Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Yes, milady?” There is a studied tone to the spirit’s voice and his changeable eyes are light and crystalline, almost colorless. “Thou didst wish to speak to me?”

  It is the first time in the long months since my affliction that I have been in Ariel’s presence, and I find I am angry, so angry that I am trembling with it. “I want to know about my mother,” I say to him.

  A look that might almost be regret crosses Ariel’s finely wrought features. “Of that, I am forbidden to speak, milady.”

  “You spoke of it to Caliban!” I shout at him.

  “I spoke in thoughtless haste,” Ariel says coolly. “’Twas an error on my part to do so.”

  “What of the … thing?” I ask. “The homunculus?” The spirit says nothing. “Are you forbidden to speak of that, too?”

  “Shall we speak of the weather, milady?” Ariel makes a graceful gesture all around him with one arm, his white sleeve fluttering like a pennant. “’Tis passing fine for the time of year, though I fear a storm is brewing in the west some leagues from here. Shall we speak of speckled trout in the streams or late berries yet on the vine?”

  “Why did you heed my call if you’ll do naught but prattle at me of trout and berries?” I ask bitterly. “You told Caliban my mother died in giving birth to me. I do not understand how such a thing can even be. No hen ever died of a chick hatching.”

  “Oh, milady!” The spirit catches his breath as though I have struck him an unexpected blow. It is a sound that is not quite a laugh. His eyes darken to the hue of twilight and a mixture of involuntary pity and mockery fills his voice. “Thou poor innocent. Dost thou know nothing of the way of the world, and men and women in it? Dost suppose thou wast hatched like a veritable chick, scrabbling forth from the shell of an egg into the bright light of day?”

  Misliking his tone, I do not answer.

  Ariel sighs and casts his gaze skyward. “Oh, la! But of that, too, I am forbidden to speak lest I sully thy tender ears and render myself foresworn. Nature must be allowed to run its course. Master, Master, methinks thou art a fool,” he says to the empty sky. “’Tis the fine edge of a blade that divides innocence from ignorance, and methinks it a blade that will turn in thy hand and cut thee one day.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say stiffly.

  “No.” Ariel lowers his gaze to meet mine. “Surely thou dost not. But I fear ’tis not my place to enlighten thee, milady.”

  I scowl at him. “Why did you come, then? Why did you answer my call?” Ariel’s gossamer garments stir uneasily around him, and I realize he is fearful. “You baited me a-purpose,” I say. “You wanted me to defy Papa. But he doesn’t know, does he? And you’re afraid that I’ll tell him. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

  Ariel hesitates. “I did not intend thee harm, milady,” he says with surprising gentleness. “Truly, I am sorry for thy suffering. But if thou hast questions unanswered, thou must ask thy father.”

  “But—”

  He is gone.

  And so that night at the supper table I ask Papa about my mother.

  Papa stiffens. “If you value this peace we have forged between us, do not speak to me of your mother.”

  I look down at my platter. “I just—”

  Papa slams his hand onto the table, making our fine silver platters jump and rattle. “I said, do not speak of her!”

  So I do not. I do not speak of my mother or the incident.

  I bury the memory of it as surely as Papa buried Caliban’s mother and … whatever the thing was. The thing I killed in Papa’s sanctum. The homunculus, the pale floating thing that is somehow tethered to my mother, who died in giving birth to me, tethered by an anklet of dark-gold hair, tethered by Papa’s art.

  The thing that should not have been made, the thing that died gasping amid shards of broken glass, sorrow fading in its milky eyes.

  I do not think of it.

  I am diligent.

  I work hard.

  Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. The sun sinks ever lower in the shrinking evenings, and autumn turns to winter.

  Papa praises my progress and gauges it sufficient that I might resume my studies. This I am glad to do. The alphabet returns to me; I memorize lists and lists of correspondences, tracing them painstakingly on my slate. As time passes, I begin to learn about the powerful and arcane images that influence the seven governors and the three faces of each of the twelve signs of the Zodiac. Papa attempts to impart to me the rudiments of charting the paths of the planets throughout the spheres of heaven and the astrological signs and houses, but this is a complex mathematical endeavor I find impossibly difficult, and in time he decides that it is not worth his while and abandons his efforts.

