master’s room, the big room that was Umm’s room, the room where we are not to go, never ever never. But I think it is a bigger thing, too, because Master is so very, very angry.

  I find him taking Miranda down the stairs. She is asleep in his arms like when they came to the island and she was so little, but she is not so little now; not so little that her head and feet do not hang over Master’s arms. Her golden hair hangs, too, and her face is very white. And he does not carry her like she is the very best thing now. He walks hard and angry and he carries her like she is nothing more than so many sticks to throw on the woodpile.