Miranda and Caliban

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Well, I don’t think him monstrous at all,” I say defiantly. “Caliban is kind and good. And if I am to take a husband, I’d sooner wed him than Ariel.”

  “Ariel!” Papa takes a sharp breath. “Miranda, you must not even think such thoughts.”

  I temper my defiance with humility. “What am I to think, Papa?”

  He lays one hand on my shoulder. “I do but ask your trust, child. One day, when my plans come to a head, all shall be revealed.” You keep saying that, I think to myself, but I do not say it aloud. “I promise, the man you wed will be neither a tame savage nor a spirit such as Ariel. But today—” Papa untucks the bundle he carries under his arm and shows me its contents: a number of muslin pouches, a clay jar with a lid, and a lengthy parti-colored sash pieced together from various fabrics. “This is a serious business, Miranda. The menstruum of a virgin possesses powerful magical properties. You must manage it with care.”

  I swallow, reminded anew of the vile trickle making its way down my thigh. “How?”

  Papa holds up one of the pouches. “Dried sphagnum moss. While your woman’s courses are upon you, you will place one of these pouches beneath your privy parts as necessary to capture the flow, binding it in place with the sash.”

  He sounds proud of himself, as though this is some difficult problem he has solved. “Yes, Papa.”

  “When a pouch will absorb no more of the menstruum, place it in the jar and notify me,” he continues. “You may knock upon the door of my sanctum, leave the jar in the hallway, and depart. I will take custody of the jar and its contents and return it to you. Is that clear enough, child?”

  I nod. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Tonight is the first night of the waning moon, which is to the good,” Papa muses. “It means your womb reaches fullness in accordance with Luna herself, and your menstruum shall be all the more powerful for it. And if your cycle remains constant and true, as I hope it does, you shall know that your courses will commence each month when Luna begins to wane.”

  I find a faint ray of hope in his words. “Then I shan’t always bleed henceforth, Papa?”

  “Always?” He chuckles. “No, of course not. Your courses will come upon you once a month and last for several days, mayhap a week. You must notify me if they last longer.”

  “Yes, Papa,” I say.

  Papa smiles at me. “Very good. And when your courses have concluded this month, we will speak of your assisting me in my sanctum.” He pauses, waiting for me to respond. I look at the floor and do not say anything. Although I once yearned for it above all else, now the thought of entering Papa’s sanctum fills me with quiet dread. His smile fades. “Understand that you must never enter without permission, and not at all when your courses are upon you. Never. At such a time, your very gaze could pollute the delicate working of my art.” He pauses again. “Miranda, may I trust that I have impressed upon you how vital it is that you observe these strictures with the utmost scruple?”

  I choke back a bitter bark of laughter.

  I should like to say, Yes, Papa, you may be sure of it, for I have no desire to invoke your wrath. I do not wish to return to the helplessness of childhood and spend another year of my life learning to walk and talk anew.

  “Yes,” I murmur instead. “Of course.” And yet I cannot keep my peace, not wholly. I steal a glance at him. “Papa, if you knew this day would come, why did you not tell me?”

  He furrows his brow. “But we have spoken of it often, Miranda.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You told me often that one day I would be a woman grown. You told me I would know. You did not tell me I should know it by the sign of pain and blood.” My voice rises, taking on a shrill note once more. “How was I to know? Why did you not tell me it would be this?”

  Papa’s expression turns stern and his hand rises to take hold of my amulet. “Calm yourself, child!”

  I fall silent, my body stiffening in terror and my bladder threatening to void itself in a hot gush.

  “It was not always thus for womankind,” Papa says. “In the Garden of Eden, our foremother Eve knew no such travail.” His voice deepens as he lets go the amulet and quotes from the Holy Bible. “And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. But what transpired?”

  I look away. “Eve disobeyed God. She ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and Adam did, too.”

  Papa nods. “Indeed. And as God cast them forth from Eden for their disobedience, he said unto Eve, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children, and thy desire shall be unto thy husband, and he shall rule over thee. It is Eve’s punishment you endure, child.”