  I should have been terribly dismayed at disappointing Papa so, had I not discovered within myself a talent for illustration. There is a kind of magic in bringing images to life with mere lines of chalk on a slate, and I am content to spend hours immersed in the process of doing so. Papa is pleased by it and encourages me to develop my gift. I take to carrying a bit of chalk with me everywhere I go that I might sketch the flora and fauna I encounter on whatever surface I find that allows it, adorning smooth rocks and the trunks of trees with chalk drawings of birds and flowers and beetles that linger until the next rainfall washes them away.

  There are long stretches of days wherein I do not think of the incident at all, wherein it seems it was naught but an unpleasant dream, half forgotten by the dawn.

  It is better not to remember.

  Had I not been so grievously afflicted, mayhap I would have felt otherwise, my natural sense of curiosity prevailing; but as the seasons pass and months turn into years, I am increasingly content to let matters rest.

  One year passes much like the other, and the next and the next, all of us on the isle existing in a tenuous accord.

  Papa has his secrets, Ariel has his mysteries, and the three of us share an unspoken guilt, with Caliban in his innocence at the center of it all, growing taller and stronger with each passing year. Although his limbs do not grow straight and true, they are powerful and sturdy, and as his shoulders broaden and his voice deepens, his kindness to me is unfailing.

  I come to think nothing would change.

  I am wrong.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Blood.

  It begins with blood.

  As I near fourteen years of age, I am not insensible of the changes to my body. Like Caliban, I have grown; not so tall or strong as he, but taller. My robes fall only to my shins and I think with covetous envy of the gowns from the pirate’s loot that Papa has hidden away, though I do not dare to say so. Hair has begun to sprout in unexpected places, dusting my shins and growing wiry in the soft pits beneath my arms and at the juncture of my thighs. Tender buds of breasts grow on my chest, and I wonder if it means I am a woman grown at last, but Papa says no.

  He is waiting for something, but I do not know what.

  The passing years have touched Papa, too. There is more white than grey in his hair, and the dark streaks in his beard have faded.

  Only Ariel remains unchanged.

  In all the years that pass, I never do tell Papa that it was the spirit’s taunting words that tempted me to an act of such profound disobedience. I am not at all certain that it would have tempered Papa’s wrath; and, too, it pleases me to know that it is a prospect Ariel fears. Although the spirit conducts himself gently enough in my presence, I am quite sure that he continues to bedevil Caliban, who does not care to speak of it. But there are times when he returns from chores ranging far afield in a surly mood, and I know Ariel has been at him. Although I mislike the unfairness of it all, if Caliban prefers to endure it in silence, I respect his wishes. Still, it is a comfort to know there is a threat I can wield against the meddlesome spirit.

  Otherwise I put the past behind me. If betimes my sleep is plagued by nightmares, I set them aside with the rising of the sun.

  On the day that I awaken out of sorts,
my small breasts sore and a dull ache low in my belly, I think little of it. The memory of my affliction will never grow so distant that I am not grateful to be alive and hale. I imagine this is but a touch of indigestion, and although I remember no troubling dreams on that particular morning, like as not I slept poorly for the griping of my belly, tossing and turning and bruising my flesh a trifle in the process. I cannot think what else it might be.

  And so I ignore my discomfort, which after all is not so great that I cannot bear it without complaint. I am sure that my stomach will settle once I’ve broken my fast. I eat plain journey-cakes, unadorned by aught that might render my belly more bilious; and yet come noon, I feel no better.

  Indeed, I feel rather worse. The dull, heavy pain expands to encompass my lower back and fitful cramps grip my belly. It is not wholly unlike a time some years ago when I took ill from eating unripe figs, and yet I suffer from neither nausea nor a flux of the bowels. It is a strange kind of pain, and I feel irritable and lumpish and almost weepy with it.