  “But I am not guilty of Eve’s sin,” I protest in a low whisper; yet even as the words leave my mouth, I know that they are untrue. I succumbed to Ariel’s temptation even as Eve succumbed to that of the serpent in the garden. I disobeyed Papa as surely as Eve disobeyed God.

  I have been punished for it.

  Years later, I am still being punished for it.

  “All of humankind bears the cost of Eve’s sin, Miranda,” Papa says dryly. “Women are weak in body and will. I suggest you use this time to contemplate the price of disobedience.”

  I say nothing.

  Papa glances at the pinkish water in my wash-basin. “If you bathe yourself when your courses are upon you, you must dispose of the leavings thusly. Empty the basin on barren ground facing east and rinse it clean in running water; water from the stream, not water drawn from the well or a fountain where traces of the menstruum may linger and taint the elemental spirits. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Very well.” He sets down his bundle. “Then I shall leave you to attend to the business of womankind, daughter.”

  Now I want nothing more than for him to go and leave me alone with my shame and uncleanliness; and yet there is one last fear niggling at me. “Papa?”

  He pauses. “Yes?”

  “You’re not angry at Caliban for disturbing you, are you?” I ask him. “It’s only that he was afraid for me.”

  “Angry?” Papa frowns. “No. Our wild lad’s concern was misplaced, but I do not blame him for it.”

  I sigh with relief. “I am glad.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  CALIBAN

  Oh, Setebos!

  I have seen a thing I should not have seen.

  I do not think this the very first thing when it happens, no; I do not think it at all. I think only that Miranda is hurt and scared, and I have not seen her so since she woke oh, so many years ago after Master did punish her and she almost did die. Only then I did know how to help, how to help Miranda walk and grow strong and find the words she has lost, how to help Miranda be Miranda again, and she did understand and let me.

  Today is different.

  Today there is blood and Miranda is scared and angry and shouts, Miranda runs and hides from me.

  Today Miranda is not Miranda.

  And so I go, I go to fetch Master, and at first he is angry, but I tell him that Miranda is bleeding and Master laughs, ha-ha, like I have told him a good thing, his face all bright and happy. “Oh ho!” he says. “Miranda is not hurt.”

  I think mayhap Master does not understand. “But she is bleeding.”

  “Yes, yes.” Master pats my shoulder. “It is all very natural and part of God’s plan. Do not be alarmed. Go about your business, lad. I will go to her and explain.”

  But I do not go. My shoulders go tight with anger. I do not understand how Miranda can be bleeding without being hurt. “Explain what?”

  Master’s face changes. “It is no concern of yours,” he says in his cold, hard voice. “Now or ever. Believe me when I say that she is unharmed and leave her be. You’re not to lay a finger on her.”

  I do not show him my teeth, but my lip curls even though I do not mean it to. “I would never hurt her!”

  “No, of course not. I’ve made certain of it.” M
aster touches one of the amulets that hang from his neck, acting as if it was me that almost killed you, Miranda, and not him. “I’m bidding you not to touch her.”

  Why?

  I open my mouth to say the word, but then I see in my memory the thing I should not have seen, and it is as though I am seeing it for the first time.

  Miranda.

  Miranda naked.

  Oh, oh, oh!

  I lower my head so that Master cannot see what I am seeing behind my eyes. I did not tell him I saw Miranda in her chamber, only in the kitchen.

  “Good lad.” Master’s voice is kind again. “Now begone with you and do not fret. I promise you, Miranda is healthy and well.”

  I go.

  I leave the palace and run far and fast and hard to the high crag where Setebos awaits me, I run with my legs going pumpity-pump and my heart going thumpity-thump until my blood pounds in my ears like waves breaking on the shore. I climb the sharp rocks with hands and feet, not caring that the rocks cut me. I am trying to run away from the memory of what I have seen, but I cannot run from a thing I carry inside me. Atop the crag, I throw myself to the ground beneath Setebos’s shadow.

  Miranda.

  I’m bidding you not to touch her.