  As the day wears on I begin to suspect it is not indigestion at all, but an imbalance of the humors. It is probable that I am suffering from an excess of black bile, rendering me melancholic. The realization is a relief, and I resolve to speak to Papa about it when he emerges from his sanctum in the evening. Doubtless he knows a purgative that will restore my humors to the proper balance, and mayhap he will even be proud of me for diagnosing my own ailment.

  Melancholia, I think to myself, is ruled by Saturn, whose attributes are cold and dry. Plants and herbs that accord to Saturn include aloe, myrrh, onions, cumin, rue, and all plants that have thick leaves. These things I know by rote, though I do not understand their applications.

  Although Papa has not yet entrusted me with a glimpse into his books of wisdom, he has described to me at length the various images the sages of yore claim one might wreak to draw Saturn’s influence. With great care, I limn one of those selfsame images, which is that of a standing man holding a fish above his head and a large lizard resting beneath his feet, upon my slate. It is my favorite among all the images of Saturn because fish and lizards are creatures I have seen with my own eyes, and I have practiced drawing them enough times on my sojourns that I can render them with considerable accuracy. The standing man resembles Papa. It is a good likeness, and for a few moments, I am passing pleased with it.

  My belly cramps in a sickly manner.

  Oh, and now I am not sure at all that I should be seeking Saturn’s favor to dispel this excess! Mayhap it is quite the contrary, and I should seek the favor of one of the seven governors such as Jupiter or Venus, whose attributes are hot and moist and sanguine, to balance my humors.

  I erase my slate with the heel of my hand, brushing ochre dust on the skirts of my robe. I am dabbling in ignorance; and as Ariel said to me long ago, it is the fine edge of a blade that divides innocence from ignorance.

  I am weary of both, and my low belly hurts with a dull, persistent ache that grows surprisingly difficult to ignore.

  In the late afternoon, Caliban returns from foraging with a pail full of fish. I rise to assist him. I have been sitting for so long, my thighs feel wet and sticky. When I turn from opening the larder door, Caliban has a peculiar look on his face.

  “Miranda,” he says in a cautious tone. “You are bleeding.”

  “How so?” I look blankly at him, sure that I have sustained no injury. Nonetheless, his expression alarms me. “Where?”

  He answers reluctantly. “On your bottom.”

  “How can it be?” I turn to look behind me, tugging at the worn blue fabric of the robe I am wearing. Caliban is right. I can see the edge of a dark bloodstain spreading on the thin cloth and my throat tightens with fear. “Oh, no!”

  “Are you hurt?” Caliban sets down the pail. “I will look.”

  “No!” I back away from him in horror. For all that he has been a dear and constant companion for years, to let him see my privy parts is unthinkable. Having suffered grievously for disobeying Papa in the past, I am all the more mindful of his dictums. “No, Caliban, you mustn’t! Papa says I must never be immodest!”

  Caliban scowls. “Master says many things. If you will not let me look, I will get him.”

  I shake my head. “And disturb him at his studies? No, you mustn’t do that, either.”

  His scowl deepens. “You are bleeding.”

  I spread one hand over my belly. “I’m sure it’s naught but a flux brought on by something I ate.” My voice is shaking; I do not believe my own words. “Oh, I’m sorry! How very embarrassing.”

  “Miranda—” Caliban takes a step toward me.

  I retreat farther, filled with fear and mortification. “Leave me be, Caliban!” When he hesitates, I flee.

  In my chamber, I place my wash-basin on the tiled floor and fill it with water from the ewer. I strip off my robe and crouch over the basin, examining myself. My thighs are smeared with blood. I splash water on myself with a cupped hand. Thin strands of crimson swirl in the clear water in the basin.

  “Miranda!” It is Caliban’s voice, Caliban’s face at the window. In my haste, I have forgotten to close the shutters, which I am accustomed to leave open in all manner of clement weather.

  “Caliban!” My voice is high and shrill. I cover my breasts with one arm, reaching for my soiled robe to cover my nether region. I am naked and terrified and furious, crouching like a beast and bleeding. Humiliated tears stream down my face. My nose runs, and I can taste a sickening salty slick on my lips. “Go away!”