  Oh, but Miranda’s skin where the sun has not kissed it is soft and white, as white as milk.

  And I have seen it.

  I have seen the curve of her little breasts hanging above the wash-basin with their tender pink tips. I have seen her slender, pale thighs and the little thicket of dark golden hair where they join together.

  Oh, Setebos!

  I cannot unsee it.

  There is an ache deep inside me, an ache in my chest that such beauty should exist in the world.

  There is another ache, too.

  It is a different ache, an animal ache. The rod of flesh at my groin swells and stiffens with it, rising to stand upright beneath the rough canvas of my breeches. The twin sacks that hang under it rise and tighten, too. It is a thing that happens sometimes that I do not speak of. I do not want Miranda to know my flesh is unruly and immodest. I would not tell her any more than I would make water in front of her; but before today, it seemed like a thing with no harm in it, no more shame in it than making water.

  Oh, but now it is different, everything is different. It is because I saw Miranda naked that my rod rises, and there is a wanting in me like in dreams where there is a secret pleasure that comes hard and fast, and in the morning there is a mess.

  But this is not a dream and there is shame in it.

  Setebos laughs at the sky.

  It aches, it aches so very badly! It has never ached so before. I crouch on my feet and untie the drawstring of my breeches, then take my swollen rod in my hand. I think if I try to make water, mayhap it will not ache so badly.

  (That is a lie, Caliban.)

  My rod pulses to the touch, blood beating hard in my veins. The head of it has come all the way out from beneath its hood of skin, and it is hot and swollen and weeping. I feel like weeping, too.

  I am ashamed.

  Oh, but it feels so good to hold it! And I think, I think … no, I will not think of it, but I do. Miranda’s tender little breasts naked, their pink tips hanging. I think of touching them. My aching rod twitches like a fish in my hand, my hand slides on it, the loose skin slides under my hand, and it feels so good, so very good. I let my hand keep sliding, sliding, up and down, and my sacks rise higher and tighter, and I cannot stop. The pleasure is coming like a stream bursting its banks.

  Closing my eyes, I try not to think of Miranda.

  I think of Miranda.

  “Ungh!”

  It is a deep groan, an animal groan, that I give as a gush of milky-white fluid spurts into the air.

  And then it is like a storm that has passed. The ache is gone. My sacks feel empty and my rod softens and droops, hiding its head once more.

  I sigh.

  “If thy bestial nature were in doubt, I should say ’tis now heartily disproved,” says a light, mocking voice.

  Ariel.

  Hot with shame and anger, I rise and pull my breeches over my privy parts, tying the drawstring. “You! What do you want?”

  Sitting cross-legged on a cloud, the spirit ignores my question. “Thou hast committed Onan’s sin and spilled thy seed on the ground,” he observes. “Though I think that the Lord High God would surely rather it found no purchase, and will not smite thee for it.” He smiles his thin, cruel smile. “Shall I guess what has stirred thy passion, monster? Blood is the harbinger that tells the tale. Eve’s curse has come to fruition in the magus’s daughter.”

  “A curse!” Now I am alarmed, too. “Master said nothing of a curse. Master said Miranda is healthy and well!”

  “And so she is, as well as any lass blossoming into womanhood,” Ariel says, unconcerned. “Eve’s curse is the burden of all womankind; aye, and the burden of mankind, too.” He looks at my face and laughs. “Oh la, poor monster! Wilst thy dullard’s wits not allow thee to compass the truth that thy lustful loins would fain shout to the heavens?” He leans forward. “Surely thou hast seen goats at rut in the mountainside in autumn, and give birth to gamboling kids come spring’s warm breath. Miranda’s womb has become fallow ground. The lass is ripe for breeding.”

  Rut.

  I do not know this word, and yet I fear I do. What the spirit says is true. I have seen he-goats climb atop she-goats, humping and pumping with their stiff rods; yes, and wild dogs in the empty fishing village at the shore, too. I did not understand their game. Now understanding comes upon me and it is like a dark tide in my blood, an understanding I do not want.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Do not speak so of Miranda! Master would punish you for it!”