  At last he obeys and vanishes from sight.

  Clutching the robe to me, I fling myself across the chamber and yank the shutters closed. The wood is old and cracked and the intricate latticework would do little more to keep out a prying gaze than it does a chill wind, but the garden is empty.

  I return to crouch over the basin, my back to the windows. The blood on my thighs is gone, but when I touch the place between them, my fingers come away bloody. With a scrap of cloth, I scrub furiously until the water in the basin is pink and there is no more blood on the cloth. I pray that that is the last of it. I cannot think why my body should bleed thusly, unless it means that the very organs within me are dissolving.

  Mayhap what broke inside me years ago never truly healed after all.

  I do not know.

  My blue robe is in a sorry state. Its threadbare fabric already bears a myriad of faded stains amidst the years’ worth of wear and grime that washing will no longer remove, but there is something deeply shameful about this one. It is blood, only blood, but it seems as shameful to me as though I have soiled myself.

  Kneeling naked on the tile floor, I scrub and scrub at the stain with a dollop of Papa’s soap. It lightens, but it is clear it will not go away.

  I am weeping as I scrub.

  My belly cramps, and I feel a fresh hot trickle of blood on the inside of my left thigh.

  I weep harder.

  “Miranda!” It is not Caliban’s voice at the door of my chamber, but Papa’s, deep and firm. He knocks, but does not enter unbidden. “Calm yourself, child. I would speak with you.”

  “Oh, Papa!” I struggle to suppress my tears, but my voice is ragged. “I fear there’s something terribly wrong with me.”

  “I promise you there is not.” Now Papa’s voice is gentle, more gentle than I recall hearing in years. “May I enter?”

  I pluck a clean brown robe from my chest and don it in haste, then stand very straight, mindful of the slow blood seeping from the juncture of my thighs. “Yes, Papa. Of course.”

  If I had a hundred years to guess, I do not think I would have guessed that Papa would enter my chamber smiling that day, a bundle of something tucked beneath one arm; and yet he does.

  “Congratulations, my dearest daughter,” Papa says to me. Cupping my face in his free hand, he leans down to kiss my brow. The amulets around his neck rattle faintly and his long grey beard tickles my nose and chin. “Today at last you are a woman gr
own.”

  I have never felt like aught less.

  “I do not understand.” My voice sounds small. “Papa … I am bleeding from inside.”

  He nods gravely. “Yes, I know. Caliban told me his concerns. Your woman’s courses are upon you.”

  I stare at him in confusion. “I’m not ill?”

  “Far from it,” Papa says. “Did you not hear me? You have flowered, Miranda. The day for which you have long yearned has arrived at last.”

  “This?” I gesture at the blameless walls of my chamber, at the closed shutters, at the basin full of bloody pink water, at the sodden mass of my stained blue robe lying on the floor. Suddenly, I am outraged at the thought that this mess and discomfort is the harbinger of womanhood for which I’ve waited so long. “This?”

  “It is a sign that your body is ready to bring new life into the world,” Papa says. “Your womb, which is the vessel of life within you, does but shed an excess of sanguine humor to make room for the possibility of a child.”

  “A child?” I say in wonder and dismay.

  Now Papa shakes his head, raising his hand to forestall me. “I speak only of the possibility, Miranda. Of course, you shall remain a virgin until you are wed in the eyes of God.”

  I do not know what that means.

  Do I?

  A memory of Ariel’s voice whispers in the far recesses of my thoughts. She bade me to lie with her as a man lies with a woman … Dost thou know nothing of the ways of the world, and men and women in it?

  I do not.

  And yet …

  Papa is still speaking. “… the first great mystery of womanhood. The second shall be revealed to you on your wedding night, and you shall suffer no man’s touch until your husband claims his rights.”

  “My husband!” A startled laugh escapes me; it has never occurred to me to think on such a prospect. “Who am I to wed, Papa? Caliban?”

  A thunderous look crosses Papa’s face. “Hold your tongue, child! Heaven forfend. Do you think I would see my only daughter, my own flesh and blood, wed to a monstrosity?”