  “Oh aye, so he would, my fine fellow servant. The magus wouldst punish me most grievously.” Ariel makes his cloud go away with one wave of his arm, dropping lightly to the earth on his white feet. “Though not, I think, so harshly as he wouldst punish thee did I tell him what I caught thee at this day. Didst think of the lass whilst thou pleasured thyself?”

  I bare my teeth at him. “Do not speak of her so!”

  He laughs, but there is sorrow in it. “Oh, poor monster! Thou hast a tenderness for her.”

  “How should I not?” I say through my teeth. “Miranda is my friend!”

  “Ah, but now that thou knowest there is more to dream, thou wilt dare to dream it,” Ariel says softly, as softly as the wind. “Thou shouldst not, for there is only pain in it for thee. Methinks the magus in his sanctum has already chosen a bridegroom for his daughter. Who shall it be? A prince? A potentate? A pharaoh?”

  I should know better than to let Ariel bait me into responding; oh, I do know better! But, but, but … how can such a thing even be true? If Miranda is only this day a woman, how can Master think to see her wed, when yesterday she was a child? “That cannot be,” I say. “Who? There is no one!”

  Ariel holds up one slender hand. “I, a humble servant, do but speculate. Who am I to know what the great magus dost see in his mirror? Who am I to know what the great magus wilst call forth with his art or when that day shall come? But of this I am sure. The bridegroom will be well formed and pleasing to behold.” The spirit’s appearance changes, and of a sudden it is a young man who stands before me, tall and fair-skinned, dressed in fine attire. “He shall be hale of limb and handsome of face,” the spirit continues in a deeper voice. “Eloquence shall grace his tongue. He shall be possessed of all the qualities to charm and delight a girlish heart.” He pauses. “Shall I tell thee what he most assuredly shall not be?”

  “No,” I say. “I would hear no more!”

  But Ariel does not listen. “He shall not be swart and stooped, with hunched shoulders and bowed legs,” he says, and his appearance shifts. “Nor shall he have a villain’s low brow and out-thrust jaw.”

  I recognize myself take shape before me.

  “He’ll not have hair as coarse as a pony’s
mane, nor sullen eyes that glower beneath it,” Ariel continues, and now his voice is as rough and harsh as my own. A sprinkling of darker moles emerges to dot the brown skin of his face and throat and shoulders. “He’ll not be speckled like a toad.”

  I see myself.

  I am ugly and misshapen.

  It is a thing which Ariel has told me before, but today he has shown me. Now I understand it truly in my bones, an understanding that sinks into me like a heavy stone into those dark tides.

  Beside Miranda, I am a monster.

  And then I am running again, running like a poor dumb wounded beast, running and falling and scrambling on bleeding hands and feet down the crag, my chest hurting and my breath coming hard in my throat, picking myself up and running, running, running with nowhere to go from a knowing I cannot run away from, and all the while Ariel’s laughter follows me, sharp and bright as knives.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MIRANDA

  Day by day, I accustom myself to the unpleasant business of womanhood. I cannot help but feel betrayed by it, as though I were promised a wondrous gift and given something loathsome in its place.

  I suppose that is unfair, for Papa never promised me that it would be wondrous to be a woman grown. No, that is a fantasy I created for myself, daring to hope that it would be a glorious day on which Papa entrusted me with all of his secrets at last, and I would know who I was and from whence I came.

  I see now that that was a vain hope. Contemplating the price of disobedience as Papa bade me, I come to see that the trust that I lost when I disobeyed him can never be regained, no more than Adam and Eve can hope to regain the lost paradise of Eden after disobeying God. Like Eve, I sought knowledge forbidden to me; and like Eve, I have only myself to blame for my sin. I should be grateful that Papa yet speaks of allowing me to assist him in his sanctum.

  If the prospect fills me with creeping dread, well, I have only myself to blame for that, too.

  Still, there is a small resentful part of me, the faint spark of rebellion not extinguished by my punishment and ensuing affliction, that cannot help but think that Papa might have warned me about the burden of Eve’s curse.